Chapter Ten - A Word for Goodbye

‘Keep your arm up!’

Pain spasmed across the back of his arm as the Blacksmith’s iron caught him just above the elbow. He grimaced, grunting, and spun away, boots sliding in the sodden dirt.

‘Another to me.’ said the Blacksmith.

Cal scowled, rubbing at his arm with his spare hand. Not a killing blow, but he wouldn’t have been lifting a sword anytime soon, if the blade had been sharp. He was breathing hard, and his arm was burning with effort. They had been at it almost an hour, and the dawn sun was just now breaking free of the jagged peaks overhead, setting the black face of the Teeth afire with pale light. He wiped the sweat from his eyes, squinting, and held his sparring iron ready, angling his feet. The Blacksmith watched him, apparently no more tired than he had been when they started. Which was to say, not at all. He carried the blunt length of metal casually in one giant hand, whipping it through the air as if it were no heavier than a willow-switch. Cal cursed under his breath, lifting his burning arm. The iron was almost four foot long, with a the rough hilt and flat blade, scratched and pitted like an old anvil. Blunt as a river-rock, and heavier than hell.

‘Move!’ the Blacksmith told him, darting forward, iron whipping out again. Cal pivoted one way, then another, glancing the blow away with the dull edge of his blade. He leapt back, but the Blacksmith’s iron bit towards him again, flashing. He caught himself on his back foot as he evaded the blow, driving himself forward, but the Blacksmith turned his thrust aside with a flick of his wrist. Cal nearly lost his grip on the iron, held it, but it didn’t matter; the tip of The Blacksmith’s blade leapt back up, catching him a bruising blow high on his shoulder.

‘Another.’

Cal staggered back, yelping, then gritted his teeth, frowning in concentration as sweat dripped into his eyes. The big man moved with the speed of a gale, coiled on the balls of his feet like a cat. He was two heads taller, twice as wide at the shoulder. He could at least have had the decency to be a little slower.

‘Keep your arm up!’ the Blacksmith growled, striking again, slashing and cutting Cal back across the little clearing beside the forge-hut. He parried desperately, dark hair whirling about his temples, eyes stinging with salt. The faint glow of the smithy grumbled behind its awning, and the donkey watched disinterested from its little stable, ears twitching.

‘Gah!’ Cal grunted, spinning away just as the Blacksmith’s blade scythed past his head. But the older man overextended, stumbling forward into the space his opponent had vacated, off balance, and Cal saw his chance. He gave a triumphant cry, thrusting his iron at his master’s gut. Just a few more inches, and he would have him.

Then the Blacksmith caught the blunt edge in one giant hand, yanking it from his grasp, and tossed it away into the dirt. Cal stared after it, confused, as the other iron pressed against his throat.

‘Dead.’ the Blacksmith told him.

‘But…!’ Cal stuttered, neck pressing uncomfortably against the mercifully blunt blade. ‘I had you! You cheated!’

‘Why?’ the Blacksmith asked him, lowering his blade.

‘Because you can’t do that!’ Cal replied, frowning at the sudden pain behind his eyes. ‘If the blade was sharp…’

‘But it isn’t, is it?’

Cal stopped short, blinking.

‘The blade isn’t sharp. I’m not a bandit in the Riftlands.’ the Blacksmith paused, and his dark eyes flashed. ‘But you aren’t fighting a bandit in the Riftlands, are you, boy? Fight what is in front of you, with the tools in front of you. You think too much. That is why you lose.’

‘But… it’s not fair!’

‘Fair?’ the Blacksmith rumbled, fixing him with his dark eyes, and the scar gleamed under his coal-black beard. ‘What does fair have to do with it? I am bigger. I am faster. Stronger. I am not a fair opponent. You expect every blade you cross to be your exact match?’

Cal stared back at him dumbly.

‘The world is under no obligation to fight fair, boy. Forget that, and you’ll end up dead. Strike first. Strike last.’

Cal did not look away. He nodded.

‘Good.’ the Blacksmith grunted, taking a step back. Cal took a deep breath, walking over to his blade where it lay discarded in the dirt.

‘No.’ Cal straightened, iron in hand, to find the Blacksmith watching him with his dark eyes. ‘That is enough, for today.’

‘There’s the knives for Alb that need…’

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ the Blacksmith told him. ‘I have no further need of you, today.’

‘It’s still early.’

‘It is that. Goran’s asked for an extra pair of hands. Old goat can’t lift what he used to, and that boy of his is lazier every day.’

The Blacksmith’s gaze bored a hole between Cal’s eyes. He swallowed.

‘I… As you wish.’

He turned away, setting his sparring iron against the rough stone wall of the hut, washed his face quickly in the pail of water beside the door, and snatched up his cloak. When he turned back, the Blacksmith was still staring back at him, dark eyes gleaming.

‘I know you think me hard on you, boy.’ he said, deep voice rumbling. ‘That you won’t be here forever. But have patience. Seeing’s much easier when you’re looking backwards. I didn’t take you in to let you die on some hill. You’ll get your wish, when the time is right.’

Cal blinked, trying to hide his surprise. He couldn’t remember hearing the Blacksmith talk like this. Not for a long time. It made him strangely uncomfortable. There was a pressure behind his eyes, aching against his brow, and his fingers were hot. He blinked again, frowning. The Blacksmith paused, and the scar on his cheek gleamed.

‘The world isn’t going anywhere. When you’re ready, it’ll still be there, waiting. Don’t be so eager to live by fire, boy. The dirt is full of men who wanted too much, too soon. Remember our word.’

He fell silent. Cal stared at him. He didn’t know what to say. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

‘Will that be all?’ Cal said at last.

The Blacksmith stared back at him.

‘It will.’

Cal held his eye a moment longer. Then he threw his cloak over his shoulders, and turned away into the trees, towards Rindon. The Blacksmith’s dark eyes watched him go, boring into his back, but he kept walking, and didn’t look back till the trees had swallowed him up.

He made sure he was out of sight of the cottage before he quickened his pace. The stony path crunched beneath his long, rangy strides, eating up the ground eagerly. The softly smoking rooftops of the village peeked back at him through the pines, shimmering in the early morning haze, close as a shadow.

But he ignored them. His gliding feet left the path, quite unnoticed by the world around, dancing away up slopes of shale. His cloak snapped and streamed out behind him as he went, a shadow in a dawn of pillared pines. It was a treacherous way, up into the hills. Always had been. Icy with winter, scored with broken rock and shattered stone. But Cal knew the way, and no one knew it better.

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He was not going to the Nest, of course. Lokk had become quite the mimic, these last few months; his father’s hand best of all. Cal wondered for a passing moment if the Blacksmith suspected something. His dark eyes had seemed darker than usual, that morning, sharper, too. Was that suspicion? Then there was the talk of leaving. Cal hadn’t expected that. Least of all from him. But did it matter?

Strangers asking questions, the Innkeep murmured.

No. It didn’t matter. His way was clear. He set his eyes on the stones, and the trees slipped by in a blur as he picked his well-worn path through the trees. The villagers rarely ventured up into the hills above their homes, if they could avoid it. It wasn’t exactly safe for those less surefooted than Cal was, and the game was far richer on the western slopes, where the foothills eased like a heavy sigh into the endless plains below. This early, it was about as likely for him to encounter someone up here as it was for Isandur himself to come walking out of the trees. Nevertheless, Cal went with more caution than he would have liked, footsteps barely making a sound, urgency in check for the time being, and the silent forest watched on, unmoving.

The sun rose over the Teeth as he climbed, setting fire to the icy branches, clinging to the pines like gossamer thread. Up slopes of broken rock, over ravines deep as twenty men, past cliffs that arched over his path like dark mouths opening up to swallow him. He passed the fingers, as he knew them, a shattered ring of dark rock forged by the wind, narrow spines sticking out of the slope. He forded the Whitewater, boots glancing at the spray. Another day he might have tarried a while, dipping himself into the icy water, but today was not a day for tarrying. When at last he came to the ruins of the old stormtower in its little clearing, he knew he was close. The shell of the slender black tower crawled with lichen and moss, turret torn open to the sky. What remained of the tower jutted like a headless throat above the pines, holding court over a little garden of lost and tumbled stones, jammed into the earth where they had fallen. Another day, he might have stopped here, too, watched the slow shifting of the windswept creepers climbing the ruined stone, thinking of those that had built it, of lightning clinging to the phantom turret like vines. Like they did, now, where it had fallen into the dirt eons ago, strangling the smoothness of the gleaming stormdrinker. But here, too, he hurried on, cloak flying, barely glancing at it. There was something different to the climb, that day. Something strange, not quite visible. A quietness, a muteness to his steps. A waiting. It made him anxious.

It had been three days since he’d been allowed to leave the forge. Three days since he had left the warehouse, dark eyes on his back, since the Innkeep had put a cold knot in his belly that hadn’t untangled since. Three days since the Blacksmith had stopped him. Three days for…

He rushed on, at the steepest part of the climb now, where the way was most treacherous. The trees that clung to the slope here were gnarled and pitted from the wind, trunks twisting out of sheer dirt and shale. The sun was climbing steadily above the giant black shadow of the Teeth overhead, and Cal’s breath was ragged with effort. Sweat coated his brow, clinging to the corners of his eyes. One step. Then another. A hundred more. Straining, blinking, panting. He finally realised what was bothering him. There was no wind. There was always wind. The hills above Rindon were cut with it, ravaged by it. Pines were uprooted by the score each winter. It sang like an animal over the Teeth, day and night, angry as a storm, and Cal knew its voice better than his own.

But today, not a breath stirred. The pines were still, silent. Watching. Cal noticed he’d stopped moving. He took a slow step, and the sound of his boot touching the stones echoed emptily up the slope. The rocks gave no answer. He shivered, frowning at himself, and pressed onward.

When he came at last to the foot of the cliff, he was glancing back over his shoulder nervously, chased by his own footsteps up the last fall of shale. He stumbled over the lip of the broad ledge, almost losing his feet, and caught himself on his hands, breathing hard. His throat was raw with the chill of the air, but the heat poured off his body in little shifts of steam. He took a few deep breaths. The cliff towered overhead, easily fifty foot high, smooth and sharp as broken glass, dark as a shadow. Off to his right, he could see the mouth of the cave, waiting. He fancied he could hear the Old Man humming somewhere inside.

Cal almost laughed at his foolishness. The Blacksmith was right. The Old Man could look after himself. What did he have to fear from some curious lowlander? It was bar talk. Ale house chatter. A wisp of nothing. He straightened, catching his breath, and a smile began to tug at his cold lips.

Then he came closer. The cave opened up ahead of him, dark as a shadow. Dark. He stopped in his tracks. Dark. It was never dark. A chill came over him, seeping into his blood. The silence was all around, hemming him in. The cliffs leaned over his head, and a thousand black eyes watched from the trees. He swallowed, tasting sour spit. Another step. Then another. The cave was before him, dark maw chewing at his eyes. His heart throbbed in his ears, and every footstep was a thunderclap. He could almost see inside, now. There was a foul smell on the air, acrid, clinging to his tongue. This was not the way of things. Another step.

He froze. There were little strings of smoke creeping out around the top of the opening, trailing away into the grey-pale sky. Inside, the walls were blackened. Scorched by fire. Ash spooled in little drifts around his feet, flaking like rotted wood. His vision blurred. This was not right. He knew this place. The pressure behind his eyes ached, and the ledge swayed about his feet. He put a hand on the wall for support, and it came away black with soot. The smell of it filled his throat, and he almost gagged, mouth full of bile.

This wasn’t right.

He forced himself upright. The effort of it nearly made him retch again, but he took a deep breath, steadying himself. His eyes were starting to adjust, and the darkness of the cave peeled back. Nothing stirred. Another step. Then another. Inside, now. The air was heavy, still, thick with drifting motes of dust. Not dust. Ash. Burning. He was starting to make out the walls, the endless little ledges where candles had flickered in their scores. But the candles were gone. The wax had melted away, drooling down the rock like blood on a butcher’s slab. Everything. Gone. Wasted into the fire. Cal held a hand over his mouth, almost retching again. How had this happened? The Old Man would never be so…

Then he saw him. A little black smudge in the corner of the cave, scorched against the walls like a shadow, frozen in the stone. A bundle of blackened flesh, dripping from bones wasted to string. Just a shred of grey lingered, the remains of a cloak, maybe, clinging to it like a dead bloom. Nothing else was left. But it was enough.

This time Cal did retch. He ran from the cave and heaved his stomach onto the bare slab of stone beyond the door. He heaved until his throat was raw and scorched, till his breath ran to ragged gasps. Till his chest burned and his head ached. Till his spit turned to ash. Then, at last, when there was nothing left to spend, he fell back against the rocks. Weary. Numb. Cheeks wet with tears. The trees blinked back at him, silent as the grave. Ash and bone. The sight of it clawed at him. He closed his eyes, but it followed him, filling his thoughts with bile. He retched again, sobbing weakly into the stones, but there was nothing left in his belly but ache and cold.

He lay there for a long while. Empty, alone, and the trees watched on, black and bare. After a while, the wind began to stir again. Just a breath of it, but some of the stench began to clear. Only then did Cal stir, rising slowly, wiping his cracking cheeks, and stood staring at the cave for a long moment. The trees whispered. The grey sky writhed.

Finally, he took a long breath, and went back inside. He unclasped his cloak from his shoulders, and, wrapping it carefully, bore what remained of the Old Man out into the pale light of the day. The cold air bit at him through his shirt, but he paid it no heed. The trees watched on, whispering, as he bore his body to the place where the stream tumbled from the cliff onto the ledge below. He had drawn water there. Here he had showed Cal the name of the Whitewater. Whispered the sound of the wind. Cal stared at it. He thought of his waiting, the terrible ache of it. The singular mystery of its end, and the unknowable world beyond the hills. The world the Old Man had taught him. Dark thoughts crowded his aching mind, blame and anger and fear and others he did not yet know the names for. But he put them aside. It would not be right. Not now.

There was a little patch of soil below the falls, where the water had worn away the ledge of rock. Here Cal stopped, and lay the little bundle aside, bending over the dirt. Soon he could dig no deeper, and he lifted the bundle into the little bowl he had wrought, carefully sweeping the dirt back into place over it. When he was finished, a little mound of fresh earth was all that remained. He stepped back, closing his eyes, and stood for a time, listening to the rhythmic whisper of the water, the shifting murmur of the pines. He nodded to himself. This was right. He would have liked this place.

So he opened his eyes. The wind had picked up. The trees churned and clawed at the air behind him, and his head ached and spun. He bent one last time over the little mound of dirt, brushing raw fingers against the soil, and whispered a word. Just one. The best he knew for goodbye. Then he straightened, and went away into the trees, heart hard as ice.

*

They were walking again. Or was it still? He never could remember.

‘So, what’s out there?’ he was asking, staring up at the mountains as they went. ‘Past them.’

‘Many things.’ the Old Man replied. ‘And none.’

‘Bonemen?’ he asked, eyes wide.

‘And worse.’ the Old Man told him. The rocks skipped around their feet, and the pines drew in around them, whispering. ‘Once, there was grass there, and trees, and rivers, too. The greatest cities the world has ever known, and the greatest things to fill them. Of stone, silver, swords of moonlight.’

‘What happened?’

‘The Breaking.’ the Old Man replied. ‘The Makers fought their war, and the First among them, lest it cover all the world in shadow. Not before they turned half of their creation to ash.’

‘The Gods are cruel.’ the boy said, frowning.

‘The Gods are gods, and men are men.’ the Old Man told him, and his golden eyes winked, and flashed, and gleamed. ‘Fate is what you make it.’

The boy wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing at all. He watched the black face of the mountains, leering back at him through the trees, and dark clouds boiled over the peaks, full of monsters and magic.