The Portal Problem
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eReader / EPUB
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Kindle / MOBI
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1. INTRODUCTIONS
Bridget Smithon laid in bed and listened to her dad’s angry mumbles and murmurs below. She could see the looks of concern on Jeffery and Dougal’s, her older brothers, faces from across the loft. Both of them were just as awake and intent on the conversation happening at the table under their bunks as Bridget was. Like her, they were also lying down and pretending to be asleep so as not to draw their dad’s attention.
She’d sent the letter to Dawson, her oldest brother, without her dad knowing. Throughout the weeks since sending it, she’d only expected a written reply carrying a flat refusal telling her he didn’t want her as his apprentice (but had hoped for a soft refusal asking her to wait a few more years). When the return letter didn’t come during the expected week, two weeks ago, she worried her father had somehow seen her note and stopped the mail carrier from taking it.
Then Uncle Mike had arrived at midday today.
At first the surprise to have their dad’s best friend visiting had been really awesome and everyone had been ready to celebrate. Uncle Mike was a Dwarf, however, and blessed with an excess of honest bluntness. The celebratory mood hadn’t lasted more than half the hour – the amount of time needed for him to confirm his suspicion Bridget hadn’t told anyone about sending Dawson the letter.
Below their bunks, her dad growled as if he was the Half Orc and Bridget winced. A quick glance at her brothers confirmed the pity aimed at her in the expressions on both their faces. She sighed and forced her shoulders to relax in an attempt to try looking more like she was sleeping in case their dad glanced upwards.
The single good part of the happenings this afternoon was that her dad and brothers knew everything now. While she was still worried about how their relationships with her might change, for once she didn’t have to pretend staying in Snare’s Bay was something she wanted in her future; no matter how much their dad wanted her to want it. And, their dad wasn’t yelling anymore. That alone showed promise that he wouldn’t stay mad for too long.
Uncle Mike’s voice became surprisingly gentle in his replies to the things their dad was saying. Bridget and her brothers all leaned a bit over the edges of their bunks to try and hear the quiet conversation. (Not far enough to look down, mind you. No telling how much yelling their dad would do if he could see eyes peeping.) Then stools scraped across wooden flooring and the two older smiths went outside, the front door thumping closed behind them.
“Phee-eew,” Dougal said.
“That about sums it up,” Jeffery added.
Saying very little, but having it be a complete conversation between the two of them, was something Bridget had been told – more times than she could count – was a side effect of them being twins. It didn’t usually bother her, but after today it definitely made her feel excluded.
Kind of like how they’d told her they felt after finding out she’d sent the letter.
She curled up in bed a little tighter as they rolled to their sides and stared heavily across at her. “I think Dad is going to let you leave,” Jeffery said, Dougal nodding from the bunk above him.
“I really only expected Daws would write back and tell me no,” she replied quietly.
“That’s because you’re the youngest. Everyone tells you no all the time,” Dougal said, with Jeffery nodding along.
“But you are eighteen now, and you finished schooling over a year ago,” Jeffry said.
“I think Dad just forgets you’re basically an adult. You’re older now than he was when he started apprenticing under Uncle Mike,” Dougal continued.
“And, Uncle Mike came all the way here in person. That means Daws and Uncle Mike want you apprenticing with them. No other reason for one of them to come here if not to take you back to the camp,” Jeffery concluded, he and Dougal both nodding at the logic of it.
“Unless he’s here to tell Dad I sent the letter and do damage control before leaving by himself,” Bridget said glumly.
The twins snorted a laugh in unison. “Because that’s so typical of Uncle Mike,” Jeffery said.
“Traveling on foot for five weeks across the Small Plain,” Dougal said.
“All the way from the northern pass to our house in Snare’s Bay,” Jeffery said.
“Just to turn around and go back with nothing to show for it,” Dougal concluded.
“You two really believe he’s here to take me back with him?” she asked hopefully. The twins were usually right about things. They were only three years older than her, but for her whole life that age gap had made them seem a lot smarter about almost everything.
They flashed grins at each other before turning serious expressions toward her. “We hope so,” Dougal said.
“Because then we get Dad’s forge and business to ourselves when he retires,” Jeffery said.
Bridget chuckled as they beamed winning smiles at her, their short tusks reflecting in the candlelight.
“Briddy, you do actually want to go, right?” Jeffery asked carefully.
She paused before answering. “You mean, like, to go be Dawson and Uncle Mike’s apprentice with the army camps full time? Learning Dwarven armor smithing like Dad did, and including all Mom’s Orcish smithing skills Mom and Dad taught us?” Bridget sighed and shook her head at her brothers as if they’d recently recovered badly from been struck in the skulls by hammers. “Jeff, Doog, is that even a question?”
Bridget Smithon laid in bed and listened to her dad’s angry mumbles and murmurs below. She could see the looks of concern on Jeffery and Dougal’s, her older brothers, faces from across the loft. Both of them were just as awake and intent on the conversation happening at the table under their bunks as Bridget was. Like her, they were also lying down and pretending to be asleep so as not to draw their dad’s attention.
She’d sent the letter to Dawson, her oldest brother, without her dad knowing. Throughout the weeks since sending it, she’d only expected a written reply carrying a flat refusal telling her he didn’t want her as his apprentice (but had hoped for a soft refusal asking her to wait a few more years). When the return letter didn’t come during the expected week, two weeks ago, she worried her father had somehow seen her note and stopped the mail carrier from taking it.
Then Uncle Mike had arrived at midday today.
At first the surprise to have their dad’s best friend visiting had been really awesome and everyone had been ready to celebrate. Uncle Mike was a Dwarf, however, and blessed with an excess of honest bluntness. The celebratory mood hadn’t lasted more than half the hour – the amount of time needed for him to confirm his suspicion Bridget hadn’t told anyone about sending Dawson the letter.
Below their bunks, her dad growled as if he was the Half Orc and Bridget winced. A quick glance at her brothers confirmed the pity aimed at her in the expressions on both their faces. She sighed and forced her shoulders to relax in an attempt to try looking more like she was sleeping in case their dad glanced upwards.
The single good part of the happenings this afternoon was that her dad and brothers knew everything now. While she was still worried about how their relationships with her might change, for once she didn’t have to pretend staying in Snare’s Bay was something she wanted in her future; no matter how much their dad wanted her to want it. And, their dad wasn’t yelling anymore. That alone showed promise that he wouldn’t stay mad for too long.
Uncle Mike’s voice became surprisingly gentle in his replies to the things their dad was saying. Bridget and her brothers all leaned a bit over the edges of their bunks to try and hear the quiet conversation. (Not far enough to look down, mind you. No telling how much yelling their dad would do if he could see eyes peeping.) Then stools scraped across wooden flooring and the two older smiths went outside, the front door thumping closed behind them.
“Phee-eew,” Dougal said.
“That about sums it up,” Jeffery added.
Saying very little, but having it be a complete conversation between the two of them, was something Bridget had been told – more times than she could count – was a side effect of them being twins. It didn’t usually bother her, but after today it definitely made her feel excluded.
Kind of like how they’d told her they felt after finding out she’d sent the letter.
She curled up in bed a little tighter as they rolled to their sides and stared heavily across at her. “I think Dad is going to let you leave,” Jeffery said, Dougal nodding from the bunk above him.
“I really only expected Daws would write back and tell me no,” she replied quietly.
“That’s because you’re the youngest. Everyone tells you no all the time,” Dougal said, with Jeffery nodding along.
“But you are eighteen now, and you finished schooling over a year ago,” Jeffry said.
“I think Dad just forgets you’re basically an adult. You’re older now than he was when he started apprenticing under Uncle Mike,” Dougal continued.
“And, Uncle Mike came all the way here in person. That means Daws and Uncle Mike want you apprenticing with them. No other reason for one of them to come here if not to take you back to the camp,” Jeffery concluded, he and Dougal both nodding at the logic of it.
“Unless he’s here to tell Dad I sent the letter and do damage control before leaving by himself,” Bridget said glumly.
The twins snorted a laugh in unison. “Because that’s so typical of Uncle Mike,” Jeffery said.
“Traveling on foot for five weeks across the Small Plain,” Dougal said.
“All the way from the northern pass to our house in Snare’s Bay,” Jeffery said.
“Just to turn around and go back with nothing to show for it,” Dougal concluded.
“You two really believe he’s here to take me back with him?” she asked hopefully. The twins were usually right about things. They were only three years older than her, but for her whole life that age gap had made them seem a lot smarter about almost everything.
They flashed grins at each other before turning serious expressions toward her. “We hope so,” Dougal said.
“Because then we get Dad’s forge and business to ourselves when he retires,” Jeffery said.
Bridget chuckled as they beamed winning smiles at her, their short tusks reflecting in the candlelight.
“Briddy, you do actually want to go, right?” Jeffery asked carefully.
She paused before answering. “You mean, like, to go be Dawson and Uncle Mike’s apprentice with the army camps full time? Learning Dwarven armor smithing like Dad did, and including all Mom’s Orcish smithing skills Mom and Dad taught us?” Bridget sighed and shook her head at her brothers as if they’d recently recovered badly from been struck in the skulls by hammers. “Jeff, Doog, is that even a question?”
*****
Bridget smiled at the memory of leaving her father’s house seven years ago, recalling the feeling of having been released fully into freedom once she was traveling away from Snare’s Bay. At the time, Uncle Mike had scoffed at her elation. Today, after the lucky chance of those mercenaries coming into the village yesterday, she could confirm that feeling those years ago was exactly how she felt for having been freed again right now.
Today, looking around, it was easy to see this village and their crops were destroyed, and the season was too late to start again. Yesterday, the villagers had packed what they could and left soon after the short battle. The captured army support personnel – Bridget and Uncle Mike included – had chosen to help everyone first, and then stay the night before leaving the following day. It would be a few days’ journey to get back to the front lines, but she doubted their haggard appearance would create suspicion of their actual identities. It was far more likely any enemy patrols they met would assume they were more refugees, and a few of their newly acquired possessions from the ruined village would be taken as a ‘toll’ for passing the constantly fluctuating border safely.
Bridget was sitting on a mostly buried boulder beside Uncle Mike, fastening the buckles on the new boots one of the village families had given her, when the Human mercenary approached. “Master Smith?” he asked from a polite distance, aiming the question at her uncle. “Before we part ways, I was hoping you could take a look at my sword,” he said when Uncle Mike looked up at him. “I found it in a river not far from here,” he added, producing the sword from a wrap of scrap fabric.
The sword looked small to Bridget, likely made for a child of one of the taller races, or an adult of one of the shorter races. Uncle Mike eyed it before reaching out for the young Human to hand it to him. Up close, the sword was plain. A simple, ornamental engraving of a swirl design marked the blade near the hilt, and the tang was pressed between beautifully smoothed stones formed into a perfect grip ending in a smooth sphere of the same metal as the blade. The blade itself looked new. In contrast, the rusted welds on the cross guard looked grotesque in comparison.
“Why didn’t you clean the cross guard as well as you did the rest of the sword?” Uncle Mike asked.
“I didn’t clean it. I only found it yesterday,” the Human admitted. “It was in the river where Crinsol and Droffer... I guess captured us? Anyway, it was under stones and silt and covered in muck when I picked it up. During the fighting all the rust and mud just, well, it all kind of just fell off. Now there are only these welds left. I was thinking they must have held on the sheath, so it got old and corroded but protected the blade?” He shrugged and shifted his weight so he was leaning closer. “I mean, that’s really the only way the blade can still be in such good condition, right? If it was protected by something?”
The Master Smith held the sword on his lap and reached into his pack, bringing out the leather roll he kept his fine detailing tools in. He unrolled the wrapping beside where he was sitting and selected a hammer that was only slightly longer than his palm was wide. He tapped the welds gently, knocking away chips of rust, and then held the hilt near his face to squint at what was below the grime. After a moment he nodded to himself, held the sword firmly against the stone he was sitting on, made a shooing motion for Bridget and the mercenary to move back, and struck the four welds in six places with his small hammer. The welds tumbled like dead caterpillars into the grass.
“This sword is definitely protected,” Uncle Mike said as he wiped his thumb over the places where the welds had been. He held the sword out to return it to the young mercenary, turning it to show him the cross guard was completely undamaged. “But I doubt the protection is anything physical,” he added after the Human was holding it.
The Human mercenary slumped, sighing heavily and dropping with an audible thump to sit on the ground. Sitting with legs crossed, he looked up at Uncle Mike with a defeated expression. “It’s cursed, isn’t it.”
Today, looking around, it was easy to see this village and their crops were destroyed, and the season was too late to start again. Yesterday, the villagers had packed what they could and left soon after the short battle. The captured army support personnel – Bridget and Uncle Mike included – had chosen to help everyone first, and then stay the night before leaving the following day. It would be a few days’ journey to get back to the front lines, but she doubted their haggard appearance would create suspicion of their actual identities. It was far more likely any enemy patrols they met would assume they were more refugees, and a few of their newly acquired possessions from the ruined village would be taken as a ‘toll’ for passing the constantly fluctuating border safely.
Bridget was sitting on a mostly buried boulder beside Uncle Mike, fastening the buckles on the new boots one of the village families had given her, when the Human mercenary approached. “Master Smith?” he asked from a polite distance, aiming the question at her uncle. “Before we part ways, I was hoping you could take a look at my sword,” he said when Uncle Mike looked up at him. “I found it in a river not far from here,” he added, producing the sword from a wrap of scrap fabric.
The sword looked small to Bridget, likely made for a child of one of the taller races, or an adult of one of the shorter races. Uncle Mike eyed it before reaching out for the young Human to hand it to him. Up close, the sword was plain. A simple, ornamental engraving of a swirl design marked the blade near the hilt, and the tang was pressed between beautifully smoothed stones formed into a perfect grip ending in a smooth sphere of the same metal as the blade. The blade itself looked new. In contrast, the rusted welds on the cross guard looked grotesque in comparison.
“Why didn’t you clean the cross guard as well as you did the rest of the sword?” Uncle Mike asked.
“I didn’t clean it. I only found it yesterday,” the Human admitted. “It was in the river where Crinsol and Droffer... I guess captured us? Anyway, it was under stones and silt and covered in muck when I picked it up. During the fighting all the rust and mud just, well, it all kind of just fell off. Now there are only these welds left. I was thinking they must have held on the sheath, so it got old and corroded but protected the blade?” He shrugged and shifted his weight so he was leaning closer. “I mean, that’s really the only way the blade can still be in such good condition, right? If it was protected by something?”
The Master Smith held the sword on his lap and reached into his pack, bringing out the leather roll he kept his fine detailing tools in. He unrolled the wrapping beside where he was sitting and selected a hammer that was only slightly longer than his palm was wide. He tapped the welds gently, knocking away chips of rust, and then held the hilt near his face to squint at what was below the grime. After a moment he nodded to himself, held the sword firmly against the stone he was sitting on, made a shooing motion for Bridget and the mercenary to move back, and struck the four welds in six places with his small hammer. The welds tumbled like dead caterpillars into the grass.
“This sword is definitely protected,” Uncle Mike said as he wiped his thumb over the places where the welds had been. He held the sword out to return it to the young mercenary, turning it to show him the cross guard was completely undamaged. “But I doubt the protection is anything physical,” he added after the Human was holding it.
The Human mercenary slumped, sighing heavily and dropping with an audible thump to sit on the ground. Sitting with legs crossed, he looked up at Uncle Mike with a defeated expression. “It’s cursed, isn’t it.”
2. AN ENCHANTED TALE
He said it in such a disappointed way that Bridget wondered how many other cursed objects he’d encountered.
“Cursed?” Uncle Mike asked in surprise, then belted out a quick laugh. “No, my young friend. There’s an enchantment on it, certainly, and the craftsmanship merging stone and steel on the hilt is beyond even my skill, but it’s not carrying any curse.”
The mercenary looked at the sword doubtfully, but hopefully. “Do you have any idea what the enchantment might be?” he asked after a moment.
Bridget watched Uncle Mike bend and pick at the grass by his feet. He held out his closed hand toward the mercenary in offer, dropping the removed welds into the Human’s palm. “Could be anything, really. Only the one who cast the enchantment, and whoever they told about it, would really know.”
“Well, there you are!” The Fairy mercenary, Shyla, was large sized and striding over the grass to where her Human companion was sitting. “Draessellor wants to leave at midday, remember?”
“I was just trying to find –”
“Stop finding things, Aston!” she interrupted, her tone exasperated. She stopped walking when her gaze landed on Bridget and Uncle Mike, then stared hard at the Human from the short distance left to approach. “Wait. Is it cursed?” she asked, turning her head to direct the question at Bridget and her uncle.
“Why is that your first assumption, too?” Bridget asked before Uncle Mike could reply.
Shyla grinned at the two smiths. “I’ve been traveling with these two for three months, and this sword has to be the sixth or eighth cursed thing Aston’s picked up.”
“He just told me it’s not cursed!” Aston defended himself.
“It is enchanted, though,” Uncle Mike added.
“Enchanted in a good way or in a bad way?” Shyla asked.
“Perhaps we can find out,” Uncle Mike said, turning his stare to the Human who Shyla named as Aston. “It didn’t have any effect on me when I held it just now, so what’s the enchantment seem like to you?”
“Well…” Aston started, then didn’t finish. “I guess it’s just in my thoughts,” he said after a moment of staring at the blade.
“As in you’re thinking about it all the time?” Bridget pressed.
“No, as in I can hear what it’s saying and feeling, but inside my head. In my thoughts.”
“What it’s feeling?” Shyla asked. “Aston, swords don’t feel things.”
“This one does,” he admitted quietly. “And it’s like it senses danger and moves to protect me.”
“I never saw it move by itself when you were using it yesterday,” Shyla stated.
“No, not by itself, but… almost as if it’s moving my arm,” he said. “Like it wants me to be protected, because I belong to it just as much as it belongs to me. We have to protect each other now that we’re together.” He looked around at each of the people he was trying to explain to, then his gaze dropped to stare at the sword in his hands. “I guess… it’s like I’m the right person to have found it, and now we have to keep each other safe. But I feel like once we know each other better that we’ll be friends as well.”
“I’ve never heard of any enchantment like that,” Bridget said. Shyla only shrugged and shook her head to the negative, her gesture agreeing with Bridget’s statement.
“I have,” Uncle Mike said quietly.
“Really?” Aston asked, looking up with a flare of hope that dimmed considerably when met with the grim expression on the Dwarf’s face.
“Mike? Briddy?” one of their colleagues called from the same direction Shyla had come from. “We’re ready to leave if you are,” they added, gesturing for the two smiths to join the small group of freed military personnel.
Bridget looked over and saw the third mercenary waiting nearby the support wagons. The big Reptillian also looked ready to leave in spite of there still being a few hours until midday. She stood when her uncle did.
“Wait,” Aston said, scrambling to his feet. “Please, can you at least tell me a bit of what you’ve heard about a sword like this one?” he asked.
Uncle Mike looked from the young mercenary to the wagons and back again. Bridget knew from the pause that he wanted to stay and talk to Aston, but also that it was time to go. Which meant the story was longer then a few more seconds.
And that made it a perfect story for telling to start off the long, boring hike back toward their own army’s camp.
“Why don’t you travel with us for a day or two?” Bridget asked quickly. “Or at least until we return our camp? We can hire you as guards to keep us safe until then.” The Human looked like he was hesitant to answer, so she leaned forward as if about to disclose a secret. “It would be difficult for your friend to collect on our smithing skills if we’re both dead,” she added.
“I…” Aston started, again not finishing. His eyes shifted to glance toward the Reptilian he was traveling with.
“Ugh!” Shyla exclaimed. “You always make me ask him the hard things,” she accused before shrinking down to her small size. “He’s such a pain to live with,” she muttered into Bridget’s ear before zipping off to talk to their companion.
A couple of friends in Bridget’s group must have heard the fairy’s question about traveling with the group of military support personnel, because they closed in on the conversation in a quick couple of steps and added reinforcement for asking the three mercenaries to travel with them. The big Reptillian turned his head to look away from Shyla and toward Aston.
“The Master Smith says my sword is enchanted, but isn’t cursed. He might even know something about the enchantment. He said he’s heard about one like it before,” Aston said toward the other mercenary, his voice no louder than when he’d been speaking with Bridget and Uncle Mike. “And, they are right. Making sure they return home safely now means you can collect on payment whenever you need it later,” he added.
She was about to chide the young Human about there being no way his companion could have heard him when the Reptillian nodded. “Fine,” he called, loud enough for Aston and the two armoursmiths to hear.
He said it in such a disappointed way that Bridget wondered how many other cursed objects he’d encountered.
“Cursed?” Uncle Mike asked in surprise, then belted out a quick laugh. “No, my young friend. There’s an enchantment on it, certainly, and the craftsmanship merging stone and steel on the hilt is beyond even my skill, but it’s not carrying any curse.”
The mercenary looked at the sword doubtfully, but hopefully. “Do you have any idea what the enchantment might be?” he asked after a moment.
Bridget watched Uncle Mike bend and pick at the grass by his feet. He held out his closed hand toward the mercenary in offer, dropping the removed welds into the Human’s palm. “Could be anything, really. Only the one who cast the enchantment, and whoever they told about it, would really know.”
“Well, there you are!” The Fairy mercenary, Shyla, was large sized and striding over the grass to where her Human companion was sitting. “Draessellor wants to leave at midday, remember?”
“I was just trying to find –”
“Stop finding things, Aston!” she interrupted, her tone exasperated. She stopped walking when her gaze landed on Bridget and Uncle Mike, then stared hard at the Human from the short distance left to approach. “Wait. Is it cursed?” she asked, turning her head to direct the question at Bridget and her uncle.
“Why is that your first assumption, too?” Bridget asked before Uncle Mike could reply.
Shyla grinned at the two smiths. “I’ve been traveling with these two for three months, and this sword has to be the sixth or eighth cursed thing Aston’s picked up.”
“He just told me it’s not cursed!” Aston defended himself.
“It is enchanted, though,” Uncle Mike added.
“Enchanted in a good way or in a bad way?” Shyla asked.
“Perhaps we can find out,” Uncle Mike said, turning his stare to the Human who Shyla named as Aston. “It didn’t have any effect on me when I held it just now, so what’s the enchantment seem like to you?”
“Well…” Aston started, then didn’t finish. “I guess it’s just in my thoughts,” he said after a moment of staring at the blade.
“As in you’re thinking about it all the time?” Bridget pressed.
“No, as in I can hear what it’s saying and feeling, but inside my head. In my thoughts.”
“What it’s feeling?” Shyla asked. “Aston, swords don’t feel things.”
“This one does,” he admitted quietly. “And it’s like it senses danger and moves to protect me.”
“I never saw it move by itself when you were using it yesterday,” Shyla stated.
“No, not by itself, but… almost as if it’s moving my arm,” he said. “Like it wants me to be protected, because I belong to it just as much as it belongs to me. We have to protect each other now that we’re together.” He looked around at each of the people he was trying to explain to, then his gaze dropped to stare at the sword in his hands. “I guess… it’s like I’m the right person to have found it, and now we have to keep each other safe. But I feel like once we know each other better that we’ll be friends as well.”
“I’ve never heard of any enchantment like that,” Bridget said. Shyla only shrugged and shook her head to the negative, her gesture agreeing with Bridget’s statement.
“I have,” Uncle Mike said quietly.
“Really?” Aston asked, looking up with a flare of hope that dimmed considerably when met with the grim expression on the Dwarf’s face.
“Mike? Briddy?” one of their colleagues called from the same direction Shyla had come from. “We’re ready to leave if you are,” they added, gesturing for the two smiths to join the small group of freed military personnel.
Bridget looked over and saw the third mercenary waiting nearby the support wagons. The big Reptillian also looked ready to leave in spite of there still being a few hours until midday. She stood when her uncle did.
“Wait,” Aston said, scrambling to his feet. “Please, can you at least tell me a bit of what you’ve heard about a sword like this one?” he asked.
Uncle Mike looked from the young mercenary to the wagons and back again. Bridget knew from the pause that he wanted to stay and talk to Aston, but also that it was time to go. Which meant the story was longer then a few more seconds.
And that made it a perfect story for telling to start off the long, boring hike back toward their own army’s camp.
“Why don’t you travel with us for a day or two?” Bridget asked quickly. “Or at least until we return our camp? We can hire you as guards to keep us safe until then.” The Human looked like he was hesitant to answer, so she leaned forward as if about to disclose a secret. “It would be difficult for your friend to collect on our smithing skills if we’re both dead,” she added.
“I…” Aston started, again not finishing. His eyes shifted to glance toward the Reptilian he was traveling with.
“Ugh!” Shyla exclaimed. “You always make me ask him the hard things,” she accused before shrinking down to her small size. “He’s such a pain to live with,” she muttered into Bridget’s ear before zipping off to talk to their companion.
A couple of friends in Bridget’s group must have heard the fairy’s question about traveling with the group of military support personnel, because they closed in on the conversation in a quick couple of steps and added reinforcement for asking the three mercenaries to travel with them. The big Reptillian turned his head to look away from Shyla and toward Aston.
“The Master Smith says my sword is enchanted, but isn’t cursed. He might even know something about the enchantment. He said he’s heard about one like it before,” Aston said toward the other mercenary, his voice no louder than when he’d been speaking with Bridget and Uncle Mike. “And, they are right. Making sure they return home safely now means you can collect on payment whenever you need it later,” he added.
She was about to chide the young Human about there being no way his companion could have heard him when the Reptillian nodded. “Fine,” he called, loud enough for Aston and the two armoursmiths to hear.
*****
Uncle Mike settled on the second of the two wagons and lit his pipe. Bridget smiled to herself as she stepped up to walk beside the big mercenary, introduced as Draessellor by Shyla, so she was close to the source of the story. Aston was walking on the other side of Draessellor with Shyla on his shoulder, but once Bridget paced with them the Fairy flitted over to sit on Bridget’s shoulder. Bridget smiled at her new friend. This story was definitely going to be a longer one, and Uncle Mike’s longer stories were always interesting.
“It was during the age before the current one, when the world was smaller and all the races were still unknowing of each other. Powerful mages watched over and protected their peoples back then. As the mages powers grew, they separated from their people and began to live apart – sending instructions to only a few for how their parts of the world needed to be run, each trying to make the races they guarded over the most prosperous, and for keeping all of them living in peace.”
Draessellor scoffed quietly. Bridget glanced at him, wondering why he’d made that expression, but the big Reptillian showed no other signs he was even listening.
“In one of the world’s corners – this corner, in fact – a king, fair too all in deed and looks, fell into disfavor with the mages. Disagreement among the two rulers created the potential to damage the peace of the nations within that mage’s control, so the mage sought to remove that king from the throne.”
There was a quiet shush of scales shifting under heavy armor beside her and Bridget glanced at Draessellor again. A small frown touched the corner of his mouth and then disappeared. Shyla was riding on Bridget’s shoulder nearest to Draessellor and, seeing the same frown that Bridget did, she quickly flitted to Bridget’s other shoulder.
“A dread assassin was sent to kill the king. But not just any assassin, this one was an immortal created by sorcery and wholly under the command of the mage. Or so the mage thought.” Uncle Mike paused for a long stare at the Human mercenary. “In a lust of murder upon finding the king missing when they arrived at the castle, the dread assassin killed the entire royal family instead.”
Bridget stole another glance at Draessellor. The small frown had returned to the corners of his mouth. This time it was deeply set and looked like it would be staying.
“When the king returned, he found his queen and all his children were murdered... except one. The heir princess hovered at the door to death, her final breaths at her lips. Her mother, the queen, had sacrificed her own life and shielded the young girl’s body with her own. With one strike, the dread assassin believed they’d killed both royals, when in fact the mother’s body had taken the brunt of the attack and the child had barely survived.
“The king was beside himself with grief and – with lost love blinding his mind and heart – he summoned the most skillful sorcerers to attend on the heir princess. With her body nearly slashed in twain” – Uncle Mike cut across his own torso with his hand to demonstrate – “the sorcerers forged a magical weapon to bind her spirit to. With her spirit safely anchored, the sorcerers then set to the task of healing her body.
“Three days and three nights they slaved without sleep or food. And then, once her body was saved from death, they pulled her spirit from the sword and tied it back to her body.”
Draessellor barely shook his head and then sighed so quietly that Bridget only noticed because she was now pretty much just watching him for every reaction to the things Uncle Mike was saying. She had the distinct impression the old mercenary knew a different version of this tale and was already looking forward to another story being told.
“It was during the age before the current one, when the world was smaller and all the races were still unknowing of each other. Powerful mages watched over and protected their peoples back then. As the mages powers grew, they separated from their people and began to live apart – sending instructions to only a few for how their parts of the world needed to be run, each trying to make the races they guarded over the most prosperous, and for keeping all of them living in peace.”
Draessellor scoffed quietly. Bridget glanced at him, wondering why he’d made that expression, but the big Reptillian showed no other signs he was even listening.
“In one of the world’s corners – this corner, in fact – a king, fair too all in deed and looks, fell into disfavor with the mages. Disagreement among the two rulers created the potential to damage the peace of the nations within that mage’s control, so the mage sought to remove that king from the throne.”
There was a quiet shush of scales shifting under heavy armor beside her and Bridget glanced at Draessellor again. A small frown touched the corner of his mouth and then disappeared. Shyla was riding on Bridget’s shoulder nearest to Draessellor and, seeing the same frown that Bridget did, she quickly flitted to Bridget’s other shoulder.
“A dread assassin was sent to kill the king. But not just any assassin, this one was an immortal created by sorcery and wholly under the command of the mage. Or so the mage thought.” Uncle Mike paused for a long stare at the Human mercenary. “In a lust of murder upon finding the king missing when they arrived at the castle, the dread assassin killed the entire royal family instead.”
Bridget stole another glance at Draessellor. The small frown had returned to the corners of his mouth. This time it was deeply set and looked like it would be staying.
“When the king returned, he found his queen and all his children were murdered... except one. The heir princess hovered at the door to death, her final breaths at her lips. Her mother, the queen, had sacrificed her own life and shielded the young girl’s body with her own. With one strike, the dread assassin believed they’d killed both royals, when in fact the mother’s body had taken the brunt of the attack and the child had barely survived.
“The king was beside himself with grief and – with lost love blinding his mind and heart – he summoned the most skillful sorcerers to attend on the heir princess. With her body nearly slashed in twain” – Uncle Mike cut across his own torso with his hand to demonstrate – “the sorcerers forged a magical weapon to bind her spirit to. With her spirit safely anchored, the sorcerers then set to the task of healing her body.
“Three days and three nights they slaved without sleep or food. And then, once her body was saved from death, they pulled her spirit from the sword and tied it back to her body.”
Draessellor barely shook his head and then sighed so quietly that Bridget only noticed because she was now pretty much just watching him for every reaction to the things Uncle Mike was saying. She had the distinct impression the old mercenary knew a different version of this tale and was already looking forward to another story being told.
3. A DISENCHANTMENT
“As you might imagine, however,” Uncle Mike continued, “three days and three nights is a long time for a spirit to inhabit anything. When the sorcerers resurrected the heir princess from the very cusp of death, after being held there for so long, part of her spirit remained in the sword, and part of the sword remained in her. As she grew, so did a steel sliver grow within her. Cold and hard that sliver was in her spirit, and the mage overseeing the well-being of this corner of the world saw it could be used as an advantage. That mage believed it was within her to finish off the assassination of the king, the intended target of the immortal assassin. The mage festered the sliver in her spirit and, driven insane by the festering sliver, she rose up an army and murdered her own father.
“The Mad Queen, as she came to be called, ascended to the throne. Once she realized that her father’s throne was the lowest of powerful positions, though, she set her sights higher. The mage only realized their mistake when the wild gaze of her stare fixated on them. The Mad Queen struck her army forward, the dread assassin leashed to her side, and set about ending the Age of Mages with rivers of blood in her wake.”
Bridget shifted her steps so she was walking a little further from Draessellor, but still close to the wagon. She wanted to hear the rest of the story, but the big mercenary had actually growled at what Uncle Mike just said, and being in his wring radius was making her nervous. Especially because Shyla was now flying beside her instead of perching on her shoulder.
“In the final battles before the Mage Lords toppled, they erected barriers of terrain, beasts, great walls and immortal guards. But, it was all for naught.” Uncle Mike sniffed and knocked the ashes from the bowl of his pipe. “The Mad Queen and her army traversed the terrain, slaughtered the beasts, and scaled the great walls. She connived and twisted the hearts of even the most loyal of the immortal guards. The Mage Lords, who’d held all corners of the world at peace for an age, died at the flaming hands of their trusted protectors. With the highest seat of power empty, the Mad Queen set herself at the top of all the world’s corners. Her grip on the world and the blood she shed to take it is what brought about this current age of distrust, blood and war.”
“Enough,” Draessellor snarled. His hand Bridget could see was curled into a tight fist.
On the other side of the big mercenary, the Human who owned a sword similar to the one this story was supposed to be about stopped walking. Aston’s gaze was gentle, but pained, as he stared at the Reptillian’s back.
The greatest of friends, and most loyal of traitors. Aston’s mouth moved, but there wasn’t any sound to it. Bridget knew their wasn’t any sound because Draessellor didn’t acknowledge the short sentence. She only understood what was silently said from years of growing up and working in often noisy smithies, around people who liked not yelling all day.
“Enough of your lies for this day, Master Smith.” The edge of a threat was sharp between the words the Reptillian spoke.
“What lies have I spoken?” Uncle Mike asked, genuinely shocked at Draessellor’s reaction. He’d been watching the Human and didn’t realize the effect his tale was having on the bigger mercenary.
“Easier to answer for what truths. There are less to mention.”
Aston jogged the few steps needed to catch up so he was walking beside his companion again. “Can you explain the lies in the story to us?” he asked carefully.
“Bah,” the big Reptillian scoffed. There was a whispered rush throughout his armor as his scales shifted in irritation again. “There were no kings or queens in this corner of the world during the last age, only Lieges. The Mad Queen wasn’t. She was a Liege, untouched by any illness of the body or mind. Her sword was gifted from her uncle, fully enchanted, and never housed her soul because she received it after the attack on her family. As for the Mage Lords and her father, what reason have you for a disagreement between them ending in the near slaughter of an entire bloodline? You describe them having similar peaceful goals and such wise dispositions.” The sarcasm of his final statement was nearly a physical thing punching the words out between his pointed teeth.
“I…” Uncle Mike lifted his tobacco pouch from his belt and pinched a new amount to press into his pipe. “I never thought of it that deeply, in all honesty.” The tips of his ears had turned pink. Bridget blinked at him in shock. She’d never before seen him so embarrassed.
Draessellor scoffed, his lips curling up in a slight snarl as his teeth snapped together. “The Mage Lords were cruel beyond the imaginings of any living person today. The Mad Liege’s father was depraved, ignorant and cowardly. Your immortal dread assassin was no more immortal than any other Human sorcerer wearing armor handed down from parent to child. He allied with the Mad Liege against the Mage Lords because she was right to topple them and end the tyranny of their interferences with tribes, clans and nations. They’d ruled as if the lives of peoples held no worth. Her cause to end them was just and justified.”
“Um, excuse me, but…” Bridget swallowed hard when Draessellor’s eye swiveled down to glare at her. “You still refer to her as a ‘Mad Liege’ although saying she, well… wasn’t?” Shyla landed on Bridget’s shoulder again, but tucked close to her neck, out of Draessellor’s line of sight.
“Yes, that point raised the same question in my own mind,” Uncle Mike said quickly. Bridget flashed a smile at him for pulling the big Reptillian’s cold stare away from her.
“She wasn’t insane,” Draessellor stated.
“But…?” Uncle Mike pressed gently.
“She was angry,” the old lizard growled. “Generations of peoples, tribes, families, clans, entire nations, all raised and slaughtered and toyed with as no more than pieces of dirt in a child’s sandbox. Their countries boxed in for the humor and entertainment of watching their struggles as some starved in deserts and others were forced to fight over resources. Never allowed peace and never knowing why. Never allowed to know any other way of life may exist than endless struggle and war. Instructions as riddles thrown down into them to torment, harass or murder anyone who might grow to become knowledgeable of their games. The Mage Lords were a pestilence pretending to be gods. Liege Gabrhyne cauterized them from this world. All living peoples now exist because she gave them a chance to live, and all are better for it.”
“Were… were you there, Draessellor?” Bridget asked quietly.
The big Reptillian swiveled his eye to look at her, then he looked forward again and nodded only once.
“Did she really take the seat of power held by the Mage Lords?” Bridget asked.
He scoffed a snarl at her, his fangs flashing for only a moment. “No,” he said.
“Oh,” Bridget replied. That was a disappointing ending to the history, she thought.
Shyla flitted off Bridget’s shoulder. “But, why not?” she asked, flying backwards just in front of Bridget and Draessellor. Her little face was pinched in confusion, the question only raised because she really was curious to know.
“She never took their seat of power,” Draessellor repeated. “We put her on it,” he said.
“We?” Uncle Mike asked, also genuinely curious.
“Her Generals, Advisors. All the members of the tribes of Majiks the Mage Lords had exploited to harass and control their territories. All the Lieges left without direction and feeling lost and forgotten, as well as betrayed. Those of us who, without her, would have been forgotten, lost, or murdered. We all put her on it. She was our face of negotiation – and our threat – to hold the territories from toppling into chaos as each transitioned from being controlled into taking control of themselves. It was a seat we put all of her children on as well. And their children.” This time he stopped walking when his Human companion, Aston, did. The big Reptillian turned his head so both eyes were looking at the young mercenary. “Go ahead and ask,” Draessellor invited.
“Is that why you know my mother? Why you helped her before and are helping me now? She’s descended from Liege Gabrhyne?”
“No.”
Aston looked crestfallen. Shyla flitted over to sit on his shoulder and offered a few comforting words that were spoken too quietly for Bridget to hear. He gave the Fairy half a smile and leaned his head toward her when she hugged one side of his jaw.
Draessellor settled a hand on the Human’s shoulder opposite where Shyla was sitting. “Your mother is my friend, young Aston. She made herself so by her own words and deeds fully within these few years her life has been and will be. She is one I trust, and care for. As my friend, I will remember her deeds and name even once this age has passed into the next, and I will miss her.”
Bridget stumbled to a stop over the candid and sincere admission, turning back to stare at Draessellor with the same shocked expression Aston was wearing. The big mercenary lifted his hand off Aston’s shoulder and started walking again after a moment, leaving all three of them behind.
“But,” Aston said, face creased in confusion as he looked back and forth from the sword in his hand to his companion’s back. “But this is Liege Gabrhyne’s sword. I mean… isn’t it?”
“If you know it to be from what it’s told you, then yes. It is.” Draessellor didn’t stop or look back as he answered.
“Then… wait, Draessellor? Wait up!” Aston called, then jogged to catch up again when the big mercenary kept walking. Bridget jogged behind him, not wanting to miss whatever would happen next. “The sword, it just said, I mean felt, I…” Aston paused and then scoffed in frustration. “Whatever. It just told me only those of Liege Gabrhyne’s lineage could hear it and claim it.”
“Yes.” The old lizard nodded, agreeing.
“But you just said my mother isn’t descended from Liege Gabryhne.”
“Yes,” Draessellor agreed again. “It’s your father who’s born of Liege Gabrhyne’s blood.”
“As you might imagine, however,” Uncle Mike continued, “three days and three nights is a long time for a spirit to inhabit anything. When the sorcerers resurrected the heir princess from the very cusp of death, after being held there for so long, part of her spirit remained in the sword, and part of the sword remained in her. As she grew, so did a steel sliver grow within her. Cold and hard that sliver was in her spirit, and the mage overseeing the well-being of this corner of the world saw it could be used as an advantage. That mage believed it was within her to finish off the assassination of the king, the intended target of the immortal assassin. The mage festered the sliver in her spirit and, driven insane by the festering sliver, she rose up an army and murdered her own father.
“The Mad Queen, as she came to be called, ascended to the throne. Once she realized that her father’s throne was the lowest of powerful positions, though, she set her sights higher. The mage only realized their mistake when the wild gaze of her stare fixated on them. The Mad Queen struck her army forward, the dread assassin leashed to her side, and set about ending the Age of Mages with rivers of blood in her wake.”
Bridget shifted her steps so she was walking a little further from Draessellor, but still close to the wagon. She wanted to hear the rest of the story, but the big mercenary had actually growled at what Uncle Mike just said, and being in his wring radius was making her nervous. Especially because Shyla was now flying beside her instead of perching on her shoulder.
“In the final battles before the Mage Lords toppled, they erected barriers of terrain, beasts, great walls and immortal guards. But, it was all for naught.” Uncle Mike sniffed and knocked the ashes from the bowl of his pipe. “The Mad Queen and her army traversed the terrain, slaughtered the beasts, and scaled the great walls. She connived and twisted the hearts of even the most loyal of the immortal guards. The Mage Lords, who’d held all corners of the world at peace for an age, died at the flaming hands of their trusted protectors. With the highest seat of power empty, the Mad Queen set herself at the top of all the world’s corners. Her grip on the world and the blood she shed to take it is what brought about this current age of distrust, blood and war.”
“Enough,” Draessellor snarled. His hand Bridget could see was curled into a tight fist.
On the other side of the big mercenary, the Human who owned a sword similar to the one this story was supposed to be about stopped walking. Aston’s gaze was gentle, but pained, as he stared at the Reptillian’s back.
The greatest of friends, and most loyal of traitors. Aston’s mouth moved, but there wasn’t any sound to it. Bridget knew their wasn’t any sound because Draessellor didn’t acknowledge the short sentence. She only understood what was silently said from years of growing up and working in often noisy smithies, around people who liked not yelling all day.
“Enough of your lies for this day, Master Smith.” The edge of a threat was sharp between the words the Reptillian spoke.
“What lies have I spoken?” Uncle Mike asked, genuinely shocked at Draessellor’s reaction. He’d been watching the Human and didn’t realize the effect his tale was having on the bigger mercenary.
“Easier to answer for what truths. There are less to mention.”
Aston jogged the few steps needed to catch up so he was walking beside his companion again. “Can you explain the lies in the story to us?” he asked carefully.
“Bah,” the big Reptillian scoffed. There was a whispered rush throughout his armor as his scales shifted in irritation again. “There were no kings or queens in this corner of the world during the last age, only Lieges. The Mad Queen wasn’t. She was a Liege, untouched by any illness of the body or mind. Her sword was gifted from her uncle, fully enchanted, and never housed her soul because she received it after the attack on her family. As for the Mage Lords and her father, what reason have you for a disagreement between them ending in the near slaughter of an entire bloodline? You describe them having similar peaceful goals and such wise dispositions.” The sarcasm of his final statement was nearly a physical thing punching the words out between his pointed teeth.
“I…” Uncle Mike lifted his tobacco pouch from his belt and pinched a new amount to press into his pipe. “I never thought of it that deeply, in all honesty.” The tips of his ears had turned pink. Bridget blinked at him in shock. She’d never before seen him so embarrassed.
Draessellor scoffed, his lips curling up in a slight snarl as his teeth snapped together. “The Mage Lords were cruel beyond the imaginings of any living person today. The Mad Liege’s father was depraved, ignorant and cowardly. Your immortal dread assassin was no more immortal than any other Human sorcerer wearing armor handed down from parent to child. He allied with the Mad Liege against the Mage Lords because she was right to topple them and end the tyranny of their interferences with tribes, clans and nations. They’d ruled as if the lives of peoples held no worth. Her cause to end them was just and justified.”
“Um, excuse me, but…” Bridget swallowed hard when Draessellor’s eye swiveled down to glare at her. “You still refer to her as a ‘Mad Liege’ although saying she, well… wasn’t?” Shyla landed on Bridget’s shoulder again, but tucked close to her neck, out of Draessellor’s line of sight.
“Yes, that point raised the same question in my own mind,” Uncle Mike said quickly. Bridget flashed a smile at him for pulling the big Reptillian’s cold stare away from her.
“She wasn’t insane,” Draessellor stated.
“But…?” Uncle Mike pressed gently.
“She was angry,” the old lizard growled. “Generations of peoples, tribes, families, clans, entire nations, all raised and slaughtered and toyed with as no more than pieces of dirt in a child’s sandbox. Their countries boxed in for the humor and entertainment of watching their struggles as some starved in deserts and others were forced to fight over resources. Never allowed peace and never knowing why. Never allowed to know any other way of life may exist than endless struggle and war. Instructions as riddles thrown down into them to torment, harass or murder anyone who might grow to become knowledgeable of their games. The Mage Lords were a pestilence pretending to be gods. Liege Gabrhyne cauterized them from this world. All living peoples now exist because she gave them a chance to live, and all are better for it.”
“Were… were you there, Draessellor?” Bridget asked quietly.
The big Reptillian swiveled his eye to look at her, then he looked forward again and nodded only once.
“Did she really take the seat of power held by the Mage Lords?” Bridget asked.
He scoffed a snarl at her, his fangs flashing for only a moment. “No,” he said.
“Oh,” Bridget replied. That was a disappointing ending to the history, she thought.
Shyla flitted off Bridget’s shoulder. “But, why not?” she asked, flying backwards just in front of Bridget and Draessellor. Her little face was pinched in confusion, the question only raised because she really was curious to know.
“She never took their seat of power,” Draessellor repeated. “We put her on it,” he said.
“We?” Uncle Mike asked, also genuinely curious.
“Her Generals, Advisors. All the members of the tribes of Majiks the Mage Lords had exploited to harass and control their territories. All the Lieges left without direction and feeling lost and forgotten, as well as betrayed. Those of us who, without her, would have been forgotten, lost, or murdered. We all put her on it. She was our face of negotiation – and our threat – to hold the territories from toppling into chaos as each transitioned from being controlled into taking control of themselves. It was a seat we put all of her children on as well. And their children.” This time he stopped walking when his Human companion, Aston, did. The big Reptillian turned his head so both eyes were looking at the young mercenary. “Go ahead and ask,” Draessellor invited.
“Is that why you know my mother? Why you helped her before and are helping me now? She’s descended from Liege Gabrhyne?”
“No.”
Aston looked crestfallen. Shyla flitted over to sit on his shoulder and offered a few comforting words that were spoken too quietly for Bridget to hear. He gave the Fairy half a smile and leaned his head toward her when she hugged one side of his jaw.
Draessellor settled a hand on the Human’s shoulder opposite where Shyla was sitting. “Your mother is my friend, young Aston. She made herself so by her own words and deeds fully within these few years her life has been and will be. She is one I trust, and care for. As my friend, I will remember her deeds and name even once this age has passed into the next, and I will miss her.”
Bridget stumbled to a stop over the candid and sincere admission, turning back to stare at Draessellor with the same shocked expression Aston was wearing. The big mercenary lifted his hand off Aston’s shoulder and started walking again after a moment, leaving all three of them behind.
“But,” Aston said, face creased in confusion as he looked back and forth from the sword in his hand to his companion’s back. “But this is Liege Gabrhyne’s sword. I mean… isn’t it?”
“If you know it to be from what it’s told you, then yes. It is.” Draessellor didn’t stop or look back as he answered.
“Then… wait, Draessellor? Wait up!” Aston called, then jogged to catch up again when the big mercenary kept walking. Bridget jogged behind him, not wanting to miss whatever would happen next. “The sword, it just said, I mean felt, I…” Aston paused and then scoffed in frustration. “Whatever. It just told me only those of Liege Gabrhyne’s lineage could hear it and claim it.”
“Yes.” The old lizard nodded, agreeing.
“But you just said my mother isn’t descended from Liege Gabryhne.”
“Yes,” Draessellor agreed again. “It’s your father who’s born of Liege Gabrhyne’s blood.”
