The shadow weaver, p.2
The Shadow Weaver, page 2
I eased back into the darkness, deciding it was safe to leave Little Worm for the night.
Days turned to weeks, and soon, a month had passed. The thumping in my head stopped, but I stayed close, hiding in the dilapidated barn. I would check on Esma and Olaf every few days to see how Little Worm was.
Her cheeks grew round and ruddy, and loose golden curls replaced the fuzz on her head. She thrived in Esma and Olaf’s care.
I spied Olaf carving a rabbit out of soapstone in the yard. He spoke to Little Worm who sat upright in a basket propped against rolled linens.
I stayed out of sight to listen to the one-sided conversation.
‘Tomorrow will be your name day, and I will claim you as my daughter. I only hope I can be the father you deserve.’
I shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though I was intruding.
‘You are no ordinary child, are you? You are a gift from the gods, little one.’
He leaned in close to her, and she grabbed his beard with a gurgle. I smiled.
I would miss that sound.
Olaf held up the carved rabbit, and she let go of his beard to try to take it, but Olaf pulled the carving away.
‘Nay, it’s not finished, little one.’
Her bottom lip extended with a quiver, and I thought she was about to cry, when a thin spindle of smoke left her hand and wrapped around the carving in Olaf’s open palm.
I tensed, ready to run across the yard to scoop Little Worm up and run. Olaf became immobile, watching the rabbit fly towards her tiny outstretched hand.
She grasped it and immediately brought it to her mouth. Olaf broke from his trance and picked her up with a whoop. ‘I knew it!’
She continued to munch on the rabbit, unfazed by Olaf’s antics.
‘What is all this about then?’ Esma appeared with a basket of washing propped on her hip.
‘Just excited for tomorrow!’ Olaf grinned, cradling Little Worm to his chest.
Esma moved to the washing line, humming as she worked.
I strained my ears to hear Olaf as he whispered to Little Worm. ‘You must be careful.’ Olaf’s brows drew together. ‘Never let others see what you can do.’
†
I watched from the back of the crowd that had gathered for Little Worm’s name day. I had stolen my disguise – a hooded cloak and a walking stick – from a house in the village.
I promised myself that after today I would go, though I didn’t know where. I had no memory of where I had been all these years – the last home I remember was my parents’. But I knew it was time to leave Little Worm with her new family.
Esma’s soft voice flittered over the waiting villagers. ‘While my other children wait for me in the underworld, the gods have answered my prayers and given me a child to love in this world too.’ She whispered into Little Worm’s tiny pink ear before addressing her friends and neighbours again. ‘The name I give her means love and grace.’
Little Worm’s smoky grey eyes remained wide and curious as she stared at Esma. If she had cried, Esma would have chosen another name for her to approve.
‘I wish to give our child a name that means kindness and strength,’ Olaf declared loudly. He leaned over Esma’s shoulder, ensuring he had the infant’s attention. ‘Esma,’ he said, softly.
Tears ran down Esma’s cheeks as Little Worm gifted Olaf a sweet, gummy smile. Olaf hugged them both tightly and shouted joyfully to the waiting crowd.
‘Come meet our daughter, Caris Esma Ironside!’
†
The hot days and even hotter nights in the south had grown on me. I began a new life on the other side of Red River as a blacksmith, just like my father would have wanted. Using the king’s gold, I had a forge and a cabin built on the dry riverbank. It was quiet, and the work was slow. Gradually, as my memories faded and I became forgetful, I began to appreciate my simple life, although the loneliness that crept in year after year persisted as I remained unmarried and childless. I wondered what was left.
‘Help me! Help me!’
I woke to the dark, disoriented, with the echo of a child’s desperate voice filling my head. Leaping from bed, I dressed quickly. I fetched my armour and sword, unsure if I would need to fight. The life I had built here as a Red River blacksmith had no cause for me to wield a sword. I had to hope that the strength I had maintained over the years would compensate for any weaknesses I might have in my long-unused combat skills.
As I grabbed my helmet, a dark thought made me pause. What if this was my illness? My deteriorating mind playing a cruel joke on me? I shook off the question, unable to ignore a cry for help.
Although timeworn, my stallion navigated the darkness well. Grey eyes flashed in my mind, and then nothing – no more calls for help, nothing further to guide me.
Movement high in the trees caught my attention. At first, I believed I saw a woman shrouded in shadows. I closed my eyes tightly, opened them, and searched the trees again.
Golden orbs broke the darkness – an owl. Its perch shook as the enormous bird launched into the air and then rested a few trees ahead of me. It swiveled its darkly feathered head backwards and blinked. I rode forward, and the owl took to the air again, landing further down the tree line. It was leading me south.
The owl led us miles from home, and I began to worry again that this was all in my mind. Hours passed, and the sky began to lighten.
Dawn was almost here, and the owl was gone – vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
Waiting on the riverbank, I saw that a tree had fallen into the river, its twisted roots exposed as though it had grown too old and weary to hold on to the dry, accursed earth below it.
The river’s high waters had washed something against the semi-submerged tree.
Not something.
Someone.
I leaped from my horse and waded into the river. This was the only time of year the river was high, not that it helped the plant life struggling to survive on its tainted banks.
The sun broke the horizon as I lifted the unconscious child into my arms. Her wet hair clung to my armour the moment it made contact.
When I reached the bank, I removed my gloves and attempted to rub her long limbs back to life. The young girl was limp and cold, like a wrung-out rag.
‘C’mon, Little Worm.’ I knew it was her. Who else would have the power to call for me? It had been eleven years, but her mother’s Curse still bound me to her protection.
I pushed her hair back from her face to see her in the dawn light. My hand encountered a lump on her head. ‘What happened to you?’ I whispered, looking for other injuries.
Both of her hands were cut deep and wrapped in a torn-up shirt. Her smoky grey eyes opened. She stared at me vacantly, then blinked, and her brows furrowed.
‘Where are your parents, Little Worm?’
Her bottom lip trembled, and then her face crumpled.
‘Dead,’ she sobbed.
Fate was cruel.
‘I’ve got you, Little Worm.’ I stood with the tearful child in my arms. ‘Let’s go home.’
CHAPTER 1
CARIS
Ten winters later
The jagged stone walls of Murus rose before me cold and unyielding, and I wondered if he was behind them. The man whose hands had stained my life with blood and grief – the one who had torn the light from my mother’s eyes.
The sun reflected off a helmet, drawing my attention to the gaps placed at even intervals along the wall, where several sets of eyes watched the flow of people passing through the gate.
So, the rumors were true. An army of red-caped soldiers had taken up residence inside Murus. I had been right to come.
Nightmare’s hooves sounded over the stone bridge, taking us over the dry moat that encircled the city and its fortress. Even though I was careful to steer her through the crowds, people were startled by her presence.
She was a frightful beast. Nightmare was larger and blacker than any mare had the right to be. She was perfect.
‘Halt!’
Two soldiers stepped out of the shadows, blocking the only entrance into Murus. A murmur of frustration rippled through the crowd behind me.
‘Name?’ A soldier with black bushy brows and a bored expression came to stand at Nightmare’s shoulder. She turned her head and showed him her impressive teeth.
He took a step back.
‘Caris Ironside,’ I said.
‘And what is your reason for coming to Murus?’
‘Why are you asking me, and not those who went before me?’
His gaze went to the swords strapped to my back. ‘Just answer the question.’
‘Hurry up, will you?’ came a gruff voice behind me.
The soldier and I both turned to look at the man who spoke. He carried several sacks, and under a curly black beard, his face was red with the strain. He was glaring pointedly at me, not the soldiers blocking the entrance.
‘I’m here to work.’ And to kill a man.
‘Doing what?’ the soldier asked.
‘I’m a blacksmith.’ The soldier’s bushy brows rose so high they disappeared into his hair.
‘Plague, take it!’ The bearded man behind me threw down his sacks and put his hands on his hips. ‘Women can’t be blacksmiths!’
Impatient people annoyed me, but rude people made me angry. I considered dismounting and standing over the man, who was a head shorter than I, and telling him to be quiet. Instead, I took a calming breath and tugged my braid over my shoulder to inspect the blonde ends for any debris I might have collected during the nights I had slept on the ground.
It had taken several days to get here, and I didn’t want to give the bushy-browed soldier a reason not to let me into Murus.
‘Is that all?’ I asked the soldier.
His bushy eyebrows returned to their bored position. ‘Yes.’ He gestured to his men to let me through.
‘Wait, you don’t believe her bullshit story, do you?’
‘Don’t start trouble again, Mac,’ the soldier warned.
I lightly pressed my knees into Nightmare’s sides, urging her forward.
The man the soldier called Mac raised his voice so I couldn’t miss hearing him. ‘Women aren’t blacksmiths!’
Well, this woman was.
Murus seemed to burst at the seams; the cobblestone street overflowed with other travellers, hawkers and residents, all passing in and out of the city gates on foot, in noisy carts and on horseback.
The blacksmith’s shop I was looking for was close to the ancient stone fortress. Murus’s fortress had been empty when I visited last, but the blue flags now on the turrets and the soldiers around the entrance signalled it no longer was.
I dismounted from Nightmare and peered into a tidy and neatly organised shop. The old blacksmith wasn’t inside. Remembering the forge was attached to the side of the shop, I followed the familiar hammering sounds of a blacksmith at work.
Two women gripping baskets filled with washing were standing in my way, chatting with each other while watching whoever was hammering.
‘Excuse me.’ They moved aside reluctantly as I walked between them with Nightmare behind me. She flicked her tail at the pretty girl holding her wash basket on her hip. She was frightened enough by Nightmare’s size to scuttle closer to her friend. They both glared at me when I reached out to stroke the mare for her sassy behaviour.
The old blacksmith I had come to see wasn’t the one hammering. A much younger man was hammering a large piece of iron, every muscle and vein in his arms straining with the effort. He wielded the hammer expertly, and his blows were consistent and precise – something I knew from experience was very hard to do with a hammer as big as the one he held.
I watched him work, admiring his focus and skill. His shirt, adapted to leave his arms bare, clung to him with sweat as he laboured tirelessly, his back muscles flexing with every hammer strike. A wavy lock of fair hair had escaped the leather tie used to keep it out of his eyes.
I patiently waited as he took the piece he was working on to a large barrel and dipped it into the water using long iron tongs. He tucked the escaped strand of hair behind his ear, drawing my attention to his face. The blacksmith’s features were pleasant enough to look at. When our eyes connected, I couldn’t help admiring the thick, dark lashes surrounding his golden-brown eyes. He was not the old, gnarled blacksmith I sought.
He glanced at the women standing on the street, who were no longer pretending they were there to chat, then turned his golden gaze on me. Setting down his tools, he nodded towards Nightmare.
‘Are you wanting the mare reshod?’
He pronounced his r’s with a slight roll of his tongue, the depth of the burr in his voice bringing to mind honey warming in a pan. I shook my head, but he continued to approach me.
‘She’s an extraordinary mare. May I?’ he asked, coming closer.
Nightmare didn’t tolerate strangers touching her, especially men. ‘She isn’t the petting type,’ I warned.
He smiled warmly at me, then unhurriedly reached an enormous hand towards her black muzzle.
Not touching, just waiting.
Nightmare let out a slight puff of air through her enlarged nostrils and trod forward, pushing her nose into his palm. He smiled, raising his other hand to her neck.
‘You little hussy,’ I muttered.
‘Don’t be too mad at her,’ he smirked. ‘I have this effect on most fillies.’ His chuckle sounded more self-deprecating than cocky, despite his words.
I found that to be oddly charming.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked, crossing his arms.
‘I was hoping to rent accommodation above the forge for a time. I was here three winters ago, and the blacksmith and I agreed that I could work in the forge for a place to stay.’ This wasn’t exactly true. Yes, I had stayed here, but it wasn’t me who had worked in the forge for the accommodation. I was an apprentice the last time I was in Murus, and the future agreement was not with me, but still, I had hoped the old blacksmith would remember me and allow me to work for him now that I was fully trained.
The blacksmith uncrossed his arms, surprise written all over his face.
‘You apprenticed as a blacksmith?’
‘Yes. Five years.’ I was well-trained, and I enjoyed my work very much.
‘Can I see something you’ve made?’ he asked with a tilt of his head.
I reached behind me for the sword I had strapped to my back. If he were a good blacksmith, he would be impressed by the sword I had spent months crafting.
The broadsword wasn’t too heavy or too light. I had folded the metal as much as sixteen times. I had measured the level of iron ore carefully to ensure the blade had some flexibility but wouldn’t cause the sword’s life to shorten with rust – all things I had learned as an apprentice.
The blacksmith took my sword and ran a finger along the delicate engraving on the pristine blade.
‘You engrave your own swords?’
I knew it wasn’t unusual for blacksmiths to outsource to engravers, hilt makers and even grinders who would sharpen the blade, but along the Red River, there was no-one to do that work, so I had learned to do it all myself.
‘Yes, I can engrave.’ Would he say it was a waste of a blacksmith’s time?
He studied my sword for a long time, inspecting every inch. I had etched a mountainous landscape beneath a full moon into the steel and carved the oak hilt into the shape of a horse’s head.
He looked up at me. ‘Beautiful.’
My face grew warm as he handed back my sword hilt first.
‘Do we have a deal?’ I asked. ‘Accommodation above your forge for my skills?’
‘Are you sure you want to stay here?’ he asked with a slight frown. ‘I’ve done nothing to those rooms since buying this place, and it gets unbearably hot up there when I light the forge fires.’
I nodded, remembering that the rooms were basic but adequate.
‘I have well-furnished rooms in the blacksmith’s cottage, but I have no wife, and we would be alone …’ His words drifted away, and I saw a slight flush creep up his neck.
Before I could respond, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, it would be inappropriate.’
I bit back a smile and waited for him to decide.
‘No customers here would appreciate fine sword-making skills like yours. They want tools, horseshoes, pots, pans. All rather mundane things,’ he said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.
‘I know the rooms are simple, and that is all I need. I like to make fine things, but I understand there isn’t always someone to buy such items.’ Hopefully, my words reassured him that my expectations for the work and the accommodation were not more than what was available.
‘Well … if you’re sure?’ He started to take off his work apron.
I didn’t hold back my smile this time.
‘Go settle your horse around back, and I’ll find the key.’
The two women still stood on the street. The pretty one carrying her basket on her hip gazed yearningly at the blacksmith’s disappearing back.
I led Nightmare towards the small lean-to that was built for housing horses. Nightmare wasn’t too happy to share the space with the blacksmith’s bay gelding, who seemed unbothered by his unfriendly guest. I unsaddled my mare and fetched fresh hay while she drank from the trough, then took some time to brush her down, hoping it would put her in a better mood.
‘You need to mind your manners. You’re a guest here, and I want you to behave,’ I told her in a firm voice.
In return, she kicked the bucket I had foolishly left beside her. ‘Nightmare!’ I gathered up the few possessions I had with me and left her to sulk.
An outside staircase led me to the top of the forge where I found the blacksmith waiting for me. He opened the door, and I followed him inside.
An old square table and two bowed chairs were in the middle of the room. The blacksmith bent to inspect the worn chairs, finding one broken but the other sound. He straightened and scowled at the offending furniture.
