Wil Ogden - The Nightstone

“Fine, Pan. But we need to go.” She looked over at Bouncer. “I assume you caught all the details of what’s happening?”

Bouncer nodded. “Dale’s in charge while you’re gone. There’s extra money behind the ovens.”

“Good.” Tara said then grabbed Pantros by the shoulders. “Go get whatever money you can carry easily, we’re leaving now.”

Pantros ran upstairs and grabbed a heavy leather satchel and filled it with handfuls of coins and jewelry.

As he came down the stairs to the taproom, James was sitting at a table with a long ornate box sitting on it. Tara sat at his side. “Come here, boy,” James said, gesturing to a seat across the table.

“What’s this?” Pantros asked.

James slid the box closer to Pantros as he sat down. “It’s a sword and it’s yours.” James opened the box to reveal a sheathed rapier with a polished silver bell. “My father was an axesmith and occasionally did trade with the Abvi. This here is Abvi made, not quite as good as Matderi made, but far better than you’ll find in this town or anywhere for a hundred leagues.”

“It’s beautiful,” Pantros said. He reached for the hilt. James hand closed over Pateros’s wrist.

“Hold up there,” James said. “This here is not even a normal Abvi sword. It’s got, um…I’m not sure how to say this…”

“Is it cursed?” Pantros asked, pulling his hand away.

“No, that’s not what I’d call it, but perhaps some would.” James reached into the box and gently lifted the sword by the scabbard. He seemed to carefully avoid touching the hilt or bell. “I don’t know what you know of Abvi, but when they die, they don’t really die. They transcend this world, taking their bodies with them. But that only works for Abvi that live out their full lives. When one dies early, they actually die and their souls wither and fade unless something is done to preserve it. One way to preserve it is to contain the soul in a magnificent work of art. This sword is such a work of art.”

“You’re saying the sword is possessed?” Pantros asked. He was not so eager to take the blade and set his hands on the table.

James nodded. “The sword is alive. It’s not able to fight on its own, but it can offer advice. I’ve never spoken to it, but it’s supposed to be the soul of a veteran warrior killed in battle. It’s dormant right now, asleep. It will wake up when drawn and it will bond to whoever pulls it from the scabbard.

“I don’t think I want to draw it if it’s sentient. I can’t take on another responsibility right now.” Pantros said.

“The thing is that I’ve had this sword for two centuries and my father for a few before that. We’ve never really felt right with the idea of selling it. But it needs to be drawn and have the opportunity to complete its life journey. Ideally, some day the soul will complete and it will transcend as it was meant to in life. If you’re not going to draw it, at least take it with you and give it to a worthy Abvi in Melnith. I will say that it’s one fine weapon and would not have any difficulty penetrating the thick hide of those hellhounds.

Pantros thought about it a moment. “I can take it with me to Melnith. I hope I don’t have to draw it on the way.”

Tara spoke for the first time since Pantros had sat at the table, “I hope so too. I’m sure you think you’re good with weapons, Pan, but the best way to avoid getting hurt in a fight is not to get in one.”

Pantros stood and took the rapier, and emulating James’ care not to touch the hilt or bell, he buckled it onto his belt. “C’mon, sis. We need to get going.”

Tara stood up and glanced around the empty room. “I know.”

The village of Dragon’s Tear was little more than a large inn on the western shore of Dragon’s Tear Lake. The trail up to the inn had taken Charles and Heather three hours to climb. During that time they were passed by several carriages. When they arrived at the inn, Charles wondered if the climb had been in vain. By the look, the inn catered to the extremely wealthy and with only his sword and a blanket, Charles had no wealth.

Heather had only an ill fitting dress which she’d taken from the mining camp since her explosion had destroyed her own.

“The road stops here,” Heather said. “I’ve never heard of an Inn as a destination, just stops along the way to somewhere else.”

“I’m not sure this is the place to seek food we don’t have to forage,” Charles said. “I don’t think they’d let us in the front door.” From a distance the inn had looked large but modest; up close Charles could see the extremely detailed carvings in the trim surrounding every opening on the building.

“You’re probably right about that,” A woman’s voice said, approaching them from one of the few small houses of the village. The woman wore an apron and had several utensils hanging from its straps. “The menu in the Inn of the Dragon’s Breath is usually simple but the prices start at several silver coins. By the looks of you, you haven’t had a decent meal in a week, and your wardrobe is worse off than you.”

“Would you believe we were attacked by a dragon?” Heather asked.

“Just by your appearance, I would,” the woman answered. “But dragons aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t attack a man carrying a sword. There’s not enough meat on a man to make it worth the risk. Cows on the other hand are plenty of meat without much risk of being run through. This is one of the few places south of the great range where dragons can be found, but I’ve never heard of one attacking a person.”

Charles stepped up to the woman and offered his hand in greeting. “We’re from a little mining town up north, Blackstone. There was an explosion and most of the town was destroyed. My name is Charles and this is Heather.”

“I’m Amanda,” the woman said. “I do all the cooking at the inn. I might be able to get you a meal or two, but I’d feel better about it if you could offer something in return.”

“We’re blacksmiths,” Charles said. “If you have need of that kind of work, we could offer a trade.”

Amanda pointed to a building at the edge of town with a trail of black smoke pouring from the chimney. “We have a blacksmith, a young lad who just became a master, not much older than you. But I do have smithy work if you’re the right kind of iron worker.”

“What kind would that be?” Charles asked. “Iron is iron, heat it, hammer it, and cool it. We can make just about anything if we could borrow your smith’s tools and shop.”

“Gus’s is good at making things do exactly what they’re supposed to do,” Amanda said. “He has no sense for the aesthetic. I need a couple iron dragons to hang by the front door; they should look like they’re breathing fire. I keep asking Gus, but he’s not giving the job any priority since he can’t understand the purpose of them.”

“Sure we could do that,” Charles said. “Are you looking for cast or wrought iron?”

“Wrought,” Amanda said. “I just think it would look better from a distance. They should be this tall each.” She held her hand out at her shoulder level.

“Should we head to the forge then?” Heather asked.

“Let’s get you some food first,” Amanda said. “Follow me around to the side door.” As she started to walk, she added, “Occasionally guests leave some things behind. I’ll have to go through that stuff and see if there are any clothes that would fit you two.”

After a lunch of bread and some kind of lettuce that grew in the shallows of the lake, Charles and Heather headed to the blacksmith shop. Amanda had given them clothing that might have been some nobles’ hunting attire. The green and gray materials were soft leathers and heavy, layered, linen.