Raymond Feist - Shadow of a Dark Queen

Tyndal was dead.

Erik still couldn’t believe it. Each time he came into the forge during the last two months he had expected to see the burly smith either asleep on his pallet at the rear of the forge or hard at work. The man’s sense of humor when he wasn’t sober, or his dark moodiness when he was – everything about him was etched in every corner of this place where Erik had learned his craft for the previous six years.

Erik inspected the coals from the previous night’s fire and judged how much wood to add to bring it back to life. A miller’s wagon had lurched into the courtyard the night before with a broken axle, and there would be ample work to fill his day. He still couldn’t get over Tyndal’s not being there.

Two months previously, Erik had climbed down from his loft expecting the events of the morning to be as usual, but one glance at Tyndal’s regular resting place had sent the hairs on Erik’s neck straight up. Erik had seen the smith drunk to a stupor, but this was something else. There was a stillness to the old man that Erik instinctively recognized. He had never seen a dead man before, but he had seen many animals dead in the fields, and there was something eerily familiar in the smith’s attitude. Erik touched Tyndal to assure himself the old blacksmith was truly dead, and when he touched cold skin he jerked his hand away as if from a burn.

The local priest of Killian, who acted as a healer for most of the poor in the town, quickly confirmed that Tyndal had indeed drunk his last bottle of wine. Since he had no family, it was left to Milo to dispose of the corpse, and he arranged a hasty funeral, with a quick pyre. The ashes were scattered, and a prayer was said to the Singer of Green Silence by her priest, though smiths were more correctly considered the province of Tith-Onanka, the god of war. Erik felt that somehow the prayer to Killian, the goddess of the forest and field, was appropriate: Tyndal had repaired perhaps one sword in the six years Erik had been around the forge, but countless plows, tillers, and other implements of farming.

A sound in the distance caught Erik’s ear. A midday coach was coming along the western road from Krondor, the Prince’s City. Erik knew that the chances were excellent it was Percy of Rimmerton at the reins, and if so, he would be putting in to the Pintail for refreshments for his horses and passengers. The driver was a rail-thin man of enormous appetite who loved Freida’s cooking.

As Erik had anticipated, within minutes the sounds of iron-shod wheels and hooves echoed loudly as the commercial coach approached the courtyard. Then it turned in and with a loud ‘Whoa!’ Percy reined in his team of four. The commercial coaches had begun their travel between Salador and Krondor five years previously and had proved a great success for their innovator, a wealthy merchant in Krondor named Jacob Esterbrook, who was now planning a coach line from Salador to Bas-Tyra, according to gossip. Each coach was essentially a wagon, with a covered roof and sides, and a small tailgate that when lowered provided a step into the wagon. A pair of planks along the sides provided indifferent seating, and the ride was lacking any pretense to comfort, as the wagons were rudely sprung. But the journey was swift compared to that by caravan, and for those unable to secure their own mounts to ride, almost as rapid as horseback.

‘Ho, Percy,’ said Erik.

‘Erik!’ replied the coachman, whose long thin face appeared to have been frozen in a grin surrounded by road dirt. He turned to his two passengers, a man dressed well and another in plain garments. ‘Ravensburg, sirs.’

The plainly dressed man nodded and moved to the rear of the coach as Erik obliged Percy by unlatching the tailgate. ‘Are you lying over?’ he asked the driver.

‘No,’ answered Percy. ‘We go on to Wolverton, where this other gentleman is bound; then we are done with this run.’ Wolverton was the next town in the direction of Darkmoor, and less than an hour away by fast coach. Erik knew that the passenger would be unlikely to welcome a meal stop this close to his destination. ‘From there I’m going empty to Darkmoor, so there’s ample time and no hurry. Tell your mother I’ll be back in a few days, gods willing, and I’ll have an extra of her best meat pie.’ Percy’s grin continued to split his thin face as he patted his stomach, miming hunger.

Erik nodded as the driver turned his team and quickly had them up to a trot and out of the courtyard. Erik turned to the man who had dismounted the coach, to ask if he required lodging, and found him vanishing around the corner of the barn.

‘Sir!’ Erik called, and hurried after.

He circled the barn and reached the forge, finding that the stranger had set down his bag and was removing his travel cloak. The man was as broad of shoulder and thick of arm as Erik, though he was a full head shorter. He had a fringe of long grey hair receding from his bald pate, and a thoughtful, almost scholarly expression. His brows were bushy and black, and his face was clean-shaven, though the stubble grown while traveling was almost white.

And he inspected everything carefully. He turned to see the young man standing at the door and said, ‘You must be the apprentice. You keep an orderly forge, youngster. That is good.’ He spoke with the odd flat twang typical of those from the Far Coast or the Sunset Islands.

‘Who are you?’ asked Erik.

‘Nathan is my name. I’m the new smith sent up from Krondor.’

‘From Krondor? New smith?’ Erik’s expression showed his confusion.

The large man shrugged as he hung his travel cloak on a wall peg. ‘The guild asked if I wished this forge. I said yes, and here I am.’

‘But it’s my smithy,’ said Erik.

‘It’s a baronial charge, boy,’ said Nathan, his tone turning firm. ‘You might be competent in most things – you might even be talented – but in time of war you’d be mending armor and tending the barony’s mounts, as well as taking care of farmers’ draft horses.’

‘War!’ exclaimed Erik. ‘War hasn’t touched Darkmoor since it was conquered!’

The man took a quick step forward and put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, gripping him firmly. ‘I think I know how you feel. But law is law. You’re a guild apprentice –’

‘No.’

The smith’s brows lowered. ‘No? Didn’t your master register you with the guild?’

With conflicting emotions, anger and ironic amusement, Erik said, ‘My former master was drunk most of the time. I’ve conducted the business of this forge since I was ten years of age, Master Smith. For years he promised to take the journey to Krondor or to Rillanon, to register my apprenticeship with the guild office. For the first three years I begged him to send a message by Kingdom Post, but after that … I was too busy to continue begging. He’s been dead for two months now, and I’ve done well enough tending the barony’s needs.’

The man stroked his chin and then shook his head. ‘This is a problem, youngster. You’re three years older than most who begin their apprenticeship –’

‘Begin!’ said Erik, his anger now coming to the fore. ‘I can match skills with any guild smith –’

Nathan’s expression darkened. ‘That’s not the point!’ he roared, his own anger at being interrupted giving him volume enough to silence Erik. ‘That’s not the point,’ he repeated more quietly when he saw that Erik was listening. ‘You may be the finest smith in the Kingdom, in all of Midkemia, but no one at the guild knows this. You have not been listed on the roster of apprentices, and no one with a guildmaster’s rank has vouched for your work. So you must begin –’