Forging the Half-Goblin Sorcerer Read online

  “Forgive me for staring,” she replies. “I have never seen another of mixed-blood.” This is most strange, Myrel thinks. Last night my father appears and now a cross-breed. “You are so tall. I am Myrel,” she adds almost as an afterthought. She never introduces herself as the daughter of the Thaumaturgist. It sounds too pretentious. “Where have you come from?”

  Trak feels sure that Krage would want him to keep secret information about who he is or where he comes from so he simple replies, “Halban by the Sea, a town in the south.” Myrel looks as though she has never heard of the place. “Would you stay and talk with me for a moment?” he adds.

  Myrel is anxious to return to her apartment and visit more with her father. “I must go now, but please return this afternoon. I have questions I would like to ask.” They part and Trak watches her lithely disappear into the mountain.

  Surely a place such as this has a library, Trak thinks. He finds someone to ask, and they direct him through a series of corridors. His route takes him by huge ventilation shafts that circulate fresh air to the mountain’s interior. Trak notes that the corridors are arranged in loops. Dead-end passages are avoided. After a short walk, Trak arrives at a dome-shaped room lined with bookshelves. A scholarly looking goblin approaches him and offers his help. Trak explains he is a visitor to the mountain and would like to spend the morning reading. “Yes, of course. What would you like to read?”

  “Something about the history of the temple and the ancient religion.”

  Trak follows the librarian to a shelf where there are several books to chose from. He selects one, The Lives and Teachings of the Thaumaturgists. He settles into a chair and begins skimming the chapters while most of his thoughts still focus on the girl he has just met. Chapter 1 is entitled, “The Myth of the First Thaumaturgist.” The myth is a creation story about how the Earth Spirit brought forth from the Underworld the creatures of the earth. According to the myth, the last to exit were the goblin people. One was chosen to be the First Thaumaturgist, to serve as the voice of the Spirit and protector of the people. The office passed from father to son or in some cases a daughter. The book is old and stops with the 50th Thaumaturgist.

  Trak selects another book entitled The Prophecies of the Thaumaturgists. Here, he finds a reference to the Prophecy of the Betrayer. It is the same story that the old Spore in the woods told him. It foretold a cross-breed would unite the peoples of the upper world in a war against the demons of the Underworld. According to the prophecy, when the Spirit called forth creatures to live on the earth’s surface, she left some behind in torment in the dark bowels of the earth. The “Unworthy” as the book labeled them, swore to avenge their humiliation.

  At midday, Trak returns to the dormitory to eat. Farg appears, “Krage wants us to go with him to see the king. He will collect us after the midday meal. He has provided you with clothing for our audience with the king. They are on your bunk.”

  Gobshite! What rotten luck, Trak thinks. He is looking forward to meeting with Myrel, and he has no way to contact her and postpone their rendezvous.

  Trak’s new wardrobe rivals Farg’s in elegance. The suede boots, alone, are worth more than all Trak has ever owned. Krage scans him from head to toe when he enters the room and seems satisfied. The three journey the two leagues to the palace by walking through an underground passage. They could ride in hand drawn buggies, but Krage chooses to walk so he can prepare Trak for their audience with the king. “When we are presented to the king, we will walk to within ten feet of His Majesty and bow together. Stay in the bowed position for three counts and then stand erect. I will introduce you, but let me do all the talking. If the king asks you a direct question, address the king as My Liege.” Krage hands Trak a box containing the steel sword named “The First,” sharpened and polished to a high sheen. “When the king dismisses us, we will again bow for three counts, take one step backwards, turn and walk out of the room without looking back.

  Please, no more rules, thinks Trak. His new environment makes him feel most out-of-place. The three enter the palace through a corridor filled with busy servants that bow as the Thaumaturgist passes.

  Krage leads them up two flights of stairs and halts in a waiting chamber. They are immediately announced and ushered into the small but elaborately decorated room that King Giforing uses for meetings with his advisors. The only other person in the room aside from the king is Lord Melkerei Lizardthroat, Commander of the Secret Police. Trak and Farg are both astonished to see a blue dagger embroidered on his robe. The king sits upright on his throne. He holds a unicorn horn in his left hand and wears a necklace of ‘serpent tongues’ which Trak recognizes are actually shark teeth. Powerful amulets to neutralize poisons, Trak recalls.

  After bowing, Krage waits for the king to speak. “Welcome home, Thaumaturgist. I was beginning to worry that one or both of us would not live to see this day. What news do you bring us?”

  “Your Majesty, it is good to see you looking well.” Turning to Lord Lizardthroat, he courteously says, “Lord Commander, I am pleased that you should be present to hear the good news. Let me introduce Lord Farg Giantslayer, son of Duke Amin of Uisgebeatha, who ably escorted me to the capital, and Trak, my apprentice. It was Trak who solved the puzzle of iron making. In fact, his process produces a metal that is stronger than the iron of our enemies.” Krage signals Trak to come forward. Trak opens the box and goes to one knee as he shows the king the sword it contains. Krage thinks the kneeling added a nice touch. Melkerei’s mouth drops as the king lifts the sword and tests its weight. He then hands the sword to Melkerei, saying, “What do you think?”

  “It is a wicked beauty, My Liege, but can it cut?”

  Krage answers Melkerei’s question with a demonstration. “Farg, if you would kindly sacrifice your sword. Farg draws his sword and stands his ground as Melkerei strikes a vicious blow with the predictable result. The severed end of Farg’s sword flies across the room and lands on the marble floor alarmingly close to the king.

  “I beg your forgiveness, My Liege. I had no idea,” Melkerei stammers.

  The king laughs with delight, taking the steel sword back into his own hand. “What our armies can do equipped with such weapons.”

  “Your Majesty, my apprentice is prepared to teach your smiths how to forge the metal which can be hammered into swords. The king looks at Trak and notices his large size and cross-breed face for the first time. “How long will it take you to make a thousand such weapons?”

  “With unlimited manpower and material resources, I can do it in three or four months, My Liege,” Trak replies.

  “Very well, I will have someone inform my master smith that you will visit him tomorrow morning to discuss arrangements. We will meet again in three weeks to appraise your progress. Thaumaturgist, if you would remain a moment, I have a temple matter to discuss with you. Lord Lizardthroat, will you escort our two young lords to the feast hall and offer them refreshments?” When Krage and the king are alone, the king says in a confidential tone. “Is he the one? Does he know and, more importantly, does Lizardthroat know?”

  The Thaumaturgist replies, “Trak believes his parents are dead. For his protection, I have told him nothing to the contrary. Melkerei suspects, but for the moment, he should be safe. Once Melkerei has learned the secret of making the new metal, the boy will be in grave danger.

  ***

  Myrel spent the morning on the apartment balcony chatting with her father. They were interrupted several times by Alrik, who was arranging an afternoon meeting between Krage and the king. Krage seemed interested in Myrel’s friends and work in the temple. She did not hide her lack of enthusiasm for religious ritual. “You must think I am a horrible profaner of the faith,” she said after she told him that she thought the faithful were hopelessly superstitious.

  He replied, “In truth, I believe there is magic and power in the world and at times the Spirit speaks to us. But these times are rare, perhaps no more than once or twice in a lifetime. For most
people this is not enough to sustain them and carry them through difficult times. Rituals remind believers of the Spirit even when its influence appears absent. Rituals are for those who need them. If you don’t need rituals, you are fortunate and have a responsibility to aid others who are not as strong, or so I believe.”

  “Father, I don’t feel strong. I feel isolated and powerless. I fear the day when I will be asked to take vows.”

  “You must follow your heart in the matter.” Krage wonders, if he had been here to guide her, would she have been ready?

  Myrel thought of the cross-breed she met that morning. She wanted to tell her father about the stranger she found so intriguing but decided it was foolish since they had only just met.

  After the midday meal, Krage left for his audience with the king. Myrel waited an hour so as not to appear too eager and returned to the balcony where she expected to find Trak. When he was not there, she cursed herself. “He has already given up and left!” For a while she sat idly half listening to two old temple workers reminiscing about their youth. Finally, she gave up and was headed for the exit when Trak entered the balcony.

  “Please forgive my extreme tardiness, My Lady. My master required me to accompany him to the city, and I didn’t have a way to warn you or postpone our meeting.” He is still dressed in the elegant clothes he wore to the audience with the king.

  Myrel believes that being a cross-breed made her ugly, and is, therefore, surprised that she finds the cross-breed before her pleasant to look at. His angular features are more delicate than a goblin’s and accentuate his intelligent visage. He speaks with a trace of an accent, but by his speech and manners, she judges him to be well-educated.

  “Why are you here in the Septantrak?” she asks.

  My master is an alchemist who has come to advise the king on metal production methods, and I am a smith and the alchemist’s apprentice. Starting tomorrow, I will begin working with the king’s smiths.”

  “And your parents?” she queries.

  “I was orphaned as an infant. In truth, I don’t know who my parents are. How did you come to live in the temple?”

  “My mother and I took refuge here during the last war. As you might guess, she is a human and keeps to herself.”

  Trak is interested. “Really! Despite being half-human, I have never seen a full-blooded human. Perhaps, someday, can I meet your mother?”

  “Are you really a smith? Your speech seems too courtly.”

  “An old hermit taught me to read and write, and I learned courtly speech serving in a noble’s house. I completed my training as a smith only four months ago.” He shows her his callused hands as proof. As she moves her fingertips softly across his thick calluses, Trak takes in her form, fuller than that of a female goblin. He regards her skin and wants to touch the soft downy hair that caresses her forearms, but he dares not. He is pleased that a female cross-breed doesn’t equal a male in hairiness. He is glad he has freshly shaved and doesn’t look too pig faced.

  She looks at the fresh cut on his cheek and guesses correctly that he has been in a fight. Perhaps he is a soldier; that would explain the calluses.

  He has her almost convinced he is a smith when the subject turns to poetry and she expresses her fondness for the Song of Ethor. “The verse where Ethor dies slaying the dragon is my favorite part,” she says.

  Trak recites from memory the poem’s closing lines, “‘He left no gold or princely titles, but from the example of his life, his family was forever rich.’ My favorite part is when Ethor forges the magic sword of gold. Gold doesn’t tarnish. It was the perfect metal to transmit Ethor’s magic into the heart of the dragon.” Trak sees the surprise in Myrel’s eyes and equivocates, “Stories about great metal smiths give me hope that my life will also matter.”

  Myrel tells him of her butterfly garden. Trak is familiar with the species she describes. He tells her his teacher required him to learn all their names. A bird lands on the balcony ledge and issues a three-note call. Trak answers back. Myrel is startled and says, “How did you do that?” Since goblins can’t whistle, she has never seen the trick done before. When Trak proceeds to whistle an entire song, she is delighted. Trak asks her to round her lips and try making long O’s and U’s, which she does successfully. Trak promises her that with practice she can learn the trick, as well. She concludes he may be a smith, but he is also something more. Just what, she would have to discover.

  They talk until bats appear over head and begin feeding on dragonflies circling in the evening sky. Chirping crickets announce the setting of the sun. Trak can’t believe he is having a relaxed conversation with a female his own age. It is his first. “When may we talk again? How do I find you?” he asks.

  “I am uncertain. You will be busy and I have to attend to my temple duties. My father has just returned after a long absence, and my family will want to spend time together, but I have an idea. I will leave a note under the flower pot in the corner of the balcony for you, and you can answer me in the same way.” So begins Trak and Myrel’s courtship.

  ***

  The next morning the king’s master-at-arms, Hogarth Kingfriend, a middle-aged goblin and veteran of the Battle of the Dragon’s Belly, comes to fetch Trak who waits dressed in his new finery. Hogarth escorts him to the royal smithy located adjacent to the armory. The master-at-arms introduces Trak to the king’s master smith, a goblin named Gerum Firemaker. The wizened smith looks at the young cross-breed’s fancy cloths and is not impressed. Trak senses his hostility and wishes he had worn the leathers he works in. He selects his approach carefully. “Master Smith,” Trak begins in a nonthreatening tone, “the king has instructed me to inform you that he requires a thousand iron swords in four months.”

  “What? The king knows perfectly well that neither I nor any other smith in the kingdom has the skill.”

  “Actually, one does; I have discovered the secret. I will share it with you. You already have most of what you will need, and I will give you the missing pieces.”

  The smith’s hostility toward the dandy softens, but he is still skeptical. “Okay, tell me, how is it done?” Trak requests a quill and parchment and proceeds to draw his kiln and explain its operation. The king’s metal smith pays attention and realizes that somehow this boy truly understands his craft. “Your kiln is a wonder, but I see problems. Charcoal we have aplenty, although the hardwoods lie a day to the southeast. Clay for furnaces and tuyeres are readily available, but the capital is surrounded by volcanic soils that are poor in copper and tin and probably iron as well. Also, we are miles from the coast. Here the wind is generally mild and often nonexistent. Our best hand bellows cannot force enough air into a furnace large enough to smelt the quantities of ore needed.”

  “Well said, Master Smith. I see that nothing escapes your notice,” Trak replies and asks where they obtain the ores they use in making bronze. The smith explains the mines lie two days to the northeast and ore is transported to the city in handcarts. From the smith’s description, Trak guesses that the mineral deposits are much like those found on the Isle of Uisgebeatha. It is apparent that the smelting operation should be built near the ore, but that could wait. First he has to prove to the king and his smith he can make iron.

  Trak proposes that he take a crew of miners to collect ore samples for evaluation. While I’m gone, please arrange for two tons of clay bricks to be brought to your courtyard and manufacture a dozen tuyeres of the size I will specify. When I return, I will capture a wind powerful enough to drive a large furnace. He leaves the master smith saying, “The king is asking you for a miracle, but I sense that you are the one for the job. It will be an honor to work with you. We will succeed or fail together.”

  As the lad is about to depart, the Gerum can’t resist asking the question that is nagging him. “Where did you learn your trade?”

  Trak sees no harm in revealing his teacher’s name and said, “I was apprenticed to Baelock Swordbeater, the Duke of Uisgebeatha’s smith.”
r />   Gerum’s face brightens, “So, that’s what happened to Baelock! Is he still making copper worms? Of course, you know that before the last war, Baelock worked for me here in this smithy.” He opens a closet door and shows Trak the copper still Baelock fashioned for Gerum years before. The discovery of a common friend seals the partnership.

  Trak returns to the smithy after the midday meal. He is now dressed in his traveling clothes with a sword strapped to his waist. Gerum notices that a deep cut in his leather vest lines up perfectly with the fresh scar on his cheek. He wonders how Trak has come by the slash. After reviewing the provisions that have been assembled, Trak, along with eight miners and two handcarts, set out along the road that circles north around Holy Mountain.

  The head miner has made the journey many times before. He directs the setting up of camp and preparing of meals. Trak finds that the rocks around the mines are, indeed, much like those that form the cliffs on Uisgebeatha. The miners are pleased to discover that no quarrying is necessary. They gather various types of rust-colored rocks that lie on the ground for the picking. The larger rocks are broken into smaller pieces so the carts can be more tightly packed.

  Trak never stops thinking about Myrel. He is impatient to get back to the capital and pushes the miners to work long hours. When the handcarts are stuffed with a ton of ore, the crew drags the laden carts back to the city over the rocky road. On the second day of the return trip, tragedy strikes.

  The axel on the lead wagon suddenly snaps under the weight of the load. A miner is trapped beneath the ore as it tumbles from the wagon. He screams as the rocks bury him and then falls silent. Although Trak and the others quickly dig him out, it is too late. The miner has been crushed to death.

  Trak is oppressed by guilt. “Why didn’t I have the sense to lighten the load?” He remembers the goblin he stabbed on his way to the capital and the Blue Daggers that he ambushed in the Western Pass. Violent death is ugly. He broods on how many thousands will die violently when he gives the kingdom the secret of iron making. Am I turning into a monster? he asks. Convinced that the miner’s death is his fault, he expects to be held accountable, but when he returns to the capital everyone acts like the death is just the cost of doing business.