This newest wave of LDS speculative fiction writers isn’t necessarily making big splashes at big NYC traditional publishing houses the way the Scott Cards or Stephanie Meyers did.
Rather, writers of this new wave are heavily involved with what might be described as a reimagining of pulp fiction, selling their stories and novels to small presses or publishing themselves via the indie route. These new pulp tales feature story-heavy adventure in a wide spectrum of genres and blended genres—just as it was in the heyday of the dime magazines.
Stanley Wheeler is one of these new writers. Wheeler is a thoughtful, unassuming Idahoan—if Deputy Prosecuting Attorneys can be said to be unassuming—and a prolific novelist and short story writer.
Not content to stay in one genre lane, he has written westerns, noir mystery, science fiction, and boys books. He’s primarily made a name for himself with his flintlock fantasy. His Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series explores an alternate Colonial America where magic works. Wheeler may not be the originator of the flintlock fantasy subgenre, but his books are certainly an exemplar of it.
Wheeler has just published an rip-roaring boys adventure novel Accidental Pirates, a “time-travel tale of pirates, dragons, and cannibals,” through Raconteur Press (one of those small presses mentioned above).
— Lee Allred
The Blacksmith’s Work
Ashfalan pressed the whiskers of his short gray beard between thumb and forefinger. His dark, gray-shot eyebrows bunched like rams about to clash. He circumambulated the object of his scrutiny: a staff of dark wood with two spiraling silver inlays from bronze-shod foot to curious head. The latter consisted of a globe of four wire-like circles rippling with shifting shades of red, blue, green, and yellow—veritable rainbows in motion—of which one ran vertically, another horizontally, and two diagonally. Almost glowing within the airy sphere stood a silver silhouette of a rooster with tailfeathers delicate and tremulous. A tiny gem in the weathercock’s eye twinkled with a white light.
Ashfalan removed his cap of sky-blue and clutched it to his chest. “Come, with reverence, Safrina, and behold what has appeared before our tent.”
He dared not leave the mysterious object to get Safrina himself, but he desired that she should see it and confirm the witness of his eyes.
Safrina’s blue and white striped headscarf and loose strands of gray hair first broke from the tent into the pale light of dawn. Her long dress of faded yellow came next into view with a shoulder sash of blue.
“What is this, O husband?” she asked, pulling the headcover to fully conceal her locks.
“What, indeed? I am a man of dreams, but never did I dream such as this.”
“What does it mean?”
Ashfalan dropped to his knees, still clutching his cap, and Safrina knelt beside him.
“This can only be the Blacksmith’s work. Its importance cannot be underestimated. Have the gods ever provided such a thing to men? I can think of Fraron’s Stones of Seeing, Mishbar’s Cloak of Protection, Theyne’s Traveling Carpet, as well as swords, spears, and bows given by the gods, but of nothing as wonderful as this have I heard or conceived.”
“What is its purpose?” Safrina asked.
“What, indeed? Get everyone. We must witness this gift together.”
Safrina rose and began calling. “Neshelen, Shadron, Litolo, and Bafron, my sons, bring your families. Ishmalen and Mara, gather your families to our tent.” She went on calling as she ran to the tents of the fugitive band.
Soon the entire clan had gathered about the strange staff. A few small children stood before their parents, some of whom held babes in their arms. Soft exclamations of wonder escaped their mouths. What could this thing be?
“We are gathered—” Ashfalan began.
The globe became bright with light before going dark. Letters flashed between the encircling wires: This way to fair winds. The message flashed twice before the globe resumed its rainbow hues. The weathercock within spun about thrice and pointed away from the tent in a direction not at all consistent with the course of the breeze.
“Ashfalan’s Guide,” Safrina said. “It’s a director.”
“Quickly, mark the direction and take down your tents. Pack everything. We move at once,” Ashfalan ordered. “I see. This director will point our course to a new country where we will build a temple to remember the Blacksmith’s work.”
***
Ashfalan walked at the head of the caravan, staff in hand, following the direction indicated by the rooster within the globe.
Neshelen, the youngest of Ashfalan’s grown sons, whispered to his father, “This is the way back to Deseshelen. The city is besieged. The Blacksmith told you to leave before the Claroken came. We escaped. Why are we going back?”
Ashfalan looked into the green eyes of his son. How like his mother’s eyes they were. The light brown of his hair also matched that of his mother. “In a dream the Blacksmith told me to leave the city. Now he tells me to return. Perhaps the siege has been lifted. We’ve been away for many months. I am a dreamer and must go where my dreams lead.”
“But this is no dream. This is a thing—a thing whose master we know not. Is it from the Blacksmith, or does it come from a god with a darker purpose?”
Litolo and Bafron, the two eldest sons, walked abreast not far behind. Although older, they were smaller in stature than Neshelen. In form and feature they resembled their father but, in conformance with a growing sect within the Blacksmith worshippers that discounted the value of dreams, they wore their dark hair braided into seven cords swinging from beneath the folded brims of their round linen hats. Their voices carried on the soft, steady breeze.
“Deseshelen! I can’t wait to get back to her. That is my city,” Litolo said. “This weathercock of wonder is an answer to my prayers. The gaming houses, taverns, and racetrack will welcome us with arms wide, my brother.”
“I burn to return. I told father—we told father that it was foolish to leave. Those who follow dreamers live in hardship and poverty. Our gold and silver, do you think they remain intact in the vault?” Bafron asked.
“The stairway is hidden beneath the slab in the purification closet. No one will find it who does not know of its existence.”
“The machines of war may break walls and vaults,” Bafron said.
“Not to worry,” Litolo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Neshelen will labor to restore our father’s property—and we’ll inherit it without delay.”
***
Deseshelen remained yet a week’s journey away, and the band camped beside a peaceful river flowing through a deep and green valley. They had spent many days here when they had first fled the great city. Ashfalan came from his tent to consult the director. The wire globe remained dark. The silver cock within twisted with the wind, the tiny gem of its eye had lost its gleam.
Ashfalan dropped to his knees before the staff. “What is this? Where is the light in the eye and the color in the intricate design? Where has the life of our guide gone?”
Safrina heard the distraught tones of her husband’s voice and came from the tent to fall beside him. “Perhaps the guide must be fed and watered.”
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow and a rebuke on his lips but nodded and said, “Get a little grain. I’ll fetch water.”
He returned with a bowl of water from the river, and she held a pinch of fine grain in her fingers. Ashfalan splashed water against the rooster’s head, and Safrina sprinkled the grain on its beak.
“What is this?” Litolo asked.
“The guide is without life,” Safrina said. “We’re feeding it.”
Litolo laughed. “My parents have lost their wits.” His joviality ceased as his face indicated a new thought. “What do you mean, it’s dead? What’s wrong?”
“It is dark and turns with the wind,” Ashfalan explained.
“No, no, no,” Litolo moaned. “Not now. Not when we’re so close to Deseshelen. Fix it. Make it work.”
Ashfalan gestured with open hands to the head of the staff. “See for yourself. All is dark. What do you suggest?”
“I know nothing of such things. Ask Neshelen. He’s your favorite. Let him fix it.”
Neshelen and Shadron jogged up with bows in hand. Shadron’s tawny locks fluttered in the breeze. Except for that light hair, he resembled his father more than any of the sons. Without the power of speech, he communicated through signs and gestures. The older brothers had never bothered to learn this silent language.
“There’s trouble,” Neshelen said.
“We know. The director’s dead,” Litolo said.
Neshelen waved the comment aside. “This is real trouble. We saw Claroken raiders farther up the valley. It’s only a matter of time before they discover our camp.”
“I knew we shouldn’t’ve followed this stupid bird,” Litolo said. “It has led us into danger only to abandon us in a time of need.”
“The failure of tool and fool,” Bafron said as he stepped up. “The bird betrayed us and Claroken raiders are coming? Is that what I heard?”
“Get Ishmalen’s oldest sons and take your bows in ambush up the valley,” Ashfalan said. “Shadron, go beyond and keep watch on the enemy. Safrina, prepare the women and children to flee. Send Ishmalen’s youngest son to find a hiding place we can defend, and have the children herd the flock to the stream in the cleft to the south. I’ll consult the guide in my tent.”
The others left, and Ashfalan took the staff inside the dark shelter. He shook it before planting it in the ground between two rugs. Looking at the once fine rugs, he remembered the wealth and property he had abandoned. He ran his hands over the wire globe, mumbling a desperate prayer. A tingling began at his fingers and grew in force. His hands trembled and the sensation climbed up his forearms, increasing in force as it progressed. His arms quivered. His entire body shook. When the phenomenon reached his back, it flashed up and down his spine. His mind exploded with light, and a force thrust his body away from the staff. Ashfalan fell on his back with vacant eyes staring at the ceiling of woven goat and camel hair. The weathercock’s eye twinkled.
***
In a clump of brush beside the river where a rockslide had constricted the passage, Shadron tucked his bow beneath his arm and held up all his fingers. He joined his brothers and Ishmalen’s two elder sons, Joren and Joshen.
“That many?” Neshelen asked.
Shadron nodded.
“How long before they get here?”
Shadron looked to the horizon and held out two fingers horizontally, flipping the lower finger back and forth.
“A little more than one finger of the sun’s movement. Mounted?”
Shadron nodded.
Litolo and Bafron gave orders to take the positions they had designated. They took the high ground on the slope above the trail. Ishmalen’s sons, Joren and Joshen, stationed themselves farther back along the trail and lower on the slope. Neshelen and Shadron raised the skirts of their tan robes and girded them with their belts before concealing themselves in the bushes next to the river. While the others could not be approached by men on horseback, Neshelen and Shadron would be exposed once they were discovered. Ashfalan’s band, being neither soldiers nor brigands, had no swords. Knives and bows were their weapons.
Even sooner than Shadron had indicated, the riders in tunics of red and brown came two abreast down the trail, short bows in hand, swords at their hips, and leather helmets protecting their heads. Eight of the ten had passed the narrowest point when Shadron put an arrow in the back of the lead rider. The next rider cried out in surprise, but the sound died as Joren’s arrow toppled him from the saddle.
The third rider, long hair flowing from beneath his helm, urged his mount forward toward Joren, whose position he had spied. Joshen’s arrow took him through the throat, and he fell amid a spray of scarlet.
The fourth rider fired at Joshen, but the projectile broke against the stones.
The last two riders had halted just inside the narrow point, wary of proceeding into the trap. Litolo and Bafron loosed their arrows together. One pierced a horse’s neck and the other bolt shot past a rider to splash into the river. The wounded horse jerked and reared, spilling its rider. The other rider pulled back behind the boulder, protected against the arrows of all but Neshelen.
Neshelen took aim and fired; he couldn’t allow any riders to escape to report their camp. The shaft penetrated the Claroken’s chest, and he slumped against the boulder. The dismounted enemy rushed at Neshelen with his sword drawn.
Neshelen fitted an arrow and launched it at the attacker. The arrow, fired at point-blank range, plunged into the Claroken to extend half its length from his back.
In the next instant a rider loomed over Neshelen, sword descending in a powerful blow. Neshelen ducked, holding his bow above his head with both hands. The Claroken blade chopped into the wood and bronze haft. The bow exploded in twain, but Neshelen fell back without injury. He sprang to the raider slain by his arrow and seized the fallen sword. He raised the blade to parry the Claroken’s next blow.
The rider continued to turn his mount in a tight circle against Neshelen, but the Claroken had lost the advantage of the charge. Neshelen caught his arm and dragged him from the saddle. They hit the ground together, and Neshelen released his sword to grip his enemy with both hands. As the man tried to bring the tip of his sword to Neshelen’s belly, Neshelen hooked his elbow over the sword arm and pressed his body close, rendering the sword useless for a moment. The Claroken pulled back. Neshelen drew the knife from his belt and rammed it into his struggling enemy again and again until the body went limp.
Neshelen rose to his feet only to be sent sprawling by the charge of another horseman. The fall saved him from the raider’s blade. He rolled into the brush at the water’s edge as the rider turned to come at him again. The horse reared, its hoofs thrashing the brush. Neshelen pushed deeper into the willows, but the Claroken followed, driving the horse through the woody curtains.
Neshelen sidestepped, avoiding both horse and slashing blade. He shoved a stand of willows into the face of the Claroken and stabbed at him with his knife. The rider turned the mount to avoid the attack, and the horse plunged into the river.
The horse splashed into a deep hole, and the water surged to its back. Neshelen leaped after, knocking the raider into the flood. They sank beneath the surface where Neshelen’s knife struck deep. He caught the horse as it climbed the bank and led it to the open ground where Shadron removed a sword from the body of a Claroken.
The raiders were all down. Even the one who had fallen against the boulder had at last slipped from his saddle. Shadron made a horizontal motion with both palms down, and Neshelen understood that the fight was over. They put the wounded horse out of its misery and led the others back to the camp.
“We have conquered!” Litolo proclaimed as he approached the tents.
“Have no fear. The victors are here,” Bafron said.
Joren and Joshen met Ishmalen’s eyes and nodded in confirmation.
“Praises to thee and the Blacksmith,” Mara said. “The children are in hiding with the rest of the women. We couldn’t leave Ashfalan and Safrina.”
“What’s wrong? Why didn’t they hide with the women and children?” Neshelen asked.
“Go and see,” Ishmalen said.
They found Safrina kneeling over Ashfalan in the tent. The staff stood to one side.
Safrina said, “I found him like this. He breathes, but I can’t wake him. He tried to make the director work again.”
Shadron jerked the staff from the ground and marched from the tent toward the river. He raised his arm as if to throw the staff like a spear into the flood.
“Wait!” Neshelen cried. “We may need that.”
“What?” Litolo said. “You were suspicious of the guide, and now that it has stopped working, you think it may be useful?”
“Don’t bother, brother. We know the way to Deseshelen,” Bafron said. “We don’t need it to get back home.”
“I think it unwise to be hasty. I was suspicious of the thing, but my mistrust came from ignorance. Father thought we should follow it, so I would not see it discarded while we remain in doubt of its purpose.”
“Its purpose was to get us back to Deseshelen. It stopped working here because the raiders were in the way. It has served its purpose. We know the rest of the way,” Litolo said.
“You think that was its purpose. We don’t know. It may have more to tell us tomorrow. Let’s make father comfortable and see what tomorrow brings.”
***
“I have dreamed a great dream,” Ashfalan said, scrambling rushing from the tent.
“Neshelen, Shadron, Litolo, Bafron, come to me.”
His sons left the tents of their wives and children, running to find Ashfalan and Safrina beside the river.
“I have dreamed a holy dream,” he said. “You, my sons, must return to Deseshelen to get the Truths Hammered in Brass, the Blacksmith’s plates. When you return with them, the guide will function again. The Hammered Truths must be saved before the Claroken sack the city and are lost forever. This was my dream. On you rests the future of our posterity. Only you can preserve the Truths of the Blacksmith’s creation in forging the world from the rock of existence. You leave this morning. The High Apprentice Vindrelen is the keeper of the Truths. He commands the lower priests and the temple guard. Beware. He has corrupted the temple and the priests.”
***
Outfitted in the garb of slain raiders, the four brothers left the valley for Deseshelen with Neshelen leading the way.
“Another pillaged village,” Bafron noted, pointing to the smoke from the plain a mile to the east.
“I say we camp out for a week in that village and then return to tell Ashfalan that it was no use. The city had already been sacked,” Litolo whispered.
“What if he rests by the stream to dream another dream and knows that we didn’t go?” Bafron replied.
“You don’t believe his dreams, do you?” Litolo said.
“Neshelen and Shadron do.”
“They could be lost in the attempt. Raiders may prevent us from reaching the city. The city guard may take us for Claroken. Vindrelen and his temple guard or one of his treacherous priests may slay our brothers and drive us from the city. There are manifold paths to failure, Brother.”
***
They rode on, climbing the steadily rising ground. The slopes around the heights on which the city was built were dark with the Claroken troops. Siege engines hurled stones to smash against the walls. Sections of wall had been turned to rubble and Claroken infantry occupied the remains. However, the city was old and had expanded over the centuries. Old fortifications remained within the city as secondary defenses which proved more difficult for the massive stone throwers to target. Eventually those walls would be breached or scaled, but disease and starvation would do their work to weaken the defenders yet a while longer.
“No way to get in,” Litolo said. “We should go back while we can.”
“It’s surrounded and we’re confounded,” Bafron said.
“You wanted to come back to Deseshelen,” Neshelen said. “Now that we’re here, you want to leave?”
“It’s surrounded. There’s no chance of getting in. If we can’t get in, we can’t get the Truths. It’s foolhardy and suicidal to try.”
“Do I hear the whining of little children? Does the tent of the women ring with fearful wailing?” Neshelen asked.
“Careful, Brother,” Litolo warned. “We’re a long way from father and a thousand explanations can account for your death.”
“If you’re no more lethal than you were against these raiders, whose clothes we wear and whose horses we ride, I have not much to fear.”
Litolo drew his horse back in surprise. “Little brother, you would do well to speak with more respect to your elder.”
“Then let me do so. Here’s something you can respect and gain my respect in the learning and the doing. Where is our home?”
Litolo pointed. “There, beyond those broken walls. What of it?”
“As Claroken we can go to our home without being attacked, true?”
“That could be true.”
“Ishmalen’s home, where is it?”
“Nearby but beyond the old defenses. We can’t get to it. We can’t pass the old walls in this garb. We’d be killed. We can’t change or the Claroken there will kill us. Even if we get to our home, we can go no farther.”
“What if we could?”
“If we could, we’d have a chance. I’d go to the priest myself and ask for the Hammered Truths, but we can’t. There is no chance.”
Neshelen smiled. “Shouldn’t we at least get what gold and silver we can carry? Let’s go that far and see what develops. If we can’t go farther, we can return to our father, but if we can get inside the old walls, you will ask Vindrelen for the Truths.”
Litolo looked at Bafron, and they both scowled as though they smelled a trap.
“The gold and silver would be nice,” Litolo said.
“The glitter of gold never gets old, and I’ll take as much silver as I can hold,” Bafron said.
“We’ll go to the city,” Litolo said.
Neshelen led them to the city, skirting the large bodies of Claroken troops and riding brashly through the scattered patrols screening the doomed metropolis. Within an hour they had made their way to the crumbling walls. No one challenged the horsemen who rode with confidence and determination. They tied the mounts and scrambled over the broken stones into the city.
Only a few Claroken troops were to be seen, and the native denizens of this quarter had fled to the old city. The brothers disappeared quickly from the main streets into the tangled alleys and side streets to take a circuitous route to their home.
“The dogs have taken everything!” Litolo exclaimed. “Our home has been polluted by the Claroken.”
“Let’s check our gold and see if they’ve broken into the hold,” Bafron said.
The floor of the purification closet was intact, though the stone basins had been broken. They cleared away the fragments and found the lifting bars hidden within the walls. In minutes they had the floor slab raised to reveal the stairway to the vault.
They descended and used flint and steel to light the oil lamps. The flickering flames revealed Ashfalan’s precious treasures. Gold and silver coins, gems, and jewelry filled chests about the chamber, and fine clothing hung from the walls.
“Untouched!” Litolo said, opening a chest to reveal the gold within.
“Make bags of the fine rags and fill them with treasure,” Bafron said.
“Not yet,” Neshelen cautioned. “From here we go to Ishmalen’s house.”
He removed several robes from one wall to reveal a hole at chest level in the wall. He took one of the lifting bars and pushed it into the hole at an acute angle. Shadron joined him between the bar and the wall, and the two of them pushed together. A section of wall pivoted on a central post to reveal a passage beyond.
“How long has that been there?” Litolo asked.
“I only learned of it recently,” Neshelen said. “Our father and Ishmalen have been trusted friends for many years. They knew the wall divided them above, but they built this passage to join their houses from below.”
They proceeded by lamplight to the stairway beneath Ishmalen’s home. Neshelen used another bar there to lift the slab, and his brothers slid it aside to enter the deserted abode. They shed the Claroken gear to exit the home in their own brown robes and caps. The odor of death and disease greeted their senses. Bodies rotted in the streets. Emaciated figures stared with hollow eyes from doorways at the passing brothers. Sick men huddled together in corners and alleys. Those well enough to do so chased the plentiful rats.
“I can’t believe I wanted to come back here,” Litolo said.
“Death in every breath is found here,” Bafron added. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“We’ll leave tonight,” Neshelen said.
The temple’s outer doors were closed, but no guards blocked their entry though the tall and heavy gates that rotated easily on the bronze poles that pierced their centers from top to bottom. A single priest stood in the roofless enclosure. His blue robe and dark leather apron appeared not to have been changed in many weeks.
“What do you desire?” he asked.
“My brother would speak on a matter of importance with Vindrelen,” Neshelen said, gesturing to Litolo.
“These are tough times. Have you brought an offering? Bread? Meat? Meal?”
“As you said, these are tough times. We can but offer our humility,” Neshelen said.
The priest pursed his lips. “I shall see if the Blacksmith’s High Apprentice has time for you.” The priest vanished through an ornately carved side door.
“He should have nothing but time,” Litolo remarked. “There are no offerings to bring, no purifications, no sacrifices to perform.”
The priest eventually returned to say, “The High Apprentice can spare only a few moments for you. This way,” he motioned to the ornate door.
Litolo stepped with false bravado through the doorway.
He returned in the time a man might count to fifty at a slow pace.
“Let’s go,” he said, marching past his brethren and through the huge doors.
***
“What happened?” Neshelen asked as soon as they had cleared the temple grounds.
“I asked for the Hammered Truths, and he ordered me out. His guards pointed their spears at me, and I left. We’re done here. Father’s dream was not inspired.”
“An old man’s dreams and half-baked schemes have put us in danger. Let’s leave this place as quickly as we can.”
Shadron gave no signals.
“Hold on,” Neshelen said. “You want the director to work again, right? I mean, we obviously can’t return to Deseshelen. You can see that we were right to leave. Father’s dreams led us away. The Hammered Truths must be important. If we get them, the guide will lead us to a better place. Maybe we can try another angle. Was the High Apprentice finely dressed?”
“He was,” Litolo said. “He also seemed better fed in this troubled time than anyone we’ve seen in the streets.”
“We have gold, silver, and valuables to offer in trade. Let’s return with father’s fine robes filled with his treasure. We can each carry a hefty load.”
***
Darkness approached as they spread the four robes before Vindrelen, who reclined on his pile of silks and costly pillows. The gold and silver gleamed in the light of the many oil lamps, and the gems and jewelry glittered against the dark surfaces of Ashfalan’s finest garments. Four spearmen in temple livery stood near the High Apprentice in his silk gown and linen apron bearing the images of hammer, anvil, and forge. Paintings of the world being hammered into stages of creation graced the walls. Two women in dark gowns stood behind Vindrelen with trays of bread and savory meats.
“Here is treasure worthy of the High Apprentice,” Neshelen said. “We offer it in trade for the Truths Hammered in Brass. This is our sole request.”
Vindrelen looked with disdain at the robes and bright treasure. He brushed something from the shoulder of his gown and adjusted his apron. For all his apparent lethargy, the silk gown did not conceal the fact that he was a fit and muscular man.
“The Hammered Truths are not to be had for earthly treasure. The Blacksmith’s forge in this temple dwindles for lack of fuel. We apprentices suffer with hunger, like the rest of the city. Had you grain and meat, we might make a bargain. These trinkets are without value to me now. You may leave.”
“Consider that this treasure could purchase your freedom when the city falls. Isn’t a ransom for your life worth the chance to preserve the Hammered Truths, which the Claroken will certainly destroy if they find them?”
Vindrelen rocked on his pillows and came to his feet in a movement that revealed both power and agility. “Get out. You pollute this temple. Robbers, thieves, be gone.”
The spearmen leveled their spears and jabbed at the four brothers to send them dashing though the door and out of the temple, pursuing them until they had left the temple grounds.
***
They stopped in Ashfalan’s vault. Litolo and Bafron had led, running all the way through the growing darkness.
“We’re getting out of this place,” Litolo said as soon as he caught his breath.
“But we don’t have the Truths,” Neshelen protested.
Litolo responded with a right cross to Neshelen’s jaw, dropping the youngest sibling to the ground.
Bafron drove his fist into Shadron’s belly. “Don’t even think of supporting him.”
Shadron doubled over, and Litolo drove his knee into his mute brother’s face. Shadron fell in a heap with blood streaming from his nose.
Neshelen wiped the blood from his mouth and rose before the elder brothers. “I didn’t expect such cowardice, but I should’ve known better. Run from danger and attempt to hide your gutlessness with attacks against your family? A worm has more character than do you.”
Litolo grasped the bar in the door and slid it out as Neshelen spoke. He swung the metal rod, and Neshelen leaped away in surprise only to spring forward and plant a blow against Litolo’s nose before he recovered from his swing. Litolo dropped the bar and stumbled backward.
Bafron drove his shoulder into Neshelen’s ribs, slamming him into the stone wall. Neshelen grunted and pushed Bafron away. Litolo seized the bar and tossed it to Bafron.
Bafron advanced and Neshelen retreated. Bafron swung and Neshelen jumped forward, but Bafron’s move was only a feint and he caught Neshelen in the shoulder with the true swing. Neshelen swayed to the side, and Litolo shoved him to the ground, administering a series of kicks to his fallen brother’s side.
“Kill him!” Bafron said. “Kill them both and let’s get out of here.” He tossed the bar to Litolo.
Litolo raised the bar as if to strike Neshelen’s head.
The room flashed with colored light. A shadow appeared on the wall—a rooster, outlined in silver light with tremulous tailfeathers and a twinkling light in its eye.
Litolo moaned. The bar fell from his hands, and he staggered back. Bafron gasped, falling to his knees, and a cold wind blew through the vault but did not extinguish the lamps.
“What more do you need?” Neshelen asked. “We can’t return without the Hammered Truths.” He took the bar and handed it to Shadron. “You can stay here if you wish, but I’m going back to the temple for the Truths.”
***
Neshelen recalled Ashfalan’s claims that the priests of the temple had become corrupt, and therefore the city would fall. Neshelen could not doubt it. The High Apprentice had robbed them and chased them away on pain of death. What sort of priest would do that? The High Apprentice deserved neither his title nor the Hammered Truths.
He moved along the deserted streets toward the temple, no plan in mind, confident that the Blacksmith would forge a way for his success. A temple guard sat on the steps to the great doors and gnawed at something, his spear on the stairs beside him. Neshelen edged away, putting the temple ground’s outer rail between himself and the guard. He crept along the fence of poles and short stone columns to the side of the edifice. No spear-bearing shadow fell by the light of the half-moon, and Neshelen slipped between the rails and crossed the open grounds to the temple wall.
At this hour, the High Apprentice would be in his personal quarters—the flat building attached to the west side of the temple wall. Neshelen crept forward to the two pillars that marked the external entrance to the private palace. The soft patter of sandals against stone drifted out to Neshelen.
Within the stone courtyard, Vindrelen practiced with the sword. His helmet rested on the edge of a raised pool. He wore a breastplate, and a skirt formed from strips of leather and metal encircled his waist and thighs. Metal greaves protected his shins, and bracers covered his forearms. He sliced the air with rapid movements, dancing about the court in a routine with vertical, diagonal, horizontal, and stabbing attacks followed by a series of defensive moves. Vindrelen’s strong hands worked the sword in deadly arcs, and Neshelen watched the sequence of actions repeated five more times before the priest returned the sword to its sheath at his hip.
Neshelen stepped from behind the pillar to approach. “Vindrelen, I have come for the Hammered Truths. You took our possessions as payment but did not deliver the Truths. Perhaps this is a more convenient time for the exchange.”
The priest drew the sword. “How did you get past the temple guards? They are too few in these troubled times, but they still protect the temple.”
“Perhaps they don’t find a corrupted temple worthy of protection. They gnaw the bones of rats while the High Apprentice takes fine bread and savory meats. Of all those I’ve encountered here, you alone are free of the gaunt look of starvation, and you have the energy to practice swordplay.” Neshelen advanced as he spoke.
“Where are your brothers? Is this some trick?” Vindrelen glanced quickly around the courtyard.
“I’m alone, but I come with the power of the Blacksmith to take the Hammered Truths from you. You are no longer his High Apprentice. Your authority ends now.” Neshelen’s eyes grew wide as he heard the words come from his mouth, as if another spoke using his voice. “You will deliver up the Truths along with your life.”
For response, Vindrelen sprang forward with his blade whirling. Neshelen retreated before the assault, noting the attack followed the exact pattern of the training routine. As the sequence came to an end, Neshelen stepped forward, and the former priest progressed to the defensive steps of the practice. Neshelen feinted again and again in rhythm with the steps, avoiding the sword, waiting for the attack to recommence.
Vindrelen’s foot touched the edge of the pool and he launched into the offensive sequence. Neshelen retreated, barely avoiding the sword, until the moment of the horizontal strike. As the blade cut the air where his neck had been, Neshelen dropped and swept the legs from beneath the swordsman. Vindrelen crashed to the ground, armor and sword clanging against stone. He rolled to rise, but Neshelen, his own back on the ground, kicked with both feet. The blow, delivered with strength beyond his own, heaved the priest through the air to the edge of the pool. Vindrelen’s head slammed into the stone, leaving a bloody stain, and his body went limp.
Neshelen grabbed the sword and stood over the armored figure. “You relinquish your life this night.” His own mouth said the words, but they didn’t come from his mind. He stepped back only to return, as if pushed, to look down on his fallen adversary.
Vindrelen still breathed, but with eyes closed and body inert.
“Your life is forfeit,” Neshelen heard himself say. He raised the sword—it was a fine weapon forged for a king or a general—and lifted Vindrelen’s head by the thick dark hair. He struck quickly, severing the head and tossing it into the shallow pool in which the half-moon and heights of the temple were reflected. The image of a silver rooster reflected for an instant among the glowing ripples.
Neshelen removed the priest’s armor and placed it over his own clothing. As he took the helmet from the edge of the pool and placed it over his head, a shadow moved in the doorway of the small palace. A slim figure with wide but drooping shoulders came forward. Neshelen hastened toward him.
“I’ve prepared wine to relax you after your exertions,” the young man said.
“Very well, but first accompany me to the vault. I must safeguard the Hammered Truths before the Claroken take the city and destroy them.”
Neshelen followed the servant through a long hall to a metal door. The young man took a key from the ring at his belt and pushed the door.
“The Truths are there where you left them, wrapped in the blue apron.”
Neshelen desired to pull away the cloth and examine the treasure, but he resisted the urge. He passed the heavy bundle to the servant. “Carry these to my brethren who are waiting in secret.”
They returned to the courtyard, and Neshelen walked close beside the servant to block his view of Vindrelen’s body stretched in a bloody flood beside the pool. However, the young man stopped with a gasp, having glimpsed the corpse stretched over the stones in the moonlight. Neshelen seized and held him with strength beyond that of his own arms.
“Fear not. Your life will be spared. This city will be taken, and its inhabitants killed or enslaved. If you wish to escape that fate, you may come with me as a free man. My father’s tent is in a pleasant valley beside a flowing river. He is a dreamer of dreams who led us away before the Claroken came. You know Vindrelen has corrupted the temple. That’s why the city falls, and he has forfeited his life. Come with us.”
The servant said, “I am Moaz. Take me from this doomed place and I’ll be your servant.”
“Not a servant but a free man. We have a girl in our band who needs a husband. You will find her as beautiful as the moon and as graceful as a gazelle.”
***
“It’s Vindrelen!” Litolo exclaimed. “He’s killed Neshelen and comes to finish us as well.” He brandished the metal bar but retreated from the approaching figures.
“It is only your brother,” Neshelen said, removing his helmet. “This is Moaz. He’ll accompany us back to our father’s camp. We have the Hammered Truths. See what the Blacksmith has done for us. We can return.”
Shadron shook hands with Moaz and clapped Neshelen on the shoulder as the latter introduced his brothers. They added the Claroken helmets and tunics over their own clothes again, with Neshelen wearing the priestly armor beneath the disguise before making their way through the dark remnant of the city to find the horses where they had left them. However, there were but four mounts for five men.
“Shadron, take Moaz’s burden. You carry the Hammered Truths. Moaz will have to appear to be a captive and ride across my saddle.”
The creak and crack of war machines and the whoosh of the stones they hurled, plowing the air before smashing into the city walls, mixed with the incessant voices and commotion of troops waiting for a siege to become an assault. The confident bearing of the four riders with a bound prisoner discouraged inquiry, and they rode through the Claroken lines without challenge. Only after they had left the slope around the city and turned away from the main army toward their destination did a lone officer demand that they explain themselves. The fact that he carried a lance with a pennant emblazoned with a lightning bolt and cloud, the symbol of the Claroken king, marked him as a lesser commander, a captain of 100.
“Where are you taking this prisoner?” he asked in the common tongue with a heavy accent.
“My father needs him for a guide,” Neshelen replied.
“A guide? A guide to where?”
“A secret way that may bring the siege to a quick end. I’m not authorized to speak of the details. You may accompany us and inquire of my father if you wish to know more, sir.”
“Who’s your father?”
“Ashfalan is the leader of our band.”
“Ashfalan, Ashfalan. I don’t know that name. How many in your band?”
“Less than 50, sir. We ride, raid, and perform reconnaissance. It’s vital that we get this prisoner to him at once. You may come with us if you wish to inquire, but we cannot spare the time to answer more questions.”
As the officer sat and considered, Neshelen urged his mount forward. The others followed, and they left the officer behind.
“Very well, but you will send a rider with your intelligence to the headquarters of General Khatken at the first opportunity.”
***
The azure tent of the afternoon sky stretching between the mountain tops over the valley and the soft whisper of the river provided a calm, cool peace to the camp.
Safrina ran to meet her returning sons. Ashfalan and the others followed in the wake of Safrina’s cries of joy.
“My sons! My sons! Praise to the Blacksmith above.”
Litolo snatched the bundle from Shadron as he dismounted. He walked past Safrina to present Ashfalan with the prize.
“Behold, we have returned with the Hammered Truths,” he said.
“I never doubted,” he said, and the weathercock on the staff twinkled to life as he spoke.
“Look!” Safrina said, pointing to Neshelen.
The sons had discarded the Claroken tunics and the bronze armor of Vindrelen gleamed in the sun.
“You took that from the High Apprentice,” Ashfalan said.
“How did you know?” Neshelen asked.
“I saw it in a dream. He came at you with a sword. You kicked his feet from beneath him and slew him with his own blade.”
Neshelen knelt before his father. “It happened as you saw.”
“Rise, Neshelen. Rise. You come with power in the Blacksmith’s true armor. Don’t you see?”
“I see that I have the armor.”
“It’s more than armor, my son. You are the new High Apprentice. The Blacksmith has chosen you and clothed you in his power. You bring the Truths Hammered in Brass. See the hammer and the anvil formed in the metal over your chest. Behold the forge over your belly. Other tools mark the greaves and bracers. You bear the forged sword. You are the High Apprentice.”
“I put the armor on myself as a disguise to get the Truths.”
“Indeed, you did. You were compelled. The Blacksmith has done this for you and for us.”
Neshelen’s wife found his side, and the children gathered about them.
“We have no temple,” Neshelen said.
“We’ll build one,” Ashfalan said. “See, the director spins.”
The weathercock with its twinkling eye spun and pointed the way down the valley.
“We’ll follow the guide to the location of the new temple. The Hammered Truths will not fail.”