The Reign of Magic. Wolf Awert

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СКАЧАТЬ no sorcerer, I’m a blacksmith,” Ambross had answered gruffly, but then he had smiled his quiet smile and muttered: “Who knows, maybe some magic is left in the old blacksmithing tradition.” A bit louder he said to Nill: “I wished the blade good luck and told it that it had been born. We smiths believe that the hammer gives soul to the weapons, making them come to life.”

      Nill had tried to do the same. Every strike from the hammer was accompanied by a thought he sent to the metal. The thought was always the same.

      Burn!

      In Nill’s inner eye an image blossomed: bright flames, cold white light, piercing bolts of lightning and all-encompassing might. But what could such a thought do, if it dissolved in these images like a thin wisp of smoke in a morning breeze?

      Nill entered the workshop the next morning immediately after Master Ambross had opened it. He gave a small bow and focused on using polite words.

      “Master, I finished my apprenticeship with you yesterday and would like to thank you for all the effort you have made to teach me.”

      Ambross looked down on the boy quietly. Nothing about him showed the glowing pride and happiness he felt as he answered: “Well, Nill, you were never really my apprentice. You can’t really end something you didn’t really begin, can you? Now then, don’t you want to show me what you forged yesterday?”

      Nill took out his blade.

      Ambross’ feelings died like a fire in an icy wind.

      “What it that?” he asked coldly.

      “It’s a combat dagger!”

      “And what do you want to do with a combat dagger?”

      “I want to become a great hero or a warrior.”

      Ambross’ eyes became heavy all of a sudden. Bitter scenes from the past, memories of pain and desperation, buried deep for too long, came back to the surface. “Heroics, my boy, heroics don’t require a weapon, but heart. You wouldn’t understand yet. And when you do finally understand, it’ll be too late. You can be certain, my boy: nobody becomes a hero because he wants to.”

      Ambross’ keen gaze inspected the weapon more closely. “Still, your blade is well crafted. If I’d known what you were going to do, I never would have let you choose the blank for yourself. How could I forget this piece?” Ambross seemed to look into the distance, at something that was not there. “But you chose well. The blade is hard and resilient. You made one mistake though: the weight isn’t evenly balanced. Your hand will tire quickly if you use this weapon.”

      “Yes, Master Ambross, I know. That is why I would like to ask one more thing of you.”

      Ambross’ left eyebrow wandered skywards.

      “Give me a piece of lead, please.”

      “What do you want lead for?”

      “If I put a ball of lead in the handle, the handle becomes heavier, and the blade will be easier to use.”

      “You’ve learned much, little one. Listen to what I’m about to tell you. Do not use wood for the handle, use bone instead. Make it thin and then wrap it tightly with wet leather. Leather bands will give you a better grip than wood or bone, and you can replace them if they wear out.”

      Nill said his thanks with one last polite bow, and Ambross wished the boy good luck. He had said all that he could.

      At home Esara did not ask what had happened when Nill told her that he was no longer going to the blacksmith’s. Neither did she ask when Nill stayed away for longer and longer, ranging through the hills around the village, talking with the hunters, the Ramsmen and sometimes with the animals, instead of going after regular work.

      Nill learned a lot out there in the hills. After barely one harvest he knew that there were not just flowers and plants of all sorts, but also that every plant had friends, family, and foe, and that every plant adapted its characteristics to the earth and the sky, the sun, the moon, the light and the shade. He knew the right time to pick keriberries and knew why trrk-roots were the only root to be dug up in spring.

      In the long evenings of the short season Nill liked to stay home and watch Esara’s attempts to catch a glimpse of the future. For her prophecies she did not just use the rune bones, twigs or knotted grass, but also a mixture of white ash and light sand which she spread out on a large, flat stone in a five-pointed wooden frame. She would sit in front of the white sand for a long while before she took the oracle twig and hastily drew a few signs in the dust.

      Nill began to imitate her, and before long he too would draw unsteady pictures in the sand with a twig. He did not realize that Esara was not drawing at all, but rather that her spirit took control of her in those moments. During these silent moments of immersion Esara did not know what she was doing, and the meaning of the symbols that she drew was forgotten soon after. The strength of the symbols however was strong enough to make a connection between Esara and the stars above.

      Nill took great care to make sure Esara did not notice what he did. Even though he had never been forbidden from doing anything, he felt that she would not be happy if she saw him using her precious ash sand. White sand was very expensive in Earthland, where the world was clad in brown and red. The earth had to be washed for a long time until it released what little sand it hid. After that, it took even longer for the red or brown sand to lose its color in the sour Kamander solution to finally show the white it needed for the runes to find an anchor.

      There came a time when Nill dreamed. They were terrible dreams from which he woke screaming, and they were peaceful dreams which made him smile in his sleep. Every morning, when Esara had left Grovehall, Nill sat down before the Stone of Prophecy and drew his dreams. On one of those mornings he just could not get it right. He scratched lines into the sand, brushed them away again and began anew. Over and over again, for so long that he all but forgot the time.

      “What are you doing?” Esara’s voice was quiet, but it came through the silence like a whip. Nill started so badly that part of the ash flew from the stone plate. “Do you not know that it is one of the worst possible crimes to draw pictures or symbols? The Reeve alone may do that, and even he only does it in secret. If you want to make pictures, carve them out of wood, like Cramas Clumpfoot does.” Esara’s voice had become so quiet that Nill could barely hear her.

      “But you do it, I’ve seen you,” Nill whispered hoarsely.

      “Yes, I do it. Or, more precisely, it happens to me. There once was a time when I was allowed to, and I still know how.”

      Esara began to chuckle. It turned into a mad cackle and Nill started for a second time as he saw his care-mother’s face change. The eyes grew smaller, the mouth opened in a gape as if it wanted to say something. But as quickly as it had come it was gone, and Esara looked as she always had done.

      “But I want to draw pictures! I have to. Do you understand? I have to draw this forest here,” Nill objected.

      “You don’t know any forests. There are no forests in Earthland, only shrubs and bushes. How are you going to know a forest? Nobody can draw something they’ve never seen,” Esara said.

      “I saw this forest in my dream. It’s the forest I dream of, but I can’t draw it.”

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