28. Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
Snowflakes drifted down from the gray sky, clinging to Callan’s cloak as Frost navigated a narrow path at the foot of the Nephari Mountains.
Two days had passed since Nova shadow walked them out of Sonnend and back to her home in the Lunar Court.
At first, Callan resisted her suggestion to conjure another shadow portal, but faced with the alternative of riding across the Realm on Bryn’s back, he yielded.
Portaling was inherently dangerous—especially for someone who had yet to master the ability. Still, he’d promised he would stand beside Nova and support her decisions. He intended to keep that promise, even it if meant ignoring the overwhelming urge to shield her from the dangers of the world.
Nova had brought the three of them safely to the Silvergard Estate, taking a handful of guards by surprise when they materialized in the courtyard out of thin air.
Fortunately, Nova’s friend Zara was among the group, and she rushed to Nova’s aid, concern written plainly in the crease between her brows.
Zara sent two of the guards to notify Lucan of Nova’s return, then escorted Callan and Bryn into the Estate, a delirious Nova propped up between them.
Once they’d seen Nova to the safety of her chamber, Zara assured Callan in hushed tones that no one would breathe a word of how she had arrived.
The events of the past several weeks had taken a toll on his mate.
Eir, the same healer who had once mended his torn side, insisted Nova required several days’ rest. Though she’d sustained nothing more serious than a few bumps and scrapes on their travels around the Realm, the shadow walking had drained her as he feared it would.
Though it pained him to leave her behind, Callan took comfort in knowing she was reunited with Nox and Lucan, under the care of a skilled healer, and safe within the walls of the Silvergard Estate.
He, on the other hand, was as out in the open as one could be: on horseback with nothing but a cloak shielding him from the unforgiving elements.
Few traveled the path he followed, a rocky, snow-covered trail leading to the home of the legendary smiths of Nivali.
The three shards that made up Kinslayer sat heavy in his saddlebag, destined for Brumal’s Forge, an underground city buried beneath the Nephari Mountains.
He’d never before visited the Forge, as it was known.
The smiths took special commissions and delivered their works throughout the territory by wagon every few moons.
Tugging at the reins, he brought Frost to a halt before an unremarkable cave, the opening large enough for him to pass through seated atop his horse.
Callan turned his face skyward, searching for any marker to indicate he’d reached his destination.
Snowflakes gathered on his eyebrows as he scanned the rock face.
At last, he spotted a carving of the god Brumal, nearly hidden by a snowdrift, perched high above the mouth of the cave.
Satisfied he’d found the entrance to Brumal’s Forge and not the den of an ice drak, Callan nudged his heels against Frost’s ribs, and the horse entered the cave, the darkness quickly swallowing them up.
Callan retrieved his moonstone from the pouch at his hip, and its pale light painted the walls of the tunnel.
The icy wind continued to swirl around him as he traveled the downward slope.
He flexed his fingers inside his gloves, joints slowed by the cold.
When roughly an hour had passed, the tunnel at last opened up into a large chamber of rough-hewn stone, and Callan brought his horse to a halt once again.
On the opposite side stood an imposing metal gate with a complex system of interlocking bars, orange-hued light peeking through gaps.
Callan clicked his tongue at Frost, and the animal moved toward the gate with measured steps.
“Halt,” a gruff voice called out.
Callan drew back on the reins, his eyes flicking to a guardhouse carved into the rock to his left.
He should have expected the entry to Brumal’s Forge would be guarded.
What had started as a small outpost of skilled artisans had grown into a thriving community over the millennia, but folk didn’t cut themselves off from the outside world only to be infiltrated easily.
A burly male exited the guardhouse, tugging at his breeches as he approached.
“What’s your business in the Forge?” the guard asked, toying with the ends of a long ginger beard as he craned his neck toward Callan.
“I’ve a broken blade that must be reforged.” Callan dismounted, putting himself on even footing with the guard who stood a hand taller than he did. “It’s a weapon of great importance. I wouldn’t entrust its care to just any smith.”
The guard nodded. “Let’s have a look, then.” He held a hand out, flapping his fingers, urging Callan to be quick about it.
Callan removed a bundle of rolled leather from his saddlebag and handed it to the guard, who turned and disappeared through the darkened doorway of the guardhouse.
Slipping in behind him, Callan peered over the male’s shoulder as he unceremoniously plucked at the bundle’s laces and unfurled the roll intended for tools onto the tabletop, nearly toppling a mug of ale beside a plate of half-eaten food.
With the shards on display, the black metal glinting under the light of a single candle, the guard’s demeanor shifted, his back going rigid as he took a swift step away from the table.
“I’ll, erm—” The guard pulled once more of the ends of his beard. “I’ll need to send for our Guild Leader to grant you entry to the Forge.”
Callan left the guardhouse and stood beside his horse, stroking the animal’s broad side while he awaited the arrival of the Guild Leader. The great gate eased open a short time later, parting only enough for a tall female to exit the Forge.
“Greetings,” she said, swiping a wrist across her forehead. An apron of thick brown leather covered her broad chest, the loose sleeves of a stained shirt rolled up over muscled forearms. “I’m Lyra, the Guild Leader. Skad tells me you’ve brought an unusual piece.”
She jerked her chin at the guard who stepped aside, allowing her entry to the guardhouse, and Callan followed her inside. For a few moments, she didn’t speak, her head bowed over the sword shards as she ran calloused fingers gingerly along the black metal.
“A most unusual piece,” she murmured. Straightening to her full height, Lyra turned to Callan, an unreadable expression on her face. “This”—she jerked a thumb at Kinslayer—“is a darkblade.”
“I’m not familiar with that term.” Callan shifted his stance, clasping his hands behind his back.
“A darkblade is a weapon forged from a rare metal found deep underground. Much deeper than any of our mines reach.” She pursed her lips, appraising him for a moment. “It’s an unstable material. What’s more, your sword has a powerful enchantment upon it. But I assume you already knew that.”
Callan waited for a beat before nodding once. “It does.”
Lyra shook her head slowly, eyes darting past her shoulder to the broken blade.
Callan furrowed his brow. After all they’d endured, he hoped the quest to find the shards hadn’t been in vain.
“Are you saying you’re unable to fix it? Because—”
Lyra held a hand up in the space between them. “I can fix anything,” she asserted, the hint of a self-assured grin clinging to the corners of her mouth. “I’m saying that blade is dangerous for the wielder. Deadly, even. If I’m going to reforge a blade like that, it’ll cost you.”
Callan produced a leather purse, heavy with coin, and tossed it to the smith. She caught it, dark brows rising as she weighed its heft in her palm.
“It’s a fine start.” She dropped the coin purse in the pocket on the front of her apron.
“But not enough, I’m afraid. I’ve never even seen a darkblade.
There were whispers of one, centuries ago.
A cautionary tale about some sort of accident where the smith shaping the weapon lost his sight.
If I’m to risk myself in this pursuit, I’ll need more. ”
“How much more?”
“What more can you offer?” The smith’s lip curled, revealing a thin strip of white against her soot-stained face.
Callan glanced at the guard—Skad was it?—who leaned one shoulder against the stone wall, a solemn expression on his face. Blowing out a breath, he pushed the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows, exposing the black cuffs marking his wrists.
“Would a bulk commission of enough blades for Noble Lord Thorn’s personal guard suffice?”
As far as Callan knew, Thorn’s Guard wasn’t in need of new weaponry, but he was desperate. He’d arrange the details with his uncle later.
“Well, well, well.” Lyra clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, golden eyes flicking from Callan’s markings to the guard on her left. “Skad, I hope you practiced your curtsy. Looks like we’re in the presence of a Nyhauslen.”
“I go by Callan.” He lowered his sleeves, averting his gaze but catching the look of astonished recognition crossing Skad’s face as the guard’s eyes fell upon the hilt of the sword sheathed at Callan’s back.
“That ought to do it.” Lyra grinned, displaying several teeth covered with decorative silver caps. She extended a hand, and Callan clasped forearms with her, binding them both to the arrangement.
The following day, Callan sat alone at a worn wooden table in the tavern at The Rusty Dagger.
After escorting him into the Forge, Lyra had parted ways with him in front of the inn.
With the leather roll containing the Kinslayer shards tucked under her arm, she left him with a promise to meet him by the lunch hour the next day.