28. Twenty-Eight #2
He’d chosen a spot by the front with a view of the street.
The underground city was vast and remarkably warm, lit with great torches burning atop poles that lined the busy thoroughfare.
Between small sips from his mug of ale, Callan lost himself in the steady rhythm of folk rushing past the windowpane and perusing wares ranging from skillfully crafted armor to simple pots and pans.
When his eyelids drooped, he scrubbed a rough hand over his face.
Sleep had eluded him as he tossed and turned in the strange bed the night before, acutely aware of the absence of Nova’s warm body beside him.
It returned him to the agony of the months they’d spent apart.
After weeks of sleeping with an arm hooked between her breasts and her ass pressed to his lap, Callan imagined he’d never be able to sleep comfortably without her again.
A heaviness had settled in his chest as he stared at the ceiling, sweating in the stifling heat, until a soothing voice—Nova’s voice—drifted across his consciousness.
All is well, my love. All is well.
His mate had repeated the words in his mind, her voice lilting like a lullaby, until, at last, he’d fallen asleep.
The chair across from him scraped over the stone floor, the grating sound rousing him with a flinch.
Lyra fell into the seat, setting a heavy item rolled in dark fabric on the table before pouring herself a hearty mug of ale.
Downing the amber liquid in a single go, she swiped a shirtsleeve across her mouth when she was through.
“I trust your efforts were successful.” Callan made to grab what he presumed was Kinslayer, reforged, but the smith clamped a hand down over his before he could slide the weapon across the table.
“Not so fast,” she cautioned, raising a wary brow.
Callan drew back.
“I conferred with one of the elders before I began my work—the one who lost his sight to a darkblade.”
Lyra refilled her mug and took a large slug.
“He said he’d only heard tales of a darkblade before that day.
Stories of a Common fellow from the North who’d come to the Forge with a longsword.
The stranger claimed the weapon had been raised from the sea in a fishing net.
The metal was odd. Shining black. It must have been underwater for an age, because the blade edge was corroded and in desperate need of shaping and sharpening.
“One of the smiths completed the work and returned it to the stranger who planned to leave the Forge the following day. But that night, he got into a brawl in the tavern and used the blade to kill the drunk who’d challenged him.
The stranger was jailed for a fortnight while the elders awaited an Assembly to decide his punishment. ”
Lyra leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her mug clutched in one hand. “By the time the Assembly was convened, the stranger had . . . changed.”
“Changed?” Callan leaned forward himself. “Changed how?”
“Gone wild, they say.” Lyra’s eyes flicked from one side to the other.
Her voice dropped into a low murmur. “When they dragged him from his cell, he was unrecognizable, withered and weak. He’d not eaten any of the food he’d been given, nor had he drunk the water.
When the Assembly demanded he answer for his crime, the stranger would say nothing, save for asking after his blade.
Begging and pleading, at first, for the weapon to be returned to him.
When his request was refused, he became a twisted, hissing thing, threatening the elders, their younglings—anyone who stood between him and the cursed thing. ”
Lyra drained her mug, setting it on the tabletop with a hollow thud, a wide-eyed expression on her face as if they spoke of wraiths and spirits.
“What happened to the stranger?” Callan asked, his voice rough like gravel as he thought of how Nova had struggled time and again to release her grip on the blade.
“The Assembly saw no option but to return him to his cell. He continued to refuse food and drink until he withered away to nothing and died.”
“And the blade?”
“None dared touch it. The elders tasked the smith who’d shaped the blade, and was seemingly unaffected, with casting it into an abandoned mine shaft outside the city limits.
As far as the elder I spoke with knows, that smith did as he was bid, leaving before he heard the cursed blade hit the bottom, and never divulging its resting place to another soul. ”
“And the one who lost his sight, how did that come to pass?” Callan straightened in his seat, wary eyes flicking to the blade between them, hidden amid the folds of the night-black fabric.
Lyra relaxed a bit, leaning back and tapping her empty mug lightly against the tabletop.
“A similar blade came to the Forge when he was an apprentice with only a year or two of experience—a dagger this time. Though he’d heard the story, he wanted to impress his Guild Leader and took the assignment in secret.
Unfortunately for him, the darkblade was unstable.
When he struck it with his hammer, the metal shattered in a blast of shrapnel that damaged his eyes and robbed him of his sight. ”
“And yet, you chose to reforge this blade even after hearing your elder’s tale. Why?”
One side of Lyra’s mouth curled up in a smirk.
“Some say I’m daft. I say I’m highly skilled.
How many smiths can claim they shaped a blade like that?
” Her eyes settled on the weapon, and her smirk vanished.
“You ought to know, whoever wields this blade risks being consumed by the darkness within it. Perhaps it should be cast into the sea. Or melted down in a blazing forge until nothing remains.”
Callan nodded slowly, considering his options.
Part of him wished he had the capacity to lie.
To tell Nova the blade couldn’t be salvaged and keep her from making the choice he knew she would make.
But, even if he were able to lie, he could never hide this from her.
He’d present her with all the information he’d gathered, along with the cursed sword, and she would make her decision.
He’d be damn sure to suggest she use the weapon only as a last resort.
Beyond that, he could only pray the Light of Illora would be enough to free Nova’s father from whatever dark magic had ensnared him.
After swallowing a final mouthful of ale, Callan stood, tucking the Kinslayer parcel under his arm. He fished in his pouch for enough coins to cover the bill and tossed them onto the table.
“Your warnings do not go unheard, and your skill is appreciated. As we agreed, I will see that Noble Lord Thorn’s Guard is outfitted with new blades from the Forge.”
Lyra didn’t stand but raised her mug. “May Brumal keep his watchful eye fixed on you, Nyhauslen.”