Roo lowered his voice so that only Erik could hear, and his tone took on a harshness that his friend recognized. Roo used it only when he was deadly serious about a topic. “Erik, the day may come when you will have to face your swine of a brother. And when it does, you will probably have to kill him.”
Erik’s brow furrowed at Roo’s tone and words. “But not tonight. And not over Gwen. Now, don’t you have to get back to the inn?”
Erik nodded, gently removing Roo’s hand from his chest. He stood motionless for a second, trying to digest what his friend had just said. Then, shaking his head, he turned and walked back toward the inn.
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Deaths
Tyndal was dead.
Erik still couldn’t believe it. Each time he came into the forge during the last two months he had expected to see the burly smith either asleep on his pallet at the rear of the forge or hard at work. The man’s sense of humor when he wasn’t sober, or his dark moodiness when he was—everything about him was etched in every corner of this place where Erik had learned his craft for the previous six years.
Erik inspected the coals from the previous night’s fire and judged how much wood to add to bring it back to life. A miller’s wagon had lurched into the courtyard the night before with a broken axle, and there would be ample work to fill his day. He still couldn’t get over Tyndal’s not being there.
Two months previously, Erik had climbed down from his loft expecting the events of the morning to be as usual, but one glance at Tyndal’s regular resting place had sent the hairs on Erik’s neck straight up.
Erik had seen the smith drunk to a stupor, but this was something else. There was stillness to the old man that Erik instinctively recognized. He had never 43
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seen a dead man before, but he had seen many animals dead in the fields, and there was something eerily familiar in the smith’s attitude. Erik touched Tyndal to assure himself the old blacksmith was truly dead, and when he touched cold skin he jerked his hand away as if from a burn.
The local priest of Killian, who acted as a healer for most of the poor in the town, quickly confirmed that Tyndal had indeed drunk his last bottle of wine.
Since he had no family, it was left to Milo to dispose of the corpse, and he arranged a hasty funeral, with a quick pyre. The ashes were scattered, and a prayer was said to the Singer of Green Silence by her priest, though smiths were more correctly considered the province of Tith-Onanka, the god of war. Erik felt that somehow the prayer to Killian, the goddess of the forest and field, was appropriate: Tyndal had repaired perhaps one sword in the six years Erik had been around the forge, but countless plows, tillers, and other implements of farming.
A sound in the distance caught Erik’s ear. A midday coach was coming along the western road from Krondor, the Prince’s City. Erik knew that the chances were excellent it was Percy of Rimmerton at the reins, and if so, he would be putting in to the Pintail for refreshments for his horses and passengers. The driver was a rail-thin man of enormous appetite who loved Freida’s cooking.
As Erik had anticipated, within minutes the sounds of iron-shod wheels and hooves echoed loudly as the commercial coach approached the courtyard. Then it turned in and with a loud “Whoa!”
Percy reined in his team of four. The commercial coaches had begun their travel between Salador and 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 45
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Krondor five years previously and had proved a great success for their innovator, a wealthy merchant in Krondor named Jacob Esterbrook, who was now planning a coach line from Salador to Bas-Tyra, according to gossip. Each coach was essentially a wagon, with a covered roof and sides, and a small tailgate that when lowered provided a step into the wagon. A pair of planks along the sides provided indifferent seating, and the ride was lacking any pre-tense to comfort, as the wagons were rudely sprung.
But the journey was swift compared to that by caravan, and for those unable to secure their own mounts to ride, almost as rapid as horseback.
“Ho, Percy,” said Erik.
“Erik!” replied the coachman, whose long thin face appeared to have been frozen in a grin surrounded by road dirt. He turned to his two passengers, a man dressed well and another in plain garments. “Ravensburg, sirs.”
The plainly dressed man nodded and moved to the rear of the coach as Erik obliged Percy by unlatching the tailgate. “Are you lying over?” he asked the driver.
“No,” answered Percy. “We go on to Wolverton, where this other gentleman is bound; then we are done with this run.” Wolverton was the next town in the direction of Darkmoor, and less than an hour away by fast coach. Erik knew that the passenger would be unlikely to welcome a meal stop this close to his destination. “From there I’m going empty to Darkmoor, so there’s ample time and no hurry. Tell your mother I’ll be back in a few days, gods willing, and I’ll have an extra of her best meat pie.” Percy’s grin continued to split his thin face as he patted his stomach, miming hunger.
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Erik nodded as the driver turned his team and quickly had them up to a trot and out of the courtyard. Erik turned to the man who had dismounted the coach, to ask if he required lodging, and found him vanishing around the corner of the barn.
“Sir!” Erik called, and hurried after.
He circled the barn and reached the forge, finding that the stranger had set down his bag and was removing his travel cloak. The man was as broad of shoulder and thick of arm as Erik, though he was a full head shorter. He had a fringe of long grey hair receding from his bald pate, and a thoughtful, almost scholarly expression. His brows were bushy and black, and his face was clean-shaven, though the stubble grown while traveling was almost white.
And he inspected everything carefully. He turned to see the young man standing at the door and said,
“You must be the apprentice. You keep an orderly forge, youngster. That is good.” He spoke with the odd flat twang typical of those from the Far Coast or the Sunset Islands.
“Who are you?” asked Erik.
“Nathan is my name. I’m the new smith sent up from Krondor.”
“From Krondor? New smith?” Erik’s expression showed his confusion.
The large man shrugged as he hung his travel cloak on a wall peg. “The guild asked if I wished this forge. I said yes, and here I am.”
“But it’s my smithy,” said Erik.
“It’s a baronial charge, boy,” said Nathan, his tone turning firm. “You might be competent in most things—you might even be talented—but in time of war you’d be mending armor and tending the 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 47
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barony’s mounts, as well as taking care of farmers’
draft horses.”
“War!” exclaimed Erik. “War hasn’t touched Darkmoor since it was conquered!”
The man took a quick step forward and put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, gripping him firmly. “I think I know how you feel. But law is law. You’re a guild apprentice—”
“No.”
The smith’s brows lowered. “No? Didn’t your master register you with the guild?”
With conflicting emotions, anger and ironic amusement, Erik said, “My former master was drunk most of the time. I’ve conducted the business of this forge since I was ten years of age, Master Smith. For years he promised to take the journey to Krondor or to Rillanon, to register my apprenticeship with the guild office. For the first three years I begged him to send a message by Kingdom Post, but after that . . .
I was too busy to continue begging. He’s been dead for two months now, and I’ve done well enough tending the barony’s needs
.”
The man stroked his chin and then shook his head. “This is a problem, youngster. You’re three years older than most who begin their apprenticeship—”
“Begin!” said Erik, his anger now coming to the fore. “I can match skills with any guild smith—”
Nathan’s expression darkened. “That’s not the point!” he roared, his own anger at being interrupted giving him volume enough to silence Erik. “That’s not the point,” he repeated more quietly when he saw that Erik was listening. “You may be the finest smith in the Kingdom, in all of Midkemia, but no one at the 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 48
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guild knows this. You have not been listed on the roster of apprentices, and no one with a guildmaster’s rank has vouched for your work. So you must begin—”
“I will not apprentice for seven more years!” said Erik, his temper threatening to get the better of him.
Nathan said, “Interrupt me again, boy, and I’ll cease being civil with you.”
Erik’s expression showed he was not in the least bit apologetic, but he stayed silent.
Nathan said, “You can go to Krondor or Rillanon and petition the guild. You’ll be tested and evaluated.
If you show you know enough, you’ll be allowed to apprentice, or perhaps you’ll even get journeyman’s rank, though I doubt that seriously; even if you’re the best they’ve ever seen, there’s still the politics of it.
Few men are willing to grant to another rank without the sweat to have earned it. And there’s always the possibility they’ll call you a presumptuous lout and throw you into the street.” The last came with a hard tone, and suddenly Erik realized that this man had spent at least seven years as an apprentice and perhaps twice that as a journeyman before gaining his master’s badge—and to him Erik must sound a whining child.
“Or you can apprentice here, in your hometown with your family and friends, and be patient. If you are indeed as well taught as you claim, I’ll certify you as quickly as I can, so you can petition for a forge of your own.”
Erik looked as if he was again going to object that this was his forge, but he said nothing. Nathan continued, “Or you can set out today, on your own, and become an independent smith. With your talent 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 49
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you’ll make a living. But without a guild badge you’ll never set up shop in any but the rudest villages, unless you wish to travel to the frontier. For no noble will trust his horses and armor to any but a guildmaster, and the rich common folk to no less than a guild journeyman. And that means, no matter how gifted you are, you’ll always be nothing more than a common tinker.”
Erik remained silent, and after a moment Nathan said, “Thoughtful, is it? That’s good. Now, here’s the choice of it: you can stay and learn and perfect your skills and I’ll count myself a lucky sod for having a second pair of trained hands around, belonging to someone I don’t have to teach every tiny thing. Or you can brood and be resentful, and think you know as much as I, and be useless to us both. There’s only room for one master in this forge, boy, and I am he.
So there’s the end of it, and there’s the choice. Do you need time to think on this?”
Erik paused, then said, “No. I need no time to think about it, Master Nathan.” Sighing, he added,
“You are correct. There is only one master in a forge.
I . . .”
“Spit it out, boy.”
“I have been responsible around here for so long I feel as if it is my forge, and that I should have been given it by the guild.”
Nathan nodded once. “That’s understandable.”
“But it’s not your fault Tyndal was a slacker and my time here counts for nothing.”
“None of that, boy—”
“Erik. My name is Erik.”
“None of that, Erik,” said Nathan; then suddenly he swung hard and connected a roundhouse right that 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 50
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knocked Erik onto his backside. “And I told you, interrupt me again and I’d cease being civil. I am a man of my word.”
Erik sat rubbing his jaw, astonishment on his face. He knew the smith had pulled the blow, but he could feel the sting of it anyway. After a moment he said, “Yes, sir.”
Nathan put out his hand and Erik took it. The smith pulled Erik to his feet. “I was about to say that any time spent learning a craft counts. You only lack credentials. If you’re as good as you think you are, you’ll be certified in the minimum seven years.
You’ll be older than most journeymen when you seek your own forge, but you’ll be younger than some, trust me on that. There are slower lads that don’t leave their master’s forge until they are in their late twenties. Remember this: you may be coming late to your office, but your learning started four years earlier than most boys’ as well. Knowledge is knowledge, and experience is experience, so you should have a far shorter time of it from journeyman to master. In the end, it will all work out.”
Turning slowly, as if examining the smithy once again, he said, “And from what I see here, if you can keep your head right, we’ll get along fine.”
There was an open friendliness in that remark which caused Erik to forget his stinging jaw. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, show me where I sleep.”
Without being told, Erik picked up the smith’s travel bag and cloak, and motioned. “Tyndal had no family, so he slept here. There’s a small room around back, and I sleep in the loft up there.” Erik pointed to the only place he’d called his own for the last six 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 51
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years. “I never thought about moving into Tyndal’s room—habit, I guess.” He led the smith out the rear door and to the shed that Tyndal had used for his bed-room.
“My former master was drunk most of the time, so I fear this room is likely to be . . .” He opened the door.
The smell that greeted them almost made Erik gag. Nathan only stood a moment, then stepped away as he said, “I’ve worked with drunkards before, lad, and that’s the smell of sour sickness. Never seek to hide in a wine bottle, Erik. It’s a slow and painful death. Meet your sorrows head on, and after you’ve wrestled with them, put them behind.”
Something in his tone told Erik that Nathan wasn’t simply repeating an aphorism but was speaking from belief. “I can put this room right, sir, while you take your ease at the inn.”
“I’d best make myself known to the innkeeper; he is to be my landlord, after all. And I could use something to eat.”
Erik realized he hadn’t thought of that. The office of guild smith might be granted by the guild and a patent for a town might be exclusive, but otherwise the smith was like any other tradesman, forced to make a profit the best he knew how, and responsible for setting up his own place of business. Erik said,
“Sir, Tyndal had no family. Who . . .”
Nathan put his hand on Erik’s shoulder. “Who should I be paying for all these tools?”
Erik nodded.
Nathan said, “My own tools will be coming by freight hauler any day now. I have no desire to take what is not rightfully mine, Erik.” He scratched his 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:48 PM Page 52
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day’s growth of whiskers as he thought. “When you’re ready to leave Ravensburg and begin your own forge, let us assume they go with you. You were his last apprentice, and tradition has it that you are to pay the widow for the tools. As he had no family, there’s no one to pay, is there?”
Erik realized what an incredibly generous offer he was being made. An apprentice was expected somehow to supplement his earnings so that by the time he reached journeyman’s rank he could purchase a complete set of tools, and an anvil, and have
the money to pay for the construction of a forge if needed. Most young journeymen were able to begin modestly, but Tyndal, for all his sloth in his last years, had been a master smith for seventeen years and had every conceivable tool of the trade, two and three of some. With proper care and cleaning, Erik would be set up for life!
Erik said, “If you would like, I can show you to the kitchen.”
“I’ll find my way. Just come get me when this room is cleaned up.”
Erik nodded, and as Nathan moved off toward the rear of the inn, the boy held his breath and went into Tyndal’s room. Throwing open the single window didn’t help, and Erik hurried back outside because of the stench. Unpleasant odors bothered Erik, strong as he was in most ways, and he confessed to a weak stomach. Though he was used to the smell of the barn and forge, nevertheless the odor of human illness and waste caused the bile to rise in his gorge, and he had tears in his eyes from the reek by the time he got Tyndal’s bedding outside the hut.
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away, he hurried to the large iron tub his mother used for washing and threw the filthy linens into it. As he was building up the fire beneath, his mother approached.
“Who is this man claiming to be the new smith?”
she demanded.
Erik was in no mood to battle his mother, so he calmly said, “Not claiming; is. The guild sent him.”
“Well, did you tell him there already was a smith here?”
Erik got the fire under the tub going and stood up.
As calmly as he could manage, he said, “No. This is a guild forge. And I have no standing with the guild.”
Thinking of Tyndal’s tools, he added, “Nathan’s being very generous and is keeping me on. He’ll apprentice me to the guild and . . .”
Erik expected an argument, but instead his mother only nodded once and left without further comment. Puzzled by her lack of outburst, Erik stood a moment until the crackling of the fire under the tub reminded him he had a still-unfinished task. He took one of the hard cakes of soap used to wash the inn’s bedding and broke it in half. Tossing the hard soap into the tub, he began stirring with a paddle. As the water turned a deep brown, he thought: why no argument from his mother? There was an air of resignation from her that he had never seen before.