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  Into the Forge

  ( Hel Crucible - 1 )

  Dennis L Mcciernan

  Dennis L McCiernan

  INTO THE FORGE

  FOREWORD

  Events are like stones cast upon waters: they make an immediate splash and waves ripple outward in ever widening circles, diminishing as they go. Significant events, like large stones, sometime send waves great enough to engulf those immediately in the path, perhaps to completely overwhelm them if they are not far enough removed from the event. Sometimes the stone is so very large as to affect the entire world (as the dinosaurs literally discovered).

  It depends upon the size of the stone and its entry velocity as to whether the initial wave is enormous or minuscule. Yet whether we sink or swim does not necessarily depend upon the magnitude of this initial wave, nor, to a great extent, our distance from it, for the water is full of expanding ripples, some large, some small, all commingling, reinforcing here, negating there, and several tiny ripples can combine a half world away to cause a great effect-a butterfly effect-just as other waves great and small can completely nullify one another.

  This tale is about stones cast upon waters and the intermingling of waves.

  – Dennis L. McKiernan August 1996

  Author's Notes

  Into the Forge is the first book of the duology of Hel's Crucible. Along with the second book, Into the Fire, it tells the tale of the Great War of the Ban, as seen through the eyes of two Warrows, Tipperton Thistledown and Beau Darby.

  It is a story which begins in the year 2195 of the Second Era of Mithgar, a time when the Rapt are yet free to roam about in daylight as well as night, although it is told that they prefer to do their deeds in darkness rather than under the sun.

  The story of the Ban War was reconstructed from several sources, not the least of which were the Thistledown Lays. I have in several places filled in the gaps with assumptions of my own, but in the main the tale is true to its source material.

  As occurs in other of my Mithgarian works, there are many instances where in the press of the moment, the humans, Mages, Elves, and others spoke in their native tongues; yet to avoid burdensome translations, where necessary I have rendered their words in Pellarion, the Common Tongue of Mithgar. However, in several cases I have left the language unchanged, to demonstrate the fact that many tongues were found throughout Mithgar. Additionally, some words and phrases do not lend themselves to translation, and these I've either left unchanged or, in special cases, I have enclosed in angle brackets a substitute term which gives the "flavor" of the word (i.e… and the like). Additionally, sundry words may look to be in error, but indeed are correct-e.g., DelfLord is but a single word though a capital L nestles among its letters.

  The Elven language of Syiva is rather archaic and formal. To capture this flavor, I have properly used thee and thou, hast, dost, and the like; however, in the interest of readability, I have tried to do so in a minimal fashion, eliminating some of the more archaic terms.

  For the curious, the w in Rwn takes on the sound of uu (w is, after all, a double-u), which in turn can be said to sound like oo (as in spoon). Hence, Rwn is not pronounced Renn, but instead is pronounced Roon, or Rune.

  But Mithgar… Mithgar is yet wild, tempestuous, unkempt, savage, turbulent, exciting. We come here to feel alive.

  Chapter 1

  Wha-? In the chill dark Tipperton started awake-What was that? He lay quietly and listened, straining to hear above the burble of the Wilder River, the water running freely beneath its sheath of winter ice. I thought I heard shing

  There it is agai-! shing-shang… chang…

  Distant metal striking metal. What th-?

  Tipperton swung his feet over the edge of his bunk, and in the icy gloom stumbled from his bed and across the cold wooden floor-"Ow!"-barking his shin against a misplaced bench.

  Shang-chang! Chnk! The clang of metal upon metal grew louder, as if coming this way.

  He fumbled about on the table, knocking aside pots and pans as he searched for the lantern, while-Ching-chang!- the rattle and clash grew louder still, now mingled with guttural shouts and the thudding of feet.

  At last among the trenchers and kettles Tipperton found the lantern, and just as he ineffectually flicked the striker, a high-pitched scream sounded, and something heavy thudded against the ground outside.

  Tipperton flicked the striker again, and this time the wick caught. He lowered the glass and a yellow glow filled the mill chamber, illuminating the great overhead shafts and gears and wooden cogs that drove the massive buhr-stones, all now at a standstill, for the sluice weir was shut and no current flowed through the millrace and over the grand water wheel.

  Yahh! Chank! Dring! Clang! Tipperton stepped to the door and slid back the crossbar and flung the portal wide just as-Thdd!-someone or something slammed against the mill wall, the entire structure juddering with the blow, sending a shower of grain dust drifting down from the cedar shakes above.

  In nought but a nightshirt and holding his lantern on high, Tipperton stepped out upon the porch-"Hoy, now, what's all this racket?"-and in the dimness just beyond the reach of the glow he saw black shapes whirling in melee.

  "Get back, you fool!" came a shout, even as a dark figure broke free from the tumult and hurtled toward Tipperton.

  "Waugh!" The buccan leapt hindward, slamming the door to and ramming the crossbar home just as whatever had rushed at him crashed up against the shut wooden panel.

  Feet thudded upon the porch, and window glass shattered inward as Tipperton darted across the chamber and snatched his bow from above the mantel of the hearth. Amid thuds and tromping and screams and shouts and the skirl of steel upon steel, swiftly the buccan strung the weapon. Seizing his quiver and leaving the lantern behind, Tipperton scrambled up a ladder to the catwalk above and raced to a sliding door in the wall and jerked the panel aside. In the frigid light of diamond winter stars and in the frosty rays of the pale quarter moon riding upward in the southeast, he clambered out into the snow-laden run of the wooden sluice, the blanket covering a thin layer of ice.

  In that moment there sounded a shriek and a heavy crashing down… and lo! except for Tipperton's own hammering heart and gasping breath and the burble of water below the ice, all fell silent.

  Arrow nocked and crouching low, Tipperton made his way to where he could see the front of the mill. Several dark shapes lay scattered and unmoving upon the snow, and two or three were slumped on the porch. Cautiously, Tipperton crept to a point above a millrace support and waited, the buccan shivering in the frigid cold, for his feet were bare and planted in snow lying upon ice, and he was yet dressed in naught but a nightshirt. Long moments passed, and all remained still. At last he climbed down the support ladder, and with bow drawn taut, and ignoring his numbing feet, he moved through the snow to one of the sprawled shapes.

  It was a Ruck. Dead. Hacked by some kind of blade. The now glazed-over viper eyes staring upward.

  Tipperton moved onward through churned-up snow, his gorge rising as he cautiously stepped past a dead, hamstrung, eviscerated horse-steam rising through the cold air-and among more slain Rucks: leather-clad, bandylegged, batwing-eared, dusky-skinned. Their dark ichor seeped outward upon the snow, and weapons-scimitars and cudgels-lay scattered. Most of the dead had been cut or pierced by a blade of some sort, though the skulls of one or two had been bashed in. And here, too, vapor rose from gaping wounds and spilled entrails steaming.

  Arrow yet nocked, Tipperton came to the porch. Half on, half off the planking, another Ruck lay dead. And to the left and slumped against the door lay two bodies. The one on top was a Hlok-Rucklike but taller and with straighter limbs-pierced through by a sword, his body yet impaled by the bla
de; he still clutched a bloody tulwar in his dead hand. As to the other body, the one on the bottom, it -groaned -His heart leaping in alarm, Tipperton yanked his bow to the full and Wait! It's a man, a Human. Oh, Adon, look at the blood flowing.

  Tipperton set his bow aside and, straining, dragged the dead Hlok from atop the Human.

  Jostled, the man opened his eyes, then closed them again.

  Got to get him inside. Tipperton lifted the door latch and pushed. It did not yield. Nitwit! It's barred!… Wait, the window! Swiftly, Tipperton stepped across the man and to the shattered jamb and broke out the remaining shards yet clinging to the frame. Then he clambered through, cutting a foot as he stepped on the glass fragments lying on the inside. Twice a nitwit!

  Hobbling, he moved to the door and slid back the bar and raised the latch, the door swinging back as the weight of the man pushed it open and he slumped inward and lay half in, half out of the chamber. Struggling, Tipperton managed to drag the man the rest of the way inside. His heart yet racing, the buccan stepped back out and retrieved his bow and arrows, then scanned the landscape 'round- Nothing. He stepped back inside, closing the door after.

  By the light of the lantern yet sitting on the hearth, Tipperton removed the man's helmet, revealing short-cropped dark hair, and he placed a pillow under the man's head. The man was slender but well built, and appeared to be in his mid-twenties-Though with a Human, I can never tell. Tipperton then ripped cloth to make bandages to bind the man's wounds, and he said aloud, "Look, my friend, I'd get you out of those leathers to fix you up, but I'm afraid that more jostling will only make the bleeding worse, so in places I'll just slit them apart where they're already rent." The man neither opened his eyes nor replied, and Tipperton thought him unconscious. The buccan then began swathing the man's cuts as well as he could-slicing open sleeves and pant legs, and unlacing the front of the leather vest and the jerkin beneath, all to get at the wounds to bind them-though crimson seeped through the wrappings even as he moved from one bleeding gash to the next.

  Now the man opened his eyes, eyes such a pale blue as to seem nearly white. He looked at Tipperton and then whispered, "Runner."

  "Wh-what?"

  "Horse."

  "Oh." Tipperton shifted to the next wound, then said, "I'm sorry, but the horse is dead."

  The man sighed and closed his ghostly eyes.

  Quickly, Tipperton bandaged the last of the man's cuts and covered him with blankets. Then he threw off his nightshirt, now soaked with blood, and began flinging on clothes. "I've got to get you some help. A healer. There's one nearby."

  As the buccan stomped his cut foot into the other boot and then stood and drew on his cloak, the man opened his eyes once more and raised a hand and beckoned.

  Tipperton crossed over and knelt down beside him.

  Staring deep into Tipperton's jewellike sapphirine eyes, the man seemed to come to some conclusion, and he struggled to unbuckle his leather gorget. With Tipperton's help, he at last got the neck guard free, and from 'round his throat and over his head he lifted a token on a leather thong. "East," he whispered as he pressed the token-plain and dull grey, a coin with a hole in it-into the buccan's hand. "Go east… warn all… take this to Agron."

  Tipperton frowned in confusion. "Agron? Who-? No, wait. You can explain later." He slipped the thong over his own head and tucked the coin down his shirt. "Right now I'm going after a healer."

  " 'Ware, Waldan," whispered the man, his pale eyes now closed. "There's more… out there."

  Tipperton drew in a deep breath, then said, "I'll take my bow."

  The man did not reply.

  Tipperton stood up to his full three foot four inch height and momentarily looked down at the man. Then he snatched up his bow and quiver and blew out the lantern light-Don't want a beacon calling to Rucks-and slipped out the door, closing it behind. He slid to the right and paused in the shadows, his gaze searching for foe. Finding none, he glided upslope across the clearing and in among the trees, the buccan shunning the two-track wagon lane, seeking instead the shelter of the forest alongside. Then he began running, his black hair streaming out behind, his feet flying over the snow, Tipperton Thistledown racing in virtual silence, as only a Warrow can run.

  Chapter 2

  Thd! Thd!

  "Beau! Beau! Wake up!"

  Again came the hammering on the cottage door and a rattling of the latch-Thd-thmp-clk-clttr!-followed by another call: "Beau! Blast it!" Thd-thd!

  In the chill dark, Beau Darby groaned awake.

  Thd!

  "Ho-" croaked Beau, then, "Hold it! Are you trying to wake the dead?" Striving to not touch the floor at all, the buccan-"Ow, oh"-gingerly tiptoed across the cold wood to the door.

  Thd! "Bea-!" the caller started to yell just as Beau clacked back the bar and flung open the portal. An icy waft of air drifted in. "Oh, there you are, Beau. Get dressed; grab your satchel. There's trouble afoot. I've a wounded man at the mill."

  In the starlight and moonlight, Beau saw his friend of nearly two years-the only other Warrow living nigh Twoforks-standing on the doorstone of the cote, his bow in hand. They were nearly of the same age, these two, Tipperton a young buccan of twenty-three, Beau at twenty-two, though often in Twoforks they were treated as children simply because of their size.

  "What is it, Tip?"

  "I said, I've a wounded man at my mill."

  "Wounded?"

  "Aye. Rucks and Hloks. He's bleeding badly."

  "Bleeding?"

  "Yes, yes. That's what I said, bucco, bleeding." Tipperton pushed past Beau and limped into the cottage and began searching for a lantern. "They killed his horse. Tried to kill him, too. One even came at me. But he slew them all. Right there at the mill. Seven, eight Rucks and a Hlok." Tipperton caught up a lantern and lit it.

  In the soft yellow light Tipperton looked across at Beau, that Warrow yet standing dumbstruck, his mouth agape, as was the door.

  "Well, come on, Beau. Time's wasting."

  Beau closed his mouth as well as the door and sprang across the room even as he pulled off his nightshirt. "Rucks and such? Here? In the Wilderland? Near Twoforks? Fighting at the mill?" He threw the garment on the rumpled bed and looked at Tipperton, his amber eyes wide with wonder. "What were they doing at the mill? And are you all right? I thought I saw you limping."

  "Cut my foot on a piece of glass. My own fault. You can look at it when we've seen to the man. And as to what they were doing at the mill, I haven't the slightest idea. Happenstance, I would suppose."

  Beau slipped into his breeks. "Why would Rucks and such be after a man, I wonder?"

  Tipperton shrugged. "Who knows? And mayhap it was the other way about: him after them, I mean. But I'll tell you this: no matter the which of it, they're all dead and he's not… at least I don't think so. He was alive when I left him, but bleeding. Oh yes, bleeding. He took a lot of cuts, what with that mob and all. I bandaged him the best I could."

  Tipperton agitatedly paced the room as Beau pulled his jerkin over his shoulder-length brown hair and slipped his arms into the sleeves. "Don't worry, Tip. I'm sure that if you bandaged him, we can save him."

  "But what if those Ruck blades were poisoned? I mean, I've heard that they slather some dark and deadly taint on their swords."

  Beau pulled on his boots and stood and stamped his feet into them. "All the more reason to hurry." He slipped into his down jacket and snatched up his medical satchel and turned to his friend. "I'm ready. Let's go."

  Tipperton took up his bow and said, "Quash the light and leave it behind. The man said that there were more Rucks and such out there."

  Beau's eyes widened, then he nodded and blew out the lantern. In the darkness Tipperton stepped to the door and peered out. "All clear," he hissed, and slipped outside and through the shadows and across the clearing and into the woods, this time with Beau on his heels. And beneath the wheeling stars and the waning quarter moon nearing its zenith, two Warrows moved swift and silent among
the trees.

  "Wait a moment," hissed Tipperton. "Something's not right."

  They crouched in the woods and peered across the clearing at the enshadowed mill as moonlight and starlight faded in the predawn skies.

  Beau took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, tried to slow his rapidly beating heart. "What is it? I don't see anything."

  "I left the door closed. Now it's open."

  "Oh, my."

  Still they crouched in the gloom of the trees, and then Beau asked, "The man, could he have opened the door? Perhaps he left."

  "Perhaps, though I don't think so. He was cut to a fare-thee-well and quite weak."

  They watched long moments more, but saw no movement of any kind. At last Tipperton said, "If we delay any longer, then the man will most certainly bleed to death. You wait here, Beau. I'll see what's what. If I whistle, come running. If I yell, flee."

  Before Beau could reply, Tipperton glided away, circling 'round to the left.

  Time eked by.

  The skies lightened.

  At last Beau saw a shadow slip across the porch.

  Within heartbeats, lantern light shone, and Tipperton reemerged from the mill and whistled low, then stepped back inside.

  Beau snatched up his satchel and trotted across the clearing, past the dead horse and the slain Rucks. As he came through the door and into the mill, Tipperton grimaced and gestured toward the man and said, "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do, Beau. His throat's been cut."

  The man lay in a pool of blood, his dead eyes staring upward, his neck hacked nearly through. His leathers had been completely stripped from his body and strewn about, and his helm and boots and gorget were missing, and the chamber itself looked to have been ransacked-with an overturned table and ripped-apart bedding and drawers pulled out and their contents scattered on the floor. Beau moved past Tipperton and knelt by the man and then sighed and reached down and closed the man's eyes. "You're right, Tip. Nothing I or anyone less than Adon can do at this time. What do you think happened?"