dropped his arm and turned around, pivoting on the heel of his boot. Without looking back he pulled open the door, exited, and shut the door behind him.
Lhaurel remained where she was. Slowly, her hand dropped onto the comb in her waistband for a long, lingering moment. Then her head fell into her waiting hands, and she cried. The tears were cold.
Chapter 7 - The Strength of Steel
We lost half the clans today in our struggle with the enemy. Briane cried over the loss of an uncle. What would it be like, I wonder, to have a family who cares about you? I didn’t know how to comfort her, but she didn’t seem to need much comfort after her tears were done. The cause, she said, was worthy of the sacrifice.
-From the Journals of Elyana
The first thing she noticed when she entered the room was harnesses. They hung from pegs on the walls, each line or lead neatly attached to separate pegs or hooks hammered into the rock so that none of the varying pieces of leather would get tangled. There were hundreds of them, stretching down both side walls, up and over the door, and even hanging from the ceiling. She was so enthralled by the sheer number of them that she barely noticed the man who had softly closed the door behind her. He stepped back into the shadows and watched her as she studied the room.
Lhaurel took a step forward into the long, narrow room to better view the furnace and metalwork that rested in the center, nearly dominating the middle section. A metal flume carried the smoke of the massive ceramic furnace up and out through the ceiling, the metal darkened with years of soot. The smell of leather and ash and the odd odor of heated oil hung heavy in the air.
The man cleared his throat behind her. She jumped.
The man was short, smaller than Lhaurel, with plain features and a wide nose. But what he lacked in height he made up for in sheer brawn. His arms alone were bigger around than both Lhaurel’s legs together. A leather vest strained against a chest large enough to seem nearly grotesque. Corded muscles on his shoulders and arms showed through the skin like bands of iron. And his skin. It was flecked with small specks of a dull greyish cast, like freckles, but that glittered in the lamplight. It was almost as if long years working at the forge had infused flakes of metal to his skin.
“Welcome, Lhaurel,” the man said, his voice raspy.
“Thank you . . . sir,” she said.
He flourished one hand, gesturing for her to move back toward the center of the room, where the forge rested.
She obliged.
He shuffled along behind her, his step a rasping sound against the sand. The man walked with one leg trailing behind the other, almost dragging it along. It pulled against the loose sand, making the grating noise. He noticed her watching him and growled deep in his throat. She turned away hastily.
She stopped in the middle of the room but heard the man shuffle along behind and pass around her. Heat radiated from the open forge where coals glowed a deep, dark red around a layer of white.
Tieran had come to get her after Makin Qays had left. Khari had wanted him to bring her to see a man named Beryl. Despite herself, Lhaurel found herself liking the jovial Tieran more and more as they’d walked through the warren before he had deposited her here.
The man limped into her periphery, headed toward one of the various bins secreted beneath the long tables nestled against the wall. His limp gave him a decidedly hunched look, and Lhaurel almost took a small step back. “Why am I here?” she asked.
Beryl didn’t respond. Instead, he righted and tossed something from inside the bin at her. A practice sword—straight blade, almost no guard. She caught it deftly as it twirled toward her. Lhaurel looked up at him quizzically, only to find him swinging a sword of his own down toward her head in a powerful overhead chop. She brought her blade up in a mad scramble to block. Wood cracked against wood. Pain shot up her
Lhaurel remained where she was. Slowly, her hand dropped onto the comb in her waistband for a long, lingering moment. Then her head fell into her waiting hands, and she cried. The tears were cold.
Chapter 7 - The Strength of Steel
We lost half the clans today in our struggle with the enemy. Briane cried over the loss of an uncle. What would it be like, I wonder, to have a family who cares about you? I didn’t know how to comfort her, but she didn’t seem to need much comfort after her tears were done. The cause, she said, was worthy of the sacrifice.
-From the Journals of Elyana
The first thing she noticed when she entered the room was harnesses. They hung from pegs on the walls, each line or lead neatly attached to separate pegs or hooks hammered into the rock so that none of the varying pieces of leather would get tangled. There were hundreds of them, stretching down both side walls, up and over the door, and even hanging from the ceiling. She was so enthralled by the sheer number of them that she barely noticed the man who had softly closed the door behind her. He stepped back into the shadows and watched her as she studied the room.
Lhaurel took a step forward into the long, narrow room to better view the furnace and metalwork that rested in the center, nearly dominating the middle section. A metal flume carried the smoke of the massive ceramic furnace up and out through the ceiling, the metal darkened with years of soot. The smell of leather and ash and the odd odor of heated oil hung heavy in the air.
The man cleared his throat behind her. She jumped.
The man was short, smaller than Lhaurel, with plain features and a wide nose. But what he lacked in height he made up for in sheer brawn. His arms alone were bigger around than both Lhaurel’s legs together. A leather vest strained against a chest large enough to seem nearly grotesque. Corded muscles on his shoulders and arms showed through the skin like bands of iron. And his skin. It was flecked with small specks of a dull greyish cast, like freckles, but that glittered in the lamplight. It was almost as if long years working at the forge had infused flakes of metal to his skin.
“Welcome, Lhaurel,” the man said, his voice raspy.
“Thank you . . . sir,” she said.
He flourished one hand, gesturing for her to move back toward the center of the room, where the forge rested.
She obliged.
He shuffled along behind her, his step a rasping sound against the sand. The man walked with one leg trailing behind the other, almost dragging it along. It pulled against the loose sand, making the grating noise. He noticed her watching him and growled deep in his throat. She turned away hastily.
She stopped in the middle of the room but heard the man shuffle along behind and pass around her. Heat radiated from the open forge where coals glowed a deep, dark red around a layer of white.
Tieran had come to get her after Makin Qays had left. Khari had wanted him to bring her to see a man named Beryl. Despite herself, Lhaurel found herself liking the jovial Tieran more and more as they’d walked through the warren before he had deposited her here.
The man limped into her periphery, headed toward one of the various bins secreted beneath the long tables nestled against the wall. His limp gave him a decidedly hunched look, and Lhaurel almost took a small step back. “Why am I here?” she asked.
Beryl didn’t respond. Instead, he righted and tossed something from inside the bin at her. A practice sword—straight blade, almost no guard. She caught it deftly as it twirled toward her. Lhaurel looked up at him quizzically, only to find him swinging a sword of his own down toward her head in a powerful overhead chop. She brought her blade up in a mad scramble to block. Wood cracked against wood. Pain shot up her
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