Mageborn The Blacksmith's Son Page 2

  After a time she learned that the woman was named Meredith Eldridge, Miri for short, and her husband Royce had found Elena on the road. He was a blacksmith and had been on his way to take a cask of nails and other sundries to the castle at Lancaster. Fortunately he always took his bow with him on such trips. The two women spoke for over an hour before Elena could no longer continue and lapsed into a troubled sleep.

  The next day her fever was worse but Miri still held out hope for her. Elena convinced them to let her have pen and paper but the struggle to sit up and write was almost too much for her. She fought her pain and weariness and eventually she found a position sitting at the table which didn’t hurt as much. Her left arm was useless but she could still grip the pen in her right, as long as she didn’t move it too far while writing.

  She wrote two letters. One for her son, and a much shorter note to the Duke of Lancaster. At last Miri helped her back to bed, exhausted. “Don’t tell him Miri... not till he’s older.”

  “What’s that love?” Miri tried to sooth her.

  “Don’t tell him about me, till he’s older. Let him be happy. When he must know, give him my letter.” She was emphatic.

  “Shush now, you can tell him yourself when you’re better. You’ll stay here with us and when you get your strength you can help me with the place,” Miri smiled and stroked Elena’s hair. “You just rest yourself, and someday soon we’ll have a picnic. Spring is here and it's so lovely out. The flowers are blooming and the air is full of sweet smells.” Elena fell softly asleep while Miri talked. She felt like a girl again, with her own mother singing her to sleep. After a while Miri got up and went to start dinner.

  Elena never woke. She passed quietly away that night. Her son woke the Eldridges the next morning with his crying. It seemed he knew somehow that she was gone.

  Chapter 1

  The ideas examined within these pages were originally meant to explore the nature of magic alone, until deeper examination revealed the connection between the ‘aythar’ that is spoken of by wizards, and the miracles and supernatural occurrences found in all faiths and religions. No one was more surprised than myself, at this connection between the ‘natural’ and the ‘supernatural’ and it formed the basis of my loss of faith and the beginning of my fall into heresy. Therefore be warned, if you are a man of faith or religion, a cleric, monk, priest or holy man of any type, stop here. Read no further, for the ideas and science presented within will doubtless erode the very necessary foundations required for any sincere connection with the gods.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  I never felt like an unusual child, which I suppose is true of everyone, at least up to a point. Growing up I was inquisitive and adventurous as most boys are, but as I grew my mother made some observations, “He’s a very quiet child.” I don’t remember the first time she said that, but it immediately struck me as true. In fact I was very introspective, despite my amiable nature and easy smile. As I got older she went so far as to describe me as someone born with an “old soul”, whatever that meant. Mostly I just thought a lot, which set me apart from the other children a bit, but not enough that I felt a difference or a gap. Looking back it seems clear that my native caution and introspective nature are probably what kept me alive.

  My father’s name is Royce, Royce Eldridge, and he is a blacksmith by trade. I’ve often wondered if he regretted his vocation, since it seemed he loved horses more than metal and would use any excuse to slip away to the city to see the races. He had also spent a bit more money than would be wise purchasing high bred horses of his own. My mother, Meredith is her name, chided him about that, but she didn’t really mind. In truth she loved horses just as much and it was during one of his trips to see the races, as a younger man, that he had met her. Unfortunately after they married they were unable to have children, but as fate would have it my father found me years later, on another of his trips into the city. As he tells the story I was just a lone babe, abandoned on the roadside not far outside of town. My young mother had put me there, where I could easily be seen and heard, in hopes that some farmer’s wife might happen upon me. I’ll probably never know exactly why she chose to do so, but things have worked out well for me anyway, so I have never borne her any ill will.

  Royce and Meredith were happy to have a child of their own and being an only child I got a bit more attention than most children. If my parents had been wealthy I would have probably been completely spoiled, but as it was I was simply happy. Most of our neighbors didn’t realize I was adopted, but my parents never kept it a secret from me. I was proud to be an Eldridge and I worked hard to please my father. He made a point of letting me watch him work in the smithy, familiarizing me with the tools and methods of his trade. I found the ruddy glow of hot iron fascinating, watching it slowly take shape under his patient hands. Being a smith’s son it was naturally assumed that someday I would follow him in the craft, and I had no objection. If things had turned out differently I might be working at a forge even now, happily shaping metal to make my living.

  As I grew from a curious boy into an awkward adolescent it became apparent that I might have some difficulty at the work. I had many natural talents. I was unusually intelligent, something that most adults noticed within minutes of talking to me. I had a good eye for metal and a natural gift when it came to crafting or building. My hands were sure and skilled, an artist’s hands my mother called them. That lay at the heart of the problem; although I was long of limb, I was not particularly stout. I worked hard helping my father at the bellows but no matter how much my mother fed me I never seemed to fill out. It seemed I was doomed to remain a gangly youth forever. Still, I was skillful enough that given time I would probably have managed to become a competent smith, if not for what happened that spring, when the rivers were swollen with rain.

  The day had dawned bright and full of promise, as spring days are wont to do. The rains had been especially heavy that year, my sixteenth year, but they had ended a few days ago and the whole world seemed alive and shining. The sun was warm while the air still held a crisp chill left over from winter. All in all it seemed a terrible waste to be cooped up in the smithy with my father. I suspect that is why my mother sent me out to look for herbs. She had always been kind and I think even then she knew my youthful spirit was too large to be bounded by the orderly confines of the smithy. So it was with a spring in my step and a wicker basket in my hands that I went out to explore the fields and woods near our home. I knew the area well of course, but I enjoyed every chance I got to roam about, and I knew my mother wouldn’t expect me back very soon.

  I spent the morning roaming about the fields, picking a variety of greens and dandelions that I knew my mother liked to use in her cooking, but as noon neared I decided to venture down to the river in search of angelica, a medicinal herb. I had no notion of what I would find there that day. I passed through a heavily wooded area that was close to the Glenmae River. The land rose up before reaching the river, so I was still unable to see the banks when I heard the sound of a horse in distress. The horse was blowing and nickering loudly, with a pitch that indicated it was full in the throes of panic. If you have spent much time around horses you probably have an idea what I mean. I immediately broke into a run, youthful daydreams forgotten. I still don’t regret what I did that day, but looking back I wonder how things might have turned out if I had taken a different path and avoided the river.

  Coming over the rise I saw a young man about my own age standing at the bank of the river, swearing loudly at the surging waters. I suppose it might be more correct to say he stood at the ‘new’ bank of the river, for it appeared that a large portion of what had been the bank had been swept away, undercut by the rushing water. I still could not see the horse, but the boy I knew, for he was my best friend, Marcus. Even at this distance I could see his face was white with fear. Within half a minute I had reached him, and though I shook his shoulder he looked at me bla
nkly, as if he didn’t know me. It took him a moment to recognize me and collect his wits enough to speak coherently, “Mort!” I should probably mention at this point that my name is Mordecai, but most of my friends at this age had taken to calling me ‘Mort’. “I’ll never get her out of there Mort! She’s going to die and it’s my fault!”

  The ‘she’ he was referring to was his father’s prized mare, Dawnstar, although we just called her Star. She was a beautiful roan, with a star-like blaze on her forehead. She was also one of the most expensive acquisitions in his father’s large stable of horses. His father, the Duke of Lancaster had bought her expressly for her bloodline, to improve his own stock, for she came from a famous line of racehorses. I was sure that Marcus wasn’t supposed to be riding her, but little things like rules rarely stopped my friend when he had a notion to do something.

  It was easy to guess at the rough details of what had happened. He had ridden her close, to watch the river as it raced along. He had gotten off and led her close to the bank, as the mare had enough sense to balk at being ridden so close to the roaring water. That was when disaster struck. The weakened river bank had collapsed under the weight of the horse, and while Marcus had managed to scramble back out of the way, the mare had not been so lucky. She was trapped in the river, struggling to keep her head above the water. The torrent had swept her up against a fallen tree where she was trapped, unable to climb up the steep muddy bank. Star’s panicked cries wrenched at my heart as she desperately strove to keep her head above water.

  Without thinking I began scrambling down the slippery embankment, trying to get close. It should be readily apparent that my thinking at this point was not clear as there was no possible way I could free the trapped horse. The crumbling bank was steep and narrow at the water’s edge, which would make it impossible to get the horse out of the water, even if I were strong enough to accomplish such a thing. At the moment she was near to being swept under the lower edge of the fallen oak, which would lead to a swift drowning as she would most likely be caught in the large limbs dipping into the water. Still I approached her without a clear plan, drawn by her plight.

  “Mort! You’re gonna get yourself killed!” Marcus was usually the more reckless of the two of us, but today he was showing a lot more intelligence than I seemed to possess. “Get back up here before I have to explain your death as well!” For a moment I considered his words, and I realized he was right. I started to turn, to make my way back, common sense finally overcoming my foolishness, but then I met Star’s eyes. That was when my life changed. That was the moment that swept everything before it aside and set me, and my friends on a course that we could never turn back from. The historians would have much less to write about if I had not looked into that frightened mare’s eyes.

  At this point I’m not sure how to describe what I experienced. Probably some of you who read this have been through moments of crisis and felt the surge of emotions that sweep over you in an instant, the timeless moment of clarity in which you can think a thousand things in the blink of an eye. This was one of those moments, and as I looked into that noble creature’s eyes I felt as if a window into my own soul had opened. My world shrank, until it contained nothing, nothing at all but Star and myself. Her eyes were wild with fear and her breathing was loud as her lungs heaved, despite the rushing water. My own body seemed light and insubstantial, and soon I lost all sensation of it, falling into her gaze. Now there was only Star, and Mordecai was gone, as if he had never existed. My body and indeed my very ‘self’ were no more, everything had been replaced. I should rephrase that, my body still existed, but it was different now, much heavier and it was cold. I could feel my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. I was mostly submerged in the cold river, and I could feel it chilling me, sapping my strength as it pushed me against the tree, drawing me downward with an inexorable pull.

  I could see a young man on the river bank, slowly sinking down, like a puppet with its strings cut. He was slipping into the water as well, and I wondered who he was. I fought to stay above the water and in my desperation I had one clear thought. If I just had something firm to stand upon, I might be able to get myself up and out of that freezing water. My hands hit something hard, next my feet found it as well and I began to rise. Stepping up I found something else solid to stand on and I began to walk out of the river. As I emerged my hands felt strange and looking down I realized they were now hooves. That seemed rather silly, since I was quite sure I wouldn’t be able to climb up the embankment without hands, so instead I walked up the river until I came to a place where the bank rose at a gentler slope and I chose that spot to walk out.

  Looking back I saw a second man, and I recognized him. It was Marcus, and he was dragging the other boy out of the river and back up the embankment, although he wasn’t having much success. The mud was steep and crumbling; it would be impossible for him to carry the other person back up it. Instead he was trying to get under the stranger and push him up and over the edge where it had crumbled away. It was obvious that he would never be able to get him up high enough so I decided to help him. Walking up the rise I got close to the edge and looked over at him struggling with the young man’s limp body. He pushed him up again and since my hands seemed to be useless, I stretched my head down and grabbed the teen by the collar, using my teeth. Had my neck always been this long? Pulling back I got him awkwardly onto the grass and dragged him until I was sure the ground was firm.

  By now Marc had gotten himself up as well and he was shouting something at me. Looking at him I realized the colors were strange. It was definitely my friend but he looked different to me. Glancing down I stared at the unconscious stranger. There was something familiar about his face. He had long gangly arms and legs and his head was covered with thick black hair. At last it hit me, and a cold shock ran through me as I recognized myself lying there upon the ground. With that realization I felt a surging sensation and felt myself rushing toward my empty body, and then there was only darkness.

  Sunlight filtered in through my closed eyelids, which made me wonder how I could have slept so late. Normally my mother would have awakened me with the dawn to start my daily chores. The bed was comfortable however, so I decided to sleep a little longer and see how long I could manage before she came to rouse me. Then I felt warm breath on my face and heard a snort, as if one of my father’s horses had somehow gotten into my room, but that couldn’t be… could it? I cracked one eye and was startled to see Star looming over me, with Marc sitting on the other side of me.

  “Thank the gods you’ve woken,” he said. “I had begun to think you were going to pass over to the other side.” His face held a slight smile, though I could see tension written in his expression.

  “Why am I lying on the ground?” Even as I said this I realized it was true; I was lying on the damp grass, not far from the river. I started to sit up and everything began to twist and turn around me as waves of dizziness washed over me. I have a stubborn streak though, so I sat up anyway and stayed that way till the world quit whirling about.

  “I was hoping you could tell me that,” he replied. “For some reason you felt you could drag an entire horse out of the river by yourself, and even worse, you promptly passed out as soon as you got to the edge of the water. You nearly drowned.”

  “How did Star get out?” I had a strong suspicion that I knew exactly how she’d escaped the river, but I still couldn’t believe it.

  “The best I can tell she’s been possessed by a water spirit.” Marc stared pointedly at me as he said that, and I knew him well enough to tell he had a different opinion. “Right after you passed out she walked up and out of the water, walking over the top of it about thirty yards before she made her way onto dry ground.” He paused then, as if to see what I might say, but I held my tongue. “Then she walked back up over the top and proceeded to drag you up and over the edge of the embankment with her teeth. All in all I’d say her behavior was rather unhorse-like.”


  I looked down, unsure what to say, “Well…”

  “You might as well tell me. I’ve already seen several unbelievable things today; I’m not likely to call you a liar at this point.” Marc and I had been friends since we were small children, so trust wasn’t an issue; it was simply that I couldn’t understand what had occurred either. I gave up attempting to understand, and just described my experience as best I could. It took a while, but Marc was a good listener. After a while I ran out of words and just sat there, looking at Star grazing nearby.

  Marc looked pensive. He had a brilliant mind, when he chose to employ it, and I could see the gears turning as I watched. Finally he spoke, “Let’s lay it out in plain view. You sent your spirit into the horse and took control of her body. Then you used some sort of magic to allow Star to walk on top of the water…”

  “Now hold up,” I interrupted, “I didn’t use any magic, nor would I know how to!”

  “What else would you call it Mort?” He stared at me; his gaze was direct and unwavering.

  “Ok, well obviously something amazing happened, but that doesn’t mean that I was the cause, source or principle agent behind the...” I had lapsed into our most familiar form of speech, the type we used when discussing matters of science or philosophy. He wasn’t buying into my circumlocutions though.

  “Bullshit,” he interrupted.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, bullshit. Don’t try to talk your way around it. You’re not talking to your parents, or any of the other dullards we know, so don’t try and feed me a bunch of crap. You need to own up to it and face what happened head on. You did it. You did something miraculous, and that makes you either a saint or a wizard. Given your general lack of piety I’m leaning toward the latter.”