Chapter Two

The greatest Smith? That’s impossible to say, after all there have been so many Master Smiths throughout the millennia. Names that have survived through the centuries, spoken with awe and reverence when their works are listed off, their greatest creations capable of shaking the world. How would one know who is better it’s not like we can compare their skills, they are talents that come once in a lifetime. Of course the most powerful forging legacy certainly belongs to the Ferrus clan, for they possess a Bloodline Birthmark, they have produced more legendary weapons and Master Smiths than any other of the famous legacies of the forge. Not only that, one and all of them are at least capable smiths, kingdoms have offered outrageous ransoms for a contract with the Ferrus clan, even Council Forces pay handsomely to outfit their men with weapons made by the Ferrus Smiths. Truly they are blessed.

-Opening passage of The Compendium of Smiths and their Creations, Divine or Otherwise. Author Unknown

Entering the small village he and his family called home Taran felt a smile tug at his lips, he felt safe here. The village consisted of a loose spattering of 16 structures each one unique as the family living inside. In the centre of the village there was a large well and a communal fire pit where most of the families gathered in the evening to eat and socialize. The village itself was located in a valley a few hundred kilometers inside the outer edge of the gigantic mountain range that bordered the western side of the continent. Almost five hundred kilometers from the border of the nearest country and the reach of the The Council.

Covering millions of kilometers there were at least a hundred different names given to the range and its offshoots over the millennia, but most people used the name given by the Divine council; The Godless Peaks.

The struggle of surviving deep in the woods and the fear of being hunted brought them all together, like one large extended family. Taran trusted everyone in the village completely.

For the last two years there had been no need to keep moving, to watch every shadow for pursuers, dreading the moment when they had to abandon everything and run like animals. Finally now they could put down roots, to make a real life for themselves. The pursers who had been hunting his sister could no longer find them and it was all thanks to Auntie. She was not his real Aunt, but everyone just called her that and she had never offered another name to use. She was a powerful witch and with her magic protecting them no one could track them, In fact she had her own birthmark, like his sister Auntie was born with the mark of a Blind Witch.

“Hey Taran!” A group of half a dozen younger children called out as they passed, each one had a sword at their waist and was on their way to his father’s class.

Nodding in return Taran hurried up, he didn’t want to be late. If he was he’d be at the bellows all day as punishment. Suddenly a hand grabbed his wrist with surprising strength and wheeled him around, Taran came face to face with Garret.

The small hunched over man with salt and pepper hair, bushy eyebrows and a beard that went past his waist was the husband of Auntie, he was also touched in the head. On a good day he would just mutter and drool, on a bad day he would scream and have seizures. Of course no one feared him, he was friendly and childlike, often he would even make small trinkets to give as presents. Taran wore one around his neck.

The shock from the strength in Garret’s wrinkled old hands was nothing when compared to the shock he had when Garret stared at him. There was a look of clarity in his normally clouded dark green eyes.

Returning the stare Taran felt like he was looking into a vast ancient pool, the old man’s gaze emanating wisdom and power, enough to shake Taran to the core. “A Storm is coming child, stay inside.” Garret warned his ancient voice for once clear and precise. Moments later the clouded look returned to his eyes and Garret released Taran, a wide grin plastered on his face. Placing a tiny polished oval stone in Taran’s large hand he headed off whistling and muttering to himself.

Gazing at the stone for a moment he slipped it into the pouch at his waist and continued on, disturbed and unable to get Garret’s warning out of his head.

Every second day, rather than helping his mother Taran instead worked under the blacksmith Gymir. He had joined their group of runaway’s three s ago with his infant son. Taran wasn’t a natural and would never be a grandmaster, but he worked hard and was the only child with the stamina and strength to help Gymir by working the bellows.

Surprisingly the familiar sound of the hammer striking metal was absent from the forge when he arrived, causing Taran to worry as he approached Gymir’s home. The single storey home consisted of one large living space and two smaller bedrooms, with an open air smithy built behind the house. Pushing open the door, the smell of stale booze and vomit wafted over him, making him gag. “Master Ferrus are you there?” he called slowly entering the dimly lit home, the windows drawn shut. Having been here so many, he didn’t need to see to navigate his way across the main room to the door of Gymir’s bedroom.

Pushing open the door he was greeted by the site of his Master strewn across the floor a bottle of booze in one hand and the other pressing a small metal plate over his heart, a puddle of vomit next to him. A faint sobbing came from Gymir, his eyes shut tight. “Why did it have to be you and not me?” he muttered over and over again.

Sighing Taran crossed over to his drunken Master, “Up you go.” he said, taking the bottle away and draping one of Gymir’s giant muscle bound arms over his shoulders. Gymir was the only person Taran had ever met with more physical strength than his father, though he was a few inches shorter.

Thankfully some part of the smith realized what was happening and with Taran’s guidance he stumbled over to his bed collapsing onto it. The metal plate still pressed to his bosom.

Seeing an Anvil with a prismatic flame in the centre of it Taran leaned in close staring at the Birthmark on the back of Gymir’s hand.

Every member of the Ferrus clan had one; it was their famous Bloodline Birthmark. From what his master told him, the Anvil Birthmark not only gifted it’s bearer with incredible skill, it also allowed the possessor to manipulate different kinds of mana and forge special materials to create incredible weapons. The colour of the flame in the centre of the anvil indicated what kind of mana the smith could manipulate. There were multiple variations of the same Birthmark, a trait unique to Bloodline Birthmarks. The prismatic flame was considered strongest and purest variation of the Ferrus Birthmark, meaning the smith wasn’t limited to any specific kind of mana. There was only one variation stronger than Gymir’s and that was a Black Hammer, it was considered a cursed birthmark and it was the reason why Gymir had fled with his son. Unfortunately Taran hadn’t been told why it was cursed and didn’t feel comfortable asking.

Throwing a blanket over the drunken giant, Taran started to tidy up his thoughts drifting to his deceased brother, he missed him every day. To him his brother had been a hero, someone he worshiped and strived to live up to. Even now he could see his brother’s final moments, coated in blood as he fell, his body covered with wounds. It was his brother’s sacrifice that let Taran and the rest of his family get away from the pursuers that first night.

Moments later the sadness was replaced by a cold anger, the oath he and made to himself to never let anything like that happen to anyone he cared about ringing in his ears.

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A few hours later Gymir woke, his head pounding as if he was beating on it with a hammer. Looking groggily around the room he groaned, there was a blanket pulled over him and the bottles he had consumed were lined up neatly by the door. Realising his apprentice must have come in and cleaned up after him he felt ashamed, Taran was a child.

Thinking about his apprentice Gymir’s scowl transformed into a smile and he sighed happily, despite his pounding headache. Even though the boy lacked the talent to be a master smith, he still worked hard to learn what he could. So Gymir patiently taught him his art, happy just to have such a motivated student.

No matter the setbacks the boy kept trying and learning. One day Taran would be a decent smith and all through his own hard work. At that pleasant thought he decided that he would teach the boy one of the ancient set of runes of his Clan.

Lifting the copper plate he held to his chest he felt a pang of sadness, expertly engraved onto polished surface the copper was the image of his wife, a plain looking, but strong and highly intelligent woman whom he loved more than anything in the world. Rejecting the orders of his Clan Elders he eloped with her, luckily his status meant the elders eventually came to accept his choice. Naturally that was until his son was born. Touching the carving, a small enchantment he had applied to the plate activated. Causing an ethereal image of his wife to float above it, smiling up at him.

Blinking away tears he looked away from the plate and placed it on the bedside table, it was gift he had designed for his son’s tenth birthday.

Washing his face and hands in the basin Taran had provided he quickly headed out back, with his son staying at his neighbours he decided to skip his morning meal it was after noon anyways. Pride filled Gymir as he watched Taran who was standing at the forge a look of intense concentration on his face as he slowly shaped the heated metal with steady blows from his hammer. The boy knew the value of hard work, rather than working on his own project he was repairing broken tools. Nodding once to himself Gymir made a decision, today he would start teaching the boy one of his Clan’s ancient techniques. “You can stop with the repairs boy; I have something special in mind to teach you today.” He said, grinning at his apprentice.