The Assassin

A Look Into the Third Installment in the Arda Series!

Chapter 1

Lightening split the sky in a violent slash. Pines bent and groaned from the force of the wind. Rain lashed the walls of the smithy, nearly drowning out the rhythmic beating of the hammer against the metal sitting on the anvil. The smith paused to examine his work. A tempered length of a sword lay across the anvil.

            The smith raised his hammer to continue his work when the door to the shop swung open with a flash of lightning and a deep rumble of thunder. A tall, rain-soaked figure stood silhouetted in the door frame. With a limp, the figure stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

            Rivulets of water ran down the hood and cloak of the newcomer. The smith noted that the stranger was clad in black from head to toe. Even dark gloves covered the hands. The hood was pulled so far down that nothing could be distinguished of the face. The smith was not prone to fear, a mighty warrior in his own right, made stronger by years of metal work, but he felt a shaft of worry pierce him at the sight of this unexpected visitor.

            “Are you as skilled as they claim?” the stranger asked in a voice, higher and more melodic than the smith would have expected from such an imposing figure.

            “Depends on who’s asking,” the smith answered, adjusting his grip on the hammer.

            The figure stood silent for a long moment, then limped with great deliberation to a nearby table. Warily, the smith watched as the stranger slowly reached inside their cloak. The stranger pulled out a beautiful jade-green sword. The only thing that marred it was the jagged edge about halfway up where the sword had clearly been broken in half. Gently, the intruder set the blade down on the table and produced another bundle that proved to be the shattered tip of the sword.

            “Can you fix it?”

            The smith stared at the sword. He had never seen anything like it.

            “This was not made with bright silver or any other kind of steel,” he stated after a few moments.

            “No,” the figure gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

            Cautiously, the smith stepped closer to the table and the figure. While keeping hold of his hammer in one hand, he used the other to run his fingers over the metal of the strange blade. It was ice-cold to the touch and slick as glass.

            “Do you have any matching metal for me to make the repair?” questioned the smith.

            In response, the stranger reached inside their cloak again and retrieved a bag. As the bag was placed on the table, the smith noticed drops of a dark liquid fall onto the tabletop from the arm of the stranger. Blood, the smith realized. He tightened his grip on the hammer again. Something was amiss here. Swallowing his concern, the smith opened the bag and pulled out several chunks of jade-green rock, matching the color of the sword.

            “What kind of stone is this?” asked the smith as curiosity stirred within him.

            “It is nothing you would be familiar with,” came the reply. “And I can pay in bright silver.”

            “That’s not exactly easy to get hold of,” the smith challenged.

            The stranger simply shrugged. The smith was getting tired of the cryptic game the stranger was playing. He was about to tell the stranger off when the intruder swayed and fell against the table like a drunken man. A low hiss of pain emanated from the figure as he clutched at the table to stay upright.

            Alarm and concern coursed through the smith, “Are you alright?”

            “I will endure,” replied the stranger, slowly straightening. “My journey has been long.”

            The smith took a harder look at the figure before him. The clothes were torn and stained, while the boots showed evidence of hard use, covered in mud spatters from the storm.

            “Can you fix my blade?”

            The voice broke the smith’s reverie. “I will try,” the smith was surprised to hear himself say.

            The hooded figure nodded, “Good. I will return in the morning with payment.”

            The stranger turned and made to walk for the door, but with a high-pitched cry crumpled to the floor and lay unmoving. The smith let out a sharp yell of his own in surprise. Thoroughly alarmed, the smith dropped to his knees next to the stranger. He gingerly reached out and shook the prone form. There was no response, but he could feel a thready pulse beneath his fingers.

            Without hesitation, the smith laid his hammer down and scooped up the still stranger. The body was lighter than he had expected. He cradled the body to his chest and thrust open the door to his shop. Rain pelted him, and the thunder rattled his bones, but he strode with assurance across the darkened village to the house of the healer. He pounded on the door of the small house.

            The door swung open, and a gray-haired woman stood, haloed by the light of a cheery fire.

            “Zechariah, what in the name of Arda are you doing out in this weather? And what is that in your arms?”

            “Peace, Elizabeth. I had an unexpected visitor to the smithy tonight. This stranger collapsed unconscious in my shop. I believe he or she may be wounded, so I came to you. Pardon my intrusion,” the smith, Zechariah, answered.

            The older woman made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat, “Well, come in, then. I’ll see what I can do.”
Zechariah stepped into the house and followed Elizabeth to a side room of the house, well lit by candles. Here a bed was made with clean linens and the walls were lined with tinctures and herbs. The room smelled strongly of bitter herbs, making Zechariah’s eyes sting.

              “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything more about this person?” Elizabeth queried.

              The smith sighed, “The encounter was so short I have almost nothing to tell. The stranger spoke so little…they did mention they had traveled a great distance, though. Ah, yes! I also noticed they were bleeding just a bit, I inquired about their health, but the stranger was reluctant to say anything.”

              Elizabeth snorted, “Clearly they were in worse shape than they let on. I will see what I can do.”

              “I best get back to my smith work. I was at work on a new blade when I was interrupted,” Zechariah said as he turned for the door.

              Elizabeth did not answer him, glancing back Zechariah noted that she was already busy gathering her supplies. Her long gray hair shone in the candlelight, and her deep blue robe swished around her bare feet. Zechariah left the house feeling contented. Whatever ailed the stranger, Elizabeth would right it.

              When he reached his shop, he was drawn immediately to the strange green blade left by the stranger. He picked up the broken sword, testing the make and feel. Even broken, the sword had a marvelous balance to it. The hilt was simple and unadorned, bound in practical black corded leather. The only distinguishing thing about it was a white stone embedded in the pommel, an opal he guessed.

              He tested the edge of the blade. It drew blood from his thumb. A thought struck his mind and intrigued him. Eyeing the smithy, his eyes settled on a large piece of marble he had intended to try his hand at carving. Grasping the sword in both hands, he took a mighty swing down onto the edge of the marble. To his wonder and amazement, the sword cut effortlessly through the hard stone, sending a shard of marble skittering across the floor.

              Surprise and satisfaction coursed through him. His suspicion was correct, this sword was something highly unusual and special. The metal was exceptionally strong, making him wonder what could possibly have broken it. Setting the sword down on his workbench, he again opened the bag containing the rest of the strange green rock.

              He pulled out a large chunk of stone. The rock felt softer against his fingers than the sword did. It had the same unusual shine but was pockmarked in a strange fashion that he had never seen before. As he held it up to the light, he realized that it had thin streaks of what looked like bright silver running through it. He compared the rock to the sword and noticed the same phenomenon in the blade, but much more muted.

              His next thought was whether or not he would actually be able to melt the stone. Humming tunelessly to himself, he took a small stone from the bag and set it in an iron bowl. Using a pair of tongs, he carefully placed the bowl in the heat of the fire. He went back to the sword he had originally been working on as he waited to see if anything would happen to the stone. Time flew by to the sound of his hammer.
To be Continued…