A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 03

With the very last of his strength, Rowan raised a hand to gently close his beloved's beautiful green dead eyes, after he looked into them for the last and final time, and he didn't even have the strength to howl out even a single tear for his awful loss. When he shut his eyes again, he collapsed into the darkness of an abyss, and he never expected to ever open them again.

************

When Rowan next opened his eyes, they hurt with so much pain that he quickly clinched them tightly closed again. He wanted to call out with pain and sob for the loss of his beloved, now forever taken from him to the Shadowlands, but he did not have the strength to even whimper, and the first tear of sorrow and despair just would not come.

Still, what he had briefly seen was encouraging. He was in a good bed, with a glass window that clearly let in the strong morning sun, and several people were hovering over him in attendance. Only a few villagers in Swanford had homes with plate glass for windows. The Headsman had glass windows, as did Frigrast the head trading factor, and even the zealous priest Lankfred had a few in his home as well, but none of these places felt quite right.

"Where am I?" He weakly whispered.

"Good morning young hero! You're in Madame Ethrell's house, and she and I are tending to your wounds, of which I might say you had a great many. The worst of your injuries are mostly healed, but a few matters still require careful attending to. Still, we have very hopeful and encouraging expectations!"

Rowan managed to get his eyes opened again, a little wider this time, and ignoring the pain, he squinted to take a closer look at his tenders. Now that he could focus a little, he could clearly make out the stout, but petite form of Ethrell. She fancied herself as the local Wise-Woman, and often tended to the minor and not so minor hurts and illnesses of the village, and was popular with nearly everyone. Father Frigrast had once publicly condemned her as a witch, but let the matter drop once he learned that absolutely no one was inclined to gather faggots to burn her at a stake. Village opinion was that once you were safely into her hands for care, your odds for a full and speedy recovery were exceedingly good. Unlike the more skilled and rare travelling Moon-Women, Ethrell had no magical abilities or the gift of prophecy, but she knew her herbs and healing skills more than adequately.

The other man, who stood towering next to her, was a stranger that Rowan did not know, but he had a vague guess as to his identity.

"And you are the Duke's Foole? I think I saw you on the pavilion green, sheltering the Lady and her attendants."

"Quite so. Gléager Oddtus is my name, but I just usually go by Oddtus for casual simplicity, and while I'm not actually the Duke's Foole, he manages that job well enough on his own, without my help, I'm visiting with him for the summer. I'm a fully accredited Histrio or Lore-Master, and also quite a skilled gléaman or joculator, and I'm also a moderately talented poet and skald that has performed in every royal and Ducal court in these lands, near or far. Furthermore, I'm rather a deft hand on more than four dozen musical instruments, but I hate being called a mere simple mestier or a mundane minstrel. All of these skills are quite at your service, but I need to state now and for the record that I do not do pantomime... and all mimus should in fact be gathered up and taken off to Caestor, to be fed to some hungry lions in one of their arenas!

"Gléager... that's the name of one of the banished Gods, isn't it."

"Partially. That God's name is Gléagerád, the God of Mirth and Wisdom. Both qualities of which have been in very short supply on this world, in recent years. All true Lore-Masters take some part of the God's name; it's traditional and I have it on very good terms that the God doesn't mind sharing. The God also watches after fools, which covers both of us nicely. It's suicide to run into battle against even some of the minor Internals without a magic weapon, or good silver to affect it, but you somehow managed the impossible against one of the greater Daemons with naught but your bare hands. That is true foolishness indeed!"

"Good terms... you have spoken with the Gods?"

"Of course not, they're all Banished... just how old do you take me for? Besides, if the God has any objections to my name, he can politely ask me to stop using it, and I'll cheerfully take another one. Like colorful gléaman clothing, and a stupid story that's been told too many times to still be funny, it's good to gather a few extra names and give them a frequent good airing out. They get so worn out and tattered after traveling!"

"Oh... well, how badly am I hurt... and is the Lady Ayleth quite alright?"

"The worst of your wounds have closed and should heal up nicely, and very soon, but you'll have several interesting scars left to show for the experience. That and your ribs may likely be tender still for another week or two. You broke over half of them during the battle. As for the temperamental Lady Ayleth, she did not receive any significant debilitating injuries, except, perhaps, to her pride, but since that portion of her was already badly oversized and swollen, a good lancing of that boil will be most efficacious for everyone. Her father the Duke has taken her back to Tellismere, the city, to be treated there. I think he will find that her minor bodily wounds will heal fast and clean, but that the fang scars on her face will be far more difficult to treat. It is possible that she might remain scarred for life, and that could be a rather bad thing for everyone concerned."

"Everyone? How so? From what little I know of her, her pride and attitude towards her lessers could use some adjusting. Perhaps this disfigurement will wean her of her pride."

"On the contrary, such a personal scarring might probably instead lead to even greater scorn, and her treatment of others could even descend into base cruelty. Mentally, she had an extremely close call with a rather appallingly lethal deflowering as well, and she'll remember that experience in her dreams for some long time yet to come I fear. As the only child of the Duke, she may yet become the Duchess upon his death... especially as his health has never been especially good... weak mind equals a weak body, or is it the other way around? Or so they say. Even should she take a powerful husband that is her social equal, as Duke's daughters tend to do, she might then provide him with wicked counsel and influence him in other unwholesome ways. In every likely eventuality, this Duchy and its people would suffer as a result."

"But you apparently already have a plan for an alternative?"

"Of course I do, but this isn't the time or the place to discuss it. When you are fit and healthy, we will be paying the Duke a casual visit. He wants to meet and honor the man that saved his daughter. Well... perhaps not really, but he really should meet you anyway, so that gives us awhile to ponder useful alternatives. Now, you've rested in bed quite long enough, and you've got a very long bath to take now. You should also have a bowl or two of soup, as well, if you've got the stomach for some. You've been in a drugged sleep for just over two full weeks now, while the worst of your wounds were healing and until we thought it was safe enough to wake you."

"Two weeks? A bath? I don't see any blood on me anymore."

"It's not that kind of bath. Up with you young Sir! You've already been in bed long enough for now. Tomorrow is the Hāligdæg-tū and the Summer Solstice. A doubly auspicious day for many undertakings, and you'll need to be fit and hale to see it through!"

"Cedany!" Rowan suddenly remembered his beloved and nearly bolted up out of the bed. Hoping against hope, he prayed that she would be near him, to soon be again by his side... but he recalled her murdered, but un-violated corpse in the field of blood and he sadly sat on the bed with his head in his hands, weak from the memory.

"Gone lad. Buried in the village death-field and well on her way to the Shadowlands. We all did want to wait for you to be up, to be there at her grave to offer your prayers for her safe final journey, but it's high summer... and she needed to be put to rest quickly. I've talked to her father and tried to give him comfort, but he doesn't quite understand. He's angry and blames everyone, except perhaps the Daemon, and perhaps he always will. He has died in his heart, but you have still so very much to live for. Now up with you, your bath awaits and it really can't be postponed any further."

It took both of his nurses to get Rowan standing up on his feet, and now that he had arisen, he felt as if he was sick with a heavy fever, as if by a strong winter flu. He felt wrong, and his head and body spun with dizziness and alternating pulses of burning heat and odd sudden chills. Oddtus managed to get Rowan into a very large, beaten copper tub outdoors on a patio, which was filled with cool well water, and very oddly, a great amount of picked water lilies blossoms, all of a light blue color. As Rowan entered the chilly water, nearly at once the bright flowers began to fade and wilt into dark dry and empty husks. Their life and beauty entirely sucked out of them.

"More! Bring more blue lilies!" Oddtus bellowed. "I don't care if you have to pick every single one of them from out of the river, but pick them fast and bring them here! Run!" The wise gléaman had apparently gathered up nearly every single boy, girl and youth in the entire village, to pick the blue lily flowers for him. Near the tub where several baskets of flowers, but it was obviously that they weren't going to last very long.

"I still don't see why we are seeping the taint out of him with Peace Lilies." The kindly healer Ethrell asked of Oddtus. "I would have thought that Ash-salt would have been better."

"Perhaps, but how much of it do you have? Less than a pound probably?" She nodded. "Well then, we would not have had nearly enough. Twenty pounds would be needed, at minimum, and forty would be even better, so we must use what we have available. Do you have any yauron-weed, fresh or dried, or perhaps even some nalsamic oil? No? Well then, since Peace Lilies is what we have, then that is what we must use! Daemon's blood is always poisonous and quite fatal to the touch, but somehow this lad has survived its tainted infernal blood mingling into his own bloody wounds. Probably, it is his possession of the horn that protects him, which he can still not let go of. Now have the lads fetch more lilies, for we will have need of a great many before the day is over!"

Use them they did. For what seemed like hours, a never-ending cycle of new blue flowers were added into the water, as the used wilted and desiccated blooms were carefully pulled out of the bath, to be then carefully thrown for destruction onto a hot burning bonfire in the yard outside. Soon the formerly chilly water became too warm for Rowan to stand, as the flowers slowly extracted the daemonic taint from his body, and released its infernal heat into the now hot water, as well. Five times the water was drained, and cold fresh, deep well water was added, until Rowan's lips were as blue as the flowers that ever-so slowly now, still faded and died in his bath. At frequent intervals all day, a fresh mug of hot soup or hunk of bread was placed into his left hand and he was encouraged to drink it all down, which he did. Not even the slightly portly Boyle could have eaten this much in a single day, but somehow Rowan managed to eat it all.

Once in the early afternoon, his big friend came by to check on him, but Oddtus quickly pushed him away. The infernal taint was far too dangerous still, and Boyle reluctantly wandered back off to his stables.

Shortly before dusk, the water at last remained cool, and finally the terrible daemon-horn fell from Rowan's icy fingertips onto the ground. The flowers continued to retain their bloom, and at length, the healer and the Lore-Master determined that the last of the taint had been removed from his body. They let the horn remain on the floor where it fell, and Rowan was taken from his long purifying bath, and gently put back to bed, where he fell into a deep but dreamless sleep.

Still, the Lore-Master was not quite yet done. He gave his helpers their assignments for the morrow, telling them that yet more peace lilies would be required, and that the smithy forge must be ready for use, by the very first crack of daylight, tomorrow morning.

"Is it wise to push him so fast, so soon after the start of his recovery? His ribs might yet be too sore to even lift, let alone wield a hammer, and the exertion will certain reopen some, if not most, of his wounds." Ethrell whispered as the last lamp was extinguished in the house and she bade the Foole goodnight.

"Of course not, this is one of the most foolish undertakings I've ever become involved in! But it is necessary. I clearly see the weaving in every part of this. Young Rowan has become their servant now, and there are still deeds that he must perform for them yet; great deeds, heroic deeds that must be arrayed, in a fitting manner, to prose and saga and sung about until the end of days. No, none of this is wise... but there is no other choice. He must do, and soon, what needs to be done, and he can take his deserved rest afterwards."

"Heroic deeds usually mean doing something utterly insanely foolish that saner or wiser men would never dare. Will you remain with him, to offer prudent advice, at the very least?"

"Wise advice from a Foole? Unlikely, but I shall nevertheless do my best! We have all been woven into this story by the weavers, and we are threaded together. I'll stand with him until the final words have been woven. I shall be his guide, his word-weaver, and I hope his friend. Perhaps yet, some great good shall result from all of this. In the end, who then is the greater fool, the Foole giving the advice or the lad that takes it?"

"Bah! I am no Moon-Woman, the future is only darkness to me, but it is far more likely that a lot of good folks are going to soon end up dead... or worse. But, perhaps if some of the right sort of 'bad folks' get it too, in the process, then I'd say it would conceivably be all for the better in the end. Bless you, Foole!"

"And you good lady, for the morrow beckons and the world, at this time tomorrow, will be a different sort of place, for good or ill!"

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At the very first glow of the pre-dawn, Rowan was awakened, and quite startled to find that he was now much recovered and he felt a good portion of his normal usual strength had returned. His sleep had been black and dreamless, but sometimes during it he thought he could hear a voice whispering to him. His dream world had been all darkness except for a faint near-unperceivable orange light that seemed to beckon to him, laughing at him, as Rowan never seemed to get any closer to it. What the dream-omen meant, Rowan wasn't at all sure and soon the memory of it was lost in the thoughts of wakefulness.

Today was important, Oddtus had said. There was still something very important that must be done today, and apparently it involved disposing of the infernal daemon-horn, hopefully forever.

After a brief drink of some well-watered wine, to clear his mouth and head, Rowan was handed a pair of his forge tongs and directed to pick up the horn, which was still lying on the floor where he had dropped it yesterday. The horn gathered, Oddtus then directed the lad to quickly return to his smithy, where everything would be waiting in readiness for him, for the dawn was coming soon.

Indeed, the smithy was already nearly packed, with friends and most of the village youngsters, who were already gathering more heaps of the blue peace lily flowers and placing them into waiting dry bins and barrels. The flowers also filled the quenching trough to overflowing with them as well. Without instruction, Rowan knew to place the horn upon the anvil, but he found that there was already a large bright strip of metal which had been placed there on top of the anvil. He looked towards Gorge, but his master's eyes were fixed upon the Foole's, as were everyone else's there.

"This is a good sheet of pure silver." The Lore-Master said. "Your priest didn't want to offer it up to us, but I 'borrowed' it from him in the name of the Duke and of the Gods. It has been properly blessed, and it is very suitable for our purposes. Place the horn upon this sheet and beat the horn flat with your heaviest hammer, until the two materials are one mixed sheet layer, uniform and smooth. The horn will seem as a very hard metal to your hammer and you must work it hard, yet smoothly for it must not break, crack or shatter, else your work shall be for naught! As you work, always place a lily flower between your hammer and the material, and do not be concerned as the flowers wilt and become corrupted, but always strike upon a new fresh one for the next blow. Your fellow forge workers will assist you, but you yourself must beat every single blow of the hammer into the metals. When the first ray of light of the rising sun touches this anvil, you must begin! May the Weavers and The Seven guide your hands!"

With the first ray of light, it was his Master Gorge, who with a pair of light tongs, placed the first flower over the horn. It wilted nearly immediately, but already Rowan's first firm hammer stroke rang upon the horn. It made a loud high pitched metal sound, as the flower covered hammer struck, and it resounded like a bell... a mournful sound, much like a lonely church bell, tolling across a dreary moor. Again and again the horn tolled its sound, but slowly and perceptibly it began to slowly flatten, until, by mid-morning, the horn was just a smooth flat layer of dark, but faintly glowing, metal, about equal in size to the layer of pure, bright silver underneath it.

Oddtus briefly examined the layers of metal and nodded his approval, while one of the apprentices offered the already weary smith with a drink of weak wine. His friend Boyle moved to offer Rowan a bit of cheese to eat, but the Histrio lifted his hands in warning to prevent this.

"Unfortunately the smith must fast during this undertaking. His body will be weak, but his spirit will be insurmountable, and he shall surely forge his master's-piece!"

Rowan was now directed to fold over this large sheet of the combined layers of contrasting metal, and beat them together onto themselves smooth, both the silver and the daemonic iron, folding over and, yet, over again, countless times, beating through the ever-present flowers. In his mind he could hear the cries of the infernal cries of the horn as it was forced into permanent contact with the blest silver, touching together in a million places, forever. The horn was still somehow alive with Daemonic power, but now bound and imprisoned into the metal. Rowan's hammer rose and fell and the blend of horn and silver melded together in near infinite layers until about noontime, when the Lore-Master and the Master Smith each agreed that the metals had been well and truly combined.

Now it was time to add the hot iron. Gorge and his other journeyman, his nephew, had been working a fresh lot of their purest molten iron for several days, working and turning it slowly into their finest forged steel, and a bar of this red-hot metal had now been placed upon another anvil and repeatedly worked all morning long, until the last trace of any impurities had been beaten out of it. At last at noon, this metal was reheated and worked, so that it was approximately twice the width of the silver-horn block of metal, ready for Rowan's use. Now, after his brief rest and a last long drink of water, Rowan was directed to fold this new steel around the bar of merged metals, to wrap them together, much as he had done earlier, with constant folding of the three metals.