The spearpoint whooshed within an inch of his head as he sprawled flat, then sprang to his feet and dodged back to avoid the next swing. Tihla was far from done, however, grunting as she brought the spear around then up, bringing it down in a hammer blow that would surely have cracked his skull had he not dived clear in time.
The spear haft broke as the point connected with the ground, the leather sheath coming away due to the force of the impact. The revealed claw was black as obsidian, catching a narrow gleam along its curve and glimmers on the jagged serrations.
“It’s from a scyther,” Tihla explained. “It’s a despoiled breed of condor, twice the size, with plenty of vicious cunning. Luckily, we only see a few each year, and they tend to fly alone.” She cast an annoyed eye at the broken spear haft before tossing it to Shamil. “Enough for today. Take this to Ehlias to get fixed, then do five circuits around the rises. I’ll be watching, so no slacking.”
Shamil assumed that Ehlias Kehn Arndstvel, metal smith to the Eyrie, must have once possessed hair much the same as Tolveg’s, given that they hailed from the same realm. If so, there was no evidence of long golden locks on the pink-and-purple globe of his head, nor even the smallest hair as far as Shamil could tell. There seemed to be scarcely an inch of his broad, muscle-thick frame that hadn’t received either a scorch or a burn severe enough to discolour or pucker the skin. His face was further testament to a life rich in injury, one milky white eye stared out from a socket crisscrossed by deep rents in the surrounding flesh. Despite it all, Shamil found him the most cheerful soul in the Eyrie, his voice raised in unending song as he worked, often providing a counterpoint to the ringing toll of his hammer on the anvil.
His songs were all voiced in the language of his homeland, making them meaningless to Shamil’s ear. Even so, he was able to discern the underlying theme from the smith’s tone, for his voice was a fine and pure thing, capable of conveying great sorrow as well as joy. Today the tune was sombre, mournful notes accompanying the rasp of his file on a newly crafted knife. Shamil found himself pausing at the circular doorway to the smith’s chamber, captured by the smith’s melody as it summoned Tolveg’s face to mind, the serene, acceptance just before he jumped.
“Broken another one, has she?”
Ehlias set his tools aside to come forward and relieve him of the spear. “A hefty blow,” Shamil said, handing the weapon over. “I was fortunate to avoid it.”
“She’s always had a strong arm, that one.” Ehlias’s good eye surveyed the broken haft and spearpoint in careful appraisal before adding both to a stack of weapons and gear in the corner of his workshop. “Tell her it’ll take me a day or two. Got a whole bundle of arrows to prepare for the new mage’s crystals.”
“I will.” Shamil turned to go but found himself dithering in the doorway, one hand fidgeting on the sword at his belt.
“Something else?” the smith asked.
“Yes a . . . personal matter.” Shamil unbuckled his sword belt and extended the sheathed weapon to Ehlias. “There are runes on the blade. I was wondering if you could tell me what they mean.”
The smith’s usually affable visage slipped into something far more stern, but also riven with a reluctant curiosity that deepened as he came closer to peer at the sword’s hilt and pommel. “Show me,” he said, making no move to take the sword.
Shamil drew the blade from the sheath, placing it on a nearby bench. Ehlias surveyed the runes in narrow-eyed silence for some time before telling Shamil to turn it over. “Where’d you get this, lad?” he asked after a similarly prolonged scrutiny of the reversed blade.
“It was given to me by a fellow exile during the climb. He . . . fell.”
“No he didn’t. Not if he gave this willingly into another’s hand. Do you have any notion of what this is?”
“I thought it just a sword, better crafted than most and pleasing to the eye, to be sure. But still, just a sword.”
Ehlias let out a soft sigh as his finger, still not touching the steel, traced the runes on one half of the blade. “These are signs of the stars my people look to for guidance on the seas, and in life. These”—his finger shifted to the markings on the opposite side—“are the names of the smiths who crafted this sword, and no ordinary smiths were they. Truth be told, I never thought to see one of these in my time upon this earth.” He stepped back from the bench, shaking his head before fixing Shamil with a serious, intent gaze. “It’s a skeln-blad. A fated blade, forged by steel-mages and given only to those destined to perform great deeds.”
“Its owner did murder and went mad,” Shamil replied in bafflement. “It’s why he was exiled. Although, he did tell a great many stories of impressive deeds. But how many were true . . .”
“If any of these deeds fulfilled the purpose this blade was crafted for, he’d have held fast to it when he threw himself from the mountain. No warrior of the Wodewehl would forsake the chance to carry such a potent weapon into the eternal battles of the Hidden Realms. Instead, he gave it to you. You’re its owner now, lad. Seems a great deal is expected of you.”
Shamil began to object further, but stilled his tongue in the face of the smith’s steady-eyed certainty. “Do the runes say what it is?” he asked, nodding to the blade. “This great purpose?”
Ehlias smoothed a hand over his motley scalp, disfigured brows bunching into a web as he pondered for a moment. “Those who crafted it named it Alken-Haft,” he said. “Which means ‘ice cutter.’ So . . .” He gave a forced, apologetic smile. “If I were you, I’d have a care when winter comes, for it falls hard in these mountains.”
Spear practice was followed by an hour spent traversing the network of walkways and ropes that covered the Eyrie. Most of the sentinels flew away on their birds to patrol the afternoon skies until dusk, creating an empty playground through which Shamil and Lyvia would sprint and leap, always trying to complete a circuit faster than the previous attempt. The wisdom of this particular lesson was twofold and obvious; they quickly gained an intimate understanding of their new home whilst also developing muscle and stamina.
Shamil found it a pleasing contrast to the Doctrinate, where the lessons could often be tedious, if not pointless. Whilst he learned a great deal about combat in his years within its walls, the Doctrinate was as much a temple as a school, and students would spend days memorising ancient lore in dead languages only to be punished for minor grammatical mistakes when called upon to recite it. The Eyrie was not bound by such meaningless custom. Here all lessons were pared down to the necessary skills of a sentinel, although Tihla had yet to even make mention of the one he ached most to learn.
“They don’t speak to them,” he observed to Lyvia one evening. It had become their habit to spend the brief respite after traversing the Eyrie atop one of the taller platforms, where they could watch the sentinels returning from their patrols. “The riders don’t talk to the birds,” he elaborated in response to Lyvia’s frown. “So how do they control them?”
He pointed to where Shirmar, a veteran of brawny build whose skin bore almost as many scars as Ehlias’s, guided his fire wing to a perch. The bird shortened its wings as it glided through the forest of poles to alight on the one closest to Shirmar’s chamber, all done without a shout from the rider on its back.
“One of Sharrow-Met’s final acts was to bind all the great-wing breeds to the Sentinels,” Lyvia replied. “Or so it’s said. When one dies, another arrives within days, be it an owl, a blue falcon or a fire wing. Somehow they know to send one of their number in accordance with the Wraith Queen’s wishes. As for their riders, I’m not sure who controls whom. Supposedly the bond between bird and sentinel allows for a depth of understanding beyond the ken of mage or scholar.”