Commandment (11 page)

“M
Y GREAT EYE IS MADE FOR WEEPING.”
A
DROP OF WATER TRICKLED DOWN
Brontes’ cheek. Was it sweat or really a tear? “How can I help you, little one?”

“Destroy it,” Lakif ordered. “Throw it into the lava, and when it is softened, smite it with your hammer, summoning all your might. With its destruction, we will be forever free of that bastard.”

“To tempt a father’s wrath in order to free a mother’s chained soul? Your wretched tale smites at my heart of flint, eliciting a spark of compassion. My obedience is yours to command, Acaanan. Come.”

Lakif smiled inwardly as the Cyclops lumbered to his feet. Lakif smiled, for her story, from alpha to omega, had been a complete lie.

She had always known that the acquisition of a Rare Earth Stone was but the first step in capturing its ancient power. Mere possession was insufficient to wield its might. The abbot could attest to that. The Arcanum was frozen within; it could not be called forth to produce wonders. Lakif knew that the Arcanum had to be freed from its faceted confines. Only by destroying it in her own presence could she hope to absorb its eldritch energy.

That said, Lakif knew that such a feat was well beyond her abilities. Rare Earth Stones were notoriously invulnerable to harm. Such a feat would require the hottest of forges and the strongest of blows to reduce it to rubble. She had concluded that the only sure way was to enlist the aid of the most famous of blacksmiths, the Cyclopes of the Vulcan.

That decided, she had been faced with yet another dilemma. She couldn’t very well show up and simply ask the giant to pulverize the hard-earned treasure. Although of giant stature, the Cyclopes were not mindless brutes. They were widely accredited with a philosophical nature. There was a chance, however slight, that the metal worker would know of the ancient legends concerning the destruction of a Rare Earth Stone. If so, the Acaanan’s request would immediately peg her as an aspiring warlock. This, of course, would be disastrous considering the universal scorn directed toward Arcanum. Public outrage at suspected warlocks knew no bounds. She would surely be beaten to death or cast into a lava pit. Or worse, she could be relinquished over to the Seekers.

No, she had known that she would have to somehow dupe the blacksmith. She had initially thought of hiding the Stone in another object. Using a hollow tube had intrigued her. But she feared that under the lava, some of the metal would melt away, revealing the glittering Stone underneath. She would surely be branded a warlock if this deception came to light.

In the end she settled on inventing an elaborate story. In the day following her return to the Goblin Knight, her cocktail came to fruition. Recent events from her own life were essential ingredients. Lucretia had become the inspiration for the lighthouse witch. Her young mother frolicking in the tide pool had been inspired by the lover in the baker’s story. In addition, she threw in elements of reality to lend credibility. She was well aware that Grimpkin’s northern rim was congested with derelict apartment buildings that leaned over the raging swells of the Dank Well. The reference to the Shamir rock was added to sting the metal worker’s pride. That legendary stone, supposedly harder than diamond, was said to be used to etch metal. By citing it, Lakif obliquely implied that it was immune to any metal worker’s manipulation.

But for the most part, Lakif had unleashed her feral imagination. In addition, she had an army of accessory details at hand to add authenticity if the need surfaced. All in all, Lakif was pleased with her forgery. It was reasonably interesting, with a believable marriage of the fantastic with the mundane. But most importantly, it was cleverly crafted to tug at the blacksmith’s heartstrings. Lakif was no orator, but considering that the fate of her quest hung in the balance, she delivered the tale with as much pathos as she could muster. Once or twice her narration had nearly stalled under the weight of that single, giant eye; she felt it was steadily dissecting every falsehood. But she was able to press on without breaking stride. In the end, she was successful, delivering a seamless tale that won the blacksmith over.

Lakif followed the mammoth metalworker across the chamber. A broad vat was sunk into the floor. The base was blanketed with heaps of burning coal laced with lava. The coals were so hot as to appear almost translucent, like small ghostly muffins.

Beyond the pit was an anvil. Lakif gasped at its size; it was so titanic that she could have lain down and sprawled out on it. It must have been here for centuries, she thought. The prospect of moving such a device staggered the imagination.

The opposite wall contained racks of metal spears. The heat belching from the pit was so potent that the line of spears looked warped.

Lakif paused several paces from the pit’s edge. Even if she had wanted, she couldn’t have approach any nearer. The air was searing, pounding at her cheeks. Any closer, the slightest breath would scorch her lungs and shrink her eyes.

“I don’t think this will be hot enough.” Lakif had every belief that the pit would suffice, but she was testing Brontes’ convictions.

“I don’t work with stone—only metal.” Brontes gestured to the pit with a giant finger. Lakif casually tossed the Rare Earth Stone in as one would flip a coin into a fountain. A sly smile twisted her dark face as the Stone settled into the bleached coals.

As she waited, Lakif studied the armory of spears lining the back wall. Each was about three yards in length and as thick as her wrist. The ends were rimmed with barbs.

“What are those for?” she had to ask.

“Harpooning, of course,” the Cyclops tattooed.

“For spearing sea monsters from the Dank Well?” Lakif chuckled, for truly they were formidable enough to snare whales.

“A titan,” Brontes corrected.

Lakif puzzled over the reply. Was Brontes referring to the Colossus? She was reminded of something one of the Laureates had admonished. This was the popular myth that at the end of the world, on Doomsday, the juggernaut would animate and ravage the city. Could the Cyclops be referring to that crazy myth?

“That should settle it!” The forger boomed, snapping Lakif out of her reflections. She wasn’t sure how long she had been disconnected, a daily occurrence for the Acaanan.

The blacksmith was armed with a long pole capped with pincers. The handle was sheathed in wood, thoroughly insulating it. Brontes fished out the Stone and dropped it on the anvil. Lakif noted that the Stone had adopted a smoky gray color. Any hint of the imbuing green had vanished under the intense heat.

The blacksmith lobbed away, only to pick up a hammer. Lakif had noticed the object earlier but assumed it was some gigantic metal work that had been abandoned. With a wince the Cyclops heaved the enormous implement over his shoulder. It was so massive that even the giant buckled slightly under its weight.

“I want to be closer.” Lakif edged forward. Although the giant was physically closer to the Stone, Lakif had little fear that the released Arcanum would be directed at the blacksmith. The stories held that the liberated power would always be channeled into a proper warlock.

“Smite the Stone, Brontes. Let the exploding fragments be the final tears of a vile man.”

The giant readied the mallet above his head. Lakif paid the smith little heed, as her eyes were glued to the Stone. It was tiny on the anvil—like an olive on a picnic table.

With a volcanic boom the mallet slammed down, stunning the Acaanan with its thunderous resonance. She nearly jumped out of her boots. The hurricane wind from the collision was enough to fan her hair from a distance. Thor himself couldn’t have delivered a mightier clout! It was so powerful, in fact, that Lakif imagined the blow had not only disintegrated his treasure, but also cracked the mountainous anvil in twain.

The Cyclops withdrew the hammer, and the Acaanan swallowed her breath in anticipation of a magical rush.

Nothing happened.

She blinked in amazement. The Rare Earth Stone teetered on the anvil like an apple freshly toppled from a cart. It was completely unscathed by the seemingly irresistible force.

“Zounds! It’s harder than Shamir!” the Cyclops lamented. He studied the bent hammer face. “My condolences, Acaanan. I have dealt my strongest blow, yet the stone stands defiant! It truly is bound together by the darkest magic.”

Lakif swooned. Her jaw nearly bounced off the floor, for it was unfathomable for the Stone to have survived the ear drumming blast. But there it sat—inviolate. Thankfully, the blow hadn’t sent the Stone through the earth to the opposite side of the globe, or the Acaanan would have another quest ahead of her just to rescue it. As she watched the icon, its smoky mantle evaporated and the verdant nimbus once again broke through.

“Your disobedience took great courage. Let it not be said that such fortitude goes unrewarded,” Brontes consoled her. Lakif turned to find the Cyclops holding out a knobby hand. His mighty mitt uncurled to reveal a ring.

“I can’t…” Lakif equivocated.

“One would be surprised what objects find their way here. Take this. With its value, seek out another route. If you want to be free of it, I suggest burying the rock. Interment consumes all curses.”

The ring, while it had looked tiny in the blacksmith’s granite palm, was much too large for the Acaanan to wear. It was more akin to a bracelet.

Brontes lobbed off to another end of the cavern, leaving the Acaanan all alone with her untarnished treasure. After some time, Lakif worked up the nerve to approach it. She waved her hand over its surface, assessing its temperature. Satisfied that her hand wouldn’t be scorched to the bone, she placed the icon back into its pouch. With a mystified air, she returned to the elevator.

After leaving the Vulcan, Lakif wandered off into the depths of Grimpkin. The skies remained hazy, always hinting that a freezing downpour was imminent. Her pace lagged under the gray clouds, for she was weighted down with bilious lassitude. Had she been kicking a tin can, she would have made better progress. Where she was headed was anyone’s guess, as she had no particular destination in mind.

For the rest of the morning, she wandered randomly with the unavailing trip to the Vulcan weighing heavily on her thoughts.

Sometime later, she found herself stewing on a bench. A barred window nearby framed a sheltered courtyard beyond. Within, a slave was mopping the cobblestones. Was Lakif doomed to live such a domestic life?

The Rare Earth Stone jumped back and forth between her thin hands. For the hundredth time she grimaced with disillusionment at the profitless trip. Struck numb, she hardly believed the sour turn of events. She had never entertained the possibility that the Stone would be impervious to the blacksmith’s arm. Even though she had personally witnessed the deed, it still seemed absurd. If the Stone would not surrender to the blacksmith’s mallet, then what other possible avenues could she explore?

But there was more than failure that vexed her. The very sight of the Stone gnawed at her bowels. That it would not willingly yield its power spoke of a peevish resistance to thwart all her efforts. In fact, a feeling of resentment seeped into her thoughts. As if the obstacles to secure it had not been enough, she felt that the Stone was further taunting her with its stubbornness.

Could this be yet another test of her resolve? One orchestrated by the imprisoned power, just to probe the extent of her faithfulness? If so, it was on the verge of unhinging the Acaanan. Although Lakif was no stranger to failure, she was trapped in a sullen mood the likes of which she had never known.

Sighing with dismay, she placed the Stone back into her pocket and turned her attention to the Cyclops’ gift. To the rankled Acaanan it represented a mere consolation prize. As a bracelet, it was of absolutely no use to her. But to the untrained eye, it seemed valuable.

A shower of water splashed the Acaanan. She snapped out of her thoughts. Her first inclination was that the sky was opening up again. But the spate was instantaneous. A movement behind her clued her into the source of the deluge. The slave was standing in the window with a bucket poised in hand. She had dumped the dirty water on the Acaanan through the bars. Their eyes briefly locked, and Lakif knew that it had been no accident. The slave rattled the bucket to ward the Acaanan off the front porch.

Lakif scowled. She was coated with the bucket’s grimy contents, from dirty water to dead insects. Commotion from within announced that others were coming to investigate. She couldn’t face off with the house-staff, and sloughed away, cursing yet another humbling encounter.

She tried flicking off mashed bugs, but many still stuck to her hair. She gave up and angled her mind to sell the bracelet. It alone promised a silver lining to the day.

Initially she assumed that she would have to peddle the item in the street. But only minutes into her trek, she stumbled upon a pawnshop. The owner appraised the gift and, to the Acaanan’s surprise, quoted its value at four talents, a value far in excess of her expectations. Despite the appraisal, the pawnbroker offered to buy it for three. He cited that the article was most likely stolen. Stolen! Of course he would assume that an Acaanan would be pawning hot merchandise! Lakif was in no humor to argue, bargain, or storm off to seek a second offer. She agreed.

Before leaving the pawnshop, she questioned the clerk about her pocket watch. The fellow seemed enthused until he learned that it was broken. He grumbled about having to hire a tinker to repair the device and offered five pims. Lakif laughed at the offer. She had lost much this day, but she still hadn’t lost her sense of humor. She bid the miserly clerk adieu with a sarcastic tone.

She left the pawnshop in a mildly elevated mood. Due to Brontes’ sympathy, she was substantially in the black. Kismet, it seemed, was toying with the Acaanan.

It was still early afternoon, and the rain clouds had by now largely dispersed. She randomly chose a direction and began hiking with leaden feet and kibbled spirits.