Authors' Note: Celebwen left the production team, and Asharak joined the writers instead. Do welcome him.
The site ate part of Chapter 6; Dern has thankfully corrected it now. So perhaps it would be best if you had another look at it to read the ending.
That said... enjoy the new chapter, and we'd appreciate a couple of reviews...
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9. A World that cannot hold
After three weeks at Rosendale, Valjean felt he had finally gotten used to it more or less. If he was to live here, he'd have to, but still there were times when he felt that this was a dream he might wake from any moment.
When the army of Norgard had suddenly attacked, he had wished he could, even if it were just to return to an empty, lonely room and the knowledge that Cosette had forgotten him. He had been to Lower Rosendale, and he'd faced the assault, but he hadn't raised his hand against anyone. Instead, he had rescued children and animals from the burning houses and barns, and he had helped to put out the fires. He had done all he'd been able to, but for two children he had been too late. Their names were Balan and Muri, and their mother had once owned a cattle farm on the outskirts of Lower Rosendale. Now the cattle was gone, and the whole family was dead, and of the farm nothing remained but blackened ruins. A third of Lower Rosendale had burned down to its foundations, more than half of its cattle had been taken, and a tenth of its inhabitants were dead. Perhaps this was not much in numbers, only just sixteen, but it would have made no change to Valjean if it had been just one single man slain. Life taken was life taken, and it could not be quantified.
Rosendale itself had been spared mostly, and its casualties – twenty-three in total, Orvar had said – seemed relatively high because many of those men had gone to Lower Rosendale to help. But the houses were mostly intact, and the stables still full. Life went on as always, except that there were guards around the village now.
And still, despite the people's attempts at pretending nothing had happened and to hide their constant fear, sometimes it could be felt very clearly how much had changed. Here in Master Wenslow's forge, the losses were painfully obvious. Two of his eight apprentices were dead, another wore his arm in a sling, and of the men who usually took it in turns to work the bellows, three had died, two were severely injured… and one had disappeared. It was Javert's shift Valjean was now taking.
Nobody seemed to know where Javert had gone. Some claimed that he had fled – and were immediately called calumniators by others – while some thought that he might have been abducted by the men of Norgard, just like after the invasion when two men had been taken along towards an unknown destiny. Others were convinced that he was attempting to leave the valley and reach Moorcastle, or even another part of the Kingdom, maybe even that he meant to bring the pleas of Rosendale before the distant King. Maybe Orvar knew, and maybe Sophia did, but they did not speak of it.
All the same, the low hall was as crowded as ever. At the front, towards the door, Master Wenslow's wife was overseeing the forging of horseshoes and nails while working on a piece of jewellery herself. In the middle, three apprentices worked at a large grating, with Feuilly and Bahorel sweating at the bellows. And at the back, an apprentice was making arrowheads while Wenslow himself hammered at a red-hot blade, sparks springing up and dancing in the air before they winked out and dissolved into nothingness. Stripped to the waist and coated in sweat, Valjean moved the handle of the large bellows evenly, making the furnace roar and the steel glow. It was hard work and the forge was as suffocatingly hot as always, but it would take a long time yet for him to tire, and for Morcas to take his place.
And once Morcas had taken over here, it was time to move Fantine's vegetables to the newly raked beds behind the house, and to harvest part of the salad. And then to feed her goat. Fantine let him stay at her house, so he did his best to make himself useful. He had already replaced the door hinges at the entrance and cleaned all windows, and he intended to repair that wobbly cabinet door in the living room as soon as possible. He could do that in the evening, after having helped with the re-thatching of the roof of the house at the corner of the marketplace that had been destroyed during the attack, since he slept in the living room anyway, usually with the cat curled up on top of him. And maybe he could manage to fit a little bow practice into his schedule. In the assault on the village he had killed five of those lizard-like creatures with his arrows as they came charging towards the people forming the bucket-chains, and he felt that his skills might be needed again in the near future, for who knew when the regiments of Moorcastle would come in aid of the Free Villages?
Wenslow's daughter came in carrying another bar of steel, which she deposited beside the apprentice with the arrowheads. "Tell me if you need another one," she shouted over the clanging of the hammers.
"I'll be fine," the lad called back, never slowing with his work, "and besides, you'd rather take them to someone else! They say it takes a mighty lance to kill the Soulless!"
As the beat of Wenslow's hammer ceased, it seemed to Valjean that the forge had grown a lot more silent at once. "Cut this talk," the blacksmith said harshly, the broad knuckles of his uncovered left hand white around the tongs. "There are no Soulless."
"But Father," the girl began, "Norgard is real, we know it is, and the monster spawn… Who knows, if they are there, so might be the Soulless, and so might –"
"Enough!" her father interrupted sharply. "Back to work, all of you!" But Valjean saw as the blacksmith raised the hammer once more that his hand was shaking.
"We might as well say it." The apprentice had put his tools away and was facing his master now, his chin thrust out defiantly. "So might be Grogarad."
At once it seemed that all work in the hindmost part of the forge had ceased, and that all eyes were on the lad in the rough leather apron who had dared to defy Wenslow's orders. His words still filled the room, even though he had not raised his voice.
For a full second Master Wenslow's jaw worked silently, then, very softly, he said, "Never, never utter that name again."
"Because it brings bad luck?" the youth protested. "Master, this is superstition! Dolorin always taught us to call things with their names."
Wenslow swallowed. "Listen, boy, Grogarad is a fable, just like the Soulless. Don't spread this kind of talk. Not in times like these."
"But Father," the girl put in once again, "Galahir was real, and he lies buried under the Crown of Stone. Nardilon was real, and they never found him in Golrath's Hollow. Golrath was real, the Sorcerer of Norgard –"
"Enough!" Wenslow suddenly bellowed, and even Valjean ceased his incessant work in surprise. Never yet had he heard the blacksmith speak a loud word. The whole forge had fallen silent at once, and a cluster of helpers had gathered by Wenslow's workplace to listen, among them Yossi, the landlord's red-haired son, who'd been delivering two baskets full of his mother's vegetable bread. "Stop spreading rumours that will only plant fear in the hearts of the feeble! The Sorcerer and his Soulless are a symbol of evil in the stories, nothing more, and so is Grogarad!"
"But you should take into account, Master Wenslow, that there still remains the question of Golrath's Hollow." It was Morcas, leaning against a high water tank with one shoulder in the same calm attitude he always showed, his smooth features as even as they were ageless, thoughtlessly scrubbing a hand through his short hair. "My friends, sorcery is very real, although a rare phenomenon. True, a human does not possess the powers to control the storms, but there are artefacts that do. I've heard of a few in my time, and one I have even seen. With the arcane knowledge of how to wield them, a man can become near invincible."
Listening intently and not without an unpleasant feeling slowly growing, Valjean regretted that he had not inquired about the legends that told of a past war against Norgard. Well, to be exact, he had asked Fantine, but Fantine had not known very much about them, except that Nardilon had been a Captain-Mayor, a rank of war as it seemed, and Galahir a great hero, and that Golrath was the name stories gave to the ruler of Norgard, but Grogarad? Who was Grogarad? He had heard the name whispered before, but there was nothing to connect with it, except a sense of ill foreboding.
"You're not seriously telling me you believe in black magic?" Bahorel interjected, using the break to splash himself with water from a bucket.
"There are energies," Morcas replied calmly, "for which there is no explanation."
"Golrath's Hollow might have been created with explosives," Bahorel insisted. "With the right mixture of powder, you know. Set fire to it, it blows up."
"Not unknown to me." Morcas's voice carried a small note of disdain. "Strange that it would leave such a crater, though, with molten stone and nothing growing there."
"No offence," Feuilly put in, "but what if those stories are just stories, and it was some kind of volcano?"
"I've seen fire-breathing mountains in my time," Morcas said. "They're actual mountains, and their slopes are often green."
Bahorel and Feuilly exchanged a glance, and Bahorel shrugged. Morcas did have a point, there was no denying it. But did this mean, Valjean wondered, that a long time ago Golrath had woven dark enchantments in this valley? Could he believe in such a thing at all?
"Golrath's Hollow is cursed, I give you that," Master Wenslow conceded, wiping his hands on his leather apron. "But apart from that…" He sighed heavily. "Say, Morcas," he then continued in a tone that appeared somewhat forced, "why don't you tell us one of your stories, one of those you just hinted at? It seems everybody is taking a break anyway. I'll finish this blade, you tell the rest a story to take their mind off things. Valjean, if you please?"
But Morcas held up a hand. "I've come to relieve him early. I'm your new bellows-man."
Early? Why? What was the matter? "Did anything happen?" Valjean inquired, the sense of foreboding that had begun to grow at Grogarad's name suddenly increasing.
"Yes, in fact something did." Morcas smiled, but still Valjean felt how tension gripped his limbs. "You see, Fantine's goat ate part of the salad. Wretched thing was not properly tethered and trampled a couple of flowerbeds too."
At once laughter filled the forge as relief flooded the assembled. Valjean had not been the only one by far to be uneasy. If it was just that… Of course, it was bothersome, but compared to the rumours from before, it really was a laughing matter.
"Alright then," Wenslow agreed, "Morcas starts his shift early, I'm as good as done here." He brought down his hammer one last time, then gripped the glowing metal with the long tongs and waited for a moment, balancing it over the furnace, before he thrust it into the water trough. Steam billowed up as the water hissed, and for a moment Wenslow appeared garbed in transparent shrouds before the fog of condensation faded away once more. Not without a small smile of content, Wenslow placed the object on a rack. It was not finished yet by far – Valjean knew now how long it took to forge a sword; after an endless time of working on the metal itself, removing all particles of slag that seemed dark against the glowing steel, the shaping and balancing of the blade was an almost endless and very complicated process – but it was taking shape already, the blade even and already with a hint of a fuller down its length, the crossguard massive and strong and broadening at both ends, the pommel a round knob, like on all the swords Master Wenslow fashioned. Once the metalwork was finished, it would be passed on to the fletcher, as Valjean had learned, who did not only make arrows but also fitted handgrips onto swords. "Yossi, let's see what you brought us, shall we?"
Grinning, the freckled youth stepped forward, and behind him the baker's youngest child, a girl of about twelve, dressed in clothes belonging to one of her elder brothers as usual and carrying a wicker basket full of cinnamon buns and biscuits. Bahorel followed them closely, with the expression of a predator barely restraining himself from pouncing.
"Here, Valjean," Morcas called across the furnace, "your young lady thinks you've got nothing better to do, does she?"
Letting go of the bellows, Valjean meant to correct him, to tell him that Fantine could in no way be considered his young lady, but just then she appeared at Morcas's shoulder herself, clad in a light summer dress like the one she wore every day, her golden hair flowing around her head, like copper threads glistening in the light of the furnace, and Valjean hurriedly shut his mouth again, no longer sure of what to say.
She must have heard that, just now.
And his current state only made it worse. Flashing her a smile that probably looked horribly forced, he hastened to kneel down by the nearest bucket of water and splash himself a little to wash off the worst of the sweat that coated him like a second skin, then hurriedly put on his shirt, doing his best to ignore the giggles of some of those around him. He was a little more presentable now, though not much. Oh, that blasted goat!
"Smartening yourself up, are you?" one of the men grinned, a tall, thin fellow with hair yellow as straw, who answered to Nartu, whatever kind of name that might be, and already he had tousled Valjean's hair, to general chuckles.
With a sigh Valjean brushed a few strands of hair back out of his eyes. The people of Rosendale had realised soon enough that despite his strength he would not even hurt a flea, and so a few of them had taken to teasing him from time to time for some reason, maybe for the satisfaction of getting away with chaffing a man as strong as Valjean. Maybe it meant some kind of personal triumph to them, Valjean was not quite sure, but as long as it made them feel better he let them. After all, it was one of very few drawbacks of living at Rosendale.
"Don't fear, ickle Jean-Jean, she'll like you a lot more the way you are!" another called across half the low hall, and this time even Wenslow smiled and the corners of Morcas's thin mouth twitched in amusement. Fantine blushed and pretended to be very interested in the pile of horseshoes Master Wenslow's apprentices had made this morning, while Valjean sighed tonelessly once again. The villagers absolutely refused to be scandalised at him taking quarters in Fantine's living room; if anything, they tended to encourage him in a direction he did not intend to go, and they found it rather funny. At least he was not the only one who had to endure such jokes; only the day before he had once again heard one of the farmers tease Sophia about Javert, but it seemed that Sophia did not mind that teasing at all, whereas Valjean found it embarrassing. Sophia shrugged it away and countered that if Javert really were her lover she would hardly have allowed him to move out, and then she went about her business and still kept showing herself in Javert's company in public, not heeding the silly taunts at all. Probably Valjean would get used to it after some time, and hopefully Fantine would, as she tended to blush furiously every time and barely managed to look at him for the following few minutes.
Already the workers of the forge were settling down in a group near Wenslow's working place, gratefully accepting what Yossi and the baker's girl were handing out, and some were eyeing Morcas hopefully already. "What of your story?" Wenslow's daughter asked at last, and several voices immediately took up the request. "Your story, your story!"
Morcas raised his hands jokingly. "Fine, fine, don't clamour! You're getting your story!"
A collective cheer arose, and Fantine gently and almost imperceptively tugged at Valjean's sleeve. "Let's listen, shall we? Morcas hardly ever tells any stories."
"If you say so…" Valjean shrugged. The goat was probably back in her shed, then. And the flowerbeds could wait.
"Well then," Morcas said again, taking a seat on a chest of scrap metal waiting to be molten down and worked into horseshoes and the like. The others settled down on the floor or on chests and boxes around him; some remained standing in the background. Most were already chewing on a slice of bread or a bun. "Since we spoke of artefacts just now, I can tell you the story of how Orvar and I found the Star of Druria."
A murmur arose among the men and women, which made Valjean assume that the artefact in question was a famous one, or that there were rumours already about this particular adventure.
"It was fifty years ago, almost to the day. I used to serve in the Sixth Regiment then, under Roland of Tyerwal, who was merely a captain back then. Stories had reached our ears of strange things happening in the province of Druria in the east, and I must admit I was curious, so Orvar and me volunteered to accompany the tax gatherers' train across the country. Those were dangerous times back then, half of Druria had fallen under the reign of brigands. The King had sent several companies already, and they were making good progress, from what we heard, but still the roads were not quite safe. We accompanied the tax gatherers to Drurin, the old capital of Druria when it still was a kingdom in its own right. As you can imagine, their work there took up quite some time, and so it happened that we ended up with a week's holiday. Well, what to do? One evening Orvar heard yet another of those strange tales that had made us volunteer in the first place, of people hovering in the air and strange lights up on Mount Dunhill, just a day's journey from Drurin. As it was, we still had a couple of days left, and me and Orvar and three others set out to find out more. It's a desolate place, the country south of Drurin, empty grasslands for several days' journey, with very few hills to make some change in the landscape. Mount Dunhill, now, is a sudden interruption, so to say, not what we'd call a proper mountain here, but definitely a pretty high hill, with surprisingly steep flanks in places. There's a village right below it, inhabited by a handful of farmers who somehow make a living in the wasteland, and there we heard the same things again, of hovering people and hovering cows, of sudden storms and dancing lights at night, near the top of old Dunhill where they said the mouth of a large cave was located. Nobody had been there, though, out of superstition. The Drurians are a peculiar kind, you see, and believe in all kinds of stories about fairies and demons fighting each other all over the place. They firmly believed there was a battle going on up there and refused to set foot on Dunhill's slopes. Even as they told us so, a gale came up very suddenly, lifted the straw roof off a house, and then died away and dropped it again, precisely where it had picked it up, as if nothing had happened."
Morcas paused as there were a few gasps and murmurs from his audience, then he continued. "Now Orvar was a cheeky fellow back then, and that roof incident had stoked his curiosity. If they think they can wage war on the King's territory, he said, they will have to answer to the King's Army. Eager and reckless as we were, we agreed, and while the villagers crawled into their rabbit-holes in horror, we climbed up the mountain's flank. It was a wearisome road, and wind and rocks tried to bar our path. One of our companions died there, a western lad called Vorek Dore – and what a good lad he was! –, cast down into a crack by an avalanche of stone, but that only increased our determination. When we finally saw the mouth of the cave before us, a dark maw even on a bright day as that one, I must admit we hesitated for a moment… until the Guardians came. Strange creatures, vaguely humanoid, more like statues than like anything that lives and breathes, they arose from their niches by the entrance and came towards us. We knew that such things existed, of course, or at least that they had existed a long time ago, but despite the mountain itself coming against us, it was the very last thing we had expected. Luckily there were only two of them, and the enchantment that gives them, for lack of a better expression, life had worn out over the centuries, so that they missed the speed and strength they had, no doubt, once possessed. We overcame them in the end, though we lost yet another companion." For a moment a shadow passed over Morcas's features at the memory. "It is said that the one true service you can offer a fallen hero is to remember his name, isn't it? He was called Anyush, or at least that's the simplified form of a complicated name from the distant shore of the Jade Sea. He should have become a great leader of men, and instead there's a lonely grave at the summit of Mount Dunhill now, that he may see the rising sun, as they say where he was born…"
Except for the gentle crackling of the fires, the forge was completely silent now. All eyes were on Morcas, but Morcas's eyes were on none. At last he sighed and shook his head, as if to push the memory of his lost friend back. "There were only three of us left when we stood before the entrance at last: Orvar, myself and Rendon Paric. Yes," he said as he saw the gazes some in the forge were throwing each other, "the very same Paric who has now thrown in his lot with Norgard. They were inseparable once, him and Orvar, before his ambition and avarice consumed him. He was with us on that day, just as he always was with Orvar, and he was the one who carried the torch as we stepped over the threshold into the darkness." He waited a moment, perhaps for those who had started whispering at the mention of Norgard to go quiet. "It was a strange path we took, leading downwards and winding, and soon we had lost all sense of direction. The very rock around us was strange, it seemed to crackle as if about to shoot sparks, and the further we went, the more it began to glow, yet had we doused the torch, I'm convinced we would have stood in darkness all the same. I have no idea for how long we walked thus, our estimations strongly differed, but at last we saw a pale glow around a bend, and as we turned the corner we were suddenly bathed in light, brighter than the glow would have suggested, and yet not truly blinding. The walls were practically vibrating then. Before us, on a pedestal of rock that was shaped like one of the heathen altars of old, a crystal rested, revolving gently. We approached it carefully, and it seemed to me that it was drawing me, that it was calling my name. Clearly it was one of the marvels of the Elder Days, of the wondrous creations able to bind ancient energies in themselves and to give as well as channel powers if one only knew how to use it, woken from a sleep that had lasted centuries and waiting to ensnare a wielder. Orvar was the first to approach it, with Rendon closely behind him, but when he was only a couple of steps away, the ground suddenly shook, throwing us off our feet, and there was a blinding flash of light. When we opened our eyes again, the crystal had stopped spinning and rested on the rock now, sparkling in the light of the torch and brighter than ever. We hesitated for a moment then, and Rendon said –"
"This would fetch quite a fortune."
At the sound of the new voice, everybody turned towards the entrance in surprise, and at once they huddled together more closely, panicked whispering arising, and several gripping various items that might be used as weapons in case of need. But of the group that had silently filed into the foremost part of Master Wenslow's forge, nobody moved. There were about a dozen men, all dressed in rough dark leather and girded with a sword, some with a strung bow over their shoulders or a small axe in a loop at their belts. What struck Valjean as odd at the first glance was that while they clearly were warriors, none of them wore their hair cropped short like Orvar and Morcas and most of the other veterans did. Instead they sported long, often unkempt manes; some wore their hair in braids or had ribbons woven into it. One dark-haired giant at the far left of the group even had one side of his head shaved down to short stubble while on the other long locks fell almost to his shoulder. He had seen such men before, just a short time ago, he realised as he automatically gripped Fantine's shoulder. The men of Norgard.
"Fancy meeting you here, Morcas," the man at the front of the group stated, the same who had spoken before. His nearly shoulder-length fair hair was decorated with a couple of small beads that had been woven into it; Valjean thought he heard them click together very softly as the man moved his head. "And fancy hearing that old story again. What times those were, weren't they?" He laughed, and immediately the men behind him began to chuckle as well, mirthlessly and sycophantically, but he silenced them with an impatient wave of his hand. "Glory and riches, Morcas! Like in the days of old."
"It's been a long time, Rendon," Morcas said calmly. "You have changed, I see. Grown your hair, for a start."
There was a moment in which they remained motionless, in which Valjean's gaze flickered between those two that had been companions at arms once – how would they meet, as friends or as enemies? – but then, simultaneously, a smile appeared on both of their taut features, and immediately something in the atmosphere changed, as if the forge itself blew out a breath it had been holding.
They met in the middle of the low hall and shook hands like a pair of long-lost brothers. "Morcas, old boy," Paric cried, patting the other's shoulder with his left hand while still holding his right, then gave him a playful little slap on the back of his head. "After all those years, I find you here, in the middle of nowhere, ploughing fields and breeding pigs and the demons know what else."
"Now, now, don't forget this is not just any old village," Morcas replied a little reproachfully, though laughing. "And I'd make a very bad farmer indeed, you know that."
"Ah yes, of course. Proud old Rosendale. How could I possibly forget?" Was that a note of sarcasm that was stealing into Paric's voice? Valjean found that his grip on Fantine's shoulder had not loosened.
"Proud old Rosendale, yes," Morcas repeated. "After an honourable discharge, my allegiance still has not changed."
"I can see that." One of the corners of Paric's mouth twitched, but Valjean could not quite interpret what it meant. This man was hard to read altogether, his features as even as they could be. He would not have stood out in a crowd. His nose had been broken once, it seemed, but even that was not asymmetrical, just a very slight broadening on the back of his nose. A very clean break, just like everything about Paric was, from his gleaming black leather jerkin to his polished heavy boots, from his silky hair to the browband he wore, linked metal plates set on a broad strip of hard leather that encircled his head, an air not so much of neatness as of precision. It was a peculiar piece of armour, that browband, something Valjean had never heard of before, but then again, what did he know about armour?
Paric let his gaze wander over the assembled, who were watching him with often obvious unease, looking from him to the men by the entrance and back again, yet Paric ignored this fact. "Perhaps I should finish the tale Morcas began," he suddenly said, and Valjean was certain that he was by far not the only one who was surprised. "The ending is told quickly enough. We had a little argument there as to what to do with the pretty shiny thing. When Orvar tried to pick it up, the ground suddenly shook worse than ever, with rocks coming down from the ceilings and all that. Well, we ran for it. What else was there to do? Why risk your life for a sparkly little toy, Morcas, wasn't this what you said?"
"It had claimed enough lives already," Morcas answered stiffly.
"Yes, that's what you say now. Back then, it was glory or nothing. But where's the glory in ending up buried beneath a pile of rocks? We made it out into the sunlight at last and returned to our banners, after convincing the foolish locals that we had chased off all those fairies and demons of theirs. Earned us quite a few gifts, too." He grinned, briefly baring two rows of white teeth. "When we told of our adventures, a whole expedition went to Dunhill to find that strange treasure. They found the tunnel, and they found the cave, but it was gone. The marvel of Dunhill had disappeared, and yet we walked out empty-handed, didn't we?" For a moment Valjean thought to see a strange gleam in his bright eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.
Apparently Morcas had spotted the same, for he seemed to hesitate, yet he was turning his back to Valjean, so his expression, which might have given some clarity, remained unreadable. "Yes," he said slowly, "strange indeed."
Once more one of the corners of Paric's mouth twitched in what might be a hint of a sarcastic grin. "What's become of Orvar?" he suddenly asked. "I should like to see the old boy again. You see," and now he truly grinned, a mirthless grimace that made Valjean shudder inwardly, "I have an offer he can't possibly refuse."
"What kind of offer would that be, coming from a man apparently in the service of Norgard?" Morcas spoke quietly, but firmly. "And what makes you so convinced he would accept it?"
Paric's eyebrows shifted together, and his mouth suddenly narrowed. Involuntarily Valjean's grip on Fantine's shoulder tightened slightly, but when he noticed that he had done so he quickly loosened it, uncomfortably meeting Fantine's gaze for a moment. "He wants the best for proud old Rosendale, doesn't he? In this case it would be wise to remember an old friendship." A new note had entered his voice now, a cruel, derisive one. "Or is he planning to become another Nardilon, or Galahir even?"
"What would that make you?" Morcas retorted coldly, not heeding the mercenaries, who were slowly moving forward now. "Not Golrath, for sure, since you couldn't interpret an old scroll to save your life. Grogarad, perhaps?"
Spoken in a different tone, it might have been just a taunt between old companions. But there was nothing to laugh about in this situation.
In Paric's even face, not a muscle twitched. "I'm afraid Golrath is already taken. And so might be Grogarad." And then his expression changed into one of the most horrible leers Valjean had ever seen. "Yet as for the worshipping, you might feel the urge to before too long if Orvar makes the wrong choices, and if you don't part with him. Wasn't that what he said in the tale? Thou shalt worship Grogarad?"
"Dost thou not know who I am, mortal, to challenge the fiend of fiends?" a shaky voice suddenly provided. "Behold, I am Grogarad, and thou shalt worship me, along with the thralls of Norgard." It was Yossi, the landlord's son. His freckles stood out clearer than ever in his pale face, and his chest was heaving under his brown linen shirt, and yet he spoke the words loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"See there, the lad knows his legends!" Paric threw back his head and laughed, and again some of his mercenaries chuckled along, but this time he did not silence them. "So, what have we here? Someone forging weapons without my permission?"
"Since when do we need your permission, Rendon?" Morcas asked calmly. The others had huddled together more closely, but he had not moved.
"I speak in the name of Norgard, Morcas." His voice had changed even more, to openly cold and threatening.
"So this is what has become of you." Even outnumbered, Morcas would stand his ground. "A thrall of Norgard."
"Don't dare to call me thrall," Paric hissed. There was a mutter from his men, who were beginning to close in on the group, some with a hand on the sword hilt. Valjean felt his own breath quicken. What would Morcas do, fight them? One single unarmed man against a dozen? Of course, there were others present who might help him, six or seven, perhaps eight, but would they stand a chance against a group of trained warriors?
God, what to do? What to do? If there were just any way to sneak out and alert others… But there was one entrance only, and this entrance was barred by Paric's men.
Valjean's gaze flickered up to the beams of the ceiling. If there was a way of leaving through the roof… but no irregularity, no possible path of escape caught his eye.
We're trapped.
Across the furnace, he could see the baker's daughter, her chin thrust forward and her hands clenched into fists, but shaking as a leaf in the wind. Wenslow stood thunderstruck, reaching for one of his devices, but his hand had frozen in midair.
"Who's in charge here?" Paric demanded. "No, not you, Morcas. I did not ask for an eager volunteer." He sneered, gazing around him. "Are you deaf, you blighters? Who's in charge?"
Still standing transfixed, Wenslow did not move. Valjean saw the blacksmith's wife's eyes widen with terror.
"Look," Paric barked, "if the man in question doesn't own up I'll take a woman, and a pretty one at that. Now, for the last time, who's in charge?"
"You're going to regret this, Rendon." Morcas spoke through gritted teeth, but it was obvious he had not been prepared for this
"I am." Valjean could feel all eyes upon him as he stepped forward, saw two of the apprentices stare at him in disbelief. "I am," he repeated, as firmly as he could, to eradicate all doubts. Behind him, Fantine gasped with horror, the sound quickly mingling with the gasps and whispers of surprise and fear of the others present. "I'm the blacksmith."
"Are you now? Good man." Paric's hand fell onto his shoulder heavily. "You're coming with us. And you lot, if you want your blacksmith back, send Orvar to negotiate. Until then he remains in my custody." Grabbing Valjean's collar, Paric pulled him towards the exit –
"Don't touch him!" It was more a shriek than a shout. By the still glowing furnace stood Yossi, his chin thrust forward defiantly, the half-forged sword raised in both hands.
"Rendon," Morcas tried once again, hastily stepping forth with an assuaging gesture at the lad, "if you'll just listen to me –"
"Ah, see there," Paric leered, not heeding him. "Someone with the guts to fight. But I'm afraid you're breakfast, kid."
"Put the sword down," someone hissed at Yossi. Valjean was unable to make out who it was, but the voice was clearly audible above the gasps and murmurs of the others.
Paric's grip on Valjean's collar did not loosen. Though it would not have been hard for him to break free, especially now Paric's attention was centred elsewhere, and though he doubted the mercenary's browband would have offered much protection if he picked him up and bashed his head against the wall a few times, he kept still. He would not use violence, not against anyone. And even though he could most likely take care of Paric, who knew how the other Norgarders would react? Besides, Wenslow was more important than he was. Rosendale could easily miss Jean Valjean, but it needed Master Wenslow. He only hoped the men of Norgard would not notice that the blacksmith was wearing an apron – a very clear giveaway of his profession – and he wasn't. Perhaps it had been his muscular build, not unusual in a blacksmith, that had made his ruse easily believable, at least to Paric and his men. His eyes found Fantine's, and with his gaze he sought to explain, but he felt that she would not understand, not even if he shouted it out loud.
Please, try to understand. You don't need me. But Master Wenslow does. Rosendale does. Forgive me.
"Put the sword down," Morcas repeated out of the edge of his mouth. He was sweating; Valjean could see the beads glittering at his temples now, moistening his close-cropped hair.
"Yes, do it, kid," Paric agreed. "Morcas is a clever man, you had better listen to him. Never fight when you're outnumbered, live to fight another day. That's the very words they teach you in the King's Army, right, Morcas?"
"He's right," Morcas admitted through gritted teeth. "Put the sword down."
"No. I will fight you." Yossi's voice trembled just as his hands did; the swordpoint wavered, drawing ovals in the air. And yet he stood his ground.
Paric moved fast, too fast for Valjean to block his way. Like a striking serpent he charged, feinting a blow with one hand, and as Morcas stepped in to take it, he twirled around, and his booted foot connected with Yossi's wrist, making the lad cry out with surprise and pain. In a silver arc the sword sailed from his hand, over the heads of a two men, who ducked with a half-strangled shriek that was echoed by the assembled, and clattered to the ground harmlessly.
Clutching his right hand with his left, Yossi stared at Paric open-eyed, and so did Valjean. God, this fiend was fast, so fast he didn't even have time to react. And dangerous even when empty-handed; he had not even reached for his sword.
"Time to go," Paric said calmly. His breath had not quickened. Already Valjean felt Paric's henchmen roughly take him by the shoulders, but he did not turn; like a lamb he had meant to submit and bear the fate meant for Wenslow, whatever it held, but the feeling of saying goodbye to this place, to those he had come to hold dear… For a moment something stirred in him, the urge to point out the real blacksmith and go free, but he forced it down again and quenched the flame. He had made his choice. He would accept whatever God had in store for him, and he would not be afraid.
"The boy's coming with us," Paric added, like an afterthought, taking the arm of the unresisting Yossi. "He asked for it. Morcas, you know what to tell Orvar. It's up to him now. One word from him, and the boy and the blacksmith will return to their homes. Tell him to choose wisely."
Morcas's breath was ragged, his teeth clenched, his hands knotted into fists. There was nothing he could do, not alone and unarmed against all those servants of Norgard. All that was left to him was his defiance. "Orvar will never join you! Orvar will never sell his soul for a false boyhood dream of glory and riches!"
"Say what you will, Morcas." Paric gestured, and side by side Valjean and the landlord's son were marched out into the sunlight, a light so garish that it hurt their eyes.