Westhaven by Rowan Erlking (ebook audio reader .txt) 📖

mentioned the swordsmith or that General Gole was looking for him, though every time Kleston did call him the son of a smithy.

One of the men inspected Key’s face and the dark green bandana tied over Key’s head covering his patchy hair. Before they had left Herram Kleston had blackened Key’s eyebrows with boot polish so that they matched.

“Key, huh?” The man tugged at the all-key that hung around the boy’s neck. Then he let it drop. “Fine, but we really don’t need another kid running around hindering work.”

Kleston smirked, patting Key on the head. “Not to worry. Key is a very hard worker. He won’t be like the other boys.”

They took him down into the hollow. Kleston’s arm around Key’s shoulder, they passed three longhouses covered in shrubbery and bark that gave the impression of small hills and were not at all visible from the top. Likewise the further they went down the hill into the hollow the more he could see the other shelters. Mostly they were tents hidden between the longhouses with fire pits and drying racks. Around them he saw men, women and children working.

The young ones stuck close to their mothers, though the older children were either employed in making bandages or weapons. A cluster of boys just a bit younger than Key sat together on a fallen tree trunk further inside the hollow assembling arrows. They took their arrowheads from a basket and feathers from a pile. The arrowheads were nearly out, but they still had piles of sticks they had prepared and plenty of feathers. The boys’ eyes fixed on Kleston as he walked by. Their eyes then turned to Key, watching as Kleston parted from the guards to lead his young charge toward the smoke of the makeshift smithy shop.

The smith looked right up at Kleston.  His eyes went from Kleston to Key and then to the guards that were returning back up the hill.

“What’s this? I already got enough hands assembling, and I am working on quick-swords right now.” The smith rubbed his gloved hands as if grieving a burn blister.

Kleston nudged Key forward. “This is Key. He’s a smithy’s son.”

The smithy raised his eyebrows, nodding. “Good. That’s much more useful.”

Key lowered his eyes, uncomfortable that everyone was watching him.

“Boy….”

Key lifted his eyes.

The smithy chuckled. “Huh. So Key isn’t your real name. You used to be a slave, right?”

Key nodded.

The boys making arrows perked their ears.

“Ok, how much metal work do you know?” the smith asked.

Taking a breath, Key pointed to the hearth. “I can work the fire, make arrowheads and anything else that requires a mold. I can smelt iron ore and carbon to make steel, and I have been working on my knife making.”

“He knows the basics of swordsmithing,” Kleston said. “Key, show him your dagger.”

Glancing at him, Key then drew dagger from his pocket. He unsheathed it as the boys behind him dropped their arrows and stared, stepping closer.

The smith reached out and took the dagger, inspecting it.

“He made it when he was eight,” Kleston said. “He might be out of practice because since then he’s been a slave. But I think we ought to let him work on sword-making again.”

The smith quickly lifted his head and stared at Key before turning to Kelston. “Did you look at this knife?”

Kleston nodded, secretly smiling to the smith.

The smith then stared at Key again. “So then the story about—”

“Don’t tell anybody what you know,” Kleston cut him off. “I want this kid safe, practicing what his father and grandfather taught him. Given practice, I think he’ll do well.”

Nodding solemnly in agreement, the smith turned to Key. He gestured to the smith post. “Go over there and get acquainted with the tools again. If there is anything you think is missing, I’ll have someone scrounge it up for you.”

Key stretched out his hand with a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Can I have my dagger back?”

Laughing, the smith returned blade to the boy.

Key sheathed it and stuck it back into his pocket.

“I’ll see if I can get a proper strap for that dagger,” the smith said as Key walked over to the stone hearth to peer at the fire.

Then the smith talked with Kleston in hushed voices. It didn’t matter. Key had found a purpose, something to do until he was strong enough to kill General Winstrong.

*

He was a hero. No one disputed it. General Gailert Winstrong had saved more than just the Emergence celebration, but he also identified their new and most threatening enemy.

But he did not feel like a hero. Gailert sat in his military office brooding over town security and how that demon got past his guards. It was obvious that it had snuck in, seeking to kill the governing officials of the town rather than their military. Its goal was extinction of their race, and nothing more.

“General.” A corporal stood in the doorway, holding a telegram out. “This came for you.”

“Bring it here.” Gailert beckoned him forward.

Marching in, the corporal handed him the telegram, bowed then stepped back.

Opening it, the general read it aloud.

 

For General Winstrong Stop. Commendations for a job well done Stop. Reassignment Orders Stop. Turn over Southwest corner to Captain Heron Stop. Turn over road construction to Captain Sunders Stop. Assemble team for hunting Cordrils before departure from the Southwest corner Stop. You may retire to Roan if you wish Stop. Sky Lord Stop.

 

Gailert felt stunned. It had been what he wanted. Yet, looking at it, a sincere sense of loss flooded over him.

Setting the telegram down, Gailert glanced to the corporal who was still standing at attention awaiting orders. The general nodded to himself. This was how life worked. After having done his duty to his fullest, it was time to retire.

“Corporal,” the general said. “Get Captains Heron and Sunders for me. I need to speak with them immediately.”

*

“Look. There he goes.”

The boys of the camp followed Key when he ran errands. Despite his optimism that Key would eventually relearn the smithing skills, the smith mostly had the boy fetching water and firewood while he worked the iron. The boy had not forgotten how to make arrowheads, but his first attempts at knife-making were dismal failures. They had to be cast back into the fire to be melted. Not that the boy gave up, but when things didn’t work right he started to have outbursts of anger.

“Look at him.”

“He’s a freak.”

Key turned and dropped the pile of wood he had been carrying. “You know, I can hear you.”

The boys straightened up.

“So what if you can?” a large boy with dark brown hair named Rainold said, stepping forward and thrusting out his chin. “You are a freak.”

Already Key’s hands had doubled into fists, his jaw set.

“You never smile,” Rainold said. “You never join the games—”

“You’re always working,” his friend, Polen cut in, standing next to Rainold and nudging him. Polen was just slightly shorter than Rainold though his face was more square and his hair lighter.

“And Kleston seems to think you are some kind of genius.” Their other friend, Tiler, stomped forward. Tiler was stockier than the others, shorter by an inch with a mousy color to his hair, but he came across as the most dangerous.

“So?” Key said, eying them hard.

“So, you’re a freak,” Rainold said.

Huffing, Key shook his head and turned, picking up his firewood again.

“Gads! He acts like an old man!” Polen said. “All high and mighty.”

“And you guys just play around when there is work to be done,” Key snapped, not even halfway done picking up his dumped stack.

“There’s work to be done,” Tiler mimicked with their other friends, Weston and Berd, who usually hung back because they were honestly afraid of Key. There was nothing remarkable about Weston or Berd. Both boys seemed identical, and they had the typical Herra Hills look to them—solid boys with dark brown eyes and matching hair.

Key halted. “What are you doing at this camp if you are not going to help out?”

The boys all made faces at him.

“We help out,” Rainold snapped.

Rolling his eyes, Key picked up the last stick and righted himself. “Yeah, right. They have to make you help out. And when you guys do, you sit and talk putting together those arrows slower than I can—”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything!” Rainold stomped over to him. “We work hard!”

Key merely snorted.

Rainold shoved him.

“Hey!” Key dropped his firewood again. “Don’t you shove me! I’ve had it with being pushed around!”

“Oh…really. High and mighty slave to the Sky Children, what are you going to do about it?” Rainold shoved Key again.

Key shoved back. “Stop it!”

Rainold clasped hard onto Key, grabbing his shirt and his head, though he could get no hold of his hair. The two boys struggled. Key clenched Rainold’s arm and punched his shoulder to make him let go. They fell to the ground, wrestling and kicking the other. Two adults had to rush in and pull them apart before they would stop. When they were apart, both boys glared at each other, panting. The adults still had to hold them back.

“He started it!” His head rag off, hair askew, Key shouted, pointing at Rainold with a glance at his torn shirtsleeve.

“It doesn’t matter.” The man holding him gave Key a good shake. “We cannot afford brawling in our camp. It makes noise and draws attention.”

Key lowered his head at once, looking to the ground. “Yes, sir.”

The adults relaxed then, now turning to give Rainold a good tongue-lashing.

But the other boy gasped at Key. He pointed, holding Key’s bandana. “He’s that guy!”

Key reached for his head, groping his stubbly hair in his hands.

Others drew in breaths. Everyone now stared at him.

“He’s worth six thousand in silver,” a man murmured.

Wrenching from the adult’s grip, Key stomped over to Rainold and stuck out his hand. “Give me back my bandana.”

Rainold dropped it as if it were diseased.

Key took it up, untied the knot in the back then set it back on his head, retying it. His heart thundered in his chest. His eyes searched for the quickest way out of the camp, though he merely walked back to his wood to pick it up again.

“You were General Gole’s slave?” Polen stared at him.

Key didn’t raise his eyes, picking up two logs.

“I wouldn’t smile if I had been demon’s slave either,” murmured Weston.

“Wait a second,” Tiler said to the others, pointing to Key. “We can bring him in for the reward money!”

Key halted, dropping the wood again. He peeked back at the men and then at the boys. He recognized that greedy look in their eyes. Shaking his head with a tremble, he said, “You don’t want to do that.”

“Oh yeah?” Berd snapped, glancing to the others. “We could use the silver. Buy more supplies.”

Key noticed the smithy out of the corner of his eye walk up to where they were, perhaps looking for what was taking him so long. Key said, “If you turn me in they’ll find this camp.”

The boys laughed.

The men didn’t, however.

One grabbed Key by the neck. “You’d tell them?”

Hardly able to look up, Key clenched his teeth instead. “I don’t have to. Sky Children can read minds with a touch. I’ve seen them take information from good men who would never fink on their friends.”

That man clenched Key’s neck tighter, though his hand was shaking. “Oh, yeah? What else have you seen?”

Trembling, though it had less to do with fear and more with anger, Key growled through his teeth, “I’ve seen them burn down whole villages. Rape the young women. Take all their gold, silver and ivory. And as the women, children and elderly flee, I’ve seen the soldiers gun every one of them down.”

“Gun them down?” that man repeated, looking puzzled. His grip lightened some.

Key nodded. “Use their guns to kill them all.”

“Where have you seen this?” the smith asked him.

The man holding Key tossed him down, though he looked ready to stomp on the boy’s chest.

Key bowed apologetically to the smith. “In the Southwestern