Thomas thanked the man and moved toward the corner. Behind him the barkeep spoke again, “Remember I’m watching you boy!”
As if I could forget. Thomas thought to himself. He was again filled with doubt, but glancing down, he saw his sword, and it brought back his resolve. Although he thought of it as his ‘sword’, it was merely a thin branch he used for that purpose when playing with Sarah. He wasn’t sure why he had brought it, stuffed clumsily through a bit of cord tied around his waist, but it made him feel better anyway.
Stepping up to the table, he saw that the man named Whitmire seemed asleep. His clothing was well made, though not rich or ostentatious in its cut or material. He wore no armor, but a scimitar hung at his waist. As he got closer Thomas could smell the alcohol, a dangerous scent to a boy on the street, for drunks were wont to show little restraint. “Excuse me sir.”
Whitmire’s left eye eased open slowly. “What?” he mumbled.
“A friend of mine, a girl named Sarah asked me to bring you a message and to ask a favor.” Thomas managed to get all the main points into one sentence, hoping to get the man’s attention.
Whitmire waved his arm vaguely in Thomas’ direction, “Go away, I’ve nothing to give, and I’ve nothing to do with any girls, named Sarah or otherwise.” His voice was thick and slurred, but his accent was clear enough that Thomas could still understand them. He could also sense a dangerous undercurrent of apathy and anger.
Inwardly, he was confused, Why in the hell would she send me to find some drunk? Does she really know this man? “She said you might not believe me at first, but that I should show you this…” He began pulling up his shirt, certain that he was about to be thrown out. This has to be the most embarrassing thing she’s ever asked me to do.
Before he could get his shirt up the man recoiled, “By the light! Are you addled boy! I may be a drunk, but I’ve never been that sort of priest! Get the hell away from me!” Roaring, Whitmire was standing now, staring down at Thomas, his face flushed with alcohol and rage. For a moment, Thomas feared he would strike him, but the moment passed, as Whitmire looked about the room, full now of staring eyes, watching the display. “I’m leaving, barkeep. I’ll pay my due tomorrow, you know I’m good for it!” Pushing Thomas back, he nearly stumbled over a chair, and made his way to the door.
Stunned, Thomas sat down, his mind blank until a large fist gripped his shirt collar and jerked him up. “I warned you boy, you shouldn’t think you can come in here and mess with my customers!” With a rough toss the barkeep put Thomas across the nearest table. A second later, Thomas felt a searing pain as the barkeep brought a leather belt to bear on the struggling boy. At first Thomas twisted and turned, seeking a quick escape, but after a moment he surrendered. Past experiences with angry shopkeepers had taught him that struggling merely prolonged a beating.
After what seemed like an eternity, the barman’s arm finally got tired. Still muttering curses under his breath, he let go of Thomas, who promptly jumped and ran for the door, blinking back tears. The strapping felt as though it had set his back afire, from his shoulders to his knees. Without thought he tumbled into the street, before picking himself up and running toward the nearest alley. Humiliation had been his near constant companion for years, the years before he met Sarah, so it felt almost normal to him as he ran for cover, but what he found in the alley was anything but normal.
There, in the dim light, he could see a man stretched out on the cold stone, while another man searched hastily through his pockets. No stranger to the streets, Thomas knew immediately what he was seeing. A heavy truncheon was held steady in the grip of a third man. That’s the lookout, Thomas realized instantly. The man with the heavy wooden weapon had already seen him and nudged his companion as he prepared to deal with the intrusion.
Thomas knew that chances were good, if he just turned and ran, that they wouldn’t bother following him. Most likely they’d finish their theft and be off as quickly as possible, but Thomas had just been strapped. His only friend was gone, and his only hope had rejected him. He was empty, and consequently his instinct for survival had apparently abandoned him. Within the emptiness, he felt a sudden flame in his heart that was neither rage, nor a suicidal impulse. This has got to stop! Fear was replaced by the memory of Sarah that day when she stopped Flin.
“Get away from him.” The voice shocked him with its calm, even more when he realized it was his own voice rising from some deep recess within. Reaching down, he drew his stick. He knew it was a hopeless gesture, but he did it just the same. Recalling his pledge to Sarah, he raised it menacingly, an almost comical gesture for a ten year old boy facing two grown men.
The man with the truncheon laughed. “What do you plan to do with that twig boy? This ain't a game. You best run home, or you'll get worse than this drunken priest!”
The fire inside him bloomed incandescent, and he heard a voice, his own, answering, “I have sworn, to my lady Sarah, to defend the weak and protect the helpless.” With that he raised his stick, as if to strike, when something astonishing happened. Light blossomed in the dark alley, radiating from the golden flames that now wreathed his flimsy weapon, enfolding the wood without burning it.
The thugs’ faces were lit in stark contrast by the blazing light, shock clearly written in their features. Slowly, they backed away, step by step and finally turned and ran, not speaking a word. Looking down, Thomas eventually realized that the man on the ground was awake and staring at him. “Are you ok, mister?”
That was when he recognized the man as Whitmire. He looked the worse for his time on the cobblestones, but his gaze no longer seemed as unsteady. A trickle of blood ran down the back of his neck as he sat up. “Sarah didn't tell me you were a priest, or I wouldn't have bothered you before...” Thomas' words trailed off while at the same time the flames on his stick slowly flickered out, reminding him that something well beyond his understanding had just occurred.
“Truthfully, I'm a disgrace of a priest if I must be honest. I've barely done more than drink these past couple of years,” answered Whitmire.
Thomas ignored his confession, more interested in the recent display of magic, “How did you make my sword burst into flames like that?! That was the most amazing thing I've ever seen, like something out of the stories!”
“Your sword?” Father Whitmire suppressed a chuckle, along with a wave of nausea. “I didn't do that—I'd guess your goddess did, as much a reminder to me as to those thugs, of her power, and mercy.” He slowly stood, and then looked at Thomas. He was uncomfortably sober now, although waves of dizziness threatened to send his stomach contents tumbling out. “I'm sorry about before, I didn't realize you were a follower, nor one so honored as to receive the Lady's direct intervention. I think I may have done a great disservice to you, young man.”
“I don't have a goddess, I serve my lady Sarah.” The words felt childish to Thomas even as the memory brought tears to his eyes.
“You mentioned her before, but I'm afraid I still don't know who you're talking about. I can tell you that what you saw tonight is one of the most famous signs shown by my goddess, Delwyn. When one of her disciples is in danger, she sometimes blesses their weapons with her divine fire. Although, it is highly uncommon for her to show such favor except during the Festival of the Sun, many months from now. You must be someone special for her to show favor at a time like this, especially at night.”
“Maybe it was because I was trying to help you,” Thomas was growing more confused as the conversation went on, not the least because he'd almost never had an adult showing any measure of respect toward him.
“I doubt it, I've not been the best of servants these past few years,” said the priest. Suddenly, Father Whitmire doubled over, and began to wretch into the gutter. After several minutes, he finally stood back up, though still unsteady. “Well, the least I can do is get you a meal after all that, and listen to your request and whatever message you have for me.”
Thomas' stomach began
to grumble at the thought of food, even though he'd had some fruit just half a day gone. “Sarah told me to ask you for a place to stay, and her message was very short.”
“Given the circumstances, I'm sure I could shelter you for a week or two, no more. The temple cannot afford to take in everyone that needs food and shelter.”
“She also told me to show you this,” red-faced, Thomas once again pulled up his shirt, showing the older man his bizarre birthmark.
In the dark alley, it was hard to tell, but it looked as though Father Whitmire had gone very pale. “What message did she ask you to give me?” his voice low, not quite a whisper.
“It wasn't much of a message. Honestly, she's a little crazy if you ask me, but she said to tell you that even if you had forgotten her, she had not forgotten you.”
Chapter 3
Grom
It had been a year since that night in the alley with Father Whitmire. Thomas was now living at the temple in a small cell. The priest had changed his mind about letting him stay, but hadn’t fully explained his reasons. Apparently, something that night had affected him though, for Father Whitmire had stopped going to bars and avoided strong drink completely now.
Life, as a whole, was both easier and more complicated than it had been before. Thomas was no longer hungry, or even cold. The temple provided simple food, but it was always hot. His bed was barely more than a hard, wooden frame with worn down cotton batting padding it, but combined with an old wool blanket and a nearly flat pillow, it was the most comfortable thing he had ever slept on.
His days were fairly busy; he was attending the temple school with other boys. Their ages varied, and probably all told, there were only about twenty or so of them at any given time. The temple had two schools, one for boys and one for girls, although there weren’t many of them. In each case the classes were so small that all the ages were in one classroom.
Thomas was a bit of an oddity at the school, since all the other children came from families with money; a sizable donation was usually given to the temple in return for their education. None of them were from higher nobility of course, those fortunates had private tutors. Most of the boys were third sons, being trained in preparation for someday joining the clergy, a few were young second sons, preparing for a military career. The only firstborns were sons of merchants, there to learn numbers and letters so they could someday help their fathers’ businesses.
In any case, they were all better than him, and they knew it. Most were fairly nice, especially the younger boys. But a couple of them liked to make sure he knew exactly where he stood, as a charity case, admitted purely upon the generosity of the temple. Thomas didn’t let it bother him much, after years of privation and cold, the attitudes of a few didn’t seem quite so important to him, and he’d always been pretty level-headed.
He took to numbers and letters rather quickly, his young mind absorbing knowledge like a dry sponge. Although he started out far behind the others, within a year he was doing better than many of the second and third year students at arithmetic and reading. Thanks to his success in class he'd even had some luck making friends with some of the younger students.
During lunches he often sat with his new friend, Sam. Sam was an earnest boy, if not terribly bright, but he always made the conversations at the table livelier. Today however, he was a bit more muted, probably because Ivan was sitting on the other side of him. Ivan was the third son of a minor baron, and as such seemed to think he was much better than most of the other boys, even though he was probably destined to become a member of the clergy, much like them. Thomas was wondering how long they'd have to put up with him when Grom came in and sat down with his tray at the end of the table.
Grom was unusual to say the least; he was short and broad with a thick full beard. That would've been remarkable in and of itself, except for the fact that he was a dwarf. Thomas supposed that most dwarves must look like that, although he had no experience to know for sure. The dwarf had been at the temple for a couple of years before Thomas was taken in, but he'd rarely seen him at the table. Grom ate at a different time most days, probably to avoid drawing so much attention as he did now.
“They shouldn't let dogs eat at the table—they might get the impression they're people,” Ivan said this in a soft tone, loud enough that the boys could hear him but softly enough that he wouldn't earn Brother Simon's reproach. The stern priest sat at the other end of the table.
This finally brought Sam out of his self-imposed silence, “You shouldn't say things like that.”
“Didn't you hear why he's here?” Ivan spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “He lured a shopkeeper's son to his smithy, and killed him.”
“That's crazy talk,” Thomas cut in, “They wouldn't let him live here at the temple if he'd done something like that.” Ivan's air of importance annoyed him.
“No, it’s true! They couldn't prove it because they never found the body. Father Whitmire was at the court hearing. Supposedly, he talked 'em into paroling him to the temple. Just like him, Whitmire will bring any mangy old dog into the temple.” This last remark was indirectly pointed at Thomas. One of Ivan's favorite barbs was to liken him to a stray since as an orphan he had no sponsor. “He probably cooked the kid and ate him. Everyone knows dwarves will eat anything.”
Thomas stood up, he'd listened to enough, and he knew Ivan was trying to bait him into an argument. “I better get going. I don't want to be late.” He had plenty of time, but he figured heading to kitchen duty was better than listening to Ivan's rant.
“Better watch out Tommy, you know that dwarf sleeps just a few cells down on your floor. I bet he'd love another stray dog for dinner.” Ivan's face was lit with a malicious grin, but Thomas ignored it and headed off for the kitchen. He was surprised to hear that Grom's room was so near his own, in two years he'd never seen him leaving or entering, although he had passed him in the hallway once or twice.
Later that evening Thomas sat in the courtyard. It was a pleasant day and he really didn't have much to do after completing his chores. Some days he would go back to his room and read, but the weather was so nice that it seemed a waste. Consequently, he was watching the birds, and thinking about Sarah. Sunny days often reminded him of her.
Presently, he noticed the sound of a hammer, ringing away in the temple smithy. He'd heard it before, but today's lunch conversation had made him curious. Rising from his seat, he wandered in the direction of the forge building. It was an open-air construction, to provide good ventilation, and positioned well away from the rest of the temple buildings, probably to avoid disturbing the priests, the noise from it was pretty loud after all.
Drawing closer, he saw the dwarf engrossed in his labor. He was working away at an iron bar, beating upon it with an oddly shaped hammer. The striking end of the hammer was rounded, and with each strike the bar flattened and stretched out. I suppose that's fullering. Thomas thought, remembering a brief lesson on metal work from the year before. Grom's back was turned to him, and he seemed fully absorbed by his work. Thomas stood quietly, not wanting to interrupt, not certain if he should be there at all.
After a time, the hammer stopped. “If you're not too busy gawking, grab those gloves and work the bellows,” Grom spoke without turning around. As he lifted the bar and returned it to the forge to reheat, his arms stood out with corded muscle. Surprised, Thomas was still for a moment, and then quickly moved to do as the dwarf had asked.
Several hours later, Thomas was exhausted. The heat from the forge had left him drenched in sweat, while his arms ached from pumping the bellows. Grom seemed unfazed. Maybe dwarves really are made of stone, but Thomas quickly dismissed the thought.
“You'd better get cleaned up, lest your bed wind up smelling like burnt iron.” Grom's voice was deep and gravelly, but not unkind. The nine o'clock bells rang in the distance.
“Oh!” Thomas realized he was almost too late, if he didn't clean up quickly, he'd be late for lights out in the dormitory. That would sur
ely make Brother Simon angry. “Thanks for letting me watch!” He darted out of the smithy, the late hour giving him the energy he needed to run back to the dorm.
Grom shook his head as he watched the boy run off. Guess that'll teach him to hang around, he thought. Still, he did stick around for a while.
The next few days passed uneventfully, and Thomas had plenty of sore muscles from his experience at the forge. Still his time with the taciturn dwarf had only made him more curious. He didn't seem like a murderer. Although he had to admit, he had no clue what a homicidal dwarf would be like. Either way, he was fairly sure Grom wasn't evil, much less an eater of children.
Toward the end of the week, he went back to the smithy. This time he began working the bellows as soon as Grom set something in the forge to heat.
“Grab that apron if you're gonna stick around again. Don't want you ruining your clothes.” The dwarf waved at a rack on one side, where several spare leather aprons were hanging.
After that, Thomas started going to the forge a couple of times a week. He was more careful not to work too late after his first experience. He wasn't entirely sure why he was even going. It wasn't part of his duties, and it didn't earn him anything but sore muscles. Grom rarely spoke, and when he did, it was usually to give simple instructions. Even so, Thomas kept returning, and an unspoken friendship grew between him and the dwarf. Eventually, he learned that Grom was only thirty-two years of age, and while this seemed quite old to Thomas, it was apparently very young for a dwarf.
“What's that face for? We're nearly the same age!” Grom's gruff voice held a chuckle.
“How's that nearly the same age? You're eighteen years older than me!” replied Thomas curiously.
“Think of it this way, you're twelve, so in just six years, ye'll be of age. I'll be thirty-eight, and by dwarven reckoning, I’ll still have two years before I reach majority.”
Thomas mused on that for a while, “So, in a sense, we're almost the same age?”