Dennis L. McKiernan - Hell's Crucible 1 - Into the Forge

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A fell and ancient sorcery has thrust the kingdoms surrounding the

mighty Grimwall mountains into battle with farces of great evil. When Tip

and Beau, two Warrows from the village of Twoforks try to save a

mortally wounded soldier, they inherit vital mission. The dying

swordsman gives them a simple copper coin and a cryptic message:

"Take the coin east to Agron, and warn all."

But the Hast holds terrors beyond Anything Tip and Beau have ever

known. Modru, the Black Mage, has begun his violent reign over the

Free Folk—and unleashed his army of deadly emissaries on the young

Warrows. Now Tip and Beau's mysterious quest has become a matter

of life and death. For their momentous arrival in Agron will Signal a war

that threatens to destroy worlds far beyond their beloved Mithgar...

"Some of the Finest Imaginative Action."

—Columbus Dispatch

PRAISE FOR DENNIS L. McKIERNAN

"McKiernan brews magic with an insightful blend of laughter, tears,

and high courage."

—Janny Wurts, author of Curse of the Mistwraith

"McKieman's narratives have heart and fire and drive. His images

and characters bring the power of the archetypes to his exciting

adventure stories."

—Katherine Kerr, author of Days of Blood and Fire

"Heroic fantasy on the grandest possible scale."

—Susan Schwartz, author of The Grail of Hearts

"Romance and disaster and plenty of magic— everything that makes

a good, old-fashioned adventure story."

—Kate Elliot, author of Jaran

"Once McKieman's got you, he never lets you go."

—Jennifer Roberson

Into the Forge

Hel's Crucible Book 1

Dennis L. McKiernan

A ROC BOOK

To the writers and readers of fantasy throughout the world

and

to that long chain of people in between. Together, we make the

magic happen

FOREWORD

Events are like stones cast upon waters: they make an immediate

splash and waves ripple outward in ever widening circles, diminishing as

they go. Significant events, like large stones, sometime send waves great

enough to engulf those immediately in the path, perhaps to completely

overwhelm them if they are not far enough removed from the event.

Sometimes the stone is so very large as to affect the entire world (as the

dinosaurs literally discovered).

It depends upon the size of the stone and its entry velocity as to

whether the initial wave is enormous or minuscule. Yet whether we sink

or swim does not necessarily depend upon the magnitude of this initial

wave, nor, to a great extent, our distance from it, for the water is full of

expanding ripples, some large, some small, all commingling, reinforcing

here, negating there, and several tiny ripples can combine a half world

away to cause a great effect—a butterfly effect—just as other waves

great and small can completely nullify one another.

This tale is about stones cast upon waters and the intermingling of

waves.

—Dennis L. McKiernan

August 1996

Author's Notes

Into the Forge is the first book of the duology of Hel's Crucible.

Along with the second book, Into the Fire, it tells the tale of the Great

War of the Ban, as seen through the eyes of two Warrows, Tipperton

Thistledown and Beau Darby.

It is a story which begins in the year 2195 of the Second Era of

Mithgar, a time when the Rapt are yet free to roam about in daylight as

well as night, although it is told that they prefer to do their deeds in

darkness rather than under the sun.

The story of the Ban War was reconstructed from several sources,

not the least of which were the Thistledown Lays. I have in several

places filled in the gaps with assumptions of my own, but in the main the

tale is true to its source material.

As occurs in other of my Mithgarian works, there are many instances

where in the press of the moment, the humans, Mages, Elves, and others

spoke in their native tongues; yet to avoid burdensome translations,

where necessary I have rendered their words in Pellarion, the Common

Tongue of Mithgar. However, in several cases I have left the language

unchanged, to demonstrate the fact that many tongues were found

throughout Mithgar. Additionally, some words and phrases do not lend

themselves to translation, and these I've either left unchanged or, in

special cases, I have enclosed in angle brackets a substitute term which

gives the "flavor" of the word (i.e.... and the like). Additionally, sundry

words may look to be in error, but indeed are correct—e.g., DelfLord

is but a single word though a capital L nestles among its letters.

The Elven language of Syiva is rather archaic and formal. To capture

this flavor, I have properly used thee and thou, hast, dost, and the like;

however, in the interest of readability, I have tried to do so in a minimal

fashion, eliminating some of the more archaic terms.

For the curious, the w in Rwn takes on the sound of uu (w is, after

all, a double-u), which in turn can be said to sound like oo (as in spoon).

Hence, Rwn is not pronounced Renn, but instead is pronounced Roon,

or Rune.

But Mithgar . . . Mithgar is yet wild,

tempestuous, unkempt, savage, turbulent,

exciting. We come here to feel alive.

Into the Forge

Chapter 1

Wha—? In the chill dark Tipperton started awake—What was

that? He lay quietly and listened, straining to hear above the burble of

the Wilder River, the water running freely beneath its sheath of winter

ice. I thought I heard—

shing

There it is agai—!

shing-shang . . . chang . . .

Distant metal striking metal. What th—?

Tipperton swung his feet over the edge of his bunk, and in the icy

gloom stumbled from his bed and across the cold wooden

floor—"Ow!"—barking his shin against a misplaced bench.

Shang-chang! Chnk! The clang of metal upon metal grew louder, as

if coming this way.

He fumbled about on the table, knocking aside pots and pans as he

searched for the lantern, while—Ching-chang!— the rattle and clash

grew louder still, now mingled with guttural shouts and the thudding of

feet.

At last among the trenchers and kettles Tipperton found the lantern,

and just as he ineffectually flicked the striker, a high-pitched scream

sounded, and something heavy thudded against the ground outside.

Tipperton flicked the striker again, and this time the wick caught. He

lowered the glass and a yellow glow filled the mill chamber, illuminating

the great overhead shafts and gears and wooden cogs that drove the

massive buhr-stones, all now at a standstill, for the sluice weir was shut

and no current flowed through the millrace and over the grand water

wheel.

Yahh! Chank! Dring! Clang! Tipperton stepped to the door and

slid back the crossbar and flung the portal wide just as—Thdd!

—someone or something slammed against the mill wall, the entire

structure juddering with the blow, sending a shower of grain dust drifting

down from the cedar shakes above.

In nought but a nightshirt and holding his lantern on high, Tipperton

stepped out upon the porch—"Hoy, now, what's all this racket?"—and

in the dimness just beyond the reach of the glow he saw black shapes

whirling in melee.

"Get back, you fool!" came a shout, even as a dark figure broke

free from the tumult and hurtled toward Tipperton.

"Waugh!" The buccan leapt hindward, slamming the door to and

ramming the crossbar home just as whatever had rushed at him crashed

up against the shut wooden panel.

Feet thudded upon the porch, and window glass shattered inward as

Tipperton darted across the chamber and snatched his bow from above

the mantel of the hearth. Amid thuds and tromping and screams and

shouts and the skirl of steel upon steel, swiftly the buccan strung the

weapon. Seizing his quiver and leaving the lantern behind, Tipperton

scrambled up a ladder to the catwalk above and raced to a sliding door

in the wall and jerked the panel aside. In the frigid light of diamond

winter stars and in the frosty rays of the pale quarter moon riding

upward in the southeast, he clambered out into the snow-laden run of

the wooden sluice, the blanket covering a thin layer of ice.

In that moment there sounded a shriek and a heavy crashing down . .

. and lo! except for Tipperton's own hammering heart and gasping

breath and the burble of water below the ice, all fell silent.

Arrow nocked and crouching low, Tipperton made his way to where

he could see the front of the mill. Several dark shapes lay scattered and

unmoving upon the snow, and two or three were slumped on the porch.

Cautiously, Tipperton crept to a point above a millrace support and

waited, the buccan shivering in the frigid cold, for his feet were bare and

planted in snow lying upon ice, and he was yet dressed in naught but a

nightshirt. Long moments passed, and all remained still. At last he

climbed down the support ladder, and with bow drawn taut, and

ignoring his numbing feet, he moved through the snow to one of the

sprawled shapes.

It was a Ruck. Dead. Hacked by some kind of blade. The now

glazed-over viper eyes staring upward.

Tipperton moved onward through churned-up snow, his gorge rising

as he cautiously stepped past a dead, hamstrung, eviscerated

horse—steam rising through the cold air—and among more slain Rucks:

leather-clad, bandylegged, batwing-eared, dusky-skinned. Their dark

ichor seeped outward upon the snow, and weapons—scimitars and

cudgels—lay scattered. Most of the dead had been cut or pierced by a

blade of some sort, though the skulls of one or two had been bashed in.

And here, too, vapor rose from gaping wounds and spilled entrails

steaming.

Arrow yet nocked, Tipperton came to the porch. Half on, half off the

planking, another Ruck lay dead. And to the left and slumped against the

door lay two bodies. The one on top was a Hlok—Rucklike but taller

and with straighter limbs—pierced through by a sword, his body yet

impaled by the blade; he still clutched a bloody tulwar in his dead hand.

As to the other body, the one on the bottom, it—

—groaned—

—His heart leaping in alarm, Tipperton yanked his bow to the full

and—

Wait! It's a man, a Human. Oh, Adon, look at the blood flowing.

Tipperton set his bow aside and, straining, dragged the dead Hlok

from atop the Human.

Jostled, the man opened his eyes, then closed them again.

Got to get him inside. Tipperton lifted the door latch and pushed. It

did not yield. Nitwit! It's barred!. . . Wait, the window! Swiftly,

Tipperton stepped across the man and to the shattered jamb and broke

out the remaining shards yet clinging to the frame. Then he clambered

through, cutting a foot as he stepped on the glass fragments lying on the

inside. Twice a nitwit!

Hobbling, he moved to the door and slid back the bar and raised the

latch, the door swinging back as the weight of the man pushed it open

and he slumped inward and lay half in, half out of the chamber.

Struggling, Tipperton managed to drag the man the rest of the way

inside. His heart yet racing, the buccan stepped back out and retrieved

his bow and arrows, then scanned the landscape 'round— Nothing. He

stepped back inside, closing the door after.

By the light of the lantern yet sitting on the hearth, Tipperton

removed the man's helmet, revealing short-cropped dark hair, and he

placed a pillow under the man's head. The man was slender but well

built, and appeared to be in his mid-twenties—Though with a Human,

I can never tell. Tipperton then ripped cloth to make bandages to bind

the man's wounds, and he said aloud, "Look, my friend, I'd get you out

of those leathers to fix you up, but I'm afraid that more jostling will only

make the bleeding worse, so in places I'll just slit them apart where

they're already rent." The man neither opened his eyes nor replied, and

Tipperton thought him unconscious. The buccan then began swathing the

man's cuts as well as he could—slicing open sleeves and pant legs, and

unlacing the front of the leather vest and the jerkin beneath, all to get at

the wounds to bind them—though crimson seeped through the

wrappings even as he moved from one bleeding gash to the next.

Now the man opened his eyes, eyes such a pale blue as to seem

nearly white. He looked at Tipperton and then whispered, "Runner."

"Wh-what?"

"Horse."

"Oh." Tipperton shifted to the next wound, then said, "I'm sorry, but

the horse is dead."

The man sighed and closed his ghostly eyes.

Quickly, Tipperton bandaged the last of the man's cuts and covered

him with blankets. Then he threw off his nightshirt, now soaked with

blood, and began flinging on clothes. "I've got to get you some help. A

healer. There's one nearby."

As the buccan stomped his cut foot into the other boot and then

stood and drew on his cloak, the man opened his eyes once more and

raised a hand and beckoned.

Tipperton crossed over and knelt down beside him.

Staring deep into Tipperton's jewellike sapphirine eyes, the man

seemed to come to some conclusion, and he struggled to unbuckle his

leather gorget. With Tipperton's help, he at last got the neck guard free,

and from 'round his throat and over his head he lifted a token on a

leather thong. "East," he whispered as he pressed the token—plain and

dull grey, a coin with a hole in it—into the buccan's hand. "Go east. . .

warn all... take this to Agron."

Tipperton frowned in confusion. "Agron? Who—? No, wait. You

can explain later." He slipped the thong over his own head and tucked

the coin down his shirt. "Right now I'm going after a healer."

" 'Ware, Waldan," whispered the man, his pale eyes now closed.

"There's more . . . out there."

Tipperton drew in a deep breath, then said, "I'll take my bow."

The man did not reply.

Tipperton stood up to his full three foot four inch height and

momentarily looked down at the man. Then he snatched up his bow and

quiver and blew out the lantern light—Don't want a beacon calling to

Rucks—and slipped out the door, closing it behind. He slid to the right

and paused in the shadows, his gaze searching for foe. Finding none, he

glided upslope across the clearing and in among the trees, the buccan

shunning the two-track wagon lane, seeking instead the shelter of the

forest alongside. Then he began running, his black hair streaming out

behind, his feet flying over the snow, Tipperton Thistledown racing in

virtual silence, as only a Warrow can run.

Chapter 2

Thd! Thd!

"Beau! Beau! Wake up!"

Again came the hammering on the cottage door and a rattling of the

latch—Thd-thmp-clk-clttr!—followed by another call: "Beau! Blast it!"

Thd-thd!

In the chill dark, Beau Darby groaned awake.

Thd!

"Ho—" croaked Beau, then, "Hold it! Are you trying to wake the

dead?" Striving to not touch the floor at all, the buccan—"Ow,

oh"—gingerly tiptoed across the cold wood to the door.

Thd! "Bea—!" the caller started to yell just as Beau clacked back

the bar and flung open the portal. An icy waft of air drifted in. "Oh, there

you are, Beau. Get dressed; grab your satchel. There's trouble afoot.

I've a wounded man at the mill."

In the starlight and moonlight, Beau saw his friend of nearly two

years—the only other Warrow living nigh Twoforks—standing on the

doorstone of the cote, his bow in hand. They were nearly of the same

age, these two, Tipperton a young buccan of twenty-three, Beau at

twenty-two, though often in Twoforks they were treated as children

simply because of their size.

"What is it, Tip?"

"I said, I've a wounded man at my mill."

"Wounded?"

"Aye. Rucks and Hloks. He's bleeding badly."

"Bleeding?"

"Yes, yes. That's what I said, bucco, bleeding." Tipperton pushed

past Beau and limped into the cottage and began searching for a lantern.

"They killed his horse. Tried to kill him, too. One even came at me. But

he slew them all. Right there at the mill. Seven, eight Rucks and a Hlok."

Tipperton caught up a lantern and lit it.

In the soft yellow light Tipperton looked across at Beau, that

Warrow yet standing dumbstruck, his mouth agape, as was the door.

"Well, come on, Beau. Time's wasting."

Beau closed his mouth as well as the door and sprang across the

room even as he pulled off his nightshirt. "Rucks and such? Here? In the

Wilderland? Near Twoforks? Fighting at the mill?" He threw the

garment on the rumpled bed and looked at Tipperton, his amber eyes

wide with wonder. "What were they doing at the mill? And are you all

right? I thought I saw you limping."

"Cut my foot on a piece of glass. My own fault. You can look at it

when we've seen to the man. And as to what they were doing at the mill,

I haven't the slightest idea. Happenstance, I would suppose."

Beau slipped into his breeks. "Why would Rucks and such be after a

man, I wonder?"

Tipperton shrugged. "Who knows? And mayhap it was the other

way about: him after them, I mean. But I'll tell you this: no matter the

which of it, they're all dead and he's not... at least I don't think so. He

was alive when I left him, but bleeding. Oh yes, bleeding. He took a lot

of cuts, what with that mob and all. I bandaged him the best I could."

Tipperton agitatedly paced the room as Beau pulled his jerkin over

his shoulder-length brown hair and slipped his arms into the sleeves.

"Don't worry, Tip. I'm sure that if you bandaged him, we can save him."

"But what if those Ruck blades were poisoned? I mean, I've heard

that they slather some dark and deadly taint on their swords."

Beau pulled on his boots and stood and stamped his feet into them.

"All the more reason to hurry." He slipped into his down jacket and

snatched up his medical satchel and turned to his friend. "I'm ready.

Let's go."

Tipperton took up his bow and said, "Quash the light and leave it

behind. The man said that there were more Rucks and such out there."

Beau's eyes widened, then he nodded and blew out the lantern. In

the darkness Tipperton stepped to the door and peered out. "All clear,"

he hissed, and slipped outside and through the shadows and across the

clearing and into the woods, this time with Beau on his heels. And

beneath the wheeling stars and the waning quarter moon nearing its

zenith, two Warrows moved swift and silent among the trees.

"Wait a moment," hissed Tipperton. "Something's not right."

They crouched in the woods and peered across the clearing at the

enshadowed mill as moonlight and starlight faded in the predawn skies.

Beau took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, tried to slow his

rapidly beating heart. "What is it? I don't see anything."

"I left the door closed. Now it's open."

"Oh, my."

Still they crouched in the gloom of the trees, and then Beau asked,

"The man, could he have opened the door? Perhaps he left."

"Perhaps, though I don't think so. He was cut to a fare-thee-well and

quite weak."

They watched long moments more, but saw no movement of any

kind. At last Tipperton said, "If we delay any longer, then the man will

most certainly bleed to death. You wait here, Beau. I'll see what's what.

If I whistle, come running. If I yell, flee."

Before Beau could reply, Tipperton glided away, circling 'round to

the left.

Time eked by.

The skies lightened.

At last Beau saw a shadow slip across the porch.

Within heartbeats, lantern light shone, and Tipperton reemerged from

the mill and whistled low, then stepped back inside.

Beau snatched up his satchel and trotted across the clearing, past the

dead horse and the slain Rucks. As he came through the door and into

the mill, Tipperton grimaced and gestured toward the man and said, "I'm

afraid there's nothing you can do, Beau. His throat's been cut."

The man lay in a pool of blood, his dead eyes staring upward, his

neck hacked nearly through. His leathers had been completely stripped

from his body and strewn about, and his helm and boots and gorget

were missing, and the chamber itself looked to have been

ransacked—with an overturned table and ripped-apart bedding and

drawers pulled out and their contents scattered on the floor. Beau

moved past Tipperton and knelt by the man and then sighed and

reached down and closed the man's eyes. "You're right, Tip. Nothing I

or anyone less than Adon can do at this time. What do you think

happened?"

Tipperton's jaw clenched. "The man said there were more Rucks out

and about. They came when he was helpless and slew him." Tip

slammed a fist into an open palm. "Damn Rucks!"

Beau nodded and, as if talking to himself, said, "Back in the Bosky,

my Aunt Rose, bless her memory, claimed that each and every

Ruck—in fact, everyone from Neddra—is born with something missing:

a heart. She said they only thought of themselves. Called them 'Gyphon's

get.' She thinks He deliberately created them that way—flawed, no

compassion, empathy, or conscience whatsoever, seeking only to serve

their own ends. This cutting of a helpless man's throat wouldn't have

surprised her one bit." As if coming to himself, Beau's eyes widened,

and he raised his gaze to Tipperton, then glanced toward the open door.

"Oh, my, Tip, do you think any of them are still about? If so—"

Tip shook his head and raised a hand to stop Beau's words. "No,

Beau"—he gestured outward—"there's a large track beating westward,

across the river and toward the Dellins. The weapons of the slain Rucks

and such are missing, taken, I think, by the others. The man's sword and

helm and gorget and boots are gone as well. And as far as I could tell

without actually going out there to see, a haunch has been hacked off the

horse; rumor has it that's what Rucks like best: horseflesh. No, I think

they're gone for good."

Beau blew out a breath of pent-up air, and his shoulders slumped as

he relaxed. "You're right about the horse, Tip: a haunch has been

hacked from the steed, and the saddle and saddlebags are hacked up as

well. I didn't see a bedroll." Beau stood and peered 'round at the

disarray and finally again at the man. "Why did they ransack your mill?

And rip off his clothes? And tear up the saddle and bags? What were

they searching for?"

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[versionhistory]AfellandancientsorceryhasthrustthekingdomssurroundingthemightyGrimwallmountainsintobattlewithfarcesofgreatevil.WhenTipandBeau,twoWarrowsfromthevillageofTwoforkstrytosaveamortallywoundedsoldier,theyinheritvitalmission.Thedyingswordsmangivesthemasimplecoppercoinandacrypticmessage:"Take...

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