Story #316 - Black Smoke

Black Smoke

Black smoke from the city told Garrin Tor the king was dead. For three days he and the other defenders had been pressed at every turn, desperate to keep the Servants of Awl away from the walls and out of the streets. No matter how hard they fought or how many they killed, more streamed in from the river - it took Master Orran scrying for the better part of a day to discover that summoning portals were what the gaping-mawed beasts had been pouring through.

Garrin dove under the swing of another monster and then hefted the imbued axe that Orran had given him at the city gates. Attacking the portals had been a necessity, but there was little question that those who undertook the mission had only the slightest chance of survival. Volunteering had been his only choice - one man was as nothing unless he wore the crown.

Despair tore at him as the realization of that crown's defeat came crashing down. Even should the city stand it would be without its greatest leader - who could possibly replace the King?

A scream to his right pulled Garrin's attention from the portal. Beset by six of the hideous servants, Sir Tomas was laying about with his broad head axe, eyes wide and teeth bared. Clearly he too had seen the cuing smoke that signaled their failure, but refused to let it lay him low. Garrin felt a surge of shame - Tomas was the captain of the King’s guards for a reason, and aside from his prowess in combat he had always possesed an indomitable will, one that hadn’t made him any friends within Rennor’s shining walls but made him an implacable figure of stalwart authority. Raising the axe in his fist, Garrin bellowed out a challenge as well – if Tomas wouldn’t yield, neither would he.

Only moments passed and the last of the beasts facing the blond-haired captain were down. Charging forward, Garrin swung his pulsing blue weapon at anything that moved, hacking and slashing his way through ranks of Servants to reach their portal. With a mighty heave he cast the axe into its swirling blue fire, and just as Orran had promised it collapsed in on itself, the Servants around it howling as they did the same.

“We did it, Sir Tomas!” Garrin called, but there was no answer from the burly guard captain. Turning, he saw an armored figure running hard away, blond hair streaming and chunks of plated steel coming off with every other step.

“I’m free!” Tomas bellowed. “He’s dead! I’m finally free!”

Garrin felt fear rise in his chest – one portal was down but three others still stood, each pouring out twisted beasts to scour the landscape – the other squads had not been so successful. A pack of Servants advanced on Garrin and he drew his short sword, but for every claw swipe he turned another made it through and soon he was wavering, desperately trying to stay on his feet. Blurred visions of mounted men filled his eyes before the world went black.

***

The blacksmith certainly didn’t look anything like the man Garrin remembered, but that was also true of the man he saw when he looked in the mirror. Only timely intervention by the cavalry band and the quick action of Orran had saved his life after being swarmed under by Servants, and both his nose and jaw had never been the same. Once healed Garrin found staying in the city too painful to bear and was consumed by a singular desire that drove him into the countryside – find and punish Tomas.

“Sir Tomas.” There was no point in being coy – whispers and rumors had led him this far and despite the man’s short dark hair and easy smile, Garrin was certain he’d found the focus of his years-long search.

“I’m beggin’ yer pardon?” The big man looked up but his hands continued to move over the piece of iron he held. “Topin’s the name – blacksmith here.”

“Blacksmith for the last ten months, or so I hear.” Garrin shot back. “No one in town seems to know where you came from or anything about you beyond the fact you work with metal.” He took a step closer to the large man, hoping to find some telltale sign of Tomas’ identity.

“I’ma private man – problem, yer lordship?” The speech was all wrong – that much was for certain. No peasant spoke so strangely.

“I’m not a Lord, Tomas – you know that. My name is Garrin, and you abandoned me outside of Rennor the day of the King’s death.” There was a hint of movement from the larger man, a recoiling from his tool bench that Garrin could easily see. “Does my mentioning the King bother you, Tomas?” The flinch came again, more pronounced.

“Why did you abandon your post? Why did you leave me to die? What kind of man are you?!”

“I’m free!” Tomas roared, knocking his iron to the floor and throwing both arms into the air. “Free to do as I please and I don’t need you here ruining it, Garrin – what do you want?”

“To know why!”

Tomas sighed, body deflating as his anger ran out. “What did you really know about the King, Garrin?” He said with a grimace.

“I knew enough,” Garrin bit off the words. “He spoke to me only once, but his leadership – his compassion – were unquestioned. Rennor had never seen a better ruler.”

“No,” Tomas said softly, “though that’s what he wanted you to think. The Servants attacked Rennor because the King refused to honor his end of the bargain with Awl – a bargain that put him on the throne and gave him a contingent of palace guards bound by tainted blood oaths.”

“You!” Garrin hissed. “This is all your fault.”

“Believe as you wish, Garrin,” Tomas bowed his head. “Kill me or let me go – it does not matter. You now know the truth; Rennor’s king was in league with the very beasts that sacked its walls, and held us all captive.”


- D