The Pillar of Fire

Chapter 2 - Prisoner to Steel

The Pillar of Fire
Book One in the Ashwar Chronicles

Chapter 1
New Beginnings

The door to the Blacksmith’s creaked shut behind Orek as he stepped inside, throwing off his hood and brushing snow and ice from his short black hair. Waves of heat washed over him, wafting from a crackling hearth in the corner.

The workshop was a large room kept considerably clean, with walls lined from corner to corner with a plethora of swords and other weapons.

The smith, Orek’s master, was a man by the name of Morey Savage. He was a plump little man with mousy brown hair and rosy cheeks. He currently sat slumped over in a chair near the foundry, holding a pair of red-hot tongs loosely in his hands.

Orek walked over and confiscated them, dousing them in a bucket of water, then using the water to douse the coals within the forge. Then, he turned around to go to his room, and found himself almost face to face with an old man. He wore a broad grin, and Orek soon grinned back, despite the initial shock.

“So how was the delivery m’boy?” the man asked, running his fingers through his long, silver beard, which fell to his collarbone. At his side, he held an ebony walking stick and curious looking wooden box. It was thin, and crafted of polished mahogany.

“Cold,” Orek answered, and then smiled when the old man rolled his eyes. “It went fine, Archimedes.”

“That’s good to know. I never agreed with Savage sending you out there into the mountains in the first place.”

“Whatever you say,” Orek replied, though he disagreed with him, then went about trying to move Master Morey from his chair to his hammock, which lay far off to the side of the room. It took him a couple of moments, but he finally managed it and stood up panting from exertion. “So why’d you come in the first place?”

“I’ve got something for you,” Archimedes answered. He held the box out for Orek, who stared at it for a moment, then took it. The wood was polished mahogany and he could see a bit of his reflection in it. It was inlaid with patterns of gold filigree depicting a fanciful scene of sorts. His hand went slowly to the latch, which flicked open almost on touch, and he slowly lifted the lid.

Inside, atop a frame of red velvet, was a beautifully crafted scimitar. Its blade had a gentle curve, running down only one side of the sword. It was long, about the length of Orek’s arm, from shoulder to wrist. The handle was black leather, with two adjoining silver bands winding up it, meeting at the very top of the hilt. The pommel of the sword was carved into a serpent’s head, with eyes of emerald. The center of the cross-guard bore a simple crest.

Orek picked up the blade, which was surprisingly light. The grip seemed to meld to his hands, conforming perfectly to their curves. He wondered why Archimedes had given it to him, of all people: An orphan, who had no family to speak of.

He swung it once or twice. It was incredibly light. Almost as light as his knife, but with a little more momentum.

“Something else for you as well,” Archimedes said, and dug his hand into his robes, pulling out a tattered and torn envelope. Orek took this—setting down the sword first— and easily tore it open. A ring slid out and into his palm; at first glance he thought it silver, but closer inspection revealed it as platinum. He turned it over and over in his hands, the dim firelight giving it a warm glow.

“This is too much, Archimedes. What would make you give away something so grand?”

“It’s yours… by inheritance. As is that sword.”

“What?” Orek asked, confused.

“I mean they belonged to your father.”

Orek glanced down at the gifts, very aware that his lip had begun to curl in contempt. “Then I don’t want them,” he said stubbornly.

“He’s not who you think he is. We’ve been through this bef --”

“Well who is he then,” Orek interrupted. “What kind of father would go and get himself killed, leaving his wife to commit suicide and is son to grow up an orphan.”

“He wasn’t perfect, Orek. He made mistakes, but that doesn’t diminish what he did.”

“What could he do that held greater value to him than his family?”

"You say that with all the ignorance of seventeen years. He spent his entire life wishing he could be there for you, my boy, and all you seem to see is your own narrow perspective."

The contempt on Orek's face lessened a bit, and his insides squirmed from the wizard's last statement, but remained unswayed. "I don't see how that redeems him," Orek said. The air of cold and unfeeling calm that lay over those words shocked even him.

Archimedes just stared, his eyes clamping upon Orek's conciousness like a vise.

“You are a fool if you believe that,” the old man said, his voice low and powerful. He brandished the long ebony staff, holding it in the air with one hand. For a moment there was nothing but silence and the black stave wavered a bit. Then, suddenly, he yelled, “SPEAK, RASHEDA!”

A clamorous roar tore across the room, and rays brilliant light shot forth from the scimitar, which Orek gripped tightly. The handle was searing hot and he could feel the flesh on his palm begin to burn. He could not, however, bring himself to let it go.

Something stirred within him, making his stomach turn nauseatingly. Orek’s eyes widened, and with a sudden lurch he fell to his hands and knees. He retched, tasting bile in the back of his throat. Through narrowed vision, he could see the sword, still clasped in his right hand.

He collapsed, slipping slowly into unconsciousness. His last fleeting sight was of Archimedes limping wearily over to him. Then, he was gone.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

The being that stood before Orek was beyond anything he had seen before. Its body was shadow, dark and void, but wreathed in flame along its edges. It had no distinguishable features, apart from its two glaring red eyes, and the shadowy forms of bat wings. It was bound in golden shackles, and chained to two massive pillars of stone.

“Zain… is that you?” It asked, breaking the silence that had up until now not permeated the grand hall. Its voice was a deep rumble that made Orek’s heart pound within his rib cage. “Answer me. I long for your company.”

“No… It’s not,” Orek answered, his voice trembling. He longed to run away, to wake up, for he knew this must be a dream. His feet, however, remained rooted on the spot. “I am his son.”

“His son you say. You must have been the one who laid his hands upon me earlier.” The being paused and bent lower to examine Orek, coming frightfully close. “Yes, you’re Zain’s. I can smell it.” Its voice sounded satisfied with this.

“What are you?” Orek asked, as the thing stood straight again, tugging a little on its shackles.

It chuckled, which sounded more like a roar as it echoed within the great hall that they stood in. “Must you ask everything the same as your father? No, pardon me for not introducing myself earlier. I am Rasheda, a noble and powerful god, who has been imprisoned within this rat hole of a sword.” He gave a mighty tug upon his bonds, but they still did not come loose.

“Within my sword? How?”

“A long time ago, and in ways that your puny mortal brain cannot quite understand. Think hard. If I were in any other sword, how could you possibly contact me?”

“So you’re not imaginary?”

“NO! I’m as real as you. Get used to it, my boy.” It laughed again, making Orek's heart beat wildly against his rib cage.