Truthstone

Far, far away in a hot and arid land, the High Grand Vizier Al Zaric was growing impatient. He stalked down the great hall. The fabric of his cloak dragged along the blood-red rug as though unwilling to follow. Two young slaves jumped and ran to haul open the carved doors. Al Zaric tugged his cloak behind him as he passed through. He headed straight for the winding staircase and descended the black marble stairs. Inside the polished surface a reflection of the underside of the Grand Vizier was pooling and shifting. On top of the marble, his left side kept the wall, his right faced the gaping maw of the open stair well. Step by step he went down, farther and farther, trailing his left hand on the stair-rail. His fingernails were dun, dull and long – looking more like you’d expect to find on a corpse than a living being. A soft screech flailed in the air behind him as those nails scraped down the banister.

The staircase was lit by the flickering glow of torches. As he approached, the flaming sconces threw his shadow before him. As he passed under, his shadow slid beneath his feet and then stretched out behind him. At the bottom of the thirteenth step he paused for a moment on a small landing space. One shadow pointed the way down, hugging the line of smooth dark stairs like spilled black paint; behind him another shadow fled in fear, back the way it had come.

Eleven more times he descended a flight of stairs. Each flight had a tightened arc and he paused at the bottom of the twelfth flight. The last thirteen steps were almost vertical. They looked like a black column of smoke rising up from a fire-red floor.

Al Zaric stood for a moment, surveying the scene beneath him. He was in a cavernous chamber, lit in the centre by a huge forge-fire. The flames threw shadows that scattered to the far reaches of the room. Other shadows lived there too. Those were the shadows of the weary slaves who toiled to work the great machinery. The shadows of the slaves ran along the floor, and when they could run no more they fled up the hot rock walls.

Al Zaric stood for a moment, letting the sounds filter in his ears. From far off he could hear rock crying out as it was bashed and chipped. The slow, heavy blows from the bronze hammers were punctuated with the piercing clinks of the sharp picks. The High Grand Vizier stood too far away to hear the grunts of the slave workers who wielded the tools.

This was the heart of the forge where Soradin’s Steel was formed from raw iron ore. A bucket large enough to hold five slaves was suspended over the flames of a huge, hungry fire. At the base of the fire-pit, slaves worked the draught bellows in pairs.

Al Zaric stood for a moment, looking into the cauldron. His lips threatened to smile when he saw that the contents were molten. The men that were used to turn the crank handles hurried to work the pulleys holding the bucket. It was swung away from the flames.

As it was poured into clay boxes, Al Zaric’s voice boomed out the ritual prayer.

“From ash and ore and fire and toil, we make our swords for Soradin

With fire to live and life to spoil we make our wars to praise His name.”

When the air had stopped ringing with the grating sound of the vizier’s voice, the clay boxes were taken away to an oven to be kept hot for thirteen days. At the end of that time Soradin’s Steel would be ready for making into weapons.

Al Zaric descended the last thirteen steps. At the foot of the stairs he turned his attention to the bellows workers. He glowered in their direction and then crooked one finger, beckoning them forward.

The two young slave boys looked at each other. What had they done? All day they worked until their muscles could move no more. And having witnessed the fate of those who dared complain, they ate their meagre rations without a grumble.

The High Grand Vizier tapped his foot.

As one, the boys stepped forward. Slowly, one foot inching forward, then the other inching to catch up. One boy watched his own feet, as though he would never see them again. The other lifted his chin, but had to work hard to stop it from trembling. He blinked many times but he looked ahead. He focussed on his master’s cloak. The cloth rippled on an unseen draught, moving as if it wished to be somewhere else. It looked like it was stitched from the skins of stillborn puppies.

“You two.” If a frog could talk it would sound like that. “I see you have become friends.”

No reply was given.

“Is he your friend?” Zaric asked the boy with the head held high.

The boy started to tremble. His head may have nodded yes, or it may have shook no. Whichever was the right answer he hoped he had made it.

“You must both be thirsty after your work.” The croaking voice sounded almost gleeful.

Al Zaric reached into the folds of his cloak and produced two identical vials. “Look carefully little thirsty friend. One contains poison, death-in-a-bottle. The other is water. Which will you give your friend to drink?” He paused, allowing the boy to mull over his choice.

The boy started to moan softly. He stared at the two stoppered bottles. Both contained a clear liquid; both looked the same. The boy worked his mouth open and shut as he stared from one to the other.

Al Zaric smiled a fatherly smile. “Let me help you. This one,” he held up his left hand, “holds the water.” Then, as an afterthought he said, “Choose, one for your friend–the other for yourself.”

Water for me–or water for him. Life or death. Life for me–or life for my friend. I couldn’t live if I chose him to die. But ….

The boy’s thoughts see-sawed back and forth. His friend looked up from his feet and the two stared at each other. The first boy was remembering the times they shared; working, sweating, helping each other. By night they would be thirsty and tired but they would whisper stories to themselves. Stories that told of green fields and rain and a time before the forge. And their bodies were too dry for tears, but sometimes a tear or two would escape anyway.

The boy gulped hard then said, “Give the water to my friend.”

The other boy looked up then and shook his head. “I can’t take it.”

“You must.” Al Zaric sounded sympathetic. “Here.” He held out his left hand to the second boy.

This boy almost dropped the glass as it was passed to him. His hands were shaking so much he could hardly remove the stopper. Through glittering eyes he watched his friend as he raised the glass bottle to his lips. He drank.

The liquid burned on his tongue and exploded in his insides almost instantly. He doubled over in agony as he fell to the ground. The skin of his lips was already blistering. He began coughing up gobs of blood as he writhed on the floor.

The first boy gasped. He turned to Al Zaric and his eyes glazed with hatred. But he pulled his eyes away and bent over his friend, weeping precious tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cried.

Al Zaric stood for a moment. Time stretched out while he gazed fondly at the pair. His words relished a smile. “It must be your lucky day.” He plucked the live boy away from the dying one. “Now you must drink this one. We can’t have your friend dying for nothing.”

The boy shook his head and sobbed.

“Drink.” Zaric growled the order.

With a shaking hand this boy raised the little bottle and swallowed.

Within moments he was writhing on the floor beside his newly-dead friend.

“Put them in the cauldron.” Zaric ordered.

Yes, he allowed himself a half-smile. They’ll make strong steel, those two. This might be a good day yet.

The High Grand Vizier snapped his fingers in a downward line in front of him. He vanished. Instantly, he was back in his great hall and striding up the blood-red carpet toward the dais and his black crystal ball.

Placing both hands on the orb he let its coldness creep into him. He stared into its depths and waited for it to reveal its secrets.

He puzzled at the image of the boy within.