The Dragonslayer Series: Books 1-4: The Dragonslayer Series Box Set Page 3

  She gazed down in shame when she saw the shock register on Temple's face.

  "I don't understand," Temple said.

  "I acquired her on Tower Island."

  Temple's voice softened. "I thought that place was nothing but legend. Children's rhymes. I didn't think any of it was real."

  "It's real," the child seller said. "All of it is real."

  Several long moments passed. Astrid looked up out of sheer curiosity. Temple stared at her, and the child seller watched Temple like a hawk circling its next meal.

  "You understand she's strong," the child seller said. "You understand why she's special."

  Astrid met Temple's gaze. Finally, someone was interested in her. She could see it in his eyes.

  "Yes," Temple said. "I understand."

  * * *

  After the child seller left, Temple sat Astrid down and explained the rules.

  "Children should be heard, and never seen," Temple said. "That means stay inside the smithery—only blacksmiths allowed here."

  Astrid had wrapped herself back inside DiStephan's blanket, clutching the silver dragon pin in one hand. Temple still scared her, but she was happy when he told her to stay in the smithery. She didn't want to leave it. She didn't want people to see her.

  But she was confused about what he said about children being heard and not seen. She knew for a fact that not all children were locked out of sight in Guell. "I saw girls," Astrid said quietly. "With the butcher."

  Temple frowned in disapproval. "Some people let the little ones run about. But when they change, they're kept away, nice and proper."

  "Change?"

  Temple cleared his throat. He paced around the smithery, performing little tasks at the end of his work day—quelling the fire, cleaning his tools, putting them away. "Someday soon you will change from a girl into a woman. When that happens, when your body changes, you will change. You have to learn how to control yourself. But the most important thing you'll ever learn is how not to control others."

  Astrid watched the way he handled his tools with slow and methodical care. His attention to detail made her suspect he wouldn't mind her asking questions. Mustering her courage, Astrid said, "I don't understand."

  The blacksmith put his last hammer in its place. He walked toward Astrid. "I control how everyone sees me," he said. The blacksmith closed his eyes, concentrating for several seconds. His body lengthened, growing steadily taller until his head nearly touched the roof of the wooden canopy tented over the smithery. "Have you seen people change before?"

  Astrid nodded.

  "Did you know that you'll be able to change, too, when you're older?"

  Astrid shook her head. His words surprised her so much that she didn’t know if she should believe him.

  "I see.” The blacksmith looked at her thoughtfully while he returned his body to its normal, beefier form.

  Astrid pulled the blanket tighter around her as the blacksmith sank to one knee before her.

  "Give me your hand," Temple said firmly.

  Too afraid to disobey, Astrid extended her right hand from underneath the blanket. She was left handed. If Temple hurt her right hand, she'd still be able to work just fine.

  But Temple simply took her hand in his. He looked at her fingernails, chewed down to the quick. He traced the jagged scar across the back of her soft, small hand. He closed his eyes again, stroking her skin.

  Astrid stared in wide-eyed wonder as the jagged scar dissolved, disappearing from the back of her hand, leaving her skin smooth and perfect.

  "Have you ever seen anyone do this?” Temple held her hand.

  "No!” Astrid kept staring at her hand, suddenly beautiful. "Can you do this again? To all of me?"

  "Yes.” But Temple let go, and the jagged scar rose on the back of her hand once again.

  Ashamed, Astrid jerked her hand back under the blanket where she could keep it safe and hidden.

  "You must obey the rules of Guell," Temple said. "When you become a woman, your body will change. That change will give you the power to change your appearance in any way you like—you are allowed this. You will also have the power to change anyone you see in any way you like—you are not allowed this. You must control your thoughts to prevent changing other people.

  "Understand: what you think and believe is what you will see. What you think and believe is what everyone will see."

  "It isn't fair! I want to change now!” Astrid cried. She knew her outburst was wrong and dangerous, but she couldn't keep her feelings at bay. "Why won't you change me?"

  "You can change yourself, but it's wrong for me or anyone else to change you. Just as it's wrong for you to change anyone else."

  Astrid cried harder. "I don't care what's right! I want you to change me!"

  "And what if I changed you in some way you didn't like?” Temple rose, standing firm. "What if I changed you into something I wanted you to look like—instead of changing you into what you want? Then would you care what's right?"

  Astrid closed the blanket around her, shaking harder every moment as she wept. "I don't care about anything."

  He pulled the blanket away.

  Astrid lunged and caught an edge, before the blanket slipped entirely from her grasp.

  But the blacksmith yanked the blanket from her in one swift move. He threw it atop the still-bright coals of his fire pan.

  Astrid screamed.

  Temple stirred the coals and the blanket caught fire.

  Astrid flung herself toward the burning blanket, not caring if she caught on fire, too. The blanket had become her world, her safe place. She couldn't bear to exist without it.

  Temple knelt between the fire pan and Astrid, catching her by the shoulders. "Let it burn."

  Astrid wailed, struggling to get free, struggling to get past him.

  But the blacksmith was too strong. He wouldn't let go of her, no matter how wretched her sobs, no matter how blood-curdling her screams.

  While Astrid watched DiStephan's blanket dissolve into cinders, she lost hope and stopped struggling.

  Temple kept a firm grip on her shoulders. "Look at me."

  She felt broken. She had no reason to resist or disobey. Astrid raised her gaze to meet his.

  "Tell me your name."

  "Astrid."

  He tightened his grip. "Listen to me, Astrid. You belong to me. See how easily your blanket burned? I will not have you endanger yourself or me or my work. Understand?"

  Even though she didn't, Astrid nodded anyway.

  Temple looked into her eyes. "Your duty is to do as I say. You will keep this smithery in top shape. You will stay here, and no one other than me will see you until you come of age and decide who you are."

  His words startled Astrid, but she didn't want to admit it.

  "Once you decide who you are," Temple said, "you will be able to stand up inside your own skin."

  Astrid frowned, sniffing back her tears. "What does that mean?"

  Temple mulled her question over for a moment. "If you work hard, you can be a blacksmith someday. That means you will take a bloom of iron—a piece of iron mined out of the northern bogs and then smelted—and make it into something useful and good. I will teach you how to heat the iron and hammer it. Life is like smiting iron. Right now you are a blossom of iron. But you can make yourself into something good and useful. Understand?"

  Astrid shook her head. "No."

  Temple sighed. "Maybe one day you will."

  She screwed up the courage to ask one more question. "Does this mean you aren't going to kill me?"

  Temple's face hardened and Astrid regretted her words.

  Letting go of her shoulders, Temple stood and turned to the glowing coals on the forge table. He kept his back to her while he shoveled the coals into a bucket where they could die safely. "You're my property now. Would I destroy my anvil? My tools? No man in his right mind destroys his own property."

  Astrid looked around the smithery, dim in the fading light of
dusk. The smithery reeked of smoke. Astrid noticed smoky black smears on her clothes from where the blacksmith had gripped her shoulders. His face, arms, and hands were covered in smoky grime.

  But the anvil and dozens of hammers and other tools were clean and well kept.

  When Temple spoke again, his voice sounded even more gruff and coarse, as if he were choking. "Sleep here tonight.” He abruptly walked out of the smithery. Astrid thought she saw tears in his eyes.

  The smoke. It stings your eyes and makes them water.

  She explored every corner of the smithery, wondering where she should sleep.

  She heard him enter his cottage, adjacent to the smithery. Although it was made of stone walls, Astrid thought she heard him crying.

  But it had to be a trick of sounds: it could have been a pot scraping against a stone hearth, or doves nesting in the roof, or the cottage settling itself to sleep.

  Temple the blacksmith was a stern and serious man. A man like that would never cry.

  Astrid ran her hands across the top of the anvil. Its hard iron surface felt smooth and polished. It felt good against her skin. It felt so good that Astrid couldn't help but put her arms around the anvil and press her face against its lovely, stone cold texture.

  The gods had finally been kind to her. Astrid decided that from this moment on, she'd work as hard as she could. She'd become the best blacksmith.

  If she were a blacksmith, she could make her own way in the world. She'd never need anyone or anything other than herself and her hands and the tools she'd make. Everyone needed a good blacksmith—she'd never be trapped or shackled again.

  She'd be free.

  That night, and the following nights until Temple made a place for Astrid inside his cottage, she slept beside the anvil. Sometimes she slept well, and sometimes she woke up screaming from nightmares about the man from the bad place.

  The man with the lavender eyes.

  PART 2: THE CHARACTER OF IRON

  The most important day in Astrid's life was the day Temple taught her how to make a dragonslayer's sword.

  That day came ten years after he bought her from the child seller.

  "Fire," Temple said as he cleaned old coals from the remains of yesterday's fire, "is everything."

  Now an 18-year-old apprentice, Astrid knew metal would heat up fast: the moment iron changed its glow from warm orange to hot yellow, the hammer could mold it like Mauri's fingers on damp clay.

  It was here in the smithery that Astrid had decided how to change her shape. Inspired by smoke, she'd chosen to make her skin brown. She'd made her eyes and hair as dark as coal.

  Most important, she'd changed her skin so it was perfect and smooth. Once she'd become old enough to control her body, Astrid made the scars criss-crossing her skin disappear. No one in Guell, other than Temple, had ever seen them.

  She kept her long, straight hair tied back, safe from the fire. Likewise, her leather vest protected her from fire sparks, and leather gloves protected her hands from hot iron.

  Astrid breathed in the comforting, smoky odor of the smithery. Black dust clouds rose around Temple's hands while he prepared today's fire at the forge table, the surface of a large hearth. He'd use its entire length to make a trench fire, a long and narrow bed of coals and flame.

  Yesterday DiStephan had lost his last sword when a dragon ran off with it embedded in its tail. It was the third sword he'd lost to a dragon in the past week. All he had left were a few axes and daggers, which would do him little good against a dragon.

  Excited and ready to learn, Astrid understood the technique for making a dragonslayer's sword to be a secret well guarded by the few blacksmiths who knew it.

  Her heart pounded with pride, touched by Temple's trust and faith in her.

  Temple lit the kindling he'd arranged. He pumped the bellows to force air through the fire. At his command, Astrid shoveled coal onto the flames, smothering them. When Temple pumped the bellows, a stream of brown smoke rose through the coals.

  For years, Astrid had done little more than carry water to keep the quenching barrels full. In the beginning, it had been no easy task, because each barrel stood nearly as tall as Astrid when she was little. At the end of every day, she'd sweep the anvil clean of slag, the gray flakes that magically emerged from the iron when hammered.

  The brown smoke became white, rolling across the coals like morning fog. Yellow flames, tinged with blue, shot up angrily between some of the coals, as if the fire had been awakened against its will. One small spot caught fire while the rest of the coals smoldered. Tiny sparks floated past Astrid, some stinging her skin like biting flies.

  "That's good," Temple said. His brow beaded with sweat. "Put more coals on it."

  She gave her full attention to the coals as Temple walked away. But the sound of clattering metal and Temple's sudden cry startled her.

  Astrid turned to see him hunched over his anvil, his back turned to her.

  "Sir?"

  "Shouldn't have left my hammer on the anvil face," Temple said, cradling his right hand. "Shouldn't have knocked it off. Shouldn't have tried to catch it."

  Astrid saw his largest hammer on the floor. It must have slammed his hand against the tree stump on which the anvil was attached. For a moment, she was too stunned by Temple's red and swelling hand to register the reality of it.

  Temple plunged his injured hand into the cool water in the quenching barrel. "I think I broke something."

  "What are we to do?" Astrid said nervously. "DiStephan found fresh dragon tracks yesterday. He needs a new sword."

  It would be impossible for Temple to make a sword now. His injured hand wasn't strong enough to use a hammer.

  "My hand's good enough to work the bellows.” Temple pulled his hand from the quenching barrel, and then wrapped it in his handkerchief. "Get your hammer."

  "My hammer?” Astrid had been making her own tools for a year now. Her hammers were lighter than Temple's and the handles shorter. When she'd first learned to hammer, Astrid discovered she could control her actions better and get more power to her blows by holding the handle close to the hammer head. Even though she’d grown stronger, she'd never outgrown the habit.

  Temple's mouth twitched, the way it always did when he was amused and didn't want anyone see him give in to the luxury of a smile. "Astrid. Until you get your hammer, how else can you make a sword? With your bare hands?"

  "Yes, Sir," Astrid said but then realized she'd given the wrong answer as Temple raised a questioning eyebrow. "I mean, no, Sir—I'll get my hammer."

  Her heart raced, but she'd learned to think about iron at times like this, to pretend she was like the iron. Cold and hard and strong.

  Blacksmiths didn't cry, even when they found themselves filled with unexpected joy.

  Temple caught Astrid wiping her eyes with the back of her coal-smudged hand when she walked past the fire. "Astrid!"

  "It's nothing, sir," she said, reaching for her hammer. "Just smoke."

  She turned in time to see him smile.

  What if I can't do it? What if I'm not good enough or strong enough?

  Again, she thought of the iron. Temple had taught her about the inherit strengths and weaknesses of metal. He'd taught her it was impossible to know the character of any given piece of iron until you began to hammer and work it into shape, because the nature of metal could be as unreliable as the nature of people.

  Often, it wasn't until after the finished piece had been used that its true nature was revealed. A newly smithed knife might bend at first use or it might cut straight and true.

  It was a test of character.

  "Get one of the billets," Temple said. Days ago, when DiStephan had lost his first sword, Temple had hammered blooms of iron, round lumps of metal, into long narrow rods, no thicker than Astrid's littlest finger. Those were the billets that would form the heart and soul of the dragonslayer's sword.

  "Yes, Sir.” Astrid approached the forging table with a billet in one hand a
nd her hammer in the other.

  The weight of the village's survival rested on her shoulders, and she wanted to be strong enough to bear that weight.

  She shoved the billet into the fire and waited for it to glow orange.

  What Astrid couldn't imagine was how the skills she learned today would shape the rest of her life.

  She shifted the weight of the hammer in her hand, ready to smite iron.

  CHAPTER 4

  Astrid hammered a new dagger blade into shape on her anvil.

  Nothing felt right today. She didn't like the way the iron responded when she struck it; instead of molding into the shape she desired, the metal was obstinate and pushed itself into unwanted directions. Her favorite hammer felt too heavy one moment and too light the next. Even the fire seemed all wrong. No matter what Astrid tried, the heat acted uneven and contrary in its bed of coals.

  She wore baggy trousers gathered at her knees, goatskin shoes tied at the ankle, and a leather vest with large armholes to let her move freely. An abrupt wind rustled through the birch trees then blew past Astrid, blasting the forge's heat over her bare skin, singeing the fine hairs on her forearms.

  Startled, she lost her grip on the tongs, and the dagger blade clattered off the anvil. Letting her anger get the better of her, Astrid swiped the half-formed dagger from the smithery floor with her tongs. She buried it deep into the glowing coals.

  She'd show that stupid piece of iron! If it was going to cool off so fast, she'd heat it longer to make it hotter.

  She pumped the bellows hard, too hard.

  Eight months had passed since DiStephan had disappeared. Everyone in Guell assumed he'd been devoured by the same dragon that had killed Natalia, the butcher's daughter.

  Only Astrid knew the truth, and she'd kept it to herself all this time, hoping DiStephan would come back today or tomorrow or the day after.

  She felt happy as a blacksmith, and she loved her work. But during the past eight months she had come to realize how much she loved DiStephan. Her life was empty and lonely without him.