Trail of the Huntress - Excerpt.

Although this excerpt from my novel 'Trail of the Huntress' (Published in the UK - summer 2001, but recently re-launched nationally across the UK with a fantastic new cover)feels like the beginning of a story, it is actually the start of Chapter 5. The piece is self explanatory, so without further ado...



Dusk always seemed to sneak up and settle early when Edovare was working on an intricate project. One minute he would be carefully grinding away at a brooch or a pendant with one of his tiny craftsman’s files, or delicately picking out a shape in a cuttlefish cast, and the next minute he seemed to find himself squinting in poor light as the day faded into night.

Gone were the days when Edovare could work into the late hours by the light of oil lamps and still produce faultless work. Years of straining his eyes on infinitesimally detailed silverwork had weakened his sight such that over recent years, he had resigned himself to working only when the light was at its best. Even gloomy days when the sun refused to show her face through the fog, or rain clouds darkened the skies, reduced him to preparing, casting and working only on simpler forms.

With a sigh Edovare put down the oval silver serving dish, around the edge of which he had been painstakingly engraving a series of dragons and firedrakes. It was a brilliant piece of work, worthy of his status as a Master Silversmith. Indeed, he would be sad when he had to hand it over to the Emperor’s Emissary. However, Edovare would value the money from this commission more, as it would bring him closer to retiring his tired eyes from their long hours of labour. His only hope was that the Emperor appreciated how cleverly the creatures had been depicted, chasing each other in an endless circle of frustrated battle lust.

There would not be many more works of such detail and vision from this smithy, he reflected sadly. None of his many apprentices over the last twenty years or so had shown the potential of true Master status and that still irked him. Had he been such a poor teacher? Or was it that he had failed to recognise a spark of talent because he had been too tied up in his own labour to appreciate that of his juniors? Whatever the reason, it was too late to worry about it now.

Outside, the street lamp fire boys were out with their ladders, their buckets of oil and their tapers. Already, several of the street lamps flickered their yellow glow into the shadowy half-light of the end of the day.

Rubbing his tired eyes, Edovare looked out of his wide front window and appreciated once more the outline of the almost silhouetted rolling landscape that filled the skyline. Having the smithy towards the top of the village where the main village street turned a corner to contour the hillside had always been a blessing to him. Apart from the fantastic view down the street and of the surrounding countryside, Edovare, or more often one of his less focused apprentices would frequently notice any expected customers coming up the hill. This gave Edovare a chance to find and present each customer’s finished commission in the best possible way when they entered the smithy.

With the practise of many years, the smith gathered his scattered gravers from around the worktable and slid each of them home into an open pocket in a rectangular leather roll. When all were stowed, he rolled up the leather and secured it with a tie before placing it into a nearby drawer.

Metal shavings and dust layered the table, the floor and virtually every other horizontal surface in the smithy.

‘Humpf! I really must get the apprentices to clean this place up one of these days,’ he muttered to himself as he took the silver plate over to his lock-up.

Opening the cunningly constructed cabinet, he took his customary few moments of pleasure in handling and studying his latest work, before carefully placing it in its pre-prepared space. Several other pieces lay inside the one haven of cleanliness in the otherwise filthy smithy, their total value enough to make any man sleep lightly for fear of burglars.

Not Edovare.

The cabinet had been without doubt the best investment of his long career, though it had cost him dearly. For the cabinet was protected against those who might wish to steal its contents by a magical spell. No axe could shatter the wood with which it was made and no pick could open the lock on its door. The only key that would open the cabinet was in Edovare’s possession, and the key would only open the lock if activated by speaking the rune of power to which it was tuned. The Magician who had traded the cabinet to Edovare had demanded a vast price, as much for the rune of power as for the cabinet itself, he felt. But the resulting security of his work had been worth every copper penny.

Edovare did not like magic, and for the most part he had refused to work on any magical items. There had been a couple of notable exceptions, but they had been a long time ago and Edovare preferred to try to forget about them.

Having locked the plate away, the Master Smith rolled his shoulders gently, trying to work the stiffness from his muscles. On an impulse he walked back for one last glance out of the front window before retiring up the stairs to his small quarters on the first floor. He grimaced slightly as muscle and bone popped and cracked in his joints as he stretched out after another day of cramped concentration. Tomorrow would see the plate completed with still more than a week to go before the Emperor’s Emissary was due. ‘Maybe I ought to use the time to get the place straight. Then the Emissary could be welcomed into the smithy without any embarrassment at the dirt and grime of the place,’ he thought, picking out a small, curly metal shaving that had lodged itself unnoticed until now under one of his finger nails.

‘Foolishness!’ he muttered, and then silently berated himself for his train of thought. The Emissary would undoubtedly have eyes only for the plate, he realised. He would probably stop no longer than the time it took to inspect the work thoroughly and to pay the commission. It was highly unlikely that he would accept any form of offered hospitality in a smithy like his, no matter how clean it was.

Looking out of his front window again, Edovare stared almost vacantly out at the evening vista for a few moments, as the final embers of the day faded into night. He was about to draw the shutters closed when a movement some way down the street caught his eye.

The street lights were all lit now and the dark figure of a traveller on a horse making his way slowly up the hill was visible even to Edovare’s weakened eyes. The sight of any traveller in Eastern Shandar these days was unusual, for the Emperor’s troops who were stationed in every town had orders to ‘strongly discourage’ any unnecessary roving, and they took their orders most seriously. No one travelled without good reason these days.

Some sixth sense told Edovare that this traveller was here to see him, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with the premonition. It could not be the Emperor’s Emissary this early. Besides, the Emissary would not come alone, but would have at least a token military escort. A customer then? If so, then he would have to be someone of importance to be able to travel the country freely. But if he had status, then why did he not have an escort?

Edovare’s mind tumbled over the alternatives, as the rider on his weary horse plodded slowly up the cobbled street towards him. He could hear the hoof falls of the great dark animal now as it slowly approached the smithy, its huge hooves clopping loudly against the smooth cobblestones.

The rider halted the horse outside the main door to the silversmith’s building, and wearily sweeping his long black cloak to one side he dismounted, landing heavily on his high-booted feet. Despite not being able to see the man clearly in the quarter light of late dusk, Edovare sensed that he should recognise this dark rider. With a feeling of trepidation that he could not quite justify in his mind, the old silversmith made his way to the front door just as the stranger knocked on it with three, slow, heavy thumps.

‘Who is it? The smithy is closed,’ Edovare called, unwilling to open the door.

‘Come now, Eddy. You should know better than that. Your doors are never closed to me, remember?’

‘Malek’s Anvil!’ Edovare muttered aghast. ‘One moment,’ he called back, and took a deep breath.

Hands shaking slightly, Edovare drew the bolts and lifted the bar that held the double doors firmly in place. There, standing in the doorway, was a figure that he had not thought to see again.



If you enjoyed this excerpt, you can see more of this story at www.markrobsonauthor.com