Chapter Twelve
When the boys returned to the village with their kill, they stopped at the headman's hut and presented him with the tongue. Tarn went to Dennen's hut and gave him his half of the liver. To Korub he allotted and a tender section of filet, and to the Shaman one kidney, but it was the best portion that he saved for Marta and Shaurii―the tripe.
Inside the intestines lay the partially digested, sweet-tasting vegetation the deer had fed on. This part of the kill was coveted by most, though the headman had an unholy allegiance to deer tongue, claimed his wife, who was not permitted to even build the smokehouse fire. It was something of an ongoing village quest to learn which wood and in what proportions the headman used the wood to cure his favourite cut. Some said applewood comprised the main fuel, while others swore it was young hickory in the main, and that old apple wood was only to accent. The shaman swore that the addition of wild garlic and red peppercorns gave the meat its distinctive flavour. Whatever the truth of the matter might be, one thing was certain, no entered the headman's smokehouse except the headman.
Never had Tarn felt prouder than when he brought Marta and Shaurii their favourite potion. Marta accepted the tribute while lavishly praising his skill and the quality of the meat. One of the few times in a very long while, she wholeheartedly meant every single word.
The following morning, Tarn held out his bowl for more porridge; he received a meat strip in its stead. Shaurii burst out laughing, knocking over her own bowl as she attempted not to fall over in great fits of joy. In response to the grim scowl Tarn bestowed his sister, she scooped up a handful of spilled porridge and flung it across the fire. It smeared along his jawline, dripping onto his vest. His bellowing mirth joined Shaurii's. Marta's stern glance at both individuals resulted in Tarn and Shaurii sharing a knowing nod. And though Marta had deciphered their intent, she was not quick enough to vocalise an objection before two handfuls of porridge exploded upon her chest.
"Show some respect for your elders, young scamps," Marta exclaimed loading each hand with porridge.
All too soon from the children's perspective, the fuel was exhausted, and each wore sticky blobs of porridge. Shaurii was relegated to clean up while Tarn departed the hut to take his morning bath and to fetch water, lots of water. On his way out the door, Marta and Shaurii took turns describing the look on his face when the meat strip was handed to him. Fresh laughter accompanied each new telling. Each accounting was more ridiculous than the last. Tarn cursed all women in general, and two in particular on his way to the spring, smiling brightly as he remembered Marta's expression when two porridge blobs landed as one.
* * * * * * *
Now that Tarn had passed the first rite of passage into manhood, he became eligible to join the other youths in weapons training. The first lesson imparted was tumbling. That was a disappointment, he thought to himself. Tumbling was not sword lessons. Of what use was it to a warrior?
He stood among the circle of youths listening to Balmok extol the virtues of falling correctly while his mind wandered back to the hunt. With enough hides, he might purchase the beginnings of his own herd. So engrossed was Tarn in his own dreams and aspirations that he failed to notice that Balmok had stopped talking and everyone looked expectantly at him.
"Tarn, come forth."
Snapped out of his reverie by Balmok's voice, Tarn walked into the circle of youths. When he stood in front of the instructor, Balmok held out his forearm in greeting. Tarn raised his won had to acknowledge the greeting and found himself flying through the air over Balmok's hip to land hard on his back, staring up at the smiling face of his instructor.
"Lesson one, never trust thy opponent and always be ready. Make no mistake, thy life will depend on these truths." Balmok offered his arm to help him up. Tarn scowled and rose on his own. "Ye be learning lad, now see if you can pay attention as well. To the rest of you, pair up, and watch how the hip throw is done again."
Balmok nodded to Tarn to take his place in front of him. Their group spent the rest of the session practising. When Tarn returned for the afternoon lesson, he watched attentively while Balmok was thrown, and landed rolling to regain his feet in one fluid movement. Balmok then showed them how to reverse the throw so their opponent lay on the ground. Somewhat ruefully, Tarn admitted there was much more to falling than he had first imagined. By the end of the second lesson, he was bruised and sore.
* * * * * * *
The next five winters passed without incident. Shaurii grew into a mature woman, winning bride theft overtures from suitors on the Green Butte and Rock Spear clans during the great summer gathering last year. If not for Marta's failing health, she might well have married, but it was Asgard's custom for the wife to live in the husband's village. While it was not unheard of, women did not often marry within small villages; small villages felt too much like an extended family. Though, in truth, no man, either from their village or outside of it, had intrigued her eye or captured her heart.
Tarn apprenticed at the forge under Korub, the village smith, where the robust physique he had inherited from his father served him well. Korub worked Tarn hard, pushing him until he swung the eighteen-pound hammer tirelessly. The gruelling work produced thick cords of muscles nearly as hard as the iron he worked. The years Tarn spend foraging the mountainside for coal, for elusive game, and tending the herds, strengthened his legs to oak tree proportions.
He grew as agile as a mountain goat and as strong as a steer. Yet for all of his strength and quickness, he remained a villager, not a warrior, and not yet a craftsman. To be recognised as a full-fledged blacksmith meant passing examinations administered by Korub, and though Tarn was well on his way to acquiring junior smith status, his heart was not in it, no matter how deeply Korub hoped his young apprentice would relinquish his determination to fulfil a boyhood promise. Korub, like most other White Steppe members who had witnessed the Firelach, now doubted what they had seen and heard. The event had become nearly mythological, a fairy tale borne out of superstition, the convergence of northern lights and a full moon whose silvery light was well-known to create false shadow and alter minds. Common consensus wondered why anyone would willingly choose to leave Asgard.
Asgard believed the true quality of a warrior's mettle could only be determined on the battlefield. The battlefield, it was said, exacted its own tests. Only when a person confronted life and death, when everything non-essential to survival was stripped away, then, and only then, could the warrior soul be exposed for judgement. Much to Tarn's dismay, the last few years had proven warless. He remained unblooded. Unproven. Hoping only as a youth can for a conflict in which to test himself.
He stilled hauled water, but now he carried a wooden bucket in each hand as if they weighed nothing at all. Tarn no longer gathered nuts and berries. Instead, he stalked deer, wild prong horned cattle, snow leopard, boar, and the mysterious timber wolf, whose forlorn midnight howls sang of brotherhood. Few hunters brought in more meat than Tarn, and none braved the wily, and venomous, snow leopard alone.
Upon occasion, when seated before a small and smokeless fire, under a night sky whose twinkling stars he could almost reach out the touch, the geis of a deathbed oath weighted his breast and captured his thoughts. All of his life Tarn knew that he would one day leave Asgard to fulfil his promise to his father. One day he would return to the site of Atlantis' destruction to search for Kalen's Sword and the Song of Steel Scroll. One day he would hunt the raiders who killed his father. Until that day arrived, Tarn remembered his oath to Marta to supply meat and protection. Until that day dawned, he trained zealously with sword and spear as though raiders stood in front of him, and not a village instructor.
* * * * * * *
The snow crawled down the mountains, extending into the valley far below and beyond Asgard's border. The snow had come early this winter and showed no evidence of retreating. Tarn's sampled the air unconsciously as he jogged over to the forge. The air tasted like crisp rain. The temperature would soon drop, he thought to himself. Korub awaited his arrival and told him to bring the anvil into the A-frame forge-hut. With the first snowfall of each new winter, Korub worked his trade under the A-frame roof, but come spring, he enjoyed working under the sun whose light, he said, was the only light capable of revealing flaws. Never had Tarn moved the anvil more than a few inches. Never had he lifted it out of its cradle. A blacksmith possessed a mastery over all of his tools, anvil included.
Tarn grunted his reply and entered the summer forge. He set his feet wide, bent his knees, and placed his arms under each side of the heavy anvil. Korub stood nonchalantly in the doorway watching Tarn's back and leg muscles bulge and ripple as he struggled to manhandle the great iron monster. The anvil rose inch by agonizing inch as Tarn strained with a Herculean effort to straighten his legs. When it cleared its sunken berth, Tarn frost brought one leg in, and then the other ere he turned around.
Ever-so-carefully he slid one foot in front of the other, slowly covering the short distance between him and the forge-hut. Grunts of exertion escaped his lips with each step. The anvil grew heavier and heavier. With veins and muscles bulging alike, Tarn rocked the stutter-stepped drunkenly into the forge-hut. It required a mighty heave, drawn from the very depths of his soul, to lift the anvil the few inches necessary to clear the lip of its compartment. When the anvil thudded into its berth, Tarn leaned on it, exhausted and blowing hard.
He'd done it! Now he could request the forge test that would allow him to move from apprentice to junior blacksmith. Tarn looked up proudly at Korub, awaiting his due. Korub met his steady gaze and grunted.
"Why be ye standing idle doing naught when there's work waiting? If thee be worthy, don thy apron and put those hands to task, son. If not, go gather charcoal-making wood," he finished gruffly and turned back to his own work. Some moments later he Korub spoke over his shoulder, "I would consider a request for examination."
A large smile showed Tarn's glee. Grunting in a decidedly Asgard manner, he shed his vest for the thick leather apron of the smith, couching a broad grin that refused to stay hidden. Korub had all but named him junior smith, not apprentice. As a junior smith, he was entitled to a share of the forge's profits. Who else would be able to carry the anvil except for the blacksmith!
Heavy under task to fill the backlog of orders, the morning passed quickly. He shaped three spear tips and smelted four ingots by lunch―a good morning's work for any junior smith. Only when Tarn heard Shaurii's voice calling his name for the lunch, did he halt his work, and exchange the thick apron for his wolf-skin vest.