THE GHOST AND THE RING typographical - Golden Cocker Press

The GHOST and the RING

A Tale from the Lindensaga™

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Richard L. Hardesty

HUNGRY HORSE
Golden Cocker Press

2013

Copyright ©2010 by Richard L. Hardesty.
All rights reserved.

Electronic edition made available in PDF format for a limited time.

Golden Cocker Press is an imprint of Purple Mammoth Publishing LLC

THE GHOST AND THE RING

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THE GHOST AND THE RING

A Tale from the Lindensaga

A WOMAN’S SHRILL VOICE SLICED THROUGH THE LATE AFTERNOON AIR AND INTO THE
young lad’s wincing ears, giving him both a headache and a severe case of the dreads. “Seren
Padafort Smithsson, you get yourself in here right now!”
Now what had he done? Well, there was no use trying to hide from his mother. She knew full well
that he had heard her, for there was no escaping her voice anywhere on the place, inside or out.

“Coming, Mother!” he shouted into the air at the top of his lungs. He wanted to be sure she heard
him. Whatever had gotten her dander up boded ill for him, and he did not wish to aggravate her –
she’d manage that all on her own without any help from him. Resigned to his fate, whatever it was
going to be, Seren brushed his auburn hair from his brow, put down the pot he was repairing, put
away the tools and damped the forge fire.

Though uncertain what awaited him at the house, he was almost glad of the interruption, for he
hated the work he was stuck with. It was not smithing itself he hated, for he loved the feel and the
ring of hammer on steel and the sound of the bellows, the smell of hot metal: all these things were
in his blood and he thrived on them. What he hated was what they made: the pots and the pans,
the tools and utensils, the common, everyday metal items the community needed. These were boring
and hateful, for they kept him from what he really wanted to do. He admitted only to himself that
he what he really wanted to do was enter the Craft Hall in Greenwood as an apprentice metal smith
and in time, learn the art of blade smithing.

He did not want to make and repair pots and pans, even though he was good at it when he tried,
but he had a tendency to not do his best out of sheer boredom, and it often got him in trouble and
punished for poor work. He frustrated his father, irritated his brother and for reasons he never
understood, angered his mother by his mere presence. He frustrated his father because, of them all,
he was the best by far at smithing, yet did not care enough to work up to his ability. He frustrated
himself, for he hated the look of disappointment in his father’s eyes every time he inspected a
slipshod repair or a botched job. But try though he might, Seren could not bring himself to put his
heart into pots and pans! And as for his mother, nothing he did found favor in her sight. She favored

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his brother, Daine, making no secret of it, and Daine took his cue from her. Seren did not think this
was unfair. It simply was the way things were and always had been.

Daine, a tall, lanky, well-muscled fifteen and Seren’s elder by five summers, was proud of their
work and under their father’s competent teaching had quickly become very good at making most
anything required of him, but his specialty was kettles, and he turned out fine ones, and already was
known for making the best in the Rhydderdale. Not the large cauldrons cast from iron, mind you,
but fine, thin, lightweight kettles hammered and welded on the anvil, and polished and shined to a
bright finish. Daine was now doing most of the new work, leaving only the uncommon jobs to their
father’s skilled hands and the repairs to Seren.

“Seren! If I have to call you one more time, you will hurt for a week! Get in here now!”
His mother’s threat got his attention, and he made one last, quick check to be sure all was in
order. Satisfied he would not get into trouble for leaving a messy smithy, he turned and fairly ran to
the house.
He slowed down to a walk just outside the back door, having learned long ago that running
through the door was a good way to get your rear end smacked or your ears severely boxed. As he
entered the kitchen, he took in the sight that greeted him: his mother, a short, brown-haired woman
of thirty and two summers, red-faced in anger, her green eyes flashing dangerously, hands on hips.
Yes, she was in top form today, and he was in for it, for sure!
“When I call you, you come, and don’t ever make me call you a second time again! Now, get your
lazy behind upstairs and clean up. I’ve drawn a hot bath for you and I want you down here, cleaned
head to foot and in clean clothes in half an hour! Understand? A half an hour and not a minute
longer! Now, GO!”
Her outstretched arm pointed her bony finger up the back stairs. A bath? In the middle of the
day? What was going on? The glare in his mother’s eyes prompted him to postpone speculation and
up the stairs he went. He fair ran up those stairs and twenty-five minutes later, was back down them,
completely clean – even his hair was clean – and dressed in the clean clothes that had been laid out
for him.
“Here, let me have a look at you.” His mother motioned him over and she gave him a thorough
inspection, turning him around completely, checking to make sure his ears and his neck were clean,
not missing a thing. “Well, that will have to do,” she said, though clearly not impressed with his
efforts. “Now, pay attention.” Your father sent a message with that load of coal that was delivered
this morning. He said he would be home about now with some guests. You be on your best behavior
and do not embarrass me, or I will see that you regret it. Do you hear me?! I’ll not have you shaming
me in front of guests.” She always very much resented the intrusion of guests, and barely tolerated
customers, but as they brought money and she could hardly run them off lest the family starve, she
put up with them. Barely. Mostly, she ignored them.
“Yes, mother. Where’s Daine? Is he going to get washed up too?”
“Not that it is any of your business, but Daine has gone on to your Uncle Ban’s place with the
plow-share you repaired yesterday.” As always, her brother’s name passed her lips as though it was
something foul-tasting, and her face reflected her distaste. Seren never could understand why she

5

and Uncle Ban were at odds, but that was the natural state of things and had been for as long as he
knew. In fact, the only one of her very large family she didn’t dislike was her father, Pandar Padafort,
known to most as Thane Padafort. He wasn’t really a Thane, but he was the wealthiest land-owner
in the Upper Dale, and so folks gave him the title out of respect. It didn’t hurt that Grand Da
Pandar was also a very kind and understanding man, and Seren liked him a lot. Of all his relatives,
Grand Da was his favorite. He was also just about the only relative he ever saw.

“Seren! Are you listening to me? Seren!”
Seren came back to reality with a jolt, sure he would get slapped for ignoring his Mother, but he
did not. She simply grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the small, but very comfortable
front room, sat him in the wooden chair by the fireplace and commanded him to stay put until told
to get up. Seren sat. And waited.
After about ten minutes, he heard outside sounds coming from the direction of the road which
went either north to the tiny village of High Delving at the upper end of Rhydderdale, or south to
Rhydderford on the road to Greenwood. The sounds of a creaking cart could be faintly heard. They
grew louder, coming up the short lane to the house and workshop. He could hear the sounds of
other horses now, maybe two, the clink of metal and the creak of saddle leather more audible. Yes,
it was his father, and with him, no doubt, were the mysterious visitors of whom his mother quite
patently disapproved.
Seren sat in his chair, alternating between excitement at the arrival of guests and fear of his
mother’s displeasure should he leave the chair. He really wanted to go outside and greet his father
like he usually did, throwing his arms around his legs at the thigh and hugging him until his father
cheerfully picked him up and hugged him. His father was a dark eyed auburn-haired man who stood
six and a half feet tall and was lightly built for a blacksmith. He could still pick Seren up quite easily,
the strength in his arms and shoulders surprising to those who did not know him.
Now the cart was in the yard, and Seren could hear voices as well: his father’s and two others he
did not recognize. The guests. They were very clear and cultured voices, and had about them a
manner of speech which said they were not Dalemen. The folk of the Rhydderdale had an odd mode
of speech, unchanged since ancient times. His parents were both from Luddesport at the mouth of
the River Ludde on the coast of the Dawn Sea. The River Rhydd flowed into the Ludde just below
Greenwood.
Seren found his curiosity building nearly to the point of explosion by the time his father came in
the door, followed by two strangers.
His father, glad to see his youngest son, motioned Seren to him and he was out of his chair in an
instant. His father scooped him up and hugged him close and he took the opportunity to look over
his father’s broad shoulders at the two strangers standing just outside the doorway.
He saw two very different gentlemen, both dressed in the characteristic garb of the Craft Hall in
Greenwood. Both wore the fur collar and fur-trimmed hat of a Master Craftsman, but the elder, a
white-haired man as tall as his father, wore also a large ornate chain around his shoulders. It was the
Head Master himself! He was somewhat stern looking, but Seren saw laugh-lines at the corners of
his eyes and knew he was not as foreboding as he appeared. The younger of the two was short, only

6

a little taller than his mother, and was a very serious-looking man, with flame-red hair, a short, neatly
trimmed beard of the same colour and eyes of the deepest green he had ever seen, deeper than his
mother’s even. And those eyes sparkled with an intense good humour that belied the seriousness of
his demeanor. With a start, Seren realized he had met this man before – three summers ago when
he had accompanied his father on a trip to the Greenwood Craft Hall to deliver a load of pots and
pans. While there, Seren had been allowed to wander the hall and had met this man and had spoken
with him.

Seren’s father put him down, and Seren took up a position near his chair and waited politely for
the next step in the hospitality dance. He had not long to wait. His father stepped aside to allow the
guests to enter, and motioned them to the two most comfortable chairs in the house. The taller of
the two took the largest chair, his father’s, and the short man took his mother’s chair and it fit him
well.

“Alyria! Come, meet our guests!” His father pitched his voice towards the kitchen, a little
embarrassed that she was not already out there to greet them, for she had surely heard them coming
in.

Seren knew his mother would delay just long enough to make her point without stepping over the
boundary of good hospitality, for she knew that such an insult to the Head Master would hurt her
husband’s business, and that could not be allowed. Most certainly not!

His mother’s timing was, as always, perfect, and just before the guests began to feel unwanted, but
not before they knew she was unhappy with the intrusion, she appeared, all smiling and polite, but
no more so than the occasion demanded.

“Alyria, your cousin Master Bilándar has come to visit and he has brought the Head Master of the
Craft Hall with him.”

“Cousin!” said the short man as he arose from his chair, greeting her with genuine warmth, his
eyes smiling even more than normal, if that were possible. “It has been quite a while since last I saw
you. You look well. Marriage to Goodman Randall has been good to you.”

His comments and his bow were greeted with a chill just short of rudeness. “Bilándar. How good
to see you. How is your lady wife? As plump as ever?” This last was said with a particular venom.
Alyria was herself quite slim, and she prided herself on her trim figure.

Bilándar was somewhat taken aback, and was quite puzzled at Alyria’s manner, for he was
genuinely glad to see his cousin, and could not understand why she did not return the feeling. He
knew that many in the family had disapproved of her marriage to Randall Smithsson, for they felt she
was marrying beneath her station, but he himself had never felt so, nor had he had anything but
affection and approval for his cousin and her husband. Seren felt sorry for him. He obviously did not
know that his mother had tarred all her relations with the same brush, save her father, and even he
was slightly touched by it.

The tall man took in the scene without comment, nor, for that matter, with any sign that he had
noticed anything out of the ordinary at all. He had about him an air of utter calm.

Wishing to forestall any further unpleasantness between the two cousins, his father quickly
introduced the tall man to his mother,“Alyria, this is Head Master Tysilio.”

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She turned her cool gaze to the Head Master for the first time and, as she always did, looked the
intruder full in the face, giving him her long-practiced look of disdain and contempt. It always
worked. The recipient of that glare always wilted and wished they were elsewhere. It was her prime
weapon, and it had never failed her. Until now. For the first time in her life, she encountered
someone who was immune to her weapon. Head Master Tysilio bore the full brunt of her icy glare
and simply nodded slightly. She turned up the intensity of her glare, and still he was unaffected.

Taken aback at this unexpected development, she was uncertain what to say or do. Tysilio spoke,
relieving her of her quandary, “Ah, Mistress Alyria! I am so glad to have finally met you. You have
made a good home here. But that is to be expected, for you come of a good family and you have
married a good man. You should be proud of what the two of you have accomplished here.”

Alyria was frozen in place, Tysilio’s words washing over her like hot water on ice, and for the first
time since she had married, she melted. She realized that she was proud of what they had
accomplished together, despite her family’s dire predictions. But her pride would not allow her to
melt too far, for that way was weakness, and never had she been weak!

“I am, Master Tysilio, I am. It is not a mansion, but it is ours. We had almost nothing when we
started here. The land, we bought with what my husband had managed to save when he was single.
It was not much, but it was sufficient. We have worked hard since then, and we have done this on
our own!” The last word was almost shouted, and she glared at her cousin as she said it, further
adding to his confusion.

“I welcome you, Head Master . . . and my cousin . . . to our home.” The slight pause was
calculated to again insult her relative.

“We thank you, Mistress Smithsson, and regret that we cannot stay long, for we have pressing
business elsewhere. We must take up the business which brought us here and then we must depart.”
Tysilio wasted no more time, but got right to the point. “Mistress Alyria, we have already discussed
the purpose of our visit with your husband, and now I shall appraise you. It has come to our
attention that Seren has shown some skill in metal work, and we would have him come to study at
the Craft Hall as an apprentice under the tutelage of Master Bilándar.”

She shot a glance at her husband, who looked back hopefully, nodding at her, encouraging her
to agree. She was not so easily swayed.

“Seren? Would not his brother, Daine, be better suited for study at the Hall? He makes the finest
kettles in the Vale, and his work in all other respects is nearly up to his father’s standards. Seren, on
the other hand, is a lazy good-for-nothing who cannot even manage repairs competently.”

Tysilio nodded in apparent agreement. “True, Daine’s work is quite good, and his kettles are,
indeed, the best in the Vale. None would dispute that. But, he lacks a certain quality that we are
seeking, a quality that Seren appears to have.”

“Nonsense! The only quality that Daine lacks and which Seren has too much of, is laziness. And
I can not imagine that the Greenwood Craft Hall could possibly be interested in that! No, Daine is
better suited, to my mind.”

Not in the least deterred, Headmaster Tysilio continued, “Yes, I have heard of Seren’s propensity
to that particular, ah, quality. But that is not the quality of which I speak. Seren has, among other

8

qualities, vision – the ability to see in a piece of metal what others cannot. This is a rare gift, and one
which needs to be nurtured and encouraged.”

“Vision?!” Alyria was clearly astounded at such foolishness, and she let her feelings be known.
“Nonsense! Why, the boy has trouble doing simple repairs. Vision! Hmmph!”

All this time, Seren stood frozen in astonishment. They had come for him! But he had visited the
Craft Hall only once, when he was seven. Why were they interested in him? Well, there was that
odd conversation with Master Bilándar. He remembered it as though it had been yesterday.

SEREN watched the journeymen with utter fascination as they worked away on various metal
objects. Some were purely decorative, some practical, some in between: an ornate iron gate,
brooches with gemstones set into them and many other things. One man in particular, though,
caught his attention. He was studying a lump of something on his workbench. It looked like a black
sponge, but was clearly metallic. Seren watched quietly for a while as the man picked up the lump,
turned it around in his hands, set it down again and stared at it thoughtfully.

Noticing Seren, the man looked up, turned and spoke to him. “A new ’prentice, are ye?”
Seren, normally a bit shy around strangers, was surprisingly calm.“No, sir. My father is here on
some business, and I am just looking around.”
“Ah! Y’must be Seren Smithsson. Ye have yer father’s eyes. Well, welcome be ye, young sir. I be
Journeyman Hardwicke Fuller. Hardy t’me friends.” He extended his hand, expecting Seren to take
it, and so he did. Seren liked this man, quite obviously a Daleman.
“What is that stuff?” he said, pointing to the spongy-looking lump on the workbench.
Pleased with Seren’s interest, Hardy picked up the odd lump and handed it to Seren for his
inspection. “ ’Tis a piece of star-metal what’s been here in the Hall for a while, and I thought me
t’make summat of it . Such metal be quite rare, and hard t’work. ’Tis a small piece and whate’er I
make, ’twill not be very large. But it must be summat special. Several things come t’mind, but I canna
make up me mind which t’choose. Now, I could make several rings from’t, or p’rhaps a large, ornate
brooch.”
“No. That would be wrong. It is a knife.” The words were out of Seren’s mouth before he even
knew he was speaking them, and it was too late to take them back. Here he was, telling a
Journeyman of the Craft Hall his work! And he not even an apprentice!
“A knife? A knife ye say? There be only enough for a very small knife,” Hardy said, curiosity in
his voice and kindness in his eyes.
“I know, but that is what it is best suited for, ” Seren replied, expecting to be brushed off.
But Hardy only looked at Seren, brows furrowed in thought. “How d’ye ken, lad?”
“I don’t know. I just know that when I look at that lump of star-metal, I know that it should be
a knife. You will get the best out of it that way. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“No matter. What matters is that ye be knowin’ what ye be talkin’ about. Would ye mind waitin’
here a moment? I’ll be right back.”
So intently was Seren looking at the lump of star-metal, he did not hear Hardy return. The man
touched Seren gently on the shoulder, and Seren jumped

9

“Sorry to startle ye, lad. This be Master Bilándar, and he would be speakin’ wit’ ye a while.”
Hardy gave a quick nod to Seren and said smilingly “I’ll leave ye alone then,” and went his way.

Without preamble, the man spoke, not unkindly, “Seren, as Journeyman Hardwicke said, I am
Master Bilándar. Well now, what about this star-metal? Journeyman Hardwicke tells me that you
think he should make this into a knife.”

“Yes, and the more I study it, the more certain I am. This will be best as a knife. Well, you can
make anything you like out of it, but it is perfect for a knife.”

“You can tell this just by looking at it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hmmm....I wonder.... Tell me, do you ever hum or sing while you work?”
“Well, yes. But my brother sings – or whistles – when he works.”
“That is not what I mean. Do you ever sing to the anvil, the hammer...the object you are working
on?”
It was an odd question, yet Seren knew what he meant, and wondered that anyone else should
know about it.
Bilándar smiled encouragingly at Seren and waited patiently for his answer.
Seren took a deep breath and said, “Yes, I sing. Not in words, in sound, like the sound of the
hammer striking the anvil. I’ve always done so when I’m working on my own things. Mostly, it’s just
noise that sounds sort of like singing.”
“Does your father know of this?”
“I don’t know. He might, but I have never spoken to him of it. I just like to make noise when I’m
working. When I’m doing stuff for myself, I like to try to make my noises match the sound of the
hammer and sometimes I succeed. It makes me feel, oh, I don’t know how to say it.” Seren was truly
frustrated, for he knew not the words that would let him explain what he felt when he made his
“forge sounds” match the sound of the hammer striking the steel upon the anvil, but it was as though
his soul itself resonated to that very note and then such joy would well up inside him for a very brief
moment that it often brought tears to his eyes. He finally gave up, “It makes me very happy,” he said
with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I see. Yes...... Seren, have you ever given any thought to studying here at the Craft Hall?”
“Me?! Study here? I could do that? Could I learn to make swords?”
“Of course. I would need to obtain your father’s permission, of course, but yes, you most certainly
could – and should – study here. And as for swords, well, all in good time.” The seed was sown and
from that moment on, Seren dreamed of studying at the craft hall....

SEREN was brought back abruptly to the present by a loud noise from the kitchen. He was alone
in the front room with the guests. Master Bilándar was looking embarrassed, but Head Master
Tysilio was regarding Seren calmly, oblivious to the sounds of his parents voices coming from the
kitchen. His father’s voice was loud, especially for him, but his mother’s was even louder. And for
once, his father was not pleading with her. He was actually standing up to her!

“Wife, you are unfair to the lad!”

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“And you are being unfair to Daine! Ever you discount him! Ever you prefer Seren to your eldest!
He does all the work, and Seren does naught but shirk his duties! NO! If Daine does not go, no one
goes!”

“I am the master of this house! You will do what I say! Seren goes!” His words were followed by the
sound of flesh striking flesh, and then silence. It seemed to Seren that time had stopped. Master
Bilándar was studying the ceiling, Head Master Tysilio was still looking kindly at Seren as if nothing
unusual was happening, and Seren felt his face turning bright red. Silence. Then, voices came from
the kitchen again, but softly, and no words could be distinguished. Then, the sound of his mother’s
footsteps ascending the stairs. For several moments more, silence again reigned in the house. No one
moved.

At last, his father returned to the front room. He gave Seren a look that bespoke volumes. Seren
knew before he spoke what he would say, and he died a little inside, for he knew he would not be
going to the Craft Hall after all. His mother had won. Again. He said nothing, his hopes shattered,
his mind numb.

Randall Smithsson stood in the front room of his own home, shoulders drooping, one cheek
reddened, a beaten and defeated man. Then, he gathered about him what dignity he still had, and
spoke calmly to his guests, “I am sorry you have come all this way for naught. Seren will not be
attending the Hall. Let me see you to your mounts.”

He did not look at Seren, unable to face his son at that moment, but slowly walked to the door,
his guests following close behind, Master Bilándar in the lead. No one spoke. But when Head Master
Tysilio reached the door, he stopped and turned to look at Seren and spoke to him softly. “It would
appear, Seren Smithsson, that your path lies not through our Hall. But there are many roads in life,
and you must find yours. Look to your heart, lad, and you will know the way.” Then, he was gone.

Seren was startled at his words, for the man had looked at him strangely, as if he had seen into
Seren’s heart and read what was written there. For a long time, Seren stood alone in the front room.
No sound came from upstairs, and it was silent outside as well.

Seren nearly jumped from his skin when Daine came slamming through the front door, his usual
loud self. Daine was equally startled to find Seren, clean and dressed in his best, standing alone in
the middle of the room.

“What are you doing here? Those men were from the Craft Hall. Why were they here?” he
demanded.

Before Seren could answer, their father’s voice came from the doorway behind Daine, making him
jump. “Daine, get you to the smithy and get to work. There is time yet before supper and you have
much to do.”

“But . . .” Daine’s protest was interrupted.
“Don’t backtalk me, boy! Get you to work!”
“Yes, sir!” Surprised at his father’s words and his manner, Daine wasted no time. He was through
the kitchen and out the back door so quickly that Seren marveled. He’d never seen his brother move
so fast!
Randall Smithsson stood silently, framed in the doorway, just looking at Seren for a long while.

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Then, he beckoned to his younger son and quietly turned and went outside again. Seren followed,
unthinking, his mind still numb with disappointment.

For a long time, his father simply stood there, looking off into the distance, seeing nothing. Seren
stood beside him, numbly accepting the reality of it all: he was never going to go to the Craft Hall,
not ever, as long as his mother had any say in matters.

Then his father spoke quietly, “Seren, I . . .” he began, but the words would not come. He tried
again, but again, he could not. Finally, he simply let out a long sigh and gave up. “There is still time
before supper to get some work done. Change into your work clothes and go help Daine.” He spoke
quietly, his words laced with sadness, regret and not a little kindness.

Seren nodded, and did as he had been bidden. His father stared after him a while, long after
Seren was inside, then turned around and walked slowly over to the large greenwood tree that stood
on a little hillock near the house and sat in its shade. He stared westward, eyes not really seeing the
slowly setting sun, nor the late-afternoon light as it began to highlight the foothills and fill the dales
with shadow. He was still there when Seren and Daine went into the house for a later than usual
supper.

Supper was uneventful, if a little strained. For the first time in Seren’s memory, his father was not
seated at his usual place at the table. His mother remained silent throughout the meal. Daine gave
up his attempts at table talk, contenting himself with an occasional questioning look at Seren, who
simply shrugged his shoulders in reply.

The meal seemed to take forever, and both boys were relieved when it was over. Starting to help
clear the table as usual, they were stunned when their mother dismissed them, “Leave the dishes. I’ll
take care of them. Go. Make the final rounds and then you may go to your rooms. Be sure you arise
promptly in the morn. I will not call you more than once.”

Seren sat on his bed, looking out the window which opened onto the back of the property. From
there, he could see the mountains behind them on a moonlit night. Tonight showed naught but
darkness and stars, for the moon had yet to rise. He was looking, but his eyes saw nothing, for tears
blurred the night. The dull numbness had gone, and now all the pain and disappointment began to
well up from deep inside, threatening to overwhelm him in its soul-shredding intensity. Though he
had heard his brother come upstairs, he paid it little attention, nor did he pay any attention to his
father’s ascent shortly thereafter.

Awash in the tears of his torment, Seren sat on his bed until the full moon had risen, and then
quietly arose, walked softly to the door, opened it slowly to a crack and listened. He heard no sound,
save his father’s muted snoring. He opened the door further, slowly at first, then with greater
confidence as the well-oiled hinges remained quiet, until it was open just far enough for him to slip
out. He closed the door behind him, making sure it latched softly. Then he slipped down the stairs,
quiet as a mouse, into the kitchen and out the back door, and moved furtively across the yard
towards the hills behind the house. The moon’s light was sufficient to illuminate the landscape fully
and he was soon well into the rolling hills that lay like a disheveled skirt about the base of Cairn Pike,
rising stark and forbidding into the night sky.

When he was far enough from the house that he could not be seen, Seren abandoned his stealthy

12

ways and moved openly. So many thoughts were skittering around inside his head that he paid scant
attention to aught else, and before he was aware of how far he had gone, he was already at the place
where the path to the Demon’s Forge broke off from the main track, which kept going north, but
then turned to the west to cross the Rhydd at Haunted Ford. No one traveled that route these days,
for the Dwarves no longer used it and others had no cause. The only portion that saw any use led
eastward from the Rhydderdale into the high valleys of the Snowy Mountains, where a long-
abandoned Dwarf mine and summer grazing for the flocks were to be found. When the folk of the
Dale had to come this way they always hurried past the old pathway to the Forge, for no one wished
to linger in its vicinity for long, even on the brightest day. It was held to be haunted by ghostly smiths
and any living who wandered into it would never be heard from again.

Demon’s Forge was a weirdly shaped group of rocks, vaguely resembling a smithy with its forge and
anvil, set within a small, ring-shaped depression that was called the Cauldron of the Forge, for it
greatly resembled a rocky cauldron, and the path to the Forge first climbed up to the rim and then
followed it a short way to a small outcrop which marked the descent into the Cauldron itself and thus
to the Forge. It was a wild and lonely place. Seren had found it nearly three summers since on one
of the rare days he was not required at the smithy and was allowed to wander the hills at will. He
came here as often as he could, though never before at night. It had become a refuge to him in
troubled times when he needed to get away from the dullness of work at his father’s shop or the
dreary days spent fixing broken tools and utensils.

He could not understand why the people of the village held it in such dread. He always felt safe
and secure amidst the rocks of the Forge, for there were several little holes and pockets into which
he could easily squeeze and disappear from sight. Here, surrounded by the stones, he hid from his
troubles. In his pain and torment this night, he sought refuge in the largest of these to be alone, to
hurt and to think.

His thoughts rabbited wildly around in his mind, thoughts that were new to him, for never before
had he actually contemplated running away. What shall I do, where shall I go? Seren wondered, his
forehead braced against rough stone. If I can’t go to the Craft Hall, if I can’t study with Master Bilándar,
what then? I can’t stay home and make naught but kettles and pots, mere kitchen clutter. No! I cannot! I
was meant for greater things. I can feel it in my heart. He stared dully out of his hiding place, but found
no answers.

He sat there so long, thinking about his future, or what could be made of it, that the warmth of
the night and the security of his hiding place overcame him, and he fell into a deep slumber, and
slumbering, dreamed.

In his dreams, he saw himself working over a great anvil. What exactly it was he was making, he
could not see, but he was happily working away, singing as he worked. The song he sang was
hauntingly familiar, but he could not make out the words, if words they were, and the sound of his
voice melded with the sound of the hammering, joining together in a heart-wrenchingly beautiful
song, a sound so incredibly wondrous, it brought tears to his eyes as he worked. And the joy of the
work and the beauty of the song lifted his heart to the heavens, and he knew that this was what he
was made for. This was what he was destined to do. And he wept again, but now there were tears

13

of pain and regret mixed with the joy, for this was not to be. He would never leave his father’s shop.
It was only a dream.

He awoke with a start, the song of his dream yet lingering in his mind. As he sat there in the
sleep-filled befuddlement of sudden awakening, he realized that the song he heard was no longer in
his head, but was clearly, heartbreakingly soaring through the night air!

The song was in the air and in his heart, and he was drawn to it as a moth to the flame. Almost
in a trance, he left the safety of his hiding place and followed the song, keeping close to the rocks,
staying in the shadows as much as possible. He was not afraid, for who could be afraid of anyone –
or anything – that sang so beautifully? But he was cautious, for he did not want to disturb whoever
was singing, for then the song would end, and he could not bear that. That song was so like the song
in his heart, he had to see the singer.

It was soon apparent that the singer was at the front of the Forge, in the very spot his Grand Da
had said was the Forge itself, the very place the Demon did his work, and suddenly, Seren was seized
with the idea that the singer was the Demon! But no, that could not be, for no demon could possibly
sing a song of such beauty. No. That was no Demon he heard. He noted for the first time the ghostly
blue glow which came from the Forge, and he swallowed with difficulty, his throat dry. For a
moment, he stopped and simply listened to the Song, letting the beauty of it wash over him, seep into
his every pore and immerse him in its sound. It was a song of steel and iron, of hammer and anvil,
of life and spirit and it reached deep into his soul as had nothing before, and he wept with its beauty.

He crept slowly, silently up to the last rock and slowly peeked over it. A man was standing near
the Forge, wielding a small hammer, working something very small on a very small anvil. The man
was of middle height with broad, well-muscled shoulders, curly red-brown hair and a close-cropped
beard. He appeared to be no more than Seren’s mother’s two and thirty summers old. And the song
came from his throat! But then Seren realized that, as in his dream, it came also from the anvil and
the hammer! The man and his work was surrounded by a soft, blue light, and he seemed almost
transparent, ghostly, yet oddly real.

Seren lay there quietly, frozen in his fascination, utterly entranced by the Song and by the ghostly
man. He experienced a thrill such as he had never known, and wished this moment would never end.

How long he watched, he knew not, for time had come to a halt, the stars had stopped their
dance, the moon its waltz and Eternity walked the night.

The man stopped working, and the Song stopped as well, and Seren felt his joy leeching from his
heart, flowing into the night, and sadness crept into its place. He almost began to cry.

“There! It is done. Well, boy, do you think he will like it?”
With a shock, Seren realized that the ghostly man was speaking to him! He panicked, and started
to run away, but the man’s voice stopped him cold.
“Well? Speak up, lad! What manners they teach the children nowadays!” The man’s kindly voice
belied the censure of his words. “Come, come here lad and see. By the High One’s holy Name, you
shall come to no harm. Now, come you forth.”
Seren found, to his surprise, that he was not afraid, nor had been, and turning back, clambered
over the rock and stood beside it, just outside the bluish glow.

14

“Come closer, lad. You cannot see from there!” The man motioned him over closer, and held in
his hand some small object. “Come here, and see.”

Seren came closer, until he could clearly see that the man held a ring, held between his thumb
and his forefinger for Seren’s inspection.

It was a simple ring of gold and silver intertwined, smooth, with no markings of any kind. And in
its simplicity, it was magnificent! Seren sucked in his breath, it was so beautiful.

“I made this ring for a friend. Do you think he will like it?”
Seren at last found his voice, “I. . . .I think that he would, sir.”
“Ah! Manners at last!” The man smiled at Seren, and Seren, looking for the first time fully at the
man’s face, saw that he was smiling, and not with just his mouth, but also with his eyes. Suddenly,
Seren was completely at ease, for he felt like he was with his Grand Da Pandar, and he was startled
to note that there seemed to be some resemblance. “Do you really think he will like it then? Here,
take a closer look.” The man handed the ring to Seren so unexpectedly that Seren dropped it, but
the man caught it in mid-air, and handed it back. Seren was very embarrassed, but the man smilingly
said nothing..
Seren was at first almost afraid to touch such a beautiful thing, but the silent encouragement of
that smile calmed his fears, and he took it firmly in his hand and inspected it closely. It was even
more incredible up close. How such a simple thing could be so beautiful was inexplicable, and the
boy marveled at it. “Oh! Yes, sir! Your friend will most certainly like it, for it is the most beautiful
ring in the world!”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I do! It is marvelous beyond words. I cannot imagine anyone not liking it. He must
be a very special friend for you to make such a thing for him.”
“Indeed he is, though he does not yet know it.” The man chuckled to himself at what was
apparently a jest, though the comment made no sense to Seren. Extending his hand, the man said,
“Now, then, may I have it back?”
Seren quickly returned the ring to its maker.
“Thank you, young man. Your manners improve apace. That is good. There is yet a bit more work
to be done before it is finished. Now, please stand over here.” The man pointed to a spot a few feet
away from where Seren stood, and the boy quickly took his place.
The man examined the ring for a few moments, then placed it not on the tiny anvil, but just on
the stone lip of the forge itself. Seren expected him to pick up the small hammer, but he did not. He
simply stood there, looking at the ring for a few moments, then softly, so softly that Seren could
barely hear him at first, began to sing a song, and the song was like a hammer striking steel, yet
beautiful beyond words. Seren found himself staring at the ring also, watching, waiting for something
to happen. Then suddenly, the song stopped. Seren looked up at the man, puzzled.
The man looked back at Seren with the greenest eyes the boy had ever seen, smiled rather
impishly, and said, “Well? Am I to sing alone then?”
“Sir?”
“Lad, I cannot finish this ring by myself. I need your aid. Sing with me!”

15

“I...I...s-s-sing?” Seren stammered. “But I can’t!”
The man stooped down a bit, placing his eyes level with Seren’s and spoke quietly, encouragingly,
“Of course, you can, Seren. You know the song well. You sang it in your dream. It is in your heart,
and always has been. It has tried to come out when you work on those things you make for yourself,
but you have not let it come forth. You have only to let it out. Now, sing with me, and together, we
shall finish making this ring.” He stood up then, and saying nothing further, turned his attention to
the ring.
Seren, stunned, confused, stood unmoving. The man said, “Come, Seren, Time will not be held
in its relentless march forever, and Eternity must return to its place. We must sing now, or the ring
will not be finished!”
Suddenly, Seren felt the song in his heart begin to grow, to strengthen, to demand to be let out,
and he, too, turned and gazed upon the ring. The man began to sing, and as the first notes of that
Forge-Song came from his lips, Seren felt his Forge-Song burst forth in joy, and he sang! Seren sang
his own Forge-Song and the man sang his and the two Songs came together in a heavenly harmony,
sometimes twisting together in a sonic braid, sometimes joining, sometimes separating, yet always
staying together in a melodic dance that was greater than either song alone. Hammer and anvil, steel
and soul, heart and mind, all came together in a joyous, melodious, marvelous dance of sound and
song.
Seren felt a great joy rising in his heart, and it was like in his dream, and his spirit rose to the
heavens in an explosion of sheer exultation and he saw the man’s spirit was beside him. Together,
they soared near to the High One’s Throne, and then, looking down, Seren saw a great golden
hammer striking the ring on the forge! It struck again and again, in time and in tune with their
combined Song, and though the ring appeared to be unaffected by the strokes of that great hammer,
great golden and silver sparks flew from it, and the ring joined its song to theirs! Now were the ring,
the hammer, Seren and the man singing together, uniting in a vast melodic dance that reached to
the Throne of the High One himself, and shook it with its beauty. And the High One answered!
One note, a single, heart-wrenchingly beautiful note of pure love and joy burst forth from His great
Throne and became a shaft of blindingly brilliant white light which sped downward, ever downward
and struck the ring!
Suddenly, it was over. The ring was complete, the song sung. Seren found himself still looking at
the ring, and it seemed to briefly glow with a white light, then it was as it had been. The silence was
deafening at first, but the sounds of the night began to creep back into his consciousness, and Seren
realized that Time was no longer stopped. Surprisingly, he still heard the Song, his Song, but now it
was truly in his heart, and not just his ears. And he was happier than he had ever been in his life. He
wept with joy, the joy of the Song!
Seren started when the man touched his shoulder. He looked at the lad and said, “Thank you. I
could not have finished this without your aid.”
“You are welcome, sir,” Seren replied, with some difficulty, for the joy and the beauty of the Song
were still with him, “but I do not really understand all that happened.”
“Nor did I the first time I sang my Forge-Song. But you will. In time, you will. Now, soon I must

16

go, and I must get this ring to my friend.”
“He will like it even more now. What happened to it when we sang? And was that really the High

One himself who sang that last note?”
“Last question first: Yes, that was the High One. And as to what happened to it, ah, that IS the

question, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know?”
“Of course not! Only the High One knows what He did to it. But whatever He did, it is a magic

ring now. And I must get that ring to my friend.” He took the ring from the forge where it still lay,
and played with it a while. “Here is your ring, my friend.” And to Seren’s astonishment, he handed
the ring to him!

“Me! The ring is for me?”
“Yes. Who else would it be for?”
“Your friend. You said you made this for a friend.”
“And so you are my friend, young Seren. And the ring is yours, and by the High One’s grace, you
now have your Forge-Song as well. Seren, you are a Forgesinger, as am I.”
“But...”
“No time for questions. In fact, I am out of time, for the dawn does approach and I must return
to Kaalimar, for I have been away longer than planned. And you must get you home before any find
that you have sneaked out.” The man stopped speaking for a moment, then he cocked his head
slightly to the right and studied Seren’s face intently. “The High One has great plans for you, my
young friend, if you stay true to him and to yourself. But the first step on any journey is to learn to
stand firm against all odds.” There was a distinct twinkle in the man’s eyes and Seren realized with
a start that he somehow knew of Seren’s intent to run away from home. “Go! Quickly!” The man
ordered Seren firmly, the smile still in his voice.
Reluctantly, Seren turned to leave, the ring clutched in his hand. He took a few steps, then turned
to ask one more question, but the man was gone! There was no sign of his ever having been there.
Seren stared at the Forge, where just moments ago, he had been singing the song that was still in his
heart, and suddenly nothing mattered, for he had his Forge-Song and the magic ring!
He turned and ran back home and was back in his bed before any suspected he had ever been
gone, the ring tucked safely under his nightshirt on a leather thong around his neck. The Song had
been sung and he was blessed of the High One. Despite his excitement, he fell sound asleep within
minutes, his left hand grasping the ring tightly and a deep smile in his heart.

TO HIS FATHER’S SURPRISE and his mother’s chagrin, Seren showed no sign of unhappiness the
morning after that disastrous visit. He went about his chores and his work with an unusual
cheerfulness and thoroughness, so unlike his previous self. His mother suspected him of plotting
something, his father was watching his younger son quite closely, and in the days and weeks which
followed, gave him harder and more difficult work to do, as if testing him. One day, about a month
after The Day, as Seren called it, Daine left at first light to make some deliveries. Seren was busily
engaged in repairing various things and humming to himself as he worked, something he did

17

constantly now. He was so engaged in the work before him that it was some time before he noticed
that his father had stopped working and was simply watching him. He looked up from his work,
smiling in acknowledgment of his father’s presence, then returned to his own work.

The workshop was silent save for the sound of the tapping of Seren’s light hammer upon the work
on the anvil, the wheeze of the bellows as he heated up the fire – and his soft, melodious humming.

The sound of Randall’s voice, soft-spoken though it was, came as a jarring note to Seren’s ears,
and he stopped suddenly to look at his father. Randall was smiling, and he spoke again, “When you
are finished with that, come see me. I’ll be in the rear work-shop.”

“Yes, sir!” Seren responded quite cheerfully, but he was very surprised, for neither he nor Daine
were permitted there. That was their father’s exclusive territory, and he kept it locked when he was
not working. Seren worked quickly, for there was something about his father’s manner that intrigued
him, and he found he was looking forward to whatever it was his father had in mind. He finished
quickly, put things away and cleaned his work area.

As he approached his father’s private work-shop, Seren was suddenly a little nervous. He was
about to enter a room long forbidden him. He hesitated just a little, then with a sudden resolve,
boldly opened the door and stepped in.

What he saw was simply a work-room, nothing more. It had a small forge and bellows, work
benches, anvils and tools. That was all. Yet, it was more than that, for there was something about
the place, something in the air itself that said this was a special place. Seren could not quite put his
finger upon it, but it was there.

His father sat upon a stool in front of a small work bench where he was examining a sheet of
paper. Upon hearing Seren enter, he rolled the paper up and placed it in a little cubby-hole, one of
several in the wall behind the work bench, then turned around to face his son.

“Well, come on in, son. And please close and latch the door behind you.” Seren did as he was
bid. Randall gestured to another stool nearby and Seren scrambled up on it and sat.

His father looked at him pensively for a few moments, then nodded to himself, apparently satisfied
at what he saw.

“Seren, Master Bilándar had the right of it: You have vision, a Gift. Yet you are young and that
vision needs training. If you cannot get it at the Craft Hall, then you must get it elsewhere.”

“Sir?” Seren was not sure what his father was saying. If his mother would not allow him to train
at Greenwood, she surely would not allow him to go anywhere else!

Knowing his son and what he must be thinking, Randall said, “No, Seren, I do not mean for you
to travel. As you have already surmised, you mother would not stand for your training anywhere.
And I have allowed that to stand for reasons that do not concern you. However, there are some
things that your mother must not be allowed to interfere with, and your training is one of them. No,
there is no other choice open to us: you must have a Master, and so you shall. Now, why do you not
wear that ring you carry around your neck?”

“Sir?” Seren was startled, to say the least, at his father’s sudden change in subject as much as at
his question.

“The ring around your neck. You have had it since that day. You have worn it around your neck

18

always. Why?”
“How did you know?”
“It makes a bulge in your shirt at times and I can hear the cloth of the shirt rubbing against it. It

is a gold and silver ring, is it not?”
“Yes, but how.....?”
“Gold and silver make distinctive sounds when rubbed by cotton. Your ring makes those sounds.”
Seren was stunned, not only at his father’s knowledge of his ring, but at his ability to hear the

difference between cloth rubbing over gold and silver!
“Why do you not wear it? I presume it is yours and you have not stolen it, for that is not your way.

But I would know how you came by it, if you do not mind telling me.” His father said nothing
further, but only looked at him expectantly.

Seren thought about that night and the wonder of it came flooding back to him, and he realized
that not only did he not mind telling his father about how he had come by the ring, he wanted to tell
him. And so he did.

He pulled the ring outside of his shirt and looked at it. Then he looked up at his father and began
the story. His father did not interrupt him, but let him finish as he would. Seren spoke of the Ghost,
of the Forge-Song and of the Ring. He told how the High One had responded to their Song and had
added his own Note to it, and of the golden hammer and how the Ring sparked and yet was not
changed. And he told how the Ghost – the Blue Man, as he thought of him – had given him, Seren,
the Ring.

The sound of Seren’s voice stopped, and silence filled the little work room. Randall Smithsson
looked at his son with an mixture of awe and pride. The silence went on for several minutes until at
last Randall spoke.

“Seren, may I see your ring?” He spoke with a new respect in his tone.
“Of course, Father! Here.” Seren pulled the thong over his head and gave it, ring and all, to his
father.
Randall took the ring carefully, lovingly, into his work-hardened hands and stared at it intently.
Then, without a word, he got up off the stool, left the work shop and walked out into the bright
sunlight. Seren scrambled to catch up and followed him.
Randall Smithsson held the ring in the light of the noon-day sun and looked at it from all angles,
enraptured.
Then, suddenly, he snapped the thong from it, turned to Seren, arm extended, hand open with
the ring glowing like golden fire in the sun ?c lying on the light-brown skin of the upturned palm, and
said, “Wear it, Seren. From this day forward, wear this ring at all times. Do not remove it for any
reason. It is a great Gift. Honor him who gave it you and wear it always!”
“Yes, sir.” And with that, Seren put it on. As he did so, a surge of energy coursed through him,
and his heart responded, his Forge-Song surging forth, fair shouting in his mind. He stood frozen in
place for a moment at the wonder of it, then all was normal again.
His father looked at Seren for a long moment, then nodded, as if confirming something to himself
and turning his gaze back to his son’s face, returned to his original subject, “Seren, as you cannot go

19

to Greenwood, you will study under Master Delanorian Siglíndar and he will come to you here.”
“Is he from Greenwood?”
“No, Seren, he is not. He is attached to no craft hall, but he owes me a few favors.” As his father

spoke, a rather odd smile played across his lips. “As Master Bilándar said, you have a Gift. But until
you told me of your encounter, I had not realized how truly blessed you are, for it would seem that
you have the makings of a Forgesinger, the first such in over fifty and seven-hundred summers.”

“Father, what is a Forgesinger?”
“You are, son. I will leave it to Master Delanorian to explain, for he is the only one who can teach
you what you need to know. Though he is himself no Forgesinger, he studied under the last such
and knows what it takes to be one.”
Seeing the question in his son’s eyes, Randall explained, “He is of the Teluri, son, an ancient race
of immortals. He will be your master, and you shall learn more than you can imagine. More even
than you would have had you gone to Greenwood.”
“Will I learn to make swords, then?” the boy asked, his barely suppressed hope quite obvious.
“Indeed you shall, son, indeed you shall!”
Seren’s eyes were wide with wonder and joy, and he knew his life had changed forever, and all
because of a Ghost and a Ring.

e

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Designed by Richard L. Hardesty at the Rising Wolf Press in Hungry Horse, Montana.
The text is set in 12 pt. Goudy Old Style BT, the titles are in Andalus.
Paladin FLF was used for the drop caps.

This PDF version is being made available for a limited time.

s

The Lindensaga is the overall name of a series of novels, novellas and short stories set in our
fantasy world of Linden. The first novel in the series, The Last Giant: Transgression, is due
late Spring of 2013 from Golden Cocker Press.