By this time, Mitchell had worked his way towards the smoke. He remained behind a tree watching and wondering what these two were doing. He had checked the Suzuki number and so now knew that these were the people he was after.
Then, he saw the sword when the girl picked it off the ground.
The girl’s face matched her figure. She was very attractive. She was the sort of girl that Mitchell went for, so he felt a pang of jealousy towards the other young man.
Lee, having removed his helmet, was watching Tamsyn, too. Mitchell took in the large build, the short hair and clean shaven look. He wondered if he was another soldier, as he had the build and demeanour of one. He looked as if he could take care of himself, so Mitchell was never one to underestimate anyone’s potential.
Lee was poking the fire, to spread the coals evenly before Tamsyn could insert the sword, when they heard a voice behind them.
“Put down the sword and step away!”
They both turned to see a man wearing a military combat jacket, dark trousers and boots. He was emerging from the woodland.
Initially, they both thought he was a local farmer, but then it dawned on them that he had mentioned the sword first, rather than a standard, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’ question. This was no question, but a command.
Lee, still holding the long, smouldering branch, glanced at Tamsyn.
Tamsyn changed her grip on the sword, to a combat stance and grip.
Mitchell frowned. It was a big, heavy-looking weapon, and yet she seemed to wield it as if it weighed next to nothing.
She said something that he did not understand.
“I said, put it down and step away.”
“I know, and I told you that isn’t going to happen. Only I said it in the old tongue,” Tamsyn replied.
As the three of them stood, frozen by the moment, a mist began to emanate from the forge. At first, it appeared to just be smoke, but that proved not to be the case.
All three began to experience very different circumstances.
Lee found himself engulfed in a thick, impenetrable fog. He could see nothing, and began to panic.
“Tamsyn!” he shouted.
He heard nothing.
For Mitchell, he tasted fear like he had never tasted it before, and he had been in some truly terrifying situations in his past.
This was frightening - not because of what he could see and understand - but because of what he couldn’t.
The smoke, or fog swirled around the girl with the sword, so he took a step closer, intending to take it from her. It should be simple enough, and then, he could return to his bike and leave these two to do whatever they wanted to do.
He heard the boy cry out, calling her name.
So, she was called Tamsyn after the tree in Cornwall. That was interesting but not crucial.
“Give me the sword and nobody need get hurt,” he said, taking another step closer.
In front of his eyes, the girl, surrounded by the swirling fog, appeared to change.
Her leather jacket and jeans disappeared, to be replaced by a jerkin and breeches and hide boots or leggings. On her torso, she wore what looked like a string vest, but then it dawned on him that it was chain mail. She seemed to grow in stature slightly, and even age by ten years or so.
This was no slip of a girl; this was a mature female warrior, holding a sword in the manner of someone well used to it. He regretted not bringing a gun.
“A gun would serve you not well,” she said, with a lilting accent with which he was unfamiliar.
“Are you reading my mind?” he asked.
“Go from this place, now. For you have been brought into something you do not understand and cannot hope to deal with.”
Out of the mist, two more figures seemed to draw substance and shape, forming to stand alongside the woman. One was a man dressed in a long, dark robe, not dissimilar to a clergyman’s robe. The other was a boy, with dark hair like the woman.
“Who are you?” Mitchell asked the woman.
“You know who I am,” she said.
“You are Tamsyn,” he said, more to himself than to her.
The other two figures were fully formed now, and the boy was looking to the woman. The other man, the one in the robe took a step forward.
He drew back the hood that had been covering his face and head.
He was a tall, clean-shaven man of middle years. He was taller than the woman, so probably close to six foot. He had short grey hair and a metallic circle of a torque around his neck.
<Go from this place Mitchell the warrior. This is not your fight.>
The man did not speak out loud but as thoughts, straight to Mitchell’s brain.
“It is my job. I’ve been paid to recover the sword,” he said, feeling stubborn in spite of his fear.
“The sword is not his to claim,” the woman said. “His forefather stole it, and it now rests in the hands of the true-blood. He has no claim to it. If he wants it so badly, then he should be here, not you. This is not your concern. You should not lose your life over something like this. Too much blood has already been spilled. The time has come to bring it home and bring peace to those spirits who demand rest.”
Mitchell then noticed that she wore a similar torque to the man’s. He recognised at last that he was in the presence of power that he neither understood nor felt he could deal with. He took a step back.
“May I at least know the truth?” he asked.
The man laughed and glanced at the woman, who was holding a hand out for the boy.
The boy went to her and took her left hand – the hand without the sword.
“My name is Mehrl’ynne the Wise. I am of the Slat’lanti people from the isles of the western ocean,” the man said, aloud this time. His accent was similar to the woman’s.
This meant nothing to Mitchell, who was desperately trying to stop feeling he was losing his fragile sanity.
He wanted to run, but something froze him to the spot. It might have been his courageous nature, or it might have equally been his curiosity. He desperately wanted to see what was going to happen.
The girl turned towards the forge. The coals were gleaming almost white hot now, so she took the boy’s hand and together they placed the sword into the fire, point first, throwing it in at the last possible moment.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then, the fire became hotter and brilliantly white, so Mitchell was forced to raise his forearm to shield his eyes.
There was an enormous ‘whump’ as the whole clearing was bathed in white light and heat. Mitchell fell back and ended up on the damp ground with his hands over his head. Memories of shells exploding close to him in the Middle East returned and he started to shake.
Mitchell Hobbs, experienced soldier and seasoned veteran of dangerous situations, passed out.
Lee, surrounded by a thick, swirling mist, briefly saw a brilliant light and then, watched the mist as it seemed to be sucked into the forge. He thought that perhaps the propane cylinder had exploded, and the blast had extinguished the fire. For a fleeting moment, he saw three figures next to the forge.
There was a female, whom he thought was Tamsyn, a shorter person that looked like a child and a big man in a cloak.
As the mist swirled and rushed into the forge, the last two figures appeared to crumble and dissipate into the mist. The child held onto the woman for a few lingering moments and then, was gone.
Finally, the mist was gone and the Tamsyn he knew and loved stood staring at the now cold forge. The sword was gone and beyond her was a man lying unconscious on the ground. It was the stranger who had stated he wanted the sword.
He stepped forward and touched her on the shoulder.
She turned and he was surprised to see tears rolling down her cheeks. In spite of the tears, she was smiling.
“He has been set free,” she said.
Lee, not understanding, simply nodded.
“The sword?”
“Gone home,” she said.
It was then he noticed that her torque was no longer around her neck.