Hero of Lichfrost

by M E Robinson

  “Fer you, it’ll be fairly cheap. Your mace isn’t in too rough a shape. At most a single silver Srick. Fer the half-orc, it’ll be aboot six Sricks - the armour, shield, and weapon are all in dire need of repairs,” Tom explained.

  “As fer you,” he said, turning to Eric, “I’d suggest ye just buy a new sword. It’ll cost ye two Sricks and a few Cirts to get this one fixed, but I can offer ye a brand new sword for only four Sricks. It’s up to you of course, but I’ll throw in a discount if ye trade yer old sword to me. What do you say?”

  Checking his available funds, Eric pondered for a moment before nodding, “Sounds good. I’ll come and choose one later once I’ve gotten Doreen to fix my armour. Is that okay?”

  Tom laughed, a hearty sound that caused his belly to rumble as it reverberated through the forge. “Alrigh! You go visit Doreen. I’ll fix yer friends’ gear while yer gone.”

  Saying goodbye to Tom, the trio split up, Eric headed for Doreen’s Leather supplies, while Mark said something about talking to Maria about his healing spell. Waving goodbye to Griffin who’d decided to stay behind and watch Tom work, Eric left the forge.

  Doreen’s reaction was far more subdued than Tom’s had been, probably because they hadn’t visited her to get new armour only a few hours previously, Eric thought with a grin. Chatting briefly with Doreen, or at least as briefly as was humanly possible with a chatterbox like Doreen, Eric left his armour with the woman for some quick repairs while he checked in with Craig to see if his bow was salvageable.

  Pausing for a moment in front of Craig’s shop, Eric took a deep breath before throwing open the door.

  “Welcome to Craig’s Archery Shop! Home to the best bows in Novanalba,” said Craig, his jovial voice welcoming Eric into the shop.

  “Hey Craig, I have a question,” Eric replied with a slight smile.

  “Oh? And what would that be?” Craig asked curiously.

  “Do you do repairs? Specifically, are you able to repair something like this?” Eric asked, taking his bow out of his inventory.

  Craig’s face twisted when he saw the bow, extending his hands, he took it from Eric’s hands, observing the splintered wood and bent limbs. Checking the string, Craig grabbed the still intact middle of the bow and applied pressure. As Eric watched, Craig performed a few more tests on the broken bow, his expression pensive as he considered something. Nodding slightly to himself, he seemed to have made up his mind about something as he looked back at Eric.

  “You were lucky that this was a fairly clean break. It looks like something stepped on it, applying enough force to snap the upper limb in two. There’s also some residual fractures that have spread through the rest of the frame, and the string will certainly need replacing.”

  “Can you fix it then?” Eric asked expectantly.

  Craig nodded. “If it was any other fletcher in this part of Novanalba, you’d have to buy a new bow. Luckily for you, I know how to use magic to fix broken wood,” Craig said proudly.

  Eric made a surprised face. “You can use magic to fix bows?”

  “Of course! Craftsmen use magic for quite a few things. As a fletcher, I use magic to dry the glue I use to attach the vanes to arrows, to speed up the treatment of the wood I use to make bows, and to help mold the shape of the bow when the wood is of lower quality than I’d like, or has a knot in it or some other defect,” Craig explained.

  Eric nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. I just didn’t think magic could be used like that. Apart from combat and a bit of healing magic, I don’t really know any other types.”

  “Bah, what do you otherworlders know? Most of us don’t know any combat magic at all. I use magic to cook, help clean my store, and to amuse myself and my family. My daughters love when I conjure up the few small tricks I know. Magic is far more than simply a tool for killing - it’s something we all rely on,” Craig said heavily.

  Eric was rendered mute by the seriousness of Craig’s speech. It almost felt like he’d been slapped, such was the intensity in Craig’s voice. Seeing the half-elf’s stricken expression, Craig laughed, his face breaking out into a huge grin as he looked at Eric.

  “Good speech, eh? It’s something that the village mage, Lucy, told me when she first moved here, her speech was far more eloquent than mine just now, lots of big words you see,” he informed Eric conspiratorially.

  Coughing slightly, Craig recomposed himself, “Anyways, the point is that yeah, we use magic for more than just fightin’ and killin’. It’s embedded in the daily life of everyone in Nasvencia. Not sure if that’s how it is in your world, but that’s how it is here. If you want, I can let you watch as I fix your bow. But if you want to really learn magic, I’d suggest you visit Lucy Morningstar. I will warn you, however, that she is a bit… Uhhh…”

  “We’ve met,” Eric said bluntly, saving Craig the trouble of continuing.

  Letting out a small sigh of relief, Craig flashed Eric a relieved smile. “Ah, then you know what I mean. But anyways. It’ll cost you one Srick and twenty Cirts if you want me to repair your bow. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Did you want to watch?”

  Informing Craig that he did indeed want to watch, Eric handed over the coins, following Craig through a door at the back of the store and into a well-lit workshop full of unfinished bows and various fletching supplies. The thing that immediately drew the eye was a large workbench in the middle of the room, various bottles covered the surface, filled with strange liquids and mixtures. A wooden bucket full of unfletched arrow shafts was placed next to the workbench, while a variety of arrowheads filled a set of small pots at the corner of the desk.

  Striding over to his desk, Craig cleared a space on the workbench, placing Eric’s bow in the middle of the workspace. Grabbing the bow, Craig began to realign the limbs, forcing the ruined wood back into place. Grabbing a bottle of clear liquid, Craig quickly applied it to the bow, smearing the liquid liberally over the splintered limb.

  “Alright, watch carefully,” said Craig, looking towards Eric.

  Eric watched as Craig picked up a wand from where it lay next to the glue pots. Pointing at the shattered limb, Craig began to weave runes in midair, slowly and methodically drawing four different runes which shone brightly above the workbench. As he drew the final rune, a vaguely tree shaped rune that gave off an earthy green light, Craig breathed out a sigh of relief and tapped his wand against the bow, causing a strand of liquid to attach itself to his wand. Ignoring this, Craig focused as the runes began to spin, a bright light filling the room as they merged together. With a sudden flash, the runes disappeared, a brownish light flowing into the bow from Craig’s wand.

  As Eric watched, the wood around the shattered section of the limb began to regrow at a visible speed. New tendrils of wood sprouted from either side of the broken part of the limb, twisting together as the limb slowly became whole once more. Holding his wand to the bow, Craig concentrated, rivulets of sweat flowing down his dark face as the magic continued to work. As the last tendrils of wood joined together, the bow whole once more, Craig collapsed backwards onto the bench, his shoulders slumping as he beheld his work.

  Staring at the man, Eric was unsure of how to proceed. Just as he was about to tap the fletcher on the shoulder, Craig straightened up.

  “Whew! Not bad for a mere professional fletcher, eh?” Craig said with a grin, inspecting the bow for flaws. Satisfied with his work, he reached into a small drawer of the workbench and brought out a coiled string. Quickly unhooking the old bowstring and stringing the new one on, he strummed the string lightly. Nodding with a pleased expression, Craig handed the bow over to Eric.

  “Now I hope that that’s shown you a little of how we use magic in our everyday lives. Not all of it is as exciting as that of course, but hopefully you get the point.”

  “I think so. It’s a lot more intense than I thought it would be,” Eric confessed.

  Craig grinned. “Well that was a pretty high level spell if I’m being honest. I wo
rked for years to learn how to cast nature magic and bend it properly to my will like that. But most spells I use in my day-to-day work are far less intensive, one or two runes at most.”

  Checking his bow, Eric could just barely make out where the limb had been broken. The wood there was slightly newer than that surrounding it, with a freshness to it that the rest of the bow did not have. However, apart from that, it was identical to the rest of the bow in every other way. Twanging the string experimentally, Eric smiled, the bow was as good as new. It was as if the Swordclaw had never stepped on it in the first place.

  Seeing this, Craig turned solemn. “Now, as for your bow. Try to take better care of it! I understand that as a militia member sometimes you’ve gotta run and live to fight another day, but it still pains me as a fletcher to see my creations in such a state, you understand?”

  “Aha, sorry. I’ll do my best to take better care of it this time,” Eric replied, putting the bow on his back.

  Waving goodbye to Craig, Eric went to collect his armour from Doreen’s shop before heading back over to Tom’s smithy.

  Mark had yet to return, and Griffin seemed to have disappeared somewhere, leaving Eric to stand alone at the smithy. Watching Tom work, Eric stood there silently, waiting for the man to finish his work. With a serious look upon his face, Tom hammered at Griffin’s chainmail, gently closing a new link onto the armourpiece. The shield sat nearby, looking far better than it had when Eric had last seen it only half an hour ago. The metallic boss in the center had been repaired, and much of the wood had been magically restored, the gouges and holes that had once covered its frame now gone.

  Looking up from his work, Tom spied Eric waiting at the entrance to the smithy. Looking at the half-elf, a huge grin blossomed on his craggy face.

  “Back already? Ye ready ta choose a new blade?” Tom hollered, waving at Eric.

  “As long as I’m not interrupting you. I can wait for you to finish,” Eric replied, entering the forge as he greeted the smith.

  “Nonsense! I’m jus’ about done wit this hauberk. It really jus’ needs ta cool down now,” Tom explained, laying the chainmail across a nearby rack.

  Looking at the chainmail, Eric could see that Tom was indeed correct. The armour had been repaired well, with only a few scratches remaining to show for the recent abuse it had been put through.

  “Guess I’m good then. Did you want me to just pick out a sword?”

  Tom scoffed at this, “Do ah look like some stupid merchant who sells weapons ta people without considering their needs? Follow me, we’ll find a weapon that suits ya.”

  Following Tom to the back of the forge, Eric found himself standing in front of the wall of weapons that he’d seen upon his first trip to the shop. All sorts of weapons hung upon the wall, from shortswords a little more than a foot in length, to enormous axes almost the size of Eric himself. The overwhelming majority of weapons were swords and spears, axes made up the next largest group, while maces and other more exotic weapons were rarities that stood out among the rest.

  While the overall selection may not have been the greatest due to the size of the smithy, it was clear to Eric that Tom had worked hard to create as diverse a selection of weaponry as he could. Looking closely at the wall, Eric attempted to choose a weapon, observing each blade carefully as he did. After a few moments of this, Eric sighed, which elicited a laugh from Tom.

  “Can’t choose, eh?”

  “I just don’t have the experience to decide. I only started using swords a few days ago, and I’ve never even tried to use an axe or a mace,” Eric explained sheepishly.

  Tom winked at him. “That’s why ye have me. I’ll help ya decide on a weapon that’ll serve you well.”

  Pausing for a moment, Tom observed Eric carefully. The half-elf’s body was on the slimmer side, with a lithe form more suited to agilely dodging than taking blows head on. Muttering to himself, Tom grabbed a sword from the wall. Holding it up, he looked between Eric and the sword. Shaking his head, he placed it back on the wall, grabbing another sword and repeating the process.

  With a slightly confused look, Eric watched Tom’s antics. Finally, just as he was about to ask the man what he was doing, Tom nodded in satisfaction and passed the sword he was holding to Eric.

  “Try that one on fer size. Do a couple o’swings jus’ over there,” Tom said, pointing to an open space in his garden where a couple of water barrels sat.

  Accepting the proffered blade, Eric made his way to the garden. Observing the blade, he could see that Tom had chosen a one-handed sword, with a wide blade. Giving it a few experimental swings, Eric activated Dashing Cut, rushing forward through the grass and making a heavy downwards cut.

  Observing the half-elf, Tom grabbed another sword. Exchanging the weapon for the one in Eric’s hand, Tom watched as he practiced his swordsmanship.

  After a few rounds of this, Tom broke out into a grin. “That’s the one. Ye should use that one.”

  “Why’s that?” Eric panted, resting his hands on his legs as he attempted to catch his breath.

  “Yer fighting style isn’t suited ta the heavy blows from Orcish sword styles, which means ye don’t want too large a weapon like a warhammer. A two-handed sword might suit ya, but I don’t have any at the shop. Yer too light on yer feet and ye don’t put enough weight behind yer attacks to use anything bigger than tha’ though. But ye also don’t seem ta rely on pure footwork like the elves do, yer agile but ye use that agility differently than they do. Anyways, that means ya don’t want too slim a weapon like a rapier. A falchion like that un ye’ve got there is better suited to yer style,” Tom explained.

  “And you can tell all that just from watching me waving a sword around?” Eric asked incredulously.

  Tom smiled. “I used ta be in the army myself. Served way up north wit da Gall Óglaigh fer a few years. Learned plenty aboot fighting meself. But when Tarn was born, I retired back to Tonbura, and picked up blacksmithing like me father always wanted. Quite a few of me designs are based upon some of the weapons I saw in my service,” he explained, his eyes growing misty as he reminisced about days long gone.

  Shaking his head to snap out of it, Tom smiled at Eric. “That falchion is a bit more than four Sricks. I’ll have ta ask ye to give me a bit more than ye were planning if ye want that one.”

  Observing the sword in his hand, Eric thought for a second. The falchion was a beautiful weapon, just over two feet long with a slightly curved edge that culminated in a wicked point.

  “You really think it suits me?” Eric asked.

  “If I’m being honest, I think that ye chose correctly when ye asked for the bow the first day we met,” Tom replied.

  Eric winced. “Ouch.”

  “Don’t take it too harshly. Ye’ve only been training for a few days after all. And yer movements are solid, it’s just once you swing yer blade that things start to fall apart. Feels like yer fighting yer instincts, or like ye’ve been trained in a different style of fighting. Anyways, will ye be takin the sword or not?”

  Eric debated for a moment before nodding. Grabbing a handful of Sricks, he paid Tom for the falchion. Disappearing into his house for a moment, Tom returned with a new scabbard which Eric attached to his belt, handing the old one to Tom.

  A few minutes later, Mark and Griffin returned. Griffin had apparently gone to find a baker, having returned with a still warm loaf of bread that he was now tearing into. Collecting their gear, the trio thanked Tom, promising to take better care of their equipment this time around before leaving.

  “So what’s the plan?” Eric asked as the three strolled down the road, fresh loaves of bread now held in both his and Mark’s hands.

  “Meet the militia captain, then go back to elite hunting? We didn’t actually manage to hunt any elites last time, or anything at all really now that I think of it. Did we kill anything?” Griffin asked.

  “We killed a few demonic rabbits and other small monsters on the way there, does that count?”<
br />
  “Not really.”

  “Then no,” Eric replied, taking a bite from his bread.

  Mark looked pensive for a moment. “Griffin’s probably got the right idea. We’ll report to the militia captain first. Tell him about the Swordclaw. Then we can go hunting for elites. If we’re lucky, he’ll have a quest for us.”

  “I’ve got a quest to find ores now as well,” said Griffin.

  “Oh yeah? Where’d you get that?” Mark asked in surprise.

  “Tom. I’ve decided to become a blacksmith apprentice. He told me that if I want to be taught, I need to bring my own ores as there’s a shortage right now. He sold me a pickaxe and taught me how to recognize ores. I gained an ore detection skill that should help me with that,” Griffin explained.

  “Blacksmithing, eh? I wonder if I should take up a profession too,” Eric mused.

  “It’s not a bad idea. We should probably all pick up at least one profession. Maybe we can coordinate with the other guys to make sure we cover all the important stuff,” Mark replied.

  Making their way to the militia barracks, the trio made their reports to Captain Alistair who rewarded them for their efforts with money and information on nearby monster locations. Thanking the captain, the group left in high spirits, ready to begin hunting elites.

  Chapter 18

  Over the next few days, Eric, Griffin, and Mark spent much of their time hunting monsters and doing quests for the residents of Tonbura Village. As they levelled up, learning new skills and doing their best to master their old ones, the rest of the group slowly made their way to Tonbura Village.

  Jaime, the tank that Rob had found, was a Dwarf with an enormous beard and a penchant for two handed weapons. Despite his insistence that he was a tank, Eric found that his style of tanking relied heavily on the mantra of, ‘A dead enemy poses no threat’, which was to say that Jaime preferred to simply beat things to death, going hit for hit with his opponent until one of them dropped dead. Needless to say, as the group’s healer, Mark was not overly impressed with him, especially since Jaime seemed to think that healers were endless fountains of healing, something that could not be farther from the truth in Fate. However, despite Mark’s reservations, Jaime’s attitude was rather refreshing, as his endless optimism and vaguely psychotic breaks in the middle of combat helped to alleviate the pressure the group felt in tense combat situations.