by Aaron Bunce
Julian’s damaged armor and broken sword rattled together in a bag tied to his saddle. The war axe he took from the dead gnarl bounced at his hip. It seemed a fitting trophy. He would pay the smithy a visit for replacements.
“Open!” Julian yelled as they approached the gate.
A disheveled looking guard fell out of the gatehouse, cursing as he tried to fit his helm to his head. He then proceeded to raise the rusted-iron portcullis, grumbling irritably all the while. Julian didn’t wait for the gate to open fully, instead spurring his horse through the gap as soon as it was high enough.
They dismounted their horses as soon as the immense wall of the old city was behind them. Julian spoke fast.
“All of you see the healers. Get rest, warm food, and whatever provisions you need,” he said, turning to walk away, but a hand cupped his shoulder and pulled him back.
“What of you? What is your plan?” Sky asked. His face was haggard and his shoulders sagged. Julian knew what he was asking, but he didn’t know how to respond.
“I don’t know. I need to do something…I have to do something,” he said finally, shaking his fist angrily.
“Well, whatever you do, we are there.” Sky grasped Julian by the arm and squeezed reassuringly.
He’s worried that I’ll charge off and get myself killed, Julian thought.
“I will find you later,” Julian promised, and with a quick nod turned and left.
Julian strode wearily through streets, propelled only by purpose. The city was just starting to come to life. He passed vendors stocking corner stalls with food while a few stragglers carried bushels or baskets, but other than that the boulevards were quiet.
He stopped and purchased a fresh roll from a rosy-faced baker as she opened her window to the street. She wasn’t much for conversation, but neither was he. Julian dropped a copper in her palm and continued.
The Silver Guard barracks loomed before him, the early morning light spilling over its ramparts. The cedar-plank shingles adorning the conical spires glowed in the morning sun, their radiance projecting a reddish-gold hue over the chalky stone.
A pair of guards, fully dressed in ceremonial garb, stood before the large oak door. Their armor was highly polished, and their helms topped in crimson plumes that matched their full-length capes. The two men watched Julian approach, their faces unreadable masks.
Julian found Captain Jiqou standing over his desk, leaning over, pouring over a pile of parchments.
“Sir.” Julian stopped just short of the desk respectfully.
“Ama’lik!” Jiqou exclaimed, his head snapping up.
Julian dropped the bag of damaged armor and weapons onto the desk and stepped back.
“Why didn’t you send a rider? I would have dispatched reinforcements, healers, and supplies,” Jiqou asked, eyeing Julian wearily.
“I would have,” Julian started, but then paused. “I thought it better to relay it directly, sir.”
“The gnarls. There is something not right, sir. They were ruthless, but organized…disciplined. I lost a third of my men, and it could have been worse, much worse,” Julian said, a wave of bitterness flooding into him.
“But the fire line served its purpose. The gnarls were killed, and the city kept safe,” Jiqou said coolly.
“Yes, safe for now. What about tonight, tomorrow? And at what cost? It didn’t look like the city was their target,” Julian retorted, but caught himself and tempered his tone. “I lost four men sir. Good men.”
Jiqou nodded resolutely, and Julian noticed how tired he looked. Stress and worry had started to chisel a tapestry upon his face.
“Our losses…have been great, Julian. I can only hope that we will be free of this menace soon,” Jiqou said after settling into his chair. Julian was surprised to hear his commander address him so informally. He considered the older man as a thought popped into mind.
“There was something else, sir. There was a man with the gnarls. He wore a strange mask and seemed to lead the beasts,” Julian said.
“A man? Where is he now? Did you kill him?” Jiqou asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
“We fought him, but we could not match him. He took Tan…” Julian cut himself off. He almost tumbled head first down the rabbit hole.
“Took someone, you say? Who did they take?” Captain Jiqou asked, tilting his head. Julian reeled, but quickly decided on a lie.
“They took one of my men, carried him off into the woods. He is still alive, I’m sure of it! If you give me a handful of men I can track them back to their camp. It can’t be too far, and we can be done with these wretched attacks once and for all,” Julian finished hopefully.
A tingle shot up Julian’s spine as he studied Jiqou’s face, waiting for his response. The reassuring, warm pulse of Tanea’s heart was still strong and steady, but there was something else there too. Sweat beaded up on Julian’s brow, and somehow he knew what Jiqou would say even before he started to shake his head.
“I’m sorry, Julian, our orders are clear. The risk is too high, and our numbers are too low as it is. The Steward has decreed that we fortify, and outlast the attacks. He believes,” Jiqou said, rolling his eyes, “that if we hold the beasts off long enough, they will grow desperate and move on.”
“That is ridiculous!” Julian growled, unable to contain himself any longer. Jiqou’s expression grew dark, but he did not immediately speak.
“Sir, outlast them? We lose men by the day. They slaughter livestock, and burn our farms. How long has it been since a caravan has reached the city safely? If we do not do something soon, we won’t have enough men to keep them out of the city, and then what?” Julian asked, his face flushing with anger.
Jiqou reached up and rubbed his face tiredly, his large hands covered with calluses. He exhaled deeply before responding.
“I cannot spare the men. Councilman DuChamp has decreed Craymore as the keeper of the eastern mountain road. We have dedicated two score garrisons to patrol the eastern approach spanning from Ban Turin all the way west to the Laniel approach. With those troops keeping the mountain approach and the Council Road safe we are left with no reserve.
“Do you know how many men it would take to mount a successful raid?” Captain Jiqou asked, but didn’t wait for a response. “The Steward is implicit. We man the lines. We keep the city safe, and the threat will pass. The Steward has the favor of the Earl and the Council. I have no recourse.”
Captain Jiqou leaned forward in his chair. “We have dispatched riders to Laniel asking for supplies, and soldiers. We can only hope for more men before mid-winter. If not before then, they may have to wait until spring’s thaw.”
Julian gave up trying to rationalize it. He was tired, sore, and filthy. Tanea was gone, and with every moment Julian felt his chances of seeing her again slipping away.
“This cannot be the answer! How many more have to die?” Before Julian realized it, his voice was raised. “They took one of our own, Captain, someone in my charge to protect. I cannot sit idly by while those animals do who knows what to her!” Julian slipped, but he didn’t care anymore.
Jiqou eyed him a moment before speaking, and when he did, his voice was quiet.
“You are not of your right mind right now. Go see a healer, get yourself cleaned up. See the armorer and get rid of…that,” Jiqou said quietly, pointing at the battle-axe hanging on his belt. His harsh expression softened a bit and then he continued. “War does horrible things to people Julian, and it will destroy you if you let it. Get some rest. I will dispatch fresh men to bolster your line. Stay the course, Ama’lik!”
Julian gave a quick salute and turned on his heels and left. He knew he had crossed the line with his Captain.
Point of no return, Julian! Insubordinate men were disciplined by whip and lash, and in his case, Jiqou would have been justified. He knew that he was sliding by on the currency of his heroics of the first attack, but any leniency Julian had before was now surely gone.
“More men
desert in Craymore than any other city in Barden’s Reach,” Julian mumbled, remembering the speech they gave him when he first arrived in the city. He also remembered how they walked them by the bloodstained block outside the city jail. Those caught quickly met the blade of the executioners axe.
When Tanea originally asked Julian to run away with her, to find a new life far from the suffocating laws of her order, Julian’s sense of duty and honor stopped him. He had never been one to make rash decisions. In this regard, he was much like his father, who, as a prominent man in Ban Turin often cared more for codling prominent relationships than his own family.
For some men, duty was a mask to conveniently hide behind. Julian could never be like that. He feared the stigma and dishonor of cowardice. They were stains that could never be washed away - for him, or his family.
Julian walked back through the courtyard, quickening his pace as he looked skyward. The curtain of grey clouds had grown thicker and the air had a thick feel to it. He knew what it meant. Snow.
Julian did his best to ignore the pain radiating all over his body. He limped, trying to jog.
Damn weather, he thought irritably. The snow would cover the ground, masking the masked man’s tracks, making him nearly impossible to track. Julian couldn’t let that happen.
A small stone building sat tucked away neatly at the rear of the courtyard, sitting just inside the wall of the keep. A lean-to roof covered a large coke-fire forge and smithy tables. Currents of cold air whipped through the forge, sending eddies of burning ash and soot spiraling all around him.
Julian walked straight through the building’s heavy door and approached a wide counter. Its surface was smooth but heavily pitted from many thaws of use. Two men stood in the back of the large, dark room, their backs turned as they engaged in a lively conversation.
Julian heaved the heavy bag off of his shoulder and dropped it noisily onto the counter. The damaged armor and weapons spilled out, scattering in a gratifying racket.
“Gracious, no excuses for such a racket now,” the older of the two men protested. He walked forward into the candlelight, his face heavily smudged with soot and grease.
“Greetings, Master Ama’lik,” Gebbert, the young apprentice said, bounding up from behind the Smith.
“It’s just Julian, Gebbert,” Julian said.
“Oi, so it’s true then, is it? There were more attacks last night?” the apprentice asked, his smile quickly fading.
Julian nodded resolutely.
The Smith, a perpetually frowning, no-nonsense type named Felder Smithhammer, stepped up to the counter and pushed the younger man aside. Felder hadn’t always been so dour. Julian learned that his mood turned a few winters back when the ache of age settled into his shoulders and arms, forcing him to put his hammer and tongs down for good.
“Bah, what, you been smashing rocks with your blade now?” Felder asked, picking up the broken blade to his sword. He held the metal mere inches from his nose, inspecting the damage to the swords edge.
Julian clenched and unclenched his hands, aware of the ache in every joint and muscle. It was a fitting reminder of the strike that shattered his blade and nearly killed him.
“No fixing that,” Felder mumbled, tossing the two pieces of the weapon into a pile of metal scrap on the floor.
“Were ya trampled by a bull?” Felder asked, picking up Julian’s damaged armor. He inspected the chest piece, and then Julian’s bloodied armorer’s jacket.
“Well we can fix this,” he said as he turned the chest piece over in his hand, but t’will take me a bit of time. The boy will fetch you a replacement.”
Gebbert disappeared behind a row of shelves. Julian could hear him rummaging through crates and barrels. He reappeared a moment later, wiping down a replaced with an oiled rag.
“A new blade,” Felder said, dropping a new hand and a half sword on the counter.
Julian hefted the weapon and slid it home in his scabbard, not bothering to test the grip or weight. Then with an appreciative nod, took his new armor, and turned to leave.
“Sir, hold on a moment. At least let the boy fit the new chest piece to ya. Save you the trouble,” Felder said, stepping out from behind the counter.
“That’s not necessary…” Julian started to protest, but Gebbert came bounding around the counter and took the armor from his hands.
Julian bit back his impatience and grunted through the pain of lifting his arms out wide so the young man could work. Gebbert worked quickly, buckling the leather straps, first on the right side. Julian grimaced as the new armor pressed in on his aching chest.
“Oh…I’m sorry. Beg your pardon, sir.” He bowed apologetically.
Julian grunted and nodded, but he could barely breathe let alone speak. Gebbert prodded around on his right side. Even the slightest brush of the young apprentice’s fingers against his bruised skin sent pain cascading throughout his body.
“Is that okay sir?” Gebbert asked after adjusting the last buckle.
Julian stretched his back and flexed his arms, getting the leather straps to loosen a bit so the armor could settle. He nodded grimly at the young man, fighting hard to hide his pain.
“What is that? Is that one of the beast’s weapons?” Gebbert asked, pointing at the axe hanging on his belt.
Julian pulled the axe from his belt and held it out for the young man.
“I always thought gnarls used clubs or sharp sticks. Did they forge this?” The younger man asked, looking over to Felder.
“No dog-faced beast forges a blade worth half a damn. Probably took it from some unlucky traveler they chewed up on the road. Let me look at it?” Felder said, snagging the axe.
“Metal wasn’t properly smelted…hammer strikes are random. This is ignite steel. I’m surprised whoever smithed this did this fine a job. Can’t work with it. Can’t get it hot enough to get it pure,” Felder said, holding the axe head in the candle light.
“Ignite steel? You mean the metal the dwarves work with?” Gebbert asked.
Julian watched the conversation between the Smith and his young apprentice as patiently as he could, but he knew his time was on borrowed time. And at this juncture, he wasn’t terribly concerned with what the axe was made of, only that it did its job. He moved to take it back, but Gebbert interrupted.
“So this is the hot steel you told me about, supposed to burn a man’s skin just like an iron, fresh from the fire. I wish I could meet a dwarf, so they could show me how to refine it!” Gebbert finished.
“Stupid boy…you ain't gonna meet no dwarf. And you’d never find one that would share their smithing secrets with you neither,” the old man snapped.
Julian held his hand out. “I need to be going,” he said, shaking his hand animatedly. Felder placed the axe back on the counter and slid it over to Julian, who reached out for the weapon.
“Hey look at that!” Gebbert said suddenly. “On the handle, there is a Smith mark. Look, Felder, I’ve seen it before.”
Felder’s hand shot out and took the axe by the head before Julian could pull it free. The Smith looked genuinely alarmed by Gebbert’s reaction. Julian’s frustration grew, and he clenched his fists.
Felder rotated the handle of the weapon so close to his nose it almost touched. Julian saw the mark as it appeared in the candlelight. It was small, no bigger than a coin. The Smith that had forged the weapon had taken the time to carve a unique marking into the polished handle, just below the weapon’s head.
“See, Felder! You know, I think it looks like…” Gebbert said excitedly, but Felder’s face snapped up to the boy before he could finish.
“Shut up, boy! You don’t know what you’re talking about, shut up!” the Smith yelled. His voice cracked and broke, taking a harsh turn.
Gebbert recoiled, his eyes swelling in size until Julian was sure he would start crying. His mouth opened, but he did not speak.
“Don’t you have work to be doing? Off with you!” Felder snapped again, kicking at the
boy’s backside and sending him skittering out of sight. The Smith stared at the far wall, his eyes glazing over. He absently dropped the weapon back onto the counter. Felder refused to meet Julian’s eyes as he turned and shuffled away.
Julian stood there for a moment, running his thumb over the polished handle of the axe, until the aproned figure disappeared behind a shelf. The smith’s reaction to the trades mark on the axe was strange. He was sure he saw a flash of recognition in the man’s eye.
There are no coincidences.
Julian walked back outside and was greeted by a sea of white. Snowflakes as large as copper coins blew against his face, propelled by the frigid, howling wind.
The cracks and low points in the ground were already filling with fluffy snow. He took a step into the wind, feeling the snow crunch beneath his boot. There would be no tracks.
“Guide me. Help me find you,” Julian whispered into the wind, holding his hand over his heart.
Instead of turning left to leave the city, Julian turned for cover under the lean-to roof and ducked around to the rear of the building, where a narrow space formed an alley. Barrels of coke and sawdust lined one wall, while empty barrels lined the opposite wall.
An overturned barrel sat next to the back door. An empty mug, the foam of a recently consumed beverage still frozen in place sat on the barrel. Next to mug was a wood pipe, its aromatic pipe weed discernable even in the swirling wind.
Julian tugged on his new steel chest piece, trying to find some relief from the ache of his bruised flesh, but no matter how he moved or tugged, it didn’t bring him any relief.
Julian leaned back against the stone wall and focused intently on the subtle beat of Tanea’s heart. The strange connection binding him to Tanea undulated, weakening to an elusive tick one moment, before roaring back in an almost overwhelming surge. He struggled to decipher the patches of emotions.
