by V. C. Willis
She reached up into the chimney, and I realized I hadn’t smelled ashes or any of the usual indications a fire had burned there in some time. As cold as it had been, there should have been warm coals at best, but nothing but some half-burnt logs and ash laid inside the hearth. With a grunt, she pulled out a blade and handed it to me. This was the quality of craftsmanship I was looking for, maybe a notch above that. I stood, checking the blade’s straightness, the grip and balance making both Valiente’s swords seem like training swords in comparison.
“Perfect,” I muttered.
“It’s the best one Caleb has smithed to date. We hid it when they came in like bulls, but they took the rest of the high-end wares. I’m sorry.” She began spreading out the items, shifting into a seller’s mindset at last.
“Don’t apologize.” I set the sword to the side and knelt before the items. “I need daggers that are strong enough to deflect a sword or warhammer. Some chainmail that will at least keep an arrow shallow for the clergymen.”
“R-right.” Reaching back down, she pulled out several items before finding what she wanted. “These three are all I have in Preveran steel.”
“Really? Is there that big of difference in steel here versus the Perines mountains?”
“It took twice the heat to melt those bars. They cost us a fortune, but it was a gift for my husband. He aimed to make a sword with the three bars but in the end settled for ornate daggers.” Glancing through the chainmail vests and shirts, she sighed. “Well, I can’t vouch for this one or these. This one is heavy and will stop an arrow from afar, and this vest should keep them shallow.”
I rolled the chainmail between my fingers, grunting at the weight of the shirt. “I suppose the priest and mother superior will do fine. I imagine only the Berserk Brigade will aim for them, and the most that will happen is a rogue arrow. Did they have any long-range attackers with them when they came?”
“No. Wait … yes, of sorts.” Searching the air, she recalled the men in her mind. “One was a spearman. The rest had larger blades, two-handed weapons seemed to be their specialty, but they can take a hit too. Built like bulls, every single one.”
“A spearman?” Shit, chainmail won’t stop a hard toss from one of those. I’ll have to make sure I find him and… “Throwing axes or daggers? I’ll need a few of those.”
She laughed, leaning down to pull some out. “Have you even used one before?”
“N-no,” I confessed. “But it seems I’ll need to learn before I leave here.”
Shaking her head, she handed me a heavy tomahawk. “Look, you’ve got strong arms like our Jacks here in town. Tonight, at the tavern, the boys will be throwing tomahawks at targets for drinks. They’ll teach you all they know. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
Nodding, I looked over the weapon before sliding it through my belt. “You think this will do the job?”
“With your strength, if thrown well, this has the weight to break the spear at worse if he blocks. She’ll cut through the air just as fast as knives and daggers, but you’re aiming to disable him more than pierce. A pierced soldier can still attack, whereas a broken arm or weapon cannot.”
“Point taken.” Looking at the selection, there was one item I was missing. “No armguards?”
“Is it for you?” She began putting back the other items.
“Yeah, I’ve got a nasty habit of using my forearms like shields.” I rolled up my sleeves to show off the slashes. “Any chances we can make some?”
She hissed at the thought. “You’re too reckless. I’ll talk to the boys. They should be able to smith something up once I measure your arms. Do you want a manica instead and armor a single arm from shoulder to hand?”
I blinked, the thought never crossing my mind to acquire one. “Do you have the time? We can’t stay for too long.”
“We will make time for you and for your party. In fact, it will take less time than two armguards. Like you said, you can’t face them alone. You need the right gear to take those devils down, and I can’t help but believe you mean it.” She finished putting away the remaining wares and locked the chest. “You’re Blood Prince Ashton, right?”
“Yes.” Despite the speed of my answer, it still rolled off my tongue like a strange concept. I am Ashton. Dante is missing or back in hiding far as the world knows.
“Strange,” she muttered.
“How so?” I aided in covering the floor and moved the chair back.
“Well, the commander of the Berserk Brigade said they were after Prince Dante, not Ashton. That and the priest. You really think they are aiming for Falco’s bounty?”
I laughed. “Falco’s dead, and no one will be getting that bounty, but news travels slow.”
“D-dead? The Rabid Dog is dead!” She dropped the chainmail she had picked up.
I was thankful she couldn’t see the wicked smirk on my face. “It took a priest and a Prince posing as an assassin to get the job done. He was an enemy to even his own country.”
“R-really?” She handed over the chainmail and daggers. “There’s an extra dagger there to replace the shit-one there in your hilt. How on earth you can have one keen and one dull blade is beyond me. Clearly an assassin in training.” The last of her nervousness had faded as she grabbed the longsword. “We will fashion a strong sheath for this one. Send the knight to be sized up.”
“Oh, as promised.” I untied the heavy coin purse at my side, the gold far more than what was being bought. “The payment for your information and wares.”
She nearly dropped the heavy thing as it hit her open palms. “This is too much,” she gasped, counting the coins and shaking her head. “I can’t take all of this. Not after what I intended to do when I walked you in here.”
“Then give me back the difference.” I held out an open palm.
Walking over to a small table, she emptied the coin purse. I watched, intrigued as she divided it in half, something I hadn’t expected to happen, and slid it back into the coin purse. Holding her breath, she dropped the bag into my hand. She exhaled as if a great burden had been lifted.
These are good, fair folk much like Glensdale. They deserve peace of mind as much as my own city, and I will gladly do what I can to break a path open to allow that to unfold for them.
I bowed deeply and cooed, “Thank you, madame. The Guild takes your payment for the heads of the Berserk Brigade.”
She paled, her voice trembling as she spoke, “You’re something else.”
They will fall for coming for me and daring to tread on the innocent to do so.
Chapter 15
Shattered Silence
As we walked out of the house, Red Wine was shouting and arguing over the price for repairs. The blacksmith’s wife and I looked to one another, baffled at the foreign language she cursed in as she pointed a finger hard into the bigger man’s chest. The woman brushed past me in a rush, the other blacksmith confused by our presence. They were expecting to keep Red Wine in place while she tried to take me down. I wonder what language that is?
“Caleb! Harrison!” Her voice jolted them to attention, Red Wine tilting her head at me. “All is well! These good folks have gold and already helped the old logger get home today.”
“But Bessie…” Caleb started, but his eyes fell to the longsword, and he frowned deeply. “Are you sure? You’re putting us all in danger if you do this, my love.”
“It’s okay.” I marched up and turned to Red Wine, slapping my coin purse in her hands. “She’s paid for The Guild to take down the Berserk Brigade,” I announced, earning a pinch from Red Wine.
“This is your fucking coin purse, Half-pint,” Red Wine drawled. “I want to know how you convinced her to not only hire us but give you the best damn sword I’ve ever seen come out of this shop.”
Leaning into her, I purred, “With a sharp tongue and my good looks.”
“We are.” Bessie held her chin high. “Give us two days, and we’ll have you and your party fit to do battle.” She turned to the other man, barking orders, “You need to measure this man for a manica.” Turning to her husband, her tirade continued, “And take this longsword and find the knight. He’ll need a proper sheath for your precious star-blade.”
The look he gave the blade could make anyone’s heart ache. “Y-yes. I see.”
“Left or right arm?” Harrison had produced paper and charcoal as he turned to me. “I recommend you use the weaker arm for the manica since it’ll serve like a shield. If it takes a beating, it can still guard.”
Red Wine chuckled at the question. Shit, I don’t know the right answer, but the old man said never let them know I’m really left-handed so… “Left arm.”
“You take the old Farmer’s advice to heart. I never agreed with that, but…” She leaned in, whispering too low for anyone but me to hear. “Ashton was right-handed, ambidextrous honestly, but remember that as you keep yourself from using that arm. Manica might help with that.”
Now she tells me. I held out my arm, and he used his hand to measure various places of my chest, shoulder, and arm. When he finished, I pulled the dull dagger from my side and left it on their table to do with it what they will: trash, sell, or recycle. Now I had two keen daggers, a tomahawk, and a claymore still on Basque. By the time I crossed the village and entered the tavern, Valiente was being measured by Caleb and the innkeeper was handing keys to John.
“Will that sword suit you?” I asked, meeting Valiente’s eyes as he smirked.
“I didn’t expect you to pry the blacksmith’s favorite from his hands like this.”
“Me neither,” grumbled Caleb as he finished writing measurements and left.
Valiente continued, “I should kiss you for this.”
John cut in between us, shoving the knight back a step. “I’d advise you keep your lips to yourself.”
“Oh? Is that a threat?” Valiente settled back onto his stool and took another sip of his mead. “Didn’t take you as a jealous one, Father John.”
“I heard you got knuckles to the face for stealing one from my priest.” Chuckling, I slid a coin across to the bartender. “You have ale here?”
“Aye. We serve all we can between the battlefield and our jacks.” The old man had an eyepatch, scars saying he had served his time on the battlefield and managed to survive long enough to retire. “You want the house special or dark ale from Captiva City?”
“House special.” Shrugging, I turned to face John. “You joining?”
“No, I’m going to see Sonja to her room.” He eyed us both for a moment. “Will either of you be escorting us for our safety?” John met my gaze, and I held my breath.
I’m not ready to be alone with you just yet. My ale slid to me, and I feigned distraction.
“I’ll do it.” Red Wine marched in, soft footed as a cat and making us all jolt. “We have much to discuss, Father.” She hooked John’s arm and disappeared.
Exhaling, I took another gulp of the bitter ale, thoughts replaying the conversation with Bessie. The bartender had a permanent scowl on his face. As I took in the man, I could see the bruises on his neck from large fingers, the limp that made me wonder if an old injury or new one was to blame, and the red and purple peeking under the eyepatch. He reached for a glass, his aim off and knocking it to the ground in defeat. It shattered into a thousand pieces, and the tavern cut into a silence so deep I flinched. He stared at the shards, every set of eyes waiting to see what he’d do next.
Unnerved, I stood, setting my mug down loudly, moving the eyes all to me. “I’ll clean it up.”
He gave me a baffled look. “W-what?”
“You just lost that eye, right?” As I grabbed the broom leaning on the wall by the innkeeper, I circled back to slide behind the counter. “I got this. Can’t have my bartender slicing up his hands. Go pour me another ale.”
His lips drew tight as he stumbled back to let me do the work. Closer, without the haze of the ale to dull my sense of smell, I could tell the wound was fresh. I caught the tinge of infection along with the rattle in his breath; Fuck, they even broke a rib. They’ll pay. These are innocent lives caught in my crossfire, and I will take responsibility for this. These people won’t be the last caught up in this… Whispers rumbled through the patrons, all eyes on me still. Swallowing, the bartender turned to pour another ale and placed it next to my first.
“Thank you,” he muttered.
“Don’t thank me,” I growled, tossing the shards in a bucket of more glass. It wasn’t the first one today it seems. “They came looking for me, and you paid the price.”
Fingers gripped my shoulder tight, digging hard into my flesh as he hissed in my ear, “The Commander did this to me and worse to my girls. You gut him, you hear me
?”
“You have my word, even if I have to do it with my bare hands.”
I see the smiths have already spread the word on what we intend to do when we leave here. Let’s hope others are as forgiving. But does John know what has happened here yet? He’s as bullheaded as I am on something like this.
I sat back down, finished the first ale, and pulled the second closer. Wish alcohol still worked to numb my mind… I guzzled it, bitter at the fact I was beyond a bloodeater and couldn’t seem to build any kind of buzz. Valiente’s gaze burned at me, the knight furrowing his brow. The bartender poured a third ale, and I stared at my reflection, glad to hide all the emotions on my face behind the mask I wore. Without this shield, I would be vulnerable to the world.
“If you keep this up, you’ll shatter like that glass.” Valiente’s words snapped me out of my thoughts. “It’s an age of war. No one man is responsible for the tragedies we face day in and day out.”
“I suppose this means they’ll be waiting for us when we head south?” Dodging his words, I focused on what would be coming soon enough no matter how anyone felt. “What all will we need?”
“It seems you were able to secure weapons and armor, so that’s a start.” Valiente took a few gulps of mead and exhaled, looking at the grim-faced locals. “They hit this place hard.”
“Yeah. They did.” Tapping my thumb on the bar top, I followed his path.
“We need rest, too. And until then, it seems Red Wine and I have informants that should be getting back to us by morning. From there, we can try to prepare, but I must be honest, Da-Ashton,” Valiente cleared his throat and stood, tossing a few coins on the table, “the commander of the Berserk Brigade is a beast, barely human if you consider the rap sheet of crimes and sins he’s committed that I know of. You might be stronger, but he has experience and murderous intent on his side. You need to think long and hard how much of yourself you are willing to destroy to cut a path for real change to happen in Grandmere. Or at least, to protect him.”
He shot a dangerous look down at me, and I snorted. “I’ve already made my choice, Valiente. I can’t change Grandmere overnight, but I can at least aim to disassemble Fallen Arbor.”
“You do realize they own the entire Old Continent, right?” He scoffed, scratching the side of his jaw. “You’re declaring war against an empire.”
Arching a brow, I smirked. “But here in Grandmere, they are operating in secret. The question here is why—when you consider they are indeed an empire.”
Valiente nodded. “I suppose there is something odd about that.”
“They need something first, and I aim to get to it before they can.” I finished the third ale and signaled for another.
“What do you think it is they want so badly?” He leaned over my shoulder, lowering his voice as he spoke in my ear. “You think it’s Ashton himself keeping them in t
he shadows all this time?”
“That, and I have a feeling that soul weapons or the magic of curses like The Fanged Lady factor somehow. I don’t recall any history or legends on bloodeaters or the plague in relation to the Old Continent. How about you?”
Whistling, he began walking away. “You’re both deep thinkers, but I see why you ended up in love with one another.” Chuckling, he waved farewell. “See you tomorrow!”
I can’t make heads or tails of him. If I didn’t know better, he was still crushing on John and starting to fall for me with the way his heart was pattering.
Chapter 16
King of Jacks
I had lost count of the drinks and abandoned my mask, tucking it into my belt. The air still had a hint of wintry bite at night, and the lumberjacks began to pour into the tavern. Sweat and freshly chopped red pine filled the air. Before long, the thud of tomahawks made me wander outside. Around the corner, laughter and shouts echoed through the forest. A large man with unkempt long hair and beard stepped up. Chugging his beer, he slung the tomahawk without a glance, and it hit the red center of the target. They had sliced a tree like a loaf of bread, a stack nearby to replace targets as they broke apart to become the wood for nearby campfires. Another wave of shouts and the faces glowing in the orange firelight looked primitive. These men seemed to be tapping into some ancient calling, generations spent laboring in the pines only to fuel the civil war in a never-ending cycle.
It’s become a tradition in Leifseid: a supply chain for the war.
Inhaling deeply, I braved a seat behind the throwing-brutes so I could watch them. The first man had thrown his one-handed, not even staring at the target. The next several squared off their stance, two hands close together on the bottom part of the handle. Chest facing the target, they drew arms and weapon overhead, throwing with all their weight, much like chopping wood. These hit hard, a loud thud and the target stand would rock slightly back. Again, the first man stepped up, the rotation starting over once more.
