Rising Thunder (Dynasty of Storms Book 1)

by Brandon Cornwell

  “I hear ya there. What do you need?” Darby's voice was deep and gruff, but not unfriendly.

  “One of your workers was polishing a sword. I'd like to know how much it is.”

  Darby didn't stop working. “Longswords are three gold lions, shortswords are two. Hand and a half swords range from three to five, depending on which one you want.”

  Elias shook his head. “The one I want is as long as I am tall. I asked the man polishing it, and he sent me to you.”

  The next hammer strike didn't land. Darby paused in his work and looked up at Elias. Even though Elias was bent down to peer under the edge of the roof, the smith still had to look upwards to meet Elias's eyes.

  “I see. That's a good amount of sword. You sure you want it?”

  Elias nodded. “I'd like to inspect it before I decide, but I believe so, yes.”

  Darby squinted, wiping sweat from his brow. “I don't have time to go over it with you today. These blades aren't going to forge themselves, and I have a quota to fill.“ He struck the steel one more time before burying it back into the red coals of the forge. “Come back tomorrow, before noon. We'll look it over then.“

  Elias frowned. “Tomorrow before noon? That's a bit of a wait.”

  Darby scoffed as he fished out another red hot bar. “It's also the only sword like it south of the Northlands. If you want it, you're going to need to wait until tomorrow.” Hammer strikes started falling again as Darby resumed his work.

  Elias scowled as he turned away from the forge. He hated waiting.

  Chapter Six

  14th Waning Flower Moon, Year 4368

  The salt air smelled fresh and cool on this morning, not fishy and stagnant like it could. Being on a bay had its ups and its downs, one of the downs being the smell. Fishing was a huge part of making a living here, and the air had confirmed this when they arrived. Not this day. This day, the air was clean and clear, with a slight breeze coming from the sea, making short work of the morning fog.

  Running a hand through his short hair, Elias faced the rising sun, just now clearing the low mountains to the east. The triangular sails of the fishing boats darted to and fro over the shallow bay. Occasionally, one of the boats would pause long enough to haul in a net full of wriggling silver fish, or a cage full of crabs or other underwater critters.

  Elias sighed. By the gods, he hated fish.

  He turned and ducked through the door to the inn room he had shared with several of the mercenaries and Jonas the night before. They had mostly left him alone, deciding instead to lose themselves in food, drink, and women, dealing with the aftermath of their mission in their own ways. The rest of the patrons of the tavern were so focused on themselves half the time, and the rest of the time they were too oblivious to notice anything else. There had been a marked lack of elves, though the dwarves had been out in force. He was unused to this level of racial mixing.

  Stretching, he grunted slightly as he felt the tight muscles in his shoulders and lower back protest. The beds here were far too small for him, so he had ended up on the floor in front of the small hearth. Even with all the blankets and furs laid down, the floor was as hard as one would have expected, being made out of wood. Even the dirt on the side of a road had been softer.

  He kicked the footboard of one of the four occupied beds, causing Jonas to snort and stir. Bleary-eyed, the older man sat up, scratching his unkempt scruff.

  “Eight hells, Elias, what is it? What the bollocks do you want?”

  Elias slipped on his tunic, turning away. “It’s well past dawn. You sleep like the dead, old man. We’re due to meet our employer in less than two hours.“ He strapped his sword belt around his waist, weaving and tying the leather through the iron rings, adjusting the sheath of his longsword so that it rode comfortably at his left hip.

  Jonas flopped back down on the bed, groaning a little before rolling over and swinging his feet to the ground. “Be a good lad and fetch me some ale.”

  Elias scoffed. “I’ve four times as many years as you, old man, and I think you drank all the ale last night. The last thing you need is more.”

  Jonas growled a little, more of a grunt and a groan rolled into one. “You might have seen more years, elf, but you're younger in life, and you know it. I'll decide when I've had enough.“ He rose shakily to his feet and rubbed his face. Squinting into the sun, he stumbled towards the open window, chamber pot in hand.

  Elias turned away, still put off a bit by the brazen attitude of the mercenaries. Jonas chuckled as he emptied his bladder into the pot while looking out into the bay. “On the road or in an inn room, a man still needs to piss. Can't always traipse off into the woods to water the grass.“ The man hitched his trousers back up and dumped the pot out the window onto the rocks below. “If orcs or bandits raid a caravan you're guarding while you're off making streams, it's mighty hard to get paid.“

  Elias shrugged. He could feel a surge of pride and irritation rise up inside of him despite his cool exterior, but he pushed it down, as he had done for years. His own kind had shunned him for his abnormal size in his youth, and while they were more subtle, that just made their words cut that much deeper. At least what humans lacked in subtlety, they also lacked in wit. “I'm going to get some food and pick up my sword. I'll meet you at the square in an hour and a half.“

  “Your sword? You've already been to see the blacksmith?”

  “It was the first place I went.” While he had drank a mug of ale with the rest of the men, to honor the memory of the fallen, he had kept it to one. He knew well the effects of alcohol, as the Northerners were master brewers.

  He shouldered his pack and ducked through the door frame into the low hallway. It was dim and smoky, lit by flickering candles in dirty lanterns. The smells here were strong and none too pleasant, with an ever present odor of feet, of all things. Feet and dirty bodies.

  He did his best not to curl his nose in disgust as he made his way to the entrance of the tavern. Several people jostled into him, likely just to make a point, but they bounced off of him more than he off of them. Most people gave him a wide enough berth.

  As he stepped outside, he smelled the fish. On the second floor balcony, it hadn't been evident, but here in the streets, the smell was pervasive. He huffed a sigh. The sooner they moved out from this smelly town the better. Life on the road was far preferable to the noises, smells, and stares of city living.

  Keeping a hand on his belt pouch to ward off cutpurses, he made his way through the streets to the south end of the peninsula that separated the bay from the sea itself. The loud, raucous voices of the hawkers rang out over the crowds, selling cheap baubles and wares from across the water for far more than they were worth. The bone beads and pearls from the islands were popular here, as were the bracelets and bands touted as gold from this or that lost kingdom or far away land… little more than polished brass. He let his attention wander over the booths as he passed them on his way to the blacksmith. This was a different road than he had taken the day before and had different booths, closer to the docks.

  “Come, come, see the treasures from the lost islands of Greenreef! The greatest craftsmanship ever seen on these shores, from the hands of the sea-elves!” The pieces on display were attractive; polished stone and coral beads, bracelets and necklaces. Perls set in silver, and volcanic glass from the mountains of fire rising out of the sea, which the islands themselves were made from. He’d never been there, of course, but there were many tales about them. Maybe one day he’d see them himself, he mused as he moved through the crowds and stalls.

  “Beads and silks from the oases of the burning sands! No finer gems or bones will you find! Ivory, rubies, emeralds and diamonds!” Elias had no desire to ever go to the eastern desert beyond the plains and mountains, but he had to admit that the gems and stones that came from the walled cities around the oases were captivatingly beautiful. They seemed to retain the fire of the sands that birthed them, and sparkled like coals in the early sunlight.
He lifted one to the light and looked through it toward the sun.

  “Buy it or leave it on the table!” snapped the man who stood next to the cart, snatching it out of his hand when he went to put it back. “I don’t need any bushwalkers getting their greedy elven hands on these precious stones!” The slur stung a bit, and he walked away from the cart. Just as well, there were small bubbles inside the stone, almost too small for even Elias to see. That ‘gemstone’ was glass.

  “Fish and crab! Lobster and clams! Fresh caught, ready to cook fillets! Bacon and beef, pork and venison! Halves, quarters, or jerky!” Ah, now this is what he was looking for. He didn't want to take from the supplies he had purchased for the trip, since he had the coin to feed himself now. Drawing a few copper lions out of his belt pouch, he bought a small, thick, tender slab of jerky, and a small loaf of bread from a vendor nearby. Slicing it in half with the small dagger he kept sheathed at his left hip, he made an impromptu sandwich and ate it as he headed towards the armory.

  As he approached the building, he took the time to study it, having been somewhat preoccupied the day before. The armory was shorter than almost every other building in the town, its low stone walls supporting the broad, ceramic tiled roof. The twin smokestacks pumped black coal smoke inland over the building, pushed by the sea breeze, leaving a perpetual black grime coating most surfaces directly downwind of the forge. The sandy gravel of the street was covered with a thin black layer of soot, with footprints breaking through it, leaving gray tracks.

  The forges and furnaces were already roaring, almost drowning out the ocean, while the ring of hammers against steel pierced the mid-morning air with a satisfying rhythm. The racks that had been scattered in front of the forge the day before were mostly bare, a few men carrying tools and weapons out for the day's display. It seemed that they took them in and put them away every night, which made sense, to deter theft.

  He had never worked steel himself, but it was always a craft that fascinated him. To draw metal from stone and form it into objects that had a use, to know how to cool it and quench it, to know how to heat it and strike it to make it resilient; it was a craft that he had great respect for. He had spent much time with the iron workers in the Northlands, and their love of iron, steel, and copper had been instilled in him.

  Darby saw him coming, and paused in his work. The man was almost as wide as he was short, shorter even than most elves, but more massive by far. He wasn’t a dwarf, necessarily, unless he was afflicted by the same curse that made Elias himself a giant amongst his kind, but he was by no means just a man, either. Perhaps bloodlines had crossed, and the metalworker drew his skills and his appearances from mankind’s subterranean cousins.

  “You’re back again, lad?”

  “I am, Darby. I’ve decided I would like to purchase the greatsword.”

  The blacksmith quirked an abnormally bushy eyebrow. “I know it’s none o’ me business, really, but do ya know how to use a sword like the one ya got yer eye on?”

  Elias shrugged, grinning. “Hit the other man with it really, really hard.“ Despite his gruff and slightly abrasive attitude, the blacksmith was warm, friendly, and Elias liked him. He looked at the weapons that were in various stages of manufacture. Blade blanks sat off to the side, ready to be ground down and smoothed, various lengths, widths, and shapes. Several assistants were working on those parts, grinding the edges smooth on a large stone wheel attached to the windmill, fitting crossguards and handles to the tangs, pinning the pommels and handles into place, and wrapping the handles with wet, stretched leather. One older man sat with a rack of swords next to him, honing the edges on a wide, flat whetstone, before putting them on a final rack for inspection.

  Darby flipped the blade he had been working on, inspected it, and struck it a few more times with his hammer. Sparks flashed in the shade of the stone roof as the hammer struck red steel, which was rapidly cooling to the dark, burned gray of the rest of the blanks. “I’ve got a moment, now, to pull it out. D’ya have the coin for it, lad?”

  “I’ve got some coin. I was hoping you’d be interested in a trade.”

  “A trade? For what?”

  Elias removed the longsword and sheath from his belt, and held it out to the smith. Darby raised an eyebrow at him again, and buried the blade he was working on back into the coals of the forge. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, lad, ” he said, in a conspiratory tone, “but I’m not exactly experiencing a shortage of blades. I’ve got more than I can shake my tongs at.”

  “Yes, but this is elven steel, and already made, so you can put sell it without having to smelt the iron, hammer it into steel, or make the fittings. Ready to go with no extra effort, as it were.”

  The blacksmith laughed. “What do I look like, a trader from the burning sands? And ‘elven steel’? My steel would cut it like it was copper!” The blacksmith picked up an axe head that had yet to be fitted to a handle, and struck it against a steel rod that was sitting on a workbench, cutting half a foot off the end. “Can yer elven steel do that?”

  Elias drew the blade, not at all sure it could. Holding the steel rod against the workbench, he swung the longsword down hard. With a ring, several inches of the steel rod skipped across the floor. He held the blade up, inspecting it. Where the sword had struck the bar, there was a deep scratch, a bit of a nick, but no real damage. None that would make it unfit for service, at least.

  Darby took the blade and inspected it himself. “It’s hard steel, there’s no doubt. Good balance, straight edge…” He shook it a bit, listening for any sounds, then sheathed it. “No rattles in the hilt, tight sheath. Why d’ya want to get rid of this one, then? It’s a good blade.“ All earlier bravado aside, the blacksmith was appreciative of good craftsmanship.

  “It’s far too small. A sword like this should have a blade as long as the wielder's leg, but the pommel comes to just under my belt. My hand barely fits between the guard and the pommel, so using it with two hands is not an option. I definitely need a bigger weapon, and I’m not fond of axes.“ It was true; the sword was made for an elf of normal proportions, and as such was far too small for him.

  “Ye’ve got a point, at that. Unfortunately, I have no use for it.” The smith turned to face him again, holding up a single thick finger. “Fifteen gold lions. That’s half of what its worth, and I'll not take a single coin less. I hope you've got it still, and haven't spent it all on wine and whores.“

  Elias nodded, ignoring the playful jab. “I want to hold it first, to make sure it's exactly what I want.”

  “Trust me, lad, if a greatsword is what ye want, yer gonna want it.” Darby turned to the side, leading the way out the back of the building. On his way out, he shouted at his assistant. “Thomas! Lay off the bellows for a moment. Keep the steel hot, but don't y' dare melt my swords unless you want me t' replace them with yer bones!“

  Even though he hadn’t been in the armory for long, the bright sunlight made Elias squint ever so slightly as he stepped out the back, between the windmill and the smelter. The heat from the forge had become stifling, and he welcomed the ocean breeze that cooled the sweat on his brow. There was another stone building, this one with a wood shingled roof, about ten yards away from the forge, and a heavy, steel clad door, with a thick padlock hanging from the hasp. Since the workers had been moving weapons out of the armory to put them on display, the door was already unlocked. Swinging it open, he entered, gesturing for Elias to follow.

  Inside, dust motes hung in the air, swirling as they were disturbed by the passage of the smith. The smell of honing oil, leather, and steel was thick in his nose, and on every wall of the room were racks for holding weapons. Most of the spaces were empty, but a number of swords, spears, axes, halberds, and pikes were stored. Some helmets, breastplates, gauntlets, and greaves were here and there, strapped to rudimentary armor stands, and there were several barrels that held the handle blanks for polearms.

  Darby headed towards a rack that held the absolutely massive
sword, and Elias got a good, up-close look at it. The handle made up about a foot and a half of the total length, and the blade at the hilt was nearly as wide as Elias's palm, narrowing until about six inches from the point, where it swept into a wickedly sharp tip. The blade was thick, almost half as thick as a finger in the middle, with a fuller running two-thirds the length of the blade. The handle was wide and oval shaped, wrapped in shiny black leather, with steel rings locking the wrap into place every few inches, to aid with the grip. A round brass pommel was at the bottom, with steel bands running around it for reinforcement.

  Darby lifted it off of the wall, grunting under the weight of it. Gripping it on the handle, against the guard, with the flat of the blade against his left palm, he held it out to Elias.

  Elias took the blade firmly, supporting the blade with his other hand as the smith let go. The sword was heavy, but not too much for him to hold. He moved his grip so that he had both hands on the handle and held it out in front of him. The long handle and counterbalancing pommel helped with the balance, but it was obvious that this was not a blade made for fencing. It was made for cutting through a man in one swing, and for someone who was very used to swinging heavy things. “This sword has to weigh at least twenty pounds!”

  Darby nodded. “At least. I used enough steel and brass in that monster for five other swords.”

  Elias took it out into the sun. The blade was perfectly polished, and while the edge was no razor, it would definitely cut a man if it hit one. “How did you come by making this?”

  Darby rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… it was requested by someone else, but I don’t think he’ll be wanting it anymore.”