It wasn’t long before they reached a two-storey stone building. A heavy dark oak door prevented entry and on it was posted the emblem of the blacksmiths’ guild.
‘We must be right here. Ker-Korog recommended this blacksmith and when it comes to metalwork, the little people have a gift for it’, said Falk.
He hammered on the door and soon it was opened by the largest woman Ahren had ever seen. The women in Hjalgar were mostly considerably smaller than the men and so the apprentice could only stare rudely while Falk explained their request. The blacksmith was a finger’s width taller than Falk and had the broad shoulders and strong arms typical of workers in this profession. White-blond hair peeped out from under her veil and her piercing blue eyes twinkled humorously at Ahren as she listened to the old Forest Guardian. Then she moved aside and let the two of them in while she looked the young man up and down critically.
‘So you need a sword for the little one, do you?’ she asked. ‘What do you have in mind?’
Falk hesitated. ‘I’d like your advice first before I decide. My knowledge is a bit…rusty’.
Then the blacksmith approached Ahren, who flinched and looked up at her uncertainly. She snorted in amusement and said, ‘I’m not going to eat you. Have you never seen anybody from the Ice Islands or the Brazen City, boy?’
He shook his head and his master said, ‘he’s fresh-faced from the village. It’s all new for him’.
The big woman gave an understanding nod and began to measure the length of his arms and the width of his shoulders with a thread.
‘Shoulders too small and arms too thin for hammer and axe. Or do you have time to build up a bit of strength?’ Her dry analysis cut through Ahren. His training had begun to reap significant rewards and he had almost beaten Holken in arm-wrestling a few weeks earlier. A wave of homesickness came over him as he remembered, and he looked dejectedly in front of him.
In the meantime, Falk answered. ‘No, we’re heading for a dangerous area and time is not on our side’.
She nodded and made Ahren hop, stand on one leg, turn in every direction, bend and stretch. He thought she might be a little strange in the head, but Falk stood there quietly, leaning against a pillar and looking on serenely. The door to the actual forge was open and it was warm in the room. Ahren was soon sweating but then she indicated to him to stand still.
‘Quick, nimble and wiry. You had him climbing a lot, am I right?’
His master gave a satisfied nod.
‘A quick blade is best for him. We’ll try him out with a rapier’. She went to a shelf which had long, very thin blades.
Falk frowned but said nothing. The smith looked at the thread she had measured Ahren with, then took one of the weapons. It was a thin piece with a three-cornered blade that ended in a basket hilt. The young man took hold of it carefully and the proprietress indicated that he should follow her. The three of them went outside and into a walled inner courtyard with three straw dolls which were obviously used for target practice. There were more further back, made of wood and judging by their scores, those were used for trying out the heavier weapons.
He was told to stab one of the straw dolls and the two adults stood there watching and giving him advice. The weapon felt light and fragile in his hands and bent to an alarming degree when he stabbed. He felt awkward and inept in contrast and the quick steps his watchers demanded of him kept ending up as ineffective little hops.
‘That’s enough’, said Falk finally.
The woman took the weapon from him and went into the house to get another.
The apprentice whispered, ‘what sort of a smith is she?’
Falk chuckled, ‘she comes from the Brazen City, I know that much. What she’s doing here…I’ve no idea. It must be something serious like a blood feud or something. But let me make this clear, she’s not just a smith. Anyone who works at the forge in the Brazen City is also an armourer. We were damn lucky today. No wonder that Kel-Korog recommended her. It wouldn’t surprise me if the dwarves agreed to do business with the city because of her. I’ll definitely have to talk to Uldini about it later’. He became silent as the woman came outside again, this time with a long, straight, two-edged sword in her hand.
‘The classic one. The long sword. Timeless and versatile’.
She handed the weapon over to Ahren, who now had to perform completely different actions , as he hacked at the doll and stabbed it. He felt much more comfortable with the heavier weapon and carried out most of the instructions very well. These exercises took considerably longer and gradually daylight faded.
Finally Ahren heard Falk asking, ‘so armourer, are you satisfied? It looks good enough to me’.
The apprentice held his breath and turned around to where they had made themselves comfortable at a small table. Sometime while he had been peppering the straw doll, she had organized goblets and beer and the two were sitting there like two old warriors and were examining him critically.
She answered with a frown. ‘Satisfied? No. Good enough for bashing about in the hurly-burly, but in single combat…there’s no doubt he’s talented, but he’s really using only one blade’.
She thought for a moment, then stood up. ‘I’ll try one more weapon. Keep the long sword here, you can take that if the worst comes to worst’.
She quickly disappeared inside while Ahren looked at Falk in consternation. The old man shrugged his shoulders and sipped at his beer. After a few heartbeats the armourer returned, holding an unusual blade in her hand that Ahren had never seen before. It was slim and light, like a long sword cut in two, but with only one cutting edge, the other edge was blunt. The blade was also slightly curved and ended in a little tip. Ahren was fascinated. Everything about this weapon was slim and fast, yet without the fragility of the rapier.
‘Is that a Windblade? He heard Falk asking. I didn’t think the Brazen City produced such weapons. Or are the Sun Planes and the Eternal Kingdom no longer at war?
She laughed, a surprisingly bright and friendly laugh.
‘The war has gone on for so long that it’s probably only the Eternal Empress who remembers the reasons for it. No, you’re right, but one of the few advantages of my new home is the fact that I can now decide for myself what I want to forge. Call it professional curiosity but I wanted to know if it’s possible to manufacture these things in our forges.
‘And?’ asked Falk stubbornly.
‘It’s difficult but possible. It took me ten tries to get this one right. It’s a little top-heavy and I could only fold it half the number of times I wanted to. Any merchant in the Eternal Kingdom will be able to offer you a better piece’, she answered.
‘Well, you’re being hard on yourself’, said the old man, amused.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m just being honest. We’ll see!’
Ahren took the weapon and began the exercises she was showing him. He carried out the steps and the swings almost like a dancer, with economical thrusts and semi circles, using the sword to parry and attack.
His arms and back were beginning to hurt after the hours of training but all his movements felt fluid and gentle now. They stopped only after the sun had completely set.
‘There you have it, Master Forest Guardian. He’s holding the worst blade of the lot in his hands in terms of quality, but his movements are immeasurably better. That’s the one he should take’.
Falk scratched his beard and frowned.
‘Then I have to ask you a favour. Can you show him the ground rules so that he can practise them on the journey. I’m only trained in the broadsword, and that breaks bones when it cuts’.
She nodded and Falk continued. ‘We need to head off tomorrow. I’ll leave him here and you teach him as much as you can. And remember, teach him simple things that he can repeat on his own, without getting into bad habits’. Then he stood up and slapped Ahren on the shoulder. ‘Have fun and grasp the opportunity!’
And he was out the door before the apprentice could respond, leav
ing him with the practice dolls and the gigantic woman from the Ice Islands. He was a little afraid but soon he was too focused on the training to think of anything else. If he had considered Falk to be a hard taskmaster, then the following hours put paid to that. He learnt perhaps a dozen moves, not more, but the armourer made him repeat them with merciless determination until she was convinced that he would be able to perfect them on the road.
‘You’re only at the beginning’, she said during a break, as he drank some water. ‘If you learn bad habits now, they will be with you for the rest of your life, so I’m only going to show you the moves where you know immediately if you’ve made a mistake. Your master will notice any major blunders and correct you’.
Ahren continued the torture of learning the basic moves as the armourer relentlessly hammered into his head all the things he had to be aware of. When the first cock finally crowed, she relented and he rolled together into a ball and fell asleep on the spot.
Ahren woke up late in the morning. He was lying on a soft bedstead under a warm blanket. The armourer, who had introduced herself during the evening as Falagarda, must have lifted him up and put him to bed.
He sat up with a groan and stretched his stiff limbs. He chewed some herbs, an antidote to aching muscles which were in a little bag that he always carried with him. Only Falk, he thought grimly, could manage to turn a simple shopping spree into gruelling torture for him.
There was no sign of Falagarda and a quick glance out the window showed that half the morning was already gone. What was keeping his master? He stood up and found the smith standing in front of the chimney where she was working on an axe. She glanced over her shoulder and called over the clanging of her hammer blows, ‘good morning, your master hasn’t arrived yet’.
Ahren stood for a moment, puzzled. What if something had happened? He opened his moneybag and took out the solitary penny Uldini had given him in case they became separated.
‘What do I owe you?’ he asked.
Falagarda gave a dismissive wave. ‘Forget about it, boy. You’re a quick student and if you practise really hard, you’ll be very handy with the Windblade, maybe even a master. The blade’s been lying around here for years gathering dust’. She thought for a moment. ‘Mind you, you can do me one favour. If your travels take you to the Silver Cliff or Thousand Halls, tell the dwarves there that Falagarda Regelsten is interesting in developing a trading relationship that involves more than precious stones’.
Ahren didn’t quite know what she was talking about, but he nodded and said, ‘that’s a promise. And thanks for the training’.
She nodded back.
‘Then go look for your master. And good luck on your travels’.
Ahren gave a farewell wave, left the forge, went through the showroom, out the heavy oak door and onto the street outside. The previous day’s rainclouds had disappeared and he blinked in the bright sunshine and tried to remember where exactly their guesthouse lay.
The sun offered the necessary orientation and he headed off in what he thought was roughly the right direction, always picking the street or alleyway, which he felt would bring him nearer his destination. He had just entered a narrow alleyway, about two paces in width, and he was pretty sure the guesthouse was at the other end of it, when he noticed three figures loitering with their backs turned to him. The houses were packed close together, so he would either have to turn back or squeeze between the people.
He was hesitantly moving forward when one of them turned around and he recognized the coarse fellow that had intimidated him the day before in the taproom. His opposite number seemed to have recognized him too and pointed in Ahren’s direction while whispering something. The other two heads spun around immediately, and the apprentice could see a hard looking man and a ferocious wild-eyed woman with pock marks.
All three made themselves bigger in the alleyway so getting past them was unthinkable. Each of them had at least one hand hidden under their cloaks and Ahren remembered the weapons he had seen them with the day before. The physical threat was almost palpable and Ahren was not so naïve as to go closer. If only he had his bow with him!
There must have been seven paces between them and he was sure that he could have shot two arrows successfully in the narrow street. When he didn’t seem to be making any move to do their bidding, the strangers began to move towards him.
Ahren quickly went through his options. The bow was a non-starter, also dagger and sword - he was in the minority and under-trained. He thought for a moment of running away but these three surely knew their way around better and could split up to cut off his escape routes. Calling out for help was useless too - it would all be over by the time anyone came.
Another six paces.
What was left? He thought of his training, which wasn’t much use here in the city.
Until he remembered the ribbon tree.
A quick sidelong glance revealed that the stone facades of the houses were rough and the window ledges afforded excellent climbing opportunities. Without giving the idea a second thought, he jumped up and clung on to a projection in the façade of one of the stone walls. He heard a roar behind him as the blackguards realized what he was planning. He quickly pulled himself up, cursing the hours of sword practice he had undertaken the previous night as his muscles protested. He looked up and the next reachable grip was the narrow window ledge on the second floor, roughly one pace above his head. He tensed up his body so that every muscle, from his fingers to his toes, worked as one. Then he pulled his arms downward before pushing his body with full force upwards, just before his attackers could catch him.
His months of climbing practice now stood him in good stead. He found it remarkably easy to grasp the window ledge and to pull himself up again until he was standing on the narrow wooden board, that was creaking dangerously under his feet. He risked a quick downward look and saw three angry faces as they began to climb up after him. The coarse fellow had major problems getting a grip, but the other two were making progress almost as quickly as Ahren. He concentrated again on the climb, but the rest of the way was child’s play. He only had to reach up and grip, and he’d reach the edge of the roof, and after two heartbeats he was lying on the shingle roof of the house. The smooth slate tiles were dangerously slippery underfoot and the steep angle of the roof ridge made it difficult to stand up. Remaining bent over so that his arms were in contact with the shingle, he clambered over to the other side of the house.
The first pursuer’s head was already above the roof edge, and Ahren quickly began his descent. The street was broader and busier here and one or two passers-by craned their heads to peer up at him. He ignored them and slid down as quickly as he could, tearing his hands on the bare stone. The burning pain was a small price to pay for his escape, for as he raced on towards the inn, he could hear loud cursing coming from the roof.
‘Ralg, he’s running to the others. Grab him!’
The young Forest Guardian sprinted with all the strength he had. The Windblade, which he had only casually slung on his back, banged loudly against his body as he ran, sounding like a bell around his neck.
The street he was racing along now ran parallel to the street on which he had evaded the lowlifes. Both of them met up on the street the inn was on, which meant that he and his adversary had roughly the same distance to run. It was like a two-horse race in the dark, at the end of which was the safety of his accommodation where hopefully the others were waiting for him.
For a second, the idea that they might not be there flashed through his head. After all, Falk hadn’t come to pick him up. But he tossed aside this thought as he hurtled down the street and rounded the corner. They wouldn’t have left without him. At the very least Culhen and Selsena would be waiting for him in the stable, and the idea of having an Elven-horse and a half-grown wolf beside him spurred him on.
But there were still a good thirty paces to the entrance of the refuge when the cutthroat, who the others had named Ralg, came around the
corner and headed helter-skelter for Ahren. The young man ran on and saw something flash out of the corner of his eye. The fellow had drawn his dagger.
Ahren instinctively reached for his own dagger but it wasn’t there. They’d only wanted to go shopping the day before. As he began his final sprint he swore to himself that he would never go anywhere without his short sword again.
Ralg had a coarse figure and was unable to climb but he was a good sprinter and it seemed as though he would catch up with Ahren before he could reach his destination.
Two paces from the entrance to the taproom and he felt a calloused hand on his shoulder. Before the scoundrel could grab him and pull him around, Ahren ducked down and spun to the side. Ralg took the opportunity to position himself between Ahren and the safe haven behind the door. He squatted down into a combat position, the blade under his right forearm so as not to arouse suspicion.
‘Got you!’ he grumbled in a hoarse voice and Ahren tensed himself up to ready himself for the attack.
Then Falk was there. With speed and determination he came out through the taproom door and was behind Ahren’s attacker. Before he had time to notice the impending danger, Falk had smashed his fist against Ralg’s temple, who began to tumble to the ground with glassy eyes. Falk repeated the action, then caught the man, who had lost consciousness. The scoundrel’s dagger clattered to the ground and Ahren saw some strollers scurry away from the scene. Falk leaned the limp body against the wall and began to frisk him with practised hands. He fished some parchment out of the unconscious man’s jerkin and skimmed through it with a frown.
Ahren- the 13th Paladin Page 24
