Across the Land
WC: 1,540
On the far eastern part of the continent Hiemis, a small forge burned away the cold of the night air while the repetitive sound of pounding metal mingled with the wind. The hour was late, and the old man standing over his anvil was tired. He didn’t have to be up. He could be fast asleep, next to his wife of thirty years, cozy. But something kept him awake and it bothered him. So he worked what was left of his scraps and turned them slowly into forks or knives, pots or pans.WC: 1,540
The ritual had helped to calm his nerves, and the sweat on his brow felt honest and clean. But his something still stirred his gut. It warned him to be awake.
He grumbled incoherent babble to himself. He was too old to be awake at this hour. This… this was the type of thing he had done when he was younger. Staying up late and then sneaking out windows to meet women - until her - and flirting with them beneath the moon’s light and a sturdy blanket.
The memories felt like the forge’s fire. Hot with the ambrosia of youth and if not heeded would lead even the smartest of men down a fool’s path. A path he had been careful to avoid.
He had always considered himself a more respectable man. An honest one ever since he began plying his trade and married. Working with metal was delicate in a way the carpenter would never understand, nor would the wine makers or the artisans. It took a keen pair of eyes, a steady pair of hands, but most importantly it required a disciplined mind. A mind he hadn’t had when he was younger, more rash, more stupid.
Thank the Vis for her.
With a heavy sigh, the old smith set his hammer down and took the hot piece of simple metal over to the barrel of water. The tongs he used kept the metal well away from his gloved hands, and the protective goggles over his eyes stopped any embers from burning those out. He worried about his health these days.
So did she.
The hot metal hissed as he dunked it, and steam curled up to float out the open windows.
“What are you doing, Old Man,” he said quietly, berating himself. “Pretty wife of yours will worry if you ain’t back in your bed.”
Removing the metal from the water, he moved it over to his bench where it could cool and he could examine it closer. It dropped it on the table and left it there while he put away some of his tools.
He heard the door in the next room open and close. Someone was making noise, too, and he knew it wasn’t his wife. As much as she loved him she refused to step foot in his workshop. The cold for one and something about the Scripture of the Vis and a man’s temple. He wasn’t really sure. She was always more devout than he was.
Oh, he believed in the Vis as much as he did the Pravum. And he had seen one of those nightmares during his very short service with the militia. Back when he was young, and foolish, and yearned to be a hero.
Foolish, he told himself again.
Picking up his smithing hammer, he let it rest over his shoulder and waited until his uninvited guest poked their head threw. Not two seconds later and a man in his late twenties poked his head in. His hair was brown, but strange silver strands of hair were sprinkled across his neck-length hair. And it wasn’t silver-white, it looked like actual silver.
His grip on his hammer tightened and he scowled.
The man fought the urge not to wither under the scowl, and gave his best neighborly smile. Except the smithery and his house were in the country, and the only neighbors were half a days ride. Solitude was key for sanity. Especially nowadays.
The man wave next, showing he had no weapon as far as the smith could guess, and then stepped into the room very carefully. “Excuse me, sir,” the man said. Foreigner by his accent. Not from Hiemis, that much was certain. Not poor, though, but not rich either. “I don’t mean to intrude but I saw the light….” He was expecting questions. Who was he? Why was he out this late in the dangerous night? What sort of trouble he was running from?
All very good questions if you cared.
The smith didn’t care.
When it was obvious there wasn’t going to be a conversation, he switched to begging, “If you could, sir, I’d like to rest here. Just until morning when the storm blows over.” He swallowed hard, nervous, and expecting to be kicked out.
“You’re trespassing,” the smith said. His voice was level - well as level as you can get when your voice starts getting that grating quality. He said nothing else and just continued to scowl at the other man.
Confused, the man looked back to the door he’d come in from and then back to the smith. He fumbled for words, anything to plead with the old man to let him stay. It’d only be a couple hours. Nothing would be stolen, he promised - they always promise - and he would keep to himself. He didn’t need any food or water. Just shelter.
The smith drew himself up. Thirty years working as a blacksmith, and another twelve from apprenticeship, he wasn’t a small man. Nor was he lean. He easily had a hundred pounds on the younger man, and most of it was muscle. There was no denying that he looked damn terrifying in his brown smithing smock, his muscles trying very hard not to snap the clothing where they bulged. The hammer resting on his shoulder wasn’t exactly small either. It had to fit his hand so he could control the blows as he worked.
The other man actually cowered against the wall.
“All right!” he said, his hands up in surrender. “I’ll leave. I’ll leave, but the Pravum take you old man. You’ve got no heart.”
The smith grunted. “The Pravum wanna take me, they gotta come in here. And this,” he paused long enough to drop his hammer on the anvil next to him. The peal that sprang to life from it shook the other man. “This is all mine. Now I don’t want you, The Pravum, or the Holy Vis here. Get out.”
The vagabond scrambled out the door and didn’t bother shutting it, letting the dark cold air creep in. If not for the forge that still burned, the smith might have shuddered.
There was no good reason to be out tonight. Old man or young man. Weary traveler or grumpy smith. He should sleep. He should shut everything down and go close his eyes, wake up a couple hours later, and start the day.
He turned his back to the room and put his hammer away before he undid his apron and hung it up with his goggles. He choked the forge and tidied as much of the place up as he could. It looked tidy. It looked like how he wanted it.
The swinging door in the other room stopped, a hand holding it there. Someone stood in the doorway between him and the night. They were dressed in a heavy traveling cloak and had it pulled up over their head.
That was two.
“...F...orge….” the stranger rasped.
“We’re closed,” the smith replied. “Come back later today.”
The head of the stranger swung back and forth. Once more the raspy voice forced out the solitary word, “F…f...o...orge….”
The smith shied and raked a hand through his mess of aged-white hair, dragging his hand over his face and grizzly beard - the once brown also now white with age. “What are ya’ wanting me to make.”
Again the head swayed, and this time a hand rose to point one gnarled finger at him. The light of the room was just dim enough that the smith could tell something had taken a bite out of those fingers. The same word, forge, was dragged from his throat.
He was too old to be angry. Anger took energy and went nowhere with it. With quick strides he crossed the room, reached up and pulled the cloak from the man in one ruthless manner. Angry? No. Impatient and not a lover of mysteries? Yes.
But when to cloak fell away, all that was there was a single amputated arm. The smith jumped away, cursing the Pravum and called on the Vis for protection.
It wasn’t warranted. The arm fell to the ground, harmless.
Fear touched the smith now, and he dropped the cloak over the arm. He wrapped it up tight and hurled it out into the dark night, shutting the door to his smithy without bothering to lock it. He bore the nipping wind and rushed back to the safety of his home where he locked the door and watched the darkness from his front window.
For the first time in a long, long time. Ilan Cudere worried for his life.