A ball of sap slapped the side of the wagon, rebounding before being caught in a calloused palm. An arm pulled back like a trebuchet, launching the ball in a constant cycle.
Catch. Throw. Bounce.
Catch. Throw. Bounce.
Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk.
“What about him?” Arthur pointed; the boy didn’t seem to notice that he was the new center of attention. Sicchus put his hand on the back of his balding head, scratching out what few hairs he had left.
Sicchus looked at the boy. He sucked his lips in, “The boy?”
“How much?” Arthur insisted.
“Five sterna today, and three every day after.”
“A little steep.” Arthur put his hands on his hips, his thumbs resting against his belt. He tongued small bits of food stuck to his molars, “Does he smith?”
“You’re paying for youth, not experience.” He pointed at one of the burlier men sitting by the butcher stall. Their eyes were hazed with from sweet succor of booze, “You want a real smith? Perhaps-”
“Not a drunkard.” Arthur reached for a sack of coins at his side, “The boy looks bored and sober. I’ll take him.”
A handful of Sterna appeared in Arthur’s hands. The miserly merchant held out his hand expectantly. Arthur closed his hand abruptly, like a fine pearl shut away by a greedy oyster.
“Three sterna.” Arthur looked Sicchus in the eyes, juggling the coins in his fingers. Sicchus’ mouth contorted, warbling like a toad.
“Finder’s fee is five.” Sicchus said.
“I provide room and board until I no longer need him.” Arthur interrupted with a friendly tone, “You still have your daily sterna and one less mouth to feed. I feel you owe me for the inadequate work your lackeys gave me.”
“Inadequate?” Sicchus scoffed.
“Do you want the sterna or not?”
“Boy!” Sicchus shouted, turning a few heads, but not the boy in question. The ball stopped bouncing. Roy exhaled, staring at the swirls in the wood of the wagon.
“Get up, you got work to do.” Sicchus turned away from Arthur, shaking his head as he snatched the coins from Arthur’s hand. Roy lifted himself off the ground quietly. Eyes of emerald rust gazed up at the blacksmith. Before he could approach, Sicchus walked past, leaning in towards Roy.
“Don’t forget the sterna.” Sicchus growled. He put his hand on Roy’s shoulder, jostled it, then stepped off nonchalantly.
Arthur was a tall man wearing coal-choked boots. His body was wrapped with thick muscles. A short blond beard lined his jaw and wrapped around his lips; his eyebrows were singed with a scar above his left eye.
“Arthur Schmidt.” The man held his hand out to Roy. The boy looked at his palm like it was alien to him. Roy was lightly dressed despite the cold.
“Roy.” The boy said bluntly. Arthur waited for a surname. It never came.
“Have you been around a forge before?”
“Once.”
“You work metal?” Arthur’s head turned at the sound of a dog howling. A gray mutt covered in mange snarled at working men in rags. The two men scoffed at the rope-bound beast, kicking a cloud of dust into its face as they laughed their way to Sicchus. Roy’s eyes contorted, his nose scrunching at the sour act. His nose unwrinkled when Arthur turned back.
“What do you need done?” Roy asked.
“I need an extra hand.” Arthur said, “The city of Keldengen has requested arms from me. Come, I’ll take you to the forge.” Arthur waved, and the boy silently followed.
Trees bulwarked the village of Mossglen, branches outstretched like calloused fingers. Frost nipped at wooden rooftops, and muddy puddles were covered in ice. A small boy hopped around them, crunching the ice with a happy splash until his mother scooped him up. She smiled, faking a lion’s roar. The child burst into laughter as he was carried up the stairs into one of a row of stone homes.
“You don’t talk much.” Arthur asked. He looked at Roy, who had become entranced by the child and his mother. He looked at his surroundings slowly.
The two crossed a small bridge overlooking one of the many creeks in the area. It fed into a large lake that peeked between the trees. The tallest mountain range in Gairm, Kriedeberg, was visible from anywhere in the village.
“How long you been traveling?” Arthur asked as his boot crunched into the mud.
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“My whole life.” Roy said. Arthur nodded with satisfaction; he was finally getting a couple more words out of the boy.
The two began their short trek over a tiny hill. When Roy could see overtop of it, the glow of the smithy shined out like a torch in the distance. A wooden awning housed the forge and all of its tools. The stone home’s entrance was nestled between barrels and a workbench.
“Lord Becker has me making weapons for the garrison. Swords, daggers, that sort of thing.” Arthur explained, “The village needs the smithy. I’m spread too thin to help them.” Arthur approached his workbench, finding a whetstone and a spare rag. He pushed a finger against the stone, nodding when he found the correct grit.
The forge’s warmth crept into Roy’s arms. His nose no longer felt numb from the cold. Coals glowed like tourmaline licked by the sun. The constant shivering stopped for the first time in what felt like ages.
“Roy,” Arthur called; the boy’s eyes glowed a fiery orange as he stared into the smoldering pit. It was as though the embers were speaking to him. A shadow crept over the man-made caldera as Arthur stood in front of Roy, snapping his fingers gently. Roy blinked absently, looking up at Arthur. Arthur’s forehead wrinkled. He wondered if picking this boy was a mistake.
“You sharpen blades?”
“Yes.” Roy nodded, “Knives.”
Arthur nodded, searching through his list of jobs for something suitable.
Roy put knives to the stone quietly, listening to the hammer strikes of the blacksmith across from him. The allure of the forge encouraged the boy to work, for if he did a good job, maybe he could bathe in its warmth a little longer. An hour turned to two, and two became six. Roy lost count of the time he had put into sharpening. He started with knives, but by the end of the day he was beginning work on scythes and sickles. An axe came along, and finally a sword.
Arthur put his tools down when the sky became a rosy hue. The mountains looked like a field of pink blooms has burst upon them. He looked over at Roy. The boy nibbled away at his work without complaint.
“Here, sharpen this for me.” Arthur held a handle out to Roy. The boy took it without hesitation, holding the end of the tool to the whetstone. There was a notable klink before Roy noticed the smith had given him a hammer.
“We’re done for the day.” Arthur laughed, patting the boy’s sore back as he creaked away from the stance he had taken for hours, “Hungry?”
A thoughtful glimmer crossed Roy’s eyes like sunlight through a mossy brown pool. Arthur had his answer. The boy stepped inside the warm confines of the home and was met with the glorious herbal aroma of stewing meats. His mouth watered as he saw the bubbling broth in the pot.
Arthur reached for the ladle; a large fountain of steam billowed out from the spoonful as it was spilled back into the pot. He reached up to the mantle, pulling down three bowls. Roy’s head tilted curiously.
“For my daughter.” Arthur said. He took a bowl from the fireplace mantle, scooping a large heap of meat and carrots into the bowl. Arthur put the bowl in Roy’s hands, its warmth creeping up his fingers. Roy was pointed towards the table, where he sat quietly.
“There’s food at the camp.” Roy said.
“You mean hard tack?” Arthur shook his head, “You need meat, vegetables. The shit Sicchus gives you isn’t enough.”
The door opened. A girl roughly the same age as Roy barreled through with a start, huffing and panting as though she had run a race with a horse.
“You’re late!” Arthur exclaimed, his voice taking an authoritative tone. He filled another bowl.
“I’m sorry!” Viola put her pack down on the table. A woody, sweet scent filled the air as small dried flowers spilled out, “Luzie found me, she nearly talked me to death.”
“Your ears fall off?” Arthur chuckled.
“I sewed them back on.” Viola smiled. Her eyes turned to the boy in the corner. He looked at her while sipping at the broth in his bowl, “Who’s this?” She asked, pointing at the sheepish boy. He seemed to recoil at the sudden attention drawn to him.
“I hired someone to help us.” Arthur said, handing Viola her dinner, “This is Roy.”
“Are you from the caravan?” She sat in the chair beside the boy. Roy nodded slowly, chewing away. Viola reached for her satchel, pulling dried yarrow from the pouch. The yellow blooms had long since lost their vibrancy. When Arthur pulled a teapot from the flames, she quickly stuffed the flowers beneath the lid.
“Thank you.” Roy peeped between bites; the roar of the fireplace rendered his voice barely audible. Arthur turned and looked at the boy with a small nod. Viola stood up and grabbed a bowl. She filled it with stew, then shoved it into her father’s hands. The table only had two chairs, so the smith sat on a chest near the fire.