CLANG CLANG

The sound of the hammer rang out as a tall man walked into the room followed by the old attendant Ebert behind him.

“Feles!” He exclaimed.

He was not dressed in the leather apron of the smith next door, nor the simple and worn clothes of the shop attendant, but in a slim shirt and vest that contrasted with his baggy pantaloons.

“Master Gerard,” my father responded respectfully and even bowed his head.

He must have seen the shock on my face, since the man, who couldn't have been more than a few years younger than Ebert, despite having a certain youthful vitality turned his head to smirk and wink at me.

“Ain't seen 'is father bow 'is 'ead to a commoner before, have ya' boy?”

Kling kling CLANG CLANG

Despite his slim build, his face and his voice were rugged. He was no noble and not the type who put up appearances. This was a working man who was proud of it.

“My son, Tilvrade.” Father introduced quickly, flapping his hand weirdly at me, as if pressing something down.

“That deal with the lady o' yours and the curse was all o'er the city back when I last saw ya'. Didn't think you'd be back here. Not with a son. Found another darling in the countryside?”

“No. It's a long story, but Tilvrade is Cianna's son. Fate has its ways.”

“Huh.”

Gerard grunted, going silent a moment for the first time since he entered the room. But it didn't last long.

“I'll be. Breakin' lingering curses, are ya? Not even I know the secret to that one.”

“Nothing so glamorous, Master Gerard. But I was hoping you could share some of those secrets with my son today. He is a bit too bright, if anything. He almost hurt himself a couple years back and I fear he was somehow curseworking incorrectly.”

“Hmm, is that right,” his lip twisted with a hint of a smirk. “What are ya' boy? Nine? Ten?” He turned on me as I shook my head.

“Seven,” I mumbled. I was a bit intimidated that he spoke to me when asking questions instead of asking father about me like most other adults would.

“Ha, yer boy's seven, Sivis? Look, maybe he's talented, maybe he ain't. Getting 'urt after a bit of child's play don't mean much though. How 'bout you two come back here-”

“Inscribing,” I blurted out, afraid my opportunity might be shut down.

CLAAANG

Iron on iron rang out louder than before as the three men looked over at me. “What's that, boy?”

“Inscribing,” I repeated, a bit more calmly. “Please, I want to learn how you do it.” Then I added a bit late, with a bow of my head, “Master Gerard.”

He might just be a craftsman, but he was someone father respected and someone who might hold knowledge that could unlock real magic.

“Where did you hear about inscribing?”

But contrary to my intentions, Master Gerard's constant expression of rugged and cynical amusement was suddenly eclipsed by a frown. His face was hard, like a soldier, or father when he rarely scolded me.

I had forgotten, inscribing wasn't a word father understood. That was the very conversation we had when he showed me that vampiric blade of his years ago now...

“Rune, uh, writing, I mean, how you make cursed implements,” I tried to explain. I was hoping he maybe just hadn't understood. It was not the case though.

“Don't play dumb boy. Inscribing. You spoke about inscribing. How do you know that? Did you live with the elves?”

I looked at him in confusion. I had been about to make something up about old books or something, but his questions started going in a weird direction.

“Elves?” I asked. Wait, did the elves know something about Sam's world? “Uh, I saw the elves, yes. Um, maybe?”

I only saw the elves once. How could I forget that girl's face?

Surrounded by the other men and women giving off a blue glow in the midnight woods. Her eyes looked up at me, peeking through the wooden shutters of our shabby carriage while flakes of snow began to fall.

“Come with me, boy. You can 'ave a look around after all. Let's talk a bit inside, aye?”

He didn't just ask, but put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me in towards the back.

I looked up at father who looked somewhat alarmed, but he nodded slowly at me.

“Master Gerard, I trust my son is in good hands.”

“Huh?” Gerard looked up, seemingly somewhat startled at my father's presence. “Oh right, 'course. Just gonna show 'im the workshop, we'll have a little chat. Right boy? We'll be out in a spell.”

I tried to slow down a bit and maybe ask father if he would come too, but I was already being pushed through the doorway that Ebert opened for the Master cursewright.

The room on the other side was not what I expected.

It was completely normal. Just another room, if not one as richly furnished as the storefront.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

Well, normal, except for the black metal rack that looked something like it came out of a dungeon's torture chambers. It was all made of twisted metal bits, hooks, clasps and braces jutting out where the metal pieces of swords and curved square shovel like things and chains hung.

I made a quick prayer that we were just passing through the room to see his workshop, the secret forge that father had talked about behind. Even if there were fires and scattered metal scraps over a bare stone room like the other one, it would be more comfortable than this veneer of normality disrupted by the cruel cold steel, naked before us.

“Uh, is the forge through there?” I asked with a voice trembling a bit more than I had wanted.

It felt like saying something would somehow keep us moving.

“You saw the forge already, boy. Don't tell me you're deaf, aye? Dalus and Jirbon were making a huge racket the whole time you were in the shop.”

Even now, I could just make out the cling-clang of the men who were in the forge next to the shop. They hadn't let up even a moment despite having people come to the shop.

“I don't work the forge much these days. Dalus is already a master in all but name. I'll bring 'im o'er to the guild this winter to formalise it. Just wish I 'ad an apprentice that good at enchanting.”

“Enchanting?” I asked. It sounded vaguely familiar, but the meaning eluded me, like a word on the tip of the tongue.

“Young master,” the older man, Ebert suddenly spoke out again, interrupting. “Here's a stool for you. Apologies we don't have anything more comfortable for your height.”

“Thank you, Mister Ebert.”

“Now look here,” Gerard spoke again, not even giving me the time to sit down. “This, boy, is the secret to the trade.”

Gerard picked up a little glass jar with a black liquid inside it that was on a broad wooden table underneath the room's large window.

It was identical to the jar of ink that I had back in my room, but I had a feeling I knew what it was as soon as he spoke.

“Mana lacquer.”

I could feel my eyes sparkle as my eyes followed the jar like a cat stalking its prey as Gerard lifted it onto the rough work desk.

“Hahaha! So you do know of it!” The man laughed. “Who taught you? Was it really one of the elves?”

I averted my gaze and held my silence. I wasn't sure how to explain. Say yes and he would have questions I couldn't answer because they didn't happen, say no and he would have questions I couldn't answer without making me seem like some kid with cursed multiple personality disorder. I never forgot the shock from when I was little that caused that shaman to check me. My memories from Sam weren't a curse. They were what made me who I was. I couldn't give that up or let others try to take them from me.

“No worries boy. You can hold your silence, that's not what's important anyway. Tell me, what do you know of inscribing?”

I held my silence again. There was something hungry in this slightly wild man's eyes.

He was about to turn father and I away earlier, until I mentioned inscribing. It wasn't intentional. I had forgotten all about the fact that it wasn't a word father knew. Why Gerard knew though, I couldn't guess.

“Well? Speak boy.” The master cursewright threw up his arms in some exasperation.

“Master Gerard, with all respect, I believe you're scaring the boy. He's only seven, sir.” Ebert spoke quietly from the corner of the room. He had somehow conjured a tray with steaming metallic mugs from somewhere as the cursewright paced around the room.

“I'm not petty, boy. You don't have anything to fear. Hell, your father out there would give me a beating if I did.” He shook his head, but thankfully dropped the subject. “Here, open your hand. Judging by the look I saw in your eyes, you've heard of it, but don't have any, right?”

I held my two hands upwards to receive the dark receptacle of mana lacquer.

With this, I could much more easily paint runes. I would be able to completely skip the requirements of finding suitable materials for tethers and saturating them.

“Excited, are ya'?” the man continued, “At least tell me what kind of enchantment you're plannin' to make with it. This isn't just ink, aye? That half bottle is worth more than y'know. And only reason it ain't more's because there aren't so many who know how to use it.”

“A heat rune,” I mumbled.

“Huh, heat runes. You sure you can do it?”

I looked up. He didn't say it was impossible or exclaim any surprise at the word runes. Just asked if I could do it.

I smiled. “I'll do it!”

I had been worried. The only magic I'd managed to replicate until now was the pain reflection cantrip that wasn't really useful for much and the reinforcement techniques father taught me.

Runes were different though. Although I suspected cursewrights were inscribers, I didn't know for sure until now. I still didn't understand why there weren't more rune based tools and technologies in this kingdom, though thinking about it more deeply, it was probably the simplest explanation that was the most likely.

Even in Sam's world, there was a time before the modern period that was demarcated by the signing of the Treaty of Azar. I still hadn't remembered much more about it, but I had a vague sense of the social fall of the nobility and the mage warfare that was only continued in traditions of the duel and other specialised military fields.

“Well, if you make somethin' useful, boy, come back and show me. Maybe I'll have another gift for ya'.”

My lips twitched in the shadow of a smile.

“So, won't you toss me a bone? What did you hear about inscribin'? Did... did the elves really know somethin' of the Shadow Lords?”

The cursewright's voice had quieted to a hoarse whisper, not particularly soft, but tinged with fear.

I could only blink as I tried to understand what he was talking about.

“Uh, inscribing is just rune making? What are the shadow lords?”

Master Gerard's expression slipped away and his eyes stared at me deadpan.

“'Course.” He let out a sigh. “Don't worry boy. I shoulda' known you wouldn'ta heard much else. Still, a shame. If we're to know the craft of the Shadow Lords, think o' all the things we could craft.”

“The Shadow Lords, young master, were the source of all sorcery, the source of the greatest of curses and the powerful artifacts that you have no doubt heard about.”

Ebert gave a quick explanation as the cursewright sank back into a cushioned chair.

“I'd been plannin' to show you a bit of the workshop,” Master Gerard cut in, as he waved a hand lethargically at the room, “but there ain't much for me to show you. Me and the boys work the iron and steel in the forge and here's where I curse the steel and paint the runes.”

He was speaking as if there wasn't much for me to learn, but I wasn't duped. I didn't have any secrets to share, so he wasn't going to bother sharing any of his either.

Fortunately, he'd already given me the bottle of priceless mana lacquer and he seemed to blame himself for being tricked into it. I didn't really need to see much more either, not if I could continue digging at Sam's knowledge that probably eclipsed these so called Shadow Lords anyway.

“Ebert, show the boy out, aye?” He said, deciding the conversation was done. I got up and bowed. It was time to be off.

But just as Ebert opened the door and I saw father take a step back from the door where he seems to have been waiting.

“Oh, and don't work Jom too hard, ya' hear me? Tell'im to stop by for a visit next time's he's home.”

I tripped over the carpet and through the door to the shop that Ebert was holding open. Fortunately, father caught me by the shoulders before I fell and helped me up to stand beside him.

“Master Gerard,” he said solemnly, “I'm afraid Jom passed away in the spring.”

“Jom did? He's dead?” Master Gerard faltered.

“He had gone to help Viscount Phrans with his company, but both he and the viscount were murdered by bandits.”

Even though the smith and cursewright was slim and tall, he had a certain strength. To be honest, Master Gerard was nothing like what I expected a master craftsman to be. For someone who spent most of his life carefully honing his skills in the solitude of his workshop, looking for perfection in his masterpieces, he was too loud and too rough. He seemed more like an old soldier who spent his evenings drinking in a tavern.

“That's impossible,” he finally said, sitting down on the stool I used earlier that Ebert brought to him. “Jom wouldn't have died to mere bandits...”

I noticed Simila standing near the entrance to the store, and was a bit surprised that she was here too. She raised her hand in a simple wave as I looked over, and I smiled back to her.

“My thanks to you Master Gerard for showing my son into your workshop. I will be taking this set of knives back. Your apprentice Dalus's craftsmanship is worthy of your pride.”