Darius Chapter 10

Marth tossed and turned, struggling to sleep in the cool spring night. It felt like the spray from the ocean crashing against the cliffs created a constant cooling effect on the castle, turning its thick walls to ice, freezing all those within. He considered calling one of the ever-present servants to come and light the fire in his room but deciding they would probably be huddled around a fire in their own quarters, he opted to do it himself. He pushed back his stack of blankets, being careful to do so in a slow motion so that he didn’t create a blast of cold air on his frigid body.

He found his boots, and tapped along the floor to the fireplace, poking around for any remnants of coals from the previous night. The fireplace was mostly just piles of dusty ash, so he grabbed the small shovel hanging to his right and pushed the ash to the back, leaving room for a fresh fire to be lit. Next, he took off the lid of the kindling box on the left of the fireplace. Empty. He stared into the box, considering his options. He could either cut his losses and go back to bed, scrunching his eyes closed until he finally got a few hours sleep, or he could brave the cold and go get more firewood. He decided the walk might be good for him, so he put on a shirt and pants, a leather jerkin and his thick cloak on top of that. The black cowl was lined with wool, so he pulled it far over the top of his head and around his face, his head receding into the soft interior. His teeth chattered as he left his quarters, his clothes absorbing the small amount of body heat he had left. Soon, the cloak would start holding and reflecting the heat back onto him, but until that happened, Marth was icy.

He ventured out of the castle, eyeing the immense metal cages in the distance where the firewood was kept. He put his head down, away from the sea breeze, and strutted along the grass towards them, his hands deep in his woolen pockets. When he got closer, he noticed two figures standing by the metal bins, though they didn’t appear to be taking any wood out. He recognized one as Marcough, the man who had greeted them on their first day in the city, and who had led Darius, Grenfell and himself to the castle. Marth didn’t know who he was talking to, though they were tall, and wrapped in a jet-black cloak. He considered turning back, leaving them to whatever shenanigans that Erinian’s got up to in the middle of the night, but his curiosity got the better of him, so he stuck close to the wall, sliding along until he was within hearing distance, separated from the interlocutors by only the two metal cages. The bins were only about a quarter full, so he had to crouch down and huddle in the damp grass. He figured that the Erinian’s were probably used to the cold weather, and there wasn’t much demand for firewood in the spring, despite his dire need. He heard Marcough apologizing to the cloaked figure.

“You must forgive me, they had been very useful to us in the past, but if they still haven’t come back with the money or the girl, we must assume she somehow evaded them, or worse.”

Marcough averted his eyes as the other person spoke. Marth heard a woman’s voice.

“Perfect, just fucking perfect, Marc. Two buffoons with swords can’t handle a single pissant of a girl, that’s just wonderful. But okay, if she’s alive, she would’ve gotten the message. She’ll probably take the money and run, who cares?”

Marth felt a cough rise in his throat, the cold night air stinging his lungs. He took shallow breaths, swallowing constantly to evade the cough. He buried his face in his cloak and tried to clear his throat, leaving just his ears exposed to hear the woman continue.

“Our main issue right now is Heldrus. He’s a dimwit, but he’s good with a sword if nothing else, and he’s going to genuinely put a dint in our bandits. The little shit is costing me more and more every day.”

Marth heard Marcough take a sharp breath before he replied.

“Yes, I hope I have not overstepped, but I have taken matters into my hands for that issue – I thought it might be a bit close to you...”

He held his tone on the last word, testing the waters before deciding to continue.

“I’ve sent an envoy to his last known camp – He will deliver a letter I addressed from you asking Heldrus to come back to Erinstone so that you can celebrate his victories. Once he is here, we will coordinate an attack on his squadron while they remain in the forest, wiping them all out.”

Marth heard only silence for a time, them a short ‘Hmph!’ from the woman.

“Okay, very good, that will do Marcough. You may leave.”

“Thank you, Lady Avongold, it is my pleasure.”

Marth heard the squelch of Marcough’s shoes approaching. In an instant, Marth scrambled to his feet, flattening his back against the bin and nestling himself into the corner created where the bin met the wall. He held his breath as Marcough’s pudgy form walked past him, waiting until he was at least fifty paces away before he began breathing again.

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Marth took a moment to process the information, but it confused him. He hadn’t met Layla Avongold, but he knew of her fierce reputation. She and Marcough were discussing things far outside what he would expect of a noble, even one with the power and wealth that she had. The killing of the girl they mentioned, the control over the bandits, the planned slaughter of Erinian soldiers, even those led by her own son? It didn’t paint a pretty picture of the kingdom he was set to rule. Marth and his escort had almost been killed by the bandits, and they were the only thing holding up his wedding. But what was Layla’s concern with his marriage? He knew there would be opposing politics in Erinstone, but he hadn’t thought either side would be adamant enough to kill their own soldiers.

After Marcough had gone out of sight, and he was sure that Layla had left, he hurried back to his room, the firewood forgotten. He was still cold, but he knew there was no chance of him sleeping that night, regardless of what he tried. He lay awake until dawn, when he heard the servants begin to shuffle outside, ready to cook, clean, bring meals and go about their countless other tasks. He kept coming to the same conclusion.

He had to get to Heldrus.

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Darius was running around like a headless chicken. On top of his duties to the Royal Army, he had made the mistake of taking on private work to ‘supplement’ his income. He had accepted several jobs, one being the restoration of an ancient battle-axe brought to him by the watermelon merchant. He had agreed on the basis that he was entitled to two free watermelons each week for the next two fruit seasons. The old man was happy to accept.

He started by removing the axe-head from its handle. The wood had gone rotten and there were termite bore-holes at points along the shaft. The old man had agreed that the handle probably needed a complete replacement, so Darius just put the whole axe into the fire for ten minutes, pulling it out once the wood had charred and become brittle.

From there, it was easy to rip out the metal chock from the top of the axe and push out the remainder of the charred handle.

The remaining axe-head was the star of the piece, a deadly-sharp curved edge with an intricate pattern etched into the broad side of the weapon. Unfortunately, Darius was going to have to do a fair bit of work before the axe was in a usable state.

He started by ‘upsetting’ the metal, a process that involved heating the piece until it was a yellow-orange hue, then standing the piece vertically and hammering the top. This made the axe-head head shorter, but thicker, ensuring that the weapon wasn’t at risk of chipping. To re-form the axe-head shape, he 'welded' a second piece of metal to the top surface, hammering it into shape.

He finished the weapon by filing down any edges from the weld, brushing the axe-head until it shone, and grinding down the blade edge until it was razor-sharp. He attached a new oak handle and hammered in a new chock.

Looking at his work, Darius realized that the etching had been moved around from all the upsetting and drawing that he had done to the weapon. He reached into the very bottom of his belt for a small rod-like tool with a sharp tip at the end, a graver. As a more ‘by-the-book' blacksmith, Darius was not usually one for decorations. It certainly hadn’t been required by him in Karringlock, or in Erinstone whilst he churned out masses of armor for the common soldiers. He used his mallet to hammer the graver across the face of the blade, close to the hilt. Bart flinched with every metallic scrape of the tool as it scratched across the fine weapon. After twenty minutes, Darius looked back at his work and stared in horror at the mess he had created. It looked as though a child had been given a set of ink and quill and told to draw a squished prune.

“Bart, I think I might’ve messed up here, I hope you weren’t looking forward to any watermelons.”

Bart wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. He had a respect for the ancient weapon they had been tasked with, but seeing Darius fail at etching when he was a master at all other forms of smithing was a bit relieving, giving him assurance that not even Darius was the perfect blacksmith.

“Sir, I don’t think we can come clean with this, you gotta give it a bit longer.”

Darius kept on, becoming more and more frustrated with his mediocrity. He began to work in bursts; five minutes of painstaking scratching, five minutes of pacing around the forge, swinging his hammer at the various implements hanging from the ceiling.

He came back to his work once last time, but he couldn’t face it. Lifting his hammer above his head, he tried letting out his frustration with the same word he had always heard from his grandfather.

“ESHEN!”

He thumped the hammer onto the ancient axe, and a blast erupted from the workstation, catapulting Bart into a pile of sand nearby. A brilliant, piercing blue light emanated from the weapon, and magical tendrils of...something...rose to the tiled roof above them. Darius stood in shock at the mystical scene, watching a similar blue light on his hammer fade back to the silver of polished iron. Bart jumped up from the sand and sprinted back, and the two stood motionless, mouths agape as they saw the weapon before them. The etchings were no longer the mess of squiggles and lines that Darius had created, now a beautiful pattern even more impressive than when it was brought in. The slight evidence of the welding marks was also reduced to a perfect, smooth surface. The blade just looked otherworldly. Darius stepped back and sat down on a bench where the grindstones were. When he and Marth had visited the Temple of Darius a few days before, Darius had gone along with Marth’s interest in the mystical and magical, but he hadn’t had the same faith that Marth showed. Not even recognizing some of the words on the stone tablet had brought Darius past a vague sense of interest. But now his curiosity was officially piqued, and he had to find Marth as soon as possible.

He stood and walked towards Bart, who was holding the weapon out from his body as though it might attack him again at any moment. Taking it from his apprentice, he hefted it onto one shoulder and walked towards the locked storage room when he heard a voice out the front of the forge.

“What in the blasted Bilgongs of Barratog was that?”

Darius turned, and standing before him was the Crown Princess of Erinstone, Lady Silfor.