Only a few hours to prepare for a long expedition and the fight of his life. Basic needs, like food and water, would be taken care of the expedition heads. What they expected him to bring was any personal items, cultivation supplies, and special weapons. Most of that he could put in a pack within ten or so minutes. The weapon thought...that was a different problem. Osric went to his room, prepared his pack, and grabbed his sword. Then he headed in the general direction of the smithy.

Gungalaugt, the palace smith, was a trool. He stood eight feet tall, hunch backed with huge shoulders and powerful, muscular arms. He had tusks, a long nose, and one assumed the traditional beady little eyes but it was impossible to tell behind the pair of round goggles he always wore. The forge itself was almost like a factory, Gungalaugt's dozens of apprentices each hard at work on their own anvil producing various projects for life in the castle. Not just weapons, but anything metal the castle might need.

Osric made his way to the main anvil, where Gungalaugt himself was working. He had to make a deal with the blacksmith himself, though the old troll almost certainly wouldn't do any work for him personally.

“Oaye, Squire Osric,” the troll said, not looking up from his work. “Heerd a lot about ye lately. Strange hapenins in the castl, aull startin with the attack on yer.”

“I came out of it stronger than before,” Osric shrugged.

“Oaye, best ye can hop fer most t'time. Wut brings ye ta my forge?”

“Well I did some...very extensive training last night,” Osric said, pulling out his sword. “And look.”

Osric's sword was a mess. The point was dulled, the blade was twisted, and the edge had rolled in half a dozen places.

“It's yer power,” the old troll said, taking the sword. “Ye've gotten tae strong 'n tae fast fer an ordinary sword. The best thing fer ye would be summat forged in yer own aura.”

“I don't have time for that,” Osric said. “I'm supposed to be with the expedition into the forest. We're leaving in a couple of hours.

“Oaye, know that right enough,” the troll laughed. “Needun horshoes, needun nauls, needun tent spikes. Pleny work fer old Gungalaugt. But ate, summat here do ya fer now.”

He walked over to the wall and grabbed a sword. It shimmered oddly in the light of the forge as he put it in Osric's hands.

“Good fer yer height, good fer yer grip, aye? Aura forged, but only mine.”

“It's great forgemaster,” Osric said with a bow. “Thank you.”

“Ye come back when ye have time, forge ye something real.”

“I will,” Osric said. He'd have to. A sword like this was solid work, but it would still wear out under his power over time. “How much do I owe you?”

“Been paid in bulk fer the expedition,” Gunglaugt said, waving a hand. “I'll overcharge ye fer a real blade later on.”

“Understood,” Osric smiled, walking off into the castle. He headed back to his room and started packing a bag with a few of his herbs and cultivation materials. He was still working when Polly appeared at his door.

“Now you're running off after bandits?” She glared at him with arms crossed. “The same bandits who nearly killed you?”

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Osric turned towards her and very carefully considered his response.

“I'm a lot stronger now,” he said.

“You've got a Motte,” Polly said. “That's not thatstrong. What if one of the bandits has a bailey? Or stronger?”

“Then I'll be with an entire troop of squires and three knights,” Osric pointed out. “This isn't an ambush in the forest.”

“No but people could still get hurt.” Polly came in and sat on the bed. “It's not only noble knights who cultivate. There are plenty of bandits out there with Mottes, Baileys, even whole Castles.”

“I am touched by your concern,” Osric smiled. “But shouldn't you be saying all this to your fiance?”

“I'll be seeing him before he leaves,” Polly said. “Besides, he's a lot stronger than you are.” “Oh thank you very much,” Osric laughed, though he couldn't deny it was true.

“We've known each other since we were children,” Polly said. “I worry about you.”

“And I'm grateful,” Osric smiled. “But I'll be fine. This won't be my last mission to go hunt bandits. Besides, we're bringing such a huge force I wouldn't be surprised if the bandits turned tail and ran rather than face us.”

“That'd be nice,” Polly sighed. “But I'm not holding out hope for it.”

“No seriously,” Osric said. “I'd bet we get out there, search the forest for days, and find nothing.”

Mostly because the bandits never existed so there were no bandits to find, but Osric couldn't tell anyone that.

“Think so?” Polly said.

“I bet we'll get through this without fighting at all,” Osric told her confidently. Confident because he was fairly certain there was nobody to fight.

In the forest, Goody Craftwheel poked her withered head out of her hut and sniffed the air.

Her nose was the only part of her face which could be seen. The top of her head was covered by a hat, dark brown, with a wide brim and a pointed top. The fabric was dark and floppy, and it hung low over her head. Underneath the hat was her hair, down over her face and shoulders, like a thick tangle of cobwebs. But her nose stuck out from the ugly mass of whitened hair, long and pointy.

Something in the forest smelled wrong.

She pulled herself out of the thatch roofed hut. She was an old woman, hunched and leaning on a gnarled staff in floppy brown robes that flowed down to drag in the dirt. Her hands stuck out of the robe's wide sleeves, ugly gnarled claws of wrinkled skin and long, filthy, cracked nails.

“Smells like trouble,” she muttered to herself in a voice like someone stepping on a bed of spiders. “Smells like blood. Trouble and blood on the wind, what fun! But is it trouble for me? Not interested in much trouble, not interested in my own trouble at all. Has no one got a tale to tell? No little birdy got a story to tell me?”

She reached out a hand and a ragged looking bird landed on it. It was impossible to tell what kind of bird it was. Ugly. Molting. Grumpy A species was impossible to tell.

“I got a story, Goody Craftwheel,” the bird croaked at her. “The castle has gone crazy. Men with swords, lots and lots. Some with no power. Some with little. Some with lots.”

“That'll be knights and squires,” she said thoughtfully. “Sounds like they're going to war. Horses? Carts?”

“Lots of horses,” the bird croaked back. “Only some carts.”

“So they're not going far,” Good Craftwheel rubbed her chin through her cobweb hair. “To the forest then? What is there to make war on in the forest....except me, of course.”

“I don't know,” the bird said.

“It was a rhetorical question you dumb bird. But good work. Back to your business.

The bird flew off as Goody Craftwheel stood leaning on he staff, her head cocked in thought.

“So they've finally learned I'm out here,” she said. “Well it was bound to happen eventually. Bold of them to come in force like this...but it won't do them any good.”

She turned and headed back into her hut, one enormous room with a bed on the far wall and shelves on every other, filled with jars and odd shaped artifacts and eerie crystals. But the most prevalent feature was the cauldron in the middle of the room, already hot and bubbling.

“Do they really think a bunch of squires and a handful of knights will be enough to kill the last of the Tourmaline Witches?” She sneered, grabbing pots off shelves and tossing their contents into the pot. It began to spark with colors that cast eerie shadows on the wall...shadows that didn't look like they'd been made by anything in the witch's hut. “Do they think Goody Craftwheel, Hag and Mistress of the Dark Secrets, will fall so easily? Oh no no no, they're in for a surprise now! In fact, I think this might actually been fun! Hiding out here in this forest it's been a long while since I got a chance to cut loose. I'll have conjure something special for them! I can't be impolite to my first guests in thirty years, can I? Of course not! Ehehehehehehehehehe....”