The days following the battle had passed quietly. Most of it had been spent cleaning, preparing funeral pyres for the fallen, and burning the bodies of beasts in mounds. Reyland had been forbidden from helping, forced by Arthur and a few other surviving healers to remain in bed.

It was on the morning of the third day that Reyland was finally allowed to rise. Now, he stood atop the wall next to the outer gate, watching as a caravan of wagons arrived through the front gate.

Lord Aubrey had survived after all, and had apparently sent a message of distress out to the nearest towns and cities. Reyland was puzzled as to what kind of message could even arrive that quickly, given even a carrier pigeon would have taken longer than three days. Supposedly, the Kasin Empyreon had already responded, as well? There was a force of two thousand soldiers on their way to reinforce the keep, or so Aubrey had informed them just last night.

The caravan continued to roll across muddy roads, pouring slowly into the keep. Though Reyland couldn’t see inside the wagons, he knew what they would contain. Food, medicine, water, ammunition, maybe even potions, if they were lucky.

He sighed, tilting his head back to enjoy the feeling of the sun on his face, or at least the parts of it that weren’t bandaged. Which is to say, not much.

“Never seen you looking so peaceful before,” Maeve said as she approached him from behind. “Or maybe sedated’s the word.”

“I’ve got my moments, don’t I?”

“Aye, ya pause to take a breath between one shenanigan and the next, sometimes.”

She rested on the wall next to him, leaning out to look down over the caravan. She was almost as heavily bandaged as Reyland, though some locks of her golden-auburn hair still poked through her head wrapping. It caught the morning sun in a way that drew Reyland’s eye, until she turned and saw him staring. He looked back down at the caravan in embarrassment.

“I think you owed me a few tales, didn’t you?” She asked, breaking the brief, awkward silence.

“Did I promise somethin’ like that?”

“Can’t remember now. But, I’m gonna say that you did, since I wanna hear anyways.”

Reyland chuckled quietly.

“How long’s it been now, two years? Three? That’s a lotta tall tales, mate. Gonna have to narrow it down a ways.”

Below them a group of soldiers in unfamiliar colours rode through the gate on horseback, steel armour shining in the morning sun. Reyland watched them enter with a feeling of relief, knowing the keep was being reinforced.

“Has it really been three years since Initiation?” Maeve mused, looking thoughtfully at the clear blue sky above. “Initiation felt like a lifetime, and now it all flies by so fast ya blink and another year is gone.”

“Initiation was only one year,” Reyland said with a laugh. “How’s bein’ a proper Ordained, now?”

“Bout what you’d expect. I’m more interested in what it’s like bein’ apprenticed to the Wyrmslayer.”

“Shut it, he hates that name. And ya never know when that bloke’s creepin’ up behind you.”

Maeve laughed, her shoulders shaking as she tossed her head back.

“Ya sound right bloody terrified of the bastard!”

“For good reason!”

“My, my, look at ya. It’s almost like yer all grown up or somethin’. Or at least like you ain't the same headstrong bastard I met in Initiation.”

“Please, if anyone could give me a runnin’ for my money at being headstrong, it’s you.”

She shook her head with a smile, and Reyland watched the way the sun played through her hair. She turned to look back at him as well, but this time he didn’t look away.

“What? Ya look like somethin’s running through that head of yours,” she accused.

“Nothing,” he said, turning away. “Guess being so near to death makes ya think about life a bit more, is all.”

She paused for a moment, and he could feel her eyes burning into the side of his head.

“Well, when did you turn into some bloody poet?”

“Oh, get off it,” Reyland said with a laugh. “That was no poem and you know it.”

“Aye, but it don’t sound like the Reyland I knew, either.”

“I’m allowed to grow up, aint I?”

“...I guess so.”

They both turned back to watch the caravan, as the near endless line of people slowly filed in. The rattling of wooden wheels over mud and stone mingled with the gentle hum of the voices below, creating a soothing melody that graced the air. It was almost like being back in a city or a town, the constant hum of people living their lives on all sides, reminding them that life continued.

“He doesn’t talk much,” Reyland said quietly, after a long moment of silence. “When he does, it’s lessons and tips, orders, corrections when I mess up… mostly corrections, honestly.

“Sounds like a miserable bastard.”

“You’d think, yeah? But really, I think I get it now.”

“How so?”

“You ever seen an Ordained with as many grey hairs as Griff?”

She paused to think, scarred lip pursing.

“Come to think of it, no, I haven’t.”

“I doubt many live long enough to get that many. And after the other night, and Arcaster… I can only imagine what that man’s seen in his day. For all those legends ‘bout him, I wonder how many stories he’s lived that don’t get told, you know?”

She nodded solemnly.

“See, he’s a damn tough old bastard. Drives me like a bloody slave, some days. I thought Initiation was bad… damn, I have dreams about those days sometimes now. But I wouldn’t go back if I could.”

Maeve snorted.

“So what, ya just like the pain or somethin’?”

“What? ‘Course not. I do everything I bloody well can to make things as easy on myself as can be.”

“That’s called slackin’ off, Reyland.”

“Oi, try walking in my boots before you go judging me!”

She laughed, and Reyland shook his head with a smile.

“So ya don’t even deny it?” She said with an accusatory grin.

“...It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“Aye, that sounds more like the Reyland I know.”

“Oh, woe is me, to be held in such poor opinion by me own friends.”

“If you want me to hold ya in higher esteem, earn it,” Maeve said ruthlessly, still grinning.

“What, being apprenticed to Griff ain't enough?”

“Not for me,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t care who you’re apprenticed to, you’re still the same slack-off, headstrong, troublemakin’ Reyland to me. You think a few years of apprenticeship are gonna make me forget about them jokes you played on us all in Initiation?”

“I’m offended, Maeve. I’m clean now, swear it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Ya stole every pair of pants in our barrack one night, and tied ‘em to the necks of pigs.”

“It was wonderful endurance training, I’m sure,” Reyland said with a sagely nod.

She shoved his shoulder playfully, and he chuckled in spite of the slight aching in his chest.

“I’d push ya off this wall if I could get away with it,” Maeve said teasingly.

“I’d drag you with me.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Say, how much longer’s your apprenticeship, anyways?”

“Eh? Well, they last for seven years, or 'til your master says you’re ready, whichever comes first.”

“Don’t they normally last two years?” Maeve asked, puzzled. “Never heard of one lasting more than three years before, so I figured you must be near done, no?”

“Griff’s a bit different than most masters.”

“Aye, knew that much. The man’s never taken an apprentice before you, and he never works with anyone else. Nothing about the bloke is normal, and that’s even before the rumours and the stories.”

“Well, it’s been ‘bout three years now. So, four more years, at the most. Hopefully sooner though, aye?”

“Hmph, hopefully not.”

“What? Why?” Reyland asked, mock offence in his voice.

“Because right now, I’m an Ordained, and you’re an Apprentice. Another few years, and you’ll be a Master… and I’ll still be an Ordained. I gotta lord my superiority over you while I’ve still got the chance.”

Reyland laughed and shook his head.

“You know, my bein’ an apprentice means I technically outrank you already, aye?”

“Stuff it.”

“I’m sure you could get an apprenticeship someday, if you wanted to,” Reyland teased. “Maybe in a few years when I’m a master, I’ll-”

“Oh, don’t you bloody dare even say it,” she shot back at him. “I will push you off this wall, and it will look like an accident.”

He tossed back his head and laughed wholeheartedly, not caring about the pains that shot through his ribs with each heave. It felt good to laugh like that again. When he finished, he thought he caught Maeve looking at him, but she turned quickly away.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Oi, you haven’t been up outta bed the last few days, right?” She asked.

“Wasn’t allowed to. Doesn’t mean I didn’t… just not for long.”

“Been down to the smithy at all?”

He shot her a puzzled look.

“No, can’t say I have?”

“Here then, follow me. There’s a lil’ surprise waiting for ya.”

Curious, he followed her down from the wall, through the courtyard and to one of the small, stone outbuildings that lined the inside of the wall. Smoke rose from a short chimney, and the large wooden doors were pulled wide open to reveal an orange glow coming from inside.

Maeve walked in confidently, Reyland poking his head around the door behind her to look inside. It was a typical smithy, a forge burned in the middle of the floor, an anvil on its stand next to it. Tables and benches covered in various iron tools were everywhere, along with barrels stuffed full of raw iron and steel and other metals. Half-finished swords lay out in places, along with spearheads and arrowheads and ballista bolts.

A man was hammering a piece of white hot metal, every blow from his hammer ringing loudly in the air. The smell of coal was everywhere, and even in the chill of autumn the interior of the building was comfortably warm.

The man looked up as they entered, his dark brown eyes looking them over. His skin was a darker shade than Reyland was used to seeing this far north, a rich brown, like coffee.

“Can I help you?” The man asked in a smooth, heavily accented baritone. He spoke slowly, and in a much more sophisticated tone than his dirty, coal covered appearance would suggest.

“Mornin’, Ahmad,” Maeve said cheerfully. “This’s the bastard I was tellin’ you about.”

The man turned his gaze towards Reyland, who waved.

“Nice to meet ya, I’m that bastard she was tellin’ you about.”

“The pleasure belongs to me,” he replied smoothly. “I suppose you’ll be here for your things, then.”

The smith turned from his piece, leaving the spearhead he’d been forging to rest on the face of his anvil. He walked to the back of the shop and began digging through a large, wooden chest.

Reyland leaned over to whisper at Maeve.

“My things?”

“You’ll see,” she responded cryptically, a smile playing at her lips.

When the man returned, he carried two bags, which he carefully laid out on a table where they all gathered. He opened the first of the bags, and Reyland’s eyes went wide.

“My armour!” He shouted happily, grabbing the scale mail by its shoulders and holding it up to the light to see. “She’s fixed!”

Ahmad nodded.

“Took a number of hours, with the damage to the chest. Was barely wearable, when it came to me.”

Reyland examined the scales, looking carefully for signs of damage. While it was clear that some of the scales had been replaced, it looked almost like new again. The large gashes through the chest from the wolf’s claws back in Arcaster were nowhere to be seen.

“There’s more,” Maeve said, sounding pleased.

Reyland looked down into the bag again, and his eyes went even wider.

“Is… is that what I think it is?”

“Wyvern scales,” Ahmad said, pulling the bag open wider. The inside was full to the brim with diamond shaped scales, which were somehow a deeper, glossier black than even the Order’s scaled armour that Reyland now held.

“That’s… that’s mine?” Reyland said in awe.

“There’s a dozen more bags waiting to be shipped off to Castle Acheron,” Maeve said proudly. “All in your name. Ya did fell the thing, after all.”

A grin grew over Reyland’s face.

“I’m gonna have a bloody fine armour set made outta this.”

Ahmad sighed, and Reyland looked at him apologetically.

“Not to put your good work to no use, my friend! You’ve done perfect on the repairs, I just-”

“No, that is not it,” Ahmad said sadly. “You are Ordained, and an Ordained smith will craft your armour. I merely resent that I will not have the chance to forge with such fine material.”

Reyland ran his hand through the scales, which came in varying sizes. Most were almost half the size of dinner plates, but in between those ones were smaller scales that looked not much larger than the scales on Reyland’s armour now. Some were even smaller than that.

“The scales of a greater wyrm are stronger than steel,” Ahmad said, staring at the black scales longingly. “Magical beasts, as they are, their mana remains in the scales forever. No normal metal could ever compare. Perhaps adamantine, or orichalcum, or mithril… ah, what I would give to strike such material with this hammer.”

Ahmad shook his head with a sigh.

“Ya said I got twelve bags of this, Maeve?” Reyland asked.

“And another half dozen of wyrmskin, too. Supposedly, makes for the best leather you can get.”

Reyland nodded in awe.

“Ahmad, if you had these scales, what would ya make?”

The smith paused to think for a moment, looking wistfully at the ceiling of his smithy.

“A scimitar.”

“A what now?” Reyland asked.

“Tis a sword from my homeland. You would not see nor hear of them this far north.”

Reyland wanted to question what kind of sword it was, his love of swords bringing plenty of questions to mind, but he bit his tongue.

“How much would ya need?”

The smith looked at him oddly, then stopped to think again.

“Perhaps… a dozen? Less for a single blade, but I’d need to learn the material, so the first may not turn out well…”

Reyland scooped out two dozen of the largest scales, and dumped them on the table with a grin.

“Happy smithing, aye?”

“I can not accept this,” Ahmad said, though his eyes didn’t leave the scales.

“And I can’t possibly use all of ‘em myself now, can I?” Reyland replied. “Make your sword, er, scimitar, or what have you. I’ll keep the rest for the smiths back at Castle Acheron.”

Reyland held a hand out to shake, the grin never leaving his face. Ahmad looked at him oddly, then clasped his hands together and bowed.

“Erm, right,” Reyland said, bowing in return.

“Your customs are strange, but your generosity is appreciated, my friend,” Ahmad said as he straightened. “I will remember this for my entire life.”

“You’re welcome, mate!”

“I must ask though, I have been curious since you entered.”

“Hm?”

“What are you?”

Reyland froze, then broke out in a laugh.

“Sorry?”

“What are you? You are like the others here, light skin, but not the same as the other palefolk. You sound funny, and your hair… tis looks like threads of metal. Bronze. You are not like the others, and not like me. So, what are you?”

“Well, glad to hear I ain’t bein’ lumped in with the Arkasians,” Reyland said, chuckling. “I’m an Arklander, mate. Wholly different people, but aye, we look kinda similar, least compared to you southerners, or them Norlanders above us.”

“Arkasian and Arklander. I hear little difference. Why do you northerners like arcs so much?”

“Err, not really sure ‘bout that, why the name’s are so similar,” Reyland said, rubbing the back of his head. “But trust me, don’t go callin’ an Arklander an Arkasian, or vice versa. We don’t like that much, aye?”

The man nodded.

“You are away from home then, too?” Ahmad asked.

“Not as far as you, but aye,” Maeve answered for him. “Our home, the Arklands, she’s a ways west of here.”

“Hopefully we’ll see her again soon,” Reyland commented with a sigh. “We’re headin’ the right direction, at least.”

“What is it like there?” Ahmad asked.

“She’s filled with fields and highlands,” Reyland replied. “Mountains, too, and valleys so deep you could drain an ocean into ‘em. I don’t think there’s a more beautiful place I’ve yet seen than the chasms under Addiron, or the cliffs of Eldera.”

“What about you, Ahmad?” Maeve asked. “What’s the south like?”

“These days? The Umbra is naught but blood and sand,” Ahmad said back sadly. “Too many princes spilling common blood for royal gain. That is why I left.”

“Er, right,” Reyland said uncomfortably. “Sorry to hear that, mate.”

“It is what it is, but what it is not is your fault. You need not apologise. Oh, I had forgotten, there was something else for you.”

Then, Ahmad opened the second, smaller bag he had brought out from the chest. Inside was a series of small, metal bottles, maybe two inches wide and three inches tall.

“What’s this?” Reyland asked, picking one up and examining it.

“Poison, from the wyvern’s tail.”

Reyland looked at the bottles with a new excitement.

“How many of these are there?”

“Twelve, each of raw poison. You will need to take them to an alchemist or arcanist to have them refined, or diluted.”

Reyland grinned like a child, pocketing the first of the metal vials.

“Never thought I’d see the day that I’m jealous of you,” Maeve said.

“Then next time we fight a wyvern you can kill it yourself, aye?”

“Don’t even joke about there bein’ a ‘next time’.”

Ahmad picked up one of the other vials, holding it gingerly.

“Something you should know, my friend,” Ahmad said, drawing their attention. “I’ve not seen wyvern poison before, I’m a smith, not an alchemist. Yet, I know this poison is different.”

He popped the cork from the top of the metal vial, then held it so that they could all see inside.

The liquid within was watery and thin, yet it swirled with an unnatural orange and purple colour. The sight of it reminded Reyland of blighted blood, but much thinner in consistency.

“Wyvern poison is lethal, even unrefined. What this will do, though… I suppose no one knows.”

Maeve and Reyland looked at each other, then Ahmad popped the cork back into place and slid the whole row of vials over to Reyland.

“All I am saying is… please be careful with them, my friend. I would not wish to hear news of your passing because you scratched yourself with a tainted blade.”

“Duly noted,” Reyland said, though his grin had only grown larger. He took the vials and began sliding them into a small leather pouch on his belt, barely fitting them all and having to force the clasp closed at the end.

“I figured you’d enjoy seein’ all this,'' Maeve said with a smirk.

“Ya think?” Reyland said, laughing. “Since I was just a lad, I had dreams of slayin’ dragons and makin’ swords outta their bones and teeth. What kid didn’t?”

“Normal ones?”

“Pff, you clearly had no brothers growin’ up.”

“We aren’t allowed to talk ‘bout that, remember?” Maeve chided unenthusiastically.

“Ah, right, sorry,” Reyland said without a hint of apology. “But mate, this is… I still can’t fully believe it.”

“Then I’ll just go taking one of them bags of scales, since ya don’t believe in ‘em.”

Reyland laughed.

“Like hell you will!”

“What, the smith gets a sword, but your old friend doesn’t?”

“Now I never said that,” Reyland said with a smirk.

“I would recommend not giving away your spoils haphazardly, Reyland,” Griff’s voice interrupted from behind him.

Reyland flinched in surprise as an embarrassingly high pitched noise escaped him. Maeve grinned at him teasingly, and he glared at her before turning around, a forced smile on his face.

“Well, kind of ya to come see me, Griff. Were you looking for some scales of your own?”

“I have too many already.”

“Ahaha, right…”

“Master Griffith,” Maeve said cordially. “An honour to have you joinin’ us.”

“I heard my apprentice was walking again. Needed to confirm for myself that he wasn’t doing something foolish with that regained mobility.”

Reyland faked a wince of pain.

“You cut deeper than a wyvern’s claws, old man.”

“If you’d been struck by the claws, you would be dead,” Griff said back simply.

“Speaking of,” Ahmad interrupted, gesturing for them to wait as he walked back to another chest. When he returned, he held another bag, this one a fair bit larger than the first two.

“You did as I asked?” Griff said.

“The claws and fangs, as you requested,” Ahmad confirmed with a nod.

Griff took the bag, the contents rattling inside. Reyland eyed it greedily.

“Do not worry, they won’t be taken from you,” Griff said. “We will be taking these to Castle Acheron as well, but they remain your property.”

“Then why keep them separate?” Reyland asked, eyes never leaving the bag.

“Scales are less individually valuable, and harder to remove. I removed the claws and teeth myself, to ensure none would be pilfered by soldiers.”

“I mean, I suppose they did help out with the ballistae a bit, aye?” Reyland mused. “Would stand to reason that maybe, they deserve a few…”

“That has been accounted for, and the agreed upon amounts are in Lord Aubrey’s possession, to divide as he sees fit. There will likely be a number of soldiers here with badges of honour made from scale soon.”

Reyland nodded in agreement.

“I appreciate your assistance, smith Ahmad,” Griff said formally, bowing to the blacksmith. Reyland raised an eyebrow as he realised Griff’s bow was a perfect recreation of Ahmad’s, his form completely different than the bows used in Arkasia or the Arklands.

Ahmad looked impressed as he rose from his own bow, a look of respect in his eye.

“Reyland,” Griff said. “We will not be leaving alone, this time. In two days the Ordained will take some unneeded wagons and leave for Castle Acheron as one. Do as you please until then… and stay out of trouble.”

Then, without another word Griff turned and left the smithy.

Reyland waited until he was gone, then turned to Maeve with a smirk.

“Told ya he doesn't talk much.”