The heat was sweltering, made more so by Vylder working the bellows. While one hand worked the pump, the other dragged the strip of metal inchmeal through the fire, making it red hot.
He then moved the strip to his anvil, a thick sheepskin glove protected his hand from the searing hot metal. With a hammer, he set to work flattening the strip further. Each blow of his hammer measured, and precise, ensuring the strip expanded with each strike to maintain a consistent thickness and width, while lifting the section yet to be struck to curl the strip into a large circle.
When he finished, he took out his metal punch, and at regular intervals made holes in the metal band. Between the holes, he sipped out thin wedges. He held the large, circular metal band up to inspect his work. “Perfect,” he said to himself.
“Not quite,” said a deep, resonant voice.
Vylder started and fumbled with the band he was holding, grabbing it with his bare hand, making him gasp, dropping it. He blew on his now scalded hand. Although the band was no longer red hot, it still stung.
“Here, allow me,” said the voice.
Vylder turned, seeing a bull of a man, naked to the waist, wearing furs on his lower half. His ruddy, bearded face, framed by strange, undulating red hair, split into a broad grin.
The strange-looking man emitted a palpable presence. Vylder had felt it once before. He knew only too well; he stood in the presence of divinity. Without a word, Vylder held out his scalded hand. Myim placed his hand over the burn, and the pain was gone.
“Well met, Vylder,” the god of the forge said. Myim suppressed his chuckle at the memory of Vylder’s initial reaction when he announced himself. “I have something for you, and I think it will spare you a great deal of sweat.”
The god reached behind him, and brought forth two burnished, bowl shaped pieces of metal stacked one inside the other; a metal Vylder had never seen before. His practiced eye could tell that it wasn’t steel. In the top bowl were several small metal rods and several nails. Myim passed them to Vylder.
“You are not wrong. I was to spend the afternoon making these. But how did you know?” asked Vylder.
“My sister told me of your plans. These two boss’ are for Orn and Venna’s shields. Within are rivets to attach them. When you attach the edging you have just made, these nails will form an enchantment, connecting with the boss at the centre, making their shields indestructible. In addition, the shields will always return to their hand when called. These shields will only permit those with your, or Venna’s blood to wield them,” said Myim with a slight twinkle in his eyes.
“I-I don’t know what to say,” stammered Vylder.
“You do not need to say anything. We are practically family now. Oh, I also have these, a cross guard and pommel for Venna’s sword. It will infuse her blade with an enchantment like that of the shield.”
“What is all this about? It is Erik’s birthday, but there is nothing for him here.”
“Ah, see, that is where you are mistaken. If you look closer, you will notice three of the rivets have a slight difference in size from the others. They are to replace those in the saddle along the shaft of the hammer you gave to him. Again, with that same enchantment. You can use them when you put in the new handle, then I will carve a name into the saddle. A weapon such as that should have a name. He shall, henceforth, be known as Thrumulag. It means Thunder Song.”
Vylder eyed over the cross guard and noticed runes that read:
ᛞ ᚱ ᚨ ᚢ ᚷ ᚱ ᚲ ᛚ ᛟ
“What does this say?” he asked as he held it up to Myim.
“It says ‘Draugrkló’. It means Dragon claw. An appropriate sword name for a formidable woman.”
“Myim, I cannot thank you enough. These are fine gifts,” Vylder said, with his face flushing. His beard moved almost imperceptibly as his chin gave a slight quiver, and his eyes moistened. Then Vylder’s expression turned slightly bashful, as he added, “Lucky I had Briga sneak Erik’s hammer out of Sigtrin’s keep. I can install them today, so he will have it back for his birthday.”
“Wonderful, and I shall etch Thrumulag’s runes into his side. But we can get to that later. We have more important matters to attend to just now,” Myim said, as he eyed Vylder with arms crossed and head tilted back.
“Ah, and that would be?” asked Vylder.
“The matter as to why we are not eating a meal with tankards of mead in our hands, considering it is lunchtime. Well, man? How do you plan to remedy this intolerable circumstance?”
ᚲᚺᚱᛟᚾᛁᚲᛚᛖᛊᚱᛁᚾᚾ×ᛟᚱ×ᛟᚱᚾ
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“Left, right, left, right. GET IN STEP! Gods damn, you bunch of bloody arse monkeys! Didn’t your ‘ore-mothers teach you yeh left from yeh right?” the short, beet-faced, squint-eyed drill instructor bawled at the legionary soldiers.
They marched along in their shiny new banded armour over their clean red tunics, with piked helmets on their heads. The condition of their armour and equipment made it clear they were recruits.
“Left, right, left, right. Centur… HALT!”
The body of men came to an abrupt stop. The instructor, walked back and forth before them, glaring as he considered what epithets he would hurl at the men in admonishment.
As he stalked around the men standing in formation, he had his elbows drawn behind him, and his chin jutting forward pugnaciously. Occasionally, his head would snap around at some imagined sound. The red tuft on his helmet denoting his rank would wiggle slightly.
As much as his small stature allowed, the man tried to portray a visage of danger and severity that none could take all that seriously. However, he did have a measure of power, which he was more than willing to use at the slightest provocation.
“I don’t know what syphilitic orifices vomited you lot of arse-fisting baboons onto my beloved world, but I assure you, by time I finish wi’ you, you will be among the Empire’s sharpest, ‘ardest and fiercest soldiers in this man’s legion,” said the instructor in a muted voice. He would start quiet, building up to a crescendo, demonstrating his love for the sound of his own voice.
The man continued, “It ain’t ‘ard to figure out, men. Marchin’ is just as were walkin’. Left foot, right foot, left. Why you lot can’t figure that out, is beyond me. But figure it out, you will, if I ‘ave to personally beat it into each and every ONE OF YOU!”
Flavius muttered, “Well, sweetie, maybe if you grew a little, your cadence would slow down.”
At this, there was sporadic tittering amongst the men.
“Who said that? WHO IN THE BLOODY ‘ELL SAID THAT? Which one of you bleedin’ ‘ore-sons just volunteered for ‘is own EXECUTION?” The drill instructor’s face was purple, and he shook with fury, as he spluttered, his lips flecked with spittle. “Mark my words, if the little maggot who spoke out of turn don’t present ‘is self before me this instant, I will run you lot until you BLOODY WELL DIE!”
Flavius let out an exasperated sigh and said, “It was me.”
The men in the unit began shaking, faces contorting, as they struggled for all they were worth, not to burst out laughing.
“FRONT AND CENTRE, MAGGOT!” screamed the flustered little man.
The man with exquisite features rolled his eyes as he sashayed out from among the men to stand before his drill instructor.
“I’m here, darling!” he announced as he extended his arms, one high, one low, in a gesture of self-presentation, smiling his most dazzling smile.
The men were all but doubled over at this point, trying hard, but failing to contain themselves.
In a strangled voice, the instructor hissed, “Dasilla, you little pansy.” The veins in his neck throbbed with barely suppressed rage. “Darling? BLOODY DARLING? The last word I want to ‘ear out of your dirty little ‘ole is ‘SIR’! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”
“But, darling, all my holes are sparkling clean. Ask anyone… Sir.”
That was the last straw. Some of the men collapsed onto the ground, laughing aloud, tears streaming down their faces. Others were pounding each other’s backs in unrestrained mirth.
The instructor just gaped at him, his purple cheeks spasmed, and his left eye developed a pronounced twitch. With his shoulders bunched, and his hands like talons, he appeared to be on the verge of exploding.
Without a further word, the instructor made a slow about face, and stalked away up the road.
Flavius looked after his retreating back, a hand half raised, and called out, “So, um, shall we just, er… make our own way back… sir?”
One of the other soldiers, a burly man with a slack lipped mouth, chortled as he moved towards Flavius. “Ah, Flav. For someone whose wrists are limper than an old carrot, you sure do ‘ave a set of stones on ya.”
“Well, I’ve dealt with far bigger and far more dangerous men than our esteemed leader,” Flavious replied. Then to all, he said, “Well, my dear gentlemen, shall we head back? No doubt I will have to face the commander, after our noble little leader cries into his lap about how that handsome, irascible Flavious won’t play nice.”
Later that afternoon, in the commander’s tent, Flavius stood to attention, with his helmet tucked under his arm, his dark curls meticulously arranged, his eyes starkly enhanced with eyeliner made from a mixture of soot and olive oil. Unperturbed, he wore the slightest hint of a smirk.
The commander was a man with a figure that seemed bred for soldiering. He was broad shouldered, lightly muscled, and his back was rod straight. His helmet with the red horsehair crest sat on his neatly arranged table.
Making some show of shuffling around some papers, he set them aside, folded his hands on the table and then regarded the pretty man standing before him. “Do you enjoy living dangerously, Legionary Dasilla?”
“Well, I do enjoy life with a certain amount of zest, sir,” Flavius said. Before being summoned, he had decided to approach his situation with candour.
The officer glanced down with a small smile. His face turned serious and then he looked Flavius in the eyes. “Now, you are here under sentence. I believe in lieu of hard labour.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It has been brought to my attention that you are a capable fighter. However, you seem to be unwilling, or unable to conform and accept direction from instructors.”
“One of them, sir, one of them,” Flavius corrected the commander.
“Oh?”
“The man has short legs, and so he sets a cadence that is difficult for the taller men among us to keep in time with, sir.”
The commander closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, and after a moment, he smiled and said, “Well, I think I may have a solution to our little problem. Since relations between the Empire and the Halder people are becoming more formalised, there is now a unique opportunity. A formal embassy is being allocated to the Holvelan capital city of Fludavera. You will be fast tracked into the diplomatic corps, and transferred to the first official Nevan embassy in the Halder lands.”
Flavius’ eyes were wide open, and his face had lost all colour. He pleaded, “But sir, I can’t go there! That’s where the man who is the cause of my sentence is from!”
“Oh, don’t worry, old boy. The embassy is Nevan sovereign territory. You will be safe within the confines of the embassy grounds.”
“Please, sir. I will do better, sir! I’ll not speak unless spoken to! You cannot send me there, I beg of you!”
The commander looked down at the pile of documents as Flavius pleaded, and selecting one at random, picked up a quill and dipped it in ink. He hesitated before touching quill to parchment, and said with a slight smugness, “Sorry, Legionary Dasilla. It is already done. You will leave first thing in the morning.”
The commander started writing, pausing as he glanced up at Flavius without raising his head, and said with finality, “Dismissed,” then continued writing.