The next morning, in the mild dawn light, the camp was roused by the sound of silvery bells and waggon wheels on the road. Avril jumped out of the blankets she shared with Weyland and ran out of the tent, her jaws open in a tremendous grin. Weyland followed her, joining the gathered men at the edges of the camp.
A tremendous wooden cart, enclosed across the top in brightly painted canvas, rolled to a stop. It was pulled by an enormous ox, and the bells were hung about the sides of the waggon, where common wares also hung. Farming tools, waggon parts, harness and even a saddle adorned the side of the vehicle. Pots and sacks, even a fishing net.
A man strode beside the ox, plain of face and unremarkable in any way. He smiled, his eyes crinkled at the edges. A swan was painted on the door of the waggon.
Seated atop the ox like a fine lady was Gilda, and she grinned down at Weyland in delight.
“Blacksmith! I’d despaired of ever seeing you again. I’ve a gift from your teacher, and brought with me something you’d left behind as well.” She held out her arms and slid down from her high perch. A pair of centurions caught her, and she smiled at them. Her hair was still a deep and burnished gold, except for the lock of white at her brow.
“Weyland, do you know these folk?” Patricius asked as the woman made her way to where Weyland stood, shocked. Avril frolicked around her feet.
“Of course we’ve met,” Gilda said, smiling sweetly at the commander. “Weyland’s a kind hearted man, one of the best smiths I’ve ever met.” She threw her arms around Weyland’s shoulders, kissing him soundly on the cheek. “If only he were my own son.”
“Pardon Mistress Oldroot,” said the plain man, “She walks through a world where there are no strangers. I am Aodhan the Tinker, and I heard you’ve need of some of my wares.”
Patricius was nonplussed by the people and the golden haired woman who threw her arms around his shoulders next. “I see. And what wares are they, that you have heard I need?”
“Oh, not you, Commander Patricius, but our friend the blacksmith, here.” Aodhan rummaged in a drawer on the side of his cart, and then another, while the men milled around the waggon. “Let’s see…” he pulled out a bag, and then a wooden case, and then a box. “There. We’ll call it a fair trade, for the services you did for your old master and the coin he paid me to find you.” He pressed the bag and case into Weyland’s hands, setting the box on the ground beside the smith.
Weyland opened the case, tucking the bag under his arm. Fine clamps and vises, a delicate hammer and other more esoteric things were laid out on fine cloth inside; a jeweler’s tools, unlike any that Weyland had ever seen. “Make a ring for your lady love, while you’re at it. Not the one you left behind, but the one you’ll meet eventually, of course. Bad business, that.” Aodhan patted Weyland on the shoulder sympathetically. “There’s stuff to work with in the box, you’ll know what to do, I’m certain. Remember, if you ever have need, call on Aodhan Tinker, and I will likely provide.”
Gilda was talking to Patricius, chirping like a morning bird. Weyland had not spent much time with the woman, but the lively chattiness was unlike the woman he’d met at the tower meadow.
Weyland gathered the things Aodhan had given him, Drusus picking up the crate and carrying it for him back to Weyland's tent and setting it on the table.
"Do you really know the woman?" Drusus asked, watching as Weyland stoked and closed the bloomery and the forge, lighting the bloomery first and attaching the bellows to it.
Weyland considered the question. "She's my old master's woman, and helped me in a time where she knew better than me that it was time for me to leave." He thought of Loch, of the things Myrrdin had said about the woman who had taught him to craft metal, about how she had stolen his firstborn son. He thought of Gilda's mild brown eyes with a touch of earthy green, and realized he had never known the color of the other woman’s eyes or hair, nor remembered her name. He remembered only the tang of water and sweat and a bitterness on his tongue.
"Did you lay with her?" Drusus asked, crude humor in his eyes.
"No, not his woman. His daughter, though," Drusus laughed like this was the best jest he'd ever heard, and left to get food and drink for the smith.
Opening the crate, he found a large block of hard wax, a trove of metals, strange coins with foreign markings, another pouch with a handful of gems, some as fine as the smooth red stone he'd set in the hilt of the sword he'd made from the iron he'd created with... The woman's name, her face, the color of her hair, all eluded him. Pulling the knife at his belt, the hilt slightly too small for his hand, he saw the curve of the weapon, like the curve of a woman's hip as it dipped up to her waist, but it was not the hip of the woman who had taught him.
At the bottom of the crate was a piece of parchment, folded three times and sealed with a blob of blue wax. With great care not to touch the wax, Weyland broke it, shaking it off the parchment and onto the work table. The markings were not the runes of his people, and he turned the letter sideways, and then upside down, unable to comprehend the words. The paw print of a small cat smeared through the ink in the middle of the page, and Weyland suppressed a flash of irritation.
"May I help you with that?" Girgus stood at the opening of the tent, dressed in his thick quilted vest and armor. His hair was matted with sweat, and there was a smear of blood and muck across his breastplate; he had been hunting.
"I'm not certain. It may contain words you find to be offensive, or dangerous." Weyland thought of Patricius' words of caution about witchcraft and sorcery.
"Blacksmith, I am rarely offended. Is it a secret that may concern you?" Girgus sat on a crate of broken swords.
"Perhaps." Weyland set the parchment aside, next to the block of wax on the table, and pumped the bellows on the bloomery til the fire within roared. Blue-hot flickers winked at them from the flames.
"A bargain, then?" The smith looked up at the dragon-slayer sharply. The other man held a broken sword and a lance-head. "Make me a dragon spear like the ones you have made for the cohort. I will provide for you the finest metal, and the pole. With this spear I will kill the most fearsome wyrm in all the world, and in exchange I will keep whatever secret might be in that letter."
“Accept his bargain, smith,” Gilda said from the door. Her hair was bound up in a wimple, only her hairline and a long braid behind were visible.
“I’ve accepted other bargains, and they had hidden conditions that may still be costly later.” Again, he thought of the first-born child, and the woman whose face and eyes he could not remember.
“Girgus Dragon-Slayer is one of the few men in the land you may trust with this. I don’t think even my Myrddin could be fair in how he would act with that knowledge.”
Girgus was watching the exchange with an open curiosity. Gone was the frank hostility and mistrust of their first meeting.
“Very well. No matter the contents of the letter, you will hold them secret and share them only with me, and I shall craft you a dragon-lance blessed like none other.”
Girgus stood and drew his sword. The blade was permanently stained by serpent blood and acid, the silver of the hilt was blackened. Despite all of this, the edge gleamed in the morning light, and the engraving on the blade was still clear, though Weyland could not decipher it. Girgus reversed the weapon and handed it to Weyland, who took it with deep reverence. “This should make at least two of the new spear-heads.”
“You would have me rework this for dragon-spears?” Weyland examined the pattern of the blade, interwoven diamond shapes, done carefully and intentionally in the welds of the steel and iron.
“It’s the finest weapon I’ve ever used,” Girgus replied simply, a reverence and tenderness in his voice.
Gilda stepped forward, running a finger lightly over the edge, leaving a bit of blood behind. “This sword is made for its purpose, and sings of it. Nay, dragon-slayer, let the smith do his craft in his own way.” Weyland was relieved when the warrior nodded, and from the way he took the sword in hand, so was Girgus. The blood soaked into the steel, not a trace left behind, and Girgus sheathed it again without comment.
“Shall I read the letter for you before or after you craft the lance?” Girgus stood at ease, head and shoulders taller than Gilda, taller than Weyland as well.
“After. I have thoughts about how to forge the weapon you desire.” Weyland turned back to bloomery and forge, deep in thought as he pulled stock out of the chest below the workbench.
The smith sank into the depths of his soul, the place where he found some of the things he’d created. He vaguely heard Gilda and Girgus talk, and later Patricius, but ignored them all. He remembered hearing the silvery chiming of bells and a grinding of wheels, and drinking bitter water from a horn cup streaked with blue in its rippled surface.
When he set aside his tools and straightened his back, stretching his arms and shoulders, it felt like only a moment or an eternity had passed. He rubbed his face with a sooty hand, taking a few steps to look at the camp outside his tent. The pile of serpent heads had grown to nine, and the compound was quiet, the commander’s tent empty.
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Avril came to him, grabbing his hand with a friendly mouth and leading him into the sunlight. A centurion posted nearby saluted him and another one brought him water and a deep bowl of stew. The hound let go of his hand, wagging her tail vigorously. She jumped up and licked the face of the centurion who had brought the food. The man laughed and ruffled her ears affectionately. Weyland grinned at her antics, and his face felt stiff.
He sat on a bench at the training circle and ate his stew, suddenly starving. As he was mopping the last of the broth with a hunk of bread brought to him by Avril’s friendly centurion, Gilda came and sat next to him.
She smiled sweetly, but her words were low and serious. “Blacksmith, you must finish your tasks here sooner than you may want. It becomes dangerous for you.” She opened his hand and pressed a small cloth pouch into his palm. “Make three rings, one for Sabra, one for a sweetheart you have not met, and a third that you feel is just and right.”
“Where is the main of the cohort?” he asked, looking around. A bare dozen soldiers were left in the camp, guarding or tending small chores.
Gilda rolled her eyes impatiently. “Out with Patricius hunting dragons. They will return the day after tomorrow, perhaps, and Girgus comes now. The largest dragon in the isles is his next objective, the madman.”
“And he’ll read me the letter?”
“Yes, he is a man of his word, always, and perhaps less mad than the commander. Go, boy, time grows short.” Her wimple fell to the ground, and Weyland saw that her hair had gone almost entirely white, freeing itself of its braid and drifting in an unfelt breeze, streaked with gold. Her green-brown eyes were soft and unfocussed.
Weyland returned his cup and bowl to the cook-tent and went back to his workbench. Gilda was there already, and she touched the bloomery and the forge with light fingers. Weyland exclaimed, grabbing her hands. The fingertips were only slightly reddened, though he could see the heat pouring off of them in shimmering waves. Blue hot flames laced through both, glowing with the orange-hot coals. She withdrew her hands from his, eyes still distant, and sat nearby.
The pouch she had given him had three gems. One was green and oval, polished smooth. The second was the blue of the summer skies, cut square and faceted. The third was a teardrop shape like blood made into a precious stone.
Considering his task, he sorted through the chest of materials, choosing nine coins, 8 gold and one silver. He cut chunks of hard wax from the block of dark beeswax in the box, carefully warming them, shaping them with the delicate tools in the jeweler’s kit, and pressing clay around them in blocks. Setting the clay blocks near the forge to dry - but not close enough to melt the clay into ceramic or evaporate the wax - he prepared the rest of what he needed for the task.
Carefully, he melted the first three coins, all gold, and poured them into the first clay mold. The wax hissed softly as it burned away, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a red-gold form leap from the fire of the forge and dive back down, as if curious to see what he was doing. He turned to look, and the fire was just a fire. Gilda muttered softly, and the shimmering heat settled a bit.
While the first ring cooled, he rendered the second three coins, and poured off the molten gold into the second mold. The fires did not react to the second mold, and Gilda brought him a cup of water and some dried fruit for his luncheon. She wore her long dark cloak, pulled close as if she was cold even in the heat of the tent.
When he reached for the third mold, she shook her head. “No. Finish the first, for Girgus when he returns for the spears.”
With the hammer he made so long ago in the lean-to smithy of a broken tower, he gently tapped the first mold. The clay broke apart, leaving the rough gold ring on the bench. He swept away the clay and held the ring to the light. An oval socket beckoned to him, and he heated and shaped the soft metal, smoothing it and then slipping the green gem into place with the faintest click as it seated in its home. He polished the ring carefully, and when it felt complete, he put it in the pouch that had held the stones and put it on the workbench near where the new spears stood, shining in the late afternoon light.
He melted two gold coins for the third ring and poured them off. Greatly daring, he melted the silver coin and twisted the metal into a strip, heating and pulling it gently, spinning it into a fine wire. Freeing the ring from the third mold, he wound the silver wire around the ring, securing the blood-red stone with either end and using the most delicate of his probes, heated in the fire, to weld the ends together.
Breaking open the second mold, he found it to be larger, heavier, than the others. The blue stone fit perfectly into its socket, and he tapped it into place with the tiniest of bronze hammers from the kit.
As he was finishing the blue set ring, he heard hoofbeats approaching. He was familiar by now with the steps of Girgus’ charger, and looked up to see the man dismount outside the smithy tent. The man’s face was grave, his brow furrowed as he pulled off his gloves. The spear strapped to his saddle was mangled, the head bent at the base and covered with green ichor.
“Blacksmith,” he greeted Weyland. “Is the spear complete?”
Weyland nodded, standing to pass the first of the dragon-spears to the warrior. “This one, it is called ‘Death.’” He traced the rune at the base of the spearhead as he passed it to Girgus. The dragon slayer hefted the spear, holding it lightly in his hands.
“It is beautiful,” he said reverently, turning it in the sunlight to examine the pyramid head and edged fins, the strong crosspiece curved forward until the spear was almost a trident.
“Its sister is called ‘Love,’ for there is no rune for peace.” Weyland handed Girgus the second spear. It was identical save the crosspiece and the rune. One arm curved forward, the other back, so that the wielder might either push the quarry forward or hook it closer.
“These are princely weapons, blacksmith. If you will bring me the letter, I will read it to you, and its secrets will be held only between us.”
Weyland pulled the letter from the box of raw materials where he had found it. Girgus took it and gently unfolded it, his hands scarred and stained with violence and wear.
“It says this: ‘Weyland, Warrior of the northern lands and witness to the slaying of the Ravager, it is to be known that King Nithad of Nireke has taken unto him a bride from a foreign land, a woman strong of stature and will, who’s name is spoken by none. They married in the early spring and she will be delivered of a son just past midsummer. To celebrate the birth, he has executed all criminals in the jails of Nireke, that his children know only a kingdom of peace and honest men, and declared that a festival be held in three summers time, to celebrate the nameday of his son and the betrothal of his elder daughter.” Girgus paused, reading the next part. His hands began to shake. “‘The great Drake has been witnessed near Vinca, where all of the finest livestock have been sacrificed to the Beast, and it performs further violence unless a youth or maid is offered every third week. The king despairs that he might sacrifice his own child to assuage the vile appetite of the monster. You may not yourself slay the dragon, but may yet arm the man who will. Instruct Girgus, who yet reads this letter to you, that he must travel with all speed.’” Girgus turned the letter in his hands, peering at the blue paw print, his breath ragged.
“I have something else for you, as well,” Weyland drew over the pouch with the green stoned ring. “I was tasked to craft this ring in particular for Sabra. Take it to her, and perhaps she will hear your suit.”
Girgus looked at him, stricken. “I must go at once. The king of Vinca is her father. If he gives her to this dragon, I am lost…” Weyland nodded. The dragon slayer left the tent, shouting for his pack horse and travel supplies. He stopped and turned back to Weyland. “Patricius grows suspicious of your craft, for all injuries taken by the men holding your dragon-spears heal quickly and well, and no men have died since the first hunt taken with the new weapons. Be wary of him. His good regard extends only to the edges of what evil he sees in the world.”
Weyland nodded and the warrior left.
Gilda opened the vents on the bloomery and the forge, and a shower of sparks leapt up into the evening sky. In the sudden light, Weyland saw that her hair was now entirely white, and her face was drawn with exhaustion. “Come, warrior. It is time.”
“I have yet to craft more of the horde the commander requested,” he replied, uncertain.
“All is well, and in the crate. If we do not leave before the cohort returns, you may learn things about the commander that rest uneasy on your heart.” Her words were weary and hard, but Weyland was resolute in his determination to wait for the hunting party to return.
He packed carefully, taking only the things he had brought with him and the crafting tools given to him by Aodhan. The chest of materials he opened, and then closed again, panic in his heart. It was filled with gilded chalices and plates, fine jewelry, and coins that gleamed as if they were new minted. It was more work than any one man might create in a day, or a month, or even a year. He was still resolute, to give the commander the blue-stone ring with his own hands, and Gilda pressed her lips together tightly, exasperated. She muttered more, waving her hands about her head as if ranting to an unseen audience.
“I will meet you down the path, blacksmith, me and your hound. Take care he does not remove your head.” She shouldered her pack and took up her walking staff - with a start he noticed that it was his mother’s blackwood spear, and hurried down the trail to the south and east. Weyland tied the ring with the red blood-drop stone around his neck with a thong, and prepared his own pack, placing a bit of bread and meat in the hamper and filling a water skin from the stream.
Late that evening, Patricius and the hunting party returned, another twelve serpent heads added to the pile growing outside the command tent. He found Weyland in the tent where the forge and bloomery had been made.
“Girgus?” The commander’s tone was resigned.
“Gone to rescue Sabra from a dragon,” Weyland replied warily.
“And the horde?” Patricius looked around the tent and found the chest on the ground next to the work table.
“You will have what you need to lure the rest of the wyrms in the isles, and to make the people safe again.” Weyland offered Patricius the ring with the square blue gem. “Wear this, and may your hunt be just, and right and holy.” The commander took the ring, sliding it on the first finger of his left hand. The stone gleamed like the summer sky for a moment, and then subsided as the sun sank behind the horizon.
“Weyland,” he began, and paused for a moment. “I thought you to be a good and godly man. I have concerns that your work might be …” he stopped again. “This is not the time for this conversation, I think.” He looked around the tent again. “Tomorrow… we shall talk long about these things tomorrow. I cannot abide sorcery in this most holy of ventures, to take back the isles from the spawn of the Eternal Serpent. You understand that, I hope.” There was a sorrow, a plea, in the man’s eyes as he looked back to Weyland.
“Of course, commander. I would hope you are never asked to compromise your quest in that fashion.” Weyland extended his hand, and the commander grasped his wrist, bringing him close to embrace him briefly.
“Go with God, blacksmith,” Patricius said, and left the tent.
Without looking around again, and without looking back, Weyland shouldered his pack and left the cohort, heading to the south and east with his hound watching the path behind them.