And so, with plans in hand and rucksacks packed, they set out.
Fresh air meets them. Logan shuts the door behind him, and they start up the narrow path leading into the larger wood. Brute runs ahead, scurrying into the trees and disappearing. Their adventure begins.
Before they travel too far from Logan’s haynest, Sanet steps close to Bernard. “I didn’t ask, in earnest too shy to, but did you want to perform an arrangement for Jame?”
Bernard turns in soft gesture. “I did on the yester.”
“You went back?”
“He would have been nimed to be seen as he was. And it was only proper.”
With that, Sanet nods and squeezes Bernard’s arm. “You make a good man, Bernard Babek.”
They walk wordlessly, taking in the sweet, crisp air and emerald-olive foliage. For a time, their way twists along winding trails, cut between narrow and worn paths, and they stride over large trunks and lesser stone bridges.
Many majors pass before Logan interrupts their quiet trek. “The smith’s shop should be down here, but we’ll need to cut this way.”
Following Logan, they turn off the trail into a bit of denser undergrowth he clears from their way with a small blade. Sanet walks ahead of Bernard, pushing aside larger malleable branches for him, and as they pass, the brush springs immediately back, causing the trail to fade behind them.
The lives and histories of smiths have been kept private for over a millennium, and the fact that one resides so close to Bernard’s old haynest, about a day’s trek north, surprises him. Leading hermetic lifestyles, smiths wait unseen unless sought, and going into a bargain with them tends to be a precarious matter even though what they offer, from exotic weapons and armor to tools and machines that operate in unknowable and unimaginable ways, gives its bearer an advantage unmatched against enemies.
“Here we are.”
In a small clearing, the shop comes into view. Its presence is almost unnoticeable, with its walls built in a distorted and arched style among what might have once been a massive tree. A staircase hewn from overgrown roots leads to a complexly engraved door ten measures above. Around them, sunlight, mostly blocked by the dense bramble, reaches in in narrow streaks.
Sanet drops her rucksack and pulls a handful of granola from it. “I’ll wait for you here. Don’t give away too much.”
Brute pads into the area and hops onto Bernard’s shoulder. Logan holds Bernard’s bandaged and fingerless hand as they step up the precarious staircase, which narrows as it rises toward the upper landing and closed door.
Closer, the smell of burned leather and a surge of heat emanate from inside the shop, a clank clank clanking carried with them.
“You sure we’re not intruding?” Bernard worries.
“You’re always intruding on a smith, which is why their bargains cost so much. But you have real purpose for asking, and he’ll see you’re a true Radibian, not some festatar seeking treasure.”
They read a plate on the door engraved plainly:
Tunston
They knock, and after a major, the clanking stops. Bernard takes a small step backward, and the ground near the edge loosens. Logan catches him before he recovers.
“Approsh.”
“Don’t be nervous. He’ll say either yes or no. In either case, we’ll have a pair of mitts from him or another.”
Bernard nods, listening as muted footsteps draw closer to the door.
A minor passes, and the door opens. At it, Tunston stands before them. A tall and hulking friend, three sizes wider than either Logan or Bernard. His arms and forearms are round and thick, and each hand has four long, extended fingers at the top and two bent thumbs on either side of his lower palm, for a count of twelve digits in total. On the smallest finger of both hands grow sharp nails, unnaturally orange in color. His face is black with scars and marks, though bright blue eyes, buried deep within, pierce through. Overall, the smith appears swollen and puffy and wears a black leather cloth around his neck that is wrapped five times over, down, and across his muscular and naked figure.
“Whats am I helps yees for?” The smith speaks with an odd, uneducated accent.
Bernard steps forward. “Good friend, I hope I have not disturbed you, but I’m seeking a pair of mitts, as you can see.” With this, he raises and displays his mangled hands.
The smith narrows his crystal-blue eyes and bends over for a closer inspection. “Yous have thees wee one fram whats?” He points to Bernard’s lone little finger.
“I was unfortunate not to lose them all, I guess.”
“Unfortunites, yees.”
“Can you help me?” Bernard asks again.
“And whats it to me and yous that yous bring for bargain?”
“I am willing to bargain what is fair. I can offer fresh neox meat perhaps?”
The smith sniffs the air. “A start, friend. Yous bring me neox and yous may enter, but thas fur stamp stees outseed.” The smith turns back into his shop, leaving the door open.
Logan and Bernard look at each other and shrug. Below them, Sanet is unpacking a tent from her rucksack. She looks up to Logan, who holds up his hand, thumb to fingers, relaying their success. She returns the gesture.
Bernard grabs the creshwillow and sets its down. “You’re staying out here, Brute.”
It looks at him with a twisted neck but remains. Logan and Bernard step inside.
After they close the door behind them, the air rolls warm and dry. Yellow, orange, and a flickering red replace the daylight and greenery of outside. Wall to wall, inlays of flaming coals light the shop and, from where they stand, lead to a long and looming hallway. Winding through, displays of the smith’s past work showcase the precision and grandeur of his efforts. Behind glass windows are blades of many colors and material, some green with jade, others shining with sharp serrations. There are crossbows with double lines and gauntlets made of what resembles flexible gold. A small onyx orb floats in one of the displays, and every item shines with an air of handcraft and sophistication.
At the end of the hall, Logan and Bernard find the smith working at a forge. They step into a larger room many times hotter, which triggers both to sweat.
“Bring thees meats, friend.”
Bernard pulls a few chunks of the neox from his sack and walks over, handing them to the large smith. Tunston takes the meat in hand, drawing a long whiff of it before setting it aside.
“Its bargain has begun buts yous must geeve more fram mitts.”
It’s unclear what the smith seeks. Tunston walks over to a stone oven and pulls an unfamiliar object from an iron pot before returning to the forge. He begins his work again, clanging the item against the anvil to shape it. Bernard stands motionlessly, his mind reaching for some intelligent thing to say or approach to employ the smith.
Logan steps in. “I have my father’s blade to bargain.”
“Logan, you don’t—”
The smith looks up from his work and then takes the blade in his hand. “Thees blade fram Organsia. Yous father fram thees?”
“He was from Organsia, and his wife, my mother, was from Radiba. It is forged from their respective homes in water and land.” He brushes his fingers across swirled indentions engraved in the blade and draws the smith’s attention to the hilt formed of an ash-colored petrified wood. “It’s been in my family’s line for over three hundred years.”
The smith ponders. “Thees is good fram bargain, buts only one mitt. Thees needs more bargain fram two.”
Bernard rolls his eyes at the absurdity. “Maybe we should go elsewhere?”
Ignoring Bernard, Logan continues, “The creshwillow will stay, as will the woman outside.”
Bernard moves to interject, but Logan holds him back.
At the prospect of two new companions, the smith’s eyes widen a bit, and he looks at them fully for the first time since they entered. “No fur stamp. Yous wilst insteed.”
“For the work of Smith Tunston, it would be an honor.” L
ogan’s flattery comes off a touch insincere, and Tunston’s eyes narrow.
“Yous lie and yous die.”
Logan nods. “No lies.”
Tunston steps toward them. He looks Bernard over closely. “Yous a good man?”
Bernard gulps. I sent Jame left.
“I try to be.”
“Try ees no good. Yous mus be good to bargain fram mitts.”
“I am a good man, Tunston. A friend. A fellow Radibian.”
“Thees Land not cares who yous fram. It needs good. I provide only toos good.”
Bernard has no answer. He wants to be a good man, but now the thought of leaving Jame buried under a rock six strides from his haynest makes him question it.
Tunston stares and, before Bernard answers, turns. “Thees bargain set. Return on thees morrow.” He waves them away.
Logan nods and turns, grabbing Bernard by the jacket. Bernard remains quiet and follows.
Exiting the shop, they find Sanet has set camp, with a tent and little fire. At the major, she’s writing in a small notesbook. Brute finds Bernard and hops onto him.
“Easy there, Brute.”
Logan leads Bernard down the rooted staircase and they join Sanet near the fire. Though the sun won’t set for a few hours, the clearing is already dark, lit by the few hints of fires burning inside the smith’s shop and against their modest camp.
“So, what did you bargain for?”
Logan smiles. “It took some neox meat, my blade and . . . us.”
“You two?” Sanet inquires.
Bernard interjects, “Not me. You two. And it wasn’t my bargain. I’m not sure what happened in there. And I didn’t have a minor—”
“There was nothing you were willing to part with that he would have accepted. You have to give him anything he asks for and then . . . renegotiate the bargain once the item’s made.”
Sanet is unconvinced. “Have you renegotiated with a smith before?”
“I’ve heard it can be done,” Logan replies with unwarranted confidence.
Bernard looks at his single-fingered hand, shaking his head. I’m going to be mostly fingerless forever.
“What we must do is convince him that the things he’s bargained for are not worth keeping, but only after he’s made the mitts.”
“And if he’s not convinced?”
“Let’s cross that Lothatin when we have to.”
❖❖❖
The next morn, Bernard wakes to a shaking tent. The tormisand. Shnite. And then, the growl of the smith. “Yous get up. Mitts finish.”
Sanet and Logan wake, her having slept on Logan’s bare chest.
In a scratchy, half-awake voice, Logan answers, “One minor, Tunston.”
He pulls a shirt over his head as Sanet sits up. She gathers her tangled hair back into a bun and shoots Bernard a knowing grin. Logan climbs over them and leaves the tent half-dressed. Brute lifts his eyelids lazily before going back to sleep. From inside, Bernard listens to the conversation between Tunston and Logan.
“Whys yous sleep so late?”
“Apory, the light here is so dark, hard to know when the sun rose.”
“Yous make excuses.”
“Never. You said you have finished already?”
“Yees. Mitts are esee. Where ees old one?”
Bernard’s eyes widen. He looks to Sanet, who’s buttoning her shirt, and mouths, I told you. She rolls her eyes in response.
“He’s asleep,” Logan says.
At this, Bernard crawls out of the tent, using his stumpy hands, and comes face to face with an entirely naked Tunston. Bernard quickly shields his eyes from its double low-hanging crotch.
“I’m here. I’m here.” He stands with assistance from Logan and attempts to wipe the dirt from the stubs of his hands. A thin and damp fog floats quietly through the brush.
“Yous lie,” the smith snarls, narrowing his eyes.
Logan shrugs, “Was it?” Silence sits between them.
“Follows me.” Tunston makes for the shop, and with his turn bares a large, hairy rear topped with the stub of a tail. Bernard and Logan each hold back a cough. They follow at a distance.
Sanet pokes her head from the tent and whispers, “Should I follow?” to Bernard, who nods. At that, she pops back into the tent and exits a minor later, setting a dagger into her belt and quickly catching up.
At the top of the staircase, Tunston grabs his leather apron hanging from the door and wraps it around himself as he walks down the long hall. The three follow behind and find the shop in the same state it was before: hot and lit by coals.
At the forge, Tunston reaches for a box and turns to the three as they enter. He presents it to them and then opens the box with minute fanfare. Inside lay a pair of ordinary dark-brown leather mitts. Both mitts are filled in at the fingertips with an unknown material and the rest lays flat and unusually thin. With silent permission, Logan takes the east mitt and places it on Bernard’s hand.
At first, it feels like a fresh leather glove, but then an odd sensation passes over Bernard’s hand. It’s cool to start, as if dipped in a polar sea, and then unexpected pressure squeezes against his skin, similar to when Logan massaged oilment into his hands. Its heavy touch develops into a hypnotic and soothing sensation. A constant, repetitive rhythm. After a major, Bernard closes his hand into a fist as the fingers of the mitt, filled with what he imagines are carved stones, move with his thoughts. He opens his hand and then closes it again before a grin forms on his face. “Lincoln, it feels like my own.”
“Of course, ees yous own.”
“Apory for my old friend,” Logan interrupts. Bernard quiets. Logan reaches for the second mitt, but Tunston stops him.
“Yous mas loose thees wee one.”
“What?”
“Thees mitts not works weeth fingers.”
Bernard looks the smith in the eye. “Well, you didn’t say that was part of the bargain.”
“Yous not wants mitts?”
“No, I mean, I want the mitt, I just don’t want to break off my last finger. It’s my last finger!” Bernard’s breath forms thick.
“Yous loose finger. Ice break it.” The smith moves toward Bernard, who steps back.
“Please, we can—” Before Logan can finish, Tunston reaches out and skillfully grabs Bernard’s hand. Without hesitation, Tunston’s double thumbs pinch and snap, cracking Bernard’s little finger. Bernard drops to his knees in pain.
Sanet, responding without thought, grabs her dagger and swings toward the smith. Logan tries to stop her, but she outmaneuvers him. In the same minor, Tunston snaps Bernard’s little finger a second time, dislocating it from its socket. With his other arm, as if controlled by a different mind, Tunston grabs Sanet by the throat, lifting her off the ground. The swift tactic causes Sanet to drop her dagger as she instinctively grabs his forearm, struggling to release herself from the smith’s choke.
Logan holds out his hands. “Everyone, please calm down.”
Bernard screams out as Tunston rips the little finger from his hand and in the same motion throws Sanet to the ground. Bernard grabs his fingerless hand with his gloved one, attempting to stay the blood that pours out.
Tunston tosses Bernard the other mitt. With struggled effort, Bernard bears his bleeding finger and slides the mitt on, with increasing agony and a bitten lip. The sensations return. The cooling and massaging over his skin, the stones tumbling into order. He looks over his new hands, closing and opening them both. For the minor, he’s lost in their power and the tight brown leather against his skin. As he watches, his west little finger begins to bleed through the mitt, turning it a dark and sour red. He stands, time returning as his pain subsides. Sanet sits up, holding a hand to her bleeding head.
In the minary silence, Logan presses his luck. “This is no way to treat your new friends. I think we must go.”
Tunston’s face contorts with sudden fury. “Yous lie?”
“You hurt my friends. You did not say tha
t was part of the bargain. You lied.”
“Ice no lie.” The smith stomps one of his feet, causing the shop to rumble and bits of dirt to shower from the ceiling. “Yous lie!”
“Bernard, Sanet, it’s time we left.”
Bernard steps carefully over to Sanet to help her up. When he takes her by the hand, he finds that his grip feels remarkably firm, as if he could easily crush anything. Once standing, the two of them turn back toward the smith, who appears confused and angry. Logan attempts to calm Tunston down. “You have the blade and the meat. We offered the creshwillow, but you were not interested. And now I do not think it’s safe for the two of us.”
The smith stomps his foot again. “Yous lie, yous die!”
Tunston holds his hand up, and in the same instant a longblade flies from one of the glass cases, slinging glass shards across the room. The blade lands in Tunston’s hand, and he immediately swings it at Logan. To Tunston’s surprise, Logan dodges the swing and slides into the smith’s knee, kicking him before rolling away. Tunston hops with awkward pain and then swings the blade again on the ground inches from where Logan rolled. Sanet pushes Bernard aside and reaches for her fallen dagger. With one swift motion, she pitches it across the room into the swollen smith’s face. He stumbles backward, losing his footing.
“I think renegotiations are over.” Logan leaps up and runs toward the exit, Bernard and Sanet following. As they scramble, Logan calls over his shoulder, “We’ll need to grab our things quickly.”
They exit the tree, and Logan jumps straight forward, landing with a dexterous roll. Brute, perched on its hind legs, eyes them while Bernard and Sanet, not as daring or unafraid as Logan, stumble down the curved staircase and jump the last few steps.
As they hit the ground, Tunston emerges from his shop with fits and screams. “Yous lie, yous die!”
Advent of the Roar (The Land Old, Untouched Book 1) Page 6