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| wChapter 8: Sunday, November 27, 2005 | |
Chapter 8 “They were working at the water house, sir,” said the girl. “When I went down to get the tubs, they were the ones who helped me bring ‘em up, instead of Rastir and Dracthin and the other lads, they weren’t there. They said they’d been hired today, sir.” The innkeeper looked up at Wronsteit, who stood nearby with his sword not quite pointing at the crouched man. “But I have... I have never seen these men before.” The blade lifted slightly, and the innkeeper’s gaze dropped to it and his eyes bulged. “I-I swear to it!” he said, his voice shrill. Wronsteit watched him solidly for another moment and then the tip of the blade lowered and he reached into a pocket of the dark robe and removed a piece of cloth with which he promptly began to clean the sword. “Let her go,” he said with a slightly nod to Nevaya, and the boy obediently took his hands away from the girl’s arm where he had been clinging. She stepped aside and brushed at the sleeve of her dress, her face pale because it was now dotted with blood. The innkeeper stood and went to her side to console her and tell her that all things would be right, patting her hair and soothing her. “I believe you,” said Wronsteit. “Both of you. But I must stay here tonight regardless of any other threat.” Once he had cleaned the blade to his satisfaction, he threw the ruined scrap onto the pile of bodies, straightened, and tipped over the smaller basin of still steaming water with his foot. The water flooded out and into the room, lifting and carrying the blood with it. “I will have your room cleansed, sir,” said the innkeeper. “And there should be no reason why my inn should be an unsafe place for you to stay the night, sir. I will take some of the men I know and see if there are any other new hires today.” Wronsteit nodded. “It is appreciated. Put your sword away, Nevaya.” The boy realized with a blush that he still held the crimson dipped blade, and he too rummaged around through the folds of his toga until he located a rag with which to clean his blade before sheathing it once more. As he worked on it, Wronsteit went on, “I will need the services of a tailor, and another bath.” “It shall be done, sir,” said the innkeeper, and he put his arm around the still trembling but no longer crying serving girl and led her away. Wronsteit turned back to the room and stepped easily over the pile of bodies. Nevaya sloshed through the water and the blood and followed him in. Shortly the innkeeper returned with a cadre of rough looking men who nonetheless Nevaya was sure he had seen at the inn at some point in the past. They removed the bodies and carried the larger tub of water into the room and placed it behind the screened portion. The bath had cooled slightly in the short wait. They received the innkeeper’s assurance that the second bath was being prepared, and then the men armed themselves with brushes and rags and scrubbed the floor and the walls clean. While they were doing that, Nevaya retired to his mat in the corner and worked on sewing a tear in his spare tunic, and Wronsteit retreated behind the screen and bathed. He emerged after a long time clad in his tunic and loose leggings with the robe, wetted in places in an effort to remove the blood stains, over one shoulder, and immediately folded himself up onto the bed. He draped the robe across his lap and examined it, and then the innkeeper arrived a second time with Nevaya’s bathwater, and he and the group of servants withdrew. As Nevaya splashed behind the screen and removed the dirt and sweat of what felt like weeks from his body, he said, “Master?” “What is it?” said Wronsteit without looking up from what he was working on. “Will there not be some trouble about the bodies?” The innkeeper had had them thrown in the gutter and back alley. “I doubt the elite city watch has much concern over the death of some ruffian drunks.” Nevaya paused for a long moment. “But there were five of them. That many, at once, around such a place...” “It is a significant number. But I do not think they will worry about it. And even if they do, it is of no matter to us.” Nevaya did not say anything else, but for a time as he bathed he thought about the innkeeper and the serving girl, their paled shaken faces. He came out of the tub and started to dress himself, but Wronsteit stopped him. “The tailor is coming, remember?” But that makes their relationship a bit too awkward, so never mind. He came out of the tub and dressed himself and returned to inventorying the supplies they had when another knock came on the door. Wronsteit opened it and the innkeeper, bobbing and bowing again, came in with the tailor behind him. The man had Nevaya stand and strip down to his loincloth and tunic. “What are you being fitted for, eh, lad?” he asked jovially then. “A new toga? A new tunic? Perhaps a new belt?” “Loose leggings,” said Wronsteit from where he sat, perusing a scroll. “Fancy tunic. A long robe. You have anything in his size that could be adjusted?” Nevaya goggled at him briefly. Finery? What on earth would he need such clothes for? “Maybe,” said the tailor, taking out a length of knotted rope and having Nevaya spread his arms. “Maybe I have something. Maybe. But these boys, they are growing, you know, and next week none of it may fit. I can make them a little bigger, a little looser, so he has some room to grow.” “They must fit perfectly tomorrow. Can you finish anything by then?” “Can I--of course I can!” The man waved his hand flippantly in Wronsteit’s direction. “I can finish anything like that by sunrise tomorrow. Of course a little extra fee for working all night--“ “No sloppiness. If it comes out slovenly I will not pay you at all.” “I am never slovenly, and any man or boy I dress will look good enough to suit the king, even!” He finished taking Nevaya’s measurements and scowled. “Speaking of the men, what can I do for you?” “I am settled for clothing,” said Wronsteit. “I thank you for your offer. Just make sure my apprentice is presentable.” “Very well, very well.” The tailor bowed. “I have the dark brown leggings, loose, they are all the popular rage now. And a fancy tunic, let me see... blue trimmed in beige, embroidered and all, very nice. And for a robe, also blue--perfect! Trimmings in brown.” “Good enough.” Wronsteit haggled with him over the price for some time and when they agreed on it he paid the first half immediately and sent the tailor on his way. As soon as he was gone, Nevaya said, “Master, why am I being fitted with such fancy things as robes and leggings?” Wronsteit looked at him and that quick smile flitted across his face only momentarily. “You would prefer a new toga?” he said. “I already have two, and that wasn’t the question, sir,” said Nevaya, getting himself dressed a second time. “An insolent answer. We have yet to practice tonight.” Outside the sky had darkened, and Wronsteit moved around the room and lit all the torches from the one in the hallway so that the freshly cleaned floor shimmered and wavered in the light. Nevaya found his sword amongst his belongings--his damp toga, which he had washed after his bath, hung over the partitioning screen. Both drew their swords, and along the lengths of the blade the flames flickered and danced. Nevaya felt very warm and comfortable in the lamplight, but not sleepy. No form of sleep had tempted him yet, despite the long day. “You killed a man today,” said Wronsteit carefully. Nevaya met his gaze. “I have killed men before.” “Yes, but this is the first time that you have done so in conjunction with me. It is an interesting experience.” Wronsteit rolled his shoulders. “To see you applying the styles and methods I taught you and--“ he grinned, not the grin of pleasure that so rarely touched him, but the long, slow, vicious grin of a predator stalking something. “--And completely mauling those techniques.” Nevaya scowled slightly, trying to hide the gesture. “Also,” said Wronsteit, and now his voice tightened. “Today you fought when you were angry, and drew your sword in anger. You were not in control of yourself. Do you understand what that means?” “That means that I was irresponsible and completely open to all forms of attack,” recited Nevaya dutifully. “And I thought we talked, and fought, and talked, and fought, about how you were never going to do that again.” Nevaya lifted his chin a bit proudly. “He attacked you, Master.” “So what?” Wronsteit shrugged. “Do you think I was incapable of defending myself?” “Not at all, Master, but--“ “There is no exception. If you knew I could defend myself, why did you disrupt what would have been our battle and imposed over it one of your own?” Nevaya tightened his grip on the blade slightly and said nothing. “Answer me!” said Wronsteit sharply, the tone making the boy flinch. “I-I could not stand to see you so attacked and insulted, Master,” he ground out between his teeth. Wronsteit lifted his blade slightly, and Nevaya thought for a moment that he once again saw the glimmering red tracing the sword’s length. “How many, many times have I told you that you cannot let emotions come into play at all when you have your sword drawn?” Nevaya took a deep breath and tried to force himself to calm down. “Many times, Master,” he said. “And yet when I saw him attack you unprovoked I could not control myself. Against anyone, for anyone else, I would not have let it happen.” “Not even for your family?” Wronsteit said in a low tone. “I no longer matter to my family, and they no longer matter to me, sir,” Nevaya was vaguely surprised to find that his voice was steady and calm. “Only you do.” In the darkened room brimming with torchlight Wronsteit’s eyes glowed strangely. “Your family is still alive, Nevaya,” he said, his town powerfully low. “They still care for you.” “I know, sir,” said Nevaya. “But I am of no use to them. The youngest son of four is not even needed to carry on the family name. Nor did they deny my seeking apprenticeship. In this moment, Master Wronsteit, they can offer me nothing that can further me.” He straightened slightly. “And that is all I want for myself. Knowledge and advancement. I want to learn, Master, and because of that wish you are that which I most value at this moment.” Again Wronsteit’s eyes glowed and glimmered in the flickering light. “Very well,” he said. “You must still seek, however, to control your emotions when your blade is drawn.” “Yes, Master.” Wronsteit moved forward, his form a mere flicker of lamplight. Nevaya only had an instant’s worth of time to follow him and block, the longer sword crashing down against his slightly smaller blade. He spun away and Wronsteit followed him with the attack, his actions so fierce that Nevaya had no time to do anything except keep himself from being knocked senseless by the swordsmaster’s actions. Again and again he struck, and again and again Nevaya blocked him. After a long moment of watching Wronsteit’s flicking blade, he saw his opportunity and, hurriedly dashing Wronsteit’s sword aside, flicked his blade out violently at the man’s face. Wronsteit blocked the attack easily with a single swipe of his blade, almost too fast to be seen, and then he attacked again, and again Nevaya was driven back. In another moment Nevaya turned his defense into a series of layered blows, but Wronsteit flicked each one away as if it were nothing. They continued to fight, blades swinging. Xxxxxxxx “There you are,” came a rumbled voice from the depths of the tunnel at the back of the cave. Madrul jumped and almost dropped the buckets of water he had just returned from filling. Drademar stood at the tunnel’s entrance and motioned to him with his head. He obediently emptied the buckets and hurried towards the dragon. “Master Drademar?” “Come with me,” said the dragon, and turned around. Madrul carefully ducked under his ponderously swung tail and followed a few paces behind the dragon as he treaded, catlike, down the tunnel. “You have been with me for a number of weeks now, Madrul,” he said casually as he walked. “And yet you have never asked about where I work.” “I figured that you would tell me when you were ready, sir,” said Madrul. The tunnel was long and he had to half run to keep up with the dragon’s pacing. In the distance the rocks seemed touched with a hint of red or orange, as if a torch were just around the corner flickering and waiting for them. Drademar snorted in what Madrul had long since surmised was draconic laughter, billows of smoke pouring around his sides and making Madrul duck and cover his face with one hand to avoid choking. “Polite, and perhaps astute, but you came here to be an apprentice and not a servant. It is time for you to start learning.” The tunnel was growing hotter, and Madrul was beginning to get slightly uncomfortable when they finally came to the tunnel’s end. As the rock walls fell away into a broader cavern, he stifled a gasp. They were in the depths of the mountain, and he was reminded fully once and for all that it was not in fact a mountain but a dormant and not entirely inactive volcano, because before him lay the source of the walls’ crimson and tangerine tint, a bubbling pool of magma. The scarlet, molten surface was rimmed by large and small rocks, all of which were deeply scored with rune like markings. The heat made brilliant droplets of sweat form along Madrul’s forehead, and he wiped them away with the back of one hand while looking around the cavern. Various openings littered the walls of the cavern. Each hole was surrounded by symbols similar to those that traced the edge of the pool. Near the bubbling hole there was a sort of shelf or table made of sheet rock that stood almost as tall as Madrul’s head, though it reached only just above the dragon’s waist when he was reared up on his hind legs. The dragon slithered up to it and then turned and examined Madrul with a gaze that verged on disconcerting. Then he grinned. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you.” He indicated what Madrul had originally taken for a draconic bench, and then the boy realized it reached up to his own waist. On it sat a large hammer, a pair of tongs larger than his hands, and a chunk of raw metal larger than his head. “We will have to go to town soon this week anyway for supplies,” said Drademar. “I believe when you are there you should be able to pick up some smithy supplies as well. As it is, those are some of my pieces of equipment. Ah, but you have no gloves.” The dragon frowned briefly, intensely. At length he sighed. “Fine. You will only be able to watch before we go to town.” At Drademar’s suggestion, Madrul pulled himself up onto his rock workbench, noting that it too was lined with sigils, and then stood there for a clear view of the dragon’s actions. “What are all these sigils?” he asked when Drademar prompted him to ask. The dragon looked taken aback. “They are part of a spell that I use to control the magma. You see, good smithing depends on perfect temperatures of the forge, otherwise the metal will melt or deform. You have not seen a spell before?” Madrul realized he must have been goggling. He swallowed. “No, sir.” “Well, then,” and the dragon smiled. “You will need to learn magic in order to control the temperature of the forge.” “I don’t understand, sir,” Madrul said hesitantly. “How can magic affect the magma if it is a spell on the rocks and not on the magma itself?” Drademar watched him for a long second, and the boy feared for a moment that perhaps he had offended the dragon. Then Drademar laughed slightly, the smoke pouring from his nostrils. “That is an extremely precise distinction you have just made,” he said quietly. “Nevertheless, I will answer your question. When I speak the spell aloud, it affects whatever is contained within the ring that the rocks form. Now, watch,” he said, and then he turned towards the pool. A brief phrase formed itself at his lips and sounded almost too loudly in the cavern, echoing slightly. Simultaneously, all the sigils on the rocks surrounding the magma pool began to glow brilliantly, as did those around one of the openings in the upper wall. There came a rushing sound of oxygen-provided flame, and the heat of the cavern intensified twice over; simultaneously a hot wind swept Madrul’s hair from his face and pulled at the dragon’s wings. The dragon had a piece of half formed metal in a pair of tongs in an instant, and he held it briefly over the magma, where the air was so hot it wavered and shimmered as if it were about to break. He turned the piece of metal as if he were turning a marshmallow (MMM DOOM MARSHMALLOWS) and then as the metal verged on yellow beyond orange-red, he spoke another phrase and turned away. The heat dropped off back to that which it had been when they had first arrived in the cavern and Drademar turned away from the fire, the metal in his claws still glowing. He placed the strip on the counter, selected a hammer, and began to pound on the length of what looked to be a long sword--not with heavy strikes, as if he were trying to break it, but with pinging taps that slowly, very slowly, reshaped the edge of the blade. Throughout the rest of the afternoon Madrul simply watched the dragon work, listening to the descriptions he was given and observing Drademar’s skills. By the time they finished the sun had already set; Drademar lit the torch and Madrul set about trying to reduce the piles of dust that seemed to have accumulated almost overnight within the cave. He was beginning to get used to the all consuming darkness of the cave, and now he felt as if he could see a faint red glow outlining the tunnel below. Shortly thereafter he ate, drank, and went to sleep.
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