A chill breeze passed over Grant as he left the warmth of the town hall. His new tunic and pants were fine clothes. Probably better than anything he’d ever owned. They did little to stave off the chill. Black smoke billowed from chimneys and disappeared into gray skies. He shivered, wrapping himself tighter. Winter would come early this year, not as though he’d be around to see it.
He looked up at the door of the town hall, wanting nothing more than to run back in and ask Rott more questions, but the officer didn’t seem as though he would be open to the idea.
“This way.” The officer's gruff voice broke Grant out of his thoughts. The small man turned on his heel and strode away, not even looking back to see whether Grant was following. Grant shuffled forward to catch up.
After only a block, he was panting for breath, breaking into a short jog every few steps. Grant was several feet taller, but each of the man’s short steps seemed to carry him farther than a tall man’s stride. He glided over the stone street, his front foot barely touching down before he took his next.
The man spoke as he navigated the winding roads. “You may call me Captain Nickel. The moment you were selected for the Sixth Campaign, you became an enlisted of Evenon.” Crowds of townsfolk moved out of his way, flowing around him like a river around a boulder. Is he using Magic to get them to move?
“This makes you Private Leeman, and I expect you to conduct yourself with the tact and grace befitting a man of your station.”
Grant wondered what that meant. Every serviceman he had seen in Iori drank ale by the barrel, played dice or Strategem every wage day, and spent the time between barely conscious in smokehouses.
He knew better than to ask.
“A caravan will depart in five hours and 42 minutes,” Captain Nickel continued, “which means you have five hours and 42 minutes to get your affairs in order and return to this exact spot.” He halted, and Grant almost lost his balance trying to avoid crashing into him.
They had arrived at the city gate, its two stone watchtowers looming over them. Guards waved traffic in, not bothering to screen anyone, but the outbound traffic line was backed up for blocks as every passerby was inspected by another uniformed soldier. A glance beyond the walls revealed dozens of carts and carriages in a single-file line. Their drivers stood around chewing their nails, smoking pipes, or staring off into nothing.
“Your registration for duty has already been completed,” Captain Nickel continued. “All necessities will be provided for you, but you may bring up to one knapsack of personal belongings. You are dismissed.”
Grant turned his head to thank the captain for the escort, but the man was already marching away. Within seconds, he had traveled an entire city block.
“Five hours and 41 minutes now,” Grant muttered, his feet aching as he sprinted back to the town square. “It will have to be enough.”
***
There wasn’t a person in Iori or its surrounding towns who didn’t know about the Nerelot Forge. It outfitted a third of the noble houses with armaments, and it would the others if they could afford it. Dan had once told him it would take even a skilled worker years of labor to afford a single letter opener forged in its fires, then months on the waiting list.
He cracked the door open and found Gunther leaning over the counter, dexterously sliding the beads on an abacus with his left hand as he wrote with his right. His long, messy hair sprouted from the sides around his bald pate, and liver spots stained his vein-webbed dark-pink hands, but he moved as nimbly as a man 50 years younger. The beads clacked with each toss, his pen scratched on the paper in the quiet entranceway.
Grant entered the shop as silently as he could and pretended to browse through the weapons and armor that adorned its walls, drawing as little attention to himself as he could. None of the items in the room would have been crafted by Mr. Nerelot himself, but they were all of impeccable quality. Grant lifted a towering circular shield from the counter, but it was heavier than he expected. He gasped as it slipped from his grip and collided with the floor, then rolled across the room, crashing into a wall and wobbling around until it settled. He cringed, turning hot from embarrassment as he heaved it up and waddled it across the room, throwing it back on its counter, his eyes darting toward Gunther every few steps.
The man was still at work. He either hadn’t noticed that Grant had dropped it, or he didn’t care.
That could have been me, he thought with a pang of regret. I wonder if that job will still be around at the end of the Campaign.
Minutes passed, and Grant realized Gunther was never going to acknowledge him. “Excuse me, Gunther?”
“Mmmmm?” he asked, hands still moving in a blaze.
“I’m Grant. I’m here to see Dan and Mr. Nerelot.”
“Mmmmm.”
“So, can I just go to the back?”
“Mmmmm.” He gave a curt nod to the door, still not looking up.
“Thanks. Nice talking to you, Gunther.”
Grant rounded the counter and pushed open the black door to the workshop, then skidded to a halt, as if he had crashed into an invisible wall. The air shimmered with wet, oppressive heat that made his eyes burn. In seconds, sweat beaded his forehead, and his tunic stuck to his skin.
With a loud hissing sound, a nearby worker quenched a white-hot blade in a vat of water, and a cloud of steam plumed to the ceiling. An acrid smell permeated the air, which made Grant cough, nose and throat scratchy and irritated. The worker pulled it back out and analyzed it, searching for imperfections.
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A dozen others stood transfixed on their tasks at anvils, furnaces, vices and tables, completely unbothered.
How do they work like this? He had to admire the men and women whose concentration remained unwavering despite the conditions.
The crowded workshop was easily twice the size of the inn’s common room, but it didn’t take Grant long to find Mr. Nerelot. He stood a full head taller than Dan, with brown hair trimmed nearly down to his scalp. Dan stood out in any crowd, as hulking as he was, but he had a certain leanness to his frame—his wide shoulders tapered down into a slim waist.
Unlike Dan, Mr. Nerelot was built like a doorframe. His stomach seemed more an extension of his massive chest, as though he wore a breastplate under his shirt. Grant watched in awe as he effortlessly carried a slab of iron that must have weighed more than three grown men.
He laid it on a table and wiped his brow.
“Mr. Nerelot?” Grant timidly called from across the forge, half expecting not to be heard.
The Blacksmith’s eyes flicked up, and he squinted, searching for the source of the voice. Grant waved from the doorway.
“Is that Grant? You’re all grown up! You’ll be bigger than Dan in no time,” his voice boomed, attracting a few curious glances from his workers. “Just wait where you are! I’ll be over in a minute.”
He lifted a blacksmith’s hammer and, steadying the slab of iron with his other hand, narrowed his eyes in concentration. Then he struck it, sending sparks into the air. A loud clang reverberated through the forge, making Grant’s ears ring. Clang! The slab lengthened and thinned. Clang! Its shape became more oval, more consistent around the edges. Clang! He put the hammer down.
Mr. Nerelot looked down at his work and ran his finger across its edges. Grant could only stare as a crude slat of metal had, in four strikes of a hammer, transformed into a shield fit for a member of the Royal Guard. It was half the height of a grown man, with smooth and perfectly consistent edges, as though its Blacksmith had forged it in a mold.
With a few terse instructions and a backslap, he handed it to an apprentice, whose arms and neck bulged with effort as she carried it to another table. Mr. Nerelot crossed the workshop in three giant strides, wiped his hands on his apron, and pulled Grant into a firm handshake.
Grant’s mouth remained open like a fish on a river shore. The apprentice was finishing the shield with a leather strap. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” Mr. Nerelot asked, following Grant’s gaze. “Oh, that thing?” He shook his head. “Customer demanded Onyx Steel. Must’ve told him three times that it was a poor choice for a shield. Too weighty, ain’t going to give much more protection for the fact.” A crooked smile pulled at his lips as he glanced at the shield again. “Then he wanted it oval for his family crest, and there was no talking him out of that one. Took me four months to procure the materials.”
“Will it hold up against a spear?”
Mr. Nerelot barked out a laugh. “It’ll stop a ballista bolt if the angle’s right! Could’ve made him something half its weight and just as sturdy for a fraction of the cost, is all.” He shrugged a massive shoulder. “Nobles got more coin than they know what to do with, I reckon. It’ll make a fine wall decoration.”
“It looks beautiful to me.”
Not one to turn down a compliment,” said Mr. Nerelot, giving a sincere smile. “But you’re not here for a chat about blacksmithing, are you? I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s head upstairs to my office.”
A wave of sadness crushed Grant. Dan must have told him. Dan knew I’d come.
Not yet knowing how to break the news about his selection to him, he followed quietly. They made their way past the main room, where Mr. Nerelot informed Gunther that he would be away for half a bell, receiving another characteristic grunt in response. After exiting through a side door into a spacious common room, the Blacksmith led him up a stone staircase and down a short hallway.
He opened the door to reveal a small, undecorated room, whose center was dominated by a large metal desk. Two chairs lay on each side.
“Please, sit here,” said Mr. Nerelot, as he sat in his own chair. It protested under his weight with a loud groan. “Would you like something to drink? Have you eaten?”
Grant was starving. His meager dinner from the night before had ended up on his blanket, and he hadn’t thought to eat breakfast. The sun, hiding behind gray skies, would be nearing its apex by now.
He gave the Blacksmith a helpless look. “I’d love something to eat.”
Mr. Nerelot slapped the table with an ear-to-ear smile. “That’s a good man! Too many come up here thinking it’s a trap, like I’m testing their manners. What kind of man offers guests food meaning for them to refuse?” He shook his head and leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Just between you and me, the last woman I hired ate all I gave her and asked for seconds.” His eyes sparkled. “One of the best damn leatherworkers I’ve ever seen.”
He pulled a small blue crystal out from a drawer and pushed gently on it with his palm. “Gunther? We’re going to need some refreshments up here.” He paused, taking pressure off the crystal, looking Grant up and down. “Bring up the dried meats and some rye. And that hard brie.”
A voice echoed back through the crystal. “Mmmmm.”
Grant swallowed the urge to stare slack-jawed at the contraption. He was tired of looking like a clueless fool, but he had only heard of communication crystals in stories. He instead directed his attention to his host, deciding that being upfront was the best way to go about it.
“So, the position—”
“I was selected—”
They both paused. When Grant’s words registered with Mr. Nerelot, his smile disappeared. “Repeat that.”
“I was selected for the Sixth Campaign. Last night. It starts in 31 days.”
Mr. Nerelot’s brows drew down, and he gripped his left hand with his right as it began to quiver. After staring blankly at Grant for ten seconds, he pushed shakily on the crystal again. “Gunther, are you still there?”
“Mmmmm.”
“Bring the whiskey. The 10-year.”
There was a pause from the crystal. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Two glasses.” He hesitated, deep in thought. “Three. Bring Dan too.” The crystal went dim.
The two men sat for minutes as the air grew thick. Neither of them moved an inch, both choosing to stare at the table rather than address each other. Grant had anticipated a lot of directions this conversation could take. Sitting in silence wasn’t one of them.
As the silence stretched, Grant cursed himself. He had arrived expecting answers, but he was quickly losing confidence in the man across the table to provide any. He glanced up, searching for some sign of life—some indication that words would begin pouring out any moment, telling Grant how to make it all better. Instead, he found hollow, haunted eyes on a shadow of the man he was just talking to, deep creases in the corners of his eyes.
He remembered what Rott had told him earlier. “It messes with your memories,” Grant silently worded, his chin tucked into his chest. Mr. Fletcher used to say that long-buried memories were like an overpacked closet; you could keep its doors closed for years. You could choose to be blind to its existence every time you walked by, repeating to yourself, ‘Not today.’ On some days, you wouldn’t even remember it being there. But no matter how much time passed, and no matter how much you convinced yourself it was gone, once it burst open, everything would come falling out.
Grant understood the metaphor well. It was a valuable life lesson. Nothing inside a sealed room could hurt you if it couldn’t get out.
The door swung open, and Gunther hobbled in, rolling a cart with food and drinks. Judging from its contents, no expense had been spared. He placed three small glasses on the table, and before lifting the whiskey bottle, his eyes flashed toward his boss in a silent request for confirmation. Mr. Nerelot nodded, and Gunther poured three equal servings of the dark amber liquid before excusing himself.
Dan walked in as Gunther left. “Hey Grant, I didn’t expect—.”
The look on the men’s faces stopped Dan before he could finish his thought.
“What happened?”
Dan’s voice broke his father’s trance.
Mr. Nerelot shook his head. “Close the door.”
