Smithy - Main Page

Smithy

(Working Title)

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Summary Description to be Added Later

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2 

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Smithy - Chap 4

    “Thank you again for breakfast” Ailla said with that same soft smile that she always wore around him.

    Tristan smiled in return and nodded. He took both of their dishes away and set them aside before settling again at the table. His chest still felt tight and occasionally the room started to spin a little, but he felt vastly better than the night before.

    “So, I know that you probably don’t want to think about it…” she said, trailing off. “But, what are you going to do about Whitecrest?”

    He’d been dwelling on it and he wasn’t sure either.

    “I don’t know. That sword I was working on. It has to be done. Some great, shining lordling came by last week to commission it. Apparently he’d traveled all the way from Frothing Rock just to find Hagon and request the blade.”

    “I need to finish it.” He said, his voice lacking any of the conviction he’d hoped to muster.

    “Tristan.” Ailla said with a worried tone. “Please. You have to talk to Hagon. I’m sure he won’t have a problem if it meant you were going to get help.”

    “I can’t.” he rebutted, his voice cracking a bit. “If it’s not done when that lordling gets back then we’ll probably never resell it. We’d be so far in the hole that…”

    Tristan tried to think of a comparison, but couldn’t come up with one. The truth was, Hagon made enough gold that the lost commission would certainly hurt, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Yet, for some reason, he felt like if he abandoned the blade, it would be something he could never forgive himself for.

    “Then let Hagon finish it. It’s not like they came all the way to Oak’s Grove for the great and mighty Tristan Casterlan.”

    He winced at the sound of his last name and felt a burning in his chest again. She was right. It’s not like the lordling cared that he was even alive. He had sought out Hagon, not Hagon’s apprentice. His work equated to nothing when his name wasn’t on the woodwork.

    “Oh, Tristan.” Ailla reached out to softly touch his fingertips. “I know. I’m sorry. I forgot that you don’t like to be called that.”

    He shook his head. “It’s not that.”

    They sat in bated silence for what seemed to be an eternity. Ailla never seemed to stop watching him while he, instead, was more focused on mentally tracing the woodwork of the table. All the while, berating himself for thinking he mattered in the equation at all.

    Finally, Ailla broke the silence.

    “Come on, let’s go find Hagon. We’ll get it all worked out and then I’ll help you pack for the trip.”

    Tristan finally looked up to her again, a smile finally tracing his lips.

    “Alright.” He said with a nod. “And Ailla?”

    “Hmm?”

    “Thank you.”

    Ailla responded with a wink and, a moment later, they were setting the table and making their way outside.

    They found Hagon exactly where Tristan expected him to be. Seated in front of his anvil, hammer in hand, pounding on a chunk of metal. In a heartbeat, however, Tristan felt his chest tightening again and the room closing in when he saw what he was actually working on.

    Hagon was putting the final touches on the lordling’s sword.

    “Boy.” Hagon said evenly, his deep voice reaching them despite the roar of the forge.

    “Hagon.” Tristan responded, his head unconsciously bowing. It was an old habit that was hard to break.

    “Hagon.” Ailla chimed in from his side. “Tristan has something he’d like to talk to you about.”

    He and Ailla traded sidelong glances and she gave him a reassuring nod and a smile before motioning for him to step towards the anvil. Hagon set down blade and hammer and watched them carefully with his deep black eyes.

    “Hagon.” Tristan repeated, feeling like a lump was in his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about going to Whitecrest.”

    There was no response, but Tristan had known the old man long enough to need no prompting to continue. He was listening.

    “After last night, you’ve both mentioned it to me and…well, you’re right. I just…just…I just don’t know what to do because I’m supposed to finish the sword and then there’s the other orders that are piling up and…”

    He was talking faster than he meant to and his voice was getting higher the faster he went. He stopped when he realized he was breathing hard just from talking.

    “Boy. Are you daft?” Hagon said simply.

    “Sir?”

    “I told you to go, but you’re asking permission.”

    “Uh…” Tristan sighed as he realized what he was getting at. “Yessir.”

    “I told you to go. That means go. I got along fine enough without ye. I’ll last a few days more.”

    Ailla smile brightened and she practically hopped a little.

    “See?” she said. “And you were worried.”

    She was right, of course. Tristan couldn’t get his head around why he was worried. Yes, it was work, but it wasn’t like he was trying to skip out. He was ill.

    He nodded again. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

    “You’ll take as long as ye need to get better, boy. Now go.” Hagon said, motioning with the hammer. “Tell me before you leave.”

    Nothing else was said as Tristan and Ailla slipped out of the smithy. He could hear Hagon return to pounding on the new sword and Ailla was alight with excitement and chatter. Yet, Tristan didn’t feel excited. If anything, he felt like he might throw up.

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Smithy - Chap. 2

    Tristan could hear something. His name? No, it had to be the sound of his heart. His heart was so loud! He was dying. He had to be dying, if he wasn’t dead already. The world was already black, it was only a matter of time til the beating stopped and then…

    “TRISTAN!”

    His eyes snapped open with a start to see Hagon kneeling over him. The sight of his mentor reassured him, but his breathing was coming in rapid gasps. Surely his heart would give out any moment. It was only a matter of time.

    “Easy, boy. Easy.” Hagon said, cupping his hand under the back of Tristan’s head. “Breathe slower.”

    The world around him was spinning, blackness playing on the edges of his vision.

    “I…I…I ca-ca-ca-…”

    “Yes, you can, boy. Close your eyes and hold your breath. You know that’s helped before.”

    “N-n-n-“

    Hagon’s hand came across his face with enough force that Tristan was shocked he didn’t black out again. He felt his chest tighten threateningly and a shock jolted through his body, but nothing came of it.

    “Don’t tell me ‘no’. Now hold your breath, boy. Then breathe deep!”

    Tristan felt his chest convulsing and his breathing becoming even more erratic as he thought about holding his breath. He was probably speeding up his own demise. What if he didn’t take another breath? What if he killed himself trying to…

    Another slap, this time even harder.

    Tristan almost sobbed as he sucked on the air. His hands and feet were tingling as if a thousand needles were playing across his skin. They were cold and clammy, soaked with sweat. Mustering all his might, he drew in a breath and held it.

    “Good. Long as you can and then slow back out.” Hagon said, his voice softening.

    Tristan coughed and sputtered after a second, choking on the very air his body screamed for. But he did it again, this time with a bit more control. A little slower. A little deeper. Hagon said nothing more as he watched.

    Each breath was better. The deep breaths made his head spin even worse, but they made the tingling in his hands stop and his heart too began to slow in his chest. Minutes dropped away as Tristan tried his best just to focus on controlling his breathing.

    After a long while, the feeling of dread started to fade.

    “You alright?” Hagon asked finally, staring down at him with concern in his eyes.

    “I-I…Yea…” Tristan said with a weak nod, his mind still focused on trying to control his breath.

    “That’s the third one this week.” Hagon said matter of factly. “They’re getting worse.”

    Tristan nodded again but said nothing.

    For the last few months, Tristan had been struck by ‘attacks’ as they called them. Without real warning, he would be gripped by unprovoked terror. They struck hard and fast and were absolutely debilitating, leaving Tristan gasping for air and feeling like his heart was going to explode. Some were longer than others, but they always passed leaving him feeling exhausted but no real worse for wear.

    The first time it had happened, Hagon had thought that his apprentice was dying. Now, he more readily recognized what was happening even when Tristan couldn’t. Often, it was Hagon who helped to bring Tristan’s mind back from the brink of fear and madness.

    Like many times before, Hagon pulled him up out of the mud that was forming beneath his sweat soaked body.

    “We need to do something about this, boy. We’ve already tried the village doctor. You need to travel to Whitecrest. They’ve got specialists. Magisters.”

    Tristan couldn’t bring himself to look at Hagon but nodded in agreement. They’d had the conversation more times than he could count since he had gone to the village doctor three months ago. The doctor could find no reason for the attacks, implying perhaps that Tristan had been cursed or angered some magical being since he showed no sign of severe injury or disease. The response had rightfully angered them both, but Tristan had never had the will to keep searching for an answer.

    “I know.” Tristan said weakly, his voice shaking and quiet.

    Hagon stared at him for a long time. It only made Tristan feel more weak and small in comparison to his mentor’s hard gaze and imposing figure in the darkness.

    “Tomorrow. For now, bed.”

    Tristan didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength. Instead, he trudged his way inside with Hagon in tow to make sure he didn’t collapse again. Once he was safely to the little room he called his own, Tristan fell to his bed and closed his eyes. He was still focusing on controlling his breathing when he passed into an uneasy and restless sleep.

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Smithy - Chap 1

 

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    Clang!

    Clang!

    Clang!

    Tristan’s hammer came down on the hot metal with a flash of sparks. Each hit gave it a bit more shape, a bit more life. With each strike, it started to resemble the sword he had imagined versus the chunk of near-molten metal he had drawn from the mold.

    Clang!

    Clang!

    Less sparks. Less give. The metal was cooling too fast. He needed to finish before it got any worse. He’d already reheated and refolded the metal so many times. If he didn’t work it just right...

    Kt-cl-Bang!

    No sparks. Just metal on metal. The hammer ricocheted off the cooling steel. With a sigh, he tossed the unfinished sword into the barrel of water next to him and left it there. He couldn’t work on the damned thing anymore tonight.

    The shop around him was empty. It was well past midnight and everyone in town had probably retired hours earlier. Even old Hagon, who always found some reason to stick around when Tristan was working, had finally gone to bed after hours of waiting. Tristan himself should have given up long before, but he just couldn’t let himself go. Not until the blade was just right.

    But it wasn’t right.

    He had been toiling away for hours. Heating and reheating, hammering away and grinding away bits here and there. It just wasn’t right.

    Why couldn’t he get it right?

    Tristan gripped his hammer tighter. He desperately just wanted to throw it. Somewhere. Anywhere! He wanted to scream and break things. To just throw up his arms and curse the gods that invented the very concept of blacksmithing and whatever piece of shit lord that requested the damndable piece of metal that was giving him so much trouble.

    But he didn’t.

    He wouldn’t let himself.

    It wasn’t his shop to throw things. Not his tool to break.

    He set down the hammer and stepped outside. The air was cool and brisk. It felt good. He was soaked in sweat and his shirt was dripping wet and covered in grease and metal shavings. It clung to him in the chill night.

    “Boy…” said a familiar, gravelly voice from the darkness of the house nearby.

    “Hagon. I thought you were asleep.”

    Hagon didn’t bother to respond. He stepped from the shadows of the house and into the weak light streaming from the open door of the shop. The mountain of a man was covered in scars and burns that were hard to make out in the dim light, but his shock of short white hair stood out like a beacon. His one good eye glowered at Tristan in the darkness.

    “Why are you still working, boy?”

    Tristan turned back to look at the open door to the shop. Why was he still awake? Why was he so focused on finishing that damned sword?

    He felt like his mind was racing yet little of it was a coherent thought. It was all just noise. A loudness in his mind that wouldn’t ebb. That made no sense and only worsened as he focused on it. His hands were trembling and his palms felt cold and clammy, like they’d been dipped in ice water.

    “I can’t get it right, Hagon.” He said, his voice cracking.

    Hagon stared at him quietly. Waiting. He was always waiting for something more.

    Tristan felt the anger and frustration boiling up inside him. Felt fresh sweat accumulating on his brow. He felt his heart start to hammer like he was running. Running for his life. Why was it pounding so hard? Pins and needles began to run down his fingertips and up his legs.

    “Every time I try, I mess it up.” Tristan said weakly, his eyes locked on the shop. “I keep messing it up.” He didn’t dare to look at Hagon. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!

    “Why?”

    Tristan felt like a hand was tightening around his throat. Like the weight of the question and his own incompetence were strangling him. He could feel his heart beating even harder and he found himself struggling to breathe through the pounding.

    “I DON’T KNOW!” Tristan snapped, trying to catch his breath.

    All at once, he felt as if his heart was trying to rip itself from his chest. He was gasping for air and he felt like the world was spinning around him. Tristan closed his eyes. It was all he could do to keep the world upright.

    All the while, Hagon watched him quietly.

    Finally, without saying a word, Hagon stepped into the workshop. He doused the flames and extinguished the candles. A few moments later, he stepped back out and pulled the doors shut, locking them as he did.

    “Enough.” He said gruffly. “Off to bed with you.”

    The words made no sense. Tristan found himself just staring at Hagon. Could he not see what was happening to him? Did he not care? Help me! He screamed inside. Make it stop! Why won’t you make it stop?! I’M DYING OLD MAN!

    Despite all this, no words came out.

    “Boy?” he asked, with just the slightest hint of concern.

    All at once, the world went black and Tristan felt his knees begin to buckle under him. The last thing he heard sounded like Hagon screaming his name.

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