Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

But the door could not stay shut forever.

It opened, letting the sunlight from outside wash the interior of the forge and breach its sanctity. Nobul paused, hammer raised, as, with the opening of the door, the magic of the song was lost.

Two men entered; big men, burly men. Both taller than Nobul, with thick necks and shaved heads, but they were not lean like him, not hard, not wrought of iron sinew as he was. Nevertheless, Nobul placed his hammer down gently, and with a leather-gloved hand shoved the glowing steel back into the coals of the fire.

One man walked forward as the other closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the street. The first smiled, confident, his head slightly cocked to one side.

‘Hello again, Nobul,’ he said, in a deep, arrogant voice. ‘You know the drill.’

Nobul did not speak; he did not have to. Instead he moved to the back of the forge to the worktable that sat against the wall. It was scattered with cross-guards and pommel heads, some ornate and made from bronze or silver, others simpler, crafted from polished iron or other base metals. Whatever the material, they were all of the highest quality; Nobul never made second-rate gear. He was a craftsman: though his wares varied in price they were all finished with meticulous care.

A layman might have considered the table a mess, but Nobul knew where everything was, everything kept in its proper place. He reached for a small leather pouch secured by a drawstring. Still silent, he walked back across the forge and placed the pouch in the big man’s upturned palm. The brute smiled, weighing it in his hand and jingling the contents before untying the drawstring and glancing within.

‘Feels a little light. Do I have to count it?’

‘It’s all there,’ Nobul replied. There was no fear in his voice. These men didn’t inspire fear in him as they did in others. Nobul was too proud to be scared. He’d gone through too much to be afraid of men such as these, despite their size. Despite their reputation.

‘I’m sure it is,’ said the man, smiling again as he secured the drawstring and secreted the pouch within his jacket. ‘How’s business anyway? Good, I’ll bet. You must have more work than you can manage, what with the war coming.’

‘Business is fine,’ Nobul answered.

‘Come now, Nobul. It’s more than fine, we both know that. The Guild keeps abreast of these things. We’re always watching, even if you can’t see us. Weapons and armour for the soldiers at the front are in high demand, especially from a smith of your … talent. And a man of your talent needs protecting, needs looking after. You never know when an agent of the Khurtas might come knocking, might want to do you harm to sabotage the war effort. That’s why we’ll be taking extra special care of you over the coming months. And consequently this extra care will cost a premium.’

Nobul didn’t answer; there was little point. He paid his protection money to be left alone, not to be looked after.

With a nod, the big man turned. His burly friend opened the door, allowing the clangour in once more. ‘Be seeing you,’ said the brute, with a smile; then they were gone, letting the door slam shut behind them.

Nobul clenched his fists, feeling helpless, full of rage. Truth was he had received a big commission from the Crown, but he was only one man and he couldn’t afford an apprentice. His son was too young to work the forge, and this backbreaking work wasn’t something he wanted for the boy anyway. It was hard, dirty work, for hard, dirty men, and Markus was not suited to it. Though Nobul had raised him as best he could, their relationship was far from ideal. The last thing Nobul wanted was to make him work the forge and drive an even deeper wedge between them.

Yet what choice did he have? If he hadn’t got to pay back his loan for the forge, together with his stipend to the Guild for their ‘services’, he might have been able to get ahead. But if he now had to pay out even more, how could he keep a roof over his head and feed himself, let alone Markus?

Standing around lamenting wasn’t going to solve the problem. Nobul pulled the glove back onto his hand and picked up his hammer.

It was dark when he finally left the forge and ventured out into the cool of the street. Several people were busying themselves hanging banners and bunting for the Feast of Arlor, but Nobul wasn’t interested in any of that. What was the point?

He closed the heavy door behind him, turning the large iron keys in their mortise locks at the top and bottom of the door before taking the short walk to the small house he and Markus called home. Though the tiny space was cramped with the furniture they owned, it still felt empty without her there. He looked towards the hearth where she would have been … should have been sitting, but the chair was empty. The fire was lit though, and above it bubbled a pot of broth which filled the room with a rich smell that made his stomach rumble with approval.

‘Markus?’ Nobul called. He was answered by a clattering upstairs from their shared bedchamber, followed by his son’s muffled answer. The boy came down the stairs as quick as he could at his father’s call, stumbling halfway down. He was a clumsy child, gangly, thin, weak at the shoulders. Something inside Nobul resented him for that. If Nobul had been able to forge his son as he could forge weapons and armour, Markus would indeed have been a formidable child. It hadn’t worked out that way.

‘Father,’ Markus said, reaching the bottom of the stairs, and attempting to compose himself.

‘Asleep again?’ Nobul said, not expecting an answer. Markus only ever seemed happy when he was napping, only seemed to smile in his sleep. It was a laziness that Nobul should have beaten out of him. It was time Markus learned some of his father’s hard work ethic, but beating him never seemed to work. It certainly hadn’t toughened him up, and Nobul was loath to continue on that path. It might eventually drive his son away altogether, and Nobul had lost enough.

‘Lay the table,’ Nobul ordered as he kicked off his boots and sat by the fire.

‘I made the broth,’ Markus said, placing wooden trenchers on the table and laying out the spoons.

‘Yes, I can see that.’

‘And I went and got the bread like you asked. Baker said he was doing a deal on the soft kind, the stuff with no grainy bits in, so I got that.’

Nobul frowned. ‘Markus, how many times? The soft kind doesn’t last; it’ll be stale in a day. We need a loaf to last the week. I’m not made of-’ He stopped himself. It would do no good. Markus didn’t seem to pay heed to any chastisement; he just retreated further into himself.

Nobul lifted the lid of the stew pot, and picked up the wooden spoon that sat by the hearth. Then he stopped — the pot was filled to the brim. It looked like Markus had used their entire stock of meat and vegetables for the month.

‘What’s this?’ he demanded. Markus froze by the dinner table, transfixed. ‘When will you think, boy? Our food has to last. If you cook it all in one stew it’ll be bad in a few days.’

His son’s eyes began to well with tears, and Nobul suddenly found himself twisting the wooden spoon in his hands like a damp dishcloth. He must keep his temper, stay ahead, not let the daemons within rise up.

‘Never mind. We’ll just have to make do.’

They sat down to eat in silence, as always. No grace was said, no thanks to the gods. Why bother? It wasn’t them had paid for the food, it wasn’t them had cooked it.

Nobul was ravenous but he took his time, savouring the meat and the taste of the fresh bread. He had to give his son something — he could certainly cook a decent broth. Markus, however, gobbled his stew down faster than Nobul had ever seen him. Steam was coming from his mouth, and his cheeks were reddening with the heat; it was obviously burning as it went down, but the boy seemed heedless of the pain.