A. Searle - The King's sword

As Ronan lifted the finished sword, light from the small window in his workshop bounced along the smooth white blade. Made entirely of rare Hadenla metal that was only mined from the peaks of the Genelle Mountains, the weapon was a masterpiece of fluent lines and simple elegance. Ronan smiled with satisfaction as he turned the blade against his calloused hands in appreciation of his hard work. He’d done well.

He’d been chosen to make the King’s Sword months ago for the newly named king. The assignment had come as a surprise to him. While he was confident in his skill level as a blacksmith, he’d not realized that word of his work had travelled as far as Merisgale. The guard that had delivered the unique metal and the summons of work told him that the young king had requested Ronan by name. It had filled him with pride of having his work acknowledged by a wizard king.

“Master Culley?” Young Arien’s cracking voice caused Ronan to wince from his thoughts. Wishing desperately that the plague of puberty would have pity on his ears, Ronan turned to face the boy he’d hired on only a few months prior.

The boy had been half starved under a filthy mop of blond hair when Ronan had found him sleeping in the hay of his stable. When the boy awoke, he’d been afraid and Ronan couldn’t blame him. All the Culley men were large. Ronan was no different. He stood average height but his broad shoulders and deep chest made many take a step back. Those that didn’t were of the few that saw Ronan’s true non violent nature.

He’d given Arien food and had found out easily enough that he’d been orphaned for several years. No home. No family. And Ronan hadn’t the heart to send him away. Instead he washed him up, gave his hair an even trim, and put him into some clean clothes.

Ronan needed no apprentice but offered the boy a chance to learn a skill that would earn him food and a bed for a couple of years. Arien had burst into tears, promising Ronan that he wouldn’t disappoint him. Ronan could not accuse the boy of lying for he learned quickly and did the work of three boys with never a complaint.

Ronan couldn’t deny that he liked having the boy around. Unmarried and living alone was fine with the thirty-six year old blacksmith but since Arien had joined him, he found he looked forward to the company and conversations they shared at mealtimes. Granted Arien did most of the talking while Ronan mostly listened, but it made life less lonely with someone there.

“What is it?” Ronan asked when the boy stepped through the doorway and into the workshop.

Arien’s gaze rested on the King’s Sword. “It is beautiful, Master Culley. I hope to have so much skill one day,” the apprentice said softly, admiration filling his words.

Ronan’s attention dropped to the weapon he held. Carefully, he laid the sword on the leather hide and wrapped it again, feeling a bit embarrassed to be caught admiring his own handiwork for the second time since he’d finished the assignment.

“Do you need something?” Ronan prompted as he placed the wrapped weapon on the table.

Arien nodded and held out the small dagger he’d finished that morning. It was his first project completed without supervision. Ronan took the blade and turned it in his palm. Fairly smooth lines, no rough edges, and the hilt wrapped tightly. He scratched at his beard thoughtfully.

“Well, done. The blade is as good as any I’ve ever seen. Lot Greer will be pleased,” Ronan said after several moments of inspecting the weapon closely. He offered a nod and handed the dagger back to Arien. The boy beamed with pride.

“If I don’t keep you under my eye, you might steal all of my business right out from under me,” Ronan added just to give the boy an extra boost.

It hadn’t been difficult to guess that Ronan’s approval meant a lot to Arien, so he tried to compliment his young apprentice whenever he could. It was awkward for him at first, since he had no experience in encouraging anyone, let alone a youth. But it had grown easier over the months. And every compliment was an honest one.

“If I can be only half as skilled as you, Master Culley, I shall be happy.” Arien sighed wistfully. “I almost hate that they will take it away. It should be yours to keep.” He touched the edge of the leather wrap that held the sword, obviously both curious and afraid of the weapon.

Ronan turned away quickly so that Arien wouldn’t see the selfish longing to hold on to the sword in his own expression. “They are to arrive this morning to take the sword and I shall start something new.”

“Something I can help with?” Arien asked eagerly and Ronan smiled without looking back at the boy. He could not help but to enjoy Arien’s enthusiasm. It was what he had come to enjoy; having someone love the work as much as he did.

“Perhaps.” He nodded. “I think you are ready for something larger than daggers and kitchen knives.” A shadow fell over the room, blocking out the sun. Ronan turned to find a man wearing royal colors standing in the doorway.

“Good day to you, sir,” Ronan greeted but the man only slumped sideways. It was then that Ronan noticed the large crimson stain that covered the royal guard’s left side.

“Master Culley,” Arien whispered, his blue eyes rounding in the same instant that Ronan also realized the man was injured.

“Go for a healer…in town…hurry.” Ronan moved forward to slide a strong shoulder beneath the man’s arm and half drag him back outside and toward the house. One glance over his shoulder and he was relieved to find Arien racing toward the road as he was told.

“Hold on. The boy will bring someone to help you,” Ronan offered when the man groaned with pain.

“Ambushed,” the man murmured as Ronan got him inside and on a bed. “The others…dead.” Ronan’s hands worked quickly to pull away the fabric of the man’s clothes so he could assess the wound. It was deep…too deep for Ronan to do anything to help the stranger. Still he reached for the pitcher of water he kept at his bedside.

“The sword must be delivered.”

Ronan nodded at the man’s words, though he was only half listening as he wiped down the gash and pressed cloth against it in an effort to stop the flow of blood. So this was one of the guards who were to retrieve the sword. Ronan had suspected so from the clothes he wore. There was supposed to be nine of them. But they were dead and this one was hurrying to join them in their dark sleep.

“It is…” the guard coughed, fingers fisting in Ronan’s shirt and pulling the blacksmith closer. “It is up to you…to deliver the…” Ronan stared as the guard’s entire body shuddered, then relaxed. He was gone.

Ronan swallowed hard. He reached up and removed the man’s fingers from his shirt. Once freed from the hand that held him, Ronan took a step backward.

“Move aside,” a voice commanded from behind him and Ronan turned to find Arien with an old woman who looked more witch than healer. She was a short, stump of a woman with thin shoulders and arms set on a very round body. Her hair was gray, almost white, and her skin looked like leather, too long exposed to the raw elements. She carried an odd smell about her that reminded Ronan of lavender mixed with something rotten.

Arien shrugged when Ronan raised a brow. “She was at the road.”

The woman pushed Ronan out of the way when he didn’t move, surprising him with the strength that came from her old body.

He looked down at his hands and the guard’s blood glared back at him. He swallowed again. He had little experience with death, though he knew that many of the weapons he made were used to bring about just that. Still, murder was something new to him and filled him with uneasiness.