The King's Vault - Chapter 1 - The Offer

There is nothing more satisfying than the sound of metal striking hot metal. The serpent-like hiss as a glowing blade is dipped into the barrel of water to cool. And what are you left with? Art. Pure craftsmanship. Some are better than others. And I am without a rival. No one within one hundred leagues is up to my standards. This is common knowledge. Known by all in Eldham.

Today was a particularly warm day. Despite the heat, it was productive. It had to be. The metal sang and spat and hummed its melodious, squealing tune. The lava’s glow lit the room. Sweat poured from my brow and my forearms ached and burned with each swing of the hammer.

The Castle Quartermaster had placed a rather large order. He’s a demanding old prick. Ex militia man. Honoured servant to the Crown. He takes his job seriously. Almost too seriously. After a few amber mouthfuls he is the first to regale all in earshot of his exploits in past conflicts. How he single handedly saved a farm on the outer reaches of the Royal lands from a band of ‘bloody brigands’. How ladies swooned as he rode past them in the streets. Yeah, the amber liquid that slipped down his throat came out a festering brown.

But nevertheless, this was a grand job. With Royal pay. Crown gold. Certainly not one I’d be turning down any time soon.

I revised the order after hanging the most recent short sword on the rack. The note was hand written. The Quartermaster’s demanding chicken scrawl was as hard to miss as it was to read.

50 short swords

30 long swords

80 iron helms

As many arrowheads as you can make, but no less than 500.

A month of work at the very least. But well worth the gold I was set to be paid. I crossed off the fifth tally for the short swords. Forty-five to go. Before my quill had laid to rest, the door chime rang from the front of the store, dragging my attention away from the mountain that laid before me. I tossed a ladle of smith water over my dripping head and wiped my face with a nearby cloth and tried to remove the ash and soot from my burnt-black hands.

I peered through the curtain, praying to God that The Quartermaster wasn’t paying me a kind visit to check up on my progress. Relief escaped through my teeth when I saw it wasn’t the old codger.

Instead, it was a man who stood at the shopfront. His hands were poised and resting on the oaken desk that sat at the front of my store. He was pale and thin - not thin in a weak sense, more in a wiry, unquestionably and surprisingly strong sense. Draped over his shoulders was a dark cloak, almost the colour of night but for the gentle tinge of olive. It looked pricey. Luxurious, but useful. Certainly a higher quality than my tattered white shirt, that was no longer white, and my stained leather apron. He had cast his face out the window to his left, his eyes surveying the passers-by on the streets.

“Welcome,” I said, expecting him to be a touch startled by my words. “What can I do for you?”

Silence. It filled the air and sat heavy in the shop. He continued his watchful gaze out the store window, surveying the citizens on their merry way, paying absolutely no attention to me. His fingers drummed a rhythm on the table that pricked my eyes with a familiar sense, but one I couldn’t quite grasp. His lean shoulders rolled back and he reached his hand inside his coat pocket.

“If it's an order you’re after, I am afraid the wait for any work will be rather long. I am completely and utterly indisposed for the next month at the very least. And that’s provided my assistant Olan survives his supply run and returns to town on time.”

He shifted his gaze away from the streets and turned towards me. His face was… unsettling. His mouth was a crease upon his face and his lips were a thin cover over the razor sharp teeth within. A thin scar lined the top right corner of his lip and travelled to his cheek, in line with his nose. Nothing major, but definitely noticeable, and it was obvious it had been given to him by a sharp blade. In my honest, expert opinion? A small, yet strong, blade. The knife of a thief, or a lady of the night perhaps.

Despite the scar and his thin lipped crease of a mouth, it was his eyes that were the most unnerving. Slim. Slanted. They seemed to be in a constant squint, like his eyelids were curtains, half open to the world. Behind the half veil were golden flecked hazel irises. Very different. Not often seen.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I was desperate to end the silence.

“No.” His accent sounded local. Though it is hard to tell from one single word with one single, simple syllable. “I’m from a fair way south originally. But I’ve - I’ve been around this area for… some time. More than enough time to have heard your name over and over, and as such, know of your quality. What better advertising than positive word of mouth? So. How would you like to earn a lot of money, with one simple job?” His eyes shone like the molten blade I’d just dipped in the water, filled with heat and fire and held a look that said ‘do not touch.’

“Look, I appreciate that you’ve maybe travelled far to get here. But as I said before, I’m backed up with orders, well one order, that I’ll be pushing myself to fill in the time I said I would.” I paused and bit my lip. “How much are you offering? And what’s the job?”

“Oh that really depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On how involved you want to be,” he smiled, revealing his shark-teeth. His eyes scanned the room and paused just above my head, and nodded at the ceiling. “You make that?”

Above me, the focus on his nodding, was the sword of a long-time ancestor of mine. The first sword forged, shaped, crafted and finished in this very shop. A century old, at least. The hilt was a fine, shimmering gold, engraved with a wreath of thorns engulfed in flame. The blade itself was… remarkable; waving and glistening with a soft cyan tinge. It had only seen battle once, and despite its age, it was as sharp and perfect as the day it was made.

“I wish I could claim that as my own work. It was forged by an ancestor of mine, almost an age ago. The first man in my family to settle here from the North. To make that perilous journey through hostile territory, the mountains, the raiders, the brigands and bandits and ne’er-do-wells who ravage and rampage and rape and steal. Incredible. Then to settle here, and craft that?” I shook my head. “My grandfather, and my father both spent their lives trying to make something as fine as that.”

“Have you tried?”

“Have I tried?” I coughed and sighed. “Yes. I’ve tried. I was near-on forced every day to try in my youth. My father was unrelenting.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How’d you fair? If you’re as good as people say, you must have been close?”

“Aye. I’ve been close. I’ve made some remarkable blades. And I hang my hat on my ability to make a quality blade, worthy of anyone capable of wielding them. My father knew this, which is why he was such a stickler when it came to my work. But I don’t believe I could replicate that. Not the golden hilt. Not the delicate engraving. Not the brilliant blue hue that seems to capture light and liquify it on the steel, as though it is a sword of running water.” He nodded along with my ramblings, caressing his eyes over the blade above me. “Anyway. You didn’t come to hear about my failings as a son and blacksmith. You came here for business. Business, I admit, I am somewhat intrigued by, but may not be inclined to complete for you at this time. How patient can you be? Is it urgent?”

He nodded in reply.

“I knew you’d be a busy man when I came. I didn’t think I’d be waiting a month. And a month is far too long for me to wait. But, the gold you could make from this is more than worth it,” he sighed and smiled and slipped a note onto the desk. “Have a read over this. Then find me.” Before I had the chance to clarify or question or prompt, he flicked his cloak and slipped out the front door. Besides the note, he left the shop whisper-quiet, as though he was a vortex that sucked the air and sound from a room. Even the front bell seemed to hush its chime as he left. I swiped my hand at the yellowed paper:

10,000 gold pieces for a week, or two, of your time. More details to come. Time is imperative. I need an answer soon.

I ran outside after him. Desperation carried on the mist of my warm, greedy breath, and climbed to the grey canopy of clouds above. A soft snow was falling, as Autumn was beginning to turn to Winter. My sauna of a shop kept me guarded from this weather, and with the business of blacksmithing, seasons tended to pass by like days. My eyes darted around the streets, desperate to find him. Black cloaks bobbed up and down the street. People walked to and fro. But none of them had that olive tinge. None had that soft gait that muted sound and froze air. I opened the note once more with trembling hands - whether from the cold or from the words, I couldn’t tell.

The sea of people continued to surge. Black cloaks melded and crumbled into one another, like ocean waves in a storm. I shouldered my way past people, uttering minor apologies under my breath.

“Watch where you’re going.”

“Did you just bump me?”

“Someone’s in a hurry!”

“Slow down you tosser.”

Through the barrage of statements cast my way and the flood of people, I managed to get out into some open air.

The town was a lovely place when it was peaceful. Small, cottage sized buildings lined the main street. It was clean. Tidy. Quiet. Everything a busy, populated town shouldn’t be.

The town itself was divided into four quadrants.

The north-west was the craftsman’s quadrant, where my shop was located, commonly referred to as Artisan's Avenue, or The Ave for short. This was a friendly part of town. The friendliest, I should say. The people who frequented this were kind, gentle, ‘run of the mill’ folk. Neither wanting for much, nor needing anything at all. Hard work was worth more than gold there and valued as such. People all over town valued quality goods and services, and this is where they all came to get it. It was a spacious area, and while it could have done with more greenery, it was a pleasant strip filled with life and all a man needs to live a comfortable, healthy and content life.

The north-east held the royal palace and the aristocratic quadrant, known as Royal Lane. Wealth and luxury weren’t just a necessity to live there, but an absence of modesty was clearly a requirement. The people were… ostentatious, to be polite. They flaunted their wealth in whatever manner they could, and to their credit, it was a rather beautiful sight to see. Beautiful silks were draped and hanging from windows and doors. It was colourful. Vibrant. And the greenery was spectacular. The common people and craftsmen, like myself, will often comment on how the air seems cleaner where they are. Something that is rumoured to be bought and sought by the extravagance of wealth. But I know better. The cleanliness of the air is from the plants and shrubs and trees that flourish and grow in the spring. The beautiful array of colourful flowers that decorate the window sills, doors and gardens. And, most notably, the clear lack of lower class peasants who can’t afford a mouthful of food, let alone a bath.

Which brings me to the next quadrant - the quadrant of the peasants. Or, colloquially termed, the Pigeon’s Nest. There are flocks of people here. All dirty. Most sick. Some deserving of their fate. Others just simply down and out businessmen, or people born into a lack of wealth. The Pigeon’s Nest is situated on the south-west side of town - the furthest possible place from Royal Lane. Dirty children, half clothed, ran rampant through the streets, dodging drunkards, disabled folk and the decrepit. The smell was horrid. The normal welcome to The Pigeon’s Nest was an olfactorius assault of human faecal matter. It is a place that is not frequented by those who don’t live there. And as horrible as I feel for the people there, I make sure I don’t set foot near there more than twice a year.

The fourth and final quadrant is Double ‘G’, which stands for Guards and God. It is where the Guardhouse is located, as well as the beautiful church. It is clean, as you’d expect. Quiet, as it should be. Safe. Secure. And is one of the three major exits out of town, the other two located in The Nest and The Ave.

And at the centre of it all, where all four quadrants convened, was a beautiful fountain. In the middle of the fountain, sat a Royal marble statue, a testament to The Great King Aldric the Wise. The water was always clean, a beautiful turquoise.

This is where I found myself after I had burst through the crowds of The Ave. No mysterious man in sight. No black and slightly tinged olive cloak. No 10,000 gold job. All gone. All vanished.

I sat on the edge of the marble fountain and traced lines and patterns in the still, calm water. The coolness of it on my skin sent the hairs on my arms to attention. And I stared at the gentle ripples that cascaded outwards from my touch.

The walk back was dreary and slow. The snow that had been cascading from the sky as if the clouds had begun to break apart shifted into a stinging sleet that stuck to clothes and skin and stole and sucked and sapped the warmth from the body. A shiver travelled from my neck to my toes as Winter’s breath crawled up and down my skin.

People quickened their pace, eager to get out of the drizzle of ice and rain. My mind was galloping. My thoughts pounded like a thousand hooves in a stampede. And regret vapoured into the air from my breath and climbed to the sky above. It was times like these where Father came to mind.

My father was a tough man. Harsh. Direct. Quick to fire off his thoughts and even quicker with the back of his hand. Equally quick with a soothing word. A calming grasp of the shoulder. Even his presence in the vicinity was enough. For a labourer, skilled with his hands, he had a mighty grasp of language. He knew what to say, when to say it, and how. And it was more often than not a profound thought that bubbled and boiled down to the values he held dear. Values all should hold close. Honesty. Integrity. Honour. To face any challenge with a smile, to look difficulty in the eyes and proclaim your intentions loud and clear. It could be as simple as his common idiom “head up, shoulders back, feet forward,” followed by a firm yet gentle slap on the back. Or it could be poetic and rhythmic and philosophical.

I remember when I first became his apprentice. I was eleven years old. The furnace burned bright; the orange glow cast our shadows on the wall. Mine, half the height of my fathers. His thick chest, broad shoulders and vascular, tense forearms visible in the silhouette that danced and flickered and swayed on the wall. Sweat collected on my brow, almost pooling, ready to slip and drip down my face. My hair was matted and wet. My mind ablaze like the very furnace in front of me. And with this, the connection between my mind and body was faltering. Melting under the intensity of the coals. The scream of metal being struck pierced my ears and it bounced and thumped around my head, blurring my vision and stealing the blood from my brain in a dizzy, light-headed wave of anxious nausea. I held the half finished sword over the anvil, ready to strike once more. Yet my hands disobeyed my swimming mind and instead quivered and tingled. The hammer shook. The orange glow of the hot metal started to dim. Whether that was it cooling or all light and colour was being drained from my eyes, I could not tell. The sword, the anvil, the furnace, the smith, the world all seemed to sway and the colour was sucked from it all. I felt as though I was slipping - falling backwards into the inner reaches of my own thoughts. Until a firm hand grasped my shoulder. And a cool voice whispered in my ear.

“You can do this.”

“I’m trying father. I truly am.”

“I know you are. But do not give up now. You are close.”

I swallowed. Hard. He was right. I’d never come this far before. I’d never been close to finishing anything, let alone a weapon that would be capable in battle. The prior steps had come and gone and I had managed everything up until this point. Quicker than normal. More accurate than any time past. Cleaner.

“Breathe,” he said, again whispering, having left his blade to cool. “It all begins with one strike of the hammer. Go on. Just one strike.”

Inhaling and exhaling, I raised the quaking hammer above my head, and brought it down with a meagre force. The steel whispered a brief tune.

“Good. But that is far too soft. You must go harder. You are in control. Let the metal shout. One more strike. Go!”

The hammer shook a touch softer. The air seemed to cool. The colour seemed to seep back into the room. And I brought down the hammer with enough force to push the wind out of my lungs and expunge a grunt from my throat. Hammer struck metal. And metal sang. A beautiful, high pitched ring that bounced not through my mind and thoughts, but off the walls and echoed in the room.

“Very good son. Now, one more strike.”

Hammer up. Hammer down. Hammer on metal. Metal sings.

“Good. Again.”

Up. Down. Hammer. Metal. Sing.

“And again.”

Up, down. Hammer, metal. Sing.

“Now, with some tempo. Continuous strikes are good. But remember, it all boils down to one simple rule. One simple step: One strike at a time.”

“One strike at a time,” I breathed and parroted in reply.

Hammer, metal, sing. Hammer. Metal. Sing. Rinse and repeat. The metal chorused its tune. The tempo, the melody, the orchestral development of the metal grew to a beautiful overture. Colour and sound intermingled and the normalcy of the smith and the world came back. And once again, that firm grip gripped my shoulder and my eyes met a great, wide smile on his face. His teeth oozed one word. Pride.

“Great work, son. Truly. Great work,” The bell at the front of the shop rang, adding its own, final notes to sign off the ensemble that had just been played. “You know what to do next. Place it back on the heat. Get it red. Then let it cool in the room.”

I nodded, and placed the sword back on the heat, watching as the glow began to return to the blade. Father’s voice was low and soft from the front desk. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, and the voice that replied was unfamiliar and louder than father’s.

I turned the blade over, allowing the other side some time on the coals, when the unfamiliar man’s voice grew and shouted.

“You are a liar. A coward. You told me the work would be completed today.” A violent crash of metal and wood echoed through the store and forge. The metal didn’t sing. It yelled and cried and shouted, as though in pain. Again, my father’s voice was low, calming.

Pulling the glowing blade out of the furnace, I laid it on the cooling rack. Grabbing a towel, as I’d seen father do, I walked through the drape that separated the store front from the forge, cleaning the grease and ash from my hands, catching half of the conversation.

“- repeating again, sir, I had advised that your order would be ready later this week, not today. You simply have your dates mixed up.”

“Do not tell me what I have and haven’t mixed up. I know what I heard. I know what you said.”

My father, with a gentle and steady hand, reached from behind the desk, and pulled out a stack of thin papers. Flicking through the papers, he slipped one out, and began to read:

“Mr. L Shaw. Three axe heads. No pommels. Two blades, 30 inches. Two short blades, 15 inches. Date of order, October 14. Date of promise, October 30. Today, Mr Shaw, is October 25. I am yet to finish the two shorter blades you have ordered, but I know they will be done by the date of promise. The axe heads will continue to be oiled so they function well for your needs. The two 30 inch blades are in the process of being crafted as we speak.”

“Give me that,” he scoffed, snatching the receipt from my father’s hands. “Bah. I know what I heard. I know what you said.” The man glanced at me and scrunched the receipt and threw it at my feet. His eyes were fiery and viscous and wide. His face was blood red and small veins bulged and convulsed under the skin of his neck and face. The hairs on his lip twitched. Hands balled into fists. “Ah, I see what has taken so long now. You’ve had your whelp, this runt working the forge for you, eh? Can’t lift a hammer yourself?” He made a step towards me. His hands stilled curled tight into fists. Father stepped between us. His torso looked even larger than before. The muscles in his forearms swelled and his fingers curled and closed and opened and flexed.

“I’ll mind you not to come into my workplace and disrespect my name, my business, and my family. Please leave. I’ll send for you when your order is complete.”

“Complete?” The man stared wildly into my father’s eyes. “It should be complete. It should have been done to-day.” And with this, his fist was thrown at my father. With a calm hand, he caught the fist, turned the man around and marched him to the front door, pinning his arm to his back.

“I’ve been gentle and patient with you, Mr Shaw. You will get your order on the promised time. But now it is time for you to leave.” And with a firm push, he shoved the wild man out of the shop and closed the door. Father walked over to me, squatted down, and placed both hands on my shoulders. It was clear he could see the gentle shake in my curled fists.

“Son, you need to stay strong. Stand tall. Stand with reverence. Be serious and stark and ascetic. Ally yourself with justice, kindness and compassion. Do your duty, do it well, and do it with will. Fight to be the person you not only should be, but the person you want to be. Never back down from what you know is right. Stick to your word, as your word will stick to you.” He smiled, but behind his eyes there seemed to be a struggle. A fire burning that he was desperate to put out. “Now come. We have work to finish, or else Mr Shaw will have a real reason to act in the way he just did now.”

Memories are funny and fickle. Deep memory, the kind you lose yourself in, daydreaming, visualising, becoming present in the past, can remove you and your physical being from reality. It was such for me. I’d found myself now at a place my father frequented. A slice of nature removed from the city. Accessed via a small breakage in the city walls from a previous and ancient war. And leaving the man-made city, the walls, the people, the rows and rows of houses, the noise and smell and high energy, stepping into this sanctuary was like floating in the ocean on your back. It’s just you, the sky, and the sea. Nature.

Here, it was picturesque. Untamed trees and natural foliage lined the outskirts of the clearing. A canopy of leaves above kept the ground cool and moist. In the summer months, the sun broke through in gaps, and the shade was a welcome feeling from the heat of the city road and the swarms of bustling and jostling bodies. Now, the leaves were a barrier for the soft rain. Gentle drops trickled through and tasted of eucalyptus and beech. Tangy and sweet. In spring, the bushes that lined the edges would be vibrant. An artist would be overwhelmed with the diversity of shade and colour. Despite the current limbo of Autumn and Winter, they still retained their beauty.

At the centre of it all, was a pond. It too was lined with flowering bushes. A gentle trickling waterfall filled the pond, and the overflow slipped between the natural rock formation that could have been handcrafted by God, and slid through the cracks of the stones to the floor.

It was here I’d found myself. Wandering listless through the streets. Crawling through the gap in the wall. Parting the curtain of vines and leaves. Stepping my way through damp grass. Breathing in the flowers. And rain. And beech and eucalypt. Sitting at the pond. Tracing lines in the water. Causing ripple after ripple to bend and leave my fingers. It was here I came too, freed from the memory of my father. With tears falling like the waterfall that showered to my right. Overflowing from my pond eyes. Slipping and sliding between the wrinkled cracks of my stony face. And forming symmetrical ripples to my fingers.

The mind is an amazing concept. And the memories that reveal themselves are often a required guide to aid in the present. Issues that need attention can often be solved through this. And the memory that presented itself to me left me with a clear answer to the question I had on my mind. Do I take the money and shirk the responsibility of honouring the job I’d already accepted? Do I sully my name, and honour and reputation, and the reputation of my father and his father before him, for a one time payment from a stranger, who, despite being intriguing, is no one to me?

And I left the pond. Back through the curtain of vines to reality. With my mind made up and my honour intact. And able to face the memory of my father with pride and respect, knowing I’d followed in his footsteps and stayed true to my word. For words are power and a man is only as strong as the words he utters as promises.