A tall, thin man with a short beard, perhaps in his forties, face blackened from soot, wiped his hands on his apron and approached. He nodded at Marco’s friends with a look of respect, and they nodded back.
“Fervil,” Marco said.
Fervil turned and saw Marco, and his face lit up. He stepped forward and embraced him.
“I thought you’d gone to The Flames,” he said.
Marco grinned back.
“Not anymore,” he replied.
“You boys ready to work?” he added. Then he looked over at Alec. “And who do we have here?”
“My friend,” Marco replied. “Alec. A fine smith, and eager to join our cause.”
“Is he now?” Fervil asked skeptically.
He surveyed Alec with harsh eyes, looking him up and down as if he were useless.
“I doubt that,” he replied, “from the looks of him. Looks awful young to me. But we can put him to work collecting our scraps. Take this,” he said, reaching over and handing Alec a bucket full of metal scrap. “I’ll let you know if I need more from you.”
Alec reddened, indignant. He did not know why this man had taken such a dislike to him – perhaps he was threatened. He could sense the forge grow quiet, could sense the other boys watching. In many ways, this man reminded him of his father, and that only increased Alec’s anger.
Still, he fumed inside, no longer willing, since the death of his family, to tolerate anything he had before.
As the others turned to walk away, Alec dropped the bucket of metal and it clanged loudly on the stone floor. The others all turned around, stunned, and the forge grew quiet, as the other boys stopped to watch the confrontation.
“Get the hell out of my shop!” Fervil snarled.
Alec ignored him; instead, he stepped past him, to the closest table, picked up a long sword, held it out straight, and examined it.
“This your handiwork?” Alec asked.
“And who are you to be asking questions of me?” Fervil demanded.
“Is it?” Marco pressed, sticking up for his friend.
“It is,” Fervil answered defensively.
Alec nodded.
“It’s junk,” he concluded.
There came a gasp in the room.
Fervil stood to his full height and scowled back, livid.
“You boys can leave now,” he snarled. “All of you. I have enough smiths in here.”
Alec stood his ground.
“And none worth a damn,” he countered.
Fervil turned red and stepped forward threateningly, and Marco put a hand between them.
“We’ll leave,” Marco said.
Alec suddenly lowered the sword’s tip to the ground, raised his foot high, and with one clean kick, shattered it in two.
Shards flew everywhere, stunning the room.
“Should a good sword do that?” Alec asked with a wry smile.
Fervil shouted and charged Alec – and as he neared, Alec held out the jagged end of the broken blade, and Fervil stopped in his tracks.
The other boys, seeing the confrontation, drew swords and rushed forward to defend Fervil, while Marco and his friends drew theirs around Alec. All the boys stood there, facing off with each other in a tense standoff.
“What are you doing?” Marco asked Alec. “We all share the same cause. This is madness.”
“And that is why I cannot let them fight with junk,” Alec replied.
Alec threw down the broken sword, reached over, and slowly drew a long sword from his belt.
“Here is my handiwork,” Alec said loudly. “I crafted it myself in my father’s forge. A finer work you will never find.”
Alec suddenly turned the sword, grabbed the blade, and held it out, hilt first, to Fervil.
In the tense silence, Fervil looked down, clearly not expecting this. He snatched the hilt, leaving Alec defenseless, and for a moment he seemed to contemplate stabbing Alec with it.
Yet Alec stood there proudly, unafraid.
Slowly, Fervil’s face softened, clearly realizing Alec had left himself defenseless, and looking at him with more respect. He looked down and examined the sword. He weighed it in his hand and held it up to the light, and finally, after a long time, he looked back at Alec, impressed.
“Your work?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.
Alec nodded.
“And I can forge many more,” he replied.
He stepped forward and looked at Fervil, intensity in his eyes.
“I want to kill Pandesians,” Alec replied. “And I want to do it with real weapons.”
A long, thick silence lingered over the room, until finally Fervil slowly shook his head and smiled.
He lowered the sword and held out an arm, and Alec clasped it. Slowly, all the boys lowered their weapons.
“I suppose,” Fervil said, his grin broadening, “we can find a spot for you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aidan trekked down the lonely forest road, as far from anywhere as he’d ever been, feeling utterly alone in the world. If it were not for his Wood Dog beside him he would be forlorn, hopeless; but White gave him strength, even as grievously wounded as he was, as Aidan ran his hand along his short, white fur. They both limped, each wounded from their encounters with that savage cart driver, every step they took painful as the sky grew dark. With each limping step Aidan took, he vowed that if he ever laid eyes on that man again, he’d kill him with his own hands.
White whined beside him, and Aidan reached over and stroked his head, the dog nearly as tall as him, more wild beast than dog. Aidan was grateful not only for his companionship but for the fact that he had saved his life. He had rescued White because something inside him would not let him turn away – and yet he had received the reward of his life in return. He would do it all over again, even if he knew it would mean his being dumped out here, in the midst of nowhere, on a certain course with starvation and death. It was still worth it.
White whined again, and Aidan shared his hunger pains.
“I know, White,” Aidan said. “I’m hungry, too.”
Aidan looked down at White’s wounds, still seeping blood, and shook his head, feeling awful and helpless.
“I would do anything to help you,” Aidan said. “I wish I knew how.”
Aidan leaned over and kissed him on the head, his fur soft, and White leaned his head back into Aidan’s. It was the embrace of two people on a death walk together. The sounds of wild creatures rose up in a symphony in the darkening forest, and Aidan felt his little legs burning, felt they couldn’t go on much further, that they would die out here. They were still days from anywhere, and with night falling, they were vulnerable. White, as powerful as he was, was in no shape to fight off anything, and Aidan, weaponless, wounded, was no better. No carts had come by for hours, and none would, he suspected, for days.
Aidan thought of his father, out there somewhere, and felt he had let him down. If he were to die, Aidan wished he could have at least died at his father’s side somewhere, fighting some great cause, or at home, in the comfort of Volis. Not here, alone in middle of nowhere. Each step seemed to drag him closer to death.
Aidan reflected on his short life thus far, pondering all the people he had known and loved, his father and brothers, and most of all, his sister, Kyra. He wondered about her, wondered where she was right now, if she had crossed Escalon, if she had survived the journey to Ur. He wondered if she ever thought of him, if she would be proud of him now, trying as he was to follow in her footsteps, trying to cross Escalon, too, in his own way, to help their father and the cause. He wondered if he would ever have lived to become a great warrior, and felt deeply saddened that he would never see her again.
Aidan felt himself sinking with each step he took, and there wasn’t anything much he could do now except give in to his wounds and exhaustion. Going slower and slower, he looked over at White and saw him dragging his legs, too. Soon they would have to lie down and rest right here on this road, come what may. It was a frightful proposition.