THE BLACKSMITH

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’re pavers under here…somewhere, Davin reminded himself as he pulled his empty cart through muddy streets. He could not remember, though, the last time his cart had been laden enough for the wheels to actually make contact with any.

He was on his way to a vendor in the city square to purchase the bitumen necessary for etching the elaborate knives, swords, and axes made for his wealthier patrons. This was one of many stops necessary to acquire all the materials needed for a week’s work. It used to be that he could stock up a month’s worth of supplies, but money had been hard enough to come by before his second child had arrived and Westport turned to shit. It did not help matters that the younger of his apprentices had spilt the quenching oil for a second time, forcing him to relieve the lad of his duties. The child’s family was like to starve, as his mother was too ugly for whoring, but had a hot sword been in that oil at the time the senseless child could have burned his entire building to the ground—the expense of the lost oil was painful enough.

An ever-growing crowd was gathered in the square, and the angry shouting made Davin wonder. He was pushing through the throng, only wanting to finish his business and be on his way, when he noticed several members of The Guard. They stood arranged around three tall wooden poles, each covered by a black cloth.

Protectors of the King’s Injustice, Davin thought to himself. Stories of abuse at the hands of the so-called Protectors of the Realm were rampant, and though some were difficult to believe, commoners such as he did all they could to avoid the possibility of being the object of one such story.

One of the Protectors unfurled a scroll and began to read.

“Here sit three convicted of high treason with attempt upon the life of the king. Junton of House Elderlunds, former Viscount of Edenholme, now stripped of all lands and titles, his wife Beyla, and his accomplice, Stillun of House Verantia.” As the man reading from his scroll finished his proclamation, another member drew down the cloth, revealing the bodies of two men and a woman, each sitting atop a pole that pierced them through the rectum. They wore only wounds and filth, as if they had been in the weather and pecked by the birds for some time. Their eyes already devoured by ravens, the corpses peered down with empty sockets, threatening to come alive to pull innocents into their ring of conspiracy.

The crowd let out a gasp and staggered, each individual seeming torn on whether to stay or to flee. The same member of The Guard continued to read.

“For three days shall they remain at each of the three cities, to serve as a reminder to those who seek to undermine the benevolence of their king and ruler, Lyell of House Redrivers, that the punishment for treason is death. These men were rich before King Lyell deposed the queen who was unfit to rule, and they remained rich thereafter. King Lyell did not conquer for plunder, but for peace. He did not steal from those he had defeated, but merely requested of them to abide by the laws under which prosperity could take root.”

Davin could see some in the audience nodding their heads in approval while others shook their heads in objection. The rest simply looked on in horror. The man who spoke had apparently finished and began to roll up his scroll for safekeeping.

The growing scent of danger seemed to overwhelm even the fetid stench of entrails, and it felt as though he would be committing some misdeed by being the first of the gathering to resume motion. Nonetheless, Davin nudged the man in front of him so that he might continue on his way.

“I don’t feel prosperous,” came the yell of a man far to the rear.

The crowd stilled in anticipation of a reaction from The Guard, of which there was none. Having ignored the shouter, the lightly armored Protectors continued tidying their things to make an exit.

“Release the princess!”

This time the voice came from very near. Davin turned to examine the man who had shouted. He was in commoner clothing, with the hunched posture typical of a lowborn not wishing to draw attention, but there was something odd about him that Davin was unable to discern.

“Death to the Tyrant!” came a third voice, again alarmingly close to Davin and from a man in similar dress.

The crowd became agitated. When Davin saw the second crier pick up a handful of mud and fling it in the direction of the members of The Guard, he knew it was already past time to leave, but his cart made travel through the dense crowd impossible.

The mud had missed its mark, and it was nevertheless impossible to see just who had thrown it, so The Guard members simply hurried their attempt to exit. Weakness having been sensed, one by one, others began to throw mud of their own. Soon all The Guard were being pelted and covered in wet dirt, causing some to draw their weapons.

Leaving his partially loaded cart would cost him more than he could afford, but remaining seemed equally foolhardy. As he turned away from his possessions, Davin saw the man who had been the third crier, his face consumed with satisfaction. Amidst a throng of mud-flingers, the man’s contrast was clearer to see. The commoner clothing he wore was clean—far too clean. Even after a good wash, none of Davin’s clothes could have ever looked so crisp and new.

Davin stood, paralyzed, as he bore witness to the invisible hand that guides the masses, deathly afraid that it may see him too.