Wish
The heat from the forge wafted down the walkway as Bron parked the carriage and brought the horses to a trough. Nip climbed out and Bron halted him with a steady arm. “I’ll lead. I know the blacksmith well.” The real reason he didn’t want the boy wandering was the danger of the hot metal and flames. Nip had grown up in a blacksmith’s forge, but not one like this.
“Aye.” Nip took Bron’s place by his side. Disappointment slumped his shoulders.
“I’ll need you to speak of what you saw in your father’s forge. Wait for my cue.”
Nip nodded and Bron grabbed a block of pinkish silver. They walked through the door and into a cloud of smoke. Chains, breastplates of all shapes and sizes, claymores, daggers and long swords lined the walls. A large steel vent hung from the center of the room over a pit of searing flames. Beside the simmering bed of coals stood a wrought iron anvil taller than Nip and as wide as their carriage.
A hefty man with a black beard as thick as brambles stood before the anvil. He brought a hammer down on a metal sword with a clang. Sparks flew, raining on either side of the anvil. Only when the smoke cleared did he look at his visitors.
The blacksmith wiped his forehead with his arm. “Bron Thoridian.” His face cracked into a crooked smile. “Where have you been, old friend?”
“Garish, you old devil.” No matter how many times he saw him, the old man still brought a smile to Bron’s lips, even when he was trying to maintain his tough façade.
Bron met the blacksmith and they clapped their hands together and pulled themselves forward into a one-armed hug. Bron pulled away and showed him the metal. “Finding the answer to our problems.”
Garish turned the bar over in his hands with curiosity. “Didn’t know we had problems.”
Bron nodded solemnly. “Aye. You’re going to be very busy.”
Nip tugged on Bron’s pants leg and the warrior gestured toward the boy. “Garish, may I introduce Nathaniel Blueborough, son of Alhearn Blueborough.”
“Good ’ol Alhearn.” Garish crouched beside the boy. “You look just like your father.” He turned back to Bron. “What brings his boy here?”
“War,” Nip croaked. “The wyverns attacked my village and killed my family before my father could forge the armor to defeat them.”
Bron nodded, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He gestured toward the silver in Garish’s hands. “Now the task falls upon you.”
Garish placed a hand on Nip’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, son.” He stayed there, locked in place for a long moment before standing to inspect the metal. He held the silver block in his hands, hefting the metal to feel the weight. “By itself, this metal is far too weak. I can’t believe it blocks the wyvern’s fire.”
“The combination of this new metal with our own strengthens the alloy.” Bron put a hand on Nip’s shoulder. “The boy has a breastplate his father made that has proven itself against the fire.”
Garish shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ll have to make several models and test the mix.”
“We don’t have time for experiments.” Bron hated hurrying his friend, but an entire swarm of wyverns headed by a massive myth of a beast might be on their way. He softened his tone. “Nip knows how much his father used. He can help you.”
“All right.” Garish clapped Nip on the back and gave Bron a wink. “Leave us to our work.”
Bron nodded and rustled the overgrown hair on Nip’s head. This was the first time they’d be apart, and the thought saddened him more than it should. An overprotective urge to look after him every second came upon him, but the boy needed his space if he was ever to grow. Bron’s father had let him and his brother run free and, in doing so, they’d become capable men. “Do well. Make me proud.”
Nip only nodded, then scurried over to where Garish stood above the melting pots. It was hard to believe the kingdom rested on the shoulders of such a young boy and his memory. Bron left, having faith Nip would recall the right balance. That boy was as smart as a ravencrock.
Bron took the horses to the stable. As he handed them over to a young boy a messenger galloped in to return his horse. Mud-covered and travel-weary, he fell, more than jumped, off, and waited in line behind the warrior while his horse guzzled from the trough. He was Bron’s age, with the thin build the princess looked for in messengers to ride swiftly without burdening their charges.
Bron turned, knowing one weary man asked another to give an ounce more than either of them had left in store. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Of course, Chief.” The man bowed, and Bron gestured for him to rise.
“Assemble my men in the center field of the barracks for a quick briefing.” As a token of gratitude, he dropped a gold coin into his hand.
The messenger’s face brightened with the tip. “Thank you, sir.” He turned on his heel, took another horse from the stables, and rode off toward the barracks.
When Bron arrived, walking hard on his aching feet, the Royal Guard had begun to shuffle out of hiding, bellies fat and round and beards overgrown. Without an enemy to kill, they’d fallen into laziness.
This ought to coax them into shape.
Bron’s wearied muscles longed for the softness of his bed in the barracks, but with an enemy at their doorsteps, he needed his men to start preparing. Brushing travel dirt off his shoulders, he stood before them as their Chief of Arms and gave the order to assemble in rows.
“Men, I have journeyed far these past days and seen sights few men see. I have witnessed a wyvern attack on a village firsthand and spoken with the leader of the House of Song. I traveled to the bowels of Darkenbite in search of an alloy to fend off the wyverns’ fire attacks and come back with a cartload of metal to equip all of you in battle.”
His men straightened and sobered as he talked. Some of them held fear in their eyes, while others licked their lips with hunger for battle. Bron allowed them their own personal emotions. They needed both fear and bravery to instill diligence and keep their edge.
“In a fortnight we are to journey along with the minstrels of the House of Song to Brimmore’s Bay, where we’ll take carracks to Scalehaven. There we’ll combat the growing horde of hatchlings produced by a legendary She-Beast with scales as big as festival tables. The minstrels will distract the horde with their song while we track down the She-Beast and put an end to her fiery reign.”
Silence fell as the soldiers digested his words. For some, it would be their last battle. For others, their way to prove themselves to further their rank. Everything he loved lay on the line: his kingdom and the woman he secretly adored. The solemnity of the mission hung heavy in the air.
“What are the odds this mission will succeed, sir?”
Bron turned to a man the same age he was when he joined the Royal Guard. Anticipation brightened his features and twitched in his lips.
With no scout ships, Bron had no idea of the extent of the She-Beast’s horde. Any scout sent would be sent to their lonely death. He only knew one thing: if they didn’t go, the battle would be fought on their lands, and more people would die. Stepping to the man, Bron put a hand on his shoulder. “What does your heart tell you?”
The young man straightened under Bron’s heavy hand, as if by touching him, the warrior had lent his strength. “That we can succeed.” A tremor cut through his voice.
“Good.” Bron turned to address the whole army. “We cannot fail, or the wyverns will overrun the southern coast then continue north to overpower Ebonvale’s ramparts with their sheer numbers. I need you rested and trained to the best of your ability. Go now and prepare.”
As the army disassembled, most of them jogged to the training fields, already overgrown from disuse. Their boots stomped the blossoms of wildflowers as they pulled their weapons off the dusty racks.
Task completed, Bron retired to his chambers on the top floor of the men’s barracks. He pulled off his boots and rocks the size of marbles rolled across the floor. Tomorrow, he’d work on that field with them, but for now he could rest his wearied muscles. He tossed his clothes in a heap and collapsed onto his bed. His last thought before sleep took him was a wish.
If only King Artemus still breathed to raise his sword.