Chapter 35:

  Flint

  After walking a little while longer, my steps eventually carried me back into the quiet village I had visited the day before. The same bustle of activity greeted me once again as villagers emerged from their homes and set about taking care of their responsibilities for the day.

  Carts creaked down the road, and families walked together with baskets swinging at their sides as they moved to tend the fields beyond their homes. Many of the youths dressed in white were already heading toward the turtle shaped building at the center of town as they prepared to perform their duties on behalf of the Circle.

  The village moved gently around me, and a few passersby offered friendly waves as I stood there considering which tasks I should finish first. I had several choices ahead of me, and for a moment, indecision kept my steps from moving in any direction at all.

  Should I go speak with the herbalist and see if she has any seeds she was willing to part with? Or would it be better to track down the smith and ask how much it would cost to be fitted with a proper weapon?

  As I stood there weighing my options, a heavy hand the size of a dinner plate suddenly clamped down on my shoulder and spun me around to face the opposite direction. My abrupt stop was just as sudden as the turn itself, and I found my eyes were now level with the broad chest of some hulking beast of a man.

  I took a reflexive step back and did my best to quickly assess my situation. The man standing in front of me had a head that had been shaved smooth enough to reflect the sun, and a thick black beard made up for what the top of his head lacked. Thick knots of muscle crossed every inch of his exposed skin, and a heavy hammer was clutched tight in his left hand.

  “Can I… help you?” I asked, in a tone that suggested that I was not sure if I was offended, or frightened by the sudden encounter.

  The man did not respond. He simply continued to stare at me with an intensity that made my skin prickle with anticipation.

  Panic began to take root in my chest, and just before my newly developed survival instincts took over, my mind finally caught up with who I was speaking with. This was a man I recognized, if only barely, from the meeting that I had with the elders the day before. He hadn’t spoken a single word to me during that meeting, and I faintly remembered avoiding eye contact with him for this exact reason.

  What was his name? Something something Flint? Oh hells, I’ll just guess…

  “Mr. Flint, can I help you with something?” I asked, as my fingers settled on to the handle of my sickle. I knew I’d be outmatched if he decided to swing that hammer, but after everything I’d been through recently, I’d learned one truth about myself as a man: when it came to fight or flight, I found myself leaning more and more towards fight.

  As I set my jaw and braced myself to act, I caught the hint of a smile creeping out from beneath Mr. Flint’s thick beard.

  “Good… good. A man ought to be ready to act in any situation,” he rumbled, with a voice rough enough to scrape bark off a tree. “It’s good to know that there is a spine in there. Come along, Garner. A man willing to stand his ground deserves a weapon better than that, and I won’t have you making the men of this valley look bad by carrying it.”

  The sudden shift in atmosphere hit me harder than I expected. One moment my muscles were tight, bracing for a fight I knew I couldn’t win, and the next the tension drained out of me so fast it left my thoughts stumbling to catch up.

  “Is that how you typically greet people?” I asked with obvious annoyance, “Seems like a good way to start trouble.”

  “What’s wrong with trouble?” he responded as he extended his hand to shake my own. “Trouble simply reveals the tempered metal underneath. Better to know whats inside before being placed under real pressure.”

  Despite his oddly philisophical musings after confronting me like a psychopath, I found myself considering the wisdom in his words as we made our way to his forge. I suppose trouble had revealed who I was as I made my way here to my new home.

  When we finally arrived at Mr. Flint’s forge, we were met by the rhythmic clang of metal striking metalc and the heavy smell of coal smoke rolling out from the open doorway. Heat billowed out from the building in steady waves, and it carried the sharp tang of worked iron along with it. Someone inside was still hard at work, and had been carrying on as if Flint’s absence meant nothing at all.

  The forge itself shared the same sturdy, practical look as the other buildings in the valley. The front of it stood out with the familiar features common to any home in the South Shores Region, but the entire back half vanished into the hillside, as though the earth had been carved away to make room for it.

  I couldn’t help but notice several chimneys that rose up from the mound behind the shop, as steady streams of smoke drifted upward from them until they vanished into the pale morning sky above.

  On the front of the building, a weathered wooden sign hung beside the door with a single word carved into its face: Forge. No crest, no flourish, just the plain truth of the place, made known to the world with simple thickly drawn letters.

  As Flint led me through the forge’s front door, I stepped into a room that was almost shockingly bare. The only piece of furniture in sight was a long wooden counter that stretched from wall to wall along the far side of the room, directly opposite the door.

  Looking around the room, I couldn’t help but feel more and more puzzled with each passing second. This was supposed to be the shop front… wasn’t it? Where were the racks of tools and weapons? Where were the displays, the samples, the things that proved the man actually sold something?

  Before I could comment on the strangeness of the forge’s front room, Flint’s voice boomed toward the space behind the counter, where someone continued to work with steady determination.

  “Boy, come.”

  Immediately, the rhythmic sound of the hammer stopped. From the back room, a young boy no older than five stepped into view. His head was shaved like his father’s, and someone had drawn a coal dark beard across his cheeks. His leather apron was smudged with oil and soot, and his small arms flexed proudly as he gripped a tiny hammer that looked far too serious for his size.

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  “Yes, Father,” he said, forcing his voice to sound deep as he could manage.

  “Boy, this is Garner, the one I was speaking to you about. Give me your assessment.”

  Flint’s son circled me several times, one small hand rubbing thoughtfully at his coal covered chin. He clicked his tongue with each pass, examining me with the same stern expression his father had shown. His gaze lingered on the sickle at my side, and his frown deepened. Then he poked my arm, shook his head, and stepped back to deliver his report.

  “Father, after careful… inspe… ction, did I say that right?… I have decided that his hair looks like a carrot.”

  The room went quiet for a long akward moment as I wasn’t sure how Flint might react to his son’s “assessment.”

  Personally, I had been expecting insight, maybe even the beginnings of a prodigies musings. Instead, I’d been reminded yet again, this time by a five year old, that I was apparently nothing more than a carrot man pretending to be a regular person.

  Flint, just as his son had done moments before, did something I didn’t quite expect. He lifted the boy with both arms and pulled him into a proud, crushing hug.

  “Aye, that’s my boy. Excellent inspection. Now go find your mother and get yourself some breakfast. You’ve been working hard this morning.”

  The little boy beamed with pride, then hurried out of the room without sparing me so much as a second glance.

  As soon as Flint’s son left the room, the man’s demeanor hardened once again, as it settled back into a stony seriousness he seemed more comfortable wearing around those outside of his family. Flint then stepped behind the counter and pushed through the doorway that lead deeper into the forge.

  “Come, Garner. We have things to discuss.”

  The forge itself was buried deep into the hill, and the moment I crossed the threshold, the temperature rose noticeably. Heat from the forge pressed against my skin, and despite the runes that no doubt had been placed in the ceiling, smoke still found its way into my lungs.

  I looked around the room appreciatively as tools hung from every available space on the walls… hammers, tongs, chisels, and a dozen sharpedged implements I couldn’t have named if my life depended on it. On top of that, a long workbench occupied the far wall, cluttered with half finished metal pieces, cooling molds, and scattered shavings that glittered like dull silver in the forge light.

  Flint moved through the heat and clutter of the room as if it weren’t there at all. When he reached the workbench, he brushed the metal shavings aside with the back of his hand, then turned to give me another once over, using the same appraising stare his son had tried to imitate a few minutes ago.

  “Right then,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “Your attributes are about what I’d expect for someone your level. Strength’s a bit higher than normal, and your agility…” He let out a short grunt. “Leaves plenty to be desired.”

  He jabbed a finger toward the sickle at my side.

  “If you plan on using something like that going forward, agility’s an area you’ll need to train diligently. A sickle’s not forgiving. Make even the smallest mistake, and you’re liable to lose more a lot more than just the fight. I’m guessing you carry it because it’s tied to your path, aye?”

  I nodded dumbly as I took in everything the man was saying. It hadn’t even occurred to me that anyone could simply read another person’s attributes at a glance. I supposed the Domain of Cultivation granted unique abilities like that, along with skills meant to help tradesmen perform their work with greater precision.

  “Yes,” I said. “One of my abilities uses a scythe or sickle, but I felt a sickle was a bit more manageable in a fight.”

  Flint nodded, as if he had expected my response.

  “That’s what I figured. You’re just like your uncle,” he said, almost to himself. “I’ll have to make you a custom order to fit your needs.”

  He stepped closer and tapped the sickle at my side with the back of a knuckle.

  “Sickles aren’t ideal weapons for a lot of reasons. They’re short, their reach is terrible, and you’ve got to get far closer to your enemy than is ever wise. They hook well enough, aye, but that means you’re committing your whole arm every time you swing. Miss your mark, and you’re wide open.”

  He sighed as he pulled a pipe from his pocket, stuffing the bowl and lighting the dried reeds inside. He took a long drag, held it, then puffed out the smoke with a slow, satisfied smile.

  “Ideally, swords and spears would be your weapons of choice,” he went on. “Swords can pierce, they’ve got reach, and they can slash without any fuss. Spears?” He chuckled. “Spears have that blessed reach, and you can throw ’em if you really need to catch something on the run. Sickles… they’re real good at cutting and pulling, but that’s about it. Useless against armor and a strong monsters hide… unless your fast enough to slip between joints, but even then, thats a dicey proposition.”

  He took another drag from his pipe as smoke billowed lazily around his head.

  “Now,” he continued, “that’s the bad of it, there’s a reason your Path uses one, so let’s talk about the advantages before you think I’m just calling you a fool. A sickle is precise. It’s quick, light, and good for hooking joints, hamstringing, catching weapons, and redirecting momentum. It’s a type of weapon that’s hard to master, but once its done, you’d be a force to be reckoned with, I have no doubt about that.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, as he studied my sickle with a craftsman’s honest scrutiny. “But unless you have a weapon that is built for you, you’re eventually going to get yourself killed running around with something like that. Tell me, Garner, do you have any thoughts about what kind of fighting sytle you plan to adopt?”

  As I considered his question, I let my mind drift back to the first time I had been offered my choice regarding the Path of the Harvester. In that mirror, I had watched some potential version of myself weave between a beast’s powerful strikes, moving with a speed I could barely imagine possessing. In each hand, I had wielded two sickles whose long blades had been shaped like crescent moons.

  I could still remember how that version of me struck the creature’s vulnerable points with effortless grace before delivering a final, fatal blow to the back of its neck.

  Truthfully, I had no idea what it would take to reach that level of mastery in combat, nor did I have any sense of how many years, or battles, stood between me and that reflection… but I meant to bridge that distance, no matter how long the path turned out to be.

  As I shared my thoughts with the smith, I watched as his expression changed from one of scrutiny to one of interest. I did my best to explain the way those crescent shaped blades had looked in my vision, how they moved in my hands, how they seemed designed for sweeping arcs, quick strikes, and sudden hooks. I told him how I imagined using them, closing distance fast, weaving through an enemy’s guard, cutting tendons, and redirecting momentum.

  When I finally finished speaking, the smith blew out a final puff of smoke before tapping his pipes contents on the floor of the forge. Then he looked back at me with a spark of something like excitement buried beneath the gravel of his voice.

  “That’s a style that’ll take time to build,” he said. “Years, if you want to do it right. But if that’s the path you’re set on… then you’ll need blades that are up to it. Tools that won’t slow you down, and won’t snap the first time you carve into something bigger than you.”

  “That sounds… amazing,” I said, looking at the man with genuine excitement. “How much will something like that cost me?”

  “Well, let me think…” Flint said, tapping his pipe against the workbench as he ran the numbers in his head. “First pair’ll be an experiment at best. Usable, aye, but nothing fancy. Steel will be plain. Balancing them proper will take a few tries before we get it right.”

  He gave a slow nod, mostly to himself.

  “But considering you’re the new Steward and I did ambush you when you arrived this morning… I’ll cut you a deal.”

  He held up a calloused hand, five fingers spread.

  “Five gold. I think that’s a fair enough price, considering the work involved. Plus, as a favor, any future maintenance will be included for as long as you wield them.”

  I nearly choked. The idea of spending five gold on anything felt reckless, and downright irresponsible. My father would’ve beaten me bloody for even considering a purchase that extravagant. But this wasn’t a new coat or some fancy trinket, these were weapons meant to keep me alive.

  I swallowed hard, extended my hand, and shook Flint’s with as much confidence as I could muster. Then, with a knot forming in my stomach, I counted out five gold pieces and placed them in his waiting palm.

  “Good,” he said, closing his fingers around the coins. “I look forward to working with you, Garner. Give me a few days, and I’ll bring them to your home myself.” He gave a firm nod, pipe shifting at the corner of his mouth. “And don’t worry over spending this kind of coin. I’ll make you something special, something that’ll keep you alive long enough until you’ve outgrown them, anyway.”