Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Tristan’s hammer came down on the hot metal
with a flash of sparks. Each hit gave it a bit more shape, a bit more life.
With each strike, it started to resemble the sword he had imagined versus the
chunk of near-molten metal he had drawn from the mold.
Clang!
Clang!
Less sparks. Less give. The metal was
cooling too fast. He needed to finish before it got any worse. He’d already
reheated and refolded the metal so many times. If he didn’t work it just
right...
Kt-cl-Bang!
No sparks. Just metal on metal. The hammer
ricocheted off the cooling steel. With a sigh, he tossed the unfinished sword
into the barrel of water next to him and left it there. He couldn’t work on the
damned thing anymore tonight.
The shop around him was empty. It was well
past midnight and everyone in town had probably retired hours earlier. Even old
Hagon, who always found some reason to stick around when Tristan was working,
had finally gone to bed after hours of waiting. Tristan himself should have
given up long before, but he just couldn’t let himself go. Not until the blade
was just right.
But it wasn’t right.
He had been toiling away for hours. Heating
and reheating, hammering away and grinding away bits here and there. It just
wasn’t right.
Why couldn’t he get it right?
Tristan gripped his hammer tighter. He
desperately just wanted to throw it. Somewhere. Anywhere! He wanted to scream
and break things. To just throw up his arms and curse the gods that invented
the very concept of blacksmithing and whatever piece of shit lord that
requested the damndable piece of metal that was giving him so much trouble.
But he didn’t.
He wouldn’t let himself.
It wasn’t his shop to throw things. Not his
tool to break.
He set down the hammer and stepped outside.
The air was cool and brisk. It felt good. He was soaked in sweat and his shirt
was dripping wet and covered in grease and metal shavings. It clung to him in
the chill night.
“Boy…” said a familiar, gravelly voice from
the darkness of the house nearby.
“Hagon. I thought you were asleep.”
Hagon didn’t bother to respond. He stepped
from the shadows of the house and into the weak light streaming from the open
door of the shop. The mountain of a man was covered in scars and burns that were
hard to make out in the dim light, but his shock of short white hair stood out
like a beacon. His one good eye glowered at Tristan in the darkness.
“Why are you still working, boy?”
Tristan turned back to look at the open
door to the shop. Why was he still awake? Why was he so focused on finishing
that damned sword?
He felt like his mind was racing yet little
of it was a coherent thought. It was all just noise. A loudness in his mind
that wouldn’t ebb. That made no sense and only worsened as he focused on it. His
hands were trembling and his palms felt cold and clammy, like they’d been
dipped in ice water.
“I can’t get it right, Hagon.” He said, his
voice cracking.
Hagon stared at him quietly. Waiting. He
was always waiting for something more.
Tristan felt the anger and frustration
boiling up inside him. Felt fresh sweat accumulating on his brow. He felt his
heart start to hammer like he was running. Running for his life. Why was it
pounding so hard? Pins and needles began to run down his fingertips and up his
legs.
“Every
time I try, I mess it up.” Tristan said weakly, his eyes locked on the shop. “I
keep messing it up.” He didn’t dare to look at Hagon. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!
“Why?”
Tristan felt like a hand was tightening
around his throat. Like the weight of the question and his own incompetence were
strangling him. He could feel his heart beating even harder and he found himself
struggling to breathe through the pounding.
“I DON’T KNOW!” Tristan snapped, trying to
catch his breath.
All at once, he felt as if his heart was
trying to rip itself from his chest. He was gasping for air and he felt like
the world was spinning around him. Tristan closed his eyes. It was all he could
do to keep the world upright.
All the while, Hagon watched him quietly.
Finally, without saying a word, Hagon stepped
into the workshop. He doused the flames and extinguished the candles. A few
moments later, he stepped back out and pulled the doors shut, locking them as
he did.
“Enough.” He said gruffly. “Off to bed with
you.”
The words made no sense. Tristan found
himself just staring at Hagon. Could he not see what was happening to him? Did
he not care? Help me! He screamed
inside. Make it stop! Why won’t you make it stop?! I’M DYING OLD
MAN!
Despite all this, no words came out.
“Boy?” he asked, with just the slightest
hint of concern.
All at once, the world went black and
Tristan felt his knees begin to buckle under him. The last thing he heard
sounded like Hagon screaming his name.
---
Interesting chapter. Looking forward to seeing what happens to him.
ReplyDeleteThank you. Lots of tension here, and I am looking forward to reading more. When you are ready.
ReplyDeleteThey're interesting characters and this just brought a whole new level. He's dying of what?
ReplyDeleteKicked it up a notch indeed, the characters really play well.
ReplyDeleteNicely done.
ReplyDelete