The Rokkoh Adventures

Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 4

The wind whistles as it throws snow all about. For a moment, it sounds like a neighing horse in the distance. Despite the flurries and the sound, the Smith's hammering rings out and the glow of the forge melts through the darkness. That warmth comes over me as I draw near, the snow disappearing in the heat. Even the wind slows to a breeze here. The Smith ceases his work as I step onto his land, setting down his tools once more.

"Welcome back," his voice booms with excitement. He turns and his eyes go to my blade. Puzzled, he looks from it to me with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms. "If you killed Ohnesh without bloodying your blade, then that is a story to tell over a drink. Maybe half a drink for you. You look like a lightweight."

Part of me wants to protest his quip and prove I can hold my liquor, but the angry sword in my hand demands different answers.

"I didn't kill Ohnesh," I tell him, black brows furrowed and a scowl on my face. "It's just a baby. Its mother is just trying to feed it. There's no strength in murdering the innocent."

Our eyes lock for a long silent moment, both of us giving the other a sour look. The only viable weapon near him is his hammer. Though I have limited training, I at least have a sword. With a mad fury I could disarm him quickly. From there he could submit or die. Though, I do have to factor in his size. Who's to say he would not simply slap the sword away and rip me in half? A cold fear trickles into my gut, but I stand ready regardless. If anyone is meant to bleed tonight, by the gods it will be him.

His red eyes ease. The fowl, mean look fades into a pleased grin. A laugh rolls from his belly and into the air. He loosens his arms from their lock over his chest. With carefree steps, he approaches.

"Well done, little man!" he exclaims. "I knew you would pass. Got that look in your eye. A good man at heart always has that look."

My feet are planted in their spot. No longer out of bravery, but confusion. Is this just a tactic for him to get close and squeeze the life out of me? Throw me off guard and then extinguish the life from within me? The sword rises, my grip firm, and points at the orc.

"Easy with that," he jests, knocking it to the side with the back of hand. I let it fall back to my side, defeated with no struggle. My befuddlement paints itself a ghastly hue of green all over my face.

"Strength is not just borne of muscle," the Smith says, clapping a rough and heavy hand on my shoulder once more. "That's might. Strength is the willingness and capability of doing good, not just for yourself but for the benefit of others as well. You could have slain Ohnesh with ease had you wanted to. It's a pacifist, and you saw it meant no one any harm. You knew it would have been wrong. And you returned, looking to take on the awful person who ordered you to kill it. That, little man, is true strength."

There is pride in his crimsons, undiluted and eager happiness. My heart swells. The only other time someone has looked at me that way has been in my swordplay lessons with Sir Rovert back at the Tower. A warmth greater than that of the forge fills me, bringing a wave of tears to my eyes and a brimming smile to my face.

"Now," he says, softer as he leans in closer, "let's talk about that blade."

We pore over the details in his hut, a cozy little home with walls covered in animal skins and taxidermy heads. Various bladed weapons are hung up as well, a testament to the Smith's level of skill. Several scrolls fill up the table at which we sit, their contents ranging from different types of metal to intricate pommel designs. He offers inscriptions, blessings from whatever Novhina I wish, anything I would desire. After a goblet or two of wine and careful consideration, we agree upon a simple steel greatsword. Its hilt is to be wrapped in leather, its pommel round. My only request is for it to bear the lavender scent of his forge, as a reminder to always remain strong. He agrees without quarrel.

"How soon might it be ready?" I ask as he guides me to the door, our business concluded.

"Not too long for most of it, only a couple days," he answers. The hut breathes in the heat of the forge as the Smith opens the door. "But for the lavender to take, I'd give it a week to be safe. Think you can be back by then?"

"If escaping the Tower is as easy as it was this time, absolutely," I tell him with a grin.

"Good," he roars a laugh. "If not, I'll hold on to it until you return."

"Dagan had his dagger when he came back. A really nice one."

"The one with the fancy sheath, right?" he laughs again. "Had that thing lying around. Bought it off some miniature fella that was passing through. Strange merchant, he was. Had a pet squirrel, I think. It's fake, anyway. Gems and all. Blade will likely snap the first time the fool uses it. But that's what you get when you try to trick an honest man."

"What was his task?" I ask.

"Ah," he shakes his head slow, the jovial tones fading a little. "That's between me, him, and Valier Forest. Just know that he has the strength of a flea compared to you."

He bids me farewell as I pass through the trees, the warmth of the forge and the smell of Lavender fading with every step. My path stays straight as an arrow, just as it had been during my earlier trek. The wind has calmed once more, snow sparsely drifting from the sky. The absence of the whistling makes room for the low, grumbling voices of men. I hesitate behind a pine near the campsite, poking my head out just enough to find the fire smoldering and my friends gone. Two bearded men stand just beyond the smoking pit, long coats and insulated caps keeping them warm. A third waits on a carriage, reins in hand and ready to order the two horses to move.

"There you are, Rokkoh," her voice comes from behind, light yet terrifying. Cloaked in a black fur coat that covers her head to her ankles, her face shielded in a scarf as pale white as her skin, her sharp hazel eyes reveling in her victory, steps out the Baroness from the front of my tree.

"We were beginning to worry about you." Her words come slow, calculated, cutting. "Thought the wolves might have gotten you. I'll take that back, by the way."

Her eyes go to the iron sword for a moment, as do mine. She extends a hand to receive it, eyes flicking back up. I could cut her down right here if I wanted. End her reign of lashings with one of my own. The guards might be a problem, but I see no weapons on them. Perhaps I'll get lucky. Once they're taken out, all I would need to do is find my friends. My guess is they're inside the carriage. Only one way to be sure.

"You'll be dead within the minute if you try it," she whispers, a playful eyebrow arching.

Reminding myself of what the Smith had said about strength, I toss the sword into the snow. Though I cannot see it, her scowl freezes my skin. Her beckoning hand relaxes, a mean yet tired look casting over me. With her other hand, she summons the two bearded men.

"Get in the carriage with the others," she orders, no humor left in her. "You will receive your punishment when we get home. Go."

Willingly I make my way to the carriage. The Baroness whispers something to the men, but I am too far to hear the words. The door at the back of the carriage opens with ease, and my three cohorts greet me with sleepy disappointment. We do not exchange greetings, or even a single word at all, as I climb in and take my place next to Kym.