The Path of Poison: Chapter 9
Previously…
Sepp and the the party find themselves in a proper Voerlund town after a beastman attack, and after encountering a Macha girl, a Dunmarrow warrior, as well as three Voerlund thugs, Sepp and Barosh explore a bustling market in search of defense…
Chapter 8 can be read here
The arcade was a kind of a large squarish space off to the side of the main thoroughfare, crammed with stalls and little shops all along its walls, with several large stalls in the centre. Of those stalls, two made up outer walls facing the wide street outside, so that there were two entrances. There was no ceiling here, but there was a long stone arch overhead whose purpose was likely long forgotten. Voerlund towns and cities often had such things. Part of its antiquity. Odd smells of metal, spices, must, and more hung in the air and mixed to make a pretty heady aroma. The chatter of potential customers broken by the shouts of jovial merchants flowed from every corner. A nice change from those all-too-quiet back alleys.
There were specialist merchants here, a lot of them selling small antiques—Voerlunders and history again. There were cases of old coins, cups, plates, door handles, and more than a few axes. But neither of them thought much of swinging around a five hundred year old battleaxe as defense. They took a quick look around the stalls, not really wanting to get into conversations, but also trying to not look like lost foreigners.
After some minutes of fruitless picking around the shop fronts, they heard, quite clearly, a sound which could be mistaken for nothing else but a smithy. The tink-tink of hammer on metal was rhythmic and almost like a call so clear did it ring out to them. Surely the owner must have something small and cheap for sale, Barosh mentioned, half to himself, half to Sepp. He also didn’t know how long it might take to outfit two or three people, or if it could even be done.
The smithy sat in the corner furthest from where they had entered. Smoke rose lazily from its chimney. From the outside, it seemed an oddly shaped building, as if it had been altered significantly from an older structure. The entrance had a smoky window pane, and over it there hung a hammered brass image of an anvil, better than a name. The door swung stiffly inwards and tinkled a little bell above it. Inside was darker, lit by iron lanterns set about various tables and dangling from the ceiling, as well as the open forge which sat in the back right. The building was of rough stone, and everything slightly uneven, sunken with age. There was a window to the right, in front of the forge, letting in pale daylight. To the left of this, there was a great big bellows, and beside it, a rack of tools and about a dozen other things neither of them could name. In the centre, an anvil, and just behind it, the blacksmith.
He looked pretty much what they would expect a blacksmith to look like—burly, a bit stocky, laden with soot, and a great thick beard that all smiths seemed to manifest for one reason or another. He looked up from his work, paused only a second, cleared his throat, and spoke:
“Apologies, lads, my apprentice is out making a delivery, you’ll have to deal with me.” He spoke with an absolutely perfect Silverden diction, and smoothly to boot.
“Not a problem at all, sir,” said Barosh cheerily. “You from down south?”
“Me? Nah nah, but I lived in the Capital Canton for years. That temple law you’s have,” he pointed his hammer at them, “it got a bit much for me, prefer the simple stuff here so I came back. Not too far back though, eh?” He chuckled as he hammered out some small detail. Only slightly speechless, Barosh took the lead.
“Hope you don’t mind us bothering you-”
“Bothering me! I’m either selling stuff, or making stuff to sell, neither’s a bother, now tell me what you’re looking for—or is it both you’s?”
“Both, sir,” answered Sepp.
“Looking for, ah, little bit of protection,” Barosh answered with a little hesitancy to his tone.
“Ah, then you’s are with the refugees.” He put him hammer down softly and gave a kind of sad smile. “Awful business that, awful. Didn’t think somewhere so nice could get like the old Voerlund days. Knights and counts at each other’s throats, poor folk in the middle. Let’s get you two something decent.”
As they’d been talking—or rather as the blacksmith had been talking—Sepp was looking about. As his eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light, he noticed the place was covered in axes. Some of what he’d thought were tools were axes. About a dozen hung from the ceiling between the iron lanterns.
“How about,” said the smith, tapping his fingers on several pieces of his work as he moved about, “a good Voerlund axe? You may have noticed its popular here, eh?”
“Yeah, everyone seems to be carrying them.”
“You know about axes here?” They didn’t have time to answer. “National pride of ours! This, you see, this is the tool that tamed the wilderness in the elder days,” he held a specimen with reverence, “and it was the weapon that slew our enemies!” He gripped it quickly as he said so.
“Heard it was also the symbol of justice, no?” Sepp spoke up. The blacksmith looked to him.
“Aye, indeed it is, or was, I suppose we don’t look at it like that now that Voerlund isn’t so, well, like that anymore. You from Voerlund, lad?”
“No no, but my father was from Voerlund.”
“You don’t say! Whereabouts? North? Heartland? Border fellow?” It was then Sepp realized he didn’t actually know where his father was from. He always assumed it was Lundermark, because that, in his mind, was where everyone was from.
“He was from Lundermark, I believe.”
“Ah, city man enchanted by the wiles of a dark golden lass, was he?” the smith chuckled.
“He was my foster father, actually, but he raised me, my parents were Silverden.”
“Good man he—was, you said. Bless him.” The smith rapped an axe head with his knuckle. “Went down there for some peace and quiet, no doubt.” Sepp knew peace and quiet was anything but what he’d known in the end. “Ah, Lundermark’s big, it’s noisy, never sleeps, couldn’t live there myself but it’s a fine place to visit. Did live there a while, though, liked it better than the Capital Canton—oh, no offense, just less strict. The Canton was much nicer to look at, lovely place.”
“Now, I’m thinking, you two might be better off with something smaller. You might be on the road, so less to carry, but also, you see, passing through villages and towns, looks better for the guards, you know? Don’t want to be hauling,” he paused as he picked up a long handled battleaxe, “a beast like this about! They might think you’re out to cause trouble. No no, I’m thinking...” he grumbled a little as he looked about his wares, “Oh, tell me if you see something you like, though, we can talk it over, you’s seem like sensible lads.”
How he’d gotten that impression, neither of them were aware considering the bare few sentences they’d gotten out.
Sepp and Barosh looked around the small smith’s shop while he was setting aside a few potential pieces. There were headless shafts and shaftless heads aplenty, but what might fit what? They began to notice axes of various sorts and kinds they’d seen in the town previously. No doubt some could be sourced to this very building.
“You two know anything about fighting? With axes, half-shafting or aught else?” Barosh’s unsure look said all that was necessary, not that he’d have time to answer anyway. “Voerlund style axe fighting!” The smith picked up an axe with a handle maybe a little shorter than an arm. At its base was a square block. “You see, they hold it around the middle here, allows for quicker, shorter cuts and chops, and the pommel acts as a kind of counterbalance and attack unto itself. Very versatile. But, of course, you can-” and he demonstrated this “slash quick and jump to full-shafting for heavier blows. Though I don’t think you’s should be carrying something even this big around town…but you don’t want wood axes either, they won’t do well for weapons...”
Sepp finally picked up a pair of axes slightly longer than a hatchet tool. They had flaring, wedge-shaped heads with small curves on the bottom of the blade. He looked to Barosh first and then to the smith.
“These look pretty decent, I think, is there a price?”
“Ah, see now, that’s exactly what I’m talking about! Knew I had those around somewhere. See the little curves on the bottom side of the head? Those are for hooking shields, or anything else really. A devil to get right sometimes, but useful. Naturally I would say this, seeing as I made them, but I think they’d fit you’s pretty well. And here, seeing as you’s are in a rough spot, and on account of that good Voerlund father of yours, I’ll go easy,” the smith said with a smile as he wandered over to a drawer and unlocked it. They didn’t haggle—not only was it a very reasonable price that was offered, it was already at a discount. Barosh fished out a small stack of coins and the man seemed happy with it.
“Now, before you go, would you like to try them out? I’ve a dummy out back you can take a couple swings at, get the feel of them. You’s won’t be half-shafting with that length, but still.” Barosh jumped at the chance.
“Yes sir, we would!” he looked to Sepp and enthusiastically nodded, Sepp just suppressed a grin. The man led them to a door in the shadow of the forge, which opened out onto a small rectangular space filled with odds and ends, and of course, a badly chipped and hacked wooden dummy.
“There he is—hoho, and no funny business now! I know how to use every weapon in this shop, including what’s in your hands!” But he said so with a laugh and clap on their shoulders.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir, least not in a man’s own shop!” replied Barosh with a chuckle. The smith took the retort well.
Barosh stepped up to the dummy and held the short axe in his hand, testing its heft. He let out a quick, unguided chop, and followed with another, more sure one.
“Aye, that’s the stuff. They fall well, don’t they?” said the smith.
“That they do,” replied Barosh as he tested out another strike.
“You’re a good hand with that thing, you sure you don’t know about fighting?”
“Well, not Voerlund fighting, but I’ve been in a scrap or two.”
“Ah, he’s a warrior! And yourself?” The smith nodded to Sepp.
“Sepp’s a healer, not a fighter, he’s our apothecary!”
“Learned it from my foster dad and all,” he said, patting his pack.
“Fine profession that, very respectable. Sepp, though,” he sounded it slowly, “odd name, haven’t come across that one. My name’s Voloc, very common out east, not so much here. Oh, what’s that in Silverden, it’s Falosh? Or something?”
“Sounds about right,” said Barosh, who then announced his own name.
“Knew about a dozen Baroshes back in the Canton!” the smith laughed.
Sepp had stepped up to the dummy while the smith continued chattering. Not that he didn’t mind a friendly chat, but Serpent’s Breath that could get exhausting after a while. He considered sending Skivor and Seva his way, just in case. Skivor’s wood axe might work in a tight spot, but not for long, and not against much. Sepp self-admittedly was a somewhat scraggly young man, he wasn’t a weakling but he doubted his luck with this axe for more than a few minutes. He laughed his aching hand away as the smith piped up:
“Oh! Will you two be around for Viner’s Night?” Barosh flashed a look to Sepp, who returned it with a short shrug. “Don’t tell me you’s don’t have Viner’s Night down south, not even that close to the border?”
“Can’t say so, sir, no, it’s a holiday?” Sepp asked.
“Your dad never talked about it?”
“He took to Silverden stuff pretty quickly, honestly.”
“Ah well you have to celebrate one for him, then, it’s only in two day’s time. Winter’s approaching, surely you can tell that. So there’s a big open feast up at the count’s hall, come and go as you like, good fortification for Voerlund winters, let me tell you!”
A winter festival, thought Sepp. They had them in Silverden, but under different names and guises, namely a game of hunting for sweetmeats that doubled as a kind of ritual for the season ahead. Find the sweets, have a good winter, and people always made sure you found plenty of sweets. He’d participated in several as he grew up, and had fond memories of them. A big feast seemed about right for the more stately northern country. But, Sepp thought too as they left the smith with a wave, he knew this time as something else, something his father had told him about, as it pertained to the creation of hexes.
This time of year was, he recalled, a time of thresholds.