Not So Epic- Chapter 2

A Drunk, A Cop, and A Contract

Chapter Two

            The oxen had been hardy, and they had been good animals for Andrei. He supposed there was something close to a kinship between them; he was usually used as a mindless beast of labor for the outfits he was hired on with, and the oxen weren’t exactly posed questions on their feelings about certain philosophical musings. Andrei was known by many to have an explosive and destructive temper, and he knew more than a few stories about oxen driven mad by abusive owners or simple animal bloodlust when competing for mates. The oxen were being tasked with delivering him and his gear to Desanadron, and he was being tasked with getting there to deliver a mission to the blacksmith Norto.

            He was only a few hours outside of the city’s outer limits when Andrei twitched the reins from his seat on the wagon’s bench, signaling the beasts to pull themselves off the side of the trade road. He unhitched their traces and brushed them down, being far gentler than most who owned such animals. He got out a long wooden trough from the back of the wagon and a barrel full of water, pouring some in for the oxen and rubbing their necks while they drank. “There you go, buds,” he said amiably.  “Hard day’s work deserves a drink, eh?” He patted them both again, then went back to the wagon, grabbing himself some salted beef and some cheese for a quick meal before finishing the trip to the city.

            The week he’d spent traveling had been blessedly quiet, though he honestly could have used a few fights to work out some of his natural aggression. Monsters, known as rashum in the realms of Tamalaria, had once been common enough in the wilds that travelers even taking the main trade roads risked a potentially lethal encounter. However, the advent of guilds specializing in protecting travelers, as well as the swelling of numerous nations’ border patrols had brought the sheer volume of such creatures to its lowest level in thousands of years. Andrei usually would have been one of those hired to defend wanderers from such threats; with this current mission, however, he had to make time, and that meant avoiding unnecessary stops to go looking for something to kill.

            The minotaur soldier wasn’t some psychotic, thankfully, so supplanting his aggressions had been a simple matter of redirecting them into meaningful tasks, like tending to the animals. All he really needed was something to do with his excess energies, and making sure they were healthy and well cared-for gave him a positive outlet. As he chewed his food and offered bits to the oxen, he surveyed the land around him. He had reached the outlying farmlands surrounding the metropolis of Desanadron itself, and in most directions he could see miles of crops, dotted here and there with barns and farmhouses. The wind blowing through was gentle, quiet, helping to lend to the overall air of peace and quiet he found himself part of.

            He was enjoying that quiet when the whispers starting burbling up inside his head. You know, it could be like this all the time, if you weren’t so prone to getting mixed up in violent business, one of them chimed in right then.

            “Aww, shit,” he muttered aloud, one hand on his hip, the other putting the last of a piece of beef in his mouth. “I really don’t need the peanut gallery right now.”

            Think of all the good you could be doing if you just changed your outlook on a few things, another of the whispers added. Andrei brushed his hands of crumbs and headed back toward the rear of the wagon. Hey, now, we know what you’re thinking of doing. Don’t do this, Andrei, come on.

            “Fuck you,” Andrei grunted, reaching for a small wooden box loaded right near the rear of the wagon and flipping the lid open, revealing several dozen thin brown bottles of honey ale. “I don’t need to listen to this,” he said, popping the top off of one of the bottles.

            This isn’t a solution. It’s a temporary fix, and you know we’ll be back.

            “Yeah, I know. And I’ve got more of this around, enough to keep you bastards quiet whenever I need you to be,” he replied, taking a long swig of the ale. He let out a satisfied sigh, cracked his neck.

            You can’t do this forever. Eventually, your liver will fail, the first whisper warned, though it was slightly muffled now.

            ”Hey, we all gotta go some time, right,” he asked, taking another drink. When he finished the bottle, he listened, but heard nothing other than the oxen snuffling and grunting, and the wind blowing through scores of rows of cornstalks. He smiled to himself. “That’s much better.” He got the animals back in their traces and directed them toward the trade road once more, and got them rolling for Desanadron. He reached back into another small box and pulled a green bottle, also ale, but this was of a less potent variety than his first drink. The brown bottles of honeyed ale he liked to think of as his ‘Quick Fixers’, while the green bottles were his ‘Anytimers’, good for drinking, well, any time he felt the urge.

            And after all, what was the harm in having a few beers while leading perfectly healthy, intelligent animals down a straight road, right?

**

            “This, probably isn’t good,” Andrei said to himself, hands on his head. The oxen lay snoring on their sides, the trade road several hundred yards to his right, the wagon tilted awkwardly half-in and half-out of a divot in what had once been a pristine potato field. His head felt like it had been set in a vise and pinched mercilessly between the plates, a high-pitched buzzing droning in the background of his hearing. He felt sweaty and sore, as if he’d been lifting trees all day in his full armor kit. It was certainly possible; he’d done such work before for quick and easy money.

            The animals’ wooden travel watering trough was tipped over on the ground, near to where he’d woken up. One quick sniff told him everything he needed to know, as it reeked of honey ale. A quick jog over to the wagon informed him that of the thirty bottles he’d started the day with, only eight remained. As for the green Anytimers, he had two of twelve left. “Gods damnit,” he muttered darkly, rubbing his head.

            A check of the oxen revealed that they were okay, but they would be asleep for several hours at least. He could see the outskirts of the city clearly now, only perhaps two miles away from where he’d decided to share his good vibes with the oxen. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head, furious with himself for yet another terrible lapse in judgment. The whispers didn’t chime in, thankfully. They rarely ever did during the course of a day, let alone during a wicked hangover.

            Andrei reached for one of his throwing axes as he heard movement just off to the east. A swift turn in that direction made him remove his hand from the weapon’s handle, however, as he spotted a tall, blue-fleshed man with a bald head in farmer’s coveralls sauntering in his direction. The man’s odor preceded him, but such was the case for all jafts. It wasn’t uncommon to see the blue humanoids living such lives as those of farmers, or, more often, fishermen. They possessed the swiftest natural regeneration of any of the civilized races in the realms, able to regrow entire limbs that had been cleaved off in mere hours. The trade-off seemed to be their horrible odor, and a complete absence of hair atop the heads of the males of the species.

            Jafts and minotaurs did not naturally get on very well, but both races had a deep love of the mountains and the seas, and a common distrust of most forms of magic that weren’t wielded by shaman. They tended to either keep well away from one another, or become fast friends around shared passions.

            This jaft wore a big, dopey grin on his face, hands holstered on the straps of his coveralls as he walked up. He held a pipe clamped between his teeth, chuffing thick gray smoke as he stopped a few yards away from the burly minotaur. “Well, now, seems to have been a bit of trouble here, eh,” the farmer said.

            “That’s an understatement like you wouldn’t believe,” Andrei replied.

            “Oh, I’d believe it,” said the jaft, looking over at the oxen as one let out a rippling fart. “I have the evidence of it right before me, in fact. Your animals are drunk. And sleeping. On my field.” Andrei rubbed the back of his head, looked aside.

            “Yeah, they are. I’m sorry about this, sir, I’ll get them up, get us going again,” Andrei said. The farmer ‘pshaw’ed him and flapped a hand in dismissal of the notion.

            “Son, they’re fine right where they are. It don’t look like you did any kind of real damage to my crop on the way here, so why not we just not worry about it. You want to make it up to me, though, I have an idea what’ll help.”

            “Oh? What’s that,” Andrei asked.

            “Well, folk like yourself, heading into the big city, they’ve usually got some supplies for the road, and it just so happens I don’t like going into town myself. I need to replace some rope from my barn, and if’n you’ve got some extra length, I’ll gladly take it.” Andrei nodded, headed to the canted wagon, and rummaged around for the bag of extra rope that he had, in fact, brought with him from the monastery. He turned his head back toward the farmer.

            “How much you need?”

            “About twenty-five feet ought to do,” the farmer replied. Andrei tried to ignore the powerful stench of the man, though it was difficult not to notice it. Standing there, even out in the open, had pushed his eyes to the point of watering several times already. The minotaur estimated his footage after spooling some of it out, used a small folding knife from his belt to cut the rope, and handed the requested material to the farmer. “This is appreciated, son. Keeps me from having to go out, and I’m frankly worn out from the day. Now, don’t take this wrong, but I’d like you to get yourself and those drunken animals off’n my property soon’s you can.”

            “No offense taken, sir. Do you think I can have a couple of hours, just to make sure I don’t push them too hard?”

            “Of course, son. It’s a good thing we’re so close to the city here, else you might have some trouble with critters. We’ve had a few rashum ranging nearby these last couple of months, and though you look like you can handle yourself, I’m not sure those oxen of yours would come out of a scrape unscathed.” The jaft farmer sauntered away back toward the farm house, whistling a little ditty that Andrei did not know. The minotaur took a long look at his beasts, and hoped a couple of hours would be time enough.

       "Sure as shit hope so," he mused aloud, hopping up into the wagon to survey it for further damage. To his delight he found none, a small uptick in his fortunes. At least not everything had gone south.

       With nothing to do but keep a watch on his animals, Andrei sat back to reflect.

                                        **

       Dren had committed to memory the names and faces of three-quarters of the City Watch, all of whom came in for routine repairs to their weapons and armor. Most were amiable enough men and women, and he enjoyed listening to them tell him about their more interesting pursuits and arrests. How much they embellished these tales, he neither knew nor cared. The thought of their adventures alone was enough.

       But as there was with any large organization, the Watch had its share of curmudgeons. One such gentleman came through the door in the early afternoon, a towering Red Tribe werewolf in half-plate steel armor, his bare foot claws clacking hard on the floor. This officer above all others terrified Dren, carrying an air of violence about him that seemed to press most of the wind from Dren's lungs.

       Dren cleared his throat and tried smiling at the hulking Red Tribe. "Good day to you, lieutenant Stockholm," he said. The big man's brow was already furrowed, and now, it seemed to deepen into an annoyed frown. "What might I do for you today?" In reply, the officer reached back to the small of his back and grunted, hauling out a battle axe with a heavily chipped and bent head. Dren could make out old blood stains marking the metal. The Red Tribe dropped the weapon unceremoniously to the floor with a heavy thud.

          "Fix it," he rumbled, looking around the shop. "Where's the old man?"

          "He's taking his rest upstairs at the moment," the young smithy replied. "I'm perfectly capable, as I'm sure you know." Stockholm grunted and nodded, folding his arms over his chest.

          "Oh, I'm very aware. I ask because I don't want him touching it," said the Red Tribe. "The last time I came to him, he was so drunk he forgot I had even come in here. I waited a month for him to temper my greaves." Dren felt a surge of hope; if someone as well known among the constabulary as Ignatious Stockholm was coming directly to him, he could parley that into his own client base. In short order, he could afford to establish his own forge. Stockholm cleared his throat and looked Dren up and down. “So, do you think you give me an idea of how long it’ll take?”

            “Well,” said Dren, grunting as he picked up the axe and carried it over to his primary anvil. “If you just want me to fix it, it’ll only be a few hours. But, I could temper it further, make it more stable.” He ran one finger along the wooden handle shaft, pressing down to feel for cracks and fissures in the material. “I’d also like to replace the shaft, if you’re amenable with that. Perhaps ironwood instead of oak.”

            “Does it matter,” asked the burly Red Tribe. Dren tried but failed to hold back the scoff in response, and Stockholm scowled at him and sighed. “It does, doesn’t it?”

            “Yes, a great deal,” Dren said, quickly making his way over to a long black baggage trunk and popping the latches. He opened the lid, and pulled out six handles, each of a different wood, and carried them over to Stockholm. He arranged them on the workbench next to the Red Tribe, and held one out to him. “This is oak. Lightweight but durable, unless it’s struck along the grain. When struck along the grain of the wood, it splinters and splits, easily. Was this struck along the grain,” he asked, putting one hand on the axe.

            “Indeed it was,” said Stockholm.

            “That’s part of why standard and buckler shields are often made of thick oak. When it splinters, it traps the blade of whatever weapon struck it, sometimes for just a few seconds, sometimes longer. However long the weapon is trapped, it’s vital for whoever is wielding the shield.”

            “Agreed,” Stockholm said, his scowl lightening. Dren grabbed another handle and held it up. “What’s that one?”

            “This is pine. Pliable, flexible, but it carries vibration like you wouldn’t believe. Blunt weapons used against pine shields or armor cause tremendous amounts of damage. Also, if it’s layered too thin, there’s a tendency for it to shatter against pinpoint attacks.”

            “Pinpoint? Like a spear, or one of these firearms that the gnomes and kobolds have taken to using?”

            “Yes, precisely like that, though firearms are a tricky thing,” Dren said. He set the handle aside and went through the others, finally coming to the ironwood. It was a dark purple in color, and though he had polished it more than six months earlier, it still felt smooth to the touch.  “Ironwood. Strong, resilient, and extremely difficult to shape properly. However, once it has been shaped, it’s nearly impossible to ruin. It doesn’t have much flexibility, so it’ll break before it bends. And it’s other primary downfall is that it’s more flammable than other types of wood. Mind you, it won’t just disintegrate, but once a flame catches, ironwood will burn for hours without additional fuel.” Stockholm took the handle and turned it this way and that, raising an eyebrow at the young smithy.

            “Is that why so many soldiers keep ironwood shavings in their tinderboxes,” he asked. Dren hadn’t considered that question before, but the moment the thought was voiced aloud, he couldn’t see any other explanation, so he just quietly nodded. “Very well. But there’s one type of wood I know of, and I see none here.”

            “Ghostwood,” Dren said. “I know. It’s just too rare, and extremely difficult to shape. There’s not a single blacksmith in the realms who could do it properly. That’s why we tend to rely on getting pre-made pieces from skilled gaiamancers or the elven crafts masters in the Elven Kingdom. I don’t have any ghostwood handles of my own right now.”

            “Well enough,” said the towering officer. “Make mine ironwood, and if you can have it done by tomorrow evening, I’ll pay you a bonus.” Stockholm turned to leave, then paused at the doorway, giving Dren a curious look. “Young man, have you thought about starting your own forge yet?” Dren nodded, grinning. “Do it soon. You don’t want the old man dragging you down much longer.” When he left, Dren felt a smile slinking across his face. For once, he didn’t try to suppress it.

**

            Andrei would have been thrilled if the oxen had just been able to amble in a straight line. He could have celebrated that, particularly compared to the hungover, zig-zagging amble that the beasts seemed to be hell-bent on taking him on. As a minotaur with a drinking problem, he could sympathize with their stupor movements, but he was now only two-hundred yards away from the residential outskirts of Desanadron proper, and he had no idea where within the enormous metropolis of the city this blacksmith was located. He had a name to go off of, and nothing else. According to the monks he was on this quest on behalf of, Norto was the most highly respected and skilled smithy in the whole of the western realms, perhaps in all of Tamalaria.

            “That should be enough to go off of though, right,” he asked the oxen, who just continued on pulling the cart. They were beasts of burden; ignoring the two-legs had become so ingrained that they didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice. “Of course it is. I mean, it’s not like Desanadron has nearly half a million people in it. Oh, wait,” he said, theatrically smacking his forehead. “It does! It totally does!” He snorted, slumping forward as the animals finally led his cart between the first of the residential cottages. He could feel the eyes of nearby constables upon him, a familiar and expected sensation every time he came into a new city. He found it strangely comforting; the more swiftly and intensely the local law focused on him, typically, the more capable they were as a peacekeeping force. Andrei didn’t want trouble, and a key element in making sure he didn’t come across a high volume of such was an effective body of law.

            The minotaur guided his oxen carefully through a few narrow intersections in the outskirt residential area, until he finally was able to gee them onto a main thoroughfare, a wide, reddish-brown cobblestone avenue clearly marked with painted lanes for various sorts of traffic. The buildings on either side of the road here were still low, squat brick or stone affairs, but they appeared better maintained in comparison with the outermost structures. Scores of people of various races and trades walked and rode up and down the roadways around him, seemingly paying little if any heed to one another or to the generally accepted laws of physics; before Andrei’s oxen had pulled him twenty feet north along the street, he saw no less than seven collisions of people, resulting in nothing more than a few seconds’ delay in their lives. They were trying to occupy the same space as one another, and though the streets here seemed wide enough to accommodate everyone, the varied paces and movements of the inhabitants of Desanadron challenged every assumption one might have of civilized transport.

Andrei guided his cart with twitches of the reins to an indented space along the right-hand sidewalk, yanking back on the straps until the beasts halted all movement. He hopped down off of the bench seat and walked around to the front of his oxen’s harnesses, tying their reins to a hitching post in front of a stout-looking tavern. Keeping his arms loose out at his sides, he pressed through the bat wing doors, quickly looking about at the clientele for a moment. Commoners, mostly human, he thought after taking his glance. Couple of constables over at the bar itself, dwarven barkeep. Should be a decent place. Going against his usual routine, Andrei sauntered through the tables and kept his overall movements spare, keeping from brushing against anyone until he was behind an empty stool next to one of the city officers, a foul-smelling human whose hair could be wrung out for lamp oil from the looks of it. The burly minotaur cleared his throat and leaned forward, so that he could be seen peripherally by the officer.

“Excuse me, officer,” he said. The constable, still grinning at some jape his colleague had just finished making, turned his attention to Andrei. The inside of the officer’s mouth was a marvel of dental horror, his teeth jagged and browned, except for a couple of yellowed specimens. I’m looking at a graveyard in his face, Andrei thought. “I’m wondering if you might be able to help me.”

“P’raps, traveler,” said the constable, his breath shooting into Andrei’s face like a cobra on the attack. The minotaur had been riding with animals whose spoor reeked more sweetly than this man’s air, but he snorted softly and maintained his composure. “What do you need?”

“I’m something of a freelancer, officer, and my employers have sent me here to find a particular smithy. The man goes by the name Norto. Do you know where I might locate his forge?” The officer turned to share a look with his colleague, a similarly unkempt-looking human, and they nodded to one another knowingly. When the first officer faced him again, Andrei recognized the gleam in his eyes; chicanery of a low sort was in play.

“Could be I could direct you to the right place, traveler,” he said, his grin widening. “For the right price, of course.” Andrei sighed, shaking his head.

“At what point did being an enforcer of the law pay so poorly that you and yours turned to extortion,” the minotaur rumbled, fishing in one of his pouches for a pair of tin coins. He slapped them down on the bar next to the officer’s drink, and the constable swept them up happily.

“Norto’s forge is about twenty-five minutes from here, if’n you move swift-like. Desanadron’s a big city, mate. Could be it’ll take you closer to an hour, what with foot traffic at this time of day.” The officer took from one of his pockets a small notebook and a click pen, and wrote down an address, tearing the page out and handing it over to Andrei. “If you leave here and head north, you’ll come to a public circle wiv’ a fountain in the shape of a great big fish. Take the eastern spoke, that’s Offing Street, takes you all the way to another fountain, shaped like a pissing bear. You take the north spoke there, and Norto’s is about a quarter of a mile down that way on the left.” Andrei pocketed the paper and nodded to the officer, then eyeballed the bottles of liquor behind the counter. He shook his head to clear it of the idea, then made a hasty retreat out of the tavern.

Untying the oxen from their post, he climbed back up in the wagon and started for Norto’s forge. Soon enough he would make contact, then be able to hand over the envelope the monks had given him and be on his way. Desanadron was indeed a huge city, so the chances were good that he could find some sort of freelance work within its streets.

He didn’t know yet precisely how long he’d be working for the Brotherhood.

**

Dren was about ready to close up the shop so he could meet up with Holly when the minotaur came barging in, huffing and puffing, looking like he’d just been through a war zone. Dren wiped his apron off and set his hammer aside, grabbing a clean towel to wipe his hands off. “Um, can I help you, sir? I’m afraid that whatever you need will have to wait to be done until tomorrow, but I can take whatever equipment you need fixed right now.” The minotaur said nothing, panting in the doorway for a moment before stomping over to Dren’s cooling bucket and upending it over his own head. He stood there, dripping wet, bucket held aloft, and stared through his shaggy hair at the slender smithy.

“This water is hot,” the minotaur said flatly, lowering his arms slowly.

“Um, yes,” Dren said awkwardly, trying to grin at the big man. “That’s my cooling bucket.” The minotaur gently lowered the bucket to the floor and used his mouth to blow water off of his lips and clear the hair from over his eyes.

“I probably should have used a finger to test that,” said the big man. “No matter. Are you Norto?”

“No, I’m his junior partner, Dren,” said the younger man, undoing the ties of his apron and rolling it up. He set it on the equipment table behind him and leaned with his palms gripping the edge of the table, ready to bolt if this large stranger made trouble. “Is there something you’re here to pick up, perhaps?” The minotaur reached down into one of his side pouches and withdrew an envelope, holding it out to Dren as he approached.

“It’s a contract from the Brotherhood of the Enlightened Fist,” said the minotaur. “I don’t know the details, but I’m not supposed to leave here until your partner reads it and accepts. He live nearby?”

“He’s just in the apartment overhead,” said Dren, taking the envelope and turning it this way and that. He took a deep breath and looked down at his feet, summoning up the courage to speak further. “You can go on up if you like, try to wake him and have a chat about all of this.” The minotaur put his hands up and waved them side to side.

“No no, my fine little friend,” the big man said. “The last time I went ambling into someone’s residence without prior knowledge or permission, I ended up crushing some poor bastard with a door. I’ll wait right here, thanks very much.” Dren heaved a sigh and held up a finger, then headed for the stairway up to the apartment level of the building. He quietly entered, but found he needn’t have been so pad-footed, as Norto was sitting right in the den, a book in his lap. He looked up at Dren as the door shut, and grunted at the younger smithy.

“What’s this, then,” Norto asked, tipping his head in Dren’s direction. Dren held up the envelope, then out at arm’s length as he approached the master smithy.

“There’s a minotaur downstairs, says it’s a contract for you from the Brotherhood of the Enlightened Fist,” said Dren, backing away quickly when the older man snatched the envelope from him.

“D’you get the man’s name,” Norto asked, opening the envelope.

“No, sir. I’m about to go meet with Holly, take in a show down the theater on Olver Street. He says his business is with you, so I figured you wouldn’t need me to hang about.”

“Nonsense, lad,” said the older smithy, eyes still on the letter. “This here’s business, so you’ll be involved. Come with me,” he said, folding the letter and pocketing it. Together, he and Dren headed downstairs to the workshop, finding the minotaur sitting on a hefty stool with a green bottle in his hand, beer from the smell of it. Norto hocked a wad of phlegm off to one side and came to the minotaur with one chubby hand extended. “Norto Ballas, blacksmith,” he said. The minotaur took his hand and pumped twice.

“Andrei Dolstov, freelancer,” the minotaur replied. “Now, I wasn’t allowed to read the letter the Brotherhood sent you, but they did tell me that if you accepted the job, to give you the trunks on my wagon. They’re outside right now.”

“Well, according to this letter they’ve sent, there’s another letter in those trunks for you, Mr. Dolstov,” said Norto. “You may as well fetch them. I accept their terms.” Dren made to leave behind the minotaur, but Norto grasped him by the shoulder. “Now lad, you’re going to have to be along for this too. If you have any plans after tonight, you’d best just cancel them.” Norto handed the letter to Dren, who proceeded to read the flowing script.

‘To the esteemed blacksmith Norto, we, the members of the Brotherhood of the Enlightened Fist, hereby seek to retain your services on behalf of a grand prophecy, one we have held to for many generations. The prophecy requires that a great sword be forged, of a material that we know that only one of your great renown can work with. The blade must be made of the fang of a white dragon, and the handle and cross guard of emerald.

It is our understanding that a white dragon of middling age can be found in the eastern ranges of the Midwestron Mountains. Its name is Ephestron, something of a hermit even among its own kind. He is said to control a horde of primarily precious stones and minerals, which would likely contain emeralds. As for procuring the fang needed in the forging, we believe the man who brings you this letter may well be one of the few mortal specimens strong enough to face down Ephestron in singular combat. He is a drunkard and a brute; do not fear to make use of him, as even in the event that he should be slain, we do not believe the realms will have been deprived of one of their finer citizens.

If you believe a trade may be made, or that some other means of reasoning with the dragon can be utilized, then by all means, proceed along that route. Just know that in any event, we do not want the minotaur returning to our monastery. If he accompanies you to the mountains and you retrieve what is required to forge the weapon, he may guide you to the edge of our property and no further. He is by NO MEANS allowed back within our walls.

We have sent with the freelancer your payment, in full, for this great service. If you require other hired hands above and beyond the minotaur, you need only inform us upon your return from the mountains, and we will compensate you for paying them out of pocket. Godspeed to you, great Norto Ballas!’

-Elder Brother Jariyus Nephisitesim’

Dren finished reading the letter, then put one hand on Norto’s shoulder and led the older man with gentle tugs toward the back of the workshop. He rattled the letter at Norto and whispered, “This says nothing explicitly about your apprentice or partner coming with you.”

“Oh come off it, boy,” Norto hissed in reply, forehead wrinkling angrily at him. “Dragon’s fangs? Emeralds? You know as well as I do I can’t pull that off, not anymore.”

“You never could,” Dren hissed back, finally having had enough of the older man’s bullying ways. “You need me for this, or you’re completely out of luck, you do know that, right?” Norto started to retort, stopped himself, then just clenched his jaw tight, nodding. “You need me for this one last big pay day. Well guess what,” Dren whispered, now even more quietly than before, since Andrei was coming back through the front door with the fourth large black hope chest from his wagon. “When this job is done, we’re done. I’m taking half of whatever they’re paying you, and I’m gone. I’ll not be letting you keep me under heel any longer.”

“Fine,” Norto groused.

“And I want some of the credit, too.”

“Gods, you want my bollocks in a jar as well, ye little shit,” the older smithy asked in a snarl.

“Thanks no, I’m just happy to get my own back at long last,” Dren lanced back, following Norto as the older man returned to the workspace area, where Andrei had lined up the trunks. He handed Norto a slender golden key, which the old man used to pop the lock on one of the trunks. As he lifted the lid, all three men marveled at the collection of golden and tin coins within, easily thousands of shining discs. Norto then opened the second trunk, inside of which were ten solid bars of titanite, along with an envelope marked with Andrei’s name. The minotaur took that, opened it, and unfolded the letter within. Dren kept his eyes on Norto, however, and felt elated as the third trunk was opened, revealing a masterworked traveling smithy kit. Norto looked over one shoulder at Dren, who nodded at him.

“You get this, I’m keeping eight of those bars of titanite,” Norto said softly, eyeing Andrei, who had taken a seat in one far corner to read over his letter.

“Agreed,” said Dren. “Open the last trunk.” Norto did so, revealing more coin and some few precious gems, along with another envelope. He opened this and read it, grunted, then handed the letter to Dren. The note was simple, instructing Norto to give one half of the final trunk’s coin to Andrei as payment for protection services during the contract. Dren walked the letter over to Andrei, who was frowning at his own letter. “Something awry, Mr. Dolstov,” Dren asked.

“You could say that,” the lumbering minotaur replied. He scratched his head between his horns, and gave the young smithy an embarrassed grimace. “I can’t read all of these words. Some of them swim on my eyes.” Dren moved himself to Andrei’s side and peered down at the letter with him.

“Do you want me to read it in full to you, sir? Out loud?” Andrei snorted, but he nodded all the same, folding his massive arms over his chest. Dren cleared his throat and read the letter at a low volume, to make it more personal for the big man. “‘Mr. Dolstov, we of the Brotherhood of the Enlightened Fist still hold to the notion that, despite the crippling of our prophecied warrior savior at your drunken hands, you may yet be able to redeem yourself. The most important facet of our prophecy is the blade which is to be used against the great evil that is coming to lay havoc across our realms. In that vein, we offer one half of the trunk labeled ‘4’ as payment to you in order to remain at Mr. Norto’s side and protect him from harm as he completes his task. You will find this amount is more than ample for what we ask of you, considering the damage you have done.’ Well,” Dren said, handing the letter back to Andrei. “They certainly seem a might cross with you.”

“Just a skosh,” Andrei said, pinching thumb and forefinger close together, then immediately spreading them wide. “Remember what I said about crushing some poor soul with a door?”

“Was that this fellow,” Dren asked, pointing at the letter as Andrei tucked it away.

“You know it,” said Andrei.

“Can’t they choose another warrior to wield the blade, then,” asked Dren. “I mean, they’d have to, right?”

“I’d hope so,” Andrei said, rising from his seat. “I mean, otherwise, that’s sort of like asking a blind guy if you look good enough to go out on a date, innocent enough but really fucking unfair.” Dren stifled a giggle and followed Andrei over to the trunks. He bent at the waist to look at the lids, finally peering down into number 4. He whistled appreciatively and smiled like a goon. “That’s pretty.”

“It’s money.”

“Okay, so it can buy pretty. Wait a minute, prostitution’s legal in Desanadron, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then I stand by what I said. Hey, old man,” Andrei barked at Norto, catching the older smithy’s attention. “I’m going to want a couple of days to rest up, make the appropriate preparations for this trip. It isn’t something to jump into willy-nilly. Clear your calendars, gents. In two days, we head east. Oh,” he said, pulling a large empty sack from his own rucksack. “I’ll be taking my share before I head off. I’ll be staying at the Red Rooster down the street here if either of you needs me.” Andrei scooped huge handfuls of coin from the 4 trunk into his bag, until half of its contents were firmly in his possession. He drew the string shut, slung the moneybag over his shoulder, and ambled toward the door. “Just do me a favor, and don’t need me until late tomorrow morning at the earliest, eh? I’d like to enjoy my first night in your city here.”

Andrei made his exit then without further ado, leaving the two smithies to stare after him. Norto snickered, shook his head. “That man’s a bit of a lummox, isn’t he?”

“Said the pot of the kettle,” Dren replied, fetching up a handful of coin from the first trunk and depositing it in his hip sack. “I’m going to see Holly.” Norto waved him off with a flap of the hand, and Dren was quite pleased when he left.

**

Holly applauded as the curtain came down, thoroughly impressed with the performance. It had been one of the better comedies she’d taken in over the years, and for once, Dren seemed to enjoy himself as well. He wasn’t precisely a wet blanket, but usually after a long day at the forge, he was either too physically spent to be much fun, or too frayed from dealing with Norto to have the ability to relax. This evening, however, he seemed to be in high spirits. She enjoyed his company far better when he wasn’t hanging his head.

As they exited the theater onto the darkened streets, Dren took her by the hand and pulled her across the way onto the sidewalk. “Holly, I’ve got something to ask you,” he said, letting go of her hand. He took out the letter that Norto had received from the Brotherhood and handed it over to her, waiting until she was finished reading it to continue. “I want to know if you’d be willing to come with us,” he said at last. Holly felt her entire body tense up. She hadn’t been on a real assignment for the company since first joining their ranks, and bringing such a job to them would automatically give her first dibs on taking it on.

“Let me bring this to my seniors,” Holly said, handing him back the letter. “As long as I get their go-ahead, I’ll come with you.”

“And if you don’t get their approval,” Dren asked, walking beside her away from the theater. She wrapped her arm around his and gave his narrow bicep a squeeze, snickering.

“Then I suppose I’ll be unemployed on an adventure with you,” she said.