Never Without Hope by Cianan JT Puckett

Author:Cianan JT Puckett [Cianan Puckett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cianan Josiah Tsali Puckett
Published: 2024-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

11

11: Coldforge, Northrealm

“Dragonsmith!” The voice called from outside the forge, stirring the great man from his thoughts.

“Aye, what need you, friend?” Viktor’s voice came deep as a great drumbeat as he spoke. He hardly looked up, wondering who would be bothering him at this hour. He did not have to wait long to solve that mystery, as a hooded and cloaked figure swept into his forge. Another Ranger, here on some important purpose, no doubt.

“Just a quick favor, Dragonsmith-most-honored.” The Ranger held up a shirt of fine mail that looked more ragged than a pauper’s clothes. Evidently it had not held up quite as well as one would hope, and the Dragonsmith whistled slightly.

“Nel ca’e armä, Ranger. What happened to this mail shirt? Are you injured? My skills are lesser with bodily harm.” He looked from the tattered shirt to the Ranger, who seemed no worse for wear. The Ranger shook his head and Viktor nodded slowly. “It will take time to repair the mail. Give me a day or so and I should have it back together.” When the Ranger offered his purse, Viktor shook his head. “Nay, you do so much to defend us- I would feel ill taking coin from you.”

“By the steel indeed, good Viktor. Please, Dragonsmith-most-honored. Accept it, for it was a wager. My life on your craftsmanship- and you proved my wager correct.” The Ranger gave a hidden smile beneath his mask. With a nod and a grumble, the great man took only a few coins from the Ranger and handed the purse back. Satisfied, the Ranger gave the mail shirt to the smith, turned on his heel and slipped out.

“Nel ca’e armä… brave they may be, but steel be witness, they are a foolish lot.” Speaking to no one in particular, Viktor hung the mail shirt upon a stand, looking at each hole-judging how many new rings he would need to forget to get this shirt back to full strength. After a moment, he had his number and began crafting the rings one by one. It would take a few hours at his best speed, but he was sure he could do it in a day. “Mydborh bless me this day, for I defend the defender.” He placed his great hammer aside and instead he reached for his pliers to shape the links. As he worked, he hummed one of the Teaching Songs to himself and smiled. It was rare he got such work, something methodical and relaxing, and he enjoyed it thoroughly.

“There is a strange taste on the breeze.” The voice caused the normally unshakable Dragonsmith to nearly jump from his skin. He spun around, forge-hammer in his hand- an improper weapon, but his size he hoped would be enough of a deterrent that he need not use it. There was no one- no source to the voice, nothing for him to find. He turned back to his work; slowly, for he was disquieted. Reaching out with his thoughts, he stirred the sleeping dragons of the forge.

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