Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1) by Bryce O'Connor

Author:Bryce O'Connor [O'Connor, Bryce]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781483441252
Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
Published: 2015-12-10T18:30:00+00:00

IX

“Where once the artisans and merchants of the fringe cities were regarded as noncitizens, in the last century their growing importance to the economic balance of the desert cultures has granted many both wealth and position. The market districts of Miropa and Acrosia, for example, are larger than the upper- and middle-class quarters of either city put together. Sadly, they will remain ever dwarfed by the derelict shacktowns of both…”

—exc. “The Cienbal,” by Adolûs Fenn

The blacksmith’s shop was hot and unfamiliar, barely more than a heavy wooden roof held up by thick columns of dark timber. A sign hung from leaden chains over the doorway, swinging in the warm wind, embossed with the name “Jerr’s Hammer” in curvy, artistic lettering. The air tasted of soot and sweat and metal, and even at this earliest hour of the day, as the Sun only just began to peek over the horizon to the east, three apprentices were rushing about, feeding the fires and filling cooling barrels with fresh water.

Raz stood in the frame of the entrance, an open space where there might have been a wall that had either been removed or simply never built. He said nothing, Jarden’s cracked and beaten staff at his side, eyes following the bustling apprentices until one took notice of him and stopped dead. The boy, maybe ten years old, took in the blood-spattered figure wide-eyed. His gaze lingered on the dried darkness that caked Raz’s hands and lined his mouth before glancing down at the staff and the leather satchel hanging from one shoulder.

Then the boy rushed to the far corner of the shop where an older man stood working at a bench, his back to the entrance. He was a hulkish figure, bald with broad shoulders and thick arms tanned from years spent over the forge. He looked up when the apprentice tugged on the hem of his leather apron and pointed, and Raz saw the gray eyes of a born and bred desert dweller shining above a thick black beard. They hardly blinked at the sight of him.

“Sethle, run for the surgeon,” Raz heard the smith whisper urgently, and the boy took off at a sprint. The man himself hurried forward.

“Raz i’Syul,” he said, wiping his blackened hands on a dirty rag. “Nay a common figure ‘round these parts. ya’ all right, lad?”

Raz blinked. He looked the man up and down. Despite his size, the smith was still a head shorter than him.

“… Do I know you?” he asked quietly. The man must have heard something in that question, because he halted his approach.

“Nay, boy, but who doesn’t know you?” he said cautiously. “But I guess it’s rude a’ me not to introduce meself. Allihmad Jerr, at your service.” He made a fist over his heart and bowed briefly.

Raz nodded slowly, not even following Jerr’s movements. Instead he looked up to take in the three forges that burned along the back wall. There was a long moment of silence.

“Er… can I do somethin’ for ya’?” Master Jerr asked, scratching at his beard.

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