The Fatesmith
#1 of Short Stories
"So." A heavy thud sounded in the small shop as a bag of cloth-wrapped armor slammed onto the front counter. "You're the Fatesmith?"
A rather bulky man turned toward the front, tossing an oily rag over his shoulder and revealing the slightest paunch bulging his smith's apron. "That's what they call me," he replied to the Lizfolk standing on the other side of the counter, the slightest twinge of a country accent still coloring his words. "Please, though, do be respectful of my workspace. I do try to keep it tidy."
The Lizfolk simply gave a grunt and nudged the armor forward. "Donno if you need to take a look at it or not," he grunted. "Side's caved in. Bruised my ribs."
For posterity's sake, the smith drew open the lip of the bag, and from within withdrew the dented breastplate, letting the silencing cloth slide off. Even he had to suck a breath in through his teeth, however, at the extent of the damage to the metal. "You sure your ribs are alright?" he asked, with a glance up at the newcomer from under bushy brows. "That's a lot of damage." Another grunt was all that answered the question, and the smith shrugged, tugging out the other pieces of armor and giving them all a few quick glances. Several of the pieces had scratches and minor dents where swords or blunt weaponry had impacted, but overall appeared to be in good condition. "Got you out alive, so it did its job," he muttered. "Honorable work. You looking to replace it?"
After a brief pause, the Lizfolk tossed a smaller pouch onto the counter, the dozens of clinks and clatters from inside identifying its contents. "Considering what I've heard about your armor, this should be enough."
The Fatesmith drew the mouth of the drawstring pouch open and whistled quietly, raising his eyebrow at the Lizfolk. "This is enough to get you the best armor I've ever crafted." He puckered his lips, just for a moment, before reaching out a big, meaty hand. "You've got yourself a deal. Who do you work for, anyway?"
"Lord Farendale," the Lizfolk replied shortly.
After a brief moment, the smith nodded. "Don't see much of your kind this far south," he said with a grunt, shifting the large bag of armor onto the ground, then plucking the coinpouch from the counter and tucking it into his belt. "How'd you come to work for the lord?" And he again extended his hand.
"I'm a travelling mercenary." The Lizfolk watched the extended hand, but did not reach for it.
That didn't deter the smith, who left his hand extended as he continued speaking. "Interesting. I take it the bandits hitting supply caravans has become too much of a problem for the town guard to handle?"
" 'S what we were told," the mercenary muttered, finally extending his own hand to shake.
His hand was grasped firmly--and not released, as the Fatesmith's massive mitt gripped tightly around his own. While not closed, the smith's eyes flickered about, darting this way and that, as if assaulted by visions unseen by others. And as they did, their owner's face paled, color draining as his hand tightened. The Lizfolk began tugging in an attempt to free his hand from the crushing grasp of the smith, eyes widening slightly.
Finally, with a gasp, the smith released his grasp, taking a full step back and bumping the workbench behind him. The armor upon it, which he had been polishing mere moments prior, tumbled to the stone floor with loud clangs. The Fatesmith stared wide-eyed at the Lizfolk, color still drained from his face. "I must ask you to leave my shop immediately," he demanded quietly, tossing the pouch of coins back onto the counter.
"Thought you might say that," the Lizfolk grunted, drawing his blade--and, to a sigh of relief from the Fatesmith, flipped the bag of money back onto the workbench, beside where the smith was standing. "Unfortunately, I don't think I can do that. You see, I desperately need this armor, and rumor claims that the wearer of any armor you've crafted has yet to perish."
The Fatesmith blinked, mouth working for a moment in the aftermath of the sudden eloquence from the Lizfolk. He eventually managed to stammer out, "I-I stand with those claims. My armor always protects those it's designed to save."
"Then, you understand," the Lizfolk replied smoothly.
"Master Gideon?" A youthful Kaarak poked his head round the corner of the doorway leading to the smithy proper--and chirped immediately upon seeing the drawn blade, beak clacking in his concern. "Are you okay?!"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." The Fatesmith--Gideon--stood taller, albeit still with a pale face.
Before he could speak again, the Lizfolk interrupted. "Ah, a son?" He grinned, wider. Toothier. "My apologies, young one. I was simply making a demonstration of skill."
Gideon hesitated momentarily, before gesturing shakily at the boy. "Tuuk'lak, go back to your work," he ordered, voice hoarse.
"But, Master--"
"Go!" The smith's hoarse voice rose, overriding the youth's protests with wide, wild eyes. After a long moment, Tuuk'lak inclined his feathered head, then darted back into the smithy. The chamber remained silent, though, a clear indication the young boy wasn't working.
"Now, where were we?" the Lizfolk murmured, leaning forward slightly on the counter. His sword remained drawn, flat, for the moment, on the front counter. "I believe you were about to agree to make me the armor I require. Or, perhaps, I could make an...offer that would further encourage you." And he gestured with his free hand at the doorway through which Tuuk'Lak had just disappeared.
The Fatesmith clasped his hands, glancing around at the shop, before heaving a defeated sigh. "Very well. I will make you your armor."
"Good," the Lizfolk replied, smirking as he turned to leave. "Five days. That's how long I'll give you. And make sure it's up to par...otherwise, I'll have your head."
"Done." Master Smith Gideon turned away from the Lizfolk, sweat dripping from his trembling chin, and began to gather up the armor he'd knocked from his workbench.
#
On the dawn of the fifth day, almost before breakfast had been finished, a knock rang out from the shop. A moment later, a bedraggled Fatesmith Gideon stepped from the smithy into the storefront, clear bags under his eyes, carrying a sack. The Fatesmith gently set the sack on the tabletop, with muffled clanking, and exhaled softly. "Your armor."
"As promised," the Lizfolk waiting on the other side of the front counter replied. Without bothering to ask, he opened the sack and withdrew the breastplate from the armor pieces contained therein. Then, without any of the appropriate undergarments, he donned it, setting it in place and tightening down the straps. Gideon nodded, followed shortly by the Lizfolk. "It fits well."
"I am happy you are pleased," Gideon said, stiffly. "Now, if I may please ask you to leave. I have other orders I must work on."
"Now, now, let's not be too hasty," the Lizfolk replied, in an almost-seductive murmur. "I have an inkling, I believe, as to how you create this armor."
"Good for you," Gideon replied. "Please, leave."
"Hmm...say, what would happen if one owner of a piece of your armor were to fight another who also owned your handiwork?" the other muttered, leaning on the counter conspiratorially.
"I don't know," Gideon answered, neck muscles tightening. "I only make armor for the guards and mercenaries loyal to Lord Farendale, so it would be impossible for two separate sets to fight each other short of betrayal. Now, please, leave my store, before I call the town guard to--"
"Oh, dear, the town guard," the Lizfolk groaned. "What ever shall I do if the town guard comes to escort me away?!"
Gideon's eyes roamed across the scaled body, skinny--previously hidden by his clothes, but deathly skinny. Wiry with the taut strength of a warrior, true, but obviously underfed. His face paled again, slightly, as he whispered, "You're one of the bandits."
"Pity you guessed, it truly is," the Lizfolk sneered. "Because unfortunately, now, I can't let you go and rat to the city guards...though your own work would probably protect me."
Before the Fatesmith could react, his customer had leapt over the counter and tackled him. The Lizfolk had been careful, though, and positioned them to fall sideways, so Gideon wouldn't knock back into his workbench. What else could be expected of a thief?
Despite his strength, Gideon found himself unable to throw off the squirming, weaselly lizard, and it was only a heartbeat before he found his strongest weapon--his arms--pinned to his sides by the Lizfolk's legs, two scaly hands wrapped around his throat and squeezing. No matter how hard he kicked with his legs, he couldn't quite throw the Lizfolk off, and he soon began to see stars, filling and pulsing in his vision as darkness began to surround his periphery. Panic began to set in, despite him expecting this. If he didn't get air soon, he'd be done for.
Then--TWANGthunk! The force on his neck dramatically lessened, and he was able to heave in a raspy breath, followed by a fit of coughing as the Lizfolk rose, knelt, and rose again, stumbling slightly forward, above Gideon. The Fatesmith rolled onto his side and pushed up to his knees, then his feet, as he looked up at the former customer.
The criminal stood before him, hunched slightly, with a fletched arrow protruding from the back of the breastplate he'd tied down to his shoulders moments prior. He stumbled over to one of the few stools in the room, beside the front counter, and collapsed into it while spinning to face Gideon. He then leaned heavily on the counter, and gave a wet cough. Flecks of blood flew from his lips, followed shortly after by a line of the red liquid drooling down his chin. "You..." He rasped in a breath. "You expected that."
Once, the Fatesmith nodded. "You guessed my trick," he replied. "But you forgot the one thing that could have saved you."
"What's that?" The Lizfolk coughed again, more lifeblood spraying from his lips and dribbling in lines along his jaw.
"I said it to you the day you commissioned the armor," Gideon said, voice still raspy from the suffocation attempt. Then he leaned in to whisper his next words hoarsely beside the Lizfolk's head. "My armor always protects those it's designed to save."
Silence lasted for a long moment before the Lizfolk's eyes brightened with realization, then glanced over to the doorway, where young Tuuk'lak stood, with a shortbow, another arrow already partially drawn. "You planned for this."
"From the moment I foresaw your future," Gideon agreed. Then he stepped back, and watched as, in one fluid motion, Tuuk'lak drew and released his arrow. This one passed cleanly through the Lizfolk's temple, and his eyes immediately darkened, vitality fading from his suddenly limp body.
Without a word between them, Gideon and Tuuk'lak gathered the armor and single bloodied arrow from the now-dead bandit. The arrow in his head was too deeply set, and as such, not retrievable. And, leaving the body in the storefront for the forewarned town guard to handle, they returned together to the back room, setting the armor beside the forge, ready to be smelted and reused for another set.
"Well...what now, Master Gideon?" Tuuk'lak asked, his beak adding a strange clicking enunciation to his words.
"I believe it's now time for us to return to work, Tuuk'lak," Gideon replied, hefting his tools. Tuuk'lak smiled slightly, lifting his own apprentice's tools, and together, the Fatesmith and his apprentice returned to the forge to save another life.