Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15
Chapter 4
Chores
The little journeyman made his way across the Trades’ Street, a bundle of planks on his shoulder. It wasn’t that heavy since Keryln intended to build a couple of shelves, preferably as low as it could be so the granny could reach everything with ease. He also knew not to haggle too much and especially with the halfling shop owners, the wood supplier being one, or risk incurring an extra charge.
It did not hurt that Keryln had hand-carved a toy for one of the supplier’s children.
A gentle tap here and there revealed what he already suspected—the planks were actually “relanks”. Odd leftover bits and wood dust glued together by cheap alchemical gum. Natural grown wood was quite expensive. Temples grew and regulated the forests since wood and charcoal was the main source of life-giving warmth during the Frost. Cabinet makers and carpenters often worked day and night throughout these cold months so they could make relanks.
Keryln was yet to study this process, but Joel once told him the sticky glue oddly smelled of lavender.
“Weird, this alchemical stuff.” – the boy thought to himself, as he was packing the material.
Nails and iron braces he purchased from a store dealing with second hand goods. Restored via artisan magics, rusty nails and bent out of shape metal parts became almost as new. These would be plenty strong to support a dozen jars, moreover, he saved granny Folst a two Silvern. Mara was his witness, the oldster needed everything she could save, her being all alone and everything.
The hundreds’ strong chatter of people, the clink of tools, and the creak of wagon wheels lingered in the air still, long after the boy entered into one of the side streets. Yet it would appear that said wynd was somewhat popular these days since a number of early shoppers followed him in. The boy threw a curious look behind, just in case there was someone unsavory, yet everything appeared quite normal. He even noticed a stumpy ork youth dressed in dusty laborer fatigues, half-full shopping sack slung over his shoulder.
It took Keryln about five minutes of hasty walking to reach Folst’s smallish home. These were built not in rows like the tall cooperative houses of the Workers’ District, but occupied tiny plots of land. Such that were left over after botched construction projects or the demolishing of condemned buildings.
“Granny Folst, I gots all the stuff we need!” – panted Keryln as he placed the bundle at his feet, the taste of birthday cake still lingering around his face like a sugary aura.
The aforementioned grandma was surprisingly spry for her venerable age and hobbled over, cane in her hand. Wearing a set of colorfully-patched, donated clothing, this brown-eyed senior human was one of many whom the Temple of Mara cared for in exchange for a modest stipend. People who no longer had any family to tend to their needs, and especially women who had been supportive of the temple in their youth were not abandoned.
“Aaah, good work boyo! Did you spend a lot on the materials?” – asked the grandma with the soft, yet still quite strong, melodic voice of a singer.
Keryln rummaged through his shirt’s pocket and carefully placed the spare coin in Folst’s trembling hand. She had the tremors, his dad said, and they were getting progressively worse. Joel mentioned that one day, no matter the healing prayers and elixirs, she’d be unable to walk, make use of her hands or even talk.
“No, not that much.” – answered he with a confident smirk – “I gots the sturdy relanks from that halfling I told ye about, and the metal parts I picked from the magical artisan store. They gave me a good deal!”
As she counted her money with an approving nod and smile on her face, Keryln prepared his tools. A hammer and a folding saw he produced from his leather tool baggie. Two worker’s hand wraps were soon tied about his hands, protecting him from splinters and the odd missed hammer strike. These were charged with yet another low tier magic, cheap, useful, and easy to recharge.
“The pantry’s left wall it was, right?” – asked the boy and wiped his sweaty face with the clean towel she gave him when he moved the planks over.
“Yey, boyo. See,” – the granny hobbled behind after closing her door shut – “I moved all the stuff out so ye can work easy.”
“Hey, I told you I was gonna do that fer ye. You shouldn’t have...” – protested Keryln only to face Folst’s somewhat annoyed look.
“Tremors or no tremors, I can still clean my house!” – she waggled her finger in his face.
Keryln backed up, raising his hands – “No, no, I did not mean that! You take great care of the little ones at Temple and no one can deny it.”
The woman unleashed a playful chortle as she produced something handmade from her apron’s pocket. Grandma Folst proceeded to place the woolen hat on his head tucking Keryln’s long elven ears into its neatly knitted earmuffs.
“Happy birthday boyo!”
He touched his ears first and then patted the top of his head taking note of the hat’s craftsmanship. The pig-wool must’ve cost her an arm and a leg alone...
“‘Tis just as soft and warm as your singing voice, granny. Thank you!”
“My little sweet carpenter!” – she said and pointed at the slightly uneven table, one of his earliest creations – “See, I have that plate of cookies baked for ye too.”
Keryln hugged granny Folst and tucked the hat in one of his pockets since it was still hot outside. He wouldn’t like to damage his gift during work, either. The boy cracked his neck and eyed the empty pantry wall.
“We can’t leave them cookies alone and uneaten. I better get my work done!”
For the next hour and a half, Keryln proceeded to assemble three shelves, all neat and perfectly leveled. He made sure to use plenty of nails when he had to and fastened every single metal brace as well as he could. As a test, he pulled each shelf and they passed with flying colors. Granny Folst could assemble her growing army of pickle jars here and reach them without trouble. When the young carpenter thought of a way to ease her carrying said jars, he heard some kind of commotion behind and turned around.
There, next to the table, stood the stumpy ork, rusty dagger in one hand and granny Folst’s coin purse in the other.
“Shhhh...” – hushed him the young ork, waving his dagger at the grandma who sat in her rocking chair, panting heavily and petrified with fear – “yous stays all quiet like or the old hag gets it, see?!”
Keryln immediately noticed two things; he was still holding onto his hammer and the dirty thief had to walk around the table to actually reach granny Folst. He took a deep breath, measured the distance and made a step forward, his hammer swirling through the air. Such was his surprise that the ork staggered back and got smacked in the shoulder.
“Thief!” – roared Keryln – “Call, the Guard! We are being robbed!”
He unsheathed his birthday gift and, with the recklessness of youth, leaped out of the pantry and straight at the mugger – “Give granny her coin back!”
Foul intent and overconfidence made way for fright and the ork scampered through the open door and out on the street. These precious few coins given to the elderly were donated by hardworking everyday people. The boy thought not of anything else, but to catch the thief! He ignored the shouts of granny Folst, her neighbors, and other passersby as he chased after the robber.
Not until some minutes later, when the ork youth led him into a dead end wynd and turned around with intent to fight, did Keryln remember that he was yet to learn how to use the dagger. Yet the thief’s shoulder was hurt from his hammer throw, and the boy was quick on his legs. He just had to stall until either granny Folst’s neighbors caught up with him or the Guard showed up.
“Yous saws me face!” – squealed the ork in between wheezes and coughs – “Yer ded ye liddle basterd!”
Keryln backed away from the ork’s reach, and instinctively assumed a basic dueling position. Body turned aside so he could present a harder target, the boy placed his dagger between him and his attacker. He did not waste his breath to swing or stab since he did not know how to properly do that. Better this thief knew not how inept he actually was.
This confused the ork, but only for a minute. When he realized the boy was unskilled and the dagger without enchantment, the thief made a probing stab. Keryln was able to evade it and even startled the ork with a shaky stab of his own, but his luck came to an end. With a sadistic grin on his poxed face, the criminal proceeded to give him a shallow cut and blood dripped on the dirty street.
“Guards... anyone... help!” – Keryln shouted as he changed hands, striking air a few desperate times.
Though one could hear the buzz of the city, it would appear that no one was coming.
“Squeal, no one’s gonn’ ‘ear ya!” – the ork snickered as he swept Keryln’s dagger aside with one powerful swing – “Dat blade of yers, me’s gonn’ skin that old hag alive wiff it!”
Something hissed through the air, immediately followed by a dull, fleshy thump.
“Gnaaaarrrrrhhhh!”
“I think not.” – a man’s gruff, yet deadly calm voice boomed across the wynd.
The sounds of heavy boots and the clink of armor approached, soon joined by a sword being unsheathed.
Had he desired to do so, the man could make use of the compact crossbow slung over his back and shoot the thief dead.
“Da-da-delin!” – the ork squealed as he saw the man and tried limping away.
This was rather daft an act and quite impossible to pull off, especially with a thick crossbow bolt sticking from his calf.
Tall and wide-shouldered, the armored human deftly tripped the ork. With a quick swish of his sword he slapped the thief’s forearm and this one dropped his bloodied dagger. Keryln clearly heard bones snap mere second before the ork youth squirmed in pain.
“Aaaaaakh! Me arm!”
The thief’s whine was abruptly silenced by a pommel strike to the gut. Choking for air, the ork was then unceremoniously put in a set of sturdy shackles. When he made one last, feeble attempt to resist, the man slapped him across the back with the flat of his sword.
“Not quite the easy steal this time, eh, Gorthoc?” – said the man as he lifted the visor of his helm and kicked the ork – “Thanks to this kid here, that’s gonna be your last!”
Keryln looked at the gruff man’s steely green eyes, his many facial scars partially covered by a bushy blackish beard with a tint of gray. He got his dagger back into the sheath as the man gave him a nod of approval.
“Dalen,” – named himself the man and stopped Keryln’s bleeding cut with a thick piece of adhesive magical strip – “a bounty hunter of the Street People. What be your name, kiddo?”
“Keryln, son of Joel.” – replied the boy and as he pointed at the ork, asked – “Sir, may I have my gran’s coin purse back?”
He got a smiling nod and the man was quick to snatch said purse from the ork’s pocket, which Keryln immediately stashed in his carpenter’s apron.
“Pl-please... wheeze... gib muh a potion or... cough... somethen! I’m bleeden’ ‘ere!” – pleaded the ork from a growing puddle of his own blood.
“Quit your squealin’ and start walking.” – ordered the man and proceeded to heartlessly kick the ork’s behind – “The sooner we reach the nearest guard post, the sooner yer gonna get healed!”
Keryln followed the bounty hunter as this one tugged the shackle’s chain, forcefully intensifying the whining ork’s limping. There was a guard post close by, only two streets away. The boy bit his lip. In hindsight, he should’ve ran straight there instead of foolhardily chasing after the thief. He looked at the magical adhesive strip which had changed colors from white to dark red. Things could’ve been much, much worse!
“Look kiddo, what you did was brave, commendable, and... deadly stupid.” – explained calm Dalen as they neared the guard post, a small crowd of armed people following them just in case.
“I realize that, but-” – Keryln began, yet was interrupted by the bounty hunter, whose bearded mug became twisted in anger.
“But?! If those people hadn’t hired me, and I wasn’t patrolling a street close by, you be yet another gutted corpse bleeding in the trash!”
“I’m sorry Sir Dalen,” – said the boy with a gleam in his eye – “but I could not just stand and watch!”
Dalen looked him in the eye and his brutish expression softened quite a bit.
“You have a good heart, kiddo.” – and the man fatherly patted Keryln’s head – “Next time, be real careful and don’t chase someone the likes of Gorthoc alone, got it?”
“Also,” – he added with slight smirk – “I am not one of the Sirs. Just call me uncle Dalen.”
Keryln nodded – “Yes... uncle Dalen.”
Two minutes later they’ve reached the guard post, the small gathering of armed citizens gradually dispersing as they walked.
Having sheathed his blade, the bounty hunter nudged his bleeding catch into the guards’ eager armored hands. With professional ease Dalen produced a wanted poster and showed it to them. The two men exchanged looks full of disgust when they double checked that ork was indeed Gorthoc. The latter immediately whined and panted, pleading with the guards:
“B-bleadin’... cough... please, ‘elp muh!”
“Filthy scum, I should let you bleed to death for what you did!” – grumbled the first guard as his comrade reached for a regenerative elixir with a hesitant hand.
The potion was emptied down his throat, while Dalen unceremoniously pulled his crossbow bolt from the wound, wiped and then stashed it back inside his quiver. One of the guards held Gorthoc in a choke hold as the bounty hunter gave them the key from his shackles and received their spare set in return. Before they dragged the ork away, Dalen pocketed the plump coin purse they gave him and waved them goodbye.
“Uncle Dalen,” – dared ask the boy when Gorthoc was out of sight – “why did they call him filth? I mean, he is bad and all, but...”
The bounty hunter canted his helmeted head, and eyes full of steel once more, explained – “Gorthoc wasn’t just a mugger and a thief. His specialty, so to speak, was preying upon lonely old people, whom he brutally beat, molested, and murdered. Often not in the same order...”
Keryln could not say anything, but grip the dagger till his knuckles became white.
The two did not exchange any words until they stood before granny Folst’s home. Joel, alerted perhaps by the guards or the old woman’s neighbors had just arrived there, two temple knights in trail.
Dalen, having observed the boy as they walked, tapped him on the shoulder and said – “If your dad allows me, I will learn you the secrets of daggers... no charge needed.”
“You’ll train me for free?!” – asked the flabbergasted boy.
“Bounty hunter’s honor, kiddo!” – said the man, hand on his heart – “Thanks to you I got paid and quite handsomely so. More, I would be a bad Kannite if I let you gallivant after another thief without offering some badly needed self defense lessons.”
[Ninth] — Krartian weeks are nine days.
[Turn] — This is a planetary rotation numbering seventeen thirty five day months.
Excellent chapter.
Nothing like ending a nice wholesome chapter with a bit of wholesome bloodletting. I really like the little worldbuilding details you sprinkled in. It is a good handling of the quotidian nature of low magics in a fantasy world. I found the alchemical particle board especially evocative, for some reason.