Prologue
A gentle snowfall blanketed the landscape for a short period of time in a village on the outskirts of the Southern Isles. Even though it was far from a picturesque place, this small bundle of houses and meagre farmland was about as close as it could get to a picturesque landscape in the Southern Isles.
Built around a giant lake, the village of Sølvvann had stood for around a century. Before the economic turmoil that had hit the Isles, it was often visited by travellers and merchants, for its scenic qualities and abundant trade. Since the large increase in taxation after King Henrik's coronation two decades ago, most of the commerce the town had long since left. The extra taxes imposed by the King made doing business in the village too expensive for merchants and traders, so they moved on to other areas to conduct their business. This left the village with a much-reduced income, and it has not been able to recover since then.
In the past, the streets of the village were adorned with large, ornate homes, merchant stalls, and a statue of the village's founder. There was a feeling that the town was decomposing after the depression hit the area. Many houses had been torn down to make firewood, which left the town looking like it was rotting away.
People who remained were all hardworking, toiling at their trades from dusk until dawn every day as they worked in their trades. You could still hear the hammering of nails and the thud of a knife hitting a wooden board, even in the middle of the dead of winter, as the townspeople were working away to help themselves and their families survive.
One of those tradesmen was Alaric Skadelig. In the Isles, he was well known for his skill as a blacksmith, working long days as well as long nights to make swords, breastplates, and helmets for the rich and powerful. Whenever he had the time, he would work on things for his fellow townfolk, such as horseshoes, nails, and tools, when he had the time. It was his policy not to charge anyone in his town for anything he made, regardless of what they asked him to make. In times like these, people needed to keep as much coin as possible in order to survive.
He was not an exception among Sølvvann's populace financially, despite his high-profile creations. The rich of The Southern Isles didn't get rich by being nice. Instead, they would intentionally charge him as minimally as humanly possible, knowing he'd accept it to get work.
As usual, he was working late in his workshop across town. His workshop was built away from houses so that he could devote his time to his craft without being distracted by people. The workshop he had was a humble one, containing nothing but the essentials for him to do the job he did. A workbench, an anvil, and a furnace.
He had been working on a new sword for days now. It was nearing completion, a sword with a rare gem set in the hilt, a sapphire with a gold frame. It was perhaps the most expensive thing he had ever made. The thought had crossed his mind to simply take the sapphire and sell it, but the man that commissioned the piece warned him that he would die for trying such a thing.
"Hello, love."
Turning his attention from the forge, his beautiful wife stood at the door frame of the workshop.
Freyja.
A pale skinned blonde woman of an almost ethereal beauty, her long flowing hair braided in an intricate manner flowing down her back. She was dressed modestly, their poverty denying her the splendour that he believed she deserved, but in spite of this she was still the most beautiful woman in the Isles.
In a sling wrapped around her chest was their baby boy, Argus, barely a week old.
Alaric quickly placed the sword on the workbench, walking to his wife to kiss her on the forehead.
As he brushed a strand of hair from her face, her smile was brighter than the snow outside.
"How are the two most important people in my life doing?" He said with a smile.
The boy in the sling cooed gently at the words. Freyja shook her head.
"We're doing alright." She responded. "The money is running a little thin, though. Is the blade finished?" She asked.
He checked it one last time, admiring the craftsmanship of the blade. He sheathed it and smiled.
"I think I'm finally done with it. Maybe I could polish it a bit more, work on the hilt, but it's ready."
She sighed in relief.
"Thank goodness."
He gently placed his hand on her upper left arm.
"I think this is the one, love. The man who commissioned it from me didn't try to stiff me on the price, it's good money. With this, maybe we can get the house fixed up."
She laughed gently at the mention of their house.
"You mean you don't want to raise our son in a home that's falling to pieces?" She joked.
He gave her a half-smile, nodding. They had been talking about the repairs the house needed for weeks, but neither of them had found a way to get the coin together.
"No, not really."
Before he could speak further, he stifled a yawn. He shook his head and blinked to keep his eyes open, trying to ward off his sleep deprivation for a while longer.
"You're tired. Come home and get some rest, the blade is finished." Freyja ordered.
They left his workshop, turning towards the path that lead back home. The road was poorly paved, and snow covered the ground. Because of the cold, Freyja was determined to get home quickly. She wrapped her cloak tighter and walked faster, pushing her husband to keep up with her. He struggled to keep up with her, his steps heavy and slow, fatigued from his long night of work.
Alaric turned his gaze towards young Argus, who dangled limply from his mother's chest.
"The boy doesn't make much of a fuss, does he?" Alaric noted.
Freyja shook her head.
"He's always been a quiet child. God gave me a gift."
Alaric wrapped an arm around her.
"He gave me two." He said warmly.
A smile spread across her face as she smiled and placed her hand on his.
They had been married for almost a decade now. He proposed when they were young, barely 18 years old.
In a town like Sølvvann, the dating pool isn't particularly deep. A head turning beauty like Freyja was sought after by all the town's young men, Alaric never actually believed that he had a chance with her. He was a quiet and humble black smith, not particularly charismatic or outgoing. Still, he mustered the courage to ask her out. To his surprise, she said yes. From that moment, they were inseparable.
She was a radiant healer, beloved by all. She could have had her choice of men for a husband, men that were better looking, more charismatic, more success. But, they didn't endear themselves to her like he did. They didn't seem as genuine.
Things weren't all sunshine and rainbows, every marriage had it's rough patches. Argus's birth was a miracle, their previous three pregnancies had ended in pain. Two girls and a boy, none of whom had ever drawn breath. Freyja's job as the town healer didn't help her pregnancies. She tried all the remedies she knew, potions, herbal teas, she even tried salves that supposedly enhanced fertility. None of it had ever worked.
That was until Argus was born. A miracle directly from god himself, the boy had hailed a turn in their fortunes.
Freyja wrapped her arms around her infant son in an attempt to shield him from the cold winter night's air.
"I understand that you need your peace and quiet for your work, but would it kill you to move the workshop a little closer? I'm freezing." Freyja moaned.
Alaric let out almost an imperceptible laugh, more a quick exhaling of air from his nostrils.
"As nice as it is to see you, I didn't call for you. You could have stayed inside, huddled by the fireplace." He replied.
"You've been at the workshop all night, I needed somebody to help warm our bed." She countered.
Argus gave her a sly smile.
"I am nothing if not a gentleman. I will not turn that request down."
She laughed, hugging Argus closer to her for warmth.
"There were no romantic connotations to that statement, dear. I'm just that cold."
Within the next moment, they were finally at the path to their home. Unpaved and as run down as the others, it still nonetheless was a comforting sight. Home is where the heart is.
Alaric held open the door to their small home, Freyja passing through, then himself. It wasn't as cold inside, a crackling fire kept the room warm enough. It was one of the only rooms in the house that still had furniture. A small dinner table to the right, with the kitchen nearby. The fire was the sole source of heat in the house, providing warmth to the entire space and making it livable in the cold winter months. It also offered a sense of comfort and security for Alaric and Freyja, who had few other luxuries in life. Some chairs sat near the fireplace, a single old painting on the wall. Their home was far from furnished. They carefully moved up the hallway, attempting to not rouse Argus from his slumber.
She placed Argus into the wooden crib in his room they had bought before the boy was born, Alaric closing the door. His room was the most spartan of them all, comprising of only his crib. The walls were barren of decoration, the only furnishing an old rocking chair in the corner. Everything else was left bare, just like every other room in the house. He didn't need anything else quite yet. They carefully retreated back down the hallway, sitting down in front of the fire.
It was not a very comfortable experience, but the fire was very warm, so it helped offset the discomfort in a small way.
They sat quietly in silence for a moment.
"Love.. why are we sitting here? I wanted to go to bed." Freyja asked.
"Because.. I want to dream for a moment." He said, deep in thought.
"Yes, because dreaming is something you usually do sitting in a chair and talking and not.. sleeping." She sarcastically retorted.
He smiled gently, resting his hand on her leg.
"About what we're going to do when we get paid for the sword."
Freyja looked into the fire, sighing quietly.
"You're sure this is the one?" She asked, doubtful.
Alaric nodded, taking a breath before responding.
"I have no doubts. Well, almost no doubts. The man who commissioned it was some sort of intermediary, which isn't unusual for the rich. But, he was the first to offer a good price. You know how it goes usually, I ask for a fair wage for my work, I get maybe a quarter of it if I'm lucky. This man actually offered more than what I asked, and didn't debate the price at all."
"Doesn't that seem odd to you? A man so willing to hand over a sapphire, even to a blacksmith like you. Times are tough." Freyja noted.
"I understand your skepticism, but see it this way. What could I do with such a stone in Sølvvann? The merchants here would never buy it from me, even if they could afford it. They sell only food, clothes, and necessities. Such a luxury is from an age long past in this town. It would not be useful to anyone. I believe he knew this fact, that's why he handed it over. Also, I do not wish to get on the wrong side of the intermediary's patron." Alaric replied.
"I believe you, Alaric. I just want us to be safe, that's all. You especially. I don't like us having to rely on these rich folk to make a living." She sighed.
"When we get the pay from this, we can move to the capital. Use the money to open a real forge, someplace they will respect. I'll get fair pay for my work, and you can open an apothecary. Argus can grow up in a place where he'll have friends, go to school. Be a scholar."
Her face brightened at the thought of having Argus go to the capital. The thought of raising their child in a place where he would have more opportunities, more friends. A place where he could live a life that was filled with promise, instead of the dreary life they lead currently.
"A scholar? You don't want him to be a blacksmith?" She asked.
Alaric shook his head.
"Not at all. I want our boy to grow up with soft hands, to not know the suffering and pain we have. If I can achieve that for him, I'll have succeeded as a father."
She smiled, turning towards him.
"Come to bed, love. We can discuss the future more when we're better rested."
He nodded, rising from his chair. Freyja held his hand, leading him back into their room down the hall. It was no nicer than any other part of the house, containing a bed, a table with a few alchemist's ingredients on it, and a bookshelf. The window outside showed darkness, but during the day it was usually covered in snow, so this wasn't too much of a downgrade.
Swiftly changing into their sleeping garments, they climbed into bed, hugging together for warmth.
"Goodnight. Tomorrow, with luck, the buyer shall be in town, and we can make our dreams come true. It's just one more sleep. I love you." Alaric whispered.
Freyja kissed him on the cheek.
"One more sleep. I love you too." She warmly replied.
The warm embrace of sleep found them quickly, as night slowly began to give way to morning.
They both woke up, feeling as if they had only rested for a moment. The winter sun shone brightly in the window, giving the room a light blue hue. They rose from their bed, their slumber interrupted by their son screaming his lungs out.
"God help us. What did I say about him being quiet last night? I take it back." Alaric complained, groggily sitting up in bed.
"I've got it." Freyja groaned, swinging her legs out of bed to get up.
"Walk slowly then, so I can get a good view." He replied, with a coquettish slap to her rear end.
As she quickly shuffled out of the room, she turned and feigned a shocked expression.
"You dog!" She laughed, leaving to collect their boy.
A moment later, he rose out of bed to follow. He looked out the window, the sun just barely cresting over the horizon.
This was not an unusual occurrence for him, he would wake up early every morning to start work. He tried to not make a habit out of getting up this early, but infants rarely respected people's schedules.
"Have you much to do today?" He shouted, putting his clothes on.
"Yes, a bit. I need to deliver a salve to Dagny, have tea with Linnea and Bergdis, and deliver Falkred a potion of mana." She shouted back, trying to be heard over Argus's cries.
"Mana potion.." Alaric quietly repeated to himself, whilst tying his boots.
He walked out to the main room of the house, finding Freyja breastfeeding their boy.
"Does Falkred still believe he has magic powers?" Alaric asked.
Freyja nodded.
"He claims that he can turn invisible, but only in complete darkness. The man isn't harming anyone, I suppose. And he pays well." She replied.
Alaric shook his head and looked away.
"That is true. What of Dagny, though? You would still serve her after the things she said?" He asked.
"Alaric, you never hold grudges, yet you cannot forgive her for mere words? You forgave Mikkel for accidentally sitting on your puppy when we were kids. You forgave Yngve for stealing your tools, even though they are your livelihood. Dagny says a few silly things and you are unable to move on? It has never made sense." She replied.
"I do not care about those who hurt me. I do care about those who hurt those I love. She should have never told you those things about Argus during the pregnancy. It was out of line." He explained.
She sighed.
"I understand, my love. You are a good man. Just.. let it go. Please?" She asked.
Shifting uncomfortably in place, he sighed.
"I shall.. make an effort."
Argus had finished feeding now, and Freyja gently lifted him up, walking over to Argus.
"Thank you. What're you going to do now? Go collect the sword from your workshop and bring it back home?" She asked.
He nodded, taking Argus out of her hands.
"Yes. I'm going to take my little forge assistant with me, too. Give you some peace to run your errands." He said.
"Very well. Are you hungry? I could prepare you some breakfast?" She offered.
He looked at the barren kitchen. Food was tight enough during the summer months, but in winter it was on a whole new level. They had been surviving off of dried fish and onions, with the occasional venison as a rare and decadent treat.
"Is there enough?" He asked pensively.
"Well, we will not be having the King over for dinner anytime soon, but there's enough. I feel bad for eating so much when I was pregnant with Argus, perhaps there would be more." She lamented.
"Enough of that. You were pregnant, love. You were eating for two. I'll pass on breakfast for now, I'll try and see if I can pick up some salted meat on the way back. See you in a bit." He replied, leaning in for a kiss.
They kissed each other, and Alaric turned to leave.
"I love you. See you later!" She exclaimed with a small wave.
He passed through the front door and out into the town. The same old long road lay between him and the workshop, made even longer by his slow pace. With every step, his legs felt as heavy as stone. Even at this time of day, people were already at work. The town only had a population of less than 50 people, but nearly all of them were already out. The fishermen were heading to the lake, the farmers tilling their fields. The occasional groan about poor crop yields and the freezing cold were the sounds Alaric listened too on his walk. The song birds that normally sang at this time of day were all dead, killed by a mix of the cold and starving townsfolk.
Of the people that he passed, none were feeling sociable. Despite the small population, people here weren't very close, or united. The economic depression and unyielding winter weather ensured that people weren't the gregarious sort. This suited Alaric fine.
"Now you're quiet. Where was this silence when I was trying to sleep, boy?" Alaric asked his son.
Argus looked back at him and smiled, his infant mind could not understand his words, but it could understand that he was looking at his dad.
"How adorable. You take after your mother, don't you? A warm, bright smile. If only it was warm enough to stop my hands from getting clunky." Alaric mused.
The trek to his workshop felt longer today than it had ever been. He was hungry, weak and tired.
"I lied to your mother, you know. I don't feel good about it. I don't have the coin to buy any food today. I'm hoping she eats while I'm gone, so at least she doesn't go hungry tonight." He whispered to his son.
Argus cooed at his father, flapping his arms around excitedly.
"How inappropriate. Here I am trying to confide in you, and you're acting a fool." He joked, playfully patting his boy on the head.
Argus giggled adorably at his father's touch.
"If only I could live off of the same food you do. Not that I haven't tried it, between you and me, but I don't think it's enough for me to live on." He said.
He was drawing close to his workshop, seeing it's thatched roof drawing over the horizon. Inside it, was his meal ticket. His way to a better and brighter future for his family. The summation of all the gruelling labour he had done over the years.
"You want to hold the blade, son?" Alaric asked Argus, holding him up to his face.
Argus giggled and tugged on his beard.
"No, I don't think you could carry it. I think you'll be your father's son, though. Give it a year and you'll be stronger than me, I bet."
"Taking your son to your workshop is a poor idea, Skadelig." A bitter old voice stated from behind him.
Alaric turned to face the origin of the sound, being faced with the unpleasant countenance of Dagny. A woman of 65 years old, she had long and unappealing grey hair, a bad eye that was milky white, and a ghastly attitude. Her face, perhaps as a consequence of scowling her entire life, was all but ruined, almost physically painful to look at. Gaunt and emaciated except for a pronounced chin, she resembled a witch from a storybook. Her personality certainly matched that description.
"Dagny. What brings you to my workshop?" He asked, with well disguised contempt.
"You and your workshop have nothing to offer me, Alaric. I was simply on my way to speak to your wife." She replied.
"You don't live on this side of town, though. Why are you coming from this way?" Alaric asked, curiously.
"Is it any concern of yours?" She retorted, sharply.
A quick sigh of annoyance left Alaric's mouth, but otherwise his stoicism held.
"It is not."
She gazed at Argus, who could sense the tenseness of the conversation and had gone silent.
"How goes the boy?" She inquired, her tone lacking sincerity.
"The same boy you told my wife would not make it. The same boy that you claimed was cursed when he was born, that boy?" Alaric asked.
Dagny placed her hands on her bony hips, clearly preparing herself for an argument. Alaric knew he had to rise above it, however. He promised Freyja that he would.
"Your wife was never meant to bare children, Alaric. Her previous three pregnancies all failed, that was a sign from God that it was not meant to be. Your continued insolence to me helps nothing." She asserted.
He placed his hand on Argus's back, trying to comfort him in spite of her cold gaze.
"But.. alas. The boy lives. I helped birth him, remember? So. How is he?" She asked, again.
She was not going to leave him be without a resolution that she was happy with, so he decided to indulge her.
"He is strong. He will grow into a fine man. We will make sure of it." Alaric replied.
"We shall see." She curtly replied, striding off immediately after.
As she walked off towards his home, Alaric had to use every iota of his willpower to not shout an obscenity at her. He was a stoic, conflict adverse man, but he was a man nonetheless. No man will allow somebody to so blatantly disrespect them or their child, but he had to put up with it.
She was the town's midwife, and had helped birth him, and guide Freyja through her pregnancy. Like it or not, she'd been integral to Argus's survival, despite her belief that he was cursed.
As her gnarled form left his view, he looked down to his son.
"Ignore her, son. She's a superstitious fool. You're a gift, a blessing to us. Come, let's go get the sword and get out of this cold." Alaric reassured, walking up to his workshop.
His humble workshop was something he'd miss, after they got the money. It was tiny, and barely had enough space to get the job done, but it was comfortable for him, his safe space. He could retreat from the stresses and toils of his life to go and do what he was best at.
"Alright, boy. You'll love it, it's got a big bright jewel on the hilt, and it's… it's.." Alaric's speech trailed off, as he gazed at his work bench.
It was gone.
His tools were all still there, his apron and his equipment. Everything was as he left it, except the sword.
"What?! This cannot be!" He exclaimed, placing Argus on the ground in a hurry. Crouching under his workbench, he frenziedly looked for it.
He was met with failure. It wasn't there. The only explanation was that somebody had taken it, but who? He knew everybody in town well enough, he didn't believe any of them would steal from him, his job was too important. Nobody would risk angering the town's only blacksmith.
Argus crawled about on the ground, unaware of the dire situation his father was now in.
"What am I going to do?! The man is supposed to be coming any day now for that sword, if I don't have it then he'll kill me!" He exclaimed.
Taking a deep steadying breath, he closed his eyes for a moment to focus.
"Okay. Panicking won't help. I need to find where it is today, and get it back. Sorry son, but you've got to go home. I could be out for a while, and I don't want you in the cold for this long." He explained.
He picked Argus up in a hurry, re-tracing his steps back home. The walk back was far quicker than the walk there, his stress expediting the process. The same men and women he passed on the walk over, he now studied, trying to see if any of them had the blade. None of them did. Why would they? Would the thief of a priceless sword simply carry it in the open?
As he rounded the final corner and saw his home, he slowed to a stop.
Dagny was already at his front door, speaking to Freyja. She looked far more happy speaking to her than him, those two women actually got along. Despite what she had said about Freyja's pregnancy, she took it in stride and the two women had a good relationship.
Freyja spotted him approaching, smiling pleasantly.
"Oh, Alaric. Back already? Did you forget something?" She asked.
Dagny turned to face him, her expression as unappealing as ever.
"Y-yes, love. All is well, I just thought I'd bring young Argus back now. It's a bit cold, and I have more to do than I anticipated." He replied, handing the boy over.
Freyja took her son and kissed him on the head.
"It is indeed." She replied.
For all her faults, Dagny was perceptive, and could pretty clearly read that Alaric was upset about something. Instead of asking him what the matter was, she quickly turned her head back to face Freyja, although Alaric could have sworn he saw a smirk on her grizzled face.
Before the two women could speak to Alaric further, he had already set off down the path.
He was trying to formulate a plan, a logical reason as to why the sword wasn't there. Could the wind have blown it away? Impossible, it was too heavy. Why would anybody steal from him? He had no enemies in Sølvvann.
He just had to ask people, get some info. The place where he'd find the most people was the lake, undoubtedly. The lake was the town's main food source, and it hadn't yet frozen over so they were still working hard. He should be able to ask the men who were bringing the fish back in to shore, if nobody else.
He jogged towards the lake. The smell of stagnant water, fish and decay assaulted his nostrils, but he paid it no mind. The smell was strong, being discernible from quite the distance. The lake itself was undeniably beautiful, perhaps Sølvvann's crowning jewel. Deep, enrapturing, and beautiful, it was a source of calm for most people in the town, smell aside. At the right time of year the Northern lights would be visible over the lake, creating a scene that was nearly angelic. Alaric had never travelled the world, but he still believed the sight was world class. He hardly had time to appreciate it right now, however.
As he approached the edge of the lake, the fishermen were already out and about, many carrying heavy fish buckets on their shoulders. He recognised them all, but knew none of their names. One of them had to know what happened to the sword, or at least have some kind of clue.
"Hello, Blacksmith." One of them politely said. He was a man of medium height, but a lithe build, fit from his long days of labouring. He had shoulder length brown hair and a patchy beard, his clothes containing numerous patches and stitch marks. Alaric may have just found a man who was more poor than him.
"Good morning. I have a question for you." Alaric tersely.
The man looked to his companions, who stared at Alaric in mild interest.
"If it is about the forge, I won't be of much help. If you wanna know what bait you need to catch a good Burbot or Eel, however.." He said, sarcastically.
Alaric was not amused.
"I was working on a blade. It was a magnificent long sword, with a gold frame and a sapphire hilt. You could not miss it." He asked.
The man chuckled, clearly finding the situation amusing.
"Ahh. That blade. Yes, we've seen it. Your sword. We all have." He replied.
Alaric was surprised, but he refused to let it show.
"Falkred ran off with it. Claimed he was going to go fell a Dragon, or perhaps a Phoenix. Or was it a Dwarf?" One of the other men laughed.
Falkred. Alaric hadn't even thought about him. He was harmless, he'd never do anything stupid like this. What made him do it?
"You're sure of this?" Alaric asked.
The first man nodded.
"We didn't see how nice the sword was, otherwise we would have chased after him. We just thought he found it outside town or something, I'm sorry." He replied.
Alaric sighed, looking at the ground. This was getting worse by the minute. Falkred could have gone anywhere, he's been known to disappear for days, one time even for a week. He didn't have that long to wait, he had to find him.
"What direction did he go in?" Alaric asked.
"That way, out of town. He can't have gotten that far, it was only a few minutes ago." The man said, pointing to the road.
Wordlessly, Alaric began striding back towards the road. He had to catch him, his family's life depended on it.
"Good luck!" The man shouted as Alaric walked off.
Not turning to face him, Alaric raised his hand in a half-hearted wave. He didn't have a single second to waste, he had to find him.
The road up and out of town was ironically the nicest and best maintained, so it was far easier to travel. As he walked, his mind raced. Why would he steal it? Why would Falkred even think about stealing it? Alaric knew the man was eccentric, but had never known him to do any wrong. He even had somewhat of a soft spot for him, in his own way.
The sun was out, but it was not warm. It was colder outside of town than in it, and there were dangers. Due to King Gustav's taxes, many men and women had turned to banditry. He knew of none that lingered around Sølvvann, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Mix wolves and bears into that list, and you have a recipe for disaster. He hoped to get to Falkred before any of those dangers could, to bring him back with the sword intact.
As he neared the end of the road, he could see the snow covered trees of the forest, stretching off into the horizon. Somewhere in all that, was Falkred.
"Hmm… okay. Look for tracks." Alaric said to himself, kneeling down. The snow covered tracks quickly, but if Falkred had been around as recently as the man had claimed, there should still be some sign of him. Snow covered the ground in a thick blanket, there were no footprints visible. That wasn't acceptable, there had to be something. Some clue, some idea of where he went. He was not going to return empty handed.
His eyes scoured the ground in the distance, looking for something. Anything. Anything at all that might help him find the man. As he looked further down, something caught his eye.
The outline of a body on the ground.
His breath hitched in his throat. That was something he was hoping to avoid, a corpse. Had it been Falkred? It wasn't moving.
Alaric jogged over to it. It was the corpse of a man, ran through with a blade. His face was contorted into an expression of pain, between a scream and a gasp. He was clutching his heart, or more appropriately a large hole where his heart was, his shirt and hands stained crimson. He had been stabbed, brutally. There was no mistaking that this man was killed with the blade that he had made.
Alaric had seen him around. A farmer, Mors. They were not friends, but he was always cordial and polite with him. His onions were the best in town, he had a wife and child. This man hadn't done a single bad thing his entire life, except cross the wrong man and the wrong time.
"I am sorry, my friend. I shall make this right." Alaric said, crouching over him and closing his eyes.
Now, this had officially become a disaster. The village idiot had killed a man. Alaric had to track him down and get the blade back. Getting up and walking past the corpse of Mors, he scanned the area around him carefully. Would Falkred jump out and attack him? Would he do anything at all? Is he even alive, did he strike himself down with the blade? Questions ran through his head like a chariot down a road.
"Falkred? Falkred, friend, are you out here?" Alaric called. No response. He must have gone deeper into the forest.
Striding further into the forest, Alaric overhead screaming, a man. It had to be Falkred.
"Falkred? Are you okay?!" Alaric called.
"AHHHH! THE DEMONS COME! THEY CALL MY NAME!" He shouted.
Alaric ran in the direction of the voice, deeper into the forest. The forest outside of Sølvvann was foreboding, with tall trees hugging each other, leaving poor visibility. He could run right into a swing of the blade and he wouldn't be the wiser, but it was a risk he had to take.
The trees cleared and Alaric saw Falkred standing on top of a small hill, looking down. Alaric didn't approach him, still wary of the sword.
As Alaric approached, Falkred turned to face him.
"Alaric? Alaric is that you, blacksmith? Why do you chase me? I'm busy. I'm protecting Sølvvann, I'm saving it from demons. Go back to town, where it's safe!" He screamed in a panic.
Alaric raised his arms, in an attempt to pacify him.
"Demons? Falkred, what are you talking about? Why did you take that blade from my workshop, please put it down and come back to town with me." He pleaded.
Falkred just stared at Alaric, as if he was speaking a foreign language. Nothing was getting through to him.
"The.. the witch told me that demons were going to attack, an-and I needed the sword of legend to kill them, to stop them! It was in your workshop, I had to take it!" Falkred exclaimed.
Alaric inched a little closer to Falkred, trying to get a handle on the situation.
"Ha! What kind of idiot puts a sword of legend in a building with no doors? What a load of nonsense."
Alaric took a steadying breath and continued to approach him. He was dead if he didn't get the sword back, so he wasn't particularly afraid of dying in an attempt to reach it.
"Falkred, please put the blade down. There is no witch, there are no demons. You hurt Mors." He explained.
Falkred seemed to finally be thinking over this, his eyes glazing over with concern.
"Th-th-that wasn't Mors, though. Alaric. It was a demon, th-that looked like Mors. It wasn't him. It just looked like him and screamed like him." He mumbled.
Falkred's face began to drop, as the realisation seemed to hit him. Tears welled in his eyes, and he dropped the blade. It fell to the ground with a loud clatter, echoing through the silent forest.
"God.. god Alaric. What have I done? How did I fall for such madness.." He weeped to himself.
Alaric looked at the blade, and then at him. He couldn't help but feel culpable. He wasn't responsible for Falkred's madness, but he did make the blade that the farmer was killed with.
"Listen, lets just go back to town. I won't tell anybody of this, and neither will you. It's.. it's not your fault." Alaric explained. Covering the ground between them, Alaric knelt down and picked up the blade. It was normally heavier, but felt light as a feather with all the adrenaline running through Alaric's system.
"You would forgive me for such an act? YOU EMBRACE SIN, YOU'RE A DEMON LIKE HE WAS" Falkred shrieked, tackling Alaric. The two tumbled down the small hill, the snow beneath them softening the blow. Falkred tried to grab the blade, but Alaric held onto it tightly, unwilling to give it to the man.
As they both got to their feet, Falkred made another grab for the sword, trying to wrestle it from him.
"Falkred, stop this madness!" Alaric screamed, trying to keep control of the blade.
Alaric yanked the sword out of Falkred's grasp, and delivered a strong kick to his chest, sending him careening to the ground. Winded, Falkred lay on the ground in a daze for a moment.
"Please, Falkred! Demons are not real, magic is not real! Come back to town with me, I'll.. I'll get my wife to make you something. Something to calm you, to settle you down. Just don't make me hurt you!" He begged.
Falkred sat up, looking at Alaric with sad eyes. Alaric could tell deep down, he knew what he did was wrong. But he couldn't accept what he had done.
Suddenly, Falkred jumped towards Alaric. Alaric closed his eyes in a panic.
SHLKK!
Everything went silent for a moment.
Alaric hesitantly opened his eyes. In that brief moment of panic, he held up the blade.
And…
Falkred was at the end of it. The blade had pierced directly through his chest, nearly to the hilt.
Falkred tried to speak, but only blood came out of his mouth. His body was trembling as he reached out to Alaric, grasping at his shirt. He fell back into the snow with a sickeningly wet sound, coughing and choking.
Alaric, wide eyed, looked at the blade in his hand.
Alaric tried to utter an apology, but no words left his mouth. He simply stared at the blade, wide eyed. Within the minute, Falkred stopped making any sounds. He was gone.
He was dead, and Alaric had killed him.
Alaric's legs gave way, and he fell onto his behind. All he could do was look up at the sky, he couldn't bare to look at Falkred for even a second. He was mentally ill, he had done something wrong. But he didn't deserve that, to die. Yet, he had. Alaric had become judge, jury, and executioner, intentional or no.
Taking a steadying breath, Alaric got to his feet. He wiped the blood off of the blade in the snow, staining if further. The snow all around them was already wet with Falkred's blood.
He had to go home. Forget all about this. This is what he wanted to protect his son from, this misery. This violence.
Turning to walk away, he took a quick glance at Falkred. He felt sick, but he had to leave him. He had to get back to town.
He began to jog away, which turned into a run, and then a full sprint. The cold winter's air stung his lungs as he bolted through the forest and back to the path into town.
By the time he reached the edge of Sølvvann, he was panting and wheezing. It felt like someone had strapped weights to his feet, each step became a battle. He wanted to sit down and rest, but he couldn't. He had to get home, to see his wife and son. Something about what he had just experienced made him want to hold them close.
Striding into town as fast as he could, he quickly entered the front door. Two men were inside his home, talking to his wife.
One was a tall, fit man wearing a double breasted long coat, he was military. He was the same man who commissioned Alaric for the blade a few weeks ago, albeit he was dressed much more officially. He glared at Alaric with the same intense stare that he had when they first met, not saying a word as he noticed him enter.
The man beside him was of medium height, and a slightly burly build. He was older than Alaric, but only by a few years, being in the middle of his 30's. He had short, well groomed brown hair, a fanciful yellow coat and pants ensemble that looked incredibly expensive, and..
A crown on his head. This man was the King.
"Ah! The blacksmith finally shows his face." The man exclaimed, raising his arms in an operatic gesture.
"Y-your highness. This is a.. surprise." Alaric exclaimed, bowing quickly.
"No, stand up, stand up. I insist. Drop the pomp and ceremony for a moment, speak to me as if you would any of your impoverished friends." The King said dismissively.
Alaric walked over to his wife, kissing her on the cheek. She smiled at him, but then gestured towards the King and his man, not wishing to speak. Alaric inferred that she wanted him to lead the conversation.
"It is a great honour King Gustav, to host you in our home. Please, sit." Alaric said, gesturing towards the chairs.
King Gustav looked at the chairs, and then looked back at him with a crooked smile.
"Oh, no. It's quite alright. We don't intend to stay long." He replied.
The tall and quiet man who was with the King quickly snatched the blade from his hands, inspecting it thoroughly. After a moment, he nodded to Gustav, who's smile deepened.
"You've made quite the blade for me, Blacksmith. I had my friend here come and commission it for me. I can't be seen doing such a thing myself, of course. Being seen in this backwater town is embarrassment enough, but alas… Even in the capital, they speak of a man in Sølvvann who can make miracles happen on the anvil. Glad that they weren't lying to me." King Gustav remarked, his eyes looking at the blade with pride.
If Alaric wasn't stressed after what he had just witnessed, he definitely would be now. The king himself is in his home. He only hoped that he would pay him and leave, he had heard tales of King Gustav. None of them good. A king more than happy to have folk killed if they disagreed with him, or if they annoyed him, or if he just felt like it. He was a profoundly greedy monarch as well, over taxing the populace for reasons he refused to explain. He had to keep himself in line, not let his stress or anxiety show.
"I am.. glad you're happy with it. I hate to be rude, but shall we shall we negotiate payment?" Alaric asked.
Gustav glared at Alaric.
A minute that felt like an eternity passed, before he nodded towards his companion.
"Yes, of course. I reward good work, blacksmith." He said, as his mysterious friend starting rifling around in his satchel. After a brief moment, he retrieved a large sack of gold coins, dropping them in front of Alaric in a slightly rude manner.
Without even opening the sack, Alaric knew that this was life changing money. This was their break, finally. Finally something went right. Alaric's eyes darted to Freyja, who was trying to stifle a smile. She was scared to show emotion around King Gustav, left she incur some kind of imaginary offence.
"Say, blacksmith… Have you heard of Nordhjem?" The king asked, tilting his head in a curious manner.
Alaric rubbed the back of his head. He had only heard the name once or twice, and he didn't remember where it was. Where he came from, you worried more about your next meal than geography.
Freyja could sense that Alaric wasn't going to answer properly, so she spoke up. She had always been more educated than him.
"It's a kingdom on the small island to the north of the mainland, sire." She explained.
Gustav turned to her with a perturbed expression, before regaining his composure.
"You are correct, woman. Also, you are forgiven for speaking out of turn. Do not do it again." He sharply remarked, pointing a finger at her.
Freyja shrunk down, avoiding eye contact with the king.
King Gustav turned back to Alaric, addressing him again.
"I understand that since you're from a hovel in the arse end of The Southern Isles, recent events may pass you by. So I shall educate you. Nordhjem are our northern neighbours, and they have not been playing nice. They have not been paying their respects to us, and they have seceded from our alliance and reneged on trade agreements. Such impropriety simply cannot be forgiven. Why am I telling you this, humble blacksmith? Well, I tell you this for this reason. I am planning something. Our army is in a shameful state. Of course, this is far from my fault. They need better equipment. I commissioned this blade from you to test your skills, and I find your skills.. appropriate." The King explained, rubbing his chin.
"I see. I cannot equip an army, your highness. I am one man." Alaric explained.
"Yes you are, Blacksmith. You are one man. But, you are one man with the skill set I require. I am going to offer you a job, a once in a life time opportunity. You will return with me to the capital, I will give you whatever money you need to open a workshop, and… you will equip my army. I want the army of The Southern Isles to be strong enough to crush Nordhjem, to bring it to heel. We will teach the world that we won't be disrespected. We will be taken seriously." The King explained.
Alaric looked over at his wife, who was looking straight back at him. He didn't want to risk annoying Gustav by talking to her in front of him, but he'd give anything to hear her thoughts. This was the opportunity that he was talking about, the money that'd change their lives. But..
Gustav noticed Alaric gazing at his wife, and laughed.
"Your adorable little family may accompany you, of course. Don't worry."
Alaric sighed and took a seat. This wasn't a decision to be made lightly.
The tall and menacing man besides Gustav looked at Alaric. He could not discern a facial expression, the man was expertly trained. He didn't give a single thing away about what he was thinking.
"You have been offered more than you deserve. You will accept it, or you and your wife shall die. You know too much now." He brusquely explained. This was an intentional choice on the king's part, they would work for him, or if they refused, he'd have a valid reason to have them killed because they knew his plan. Not that he'd need one, but Alaric assumed that sort of logic would help him sleep better at night.
"You have your blacksmith, your highness." Alaric hesitantly said.
Gustav clapped his hands.
"Splendid, splendid. You have an hour to prepare, a carriage shall soon arrive for you. Of course, you shan't travel with us. I refuse to abide the company of an infant. Goodbye!" The king said, as he and his man began to walk towards the door.
As they opened the front door, they stopped to look outside.
Their carriage had arrived, undoubtedly it had been parked outside for a while. Alaric hoped they didn't see the corpses on the way in.
King Gustav grinned as he saw it.
And he was gone.
Alaric turned to his wife, and sighed.
"That man terrifies me." Freyja exclaimed, walking over and embracing Alaric in his chair.
She looked down at the large bag of coins, and then looked at her husband with a conflicted look on her face.
"This is what we've been waiting for." He said, more trying to convince himself than her.
She sat next to him in front of the fireplace, gazing into it.
"Will you be okay knowing that you're helping to prepare for a war?" Freyja asked.
Alaric stared vacantly for a moment. He had just killed a man, and it ruined him. The idea of helping to propagate violence on a massive scale like that was anathema to him, he couldn't stand it. When he made weapons for the rich and famous, he knew they'd just go up on a wall or in a sheath on a table somewhere, and never actually be used. With a man as violent as King Gustav, he knew that wouldn't be the case. His weapons would be used.
"Are the folk of Nordhjem bad people?" Alaric asked.
Freyja looked at him quizzically, not expecting the question. She was silent for a few moments.
She took a deep breath.
"No, Alaric. They're not. From what I've heard, they're just normal, like us."
Alaric sunk further into his chair.
"Oh."
Freyja squeezed his hand.
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, before Alaric stood up.
He turned to his wife.
The decision was made. He couldn't let them all down, not after all that they had been through.
"To answer what you asked before, I'll have to be okay with it. I've got to think about you, and about Argus. If I have to get blood on my hands to keep my boy's and yours pure.. then I'll do it."
Freyja looked at her husband with a solemn look.
She hugged him.
They hugged for a long while.
They both knew this was going to be difficult, and it would change them all.
But it was the right thing to do.
They let go of each other.
"Come on, I'll go get Argus ready."