mother, but he found that he couldn’t. He may have even missed her.
“Little Jossie. You’re back.”
“Brother.”
It was his waste of a fourth brother, Brin, looking as meaningless as he ever did. Brin was still bigger than him, but he had never been stronger. Not since the days of the violation. He released his mother’s hand, and with a whinny of apparent delight she galloped through the smithy. As he walked past his bully of a brother, he didn’t even dignify the fool with a glare. Jossie had grown beyond the bullies. Even his coiled anger, which he was mastering to greater effect with each passing day, did little more than simmer. That was how irrelevant Brin was. It was not Brin that he needed to be scared of.
You couldn’t beat a mandahoi, but he was going to try.
“What clothes is them? You pretending to be a soldier now?” It appeared that Brin’s language lessons had not been high yielding.
“Joss. You really shouldn’t be here. Father’ll go mad.”
His head snapped to brother two; the rational sibling. His air of confidence suggested that he had now adopted his rightful place as the chief-deputy of the smithy, usurping the older but less useful brother. That was amusing. He offered his brother a callous smile.
But he wasn’t smiling inside. He had to ball his fists to stop them from shaking. The shadow of his father was looming.
“Father will understand.”
“UNDERSTAND WHAT?”
And there he was. The huge frame of his parent. His fear. His father stayed within the bounds of the smithy, and the shadow hid his features. But it was clear that joy was absent. His mother hung at his father’s left, pleading for mercy. That was strangely satisfying, however useless the gesture. In one corner of his mind, he had never felt so wanted. But in the other, he knew he was loathed. What was to be done with such contrasting emotions?
And standing at his father’s right-hand was brother one; the failing brother. He wore that same sultry face, but this time it was not baked with mischief. It was he who made the mischief today. He swallowed his nerves.
“What do you want, little Jossie.”
His father was being patronising. It worked. He rubbed at a rib, and a recollection slotted into place. His father had given him that injury during their mighty scrap. He remembered now, clear as the azure blue sky. Not that the ache had over-bothered him, but that was an important day because he had won. This was his chance to force the victory.
“I am in the army now, father. I am of the Royal Guard.”
A hand was waved dismissively in his direction. “The Royal Guard is full of crooks. No wonder they took you in.”
There was audible disbelief on a number of the loitering clients, and one man even huffed and strolled off. His father must have really wanted to dig if he was willing to lose business over the insult.
“And soon to be journeying to the borders. To the Mandari borders.”
His father gulped, his apple highlighted by the sinking sun. Did that suggest a touch of something softer? Perhaps.
“Then death awaits you. The deserved fate of a crook.”
His mother whimpered, and he may have actually been starting to relish her affection. How had he never seen that before? Most likely because it had never been there before. Maturity did wonderful things to a man, and he was only just maturing.
Brin shifted at his side. He would never mature.
“I am no crook.” Of course, that wasn’t entirely true. He was absolutely a crook – just ask the baker. But he hadn’t been a crook until his brothers had set him up and chased him from the smithy. His father’s eyes shifted in the shadows.
“You were going to leave with my property. That is theft.”
He didn’t really want to argue about this – that wasn’t why he was here – but one effort to pave the truth must surely be worthwhile.
“If I had been looking to steal your property, I would have been gone before the sun was up. I would have succeeded, father.”
His right fist clenched and the perspiration on his forehead grated. Rarely did he get so tense these days.
“Are you trying to blame―”
“I am not trying to blame anyone. I was merely attempting to offer the truth. But if the only way down that path is via the hater’s embrace, then I will forego the pleasantries. Let’s get down to business.”
Confusion reigned, which was certainly more pleasant than the threatening atmosphere that had just burst.
“What business?”
This was why he needed his father; because he was a fabulous blacksmith.
“I need you to make me a sword. I need you to make me a Mandari forged blade.”
Silence settled. The hushed chatter of the punters and general din of the city faded with the passing heartbeats. Only silence. And between him and his father there was something darker too. It stretched, expanding, every moment heavier than the last. He raised his left hand, a heavy velvet purse gripped within it. It was the prince’s money, all the prince’s money, and he could see his father’s eyes switch. The pressure went up a notch, but ultimately it broke. And oh how it broke.
He had never heard his father like that before. Laughter had not been a big part of his life.
“You want me to make you a sword after what you did to me? You are mad, son.”
Had he ever been called son before? Yes he had. In those days of perfection. But it had never burrowed like it did in that moment. It was sour.
“I have coin.” He shook the purse, and the gold inside clinked. But his father was immovable.
“Coin is of no use if you don’t have my respect. I will not help you.”
He rocked from side to side and his shadow shifted. His head dropped. How could he have been so stupid? Some grudges ran too deep, and a look to brother one returned that same infuriating smile. He had been beaten three years ago, and he could not turn the tide today. Here, he was always the bullied.
But then the smile melted on brother one, and his shadow did something else. It morphed and warped, and stretched to the side, breaking. And then there were two shadows, and someone else spoke. He smirked.
“Master Kantal senior, how pleasant to see you again. After your previous fine work, I would dearly like to commission you for a piece of similar quality for my squire here.” The prince eased the sabre from its housing and offered a bright flash of a smile. “You would not deny a prince, would you?”
His mother curtsied and ejected a little yelp of joy.
Brin’s jaw dropped, and he sunk into kneeling submission.
Brother one ducked back into the darkness and hid himself.
The entire population of the street stood dumbstruck.
And his father softened. Oh how he softened.
“Of course, your highness. I would be delighted to accept your commission.”
The prince took the velvet purse and threw it over. “This needs to be extra special. I want a double edged straight blade. A warrior’s blade. But it needs to be light as the wind, and strong as the Mandari resistance. And I need it forged in five days.”
His father looked flustered.
“Your highness, where in l’Unna would I get that much Mandari steel?”
“Already sorted,” and with an extension of the prince’s arm, a cart trundled into view. Only then did he begin to enjoy the moment.
“Come. We have preparations to make. We are going to war.”
All of a sudden, those sunny days with his father melted into the meaningless. This was what it was to be happy. Of course, he was still not entirely sure why the prince was supporting him, but he would not dwell on that now. It gave him his purpose.
“Jossie!” He turned to see his mother galloping towards him, her eyes averted from the prince. She held a cloth parcel before her, and she held it out to him. As she offered the gift, she bowed her head, and he acknowledged it with a gentl
e touch of her outstretched palms. This was most unexpected. What gift would his mother have for him? She didn’t even know he was coming.
But when he unwrapped the cloth, he almost leaned down to kiss her. “Thank you mother. This is a gift of great value.”
She didn’t lift her eyes, but her lips curled and her cheeks went rosy. He looked down at Delfin’s journal, and placed a gentle hand on his mother’s cheek. What an unexpected gesture. He opened the first page and the leaded scrawl was still there: ‘Even you couldn’t beat a mandahoi’. It had always been his destiny after all.
As they walked from the smithy, the prince enquired.
“Why were they calling you Jossie?”
Bugger. “Because that is my name. My mother wanted a daughter.”
He didn’t know what to expect. Mocking laughter most likely.
“Well it isn’t any more. I think our fates are entwined, and I think that we should recognise that shared direction. From now on you shall be Adnan ap Kantal. We are brothers in arms, and brothers in name.”
His breath caught. If it had been a theory before, then now he was certain. Their fates were shared, and it was all because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi. But he was willing to try.
He gulped. What had he done?
________
So this was war. What an absolute bastard. As he stared at the mess before him, he took a moment of reflection. Ahan really was a fortress.
Before him was the ‘Main Gate’: the Bloody Gash. It was a natural valley forged through the encircling mountain ranges, and despite the swiftly flowing river called the Emperor’s Tears which called the place home,