Chapter 38
As the last several days of the month deadline that Pitkins had promised wound down, Righty realized he felt a bit of the same nervousness as he did before his Oscar Peters fight and some of the wild excitement he had as a kid whenever he discovered surreptitiously that his upcoming birthday was going to involve a spectacular present. While the reason for the excitement was obvious, the nervousness had to do with a fear that perhaps Pitkins would let him down.
He had felt an instant liking for the man. He seemed strong, direct, competent, and transparent—all things Righty highly valued in any business relationship. Nonetheless, he felt that what Pitkins had promised verged on the impossible. Harold had told him Pitkins’ skill at crafting swords was known far and wide as being without equal, but Righty’s gut told him this might have been the first time he had ever attempted to craft a fully concealable sword. He feared that Pitkins’ intentions may have been sincere but that his desire not to lose a customer might have caused him to overestimate his own abilities.
Anxiety over a potential letdown led to the inevitable worrying over just what Righty would do about it. Harold had warned Righty before flying him to the City of Sodorf that if anything eclipsed Pitkins’ sword-craftsmanship abilities it was his proficiency in using the weapon. Thus, squaring off with this man wasn’t exactly high on Righty’s list of top ten things to do.
On the other hand, he would be damned if anyone—master swordsman or not—would pull one over on Righty Rick. Would Pitkins refund his money if he failed to deliver? This was eating at Righty throughout the month but had become particularly bad during the last week of waiting. He couldn’t see how a sword could be concealed to the degree Pitkins had promised—that his wife wouldn’t even notice it.
If it came to combat, Righty hoped he got the party started with a couple well-placed punches, because Harold didn’t exactly seem the type to exaggerate anything, and Righty didn’t think it wise to see if this was Harold’s first such instance.
Thus, when the big day finally came, it was with great trepidation that Righty got up at about 6 a.m. and went out to the woods and got on top of Harold. Harold was an observant little devil, and he smirked after one look at Righty’s careworn face.
Harold got as low to the ground as he could and extended a wing, which Righty used as a ramp to get on top of Harold’s back. Harold had already consented—not without some grousing—to Righty placing a leather strap around Harold’s torso, which at times Righty held onto lightly and at other times gripped for dear life, depending on how Harold was flying.
Off they went, and a mere two hours later Harold landed inside the closest portion of a wooded area near Pitkins’ shop. Fortunately, this meant only a fifteen-minute walk for Righty.
Righty felt himself growing more and more apprehensive as he approached, but he kept moving onward. After what seemed like an eternity, he opened the door to the shop. He didn’t see Pitkins anywhere, so he rapped his powerful knuckles on the door, although he was already inside.
A few moments later, Pitkins came out smiling.
“Mr. Simmers,” he said warmly.
“Sir Pitkins,” Righty greeted.
“Well, let’s cut right to the chase if you can pardon a pun,” Pitkins said, grinning.
Righty felt his anxiety level drop a couple degrees.
“I put the finishing touches on your companion yesterday,” Pitkins said. “I always believe in making the customer satisfied, so I’ll need to know your preference. Would you like to see your companion at business size or at hide-it-from-your-wife size?”
Righty paused for a moment. Both were equally important, but he supposed he’d better see the more difficult feature first.
“I’ll go with the latter.”
Pitkins nodded, turned around, and disappeared behind a door in his shop.
For a moment, Righty thought he better look out the window to see if a particular sword smith was hightailing it out of there like a thief in the night, but he decided to at least continue pretending he was calm.
Pitkins came walking back into the room. He had removed a jacket he was wearing. He was wearing a long-sleeve shirt, pants, and tall boots.
“Care to guess where it is?” Pitkins asked.
Righty suspected the boot, and if that was the case, he was going to be pretty irritated, since he didn’t always wear tall boots.
“Well, I guess the boots would be too obvious a guess,” Righty said.
“Indeed,” Pitkins agreed.
“How about you pretend I’m here looking for trouble and you’ve got three seconds to pull it out before I attack?” Righty said and gave a sincere grin, realizing the hypothetical scenario may have been a bit intense to use on a man Harold reminded him several times during their trip today could cut him into small ribbons.
Righty wasn’t even entirely sure what he saw, as he had never seen a man move quite that fast in his entire life. Pitkins had reached behind his head, as if he were combing his hair, and suddenly produced what looked like a fearsome dagger.
Righty felt his blood pressure drop considerably, but there was one test left, and if he heard something like The final version, where you can actually turn it into a real sword is going to take a bit longer than I thought, he was going to be furious.
Nonetheless, he asked Pitkins, “And the business size?”
Righty had no idea what Pitkins did because he kept direct eye contact with Righty the whole time, but he suddenly heard a series of clicks and sliding parts, and what he then saw in front of him was the most beastly, fearsome, yet beautiful weapon he had ever seen in his life.
Aesthetics met functionality in a way he hadn’t even dreamed possible. Six feet of steel sparkling with every tiny reflection from the sun spilling in through the window nearby met an imposing hilt. Gold adorned the top, as well as several incrusted jewels, which also sparkled.
For a moment, Righty stood in worshipful silence, realizing he was looking at something he was going to carry and practice with every day for the rest of his life. He almost felt afraid to even ask to touch it. It seemed too good for him, regardless of the fact he had paid every last falon a month ago.
Pitkins seemed to sense his reticence, and so he handed it to Righty.
As he put the hilt into his hand, he felt the way he supposed some fathers feel upon holding their firstborn child for the first time. He had to suppose because Eddie had been born during his drinking days, and it had been several days since his birth when he managed to sober up enough for Janie to even let him near him, and even when he had he felt like it was just another mouth to feed.
Righty nearly gasped as he felt the texture of the hilt. It was mostly smooth, but with just a slight amount of roughness, which he assumed was to prevent it from sliding out of his hand during a fight. Ever so carefully, he touched the edge of the blade with his finger. A small trickle of blood suddenly emerged. He decided no further examinations of the weapon’s sharpness were necessary.
He slowly performed the sword movements he had learned a month ago from Pitkins, as if he might somehow damage the sword if he made one false move. He immediately noticed the increased weight of the weapon. It wasn’t too heavy for him to move, but he felt himself straining slightly.
Pitkins seemed to read his thoughts.
“You may just be the strongest individual for whom I’ve ever crafted a sword. As for that sword I sold you last month—you were the first person I’ve ever seen who could comfortably wield it in those basic maneuvers. In fact, too easily, it looked like to me.
“I’m a firm believer that if a person who is new to swords is investing in a weapon that he wants to last him a lifetime it is good to start out with a sword that is slightly heavier than what he is comfortable with. The reason is that as you practice with it more and more you are going to develop greater wrist and arm strength. I believe it will ultimately be to your advantage to have the heaviest sword you
can wield fluidly because the heavier the sword the greater its effect upon impact. If you practice with it faithfully, within a few weeks it will start to feel more comfortable to you, and after a couple months the weight should no longer be an issue. After that, it will just be a matter of perfecting the techniques themselves.”
“How do I close it,” Righty asked.
Pitkins showed him two ridges on either side of the hilt at its very base, safely away from where he would be gripping the sword during actual use. Righty grabbed the two ridges on squeezed hard. To his amazement, the sword quickly retracted back to its dagger length. He squeezed it again, and he had his monstrous weapon back.
“As for concealment,” Pitkins began, and he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and then removed a harness he had had there, “just put this on. The sheath goes squarely down your spine. The top of the hilt will be hidden by your collar. One easy reach back, one quick squeeze, and you’ll be holding something that will make any potential highwayman think twice before wanting to tangle with you.”
Righty grinned and extended his hand.
“You, sir, are a genius,” he told Pitkins.
Pitkins shook his hand. He noticed a warlike gleam in Righty’s eyes, but he didn’t think too much of it, having spent a lifetime around soldiers who often got the same look when intoxicated with the acquisition of a new weapon.
“There’s just one problem,” Righty said.
Pitkins looked at him.
“I don’t know how to use this thing. I’m more likely to cut my head off than a robber’s.”
Pitkins laughed.
“Will you teach me?”
As soon as Righty noticed Pitkins face turn pensive, he began taking out wads of cash.
Pitkins interrupted him, “All right. That isn’t something I normally do, but I like you, Mr. Simmers. It takes guts to not only travel here twice for the purpose of buying and bringing back a sword to The Land of No Swords but to also want to learn how to use it. As I said last time, it’s not really about the money, but your willingness to part with your money shows me you’re serious. It’ll be a thousand falons per one-hour lesson.”
“What are we waiting for?” Righty said, good-naturedly, putting ten one-hundred-falon bills into Pitkins hand. “The most frequent I can come is twice a month.”
Pitkins managed to suppress the gasp that almost erupted from within. He had expected something more along the lines of once every other month. This guy must have one top-notch horse to be able to travel that kind of distance twice a month.
“Follow me,” Pitkins said.
Pitkins went into a separate room. It was large and spacious and covered with a canvas mat. Righty noticed Pitkins taking off his boots and then bowing before stepping onto the mat, and he didn’t have to be told to do the same. Righty was awestruck at the beautiful collection of weaponry adorning the walls. Axes, swords, maces, and battle hammers hung there, and he wondered what stories they would tell if they could speak.
Pitkins first had Righty go through the series of sword movements he had taught him last time. He made a few minor corrections to Righty’s technique, but privately he was awestruck at how close to absolute perfection Righty had come with the techniques in a mere month.
Then, he taught Righty a half-dozen more. Once the hour was up, they walked back to the shop entrance.
“Would the same time two weeks from now be satisfactory, Sir Pitkins?” Righty asked.
“Absolutely, Mr. Simmers.”
They shook hands. Righty then retracted the blade down to dagger size and put it back into its sheath. He did so carefully, not wanting to slice his shirt, but it was a movement he planned on perfecting soon enough, as well as accessing the weapon.
As he left the shop and began walking back towards the woods, he was amazed at how comfortable the weapon was. He felt no annoying bounce against his back. He felt no uncomfortable squeeze from the harness or pinching of skin. And there was no telltale clanging either. He realized that perhaps the one drawback—if it could be called such—to the weapon, sheath, and harness was that they were so comfortable he wasn’t sure if he would even notice if the sword was suddenly stolen from him.
As he approached Harold, it was Harold who was now anxious with curiosity.
He said nothing at first, but his face asked more than enough questions.
Then, after an awkward silence, Harold said, “Well?”
Carefully, Righty pulled the weapon out of its sheath.
Harold burst out laughing.
“I hope it gets bigger because from what I saw during your last fight the man who nearly disemboweled you had a sword about three times the size of that dagger.”
A sudden springing motion from the weapon exposing six feet of razor-sharp steel wiped the smile from Harold’s face immediately.
For the first time, he looked at Righty as someone more than a temporary project while waiting for the return of Master. He realized one stroke from this weapon, and if he didn’t fly away fast enough, it would lop his head clean off.
“I told you he was the best,” Harold said quietly.
He felt a bit unnerved by the ferocity in Righty’s eyes. He could tell he loved the feeling of that weapon in his hands and the thought of what he could do with it.
“Will we be returning to Ringsetter now, sir?” Harold asked, calling him “sir” for the first time and realizing simultaneously it would be the norm from now on.
Righty slowly sheathed the weapon and then got on Harold’s back.
He had big plans for his future. Mastery of this weapon was first. Then, bigger plans. Much bigger.
End of Mr. Brass
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