“Whadayou want now, boy?”
The youngster, his nose red as his lips, swiped at his nostrils and rubbed at his messy black hair.
“It’s rather cold out there tonight, sir,” he said, sniffing. “If I could only sit by the fire for a little while?”
“When you’re in the Tower and they’re stickin’ you with red-hot pokers, you’ll be plenty warm! – And that’s where you’ll wind up if ya don’t keep ya guard. Now get on back out there!”
The husky, bearded blacksmith pointed his finger to the door, and the boy promptly exited. He had been in the blacksmith’s service for some eight months now – just long enough to earn a bit of trust with his wages. He had seen men, strange men, come and go in the past days, and he knew that something was afoot. At first his inquiries were met by snide remarks about keeping to his own, but eventually the blacksmith trusted him with the danger of their deed, rather than chance keeping an unleashed tongue out of the loop. He was as part of it as anyone now.
Three others occupied the blacksmith’s room. One was a strong-built, broad-shouldered young apprentice with heavy black curls, by the name of Eldon, who currently stood working by an anvil to the blacksmith’s left. On the blacksmith’s right, was another young apprentice, a shorter, more homely-looking one, with strong arms and a slight bulge of the belly. His name was Eric, and he had been in the blacksmith’s service for some years now, since the time he was a boy. To make worse his already haggard appearance, he insisted on keeping his shirt open at the top, revealing a magnificent tuft of bunchy brown hair, which glistened when he stepped by the fire to work his craft. Each man was working on swords, and each had a pile of them on the tables by their side.
While they worked, a short, stubby woman with a round, rosy face, watched from atop a stool in the corner. Beside her was a large water pail, in which she was continually cleansing the blacksmith’s rags. This was the blacksmith’s wife, and she was so short that her feet swung gaily in the air, unable to reach the ground from the high perch of the stool. She had a gleam in her eye, which, at the moment, she directed to her portly husband.
“Why ya gotta be so harsh wit’ d’lad, Melvin?” she asked, after the boy had made his departure. “He’s a good kid, ya know?”
“Yes, yes,” the blacksmith returned. “But I have not time for him and his complaining now. I made a promise and I’m bound t’keep it, and that’s all.”
“And that’s all!” mimicked the wife.
“Oy!”
“Oy, yaself!” she replied. Then, addressing the homely apprentice, she said, “Eric…You don’t take any lip from that big ole bag’a hot air, now do ya?”
Eric let go a coyish grin, but quickly retracted it under the blacksmith’s glare. For a moment all was silent, save for the banging of the mallets upon the metal of the swords.
Suddenly, the door burst open, bringing with it a flush of cold air, and in rushed the boy, shaking uncontrollably.
“Quick! Quick!” he yelled. “Someone’s coming! Someone’s coming!”
Like Hermes, the blacksmith’s wife jumped from her stool and ran to a rug on the floor, jerking it up to reveal a hidden basement door underneath with a wire-pull attached to it. She pulled on the wire with unseemly strength, yanking the door open and flinging it back on its hinges. The three men, meanwhile, quickly recovered the swords from their worktables and raced over to the woman, who now stood halfway down the stairs out of the hidden room. They handed her the swords in bunches, and she disposed of them with terrific speed, ducking her head in and out view to place them on a table down below. When the last sword had finally been deposited, the blacksmith took his small wife under the armpits and lifted her back out. He closed the door, pushed back the wire, and hurriedly threw the rug over again.
Each person then made their way toward an unsuspicious spot: the blacksmith went back to his table, the wife to her stool, the boy to another corner wash-basin, and the apprentices to the shop front, where they engaged themselves in an apparently casual conversation.
A moment later, the door opened, and a tall, ghastly man in black uniform, with black gloves and a thin black mustache, walked grandly into the room, his heels clonking down upon the hard wooden floor. He was an Officer of the Guards, a ranking one in special uniform, with a patch that read “King’s Squad” upon the shoulder. His eyes were as black as his boots, his expression grave and discerning, trained by many years of oppression to others. He was one of Farv’s underlings, in charge of overseeing the entire town, and all knew his cruel ways well.
“Well, hello, Officer Barnes!” the blacksmith cried, acting pleasantly surprised. “It’s good t’see ya! Ha ha ha!”
“Good evening, Micker,” said the Officer, eying him somewhat suspiciously. “You’re working late tonight, are you not?”
“Oh, my,” said the blacksmith innocently, “is it nighttime already? Ha ha ha! I hadn’t even realized. I was so busy makin’ these” – he reached into a box beside him – “keys. People can’t live without their keys, ya know.”
“Is that so?” said Barnes, raising his brow. “And here I thought that we were doing a fairly good job of keeping the streets.”
“Oh, surely ya are!” cried the blacksmith. “But you know people. They want their keys.” He laughed nervously.
Barnes “hmf”ed, and began to pace the room, his hands clasped calmly behind his back. He was looking from face to face, reveling in their anxiety. Did he see something? Micker wondered. Does he know?
But the Officer gave no sign. He simply continued to pace, up and down, back and forth, until finally he stopped before the young servant boy.
The boy tried to avoid his gaze, pretending not to notice the intimidating figure before him, though he was trembling from head to toe. His father had been beaten to death by Palace Guardsmen, and he knew full-well their cruelty.
Barnes stared hard at him, till finally the boy could not help but catch his glare. Barnes put his hand to his chin, rubbing it in contemplation. Then he brought the same hand to the boy’s face, running his thumb over it as if it were a piece of fine cloth.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Th-Th-Thomas,” croaked the youth. “Thomas H-H-Harrow.”
“Hmmmm,” pondered the Officer. “Did you ever think of joining the Palace Guard, young man?”
“No, sir,” Thomas admitted, “I – I hadn’t.”
“Well, you might,” the Officer said. “Id be a better living than you’re earning here, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll consider it, sir.”
Barnes paused a moment, pondering the remark.
“Good,” he said at last, much to the boy’s relief. “Very good.”
He turned and smiled, as if to show the others that he had won yet another convert. They smiled back accordingly, conceding that he was indeed right once again, and wasn’t he a fine officer!
“Anyway,” Barnes proceeded, pacing back toward Melvin Micker, “that is not what I came for…”
With a loud scrape, he pulled his sword from its cover and placed it gently over both hands before the blacksmith.
“I saw your light on,” he said, “and thought that I’d inquire about this here sword, seeing that you were still at work. Can you repair it for me?”
“Certainly!” replied the blacksmith. “What is it that you wish done, Officer Barnes?”
Barnes stepped closer and held the sword up to the blacksmith’s eyes.
“Well, it needs a good sharpening,” he said, “and I’d like a new handle if you could…”
“Black?”
“Of course,” confirmed the Officer.
“No problem a’tall!” said the blacksmith. “Id be my pleasure.”
“Very good,” Barnes returned, placing the sword down upon the blacksmith’s table. “I trust you’ll do a fine job.”
“I’ll take the greatest amount of care possible f’my friend, Officer Barnes!” the blacksmith affirmed.
Barnes nodde
d, straightened his thin mustache.
“I’d hope so,” he said, raising his finger.
Then, his business done, the Officer turned swiftly round and walked briskly out the door.
The room was quiet for a moment as they all breathed a sigh of relief. No sooner had they done so, however, than did the door swing open again and bring with it a frightening gust of wind. The blacksmith pressed his hand to his heart, as a rugged man in shabby rags entered the shop.
“Well, well, Micker,” said the man, a broad smile upon his face, “a little on edge, I see.”
The blacksmith took a deep breath as he approached.
“You’d be, too, Miglene, if you were me. I just had myself a visit from Officer Barnes.”
“Yes, I know,” John attested, “I watched him leave. Did he notice anything?”
“No,” said Micker. “And thankfully so. Otherwise it would be curtains for all of us.”
Miglene stepped closer.
“Do you have the swords?” he asked.
“They’re almost done,” the blacksmith replied. “We were finishing up when Barnes interrupted.”
He motioned to his two apprentices, who, along with the blacksmith’s wife, stepped over to the hidden door, uncovered the rug, and began taking out the swords.
“They will be but another moment,” the blacksmith informed him. “Take a seat on that stool by the wall till then and have yaself a rest.”
Miglene, restless though he was, did not wish to make Micker any antsier, and so he obliged, stepping over to the stool and sitting himself down upon it, his arms folded patiently over his chest.
The apprentices, meanwhile, laid the swords back on the tables, taking up their hammers once again. Miglene watched as they began to bang away diligently, stepping to the fire and back, and then to the fire again. The clanging was annoying, the heat worse. He twiddled his thumbs.
“I’m going out to stand guard again,” the boy announced.
“All right,” snapped the blacksmith. “Don’t tell us, just go!”
The boy turned from his husky employer and made his way toward the door, only to be pushed back by another break of wind. The door swung open, and in stepped Officer Barnes, his head raised high in the air.
“One more thing…” he said, advancing toward the blacksmith, “…I wish to have the sword by-”
Suddenly he stopped. His eyes darted round the room, from the swords to the fire to the apprentices.
“What’s going on here?” he said.
The blacksmith quivered. Barnes raised his hand to strike, but suddenly he was felled from behind by a solid blow to the head. The Officer collapsed to the ground, as Miglene appeared in his wake.
“My God!” exclaimed the blacksmith, staring down at the limp figure. “What do we do now? Surely he will inform the Dark Duke.”
The figure below them began to stir, and for a moment it looked as if Barnes was turning over. Miglene snatched a sword from the table and, with one quick thrust, put the matter to an end.
“We need not fear him now,” he said. “Finish the swords.”
Chapter 38
On the Dark Journey