Grim Dawn Tale Of Two Blacksmiths


Grim Dawn Tale Of Two Blacksmiths


Grim Dawn Tale Of Two Blacksmiths

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When I was a boy, there were two blacksmiths in my village. One of them—the old one—was a good smith and his son worked with him. The other was a bad smith but his son’s skills were better than the old man’s so he took over for him when the time came.

He did a fine job, but after he passed on, his son went back to the old ways. It made people mad because they said that his father was better at his craft than his son had been and his father would not have allowed it if he’d wanted his work done differently.

When my father became lord of my home, I took charge of the blacksmith shop. My father told me to run it as I saw fit. So I let both the good and bad smiths do their jobs until such time as we needed something else from either of them. After all, there are many different kinds of steel, each needing its own approach to making.

The first thing that struck us about the new blacksmith who showed up was how young he looked. We were used to seeing men older than ourselves working alongside us in the shop; the best ones seemed to be the oldest or those with gray hair and wrinkles on their faces.

This guy, however, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. His skin was dark, like most of our folk’s, though his hair was white. He had a shock of red hair atop his head that stood out like a candle flame against his skin.

His eyes were bright blue, almost too blue as if a fire had burned deep in their depths. But what really set this fellow apart were his teeth. They were perfect ivory white and shone like the moon when seen through storm clouds.

“You must be from far away,” I said while we waited for the metal to heat enough to start hammering at it. “Where have you come from?”

He grinned widely and replied, “As far south as we can go without leaving the world.” Then he laughed and added, “And even then there is nothing left behind us. Only the gods know where we’ve come from now. And they are dead as well, aren’t they? That makes us the only living things in these lands now.”

I stared at him and wondered what sort of person could make such a statement and still sound so cheerful. He was young, certainly, but he was also handsome beyond measure. There was an easygoing nature to him, too, which made me think that he’d never been beaten down by life.

I’d never heard anyone say that anything about this new arrival reminded them of anything other than a pleasant dream or story, but I thought he might just be the first.

We worked together that day for three hours before it was finally ready to use. In addition to my own experience in forging and smithing, I knew plenty about the tools of the trade from listening to my father discuss them with his friends.

The new smith seemed to know some things himself, too. He asked me questions about the forge itself and why certain things were done in certain ways. We worked well together because, as we both agreed, he and I weren’t afraid to question one another when it came to finding the best way to create whatever we were trying to produce.

It was late afternoon when we put the last piece of steel into place for that particular weapon and, looking at it all finished, we turned to walk toward the river where my father’s boat was moored. I glanced over at him and noticed that he was watching me intently, probably wondering how I felt about all that we’d accomplished today.

I smiled at him and said, “What do you think of what we’ve made here? Do you have any ideas for next time?”

His face broke out in a broad grin. “Oh, yes. All sorts of things.” He walked beside me to the dock and, reaching for my hand, pulled me closer so our faces were side-by-side and his lips brushed mine. His breath smelled sweet and warm, just as he appeared, and he leaned forward so our mouths touched again and our tongues danced in each other’s mouths.

For a moment I thought this man’s kiss tasted of flowers as soft as snowflakes, and I could hardly believe that he was really kissing me. I’d been kissed before, mostly by women in the village, and I liked that sort of attention, but what this fellow was doing was different somehow, and better.

He moved back from me, his lips still close to mine, and whispered, “If it wasn’t for that beard, I’d kiss you right here in front of everyone.”

“So they’ll see us?” I asked, confused by the idea.

My father had always warned me against being seen getting too friendly with a girl or a man. I suppose he wanted me to keep myself to myself as much as possible, but I had a feeling that this stranger would understand.

“No, not unless we want them to.”

I smiled. “Then let us walk home together instead of taking the boat.”

He nodded and we strolled down the road that led to the village. Our feet splashed through puddles that covered the muddy ground and we talked all the way, talking about what we’d made that day, how long we’d known each other and where we’d come from, and all sorts of other topics. It was nice to share the news with someone else who hadn’t grown up in this small village.

After several miles, we reached the edge of the forest that surrounded the entire region of my childhood. The sun had started sinking behind the trees. When he saw the first lightning in the sky, my companion said he’d return the next day for more work on the weapon.

He offered to bring the tools and everything else needed to make a second sword so we wouldn’t waste any time between the two. After that, we stood at the edge of the wood staring at the darkening horizon and saying goodnight.

“Come visit again soon,” he said with a smile as we turned away.

I returned home, happy and content. I’d learned that a man like this did not belong in a remote, rural area—he belonged in a big city where he could attract lots of attention. I decided to tell my father of the encounter that night when he got home, but he had already heard the gossip and told me that I should take advantage of this new friendship if it meant making a few extra pennies for us.

When I woke the following morning, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw that I had not shaved since my last bath. My beard was longer now, as was my hair, and it was a good thing I had a decent supply of soap so that I could wash both of those off.

In the kitchen, my mother greeted me with her customary scowl for a boy who hadn’t washed his face or body properly before going out to work that day, but she didn’t seem to recognize me. I knew my face was different now; it was no longer the face of a peasant. Instead, it was that of a warrior hero, even though the only fight I’d faced so far was an argument with my younger brother.

I went outside, carrying a sack of grain over one shoulder. As I walked, my mind wandered, thinking about the sword and what we’d made and planning how to use the metal pieces we’d collected today.

I passed by the smithy where I had spent many hours working with my father, and I felt a strange twinge of homesickness. But then I remembered that I’d have to stay here, away from all these people, for another year until I could join King Edward’s army. Then I’d go to war, and my father would be proud of me. Maybe he’d even give me some land.

At the market square, where farmers came to sell their crops, I set up my booth under the protection of a wooden structure. There were lots of other booths selling foodstuffs: vegetables, eggs, smoked meats, fish, cheeses, wine, ale, and bread.

People crowded around us and we began to sell quickly. Most customers had brought empty jars so they could buy beer in return. I never minded serving them; it was good for business.

That evening I took the sack of grain home with me. At home, I helped my mother prepare a stew that we ate together. She served me a bowl of it along with two slices of fresh sourdough bread that were just coming out of the oven. My little sister Lief ran inside and grabbed a chunk of the bread while my mother poured me more ale.

“It’s been a productive day,” I said with satisfaction as I chewed my dinner, which was delicious despite its simplicity. “We’ve sold quite a bit of food. We can put some aside for our winter stores.”

Lief, my older sister, nodded her agreement.

“And now you have money to spend!” Mom said, pleased with my success. “You don’t have to ask me anymore. You earned this for yourself.”

As we ate, my father entered the room and sat beside my mother without saying anything, drinking his own ale. A short time later he got up and left the house, leaving us alone.

My mother frowned at me, shaking her head in disappointment. “If only your father would help us with this business,” she said in frustration. “The men who come through the village every week are always looking for something to buy.”

“But Dad is too busy hunting,” I said, knowing that he was probably still chasing wolves in the forest. Wolves had become a serious problem over the past three years and there were almost daily reports of them killing sheep and goats in the area.

They seemed immune to poison arrows fired from our bowstrings so Father often spent days stalking the beasts with nothing more than a single arrow. He was skilled with it, however, and usually killed the wolf after several shots, though sometimes the animal escaped into the woods and returned home alive with a wound from my father’s arrow.

“Maybe he’ll bring home a good buck tonight,” I added hopefully.

My mother smiled. It was nice to see her smiling. Her expression reminded me of what it must be like for a woman who has just met a handsome knight or nobleman. She had always been pretty when she dressed herself up and wore her makeup well; now she was plain and unkempt.

I had seen her in the mirror and realized that the only way I could make her look better was if I cut the hair off her face and gave her a bath.

Then my attention was drawn to the door and I saw my brother come in. The first thing I noticed about him was that he was not wearing his usual tunic but instead a heavy cloak of brown wool, which he held closed around himself with a leather cord wrapped around and around the edges.

On top of the cloak, he wore his best shirt, which he had ironed that morning. It was a dark blue color with embroidered white cuffs, and it showed the creases that it had acquired since my brother last wore it. His hair was also brushed, which meant that he’d gone to great lengths to do this; normally he let it hang down in his eyes. Now it was neatly tucked behind his ears.

He plopped down next to me at the table, taking a bite of bread and chewing vigorously before he answered my greeting. I knew it wasn’t easy for him to get around without tripping over things and falling on his face, so I wished him luck.

“How was school today?” he asked eagerly. “Did you win any contests?”

“I did not win any contests,” I said proudly, “but I didn’t lose any either.”

“Good for you!” He took another bite of bread and continued, “And what have you done with your life so far? Did you find that sword?”

I sighed heavily. I had told him about it many times but he refused to believe me.

“What happened to it?” my younger brother asked. “Are you going to give it back to King Magnus now that we’ve beaten those Saxons?”

“No,” I admitted sadly, “but I haven’t given it up yet. I might be able to use it someday, and if I’m wrong and it never works again, then at least I can say I tried.”

“That’s a good answer,” my brother said approvingly. Then he added, “Maybe if I work hard enough, I can get one myself. I need to go now. I want to try out the new spear that I bought today.”

I nodded. As I watched him leave, I thought about how my older brother had grown over the past few years. In addition to getting taller by several inches, he had become stronger. Even though he couldn’t lift a full-grown deer, he could throw rocks and stones farther than anyone else.

And he had begun shooting arrows that hit targets much farther away than before. If we ever came across any giants again, he would surely do all right against them.

As I ate and listened to my parents talk, my mind drifted back to that day when the spear had appeared in our hands. It was the last time we had won a contest together, and even that small victory had been snatched away from us soon afterward. The weapon itself had been a gift from God; I still believed that. Yet the man who had made it, my uncle, had died and left me with nothing.

It was almost as if the gods had taken my uncle’s promise away from me too. That had been the first time I remembered feeling such despair, though I don’t know why because I’d experienced other disappointments in the following years. Still, I found that my thoughts often drifted back to the spear and its maker, even though he had been dead for many years.

Now as I sat at my breakfast table, I wondered what had brought about the change in my older brother, and it suddenly occurred to me that he had always loved to compete, especially when there were prizes to win, but something had changed in him over the past few years.

Perhaps it was because we had lost everything. Or maybe it was because we had finally realized that we weren’t special after all, that we couldn’t win every contest we entered, no matter how badly we wanted to. But more likely it was because he had gotten married.

When I looked at my mother, I noticed that she seemed distracted. Her eyes were focused on the bowl in her hand, where she was stirring up the oatmeal and adding milk, but her mind must have been elsewhere.

She was always busy at home doing whatever needed to be done, and she was never bored unless it was wintertime and all there was to do was sit indoors and wait until spring. Now she was not only thinking about food but also about the future.

I glanced at the kitchen doorway and noticed that my father had disappeared into his office, and for some reason that made me feel uncomfortable. Normally he would sit beside my mother and talk with her while they ate, but he hadn’t returned from the field this morning and had instead headed straight for his study.

My mother’s attention was now fully focused on what she was making, so she missed my concern as I watched my father disappear through the door. When I got up and went to follow him, I discovered that he had locked himself inside and wasn’t coming back out for a while.

So I settled back down at the table to finish my breakfast, which turned out to be just oatmeal again, although my stomach growled for something hot to eat.

At the age of twenty-seven, my father had reached the end of his career as a jarl. He had served three kings, King Hakon I, King Olaf, and now King Sigurd, and in each case he had managed to stay ahead of everyone else, even the famous King Magnus who ruled the rest of Norway and was known throughout the Northlands.

But despite all that he had accomplished, he was now old and tired, and his health was failing. He rarely slept and spent most of his nights tossing in his bed, sometimes crying in frustration.

“I hate this place,” my father muttered to no one in particular. “And now I fear that I’ll be leaving it behind in a coffin instead of returning home to my wife.”

His words echoed around me and then faded away, and my mind went back to that night when I had been attacked by the giant. Had my father seen what happened? Did he know why it had happened? Or did he think it had been an act of God or Odin’s vengeance?

As I continued sitting alone in the silent dining room, I tried to recall what my father might be like during the daytime. What kind of person did he really care about, and who were the people who mattered to him? I knew he cared about us, but I was beginning to wonder if there were others among his family that he loved and felt closer to than us.

The only thing I knew was that my father was a good man, a loyal and devoted servant of the gods and men. And I could trust him, though he was sometimes gruff and hard to talk to, and that was probably because his tongue was sharper than any knife blade.

But he would not let anyone take advantage of him and was always prepared for anything, including death itself. In those moments when I was sure that we were about to die, he would appear at my side and say to me, “No one can defeat us, son. Even in our last breaths, we will fight like wolves, and we will win!”

Then he would lean against me and wrap his arm around me to keep me warm. He would whisper something comforting, but I had long since learned to tune out his words. They didn’t mean much anyway because he often spoke to me in Norse or Latin, though I understood enough of both languages to understand his meaning.

After my breakfast, I decided to return to the fields to see how things were going, but I paused before stepping off the porch and turned to look back at my sleeping parents. As I stared at them, I found myself wishing that I had paid more attention to my father when I was younger.

That night changed many things for me, not least of which was learning how much my mother truly loved me. I had always thought she was just trying to protect me by hiding the truth, but perhaps it wasn’t as complicated as I thought.

My thoughts drifted back to my childhood in Sweden, and I imagined myself riding in my father’s chariot as he drove toward a victory celebration. It was almost as if I heard his voice as I pictured the scene, saying, “It’s time for us to leave Sweden.”

I shook my head to clear away the daydream as I headed off through the frosty air toward the fields. The wind whipped around me as I passed over the low hill where the battle had taken place. It was still too dark to see the stars, which meant that dawn wouldn’t come soon, but it would arrive soon enough.

I walked quickly through the tall grasses to avoid tripping on rocks hidden beneath the snowfall of recent days, and I could feel my feet sinking deeper into the ground.

When I reached the edge of the field, I paused a moment to admire the beauty of the surrounding area, and it took only a few steps to realize that I wasn’t the first one to do so today. Someone had left a small pile of wood nearby, and it looked to have been burned recently.

I wondered who it was. Perhaps someone had returned to make some sort of fire after they had gone missing in the fight. It would be nice to have a roaring fire to warm my hands when I was working.

I glanced down at the ground and saw something odd about the dirt: it wasn’t smooth and clean. Instead, the ground was pockmarked with holes, and the snow melted there was blackish gray. My eyes flicked across the ground, searching for what caused it, and a shiver ran up my spine when I finally noticed what the holes were filled with.

I stepped closer to examine it more closely. There were several small piles of human skulls gathered in the same area as where I had left my own skull last night. Some were intact while others appeared half-buried beneath the snow. I had never seen such a thing before, and I could barely believe my eyes. Was this the work of some madman, or some god’s vengeance for my failure?

A sense of unease washed over me, and I could hear my stomach growling loudly. Without thinking, I turned and walked the other way around the hill to find a path back to the house. If anyone saw me here, they’d think it was strange that I had stopped working in the field.

And if they came looking for me, then they’d discover these skulls and know exactly what had happened here last night.

But I couldn’t stay any longer; I could not remain in the presence of so much death. It was unnatural as if the world itself were dying and had been replaced by something else.

As I continued walking toward the woods, I found myself wondering what it would be like to go into hibernation and spend the winter inside my home rather than outside working for nothing. But there was no chance that the people who attacked us would rest until the bitter cold arrived.

They would come again in the springtime, and when they did, there would be fewer men standing against them. So I must stay awake for them, as much as my body wanted to sleep.

I kept moving forward through the deep drifts, my mind racing as I contemplated what to do. I knew my duty, but it seemed impossible that it could ever be fulfilled.

Suddenly I froze in my tracks, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword. A shadow passed overhead in the sky, and I watched it for a second, waiting for it to come back again. In that moment, a chill ran up my spine, and a shiver ran up and down my back and arms.

Something was coming.

I could feel it.

The wind picked up and whistled past me. My breath plumed white smoke into the frigid air above me, making my eyes water from the cold. For a moment, it felt as if I stood on the surface of an ice shelf at the edge of a frozen ocean where icebergs floated silently by, just below the surface of the dark waters. Then I blinked and the image vanished, but not my fear.

There was no time to waste. The shadows were growing longer behind me as I moved farther away from the village. I needed to get out now before it was too late. The shadow of a cloud passed overhead, its shape dark and foreboding, and I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck as it sailed over me.

It had to be a ship, and I was sure that it was headed straight for me. I could sense it, and I didn’t want to be caught unaware and face certain death.

Without hesitating, I began running toward the trees. I stumbled once, falling onto my hands and knees as I tried to pick up speed without breaking stride. Clouds raced overhead, swirling faster than usual and blocking the moonlight as they passed. Dark clouds formed in front of me, their thick folds hanging low in the sky, but the rain never arrived.

My boots crunched over the frosted ground as I charged ahead, and it felt good to run free of my responsibilities for a brief moment. Yet I knew that this freedom could not last forever; I still needed to reach the village in order to fulfill my promise.

Just when I thought I was going to make it to safety, the sound of rushing water made me glance back. I saw nothing in the distance, no sign of anything unusual. But then my eyes caught sight of something far off to the right, perhaps twenty or thirty yards behind me.

It was hard to say for sure. I was too far away to see much of it clearly. Just a few seconds earlier, though, it was clear in my vision that the object was moving toward me. It was too big to be a deer, and it was moving too fast to be a wolf or bear.

It was like it was swimming along the surface of a stream, yet at the same time, it was trying to fly. As it drew nearer, it began to take on a form, like a giant bird with wings askew and feathers flapping furiously in the breeze. When it finally flew overhead, I saw that it was a dragon’s head, its long snout and wicked teeth visible under its mottled green-brown scales.

The End

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