Clunk

Clunk

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Blacksmith had no legs, only two wooden stumps. His legs were cut off at the shins in a baking accident, an affair so brutal it was given its own day, The Day Of Yeasted Terror and Delicious Bread. His peg legs are made of dragon teeth, making them deadly sharp and hard enough to withstand an axe. Pointy sharp teeth as legs meant Blacksmith couldn’t ever stand still but was always on the verge of falling flat onto his face.

Blacksmith hobbled through the doorway like an overblown panther who’d had too much grog, been hit over the head with a tree, lost two of its limbs, and replaced the other two with very sharp dragon teeth.

“STOP YER FRITTERIN’ FRACKIN’ AN’ GET ME FORGE ‘OTTER ‘TAN ME OWN BEOOOTIFOOL WAIFE!”

He’s been in love with my mother ever since he was a squalling little brute that was dirtier than the dirt he trod upon.

Sverrir jumped, displacing even more liquid. Some of it splashed onto Blacksmith’s pants leg but Blacksmith didn’t notice and continued his drunken waltz to one of his cluttered workbenches and started pawning through the iron scraps. Sverrir started belching his fiery little crusted heart out and the heat washed over me, making my body tingle. I stepped backwards, away from the sparkling pain.

“AN’ YOO!” Without looking up from his search he lifted an axe and brandished its head somewhere to my left. “WOT.” He screamed. Eloquence and Blacksmith went together like a sword and the stomach of an enemy that was slain before his grandfather's time.

I shuffled my feet and quickly looked down the alley. No sign of trouble. When I looked back Blacksmith was bottom up in a barrel of sharp looking metal and Sverrir was asleep. “I, uh, need Villai’s axe.” I mumbled. Blacksmith emerged from his hole with what looked like the bottom half of a small figurine of a woman. “FINALLY! I FOUN’ SCORB TH’ MOST MURDOUS MAN’US LEGS!” He shouted. Wow. Scorb had amazing legs. “NOW WOT DID’YE BE NEEDIN’.” He roared.

“I, uh, Villai’s, uhm, axe.” I murmured.

Blacksmith hobbled over to me and did his best impression of a vast Villager standing over a little mouse of a boy. He thrust his neck out, bringing his beady eyes close to my face, lips curling over crooked teeth in a murderous sneer, and what looked like half an eaten fish poking out of his tangled mess sticking out of his left beard plait. “WOT.” He shrieked. I gagged. Oh, stuck mud why was everyone’s breath a weapon of vile proportions?

“I need Villai’s axe!” I yelled as loudly as I could.

“WOT.” He yelled back. Blacksmith was nearly deaf after a fight with a hive of bees.

“I need Vilai’s axe!” I tried shouting louder.

“STOP MOVIN’ YER LIPSN’ SAY THEM HOOTIN’ SPLIT TREE WORD’US!” He screamed. The bees had been the size of three Villager's put together.

“I NEED VILLAI’S AXE!” I screamed back with every fiber of my voice. I coughed. Goblin socks. I think I’d thrown out my voice.

“OH!” Blacksmith boomed. “WELL WHY DIDN’ YE JUS’ BE SAYIN’ SO?” He spun around a few times, landed in the wrong direction, then hopped around until he was facing the proper way and started off for his armoury on the wall. He reached for a beautiful piece, a double bladed axe with blades that looked like leaves and a dark polished handle wrapped in leather colored a deep red. He lifted the weapon off its hooks and the whole wall groaned slightly with the sudden lessening of weight.

The Village had a bet of three knocks on the head, two goats, and some teeth captured from the last raid when Blacksmith’s overburdened and infamous wall of weapons was going to come crashing down onto the shoemaker’s humble hut. I myself had guessed the wall had till next deadly storm at most before it finally caved but even if I won the bet there was no way I wanted to claim so, not with the Chief being the one handing out the prize.

Blacksmith hopped over and handed me the axe. If immediately crashed into the ground, taking me along with it. “COME’N, BOY!” He roared. “KEPIN’A GOOD HOL’ ONNIT AN’ CARRY IT WI’ PRIDE, BOY!” He seized my arm and lifted me along with the axe to put me back on my feet. This time I was able to properly brace myself and hold the axe aloft. My knees shook a little with the effort but after a few seconds I got used to the weight and I was able to take a few steps. I looked up into the warm smithery to thank him but found him already digging through one of his scrap mountains in search of sky above knew what. Sverrir was snoring, drooling molten fire onto the dirt floor.

“Thank you.” I whispered, and left. 

Blacksmith was probably the roughest Villager there ever was or ever would be but I always felt the best around him. I passed the cobbler's humble hut and kept on slugging through the snowy mush towards home with a little extra spring in my step. Every time I leave Blacksmith's smithery I lose my voice, end up sore from carrying some sort of heavy metal, and have a bruised arm from where he'd picked me up off of the floor, but I always end up happy, no matter how bad the day. 

I think it's because he doesn't give me the Whelp treatment. He hands me a helmet I could barely carry, let alone wear, and he just picks me off the ground and tells me to stop falling over. I've seen him do it to all the youth. Just four moons ago he'd done the same to Alfarr when he dropped his new sword. It takes a little satisfaction out of the experience that Alfarr could now fight well with the sword, and had bigger muscles, but it still made me feel better nonetheless. 

I'd learned to take when given. 

I made a few turns around Villager houses and crossed the open space in the middle of the Village. I spun around and fell down. I pushed the hair that was always in my eyes away to scan the other side of the clearing. 

No one. 

Please, please please let it stay no one. 

I dragged the axe out of the snow and brushed off some mush. Then I slogged towards freedom, towards that last alleyway exit, towards the relative safety of my home. The hidden sun seemed to shine through the crack between the valley of roofs, singing, urging me to an blessedly uneventful day. I reached the last few houses, apprehensive. I glanced behind. 

Empty. 

I looked forwards. 

Beautiful. 

I stepped into the feeble sun. 

Blessed. 

I hesitated, not trusting my luck. 

Nothing. 

I started up the hill towards my dark home, a grin threatening to split my face in two. These things never happened! It was as rare as a day without clouds. 

"'Oy! Look what the capricorns puked up!" a hauntingly familiar voice jeered. 

Welp, I guess I could search for my stomach during my recuperation on the ground.