TheMosquitosBite[continued from After the Fall III] With no late classes, Cole had traded the pandemonium of campus for that of Copper Arch. Beyond the twenty-foot arch of molded copper, he passed by pot-makers, farriers, and blacksmiths, all peddling their wares as loud as they can. The cacophony of banging metal and shouts immediately turned the excursion into a test of willpower. Between the noise, the smoke-filled air, and nameless streets, he would have been going in circles for hours without Velnor’s scrawled map and directions. Velnor – who shared his Rhetoric class – had mentioned a weaponsmith of exceptional quality lived in the professional district. A collector of swords, his classmate possessed an exceptional eye for craftsmanship. More importantly, he’d informed Cole that the smith forged rune blades – nearly impossible to damage. Considering his recent encounter with the Dark Hour, an arcane weapon might serve him well next time. He’d stopped to refer to Velnor’s map. According to the drawing, the smith’s shop was around the corner. But before he could take another step, someone punched him in the kidney. Pain speared through him, allowing his attacker to spin him around and throw him against a wall. There were three young men; all of them dress in Faiella uniforms. Two of them grabbed his arms and pinned him before he could recovered. The other – a blonde youth with rugged features – folded his arms and frowned. “Stay away from her.” "You make a convincing argument," Cole gasped, apparently still recovering from the sucker punch. "Okay, sure." Despite his apparent acquiescence with the demand, he tensed his abdominal muscles, preparing for further blows. The blow stuck his cheek – a stunningly quick slap. Fortunately, it lacked strength, meant more as an insult than to cause injury. “Don’t sass us, Oak.” The other two chuckled callously. The young man stepped closer. Behind him, a sparse crowd was talking hurriedly, trying to decide whether or not to intervene. The boy frowned, “I don’t know what sort of spell you cast over our Princess, but it ends here.” An odd thought sparked in Cole’s mind. The boy’s accent was Kafashian. “Bad enough she’s consorting with an Oak. But a Bastet-lover, as well? We won’t stand for it. So, call this a friendly warning, yes?” Cole burst out laughing. "So that's what this is about! A fine performance, friend. Quite a classic way to stir up trouble. Ambush me in public and make it look like you're doing a public service. But we've come to expect such deception from Kashfans." His boot lashed out. The boy’s smug reply transformed into a sharp curse as Cole’s pointed boot caught him expertly in the chin. Any aura of intimidation disappeared as the boy hopped around, wincing in pain. “Anthony!’ one of the other boys cried in worry. “Bastard!” the other hissed and slammed Cole’s back into the wall again. Painful, but the action loosened their grip on his arms. "Ah, well, that's true," Cole replied, slamming his right boot into the speaker's knee and scraping down his shin. At the same he wrenched his left arm free from the worried boy before driving a backhanded hammerfist at his head. "But persons of your character don't get to criticize my mother." He yelled to the bystanders, "Hey, can we get a little help for the outnumbered guy?" Most of the shopkeepers turned their heads, anxiously avoiding the conflict in the name of better business. After all, with three-against-one the ruckus would end promptly and patrons would no longer be disturbed. To his credit, Cole managed to box a few ears and bloody nose before Anthony got back into the fight. Three iron blows landed – body, body, head – in rapid succession. If they hadn’t jumbled Cole’s skull, he may have appreciated the boy’s exceptional boxing skills. As his legs were turning to jelly, the other two began in with their own punches and kicks. Fury made them mostly ineffectual and easily blocked. Anthony, however, punished Cole mercilessly, most of his strikes sneaking through. Even without his friends, he outmatched Cole. But before they did Cole serious harm, someone systematically grabbed each by the scruff of the neck and tossed them into the street’s sewer canal. “Piss off with ya.” the towering creature yelled in a disconcertingly feminine voice. “Bloody vagrants.” Standing a good eight feet or more, the red-haired huldumaiden blocked out Cole’s light. She’d obviously never married, as her bovine features were extremely pronounced – possessing a large nose, tail, horns, and tiered chest. Her leathery arms were thicker than Cole’s thigh, the muscles accentuated by layers of soot and grease. Like most pack animals, Anthony and his boys decided to retreat now that their prey’s numbers had increased. Covered in filth, Anthony spat at them. “We won’t forget this Bastet-lover. Don’t think we will. You’ll get yours!” The huldumaiden offered Cole her thick hand, “Ye ahright boyo?” "What? Sorry," Cole replied, "Can't hear you over the churchbells. Anthony got me on the ear pretty good. Thanks for the assist, miss." He took her hand and hauled himself up. "Nice to know there are some decent folks around here." "I don't know where he comes off with that Bastet-lover crap. Where would he get the..." He thought of Silk, and stopped. "Oh. Well, damn him anyway, racist creep." “Kashfans,” the woman said, spitting on the ground. "Damn the whole lot of dem te the abyss.” Cole spat as well, and blood came with it. No teeth though, praise the unicorn. She glanced down at Cole, appraising. “Yer bleedin’ but breathin’. But I’ll bet ye need a stiff drink and a sit down. Come on with ye then, boyo. Tyra’ll fix ye up one way er another.” She turned with a bovine snort and trudged down the street. "Sounds lovely," Cole agreed, limping after her. He waved to the bystanders as he passed. "Thanks for all your help. It's nice to know an honest man can walk safely here. That's good for business. I'll spread the word." Remorseless, the vendors returned to their raucous business. Tyra lumbered through the streets, clearing a path through the crowd by sheer intimidation. In spite of his ringing head, Cole realized that her path followed Velnor’s map. When she ducked into a blacksmith’s shop, it matched the address he’d been provided. Cole shrugged, then entered. He did not have to duck, which was a refreshing change. The temperature inside edged toward brutality, molten heat radiating from the forge and hanging in the smoky air. Dark, yet roomy, the shop remained surprisingly clean for such a workspace. Something sharp and dangerous cooled on the anvil. Rows of weapons lined the south wall, their polished metal glimmering in the crimson light. A shrine to Völundr sat in another corner, while a wooden stairwell led to the upper floor of the building. A wooden table with a half eaten lunch offered a few chairs on which to sit. Tyra grabbed a green bottle from one of the rafters. She tossed the container to Cole. “A nip of that will ave ye happy as a summer calf, boyo.” Cole took a swig. It burnt all the way down, and he sensed that the pains of his assault wouldn't be troubling him long. Best to get on to business then, while he could still speak more or less intelligently. He handed back the bottle. She took it and casually drained a quarter of the bottle with little more than a bovine grunt. She sat the bottle back up and then cross the room to start shoveling coal into the simmering forge. "Thaa..." His first attempt came out as a wheeze under the influence of the fiery liquid. He smacked his chest with his palm to get his lungs going and tried again. "Thanks. And as it turns out, this is the place I was looking for. I need a rune blade." Another bovine grunt, “Runic, eh? And from the looks of ye, you’ll be needin’ the real McCoy. Which style ye be preferring? Striking, cutting, or thrusting? Single or double?” She wiped the sweat from her brow, leaving soot marks. "A sabre, please, for both thrusting and cutting. Not too heavy--I'll be using it on foot, not mounted--but hefty enough to do some serious damage. And a basket hilt, if it's not too much trouble. And most definitely the Real McCoy: that's why I came here." Tyra set the shovel aside and closed the forge with her boot. “Aye, that I kin do, but I ‘ave a few orders ahead of ye,” she said. “’Ow quick will ye be needin’ this blade?” Cole scratched his head. "Tonight would be good, but that's probably not reasonable. I'll just say that every day that I don't have it decreases the chances that I'll still be around to need it." Tyra gave an amused snort. “I works miracles, boyo. But even I canna make a sword dat fast. It’ll be at least a month. Runes take time or they kin turn on ye.” She gesture for him to join her at the table. The chair groaned as she sat down, but held firm under her weight. “I also be needin’ yer blood for this, ye realize.” Cole cocked an eyebrow. "Really? How does that work? I assume it's an ingredient, rather than part of the payment." He joined her at the table. "Oh!" he added, "I'll also need a matched hunting knife." “’Ow about a matchin’ set of armor while we’re at it?” she grumbled. “The knife I kin do fer ye quick. End of the week. The sword takes more time. I need some metals from Shadow te make it sing. And aye, the blood be an ingredient. Links ye te the blade. Otherwise, yer more likely te lop yer own ‘ead off. And I donna want that. ‘Ard te collect coin from ‘eadless patrons.” She raised a brow, “Ye can pay right?” Cole jingled a purse in reply. "I can pay, if the price is only seriously outrageous rather than laughably exorbitant. I'm prepare to pay an advance right now, which I assume you'd need for those metals." Her cow eyes widen with interest. He leaned across the table with unusual earnestness. "As for the matching armor, I'll see about getting an advance for that. We'll start with a helm and breastplate. But don't worry about getting the metals for those until I have a sword. The best way to keep this," he said, pointing to his head, "connected to this," he said, pointing to his collarbone, "is to kill the damned things that want to separate them." He leaned back and began rolling up his sleeve. "By the way, discretion on this project isn't completely mandatory, but it is preferable. People would think I'm insane, and they might well be right. Now, where do I bleed?" Tyra folded her imposing arms, her bovine nostrils flaring. “Before we open a vein, I need yer word that this ain’t fer some damned vengeance kick te prove who has de biggest narbles. No way de I lose me Prince Benedict as a customer ‘cause some fool students killed one another. Aye? “Second, dis is some serious money yer spendin’. Just what in Odin’s hairy sack are ye huntin’?” "As for the first, you have my word: these weapons will never be raised against another student. Prince Benedict need never be involved. As for what I'm hunting, well, it does this." He dropped the charred hilts of his hunting knife and his borrowed sword on the table. Tyra picked up the corroded weapons one after the other and gave an impressed snort. “Armor,” she said. “Definitely be needin’ armor. And gauntlets. No sense in losin’ yer hand on the first strike, eh?” She set the metal down and folded her arms again. “Yer word is accepted, boyo. And yer money too. But ye need te tell old Tyra what spawn of Hel’s are ye huntin’? I aven’t seen scoring that since the Great War.” Cole sighed. "They're called shadows. For all I know they're left over somehow from the Great War. All I know for certain is that they're evil and I want to kill as many as possible before they take me down. Anything else I might want to tell you involves secrets that aren't mine to share." He set his purse on the table. "Here's all I can spare right now. I've written to my family to send more." Tyra took the purse without examining its contents. Her brown eyes darkened for a moment, staring through Cole with chilling intensity. Finally, whatever she found within him pleased her, and she gave an accepting nod. “Pay me as ye can. I’ll get yer commissions ready as soon as possible. Tis the least old Tyra can do.” She rose to her hooves, “Now piss off with ye and put some ice on yer wounds, Little Oak. Tyra needs te work. "Thanks very much," Cole said, with a relieved grin. He stood, wincing, and looked serious again. "Speaking of wounds, I don't suppose I could have another swig of that liquid anesthesia? I'm in terrible pain, here." He then spoiled any pretense of agony by grinning again. Tyra tossed him the bottle. “Keep it. Sounds like ye need it more than Tyra.” She dispelled her gruff nature by matching Cole’s grin with a sisterly smile. “Try not to anger any more Kashfans on de way home, eh?” She walked over to her forge and resumed her deafening work. |
