Warpath
02-08-11, 05:26 PM
The hammer fell on the blade musically, a song as old as civilization. The two – blacksmith’s song and civilization itself – were necessarily intertwined. Skogul mused on this as she worked, trusting that the final product wouldn’t suffer for her wandering mind. After all, her well-muscled arms, slick with sweat and soot, knew the forging of farm tools as well as her legs knew walking.
She was aware of someone disturbing the thick hanging furs that shielded the interior of the smithy, letting in a fresh burst of frigid air, but she did not pause in her work. Only when the hunk of reddened iron was thin enough to satisfy her, and after she dropped it in a barrel of water with a violent hiss, did she turn to regard her visitor.
“Colin,” she said evenly, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm.
Colin smiled and nodded his own greeting. “I hear all the smithies in Brigantia have been commissioned to make tools for the construction of the wall this spring.”
Skogul made a sound only a little prettier than a scoff, and nodded at the hissing barrel of water while putting her hands on her hips. “That’s going to be a plow blade, actually. With all of the smithies in town tied up with the wall, the farmers had to start coming here to get their tools and repairs.”
“Oh.”
Skogul shrugged. “I’m not complaining. Last year there was no work, this year there is.”
“I’ll have a talk with my superiors in the guard when I go back into town anyway,” Colin said. “It seems silly that they overlooked Ardal, given the quality of work he’s turned out over the last six years. He wasn’t much to speak of before that, mind you. Maybe he hasn’t quite made it past that in the council's mind.”
This time Skogul gave a half-smile, which was the best Colin ever got out of her, and so he was pleased with himself. It was an open secret that Ardal, who owned the smithy, had not been able to lift a hammer in over six years and that any work done there was by Skogul’s hand. It was also known that the quality of metalwork in Ardal’s smithy had since gone up, yet business steadily declined. Ardal often argued that it was because his shop was located on the northeastern fringe of the town and it was a matter of convenience that the people chose other smithies. Skogul knew better.
“Did the captain send you all the way out here to give me veiled compliments?” she said, raising one thin eyebrow.
Colin reddened only slightly, but kept his composure. “Actually no,” he said, “I’ve been sent to inquire about the dwarven tools and weapons. Again.”
Skogul paused and her face went blank, and then she nodded to a number of misshapen bundles beneath a bench behind the guardsman. “I melt them down when I find the time, but like I said, with the wall being built I’ve actually had work to do. Why the rush?”
Colin eyed the bundles. In his estimation they hadn’t been touched since the last time he was sent to ask about them, but he didn’t say as much. “It’s been something like eight months since the council tasked Ardal with destroying them. I guess they’re just eager to see it done. And the metal might prove useful when it comes time to start building the wall. Spring isn’t far off. And…well, you know. The dwarves made them, and part of their agreement with the council says that they don’t get dwarf-made weapons or tools. It’s just too dangerous.”
“I wasn’t aware the council was afraid of dwarves,” Skogul said, too-obviously affecting disinterest.
“Those dwarves were thralls to direlings. Not that I have a problem with that,” he added quickly, blushing again and this time losing some of his composure. “But we’re hearing news of direling raids farther south every summer. You know that better than anyone. We just want to keep everyone safe.”
Skogul smirked. “I’ve seen the plans for the wall, Colin. I don’t think they have everyone in mind.”
Colin shifted, and something like sympathy passed briefly over his face. Skogul stared at him evenly for a long moment. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that,” he said at last. “It’ll be dark soon, should you be heading home?”
Skogul nodded.
“May I walk with you a ways, then?”
She shrugged her assent and went about her evening tasks, separating the coals and stamping out loose embers, replacing the tools, cooling the forge, and so on. After a time she gathered up a thick fur coat and slipped into it, and placed a tall, round, thick fur hat over her hair. She threw her fist against the interior door separating the smithy from Ardal’s house three times, and from within a gruff voice wished her a good night.
Together, Skogul and the young guardsman stepped out into the Salvic winter which, though reaching its end, was today frigid and windy. Looking to the west, the pair agreed that an unexpected storm was brewing, and so they hastened along the road to the north.
“About the wall,” Colin said at length.
“I don’t care about the wall,” Skogul said. “If my mother had intended to live in the town proper, she would have built her house in the town proper. We’re already outside Brigantia, what does it matter if there’s a wall where there wasn’t one before.”
“You’ll have to walk farther to find a gate so that you can get to work every day,” Colin said. “Maybe too far, especially in the winter. And what if something should happen to your mother or sister?”
Skogul shrugged. “You seem to be the only person who hasn’t noticed, Colin, but my sister and I are not the helpless women you’re accustomed to. We’ve had trouble before and we handled it ourselves. We’ll do it again, without help. The wall changes nothing. Oh, hell.”
Skogul sighed as they approached a bend in the road, at which stood a small, thin man bundled in an overabundance of particularly fine furs. This man was speaking loudly to the straggling farmhands that passed him on the road, all heading into town. Skogul was visibly annoyed at his presence, but Colin ignored him altogether.
“I know you’re not norm..." Colin cut himself off and cleared his throat. “I know you and your sister are capable of taking care of yourselves, Skogul. The only difference between me and a lot of other people is that I admire that in you. And I really don’t think the townspeople care as much as you feel like they do. I know things are tense right now, but with all the news of the direlings every year you can’t blame people for feeling a little tense. But they know you’re not actually one of them. You’re one of us.”
Skogul grinned without taking her eyes off of the distant speaker ahead of them. “You sound very sure of that, despite the fact that I’m a foot taller than you. I’m not human, Colin.”
“Well, you’re not direling either,” he said. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you. I’m trying to…I’m just saying you and your family would be safer in town. I’m sorry; this is coming out all wrong. I’m trying to ask if you would consider-“
“Repent!” The well-dressed speaker said, as they approached him at last. Skogul sighed. “Repent, and The Merciful Sway will smile upon you and yours. We are mortal and it is our lot to suffer, as we are imperfect and base. But we need only acknowledge our failings, and The Sway will heap their blessings upon us!”
The proselytizer, who had been smiling beatifically, caught sight of Skogul and Colin and his face immediately hardened. “The Sway are with us! They are silent in disappointment for our many transgressions and failings, but eager to redeem us! If we merely come to them in humility and shame, and make the proper sacrifices, they will free us of our afflictions. Even if our mothers lay with beasts, we can be purified of the sin, and made pure! We need only ask!”
Skogul growled, and her pace slowed. “And what does a pure woman look like?” she asked.
“She is of proper height and weight, and does not have a man’s qualities, or do his labor,” the proselytizer said imperiously.
“So if I cow myself before weaklings and humiliate myself before nameless and faceless gods that have abandoned their followers, I’ll be made small and soft and helpless, and made to barter my body, mind, and time to miniature men for survival? I hope you’re joking.”
“Skogul, you shouldn’t…”
But the proselytizer was worked up now, straightening his back and clenching his fist, and his face reddened. “The Sway have not abandoned us!”
Skogul smiled, and it was the first genuine show of joy Colin had ever seen from her. “And yet, The Sway did not help you in your fight against the crown. In fact, the church lost. Maybe it is you that has so offended your gods.”
The churchman screwed up his face in rage for a moment, and then shook his fist at Skogul as she walked away. “Witch!” he cried after her.
“You shouldn’t provoke him,” Colin said as he glanced over his shoulder. “Even if he’s annoying and wrong, the townspeople tolerate him. If you’re going to fit…”
“I’m not, Colin,” Skogul said firmly. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m flattered. But no. The wall may not be visible yet, but it’s always been there, and I will always be outside it.”
The guardsman sighed and stopped walking. Looking tired and defeated, he cocked his head to one side and watched as Skogul continued walking on without him. “Why?” he asked after her.
She turned around as she walked, going backwards in long strides. “Because a people can tolerate an outsider only when she’s smaller and weaker than they are. Go home, Colin. Find a…a pure woman.”
And with that she turned around and continued on her way though the road ended, and a dark forest of thinly-spaced trees loomed before her.
***
Their house was well-made, for Brynhild had been a well-loved woman before she gave birth to her half-breed twins. It had since been expanded upon by Skogul’s amateur hand, to include a small stable and store room. She was not proud of her handiwork there, and thought to herself that if the wall did prevent her from her current vocation she would spend her summer rebuilding them.
The door rested heavy on the floor, and dragged wood-on-wood as she pushed it open. It did not require very much extra effort on her part, but she had seen her mother struggle with it of late. It was another thing that needed repair, and she mentally noted it for what seemed the thousandth time. Inside the fire burned, and a small, straight-backed woman with grey-streaked hair stirred something in the pot suspended above the flames.
“Don’t take your coat off,” Brynhild said. “Go find Frølich, first.”
Skogul sighed but, obediently, returned to the cold air and the setting sun, following a fresh set of footprints deeper into the darkening wood in search of her sister.
She was aware of someone disturbing the thick hanging furs that shielded the interior of the smithy, letting in a fresh burst of frigid air, but she did not pause in her work. Only when the hunk of reddened iron was thin enough to satisfy her, and after she dropped it in a barrel of water with a violent hiss, did she turn to regard her visitor.
“Colin,” she said evenly, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm.
Colin smiled and nodded his own greeting. “I hear all the smithies in Brigantia have been commissioned to make tools for the construction of the wall this spring.”
Skogul made a sound only a little prettier than a scoff, and nodded at the hissing barrel of water while putting her hands on her hips. “That’s going to be a plow blade, actually. With all of the smithies in town tied up with the wall, the farmers had to start coming here to get their tools and repairs.”
“Oh.”
Skogul shrugged. “I’m not complaining. Last year there was no work, this year there is.”
“I’ll have a talk with my superiors in the guard when I go back into town anyway,” Colin said. “It seems silly that they overlooked Ardal, given the quality of work he’s turned out over the last six years. He wasn’t much to speak of before that, mind you. Maybe he hasn’t quite made it past that in the council's mind.”
This time Skogul gave a half-smile, which was the best Colin ever got out of her, and so he was pleased with himself. It was an open secret that Ardal, who owned the smithy, had not been able to lift a hammer in over six years and that any work done there was by Skogul’s hand. It was also known that the quality of metalwork in Ardal’s smithy had since gone up, yet business steadily declined. Ardal often argued that it was because his shop was located on the northeastern fringe of the town and it was a matter of convenience that the people chose other smithies. Skogul knew better.
“Did the captain send you all the way out here to give me veiled compliments?” she said, raising one thin eyebrow.
Colin reddened only slightly, but kept his composure. “Actually no,” he said, “I’ve been sent to inquire about the dwarven tools and weapons. Again.”
Skogul paused and her face went blank, and then she nodded to a number of misshapen bundles beneath a bench behind the guardsman. “I melt them down when I find the time, but like I said, with the wall being built I’ve actually had work to do. Why the rush?”
Colin eyed the bundles. In his estimation they hadn’t been touched since the last time he was sent to ask about them, but he didn’t say as much. “It’s been something like eight months since the council tasked Ardal with destroying them. I guess they’re just eager to see it done. And the metal might prove useful when it comes time to start building the wall. Spring isn’t far off. And…well, you know. The dwarves made them, and part of their agreement with the council says that they don’t get dwarf-made weapons or tools. It’s just too dangerous.”
“I wasn’t aware the council was afraid of dwarves,” Skogul said, too-obviously affecting disinterest.
“Those dwarves were thralls to direlings. Not that I have a problem with that,” he added quickly, blushing again and this time losing some of his composure. “But we’re hearing news of direling raids farther south every summer. You know that better than anyone. We just want to keep everyone safe.”
Skogul smirked. “I’ve seen the plans for the wall, Colin. I don’t think they have everyone in mind.”
Colin shifted, and something like sympathy passed briefly over his face. Skogul stared at him evenly for a long moment. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that,” he said at last. “It’ll be dark soon, should you be heading home?”
Skogul nodded.
“May I walk with you a ways, then?”
She shrugged her assent and went about her evening tasks, separating the coals and stamping out loose embers, replacing the tools, cooling the forge, and so on. After a time she gathered up a thick fur coat and slipped into it, and placed a tall, round, thick fur hat over her hair. She threw her fist against the interior door separating the smithy from Ardal’s house three times, and from within a gruff voice wished her a good night.
Together, Skogul and the young guardsman stepped out into the Salvic winter which, though reaching its end, was today frigid and windy. Looking to the west, the pair agreed that an unexpected storm was brewing, and so they hastened along the road to the north.
“About the wall,” Colin said at length.
“I don’t care about the wall,” Skogul said. “If my mother had intended to live in the town proper, she would have built her house in the town proper. We’re already outside Brigantia, what does it matter if there’s a wall where there wasn’t one before.”
“You’ll have to walk farther to find a gate so that you can get to work every day,” Colin said. “Maybe too far, especially in the winter. And what if something should happen to your mother or sister?”
Skogul shrugged. “You seem to be the only person who hasn’t noticed, Colin, but my sister and I are not the helpless women you’re accustomed to. We’ve had trouble before and we handled it ourselves. We’ll do it again, without help. The wall changes nothing. Oh, hell.”
Skogul sighed as they approached a bend in the road, at which stood a small, thin man bundled in an overabundance of particularly fine furs. This man was speaking loudly to the straggling farmhands that passed him on the road, all heading into town. Skogul was visibly annoyed at his presence, but Colin ignored him altogether.
“I know you’re not norm..." Colin cut himself off and cleared his throat. “I know you and your sister are capable of taking care of yourselves, Skogul. The only difference between me and a lot of other people is that I admire that in you. And I really don’t think the townspeople care as much as you feel like they do. I know things are tense right now, but with all the news of the direlings every year you can’t blame people for feeling a little tense. But they know you’re not actually one of them. You’re one of us.”
Skogul grinned without taking her eyes off of the distant speaker ahead of them. “You sound very sure of that, despite the fact that I’m a foot taller than you. I’m not human, Colin.”
“Well, you’re not direling either,” he said. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you. I’m trying to…I’m just saying you and your family would be safer in town. I’m sorry; this is coming out all wrong. I’m trying to ask if you would consider-“
“Repent!” The well-dressed speaker said, as they approached him at last. Skogul sighed. “Repent, and The Merciful Sway will smile upon you and yours. We are mortal and it is our lot to suffer, as we are imperfect and base. But we need only acknowledge our failings, and The Sway will heap their blessings upon us!”
The proselytizer, who had been smiling beatifically, caught sight of Skogul and Colin and his face immediately hardened. “The Sway are with us! They are silent in disappointment for our many transgressions and failings, but eager to redeem us! If we merely come to them in humility and shame, and make the proper sacrifices, they will free us of our afflictions. Even if our mothers lay with beasts, we can be purified of the sin, and made pure! We need only ask!”
Skogul growled, and her pace slowed. “And what does a pure woman look like?” she asked.
“She is of proper height and weight, and does not have a man’s qualities, or do his labor,” the proselytizer said imperiously.
“So if I cow myself before weaklings and humiliate myself before nameless and faceless gods that have abandoned their followers, I’ll be made small and soft and helpless, and made to barter my body, mind, and time to miniature men for survival? I hope you’re joking.”
“Skogul, you shouldn’t…”
But the proselytizer was worked up now, straightening his back and clenching his fist, and his face reddened. “The Sway have not abandoned us!”
Skogul smiled, and it was the first genuine show of joy Colin had ever seen from her. “And yet, The Sway did not help you in your fight against the crown. In fact, the church lost. Maybe it is you that has so offended your gods.”
The churchman screwed up his face in rage for a moment, and then shook his fist at Skogul as she walked away. “Witch!” he cried after her.
“You shouldn’t provoke him,” Colin said as he glanced over his shoulder. “Even if he’s annoying and wrong, the townspeople tolerate him. If you’re going to fit…”
“I’m not, Colin,” Skogul said firmly. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m flattered. But no. The wall may not be visible yet, but it’s always been there, and I will always be outside it.”
The guardsman sighed and stopped walking. Looking tired and defeated, he cocked his head to one side and watched as Skogul continued walking on without him. “Why?” he asked after her.
She turned around as she walked, going backwards in long strides. “Because a people can tolerate an outsider only when she’s smaller and weaker than they are. Go home, Colin. Find a…a pure woman.”
And with that she turned around and continued on her way though the road ended, and a dark forest of thinly-spaced trees loomed before her.
***
Their house was well-made, for Brynhild had been a well-loved woman before she gave birth to her half-breed twins. It had since been expanded upon by Skogul’s amateur hand, to include a small stable and store room. She was not proud of her handiwork there, and thought to herself that if the wall did prevent her from her current vocation she would spend her summer rebuilding them.
The door rested heavy on the floor, and dragged wood-on-wood as she pushed it open. It did not require very much extra effort on her part, but she had seen her mother struggle with it of late. It was another thing that needed repair, and she mentally noted it for what seemed the thousandth time. Inside the fire burned, and a small, straight-backed woman with grey-streaked hair stirred something in the pot suspended above the flames.
“Don’t take your coat off,” Brynhild said. “Go find Frølich, first.”
Skogul sighed but, obediently, returned to the cold air and the setting sun, following a fresh set of footprints deeper into the darkening wood in search of her sister.