kaizobeach

Seryn wrapped her arms around five planks and lifted them with a soft grunt. Her soot-dusted fingers curling tightly to hold them together against her chest. She entered the forge immediately, heading left before her eyes adjusted. Lowering the oak planks beside the hearth and stacking them in neat rows.

“Apron,” said Kork, the old blacksmith, his eyes fixed on the copper piece on his anvil.

The girl’s hand snapped to her shoulders, chest, and her waist, not finding any sign of that damned apron. She was thirteen now, a skilled blacksmith. Even made knives for Owen, the inn-keeper. Forgetting her apron was embarrassing.

“I was headin’ out.” She said, looking around and pretending to look for her satchel.

Kork’s eyes remained on his work. Calloused hands wrapped around the tongs, used them to lift the copper piece from his anvil, and took it to the fire.

“I’m starting to think you’ve got some demon on your back, girl.” he muttered without looking at her, not bothering to even scowl. When the color was right, Kork pulled the copper away from the forge and headed back to his anvil and continued hammering.

Seryn’s brows knitted just slightly. She snatched her satchel from where it hung on the wall. “Owen said he’d pay for his knives and bowls this Tuesday. But he didn’t. I’ll see why.” She stomped out the door and banged it behind her.

The girl pulled her satchel over her shoulder as she headed toward the village square. As she passed by the baker’s house, a pack of boys ran her way. one of them nearly ran into her before she sidestepped. The others lowered their voices for barely five seconds before their screams pierced her ears again. Seryn always lingered at the baker’s door, but this time it wasn’t as calming.

She hurried her steps and slowed once she reached the shoemaker’s shop, watching from the corner of her eyes.

Leather creaked in old Roland’s trembling hands. He sat on his rug, the one his wife had made before she passed. He held a large needle between his lips. His lids squeezed as he bowed over the leather boot.

The girl stood in the corner and watched. He wasn’t sewing in a straight line like last time. Her eyes narrowed. She’d only seen him do cross-stiches for the cooper’s shoes. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. Old Roland still hadn’t noticed her standing there. Good. She turned on her heels and walked through the narrow alley.

Once she reached the square, the women gathered there looked up and whispered things to each other. Seryn kept her head up and took longer strides, crossed the square and reached the inn.

Pushing the door open with one hand, Seryn entered. Her face scrunched up at the noise and the smell of sweat and ale. Fists clenching at her sides, she convinced herself not to cover her ears, and walked straight to Owen. The inn-keeper stood near the hearth, pointing furiously at a man with at least five missing teeth with one hand and stirring a pot of broth with the other.

His shouts cut through the tavern noise effortlessly. “I swear if you don’t pay me by midnight, ye old goat, I will smack ye so hard you’d throw up all that meat stew I gave ye last week!”

Laughter erupted from a corner of the tavern while some tried to hide their faces from Owen, hoping he doesn’t remember their debts.

--

Owen turned his head sharply and shouted at the other corner while still stirring the broth slowly. “And the rest of you who haven’t paid for you ale since spring, don’t think I forgot—” The man’s free hand flew in a wild arc, whipping right over the girl’s head and sending her hair flying to her face.

Seryn glared up at him and ran a hand over her short, dark hair, pushing it away from her face.

The inn-keeper paused and looked down. “Hey girl! You doin’ alright today?” His voice was still too loud for her.

Her jaw clenched at his sweet tone. That was how people talked to children, not to blacksmiths.

“You owe Kork,” she said. Standing with her shoulders squared and her boots planted.

Owen walked to the aleboard and rolled his left shoulder. The same one he’d always go to the herbalist for. There was no bruising or swelling around it. And the herbalist always gave him the same sharp-smelling ointment.

The inn-keeper stopped behind the aleboard and turned to the girl, bowing slightly and smiling, “Want some juice now that you’re here? Maybe some broth? You look like you could use it.”

Seryn’s glare sharpened slightly, she tried to stand taller without looking like she’s trying. “You said you’ll pay this Tuesday,” she said.

-Oh that… I have it; but it’s in the back and I can’t just leave right now. Tell him I’ll bring it tomorrow at dawn.

-Your boy Darek could fetch it.

-That boy can’t find his own boots when he’s in ‘em. He can’t find your bundle in that storeroom heap.

Seryn’s eyes narrowed, brows knitting, her boot made a rhythmic sound as she tapped it against the floor.

Owen sighed and turned his head, “Darek! Get over here ye skinny rat!”

his shouts made Seryn flinch. Always so loud. Always looking down. Always smiling.

The blacksmith girl looked at the empty booth nearby from the corner of her eyes, but she refused to sit down. One hand wrapped around the leather band of her satchel, the other hung at her side. Her boot tapped against the floor while her gaze swept around the room.

The patter of small, quick footsteps approached. The tavern boy skidded to a stop at the bar. Owen leaned in and began explaining in a low, measured voice, hitting the boy’s chest with his finger with each word.

“In the back, there’s a chest on the right corner. On that chest, there’s this bundle, brown fabric, has white lines on it. It’ll be heavy. You grab that and bring it to me, got it?”

The boy nodded firmly, eyes fixed on Owen’s. “I’ll bring you the chest, sir.”

Owen’s hand flicked against the back of the boy’s head, sharp enough to make him hiss in pain. “Not the chest ye nut-headed idiot. The bundle! Bring me the bundle!”

The boy ran toward the back immediately.

It was taking too long. Kork might’ve already finished all the copper bowls they were going to make. Seryn didn’t like slacking off. Kork should only make half of the copper bowls and Seryn should do the other half. But what if Kork had done it all by now? How long has she been outside anyway? Owen always messed everything up. Never paid in time, never took his orders in time, never opened or closed in time.

Seryn let out a sharp breath from her nose and glared at the back of Owen’s head as he walked to one of the tables to gather the empty mugs.

--

The smith stood there for several minutes, watching the innkeeper move, clean, and shout. Seryn’s jaw worked, her brows knitted, eyes following Owen as he moved.

Once the innkeeper walked back to the alebench, Seryn tilted her head, irritation palpable. Owen gave her nothing but a passing glance.

A chair in the dark corner of the inn creaked and a man approached the alebench. Owen quickly turned his head. He always paid more attention to travelers. His boots were muddy and torn. Dark circles under his eyes. The man walked slowly and stood between Seryn and Owen. Something under his cloak clinked with each step. Sounded like an iron hand. She could remember a one-handed merchant who once came to the forge with one of those. Quite an expensive piece, that was.

The traveler’s voice came rough and low, “Know any good smiths around?” he asked the innkeeper, throwing coin onto the bench between them.

Owen took the coins with a polite smile, something he never offered anyone with an empty pocket. “Head down from the square and you’ll find his forge. You can trust Kork with anything. He’s our leatherworker, weaponsmith, armorer, and even makes us horseshoes that don’t wear down in months.”

The stranger’s head dipped into a slow nod. Once he opened his mouth to ask something else, Seryn appeared near his elbow, her head fixed on the innkeeper.

“Where’s Darek? Finding a bundle isn’t that hard, is it?” she gritted through clenched teeth.

Owen’s face hardened but he didn’t say anything.

“Have you seen a one-eyed man around here? must’ve passed through two, three days ago. He’s tall, has a few gold teeth, and he’s real thin.” the traveler continued.

“No, but we did have a caravan arrive just a few days ago, they’re camping right outside out, you can ask them if they’ve seen anyone.” Owen’s smile returned, “And if you decide you want to stay, we’ve rooms in the square. Half the price if you say Owen sent you.”

The traveler nodded. His iron hand came out of his cloak and hit Seryn’s shoulder. Without a glance, he pushed her aside and walked out the door. Seryn planted her boots and tried to push back, but eventually she stumbled and hit a table with her back.

The smith’s nostrils flared, she ignored the glares from the men around the table and stomped toward the door.

Owen leaned over the alebench and gripped her shirt, pulling her back like a sack of flour.

“Don’t touch me!” Seryn shouted, voice cracking. Her punch landed on Owen’s inner arm, making him grunt and pull back.

“You’ll get yourself killed, you idiot!” he gritted. “That man’s a hunter, can’t you tell?”

“Old Caleb’s a hunter too, but he looks where he’s going!”

“A bounty hunter, not a bird hunter, girl!”

Her breath hitched. Knuckles white as her fists curled at her sides. Her glare remained fixed on Owen as he shook his head and walked to the back room.

His shouts still reached Seryn once he found the little boy. And when he returned, the boy held a hand against his reddened cheek, carrying the brown bundle to the smith girl.

Seryn took the bundle and walked out of the tavern without a word. Her strides long, her eyes distant, gripping the bundle tight enough she could hear the loaf of bread being squished under the pressure.

Old Roland saw her this time and smiled. But when he opened his mouth to say something, Seryn had already passed the alley. The shepherd’s children and his dog sat outside their house in a crooked circle. The girl walked past them without a glance. Suddenly their voices rose, making her heart beat faster. They laughed and screamed and shouted. None of it was ever worth looking at.

Seryn finally reached the forge. The traveler wasn’t there. Good. He’s probably talking to the caravan. The smith walked past the forge and left the bundle in their hut, where they ate and slept.

She then walked to the forge and entered without a word. Her hands quickly found her hammer. Her boots landed on the stone step Kork had made for her. Now the anvil was right in front of her. The bellows roaring at her left. The heat of the forge fire hitting her face, her bare arm, and sometimes her belly that showed under her shirt when she bent. Kork never liked it. Said it was more of a rag than a shirt. But there was never much that he did like.

Running a hand over his stomach, James smoothed his shirt.

“Leave it kid.” he muttered, starting the engine and backing out of the parking spot.

“Gotta cut the booze, old man.”

“I had no booze.”

“Yes, you did.”

His brows knitted. “You threw it down the bridge.”

“I’m kind,” her smirk widened. “Thank me.”

James let out a long breath through his nose, muttering something about getting gray hair at thirty-one.

He looked at her from the corner of his eyes.

“Put that thing in the backseat,” he said, nodding at the baton twirling in her fingers.

“I’m calling it Bryan.”

“What…”

“This,” she flicked the baton onto his knuckles, making him release the gearshift with a hiss. “Is Bryan,” her tone sweet and her smirk sharp.