"You fiend!"
"What’s all this bloody shouting?" Ca the voice of an even louder man, as the nobleman worked himself into a state. A young man was what the smith had been looked at, half his age, or even less. More concerned with the appearance of his weapon than the war to co. The soldier that arrived upon hearing the noise was a very different sort of figure.
In age, they might have been the sa, but the look in their eyes was entirely different.
Anger, the colour of red – that was what the nobleman’s gaze had been reduced to. Sweat on his forehead, dirt on the ruffled sleeves of his shirt, as they extended out beyond his coat, then a ringed finger that he was pointing with. But no danger there, not truly, not past the rank of him.
The other was danger personified. A nacing smile on his lips. A look that oozed violence. Scars on his chin, then a nastier one that went on his neck. Even an accent to give with it. The smith knew in a second that he was not of the Stormfront, but he also knew from the surcoat of the beast that he wore that he was a direct servant of the newly crowned King Patrick.
The nobleman turned to look at him. His surprise kept him mute for a few embarrassing monts, but then he found himself, apparently deciding that whoever stood in front of him was a lesser, and he rembered his anger. "Very good, soldier. This man refuses to perform his duty."
"Stuff that," the smith sniffed. "I’ve perford my duty. That sword is fit for battle. It’s you that attempts to get in the way of mine."
"Show your sword," the new arrival said, seizing it off the nobleman as roughly as the smith had. He wasn’t the bigger man by much, but the nobleman was powerless to resist him, even though he evidently put so strength in his hand to prevent losing his weapon for a second ti.
The Patrick man tried a few practice swings, looked down the length of the blade as the smith had, then tried shaving the hair on his hands with it. "Sharp and true, a good sword," he said.
"This is what he reduced its effects to!" The nobleman said, showing him what remained of the eagle.
"And?" The man said.
"And? And, as your superior officer, I demand that you apprehend this man! And I demand that you fix your attitude, you should not be behaving so candidly with those that are above you, even if you do belong to a different unit than my own," the nobleman said.
The smith raised an eyebrow. That seed like a bear trap that the man had stepped on. The swirling sense of danger intensified. The Patrick man smiled. A thoroughly dangerous creature he was. He wondered why the young Commander saw fit to provoke him.
"Superior office, are you?" The Patrick man said, drawing his sword. "Are you quite certain? Yer the one that has been talking off to . And yer the one that’s been wasting the ti of our smiths."
"Leave it, Firyr," ca another man, more dignity in his voice, and another Patrick surcoat on his chest. He threaded his arm around Firyr’s, preventing him from pointing his sword any closer to the man than he already had.
"He’s out of line, Jorah," Firyr protested.
"Perhaps," Jorah said. "But you don’t need to kill him for it."
"The Blackthorns are all cocking up this morning. If we don’t start making so examples, then this will be played out again and again," Firyr said.
"You know it’s not the Blackthorns. This man’s House might be in service of them, but he is not trained under their banner, as part of their standing army," Jorah said. "His lack of discipline can not be laid at General Blackthorn’s door. If I had to guess, he’s a late arrival, sent to replace another mber of his family."
"Then we should teach him," Firyr said.
"You’re a Captain now, you fool," Jorah said icily, pulling on his arm. "You’ve more important things to do than look for a fight. Lord Idris is likely to be back any hour now. We need these soldiers processed and properly equipped before then. Hurry it along, don’t hold it up."
’Captain Firyr,’ the smith thought to himself as he watched the two of them. He wet his tongue slightly on the roof of his mouth, finding that it had gone dry. Firyr and Jorah. Both Captains, he thought. He wondered why it was that he knew their nas so well – he hadn’t made an effort to follow the battle. As far as he was concerned, it was all the sa. Soldiers, no matter who they owed allegiance to, would wander their way into his shop.
Not an ounce of attention he gave it, or at least, he tried not to, and yet those nas he knew. Knew them even more strongly now that they were in front of him. Knew tales of their glory, and knew them to be true. Knew their battling with Tavar, knew their warring with the Ersons, knew their victory of the monster that was Tiberius.
These were n that had followed that new King Oliver Patrick into hell – what did it truly an that such a man was now King? The smith knew not yet – and when they were in front of him, one could tell.
Where so many others had died, these n had lived. Peasants Oliver Patrick had collected up to bolster his armies. Pathetic constitutions they were, all with military knowledge said so, yet these had secured victories. These were the n that had seen through it all. They were the n that had spent the longest ti around Oliver Patrick, and been the most heavily influenced by him, and one could tell.
A cold shiver, as the smith found himself stepping back, and lowering his eyes. Thick arms had been wound across his body in a contemptuous folding of his arms. Now, they uncrossed themselves, and he found himself attempting to look as ek as possible.
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