Deep into the wood comes a clanging. Metal slams hard into metal, a sharp cry in the night. The sound guides me through the trees until an orange glow flickers amongst the darkness. Scents of burning steel and calming lavender waft through the air as I draw near. A forge comes into view, alive and eager. Standing before the anvil, shaping red-hot steel with every strike, looms a figure of immense strength. Shirtless and muscular, the Smith works. Even in just the light of the forge, his pale green skin is clear. He wears his long black hair in a high ponytail, the sides of his head shaved and showing off the points of his ear. A thick arm rises in the air, hammer clutched tight in a huge fist, and crashes down on the steel again.
“If you have come to interrupt my work, get on with it,” a coarse and sonorous voice comes between swings. “I am very busy.”
“N-no, I don’t mean to interrupt,” I respond, puny in comparison. “I am simply here to admire, and…” I trail off.
“And add to my workload,” the orc finishes for me. “As if I don’t have a long enough list as it is.”
My heart sinks. To be fair, what did I expect in the first place? To be greeted with open arms and enthusiasm? To be praised for finding him? To be gifted a blade as soon as I set foot on his land? Encouragement to wake my friends so they too could claim their prize? Something akin to magic? What a damn fool.
“Oh,” the word escapes me in a breath. “I’m sorry. I can just leave. I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir.”
Stepping back, I make my way for the trail back to the others. A sigh, a loud gust of breath, escapes the Smith. He sets down his tools and turns. His broad chest shows off the scars in the firelight. His wide mouth can barely contain the two teeth like tusks on his lower jaw, the right’s point broken. His cheeks, jawline, and chin are covered in a thick obsidian stubble. His scarlet eyes peer down a large hooked nose and find me, a tired relent taking me in.
“Wait,” he groans. “You’ve made it this far. I can at least listen to your request.”
A grin spreads on my face, that spark of excited hope igniting as it had back at the tower. The warmth of the forge washes over me as I draw near. Beads of sweat form on my brow, and for a moment I consider removing my coat. Part of me decides it needs to stay on, show the legendary orc how strong I am to withstand the intense heat. The other part of me criticizes the thought, pointing out how silly it sounds. I agree with the notion that it would be best to take the damn thing off, yet it remains.
“That your weapon?” he asks, pointing to the sword.
“No,” I answer, glancing at the basic iron blade. “It belongs to my friend. Kind of. Technically, he stole it.”
“I don’t often work with thieves,” he states. There is something lacing his gruff, a touch of serious yet a pinch of jest. “I take it he only took the one for himself?”
“Whoever is on watch gets to use it, just in case,” I tell him.
“And here you are, dutifully protecting the sleepers.” More of that humor comes out, the corners of his mouth rising to form a devious smirk. “Know how to use that thing?”
“I’ve had some lessons,” I admit.
“Enough to know what kind of blade suits you best?” he asks. My hesitation is enough to answer his question. “They even let you use real swords in your lessons?”
“Only the advanced classes allow that,” I tell him.
“And you’re not in the advanced classes yet, are ya boy?”
That hope, that light, that eager and yearning optimism fades with every inquiry. Each one chips away at the excitement, its own determination focused on bringing me down. The Smith, with his reasonable curious jabs, shrinks me until I am a child. Small and illogical, I’m biting off more than I can chew. Unprepared, untrained, undeserving.
My eyes set on the damp, dead grass. The snow melts as soon as it touches ground here. If it weren’t for the season, the sickly yellow would be lush green. I can only imagine the heat of working the forge at summertime. The trees, though, are close enough to provide a nice shadowy canopy. Perhaps the Smith likes it better in the warmer months. The Baroness, in her lessons regarding the diverse peoples, always mentioned how orcs liked the heat of their homeland deserts. Maybe the heat from his forge reminds him of home.
Heavy footsteps approach, and soon a rough pale green hand takes hold of my face. Index finger on one cheek and thumb on the other, he lifts my downcast chin. My bones feel so fragile in his grasp. Those crimson eyes narrow on me, studying something. He nods once after a long while, finding what he was searching for and releasing me. Taking a step back, his hands rest on his hips.
“Last boy who saw me was from the Tower of Lost Children,” he says, the lightheartedness in his tone gone. “Reckon by the looks of ya, you’re from there too, huh?”
“Yeah,” I nod. After living at the Tower for so long, the shame of being an orphan had all but vanished. Yet his red eyes, ever watchful and curious, shine a spotlight on that old familiar sting. No longer a child, I become a toddler in his looming shadow.
“Any idea how many others that boy told about where to find me?” His arms cross over his chest, the muscles tightening in his irritation.
“No, sir,” I shake my head. “He showed a few people, but my friend is the only I know of who was told of how he got the dagger.”
Distant thunder roars inside his throat. His eyes close for a moment as he groans. His posture slacks for a second, his head falling. Fingers that previously held my face pinch the bridge of his nose. He exudes a heavy sign, releasing the tension in his body and letting his arms fall to his sides. He straightens up and lets a dark chuckle rise to the sky.
“Marcorkeit, be with me,” he mutters. His eyes find me again. “So, boy, what kind of blade do you desire?”
“Oh, um…” I hesitate, sheepish eyes going to the ground again.
“A regular sword would do you nicely,” he suggests. “Maybe a longsword, since you’re tall for a human.”
“I wouldn’t mind a longsword,” I tell him. “I’m getting pretty good with that and the greatsword we use in lessons. They’re wooden, though, if that makes a difference.”
“Ah, a greatsword,” he muses, eyes going wide and an excited grin widening on his face. “Might have to grow into it a little bit, bulk up some, but yes a greatsword would look wonderful in your hands. Did you have a particular material in mind? Any characteristics to make it unique? Perhaps an engraving of some sort?”
My brows reach for my hairline, two dark brown length of trees stretching to be closer to the curly forest. The pristine oceans in my eyes give away my overwhelmed confusion. The Smith goes quiet for a second, my indecisive awkwardness drowning out his bassy eagerness. He offers another little laugh, a long arm landing a heavy palm on my shoulder. Though I’m sure he means to only shake me a little, my whole body rattles in his not-so-gentleness.
“We’ll worry about that later,” he says to soothe my mild panic. “First, there is the matter of payment. I take it you don’t have much coin.”
“Not yet,” comes the timid confession. “We don’t get much of an allowance.”
“No worries, boy,” the Smith smiles. “I have an errand you can do for me instead.”
“What do you need?” I ask.
“East of here is a cave,” he explains. “Its inhabitant has been trespassing on my land lately and stealing from my food stock. Show me how strong you are and take care of it for me. Sound easy enough?”
“I think I can handle it,” I nod once. My grip on the sword’s hilt tightens in a show of self-confidence. “What should I expect to find in that cave?”
“Onesh,” he says, simple yet dark. He waits, watching me with anticipation. But the word is gibberish to me. He catches the confusion on my face. A slight disappointment sparkles dull amongst the scarlet hues, and the corners of his toothy and tusky grin deflate a little.
“You’ve never heard of Onesh?” I shake my head, to which he sighs once more. “They mustn’t teach you kids all that well.
“Onesh is a great and mighty beast. Centuries old, it’s as big as a bear, stronger than a gorilla, and as cunning as a fox. But at night, it falls into a deep sleep. If you can sneak up on it, you might be able to get the job done. If not, the Tower of Lost Children has one less mouth to feed.”
The playful yet sinister grin that shines on his face breeds a fear in me. Stealth has not often been a strong suit of mine; it had almost always been my fault when Kym and I would get caught sneaking a snack or two from the pantry. My desire for a blade of my own, though, is stronger than that cold feeling in my gut. Standing upright, heels clicking together like the guards do in the city, I don a face of bravery.
“It will be done, sir,” I say, doing my best to tune my teenage voice down an octave. Along with sneakiness, vocal talent falls short on my list of skills.
Tyler Gohde 
One thought on “Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 2”