The Dark Lord of Crafting

Henterfell was the first real city I’d seen in Plana. Hundreds of buildings, cobblestone streets, and a sizable keep at its heart. We had sheltered a couple of miles away, well off of the road. Esmelda, Gastard, and I had spent a cramped night together in a stone box along with their horses. They’d offered to find me a mount of my own in Erihseht, but I preferred walking, and I didn’t want to be responsible for an animal. If I ever got a pet, I would have to worry about it being eaten by zombies.

While Henterfell had a wall, it only encircled the inner third of the city. The rest had propagated out as it pleased. The river, Whiskywend, ran through the center, and I saw several mills along its length. The countryside was dotted with hamlets and farms, and we had passed by several small communities on the way, but Henterfell itself did not appear to be by any means agrarian. So much stone, there had to be a quarry nearby, maybe a few mines. What would Godwod say if I asked to pay one of them a visit?

“Can we just walk in?” I asked. After breaking down the shelter, we’d returned to the main road, and the three of us were closing in on the other edge of the city.

“If we were carrying goods for sale,” Esmelda said, “we might have to pay a toll, but I don’t see any guards.”

“We will be questioned before we can enter the inner city,” Gastard said. “But there is little in the way of security for the outer portion. People come and go as they please.”

“Did you live here in the past?” I asked, fast walking to keep up with the horses.

“For a time,” Gastard was as taciturn as ever.

Though there was no definite hard line to cross as we entered the outer city, the dusty road gave way to cobbles, and the first building to greet us was a large inn. Three stories of timber and stone, the upper windows shaded by dark curtains, but those on the ground floor were open to the sunlight. A sign hanging from a pole over the entrance depicted a fat, laughing man. A few people were leaving from under it, but the interior of the inn looked quiet. Early morning wouldn’t be a high-traffic juncture.

Much of the outer city looked like a residential area, but as we were traveling the main road, we were treated to the sight of shops and performers. There was a busker outside of the inn lazily strumming on his lyre, and he gave me a sour look after I glanced at his hat on the ground and didn’t toss anything in, but that seemed like more of a statement about his life choices than mine.

We slowed as we came up behind a wagon that took up most of the road, passing by a blacksmith's forge, the ring of metal on metal already echoing from its shaded interior.

“So many people,” Esmelda said. “How can they all live here?”

Compared to Erihseht, Henterfell did seem crowded, particularly as we ventured further in. The market was bustling despite the early hour, and a vendor shouted at her as we passed, trying to sell some bangles. I spotted what looked like a guard, but he was lazily chatting with one of the merchants and didn’t seem to be monitoring us or anyone else who was shuffling by.

I felt both more and less like an alien here than I had entering the lillit village. The people here weren’t outlandishly tall or short, and there was a definite northern European vibe, ethnically speaking. It could have been any stereotypical fantasy adventure setting, and with brown hair and brownish eyes, I slid right into the homogeneity.

It was a far cry from being a giant clad in zombie leathers stumbling out of the wilderness with a stone ax strapped to my back. The one thing that might have given me away was the elder sign on the back of my hand, but I covered it with a pair of crafted gloves.

The aroma of cooking spices and bread was outdone by the stench of manure and unwashed bodies that characterized life in the Middle Ages. The lillits never smelled like this, and they were never this loud. A cacophony of voices echoed through the narrow streets, and the shouting reminded me of a prison dorm more than anything.

Things quieted as we grew closer to the inner city, no doubt due in part to the presence of a temple before the gate. It was as tall as the inn had been, and several times larger in every other respect. The granite structure took on a warm tone in the morning sunlight and a statue near the entrance drew my eye. A young boy petting a giant lion.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Saint Dahvit,” Gastard said. “He spoke to beasts, and rallied them in defense of Drom in another age.”

“Was he one of Mizu’s?”

“If he was a hero,” Esmelda said, “then she must have sent him.”

“They do not worship the blue goddess here,” Gastard said shortly.

The gate to the inner city was open, but a guard stood to one side of it, and there were more walking the wall twenty feet above us. The man was wearing an iron cap and a surcoat with the sign on the city embroidered in gold thread. He held a halberd planted in the ground beside him.

“What’s your business?” He asked, eyeing my clothes. I had on a wool cloak Esmelda had found for me, and a linen tunic covered most of my leathers. Though well made in their own way, my garments wouldn’t mark me as either a noble or a rich merchant. I produced the letter the messenger had given me, and the guard's eyes widened as he took in the seal, though he didn’t attempt to read its contents.

"I'm here to see Lord Godwod,” I said. “These are my companions.”

He let us through. Beyond the wall were taller, nicer houses, more stone than wood, and some with gardens and fences. There was another inn that made the first seem dirty by comparison, and a few high-end shops that didn’t bother advertising their wares in the open. My gaze was drawn to the heart of the city where Lord Godwod’s keep dominated the skyline. Its massive brick walls were pocked with arrow slits, and the entrance came equipped with a drop gate at the end of a steep ramp. If this place had never been under siege, its architects would surely have been disappointed.

We made our way to the keep, the hooves of the horses clinking on the cobbles, and were stopped once more at the ramp. This guard was wearing a red tunic, and he had a sword instead of a halberd. Instead of addressing us, he simply stared.

“We’re here to see the Lord,” I said, “he’s expecting us.” I handed him the invitation, and he scanned through it.

“Just you,” he said, not looking at Esmelda or Gastard.

“Do you not remember me,” Gastard said, his voice cold.

“I do,” the man said, “but you are no longer free to enter here.”

Gastard grunted, and Esmelda slid down from her horse to take my hand. “You don’t have to go in,” she said. “We can all wait here.”

“What?” The guard sneered, “Of course he does. The Lord has asked for him, the Lord doesn’t come out to the street to visit.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “There’s plenty of daylight left.” I glanced back down the road. “Why don’t you guys check out the inn, and I’ll come meet you after he sees me.”

“We’ll be close,” Gastard said, though whether they were close or far, I didn’t think they would be able to help me once I was inside the keep. The distance was probably better than having them accompany me anyway. If Godwod decided to try something nasty, they could be left out of it.

“Wait inside,” the guard said, “the Lord will send someone for you when he’s ready.” He knocked on the gate, and it lifted to reveal a garden, but he stopped me before I could step through.

“Sword and knife,” he said, his tone flat. I handed them over, and he nearly dropped the stone-bladed sword, unprepared for its weight.

“Take good care of them,” I said.

Passing under the arch, I found myself in a courtyard surrounded by a verdant garden. There was no city noise here, and the entire scene felt as if it had been deliberately curated to elicit a sense of peace, down to the bubbling fountain at the center of the garden. It released a gentle spray, casting prismatic hues in the sunlight.

The water was coming from between the cupped hands of a stone man. It could have been a monument to a Roman Olympian, aside from the water aspect, and the face of the figure, which struck me as oddly soft and sad. How did they have the water pressure for a fountain?

There wasn’t an obvious next step, as there didn’t appear to be anyone for me to announce myself to, or a specific place for me to sit and wait. Wandering through the lush garden, marveling at the meticulously arranged flowers and the fragrance of nature, had me itching to collect samples. A lot of these plants were varieties that I had never seen before, and I really wanted to add them to my logs, but despite not seeing anyone around, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being observed.

A fat, fluffy rabbit hopped right up to my boots and looked up at me with its nose twitching.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re not very smart, are you? I could be anybody. I could eat rabbits.”

The animal didn’t seem worried.

“Good advice.” A middle-aged man stepped from around a rosebush. He had on a luxurious robe, yellow and purple, and was wearing a silver circlet over his wavy blonde hair. “One can never be too careful of strangers. My Mutig has lived a sheltered life, but he is a reasonable judge of character, nonetheless.”

The man clapped, and the rabbit scampered back to him. He crouched, and it hopped into his waiting arms. Jewels flashed on his fingers, and I was reminded of Dongle Darfur. When he straightened, he regarded me with a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

“You must be the famous Will,” he said. “Smaller than I thought you would be. I am Lord Godwod, Margrave of the Border March.”

I bowed.