From The Annals of Time... Of Blade and Cowardice Part 2

The second part to the story of Jalto and his journey in The Allacall Isles. More specifically, the Bronze City...

I see you’ve come, readers… Here, the best way to beat bestial boxers is to bonk them on the backbone with a bat!

I’m sure you’ve all been dying to find out what happens to Jalto after he is faced with a not-so-nice-looking backstreet thug. The thrilling story continues…

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Of Blade and Cowardice, Part 2

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“I wasn’t planning on getting some nasty orc guts on these paths, but I’ll be able to convince the boss it was…” He scowled at Jalto, “Necessary.”

Jalto, wearing a face of fearsomeness but hiding a feeling of fright, replies, “I don’t have any payment. This halfling is a liar…” At this, the halfling looked at Jalto, offended, “So let’s just let this all pass from our minds and leave this behind us. I don’t wish for bloodshed.” The mysterious and large man, still with the knife in hand, chuckled. “Smoothtalk won’t save you. I don’t believe that swine of a halfling, but my blade yearns for blood. A master must provide.” Jalto gripped his shortsword tighter. This was real. This was happening.

With horrifying swiftness, the man lunged toward Jalto’s neck, knife pointed out. Jalto, half-surprised, dove out of the way, hitting his shin against some nearby boxes. Jalto quickly stood up but before he could get a hold of his bearings, the man was upon him. Jalto had just enough time to swing wildly with his blade. He connected. The man fell back, clutching his right bicep. He scowled at Jalto. With his other arm, the man reached for his belt and pulled out a small stone with a sigil on it. With all his might, the man threw it upon the ground, sending out a blast of befuddling noise.

Jalto looked around, but the man was nowhere to be seen. But someone was. The halfling has ducked behind the boxes that Jalto jumped into. The halfling was looking down at Jalto, standing on the boxes. “Thanks for getting me out of that nasty situation. I could’ve gotten hurt.” He hopped down, standing next to Jalto. “The name’s Kurt. Kurt Copperedge. World-class thief, renowned robber, and notorious rogue. You might’ve heard of me.” Jalto looked perplexed. No, he had not heard of him.

Jalto, holding his hand to his head, stood up. He then muttered, “Who was that man, and what did he want with you? Did you owe him and his ‘boss’ something?” Kurt waved the question away, saying, “I can help with your head. He got you with a nasty shock rock. They’re harsh little things.” Kurt dug around in his sachel, holding out a bottle of red, glistening liquid, and said, “Potion of healing. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t poison my hero. I’m a thief, not a murderer.”

Jalto took the bottle gratefully, uncorked it, and drank. His headache went away nearly instantly, and he felt better than he had for a while. “So, Kurt, what are you going to do about those people? They seem like they will want to come after you.” He thought for a moment, “They’ll probably want to come after me, too.” Kurt glanced up at him. “Yes, they will. I know a place. It won’t be pretty, but it’s a friend’s house. He can let us hunker down for the night, or a couple, if required. Come with me, mister.” Kurt began to walk and Jalto followed, telling him, “Just call me Jalto.”

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The pair walked within the busy streets of the Bronze City. Usually, when Jalto would walk through these roads, he would feel out of place. Now he felt even more so. He felt distant from the common folk of this city, like a diamond amongst stones. Kurt led Jalto through backstreets and crowds, weaving through these obstacles. Eventually, Kurt led him to a decrepit stone building. The cobbled walls offered a sense of dread and isolation. “Nice to see the place is still up. Well, I’ll knock.” He walked up to the shabby wood door and rapped on it with his bony knuckles.

The door cracked open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes, peering up at Jalto. “What do you want, stranger?” A gruff voice asked. Kurt hit the door again, remarking, “I’m down here, Brochner.” The eyes looked down, slightly surprised. The door then opened entirely and behind it stood a plump man with a leather apron and torn pants. He looked down at Kurt with glee in his eyes. “It is quite the honor to have such a respectable customer here, Kurt!” He shouted. Kurt looked around nervously, “Not so loud, man, let us in. Me and my friend Jalto here need to hide from Tooth and his thugs. Got us into some trouble, he did.” The man, who was called Brochner, ushered them in.

Inside the raggedy shack was a worn and tired forge. The coal-fueled flame in the furnace was sorrowful and struggling, the anvil was chipped, the hammer and tongs were worn and cracked. Around the room, however, were decently made weapons, all made of metal. Most were the average bronze material, but others were made of iron and other materials. “I’m a smith, specialized in blade-make. You know, Kurt, since you haven’t been in a while, you can have something for free,” Brochner announced.

Kurt looked around and began to inspect. Kurt examined a scimitar, saying, “This one’s nice. Iron?” Brochner nodded, then turned to Jalto. He looked him up and down, seemingly scrutinizing every feature and mark on his clothes. “You are a fighter?” “I just so happen to be, yes, sir.” Again, Brochner seemed to examine him further. At that moment Kurt spoke from the other side of the room, “How about this trident here?” Brochner walked over to Kurt and began to talk to him, probably about weaponry and metal.

Jalto seized this time to look around the store. Along the walls are several daggers and knives, a few longswords, quivers of arrows, polearms of all sorts (including the trident Kurt saw), and a fine-looking greataxe. Jalto approached it to examine it closer.

“You like that one?” Jalto was caught off-guard, instinctively reaching for his blade. Jalto relaxed, “Yes. It seems to be of very fine make. You are a talented smith.” Brochner waved the compliment away, muttering, “Patronization won’t lower prices. Kurt over there has convinced me to let you two stay here for the night. But just one. I’ll show you to your rooms if you’re done drooling over this beauty.” He patted the greataxe and led them upstairs (which were falling apart every other step).

They came to a hallway and Brochner opened the first door on the left, showing them a sad-looking bedroom for one. Kurt stretched his arms and announced happily, “This is one of the finest rooms I’ve stayed in for a while. It’s better than that lean-to I was in last night.” Jalto set his equipment down, all except his shortsword, then walked to the window. He had a poor view of the shabby street, with the occasional pedestrian crossing his sight. Brochner had been explaining how to close the door so that it doesn’t squeak when they all heard a loud bang!

Brochner cursed under his breath then rushed downstairs. After a moment or two, they heard a clashing of metal and grunts. Jalto ran downstairs after them, Kurt (far) behind him. They arrived at the sight of Brochner with a dagger through his arm, pinning him to the wall, covered in crimson blood. Two men stood over him, wielding shields and longswords. One of them looked up, revealing the same man that Jalto had encountered in the backstreets not even two hours before. His injury stung with vengeance.

Without a second thought, Jalto reached for a dagger on the wall and threw it with such accuracy that even he was surprised at the swiftness. The dagger dug itself into the other man’s shoulder with a sickening shunk and the man stumbled to the ground, clutched the blade. The man whom Jalto had fought before sped toward him, longswords aimed at his throat. Jalto ducked out of the way and went for a punch at his opponent’s chin. It connected with a crack and the man stepped back and few paces. The enemy grinned maniacally.

The man, glaring at Jalto reached into his pocket, revealing a scroll. The man began to read an eldritch language, reciting what Jalto assumed was on the page. Before Jalto knew it, he was dozing off into the land of sleep. The last thing he saw before the light of the building went out was the man grinning at him, holding Kurt by the scruff of his shirt. “Too bad, orc. In the end, the superior warrior wins. You lack wits.”

Jalto woke up in a damp, cold, stone-built room. The only source of light was a single torch outside of the wood door with a small barred window, casting a foreboding lined shadow. Jalto stood up to gather his thoughts, but this was quickly interrupted by phantom chains holding him to the ground, for when he pulled on them, they seemed to fade into reality. “You seem to be getting used to your final home, Jalto.” Jalto looked up at the door’s window to see a scarred face. It was a dark brownish-red with bright orange hair that was held by a man bun in the back. He had piercing red eyes that seemed to scour your soul for any sign of life.

“You offended me, Jalto. You should know that anyone who tries to meddle in masterful deals and workings gets punished.” The firey man opened the door and walked into the room, bathing it in more light. The man was a fire genasi, which was something Jalto could only guess at earlier. “But before we begin, I’d like to ask you this; how long did it take you to figure out that Brochner was one of us?”

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Thank you for reading! What do the mysterious man and his boss want with Jalto? Where is Jalto going? Will Brochner live? What will come of Kurt? Find out in the third installment of Of Blade and Cowardice! Again, thank you, and remember, come back to the Homebrew Hermit… You may find something you like.

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