7. A Gift of wood

Orin was a prosperous city. The streets were paved, the buildings were storeyed and the people were healthy. A good density of humans populated the streets. Some walked, some rode horses, some rode birds, and few went in carriages. Some ridiculous ones also rode giant lizards but Boris ignored them. It was not his concern if someone thought riding a creepy clawed reptile was fun. Grey informed him that the lizards were called turtlebacks. They were dangerous monsters that took much effort to be tamed.

Boris almost chuckled at the name, he was glad to find that the people of Cumaria still had a sense of humor. Why else would somebody name a giant lizard as a turtleback, surely not just for a turtle shell? He was also glad to find that dangerous monsters could be tamed; he wanted a dragon as pet someday.

He looked around at the streets bustling with people, gruff, burly people. Everybody was dressed in some level of armor and held a weapon at his person. A passerby gave him a scowl as he brushed against him, the ugly scar on his face contorting in intimidation. Boris offered a small apology as he tried to gauge him. Another warrior, with a long scimitar at his waist and a small dagger hidden under his belt. The man breathed a few curses and walked away.

Grey led him along to the main marketplace, a large circle of shops that extended further into streets. A large stone pedestal stood in the center, the mannequin of a fully armored knight upon it. He was in the motion of drawing out his sword to slay something, a demon perhaps. Hawkers stood around it, shouting out their wares at ridiculous prices. There amulets and bracelets and trinkets, all enchanted to provide some edge in combat. Boris passed by, giving them a slightly curious look.

“Try it boy, there is no other like this in the world,” an enthusiastic hawker put forth a small brown bracelet just about his size. It was obviously iron, with a small premature glyph cast upon it. Boris put it on and felt small itch upon his arm as the bracelet shook. He returned it back promptly.

“I don’t like it.”

“Hey wait boy! I have others, a special amulet of Irilea for the chosen few.” But Boris was already gone, his eyes now attracted to the weapons displayed in the shop exhibits. There were hundreds of them. The whole market place was full of those. His eyes beamed, among so many there was definitely one he could hold, one that was not forged of magic or filled with enchantments.

It proved futile.

Boris stood in tenth weapon shop today. Not surprising since all the shops were related to either weapon or armor, it was like an arsenal rather than a market place. The small black dagger he held was stuttering along the table, making him frown.

“Don’t you have something which is not completely metal?” he asked the shopkeeper while Grey browsed through their collection of staves and gems.

“That would be costly, young man. If you have the money though, I’d be willing to show you a masterpiece of mine.”

Grey came back and nodded at the shopkeeper, “Let us see it.”

It was beautiful dagger. The blade was straight and double-edged, adorned with an inlaid design at the spine. It glowed faintly red. The hilt was in two pieces separated by a sinuous curve. A half of ivory white marble and the other tar black metal. The marble part felt cool and comfortable to touch while the metal part felt undesirable.

Boris frowned. Why did every bit of metal have to be forged of magic? And why did every weapon have to be made of it.

“Do you not have a hilt that does not have metal?”

“Why would you want that,” as the shopkeeper said so, he held out that very same dagger in the air. It glowed brighter along the vines now, giving a reddish sheen to the whole blade. “Nothing conducts mana like metal. Even the aristocrats that want fancy pieces of enamel and gemstones need at least part of it metallic for real use.”

And that was it. Boris was sure he would not get a weapon of his choice, and if he ordered it made… no, he didn’t have time for that. They said a week at least for orders.

He scoured the other shops nonetheless, the throes of sweaty warriors proving it somewhat difficult for him. They were all he saw, mercenaries, soldiers, guards, and a few mages. An army outside of castle walls.

They finally sat in an eatery attached to the inn. A window was the only outlet it provided to the outside world, the door being closed. It was large and slightly yellow, obviously a product of dirt and smoke rather than an artistic tinge. Glass windows were rare in the city, most windows being open or grilled with wood. Glass wasn’t that costly, just difficult to maintain.

Boris did not like the place much. The food was bland and the people gruff. He was a little curious but the waitresses weren’t exactly a beauty either, not by his standards.

“Your standards are skewed,” Grey told the indifferent boy seated before him, as he enjoyed his tea.

“This whole city is weird.” Boris blamed the world.

“Why so?” Grey chuckled softly as he placed the cup back, allowing a waitress to refill it.

“Well, for a first, what is a city?”

“A large prosperous settlement blessed in trade, guarded by walls and recognized by the kingdom.” Grey provided what was obviously a bland definition according to Boris.

“Wrong!” Boris exclaimed, “I knew you were weird. The city is how you call it, excitement! For someone who visits it for the first time it should full of wonders and surprises, and I don’t mean giant crawling lizards. I mean the variety, the beauty, the attractions. People of different types, selling and buying different types of products. Children excited to go into sweet shops, mothers crowding upon discounted goods, travellers excited over new crafts and antiques. Fountains and gardens, and beauties sitting around them. That is a city!”

“As I thought, that is a highly childish and biased view,” Grey responded, “but still, don’t you see all the variety here?”

“Oh, I do, I do,” Boris spoke sarcastically, “all your men are rough and burly, the few women I see are brusque and wild, and your children gearing up to be one of them. Everyone carries a weapon, is clad in defensive clothes and is haggling over more weapons or armor. All shops sell weapons, or armor, or accessories for fighting. Heck, the only other shops deal with potions or magecraft, again for fighting. The children’s play is brawling, the men’s way is brawling. The eateries are crowded with sweaty men and bland food. The capital city seems to be made of dumb brutes and mercenaries, their only talent in war. Is violence your daily deed?”

Boris voiced his resentments fluently, his black eyes now frowning in disdain. He had been extremely excited in the morning when Grey had offered to take him on a tour of the city. After a whole night of racking his brains Boris could find no method to win the duel. He needed a breath of fresh air, and he jumped at the chance. He could finally visit the city too. Two weeks of being clogged in the castle were depressing him.

They had only visited shops of weapons and armory. Boris had tried on a miscellany of weapons and much to his chagrin, found he was not comfortable with any. Grey also visited the smith, allowing Boris a glimpse into forging of weapons. It was hot, strenuous and most annoyingly, mana consuming.

Boris gave up and asked to be taken somewhere different, only to find it much the same. The frustration drove him grumpy when he found the whole city filled with war nuts. He now showered out with his rants.

The lengthy speech prompted Grey to sit back and relax. The old mage enjoyed his tea with a smile as he listened to wordy grudges. He was beginning to understand the boy a little.

“On the contrary, this should give you a good idea about our city. Less to say we are warriors and more to say we are mostly at war. A vast majority of the people here enlist as soldiers or mercenaries, driving their livelihood from fights. It may be subjugation of monsters, killing demons or small skirmishes with other nations. The city you talked about only exists in peaceful, placated times. We do have portions that are quieter and simpler, but they are not popular. The artisans are few and farmers usually own outlands, the eateries are good enough for sustenance. This is not a world of dreams, Boris.” Grey peered down intellectually through his half-moon spectacles, his grey beard shining in the light.

Boris skipped over half of Grey’s speech, only paying attention to what he liked, “What, so you do have better places. I want to go there.”

Grey shook his head in regret, he had best not have told Boris about other places. Boris was now adamant and Grey reluctantly agreed. The pair made their way out, through the crowded streets into sparser ones.

The streets seemed to thin along with the crowd, becoming narrow worn out pavements with each step they took. The buildings on became closer and shorter, losing luster and shine even under bright sunlight. The walls were dirtier, the road dustier and city dry. People changed from robes to tunics, from leather to hemp, from embroidery to patchwork. The streets became shaded and the city shadier.

“Are we going to shanties?” Boris asked at the declining state of surroundings.

“No, we are going to meet an old friend.”

“Oh come on, I asked you to take me to better places. This is no time for nostalgia.”

“If by better places you meant artisans and antique shops, then yes, we are going there.”

Boris could not help but imagine some shady establishments that sold junk objects as rare treasures.

They came upon a crossing with a decrepit fountain; water flowed down in little streams down the cracks. The rock had grown moss and small puddles formed in nearby street. Boris stepped over the puddles, looking at the

fountain with pity while Grey made a turn.

The next street was better kept; clean but fractured. Shops sprung around them, they were smaller, simpler establishments. Makeshift counters held goods and dirty fabrics provided for roofs. The shopkeepers looked at them with hungry stares, hope and greed mixed within. They were indubitably poor in most senses. And often old.

“This was a famous crafts market once. After the last Infernal war, the people wanted change…” Grey began telling a tale as old as himself, probably older. His azure eyes gazed through time, “The kingdom was sick of war and reeling under its aftermath. The people were in despair; many had lost their families and witnessed too much bloodshed. In a bid to escape the savage reality of war, they pursued artistic talents. Artisans emerged from the populace and patrons from nobility. The capital city was no different. My grandfather helped build this street during his last days. The Silver street is named after him.” Grey walked slowly, his eyes still glazed.

The people around were giving them curious glances now. Boris had misgivings, but none of them showed any hostility.

“And,” Boris knew but he asked anyway, “What happened?”

“What happened was another war. Sumaria split away, the kingdom received a shock and the people changed. The patrons lost much in the war and the artisans lost their livelihood… Now the city has a policy to breed enough warriors to keep the nation safe, at the cost of other professions. Cumaria still has cities of high repute for such crafts, like the Bizon and the Nuva Clus. They have learnt to survive by forming and allying with guilds. There isn’t much hope for Orin though. Our people have accepted war, and are learning to thrive upon it.” There was hint of sadness in his voice, a result of wisdom and experience possibly, and a soft longing for peace.

“Do you expect the heroes to end all your wars?” Boris asked.

Grey smiled at him, “Sadly no. No matter how talented they are, the heroes cannot put a stop to the war. They will in fact wage the largest of all wars, the next Infernal war to kill the demon lord. I doubt anybody can stop that.”

“Don’t you have any other solution?”

The old mage smiled at this, “Tell me Boris, in the world you come from, are there no more wars?”

Boris wanted to answer yes, but he knew better. He turned his head down as he spoke, “No… but the place I come from is peaceful and we have progressed much. The wars are rare, and they take place far away from peaceful nations, and children live peacefully…” he tried to put his world in a better light.

Grey laughed softly, “That seems like a good world, and while I do not question your view I doubt that it is the complete truth. Those who speak from the shadows of peace often know little of the darkness of war.”

His words held the weight that Boris found difficult to deny. He replied with silence as they ventured deeper through the street, strolling at a leisurely pace. Grey finally entered a shop. It was old but in better condition. The walls were solid stone and the counters were dark wood. A small board hung outside. ‘Deryll Woodworks’ the sign read in old, flaky paint and frayed carvings.

Boris climbed up the steps to the shop to find a very old man with a bald head and gray beard. His face had more wrinkles than Grey and his eyes seemed to be losing their sheen. His hands were emaciated sticks of bones, his cheeks sunken and his neck a twig of pulsating skin. Boris did not expect this, apparently when Grey had said old friend he had actually meant a really old friend.

The man looked older than even Grey as he bent forward, straining his eyes through round spectacles to look at Grey.

“Grey huh? The years have always been kind to you,” the shopkeeper said, “What brings you here today?”

“Hello old friend, how are you doing?”

“I have no time for your frivolities you bloodless knave,” the old man grumbled, “what do you need of me?”

The vigor had not yet left the old shopkeeper it seemed, he scowled at Grey.

“Now, don’t be like that Marvin. I try to visit as often as I can, don’t I? The academy and the kingdom have both been keeping me busy.”

“Often my foot, last time you came was a year ago and you haven’t brought in Violet ever since. At least send the little angel over sometimes, you disgrace.” Marvin seemed to have a soft spot for Violet.

“Oh, I do apologize about that,” Grey said, recounting his last visit, “I will ask Violet to visit more often.”

Marvin’s eyes shined brilliantly at those words, burning away his old age. “So, what do you need?” he was now congenial.

“I bring you a visitor. Marvin, this is Boris Debron, a guest of the kingdom. Boris, this is my friend Marvin Deryll, a very skilled woodworker.”

It was only then that Marvin bent forward further to notice Boris standing behind Grey. His eyes seemed to probe Boris with a suspicious intent. “Why bring a young lad here, a guest of kingdom no less? Just so you know, I am not taking any apprentices. This isn’t the place for young bloods no more. Though I doubt you brought him for that.”

“I wanted to visit the craftsmen in the city, to see their works. I am sorry if I am intruding but I would love to see your creations.” Boris answered Marvin instead, walking forward until he stood eye to eye.

The old shopkeeper chuckled, “Have an interest in crafts, yes? Can’t say I see young ones like you anymore. Pleasure to have you here Boris, you can look around all you want.” He motioned to the shelves behind him. They seemed old and creaky, but had been kept clean and orderly with due care.

Boris browsed through the items, each of them carved immaculately. The attention to detail was evident in the carvings. He picked up a wooden dagger. Carved in a single piece and polished differently, the blade seemed to resemble black steel while the handle looked to have a base of wood and grip of leather. The creases and the texture of the grip evoked the resemblance to leather. The edge was sharp enough to make paper cuts and the handle was engraved with intricate ornamental designs. If not for the weight, nobody would suspect it was made of wood.

“What do you think?” Grey asked from behind him.

“It’s beautiful.” Boris answered without a thought. Marvin smiled.

“I meant, how does it feel in your hand?”

Boris gripped the dagger comfortably in his hand and twirled it around, feeling it. “It’s comfortable,” he turned to face the shopkeeper, “do you make these without magic?” he asked. He felt no discomfort compared to the weapons he had held before.

“A good eye young one, yes, I don’t use magic. I have always been poor with them tricks and conjurations, so I took to this trade. I work with my hands and tools, God knows those are enough for this damned job.”

Boris felt a stroke of luck, he pondered some more before he asked, “Does the wood have no mana either?”

“Some it used to have. Wood is different from metal, once removed from the tree the mana drains away with time. Aged wood has no mana, makes it easier to work with. Are you not good with magic?” Marvin asked as he explained his point.

“Ah,” Boris stuttered, he looked at Grey who nodded mildly at him, “I cannot use magic,” he told Marvin with some hesitation, “I am inept.” He had been warned to keep it secret but somehow he felt safe enough to confide in Marvin.

The old shopkeeper’s eyes widened, “I see now,” he spoke in a somber tone, “that is how it is eh?” he looked at Grey in an understanding manner.

Boris on the other hand, was too busy thinking up possibilities. Wood would have to do for now. But that dagger was obviously no good. He needed something else. Something blunt, a staff perhaps. The weapon must be strong enough to meet metal and capable of dealing real damage.

“What is the strongest wood?” he asked curiously, “Something able to resist steel and rock.”

“Are you talking about Devil’s wood? The thing is dangerous boy, I would advise against it.”

“Do you have it?”

“Obviously not, what fool would keep it?”

“Then how do I get it?”

“Now listen here, you bonehead. The Devil’s wood is odious. It grows of demon blood and corpses. Any forest that has it is burnt and eradicated. The mercenaries venture into demon lands to acquire it in their foolish greed, and often die in the process. Do you want to die that bad?”

Boris frowned. He did not need myths and legends, he needed something real and tangible, something that would work well, and he needed it fast. “Argh, forget it, what is the toughest wood I can get here? And how do I get it?” he asked Marvin.

“There is no wood can beat metal. Best you can do is hope to bear a few strikes, who are you fighting boy?”

“An obnoxious arrogant bullheaded brat, can you provide me with the toughest wood? Maybe make some weapons of it?”

“Hahaha,” Marvin laughed weakly, “well, I have Tudwin oak, best you can get here. I can have you made some weapons but it will take time.”

“How long?”

“Depends on what you want made. If you want simple staff and spike, no engravings, then a day at best. More, if my worker is busy.”

Boris gave some thought to it. He didn’t have much time, but he couldn’t just order a dozen weapons. He needed to find the best weapon for him. He had no experience in the matter.

“Can I get some time to think?” he asked, looking between Grey and Marvin.

“All the time you need lad. Grey, take the boy to eat some. Little Welda still has her place downside.”

Boris tried to return the dagger but Marvin declined, “Keep it,” he said, “a token of good faith from an old man.”

Boris thanked him politely as he left shop, following Grey outside.

“See, isn’t he a good old fellow.” Grey remarked as they walked.

“A great fellow,” Boris concurred.

They walked downside leaving the marketplace, a small network of alleys passed them by. The street curved a little as residences sprouted out. They were mostly old and small, some of them deserted and others badly kept. Boris twirled the dagger unconsciously in his hand as he walked, looking across the street to find any pedestrians.

A small boy darted by him and he felt amiss. It took him a moment to realize that the dagger was missing.

“You!” he turned to chase the boy abruptly, prompting a look from Grey. The thief ran fast with Boris at his heels as he disappeared into an alleyway. Boris chased him hard, putting all his strength into a tackle that brought the kid down, crashing him against the walls. Boris lunged at him, pinning his legs and hands to the ground.

The kid looked up in fear, making Boris flinch. The momentary distraction proved his downfall as a stone hit him square in the chest, making him gasp and fall backwards. The kid took this opportunity to kick him away as he scrambled to his feet. More stones came at Boris as the kid bolted, making for another alleyway in the shadows. Boris had his hands full with dodging stones, until one exploded right in his face, bringing up unpleasant memories. The dust flamed his lungs as he coughed, retreating for clear air.

When the alleyway cleared, there was no sign of the culprits, or the dagger.

“Damn, they got me,” Boris muttered in regret as he rubbed his wounds. The kid had companions.

There was small flash in the distance, lighting the dark alleyway into a tortuous maze. Boris glanced curiously into the now invisible depths. The two kids came out screaming hard, running back towards him as if death was chasing them. Their frightened eyes took no notice of him as they scampered about pitifully. A small bolt of lightning streaked past from a dark figure of a mage who followed.

“Noooo!” they screamed harder. The larger one pulled the smaller while holding hands.

Boris readied himself to catch the culprits, and endeavor that proved worthless as both stopped dead in their tracks, restrained by yin threads. A small earthen mound grew around their feet, immobilizing them further.

Grey walked past them to Boris, his staff now held back. “I figured you needed help,” he said coolly.

“That I did,” Boris replied as he bent down to look at the culprits. One was boy and the other a girl.

A ragtag patchwork of clothes hung on their bodies. Their hair was unkempt and their faces dirty. The dim lighting hid their features and concealed their scars, revealing little to scrutiny. They flinched and paled as Boris put a hand on their shoulders, staring at them with evil eyes.

“Do you kids understand what you have done?” he asked ominously.

The girl shrunk while the boy tried to cover her, and feigned ignorance, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I am talking about this,” Boris pulled out a dagger carefully wrapped under the boy’s clothes, lifting it up before him. “What do have to say about stealing?”

“W-what are you saying? I found that by the roadside just now.” It was a pathetic excuse.

“Huh? You little brat, first you commit a crime in broad daylight and then you refuse to accept it. You need to be taught a lesson,” Boris took a threatening tone.

“Don’t touch my brother!” the little girl shouted while still hiding behind the brother, “He didn’t do any wrong!”

“Oh? And how is stealing not wrong?”

“You are rich aren’t you?” the little girl looked at Boris with subdued fear, “What’s it matter to you if you lose a stupid knife? We are just borrowing it anyway?”

“Borrowing it?”

“My brother is working hard, but we have no money to eat,” the little girl explained proudly, “but very soon brother will make lots of money. Then we will return everything we borrowed back to the owners, and we will still have enough money to eat potatoes!”

“Mila, no,” the brother whispered in shame.

“Brother, tell this stupid person how you will soon get back more money and we will buy shoes and everything,” Mila spoke with confidence.

“I… no...” the brother was left for words.

“Hoh, then Mila was it? Where do you keep those borrowed items?” Boris enquired.

“Hmph, why should I tell you? You will steal them from old man Coan’s shop if you know,” the girl snubbed Boris as she snorted.

“Mila,” the brother spoke dejectedly, “you just said it aloud.”

Mila covered her mouth in shock as her eyes widened, “Brother! What do I do? They know now!” she spoke in muffled voices from under her palm.

“Don’t worry,” Boris reassured the girl as he passed a strong glare towards the brother to keep quiet, “old man Coan keeps them hidden, nobody can steal it away.”

“Really! Yes! Now you can’t steal them even if you know,” she booed at Boris.

“But then, do your parents know about this?” Boris asked her gently.

“No they don’t!” the brother jerked violently, trying to lash out at Boris but Boris held him harder, threatening him with a firm grip. His eyes were turning red as emotions whirled inside of him.

“Let your sister speak,” Boris warned him, “Mila, what about your parents?” The girl had mellowed a bit to Boris. He didn’t harm her and talked in gentler tones. She felt uneasy but she answered him nonetheless, “Mama and papa have gone far away, brother can’t talk to them anymore. When they come back, I will tell them about brother’s plan. They will be happy, they always smiled at brother,” she turned to face her brother, “Brother, when will they come back?” there was burning hope and anticipation in the voice.

Her brother’s face fell hard, his body shivered as his eyes filled a little, “Very soon Mila, I promise… when I make that money,” he said in a voice now full and heavy. His face turned a bit away from her.

“Brother?” Mila asked with concern.

“Okay, that is that!” Boris announced loudly, “Now time for lessons by Master Boris.”

“The first lesson, little kids, is that you don’t borrow without permission,” Boris pinched their noses hard, the pain causing them to yell back in anger.

“The second lesson,” he pulled their ears, “is that you don’t talk rude to elders.”

“And the third lesson,” Boris added before they could retort, “is never underestimate adults.” He punched both their heads, causing them to hold their heads in pain.

“Uu… stop hitting me and brother!” Mila was whining as Boris walked to Grey. The siblings immediately shut up when they noticed him talk to the old mage. They seemed to have a fear of mages.

Grey had been watching quietly without interrupting, he nodded approvingly when Boris faced him.

“Grey, what is the… procedure to deal with such situation?” Boris asked frankly.

“You want the prison or the orphanage?” Grey asked Boris jokingly as he looked at the siblings. They clung to each other at his glance, sobbing under their hushed voices.

“Neither,” Boris replied, “from the state of this city I would say all orphanages are army camps? Do you know an establishment that will help them without exploiting them?”

“I was joking. I cannot say you are wrong about the orphanages, though. As for your request, let me see… I think I know at least one place that would love little children, they will have to do the chores though.”

“That will do,” Boris turned to the siblings, “and now for your punishment.”

“Eh?” they replied in the same tone he had once used.

A dark smile crept up his face as the siblings now paled. He pulled out the instrument of torture from his pocket, one that he had become used to carrying around.

…..

Boris stood before a little inn, ‘Welda’s Inn’ the signboard read in iron letterings. Stone and wood of good quality were used. The building itself was in a good condition, the walls were clean and plastered, the windows were transparent and polished and the doorway was groomed to be welcoming. It looked homely rather than magnificent.

Grey tapped lightly on the door, waiting for a response. It was an odd behavior to practice at an inn door.

Behind Grey the siblings had their cheeks swollen, ready to burst out as they struggled to keep quiet.

“Pff-brother-pfff!” Mila was trying her best to reign in laughter.

“S-shut up pff-Mila, it-it’s not pff-funny,” the brother Bon was trying to keep his face sullen unsuccessfully.

They both looked at each other, their eyes almost watering with subdued laughter, their nerves tickling away at their stomachs. Boris had taken good care to make it so. He had first warned them to keep quiet no matter what happened then used the penbrush to sketch their faces into caricatures with his extensive knowledge. Then he had them face each other as they swore a solemn oath of silence. The first oath was broken on the point as they guffawed with all their might. Boris reprimanded them sharply, reminding them to keep quiet as they followed Grey.

“Yes,” a young boy greeted them as he opened the door, “Welcome to Welda’s Inn,” he said in a cute voice, “please do come in.” Behind him the whole inn bustled with business, men and women sat at their tables, waiters and waitresses ran between them, their hands full with orders. The sweat and stink was minimal and the atmosphere seemed pleasant. An old lady behind the counter was shouting away orders while working her hands at filling plates and bowls with meals. She had the vitality of a beast in her actions.

“Ah hello, Welda,” Grey spoke in friendly voice as he stepped in, gesturing a hand towards the old lady.

Little Welda? Boris should have known. It took a moment for little Welda to take notice of Grey and she responded instantly by greeting him with a rapidly flying bowl of porridge, Grey dodged and the siblings ducked while Boris received the gift on his head, his hair a mess with flowing porridge. Boris was beginning to revise his opinion of Grey, instead of a wise old mage he was probably a prickly old geezer with enemies everywhere.

“What do you want, you brazen trickster?” she kindly confronted Grey before her eyes fell on Boris and the siblings, “you brought me clowns, again?”

Boris grimaced.

A small bout of eating and hours of discussion later, Welda had agreed to keep the siblings. Her inn was always in need of more workers. Needless to say that the hours of discussion had involved Grey getting chewed out by Welda while Boris and the siblings helped with the chores. Mila was reluctant but Bon had persuaded her well and she worked diligently at small tasks.

With dusk encroaching, Boris left the inn with Grey leaving the siblings behind to their fate. He came to know that many of the inn’s workers were children that Welda had once taken in and trained to full capacity. They were an obedient and cheerful lot, and looked healthy and well fed. Boris felt relief at leaving the siblings with the right person, Grey felt relief at finally being excused by Welda. They made their way back through the streets, each in their own relief.

“I almost forgot,” Grey asked as they approached Marvin’s shop, “did you get some ideas about the weapon you want?”

“Better yet,” Boris replied confidently, “I know exactly what I want. Didn’t you tell me already what weapon I needed?”

“Did I?” Grey asked, peering down from his azure eyes.

“Sure you did. Now I need just a few more things made, can you give me a hand with them?”

“As much as I can.”

“Then again, what did you say prince Flynn’s favorite magic was?”

“He is very good with lightning. It has tremendous offence but drains mana quickly.”

They made their way through lengthy shadows. Ideas were cropping all around Boris. His little scuffle earlier had sent an idea tripping and a chain of ideas had emerged. He needed to see how well they would do in practice.

……….

The next day arrived with glad tidings. Grey informed him that his weapon would be delivered soon. Boris beamed. Marvin had already accepted his request, with much surprise at his choice. He had provided Marvin with a rough blueprint, though the weapon was simple to build. It was child’s play according to Marvin.

Boris had taken his leave and strolled around nearby shops, discussing little facts with Grey as he bought miscellaneous items. The assortment he had bought left Grey wondering what he was planning to do. Boris proudly replied that he would reveal it all in due time.

He was all but done with his requirements the last day, the only thing remaining was for the weapon to arrive. While he waited, he needed assemble his arsenal into final shape.

“Can I get an empty room, I need some quiet place to work,” he asked Grey.

Grey directed him to an empty storage by the side of the library. The room was large enough for Boris to work. A few shelves were littered about and large wooden desk sat on one side. The rest on the floor was empty, the walls were clean and naked and windows were small and high up, scattering sunlight in a circle around him.

He set down the materials he had bought yesterday and worked at creating his arsenal. He emptied a large pouch on the desk, examining the heavy marbles and pellets. He arranged them in order, feeling their weight and form, juggling them lightly in the air. Once he was satisfied, he replaced them on the desk.

Next he worked with quickmortar and sparkle sand, kneading them into moulds and setting them into shape. A few failed attempts gave way to the successful samples. A uniform coat of the mixture sat on every marble he had purchased. He worked briskly, his brows dripping with little droplets of sweat as he concentrated on the task at hand.

By the time he was done with everything, the sunlight had shifted higher in the room, making it darker. Boris heaved a sigh of satisfaction at his finished work. He needed to wait for the weapon to practice, it had been some time since he had last used it. He also needed a test subject, someone willing to help him with his theories.

There was a knock on the door.

Boris shuffled up his belongings, walking excitedly towards the door. It had finally arrived. He gleefully opened the door, eager to get his hands upon the weapon.

Surprise greeted him. His face paled as he tried to withdraw. Elaine walked in, a very picturesque terror emanating from her.

‘Ah?’ Boris realized, ‘She never said when she would be back, did she?’

In contrast to her previous demeanor, Elaine seemed pensive now. Her eyes looked at him through muddle of emotions. There was definitely anger, her brow was furrowed, her temple twitching. There was also reproach, a firm stare digging down Boris in responsibility, the black irises that seemed to drown him in blame. Then there was a little worry, her black eyes were flickered occasionally, widening in slight uncertainty as she gauged him, a thin crease upon her forehead. The last element was curiosity as she assessed the room from the corner of her eyes.

She didn’t say a word. Boris fell down with a thump, looking up in confusion. Fact dawned on him, that he had challenged the prince of Cumaria to a duel. In retrospect, he would have done the same again. The brat was obnoxious. Although Grey had just taken it in stride and even assisted him afterwards, Elaine did not seem to condone it. He looked up, trying to convey that the matter was beyond help now. Elaine looked down on him accusingly.

“I hope you understand what you have done,” another voice from behind spoke up. In his vexation Boris had failed to notice others enter the room. Violet held her head, “Good grief, don’t you ever learn?”

Behind her were his friends, appearing confused with the situation. They looked starkly different from how they had been a week ago, confident and strong. Ray had become imposing, he looked taller than he was and radiated authority. Boris felt a semblance between him and Welmar. Claire felt dangerous, a bit like Diana, the elf woman. And Sylvia looked like a real mage, her robes casting her in a mysterious light.

Boris contemplated his weaknesses as Violet scolded him on Elaine’s behalf. He couldn’t fathom what his friends had done over a week but they were definitely a lot stronger than before. This only propelled his desire to fight the duel, a chance to prove his own strength. He would show them.

“Are you listening?” Violet scolded, “There is still time to call off the duel. Come with me and apologize to the prince. I understand that it might not have been your mistake but it cannot be helped. I cannot believe you were foolish enough to challenge royalty. You will lucky if you come out half alive, you know?”

“Let me fight,” Boris announced. Ray was now attentive as he tried to figure out the meaning of Violet’s words. Sylvia had probably guessed and her face showed disbelief. Claire only understood that Boris had done something stupid, again. Boris did not care, “I can fight,” he told Violet in defiance.

“You do realize that you cannot win?” Elaine told him in a cold tone.

“Don’t worry about it,” Boris tried to smile, “I have a plan.”

…..