Chapter Text
They had arrived in Troskowitz two days after nearly getting ambushed by some bandits, who had their hiding spot situated along one of the footpaths near the Rocktower Pond. Apparently, it had been a consistent issue in these parts lately, something that Dunk would've loved to know before him and Egg ended up going through the region. He was responsible for the boy's well-being still and should've known better.
Worse yet, Dunk's longsword broke clean in half during the skirmish; it was a close thing too, two against one – wouldn't have been a problem for Duncan any other time, if only he hadn't been taken by surprise. He shouldn't have been taken by surprise either way. What kind of a warrior am I if I nearly allowed a pair of ne'er-do-wells to get the better of me? he thought sourly.
Now as they sat in a tavern, waiting for their gruel, Dunk laid out the broken pieces on a table to access the damage. He didn't dare look at it before, not since it broke two days ago. It was Sir Arlan's, Dunk had been wielding it after him, after he'd buried the old man, and now it was nothing more than scrap metal.
"Maybe it can be fixed," Egg said, peering down and flicking his finger at the foible until it skittered across the wooden surface.
"Don't poke at it." Dunk swatted the boy's hand away and righted the broken fragments. "If there is even a blacksmith in these parts."
"There is one actually. Just north of here. In Tachov."
They both looked over at the farkle table to their left, where an old dowdy man, dressed in a cook's apron and a cap, sat idly throwing a single die. It rolled with a dull bony clatter and then landed on a one, Dunk noted.
"Ask for Radovan."
Henry sat on his bed, flitting with a needle and thread over a fitted coat, which he'd managed to haggle from some traveling musician for almost nothing and a dry pretzel; it was made of fine fabric – an occasional wear and tear here and there notwithstanding – the color of the freshest poppies with gilded buttons still mostly intact. If he could find more red thread, he was certain he'd be able to get it fixed up right in time for the wedding. I'll get there one way or another and look the part, Henry mused, not thinking about any spoiled lordling or his whereabouts, and then promptly pricked himself in the finger, hissing.
Then he heard voices outside, a customer had come, it seemed. Henry pricked up his ears without thinking and started listening in as he worked.
He was roused from his task when Radovan's somewhat irksome voice called out, "Henry! God's nails, where'd he get to... Come here!"
He dutifully put his kit aside and stepped under the blazing summer sun. Rounding the corner, right away, Henry saw whom the blacksmith was speaking to.
He was huge, towering over them all easily; the lad had to slouch and incline his head down so as not to scrape it against the shed's highest beam. Approaching, Henry also noticed that there was a tiny bald urchin loitering about. It appeared they arrived together, as the moment the boy saw him, he stood a little closer to the giant.
"You deal with this," Radovan spat on the ground and retreated towards the house.
Having overheard most of the conversation from earlier, Henry's eyes immediately fell on the broken longsword the tall man was clutching awkwardly, one piece for each hand. There was little to salvage there.
"Radovan is right, it would be easier and cheaper to forge another sword than fix this. I could weld it together, but it's not worth it; the metal would still be too brittle. You'd be better off buying a new one."
"But I liked this one... Besides, I don't think I can afford another longsword now."
"Must it be a longsword? Fancy yourself a knight, do you?"
"I am."
He sized up the rags the lad was dressed in, the tattered cloak around the broad shoulders, the frayed rope serving as a belt. The bald urchin standing behind the "knight" was giving Henry a stink-eye, so he cleared his throat and nodded. "A knight, aye."
"He is," the boy said defiantly, stepping up. "This is Sir Duncan, and I'm his squire."
"A squire?" I was a squire too, some bitter, sad voice at the back of his head supplied. I am a squire still. That is if my lord yet lives, the voice turned agitated and Henry was quick to substitute it with a quip, "Aren't you too young for a squire?" No, he's not, you're too old, the voice nagged again.
"Am not." That same defiance in the boy's voice again. He was awfully bold for an unwashed scamp. Something in his manner was eerily familiar–
"So, can you fix it or not?" He man – Sir Duncan – shifted his massive stature from foot to foot, interrupting Henry's thoughts, still holding the poor broken pieces towards him.
"If you want a pretty decoration for a mantelpiece, sure," Henry said, wiping sweat from his hands against his apron, then saw the already forlorn look on the beggar knight's face turn even sadder and decided to take pity. "Look, I can make you a decent blade sharpish, and if you don't have groschen... Just find me the right materials, and we'll discuss the price of labor later."
Sir Duncan hesitated only a moment, first looking to the side at his young squire, before he nodded and extended his large palm towards Henry.
"Deal."
"Repeat that again," Dunk asked, counting off on his fingers as he and Egg were already walking from the forge in the direction of the wagoners' inn not too far off.
"We need a pommel, a guard, some steel, some metal – scrap metal will do," his squire read off of the list, which the blacksmith's apprentice, Henry, had scribbled on a small piece of parchment for them, then made a face. "And some animal skin, yuck."
"That's for the handle most like." Most of these sounded easy enough, but where was he supposed to find a whole pommel and a crossguard just lying about? Might as well start looking around magpie nests. Do prdele.
"Don't worry, sir," Egg said, exaggeratedly cheerful, leading Kaštan ahead towards the forest path, no doubt spotting and trying to remedy Dunk's foul mood. "You will have your sword in no time. I'm certain of it."
"That may as well be," Dunk mumbled, "but stay close, will you? You've heard it yourself in the tavern, they have a huge problem with poachers here." Better question would be – what kind of issues did Trosky not have?
"You're not afraid of some poachers, are you, sir? I bet you can take them all unarmed!"
"I'm more worried about the wolves. Sword or no sword, I can kick them off with my boot, but you? You're just the size to be some yappy mutt's breakfast."
"Why would you say that!" the boy exclaimed, slowing down and falling in step beside Dunk, skittishly peeking into the thick dark green foliage on both sides.
"Good, now don't stray too far."