Chapter Text
"So, what do you think?"
Henry turned the blade over in his hands, carefully running his gloved thumb over the notches along its edge. It had seen better days, that much was clear, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable.
With a nod, he placed it upon the workbench. "I'll need a few days to source the right materials," he said, "but aye, I'd be glad to help."
"And I'm glad to hear it." The customer laughed—a deep, guttural sound that seemed to catch in his throat. He was an older man with as many imperfections as the blade itself, with worn, calloused hands and a long-healed scar hiding along his hairline. "You did a damn fine job on those horseshoes last week."
"Horseshoes are one thing," Henry shrugged. "A sword like this… well, it'll need a lot of work just to keep it from fallin' apart." He offered a smile. "I'll do my best."
"I don't doubt it," the man replied. "I'll be waiting, Henry; and I hope you won't disappoint."
Malik's forge stood near to the Kurzhim Gate, welcoming a steady stream of visitors to the city of Kuttenberg. It was neither large nor impressive, but it suited Henry well enough; it was work, after all, and work meant groschen. As the man shuffled off, Henry turned his attention to his list of commissions. It was long, filled with names he didn't recognise and didn't need to; plenty to keep his thoughts occupied and his mind from wandering.
Henry reached for his tongs.
He'd thought himself remade once, forged in the fires of Skalitz. The person he'd been before seemed like a distant memory now—a boy rather than a man, whose only concerns lay within the safe confines of the village walls. But fate had seen fit to shape him in different ways, and each had only tempered him, made him stronger. The blade that was Henry could cut down any foe, make any man beg for his mercy.
What did it matter if he were forged anew?
After all, a blade is a weapon. A blade isn't made to love.
He snatched a fresh piece of iron from the barrel and moved it to the coals, working the bellows with his free hand. He had trained himself to focus on the sound, the steady heartbeat of the mechanism.
They'd been careless. Pirkstein was too small, too dangerous.
The metal glowed straw-yellow, perfect, just like he'd been taught. With each blow of the hammer his world narrowed, the force of every strike sending sparks scattering to the ground. He clenched his jaw. Again and again he beat the anvil, letting the rhythm of the work wash over him.
It was inevitable. He knew this. He'd always known.
And then it was done, the piece quenched, cooled and held aloft: an axe head, thick and sturdy, the bit perfectly curved and ready for sharpening. Henry inspected it closely, poring over its surface until he was satisfied.
He hadn't noticed the man behind him.
"You really do have a knack for this, lad. And here I thought I'd made a mistake taking on the first unfortunate sod to come knocking at my door."
Old Malik's hair was wrapped tightly in cloth, and the few curls that escaped had turned grey long ago. He wore a blue apron and a tattered red shirt, rolled up to the elbows and covered in soot. In all his time working there, Henry had never seen it clean.
Henry nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Malik sighed, shaking his head. "Sir?" He placed a hand on Henry's shoulder. "Come on now, Henry. We've known each other a while now, haven't we? There's no need for all that."
"Sorry. Old habits, I suppose."
"Mmm." Malik took the tongs from Henry's grasp. "Now go get some rest. I won't have anyone saying I work less than my journeyman." He chuckled. "Don't think I can't see you're not sleeping right; it's plain as day in those eyes of yours. You need to stay sharp in this business, lad."
"Aye," said Henry. "I will."
With one last look toward the workshop, Henry's eyes fell again upon the broken blade. It glinted in the afternoon sun, as if happy to have caught his attention. This would have been a formidable weapon, once; now, it was a relic, a scrap of metal that had forgotten its purpose.
But it, like most things, could be reforged.
The streets of Kuttenberg were loud and dirty, and Henry fit right in. The first time he had walked them, it had been summer, and the little rain that fell had turned mostly to dust. But the days were colder now, and as the nights drew in and autumn threatened to turn to winter, Henry found his boots caked in mud.
He should have been thankful for the rest Malik had granted him. There were worse men to work for, but the forge kept his mind busy and his purse filled, and he was loath to leave it behind each day.
Slipping away from the street, he disappeared into a maze of narrow lanes. It was dark; not enough to need a torch, but enough to be wary of who might be behind him. Henry pushed open a wooden door and entered into a small courtyard. Quickly stopping to wash his face in a trough against the fence, he unlocked one more door into a crumbling, yellow-plastered building.
His lodgings consisted of a simple room, up a flight of rickety stairs. A single bed sat against the wall, with a chamber pot tucked underneath. There was a small cupboard, an even smaller table with two old chairs, and a few scattered shelves, stocked with Henry's food and potions.
Henry hastily selected a bread roll and a pouch of dried beef, sat on the edge of the bed and covered his face with his hands.
The nights were the worst of all, when the streets outside grew quiet, and he was left with nothing but his thoughts. His mind would ride, unfettered, back to Rattay—to the narrow passages and stone walls of Pirkstein, to gentle laughs and caresses, and words whispered into the nape of his neck.
To Hans.
Their few short weeks at the Devil's Den had bolstered them, made them reckless. It was easy to escape any prying eyes at the tavern, to disappear into the woods or find somewhere hidden away. Not that Treadlight or the Pack seemed to pay them much heed, Henry had thought; worse sins had been committed there, and with time, they simply became another of the Den's countless secrets.
But the castle had too many eyes, too many ears. One careless mistake was all it took. In an instant, the truth between them was laid bare, and Hans' prospects were on the line.
Hanush was clear in his fury, Radzig in his silence: Henry had to leave. To run, when he said he never would again.
And so he came to Kuttenberg. He did not intend to stay overlong, but he knew the place well, and with familiarity came a foothold. With each groschen he earned, he counted down the days until he could move on. He would go to Prague, maybe, or Brno, or further still; where nobody had heard of Rattay or Skalitz, and he could disappear into the unwritten pages of history.
One afternoon, Henry had passed the old forge he remembered from a trip with Martin, down on the road toward Hoprink. He recalled how his father's eyes had gleamed when he saw it, a look he had never seen before nor since. The building was little more than a ruin now, burned out and broken. If things had been different, perhaps that forge would be his; he could fix it up new, earn his place in the Blacksmith's Guild.
He sighed. In another life, maybe.
After finishing his meal, he kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his shirt and rolled over onto the bed. Malik was right; sleep didn't come easily to him, and it was beginning to show. If he could see his reflection in the trough, he would have noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the dullness of his skin. He still dreamed of Skalitz, of course—he doubted that would ever go away. But now there were other dreams; dreams of starvation, and corpses felled by his own hand.
The worst dream of all was of Hans. He would plead for Henry to stay, his voice choked and desperate. Whenever Henry reached for him, he would only move further away, until he could no longer hear him at all.
Henry woke up alone, curled into a foetal position under the itchy blanket. The building did little to guard against the cold, and overnight, an icy chill had clawed its way into every corner of the room. He groaned, already longing for the heat of the forge.
One customer that week had been particularly generous, and Henry used the opportunity to pay a visit to the market, his pouch jingling with groschen that could rarely be spared. Browsing the stalls, he picked out two poppy seed kolache, and a cheap cut of sausage for Miloš, the blacksmith's dog. He was a stocky thing, autumn brown with a muzzle that reminded him of Mutt. As he broke the sausage into pieces in the forge's storeroom, he tried not to think of everything else he'd left behind.
He crouched down. "Here you go, boy," he said, offering the sausage to Miloš. "Where's your master, eh?"
Miloš hungrily took the meat, wagging his tail as Henry scratched him fondly behind the ears. But before he could give him a second piece, Miloš froze, head raised and angled toward the door. Henry followed his gaze for a moment before the dog suddenly bolted, barking as he ran into the open.
Henry got to his feet, his brow furrowed. "Oi!" he called, following Miloš toward the workshop. "Where are you—"
He stopped in his tracks when he saw the horse.
He would recognise it anywhere—the blinding yellow caparison, with the red stags of Rattay—the same he had raced against, fought beside, welcomed home after a long day apart. The horse's rider had dismounted. He wore a thick cloak over his pourpoint, but from underneath peeked a fabric of lavish gold, too bright and too extravagant for anywhere like the forge. Miloš stood on his hind legs, pawing up at the man with his tail wagging furiously.
It couldn't be. And yet here he was.
Hans.
Something visceral erupted in Henry's chest.
He'd thought about this moment a thousand times: in his bed, caught in the languid space between waking and sleep; in the tavern, deep in his cups. He'd thought about everything he would say, everything he would do; committed it to memory like lines from a play.
And yet he could only stand, mired to the spot, knowing nothing would be enough.
In the next instant, a barrage of questions rose unbidden to his mind. Why was he here? He couldn't be here. Had he eloped? Had something happened back in Rattay?
He shook his head. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was that Hans was here, and everything left unspoken could finally be said between them.
He didn't even notice himself smiling.
"Here, boy," he whistled to Miloš, calling the dog back to his side. "C'mon now, that's enough."
When Henry looked up again, he found Hans staring back at him with an intensity that almost burned. Henry studied his face, and his breath hitched. There was no easy smile, no sigh of relief in his eyes—nothing to imply the months they'd spent apart.
Surely he was imagining things.
He swallowed. "Hans… Hans, I—"
"Yours, is it?" Hans scowled, cutting him short. "Might I suggest you learn how to control your animal?"
Henry blinked.
"What?"
"Must I repeat myself, yokel?" Hans glanced down at the mud smeared over his boots and hose. "Sakra…"
"Hans, are you alright?"
Hans' head snapped up, violently, like a marionette yanked forward on a string. "How do you…" His voice trailed off, and he looked down the street toward the city gate. "Surely… surely they can't have…"
Henry moved a step closer, and Hans froze, thrusting a hand toward him. "Stop," he commanded. "W-who are you?"
Henry stopped. His muscles tensed.
"Hans, it's…" He scoffed in disbelief. This was ridiculous. "It's me, it's Henry!"
Hans paused for a moment. It was then that Henry noticed how his hair was clinging to his forehead; how his blue eyes were dark, and sunken into his skull. His voice shook, uncertain and almost afraid, like it had when he spoke of the passageway at Maleshov.
Henry felt something start to simmer inside him. This wasn't right. None of this was right.
After what seemed like an eternity, Hans' hand returned to his side, and Henry let his body loosen. "Well, Henry," Hans said slowly, "if you know what's good for you, and I sincerely hope you do, I… I suggest you forget you ever saw me."
That was it.
"What the fuck?" Henry snapped, the cauldron in his chest boiling over. His hand clenched into a fist. "Is this some sort of joke? Because it isn't funny."
"Joke?" Hans laughed theatrically, throwing his hands into the air. "Joke? Your… your mutt just ruined my hose, and you have the gall to speak that way to a nobleman?"
By now, eyes were upon them, and more than a few passers-by had stopped to observe the commotion. A guard approached—a stocky fellow with a thick moustache, wearing the red and white of Kuttenberg.
"What's going on here?"
Henry's eyes remained focused on Hans. "You know, I could ask the same thing," he said bitterly.
The guard turned to the nobleman. "Is this man bothering you, sir?"
Hans sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Finally, someone who's making sense." He looked back at Henry, a dark frown etched across his face. "No, just a peasant who doesn't know how to speak to his betters. I'm in need of lodgings for the night. Is there a place where I might, uh—"
"Certainly, sir," the guard nodded. "Right this way. And you," he said, thrusting a finger at Henry, "stay out of trouble, do you hear?"
Henry watched, motionless, as the guard led Hans away along the street. The horse snorted and whinnied as Hans tugged on its reins, stomping its hooves as if it were hesitant to follow.
The crowd dispersed; Miloš whined, and returned to the door of the storeroom.
And Henry found himself alone once more.
The Hole in the Wall was busier than usual. The air rang with drinking songs and stank of ale, and a pot of thin stew bubbled on the stovetop. Every now and again a patron would call out for more, running the barmaid ragged as she strived to keep up. It was as good a place as any to disappear for an evening.
In the corner of the room, Henry sat slumped forward at a table, absently eyeing the dice board in front of him.
"Henry."
A pause. "Right. Sorry."
"You've been starin' at those dice for a bleedin' age," said his opponent, an older man named Vashek. Henry had played against him many a time, and yet knew only two things about him: that he practically seemed to live at the Hole, and that he liked to play Beggars, which suited Henry well. "They're not goin' to grow 'eads, you know. Or hell. Maybe they will, if you stare long enough."
Slowly, Henry gathered the dice into his cup and tossed them out onto the board. The pieces of bone stared back at him.
Nothing.
"Ha!" Vashek cried, clapping his thigh in delight. "I knew Lady Fortuna was with me today."
Henry slammed a fist down on the table. A couple of heads turned.
Vashek laughed. "Steady on. It's only a few groschen." He leaned in close. "Doubt it can even buy a cup of wine in this place… the stuff that don't taste like piss, anyway."
"Here." Henry tossed a handful of groschen toward the other man. "I'm done playing for tonight."
"Suits me," Vashek shrugged, pocketing the coin. He paused. "Somethin' bothering you, Henry?"
Henry looked away toward the door, as if his mind were somewhere else for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet, like it too was far away.
"I met a man," he said. "On the street. Someone… someone I used to know. Only…" He looked back at Vashek, then down at the table. "Only he didn't remember me at all. Acted like I was a complete stranger."
Vashek crossed his arms. "Doesn't sound so odd to me. Time's a common thief, you know—robs you of all sorts of things, and memory's the worst of it." He picked up a die and rolled it between his fingers. "Happened to my Pa; fucked him up good."
"No." Henry shook his head. "He would have remembered."
"Well, per'aps he did! The fellah could well have been lyin' to you." Vashek sighed, drawing a pockmarked hand down his face. "Look, lad; if you want to drown your sorrows this badly, I'll give you back the coin myself."
Henry fell silent.
Surely Hans wouldn't lie. Would he?
No, he told himself. Not Hans. But when he imagined those eyes—those cold, unfeeling eyes that glowered at him with nothing but contempt—he could not think of any explanation. This was not the man that smiled at him whenever he entered a room; who'd rolled in the grass with him, hands teasing across his body, drunk on wine and the haze of summer.
This was not Hans Capon.
Henry's gaze drifted to the skeleton propped up against the wall. Its skull was tilted to one side, and its jaw hung slack and open. That's right, thought Henry. Laugh at me.
It was a good thing the man was dead.
Vashek snorted. "I don't think old Hugo will have any answers for you," he said. "Though The Rat did swear she 'eard him speak. Only once, mind, but it was enough to scare her out of the Hole for a near week, or so she says."
"And you believed her?"
"Oh, aye. Witchcraft, that's what it is." Vashek's voice turned low, almost a whisper. "But ask around, if you don't believe me. There's all sorts of strange things been happenin' these days, and none of it's the Lord's doing, I'll tell you that."
But Henry was only half-listening. The voices, the stench of the place, all of it washed over him; his mind drifting back to the forge, to Hans' words, echoing over and over again in his head.
Hans wouldn't lie. Not to him.
He closed his eyes.
"I should go," he said, standing from his seat. "Thanks for the game."
As he stepped out of the tavern into the crisp night air, a part of him hoped he would once again see the familiar golden barding, waiting for him as it had done so many times before. But nothing but darkness came to greet him, and as Henry made to light his torch, he cursed to himself under his breath.
For as much as the cauldron inside him broiled, as much as he didn't know whether to shout at the man in anger or plead with him in desperation, he realised one thing with certainty: he had to find Hans Capon.