Chapter 2. Blind Gamble.

  Sid blinked before focusing on the grungy man. The dirty fellow had clearly forgotten what he was doing—like I said apathy.

  “Go and sit back down Carl.” Sid’s lips could barely be seen when he spoke. That big bold mustache let out a charming waggle whenever they did though.

  “We're not bothering anybody.” Sid forced side steps while he half turned, then quarter turned. Looking for something.

  “Clayton?” The mustache barked before a heavy finger scratched.

  “Huh? bothering anyone? who’s bothering anyone Sid?” Carl asked with a muddled expression, scratching his eyebrow, looking at Sid’s empty bedrolls then up to Sid.

  “Sit down Carl.” He said, while a hammer pointed the confused man to an empty deer hide sleeper. One of the distant ones. Out and away from him. Sid held the hammer at par. Pointing at one of the many fires.

  Confused, Carl nodded, and started back into the settlement, taking a spot around a low flame. It was but only a single sway of the flame, and Carl was in a trance again. Mind numbed from the crackling lull, those glossed eyes stayed locked in the soft light.

  “Father?” A boy’s voice asked, pulling Sid from his internal thoughts.

  “Ah, Clay my boy. Where have you been.” Sid’s fat missing a finger hand messed up Clayton’s hair.

  “Can we practice now?” His son asked.

  Clayton had to be about 16 full cycles of the seasons. old. He had dark hair like his father and wore his hand down clothes. Wide shoulders like his father, and scar mapped arms just the same. Clayton was the son of a blacksmith as was his father and as was his father. Clayton lifted the two wooden swords and placed them atop the worktable.

  Sid strain, forearms flexing as iron barked and spit.

  “Not tonight Clay… there is still… lots of work… to be done.”

  Clayton looked at the few bucklers his father had finished the nights before. Lovely pieces of defense too. The wood is dense, dark and durable. The boss that protected the center was polished and reflected the glow of the forge. He then reached for the broad sword his father was saving for a day of desperate trade. A remarkable tradable to fall back on if something were to ever happen.

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  A single slap on the arm caught the attention of another sharing a log seat; and pointed out at big Sid mumbling around his anvil. The two men watched while Sid talked with himself. The fire crackled and a charred log rolled slightly.

  “Two.” One of them finally said.

  An eye lifted scanning the heavy man, and the other replied. “Three.”

  “Sid doesn’t know more than two.” He argued

  “I mean three pinecones.” The man slapped his arm again.

  “Three pinecones Sid attacks nothing again.” He laughed.

  “Agreed. Three says he only screams while he works.” The first man held his hand out and the two shake hands.

  “When will I get a sword of my own?” Clayton said, slowly lifting the finely crafted broad sword from display.

  It was extremely heavy in comparison to the two wooden swords. Clayton liked handling the swords and axes his father would craft, the iron was heavy, but balanced.

  "Put it back.” Sid’s tone was sharp. He quickly placed the rod he had been shaping into the forge to reheat the iron. Sid then shuffled to the foundry, pulling up his loose pants, and checking the large terratortise shell.

  The hard and durable shell acted not only as a furnace but held heat like a crucible. Inside it glowed with a deep orange, he ladled the slag carefully.

  "This one’s ready.” Sid said, indicating that Clayton poured it in mold.

  Carefully placing the magnificent sword back upon its original display, Clayton grabbed the shell, cautiously bringing it over to a wooden box tightly packed with dirt. Clayton carefully poured the hot liquid. This iron would cool, and take the shape of an axe head, before it fitted with handle, then sharpen, then fetching fair trade for apples, meats, or eggs.

  "Can we practice, now?” Clayton asked grabbing his wooden sword from the rack eager to better his stance.

  Sid continued and pretended not to hear Clayton. Sid smashed the hammer down, shaping the orange glowing iron in between the large heavy anvil, repeatedly flipping the rod over with each smash flattening the early stages of a sword.

  "Father?” Clayton said a bit louder knowing his father had to of heard him.

  Sid pound the iron until it turned black, throwing his hammer to the ground, he turned around quickly and slammed the iron into the forge.

  "What!" Sid snapped, pulling his pants up, he walked slowly with a swaying motion over to Clayton until standing in front of him.

  The boy glanced up trying to hold eyes with his father. The closer he stepped the pressure of that beady stare forced Clayton to break.

  "Why... why do you have this mad obsession with becoming a great swordsman?" Sid asked with growly irritation. His eyes were glass. Full and fierce and locked on Clayton. His boy could only look at the ground.

  Sid despised those who practiced and adventured. His opinion on adventure was short and bitter. It was all a waste of time.

  "Mother would tell—" Clayton had been cut off, his father stopped him with a heavy open hand, knocking him to the ground.

  Sid continued with another hard clap along the ear. Clayton had gone dizzy. His vision blurred, and he could taste metal as he endured another.

  "You’re... the reason.... she left us!” Sid said between heavy breaths, all while he kicked and stomped into Clayton who was curled into a tight ball desperately trying to protect his ribs.

  "You... and your ridiculous... fantasies!” Sid grunted in between kicks.

  Becoming short breathed, Sid leaned against his knees. Chest heaving as he collected his breath. He looked at his son. Then the wooden sword. Before meeting eyes with the two men snickering, as they sit on a log.

  “Who was it today, Sid?” One of them laughed.