Northworld By David Drake

Good humored again—Hansen’s stated plans had frightened Malcolm, but the notion of a warrior doing scut work had offended him—the veteran warrior smiled and said to Hansen, “There should be some furs in Alyn’s chest—at the head of the bed.”

He gestured into the bed cubicle. “Knock the lock off if there is one. Alyn won’t mind where he is now, whether North took his soul or Hell did.”

There were furs—and they smelled—but they were warm and the bright sunlight was cheering, although not particularly warm. Hansen wondered idly what season he’d arrived in. It wasn’t a question he thought it’d be a good idea to ask.

The smithy turned out to be a long shed against the back of the palisade. Wicker baskets of rock—ore, presumably, but not smelted metals—were piled around the walls. There wasn’t a hearth in front of the building as Hansen had expected, and the open fire within was no more than necessary for heat.

Four grunting slaves set the armor just inside the doorway. A fifth started to lay down the arm he carried, but Malcolm stopped him with a snap of his fingers. “Not yet,” he said. “Vasque, we have a project for you.”

There were already three men in the smithy: a bald old fellow with a wizened face, and two lads in their late ‘teens. The old man was seated. One of the youths stood, looking uncertain, and the other lay on a couch, snoring stertorously, beside a table heaped with sand and gravel.

The old man glared. “Then it’ll have to wait.”

“Wrong, Vasque,” said Malcolm. “The king directs that Lord Hansen here be outfitted properly. The king’s honor is involved.”

“Faugh,” muttered Vasque. He stepped to the suit and ran his fingers over first the plastron, then the sheared metal along the cut. The sleeping youth was muttering to himself.

Hansen couldn’t judge the status of the smith and his apprentices. Vasque wore a gorgeously-embroidered tunic—though there was a cracked leather apron over it. Even the youths were dressed rather better than many of the warriors.

“Not much of a suit,” Vasque said. “Dilmun’s work, I wouldn’t be surprised, and he was never much.”

“Dilmun’s good enough to dress the Lord of Thrasey,” said Malcolm. “And as for this suit, there were three arcs on it together before it failed.”

“On a good day, I suppose Dilmun might be all right,” Vasque admitted grudgingly. He took the severed arm from the slave and worked the elbow joint with his hands as he peered at the cut. “Well, we’ll see.”

The sleeping youth groaned loudly and threw out an arm. After a moment, his eyes opened. The other apprentice helped him sit up on the couch.

Vasque handed the arm back. “Go on, boy, go on,” he said to the apprentice, making shooing motions with his hands. “There’s king’s work to be done.”

He turned to the slaves. “Lay it down by the couch, you. I’ll take care of it now.”

As the slaves laid the damaged suit full-length on the floor, the two youths positioned the arm by it so that the cut ends joined. Vasque himself stepped outside. He came back with his leather apron laden with bits of ore.

“Might need more than this,” the old man muttered, “but I think not, I think not. . . .” He arranged his chips and pebbles around the severed arm with as much care as a florist creating a wedding bouquet.

As the master smith worked, the apprentices poked into rubble piled on the table. The youth who’d been sleeping came up with the forearm of a battlesuit. The rock heaped over it was pebble-sized on top, but the portion around the piece itself was fine dust that made Hansen sneeze.

Vasque lay down on the couch the apprentice had vacated. One of the youths took a polished locket on a thong from around his neck.

“Keep back, boy . . . ,” the smith murmured.

His eyes, focused on dustmotes dancing in the light, glazed and closed. The apprentices watched with critical interest, while the slaves gaped with amazement as great as that which Hansen tried to conceal.