Chapter 196: Side Story Chapter
Riftan could not get the red-haired girl out of his head. He fastened the sacks he had filled with pitch-black charcoal and pushed her from his thoughts. It was a fool’s fancy to believe that his loneliness abated when he thought of her.
After slipping out of the firewood storehouse, he piled the sacks onto the handcart waiting outside. He grabbed the handles and leaned all his weight forward to get it rolling. Several round trips later, he had moved a day’s worth of charcoal before the sun had fully risen. He wiped his sleeve over his sweaty face before going to collect water to quench his thirst.
If there was a silver lining, it was that he was stronger than most children his age. Though his arms and legs were scrawny from lack of nourishment, he was tall and of enough heft that people mistook him for being two or three years older than he actually was.
Riftan was used to hard labor. He had toiled since he was eight years old yet had never once been seriously ill. When a mountain of work loomed ahead, he sometimes wished that his body would simply give out. These thoughts always vanished whenever he came across someone struck down by an unknown disease.
Getting sick meant death. A cleric was unaffordable, and he could not expect to be nursed back to health. If he were ever to take a day off work, he would have to forgo food. It was not uncommon for families of the lower class to neglect a sick relative until they died. They simply had no other choice.
Though things were better for merchants, craftsmen, and scholars, peasants who had to pay an exorbitant rent every season suffered the same plight. Those who were unable to keep up with their taxes made up a significant number, and they were forced to give up their freedom to become serfs. If they did somehow manage to scrape together enough, they were left living hand to mouth.
This was especially so in the Duchy of Croyso, where the rent was higher than most fiefdoms. Riftan had witnessed his stepfather arguing with the tax collector on multiple occasions. It was a common pastime of his stepfather’s to grumble about someday moving to a place where the rent was cheap. However, Riftan knew very well that he would never be able to leave.
The land outside the ramparts teemed with terrifying monsters, and it would cost thirty silver coins to hire a mercenary to protect them on their journey to another fief. He would never be able to save up that amount even if he were to toil away for the rest of his life. Moreover, moving meant putting their lives on the line, and Riftan knew his stepfather did not have the guts for it.
Riftan rubbed his throbbing shoulders and stood straighter. No matter how much he cursed the exorbitant rent, his stepfather dragged his plow to the field at dawn every day. He had no other choice. He would no doubt continue to do so until old age and ill health prevented him.
It was not difficult to picture his stepfather lying listlessly in bed, waiting for death to claim him. That image would then invariably morph into Riftan himself. It was how life for the lower class usually ended.
Riftan twisted his lips as he washed his dirty hands in a pail of water. Fortunately for him, he was born healthy and would likely live for another thirty years. He might even become a blacksmith just as his stepfather wanted if luck was on his side. Becoming a master craftsman, on the other hand, Riftan found doubtful.
There was a hierarchy even within the smithy. While those in the top tier created armor and weapons, the mid-tier workmen forged everyday materials such as cauldrons, pots, doorknobs, and candleholders. The bottom tier hammered horseshoes all day.
Riftan knew that his place would be one of the bottom tiers at best. Even if he were able to glean some skill through observation, the others would never give him the opportunity to work with high-quality metals.
Competition among the apprentices was fierce, and the master blacksmiths seemed to have already chosen their protégés. It was even possible that Riftan would be stuck as the smithy’s errand boy for the rest of his life.
Is that still better than being a peasant?
Riftan splashed his face with cold water to fight off the drowsiness. No matter how much he racked his brain for a way to escape this abject poverty, no better vision of the future materialized.
To make matters worse, he was a mixed-blood bastard in a duchy where the majority of the population were adherents of the Orthodox Church. Even if he were somehow able to save enough to start a business, it was doomed to fail. No one would want to purchase anything from him.
Riftan scrubbed his clammy neck with cold water before trudging back to the smithy. Inside, the men were lighting the furnace to begin the day’s tasks. One of them scowled when he saw Riftan.
“Quit your dawdling!”
The man pointed to the bellows, a massive structure about the size of a dragon’s wing. Riftan set to work with a sigh. Soon, the vast, cluttered smithy was sweltering.
It was astonishing that his lungs were not roasted. The clanging of hammers against steel rang out through the workshop with such force that Riftan feared he would go deaf. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. What was there to worry about? Perhaps it would be better if he did go deaf. At least then he would no longer have to listen to his neighbors calling him a mongrel under their breath whenever he passed by.
Riftan ground his teeth and squeezed the bellows with all his strength. After a few more pumps, he poured the molten iron that ran out of the furnace into a mold. Once the slabs were somewhat hardened, he placed them on an anvil and pounded at them with a hammer to flatten and reinforce the metal.
Once a wrought iron of sufficient quality was forged, a blacksmith would then take it to shape it into objects such as horseshoes, spurs, axes, and more. This process was repeated throughout the day.
“We’re out of lime, boy! Didn’t I tell you to have enough prepared?”
Riftan was straining at the bellows when someone pinched him by the ear. He stifled a cry of pain and looked up.
A man with a bushy beard looked back at him. His cheek twitched as he yelled, “We’re down to half a sack! Go get more now!”
Riftan swatted his hand away while aiming a furious glare at him. The blacksmith’s face flushed red.
“What’s with that look, boy? Are you disobeying me?”
The older man flexed his biceps, huge from years of hammering, and shook his calloused fists. Riftan had once received a blow to the temple from one of those fists for talking back. He had spent the day throwing up.
“All right,” said Riftan, hastily retreating. “I’ll get more.”
With that, he strode out of the workshop before the blacksmith could swing at him. The anger that boiled in his chest continued to simmer even as he pulled the handcart to the storage shed. Why was it always his fault that materials ran low? There were twenty-four other apprentices besides himself.
Bastards...
The shortcut to the storage shed was along a path through the dense forest. Riftan spat on the ground and dragged the cart over the bumpy terrain. He had been going for a while when he heard barking.
Riftan froze and looked both ways, but there was no sign of any dogs. Frowning, he abandoned the cart and walked in the direction of the sound. He leaped over a thicket and passed a handful of stout trees before he spotted a black dog. It was crouched and barking aggressively at something off to the side. If he was not mistaken, this was the duke’s daughter’s loyal guard dog. What was it doing out here without its master?
That was when he saw the large lizard. Its head was about a kevette in size, and its tongue flickered in and out. It was a species Riftan had never seen before. He instinctively flattened himself on the ground to observe the mysterious creature. Thorny scales covered its whole body, and two needle-sharp fangs extended down from its gaping mouth.
Had a monster managed to sneak in? While he was absentmindedly pondering this, the black dog lunged at the lizard. In a flash, the creature struck the dog with its long tail and went for the throat.
Riftan was staring at the scene in a state of shock when something came bursting out of the bushes. His breath caught in his throat. The duke’s young daughter began frantically hitting the lizard with a branch.
It was the most horror-stricken Riftan had ever felt, and he found himself frozen to the spot.
The lizard flung the dog away and lurched at the girl. Finally coming to his senses, Riftan grabbed a rock and launched himself at it. He rammed the sharp end of the rock into the lizard’s outstretched neck. The creature’s body, which was thicker than his forearm, flung up as though it were convulsing. It let out a shriek and began to spit venom.
He leaped back and hurled the rock with all his might. It flew straight into the lizard’s mouth and lodged in its throat. The creature thrashed about, its sinuous tail flapping wildly.
Without hesitation, Riftan picked up a branch and plunged it into the monster’s white belly. Soon, the strange creature went limp. Riftan kicked the carcass as far as he could and stepped back, gasping for breath.
His heart pounded, and his back was drenched in cold sweat. Had he been allowed, he would have bent the girl over his knee and given her a good spanking for acting so recklessly. His furious glare eased to worry when he saw her quivering figure slumped on the ground.
Riftan hastily sank down in front of her. Inspecting her for injuries, he found one bite mark on her arm that was oozing blood. He quickly removed his belt and secured it just above the wound.
The girl flung her head back and cried out in pain, but it did nothing to dissuade him from trying to squeeze out the venom. He clamped down on her thin forearm as she wailed and struggled against him.
“I-It hurts!”
“Stay still! We have to get the venom out!”
Though his actions could have him hanged for contempt of a noble, he was too frantic to care. Yelling at the girl for struggling, he lowered his mouth onto the bite and sucked out the venom. He sat up and spat onto the ground, then repeated the process several times.
When he was done, he hoisted the doll-like girl in his arms and headed toward the main castle.
The little girl burst into tears. “M-My dog...”
Riftan flinched and looked over his shoulder at the hound lying motionless on the ground. When he bit his lip and started walking again, the sniffling girl yanked his hair.
“W-We have to take m-my dog too.”
“I’ll return for it later.”
With that impossible vow made, Riftan quickened his steps. The girl wound her skinny arms around his neck and sniffled.
...
“Th-That’s a promise.”
Her words tore at his heart. He held her tiny figure close and sprinted through the forest. Thanks to his frantic pace, he lost count of the times he almost tripped over the twisted roots. He could feel the girl’s body growing colder by the minute. He anxiously rubbed her back as he ran.
Finally, the main castle came into view.
“S-Somebody, help!” Riftan shouted at the top of his lungs. “The young lady has been bitten by a monster!”
A maidservant carrying a laundry basket whirled around and cried out in alarm. She dropped the basket as she rushed over.
“My lady!”
The other servants heard her shrill cry and came running to see what the commotion was.
His chest heaving, Riftan found himself shouting again. “It looked like a lizard! It bit her ladyship. She needs to be treated right away!”
“Hand her to me!”
A plump maidservant snatched the girl from him. Riftan watched, still gasping for breath, as the maidservant carried her away. His vision seemed oddly blurred. The last glimpse he had of the girl before she disappeared into the imposing castle was her limp form in the maidservant’s arms.
When he unconsciously went to follow them, a guard grabbed his shoulder.
...
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I just want to make sure she’s all right.”
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