Silvanus and Empire, an Original Novel (Chapter Seventeen)
You didn't think I was done, did you? Jeez, I post two news posts and everyone loses their minds. Don't worry - I'm back with more Silvanus and Empire!
Last time, we caught a glimpse of Lyrinn's hidden birthright - and how her mother has some very ulterior motives for its use. Today, let's go back to visit everyone's favorite sad sack blacksmith who just can't seem to stay out of trouble!
Silvanus and Empire
Chapter Seventeen
image from Cornwall Guide
Dafydd shrugged against the rough burlap straps of his pack again, trying to seek a balance point between comfort and dignity as he and Bryn trudged west on the Cliffway. The sun was beating down on them; while it was still early in the season, without any shade alongside the road the heat soon became oppressive.
He glanced over at Bryn, who was leading Malcolm by his bridle. Even the farmer had finally made a consolation to the heat: he’d taken off his knit cap and stuffed it in his pack. He was balding underneath. Without the cap on Dafydd thought he looked about ten years older than he actually was.
“I don’t see why you’re so hot,” Bryn said, watching as Dafydd mopped his brow. “Aye, the sun’s beatin’ down on us, but you work the forge fer eight hours a day.” He turned to look back at Malcolm. “Y’think he’d be used to it, don’tcha?” The donkey just rolled his eyes at him.
“A different kind of heat,” Dafydd said. “When yer workin’ th’forge y’can control how much heat y’get. Y’can step away if it gets too hot for ya for a moment. And yer doin’ somethin’ productive. Eight hours in front of m’forge and I’ve got plowshares, horseshoes, all kinds o’things. What’ll I have after eight hours of marchin’? Sore feet.” He kicked a pebble. “An’ eight hours of marchin’ tomorrow. How far is it t’Imperial City anyway?”
“Scribe Oren said three and a half days travel at a good pace. Which means more’n’ eight hours of marchin’ a day, so stuff some rags in yer clogs and keep goin’. " Dafydd grumbled in response, but continued trudging along. “It’s important,” Bryn went on.
“I know it’s important!” snapped Dafydd. “I can’t b’lieve Baker an’ his wife are dead. And Caddoc gone. An’ th’Bloodhairs on th’move again. It just... it’s been so long since anything has ever happened.”
“I know.” Bryn toyed with the bridle rope between his palms. “D’you remember anything about the last time?”
Dafydd shook his head. “I must have been no more than five or six winters at the time. I remember yellin’, and burnin’. Someone’s place got burned t’the ground. Put to the torch by th’savages no doubt.”
“How d’you think we ended up with Lyrinn?” asked Bryn. “me mum would never tell me, nor me da, nor anyone else ‘twas alive t’hear the tale.”
“Nor me, Bryn.” Dafydd scratched his head. “I heard once that Bloodhair wenches are as bloodthirsty as their men, though - just as likely ta slit yer throat than t’nurse their own get. If a Wildfolk raidin’ party had women with ‘em, mebbe they brought their children along too?”
“Probably teach their kids t’kill an’ steal before they can walk,” Bryn said, spitting. He looked over his shoulder, then back down their path. “Oh look, some shade finally!”
About a threescore paces ahead of them, the woods on the left side of the path had been left thick and close to the road. None of this land had been cleared for farming yet, and the warm spring weather had breathed life into the waiting trees. Their branches swayed in a soft breeze, sending a ripple through the new leaf growth.
“Oh, thank the Emperor,” Dafydd said. He began to walk faster. “Nearly midday,” he went on. “Why don’t we stop here for a few minutes an’ grab a bite t’eat before headin’ on? Y’can even put that little beanie of yers on again.” Dafydd didn’t even see the scowl Bryn gave him.
They closed the distance between them and the forest. Bryn coaxed a bit more speed from Malcolm, and before long they were a stone’s throw from an inviting bit of shade. Dafydd pointed out a small circle of boulders half-buried in the rich earth. “Let’s set up there,” he said. “Plenty o’places t’sit. Or hide from pryin’ eyes,” he added, his gaze skittering across the river to their right. He watched the far shore for a moment.
“Wait,” Bryn hissed. Dafydd stopped, then looked back at his traveling companion. The farmer edged closer and hissed in Dafydd’s ear. “The large one on the right. Look at the shadow!”
Dafydd squinted his eyes. One large boulder was only half in the shade; its other half was bathed in mid-morning light. He could just make out a strange irregular shape outlined in shadow on the earth, as if someone was hiding behind it. After a moment, it shifted slightly.
“I see it,” Dafydd whispered. He motioned with his head. “Keep going down th’road. Don’t make like y’know anyone’s there. I’m gonna sneak around an’ grab ‘im if he tries anythin’.”
“What? Why do I have to be th’bait?”
“Because I work eight hours at th’forge a day! Now go!” Dafydd rolled up his sleeves and smiled grimly as Bryn pulled ahead.
“Come on, you good for nothin’ donkey,” Bryn said aloud. He yanked on Malcolm’s rope until the beast let out a healthy bray. Dafydd watched the shadow behind the rock shift again, then fall motionless.
The smith left the road and slipped off his clogs. Then he quietly crept forward, feeling the grass between his toes. He circled around to the left slightly in an attempt to keep out of sight of whomever was behind the boulder, and tensed as Bryn walked past it.
The shadow shifted, and Dafydd leaped forward, sweeping his arms around to catch whoever had been lying in wait for them. He came up with an armful of loudly yammering small boy, squirming wildly.
“Lemme go!” the dark-haired boy shouted. It sounded strangely familiar. “I’ll tell my Da and he’ll break your legs!”
“Quiet, you!” Dafydd wrestled with the child from behind. He looked up to see Bryn run over. His face paled as he came upon the scene. “What is it?”
“Turn him around,” Bryn said. He wrung his hands as Dafydd wrestled the boy into a position he could get a good look at him.
“Oh no,” Dafydd breathed. He released the boy from his grasp, who then looked up at him sullenly. “Einion! Boy, what’re you doin’ here? Are ye daft?”
The smith’s youngest son sniffed and wiped his nose. “You left without sayin’ g’bye!” He glared at his father defiantly.
“So that’s why y’snuck up on us? Einion, go home! Go home right now!”
Bryn shook his head. “You’re not gonna send him home by himself, are ya, Dafydd? It’ll be dark before he gets back.”
“Don’t send me home!” Einion grabbed his father’s leg and hugged it, clinging on. “I don’t wanna. I wanna be with you, Da.”
“Einion, listen to me.” Dafydd knelt down to look his son in the eye. “Yer Da’s gotta go away fer a few days. It’s important, and it’s not safe. Y’can’t come along.”
Tears welled up in the little boy’s eyes. “Yer not comin’ back! Yer runnin’ away from me and Ma!” He drummed his little fists on his father’s chest. “Don’t send me back, Da, I wanna be with you!”
Dafydd sighed and looked up at Bryn. “We can’t bring him along, it’s not safe.”
“It’s safer than sendin’ him home by himself. An’ we can’t spare th’ time to turn around and take him back.”
“I can’t believe this. All right. Einion, listen to me.” The boy stopped crying and looked up at his father. “You have to promise to do everything I tell you until we get back home, you hear me? You promise, and you can stay. You break yer promise, an’ I send y’home on Malcolm. You understand?”
Einion wiped his nose on his sleeve again and nodded. “I’ll be good, Da. I’ll do whatever y’say. Just don’t send me away!”
“You listen and be a good boy, Einion, and I won’t send you away,” Dafydd said. He stood up. “My wife’s gonna kill me.”
Dafydd is probably my favorite character. Really, I enjoy the "every man" character most of all in most stories. I'll gravitate toward the good-hearted rogue if an everyman isn't in a story, but otherwise, I like to see a character that I could easily identify with.
Yeah, as much as I might want to identify with the young firebrand that is Caddoc, Dafydd is probably closer to me then any of my other characters. It doesn't hurt that I gave him the Welsh version of my own name, either!
Haha! Clever. I love Caddoc as well, cause I see his own critical questioning mirrors my own in that situation, but there's something about him that elevates him beyond the other folk in the background. That's the fantastic thing about Dafydd. He's just a guy from some small town that happens to be tangled up in this.
And they were GOOD news posts, at that!
Thank you! I try to write about stuff that interests me - I figure there are some other grognards out there that share my interests. If I had the patience for math I probably would have gone into a hard science, but I'm both a good liar and inherently lazy, so I'm much happier just making shit up for a living.