The morning found Skyrik in an even more improved mood. A combination of the resilience of youth and the heady narcotic effect of the modified curse along with an innate optimism, had the youth almost bouncing out of bed at the excitement of discovering more about his current circumstances. His uncle had been fond of telling him a story about a man who had been sentenced to death by a powerful King. Instead of simply begging for his life, the man had told the King that if given a year, he could teach the King’s favorite horse to sing like a trained theater performer. Of course the King and all his advisors laughed at the idea, but the man explained that if he failed, the King could still have him executed, but that if he succeeded, then he would have a miracle to amaze his rivals and friends alike! The King saw the wisdom in this, and ordered the man to be sent to the royal stables. As he was led away, the guard asked him why he had made such a foolish and impossible promise to the most powerful man in the kingdom. To which the man replied, “A year is a long time. Maybe the King will die. Maybe I will die. And maybe, just maybe, the horse will sing.”

Depending on how his uncle was feeling at the time, the story might end there as a lesson in never giving up while there is life and the possibility of hope left, which certainly was the lesson Skyrik was taking from it now. Other endings included the King having him executed immediately for his impudence, the man actually being a wizard who had the horse tap-dancing in a year but not singing, at which point he was executed, or that the horse sang, or the man escaped, or the king’s daughter fell in love with him, on and on. His uncle had loved that story, and could always fit the ending to whatever he felt a young man should be learning from it. But the original always stayed the same. Maybe the King will die. Maybe I will die. Maybe the horse will sing.

With this thought running like a mantra through his head, he washed his face in the basin he found in his room and dressed in the plain but serviceable clothing he’d worn into the woods the day before. He noted that they had been cleaned, and that the holes and tears caused by his flight through the woods had been neatly mended. He paused, shirt half over his head, at the thought that his beastly host might have done such fine stitching, but then dismissed the thought with a small laugh. The thought of those dinner-plate sized hands holding a needle and thread in their thick, scarred fingers was laughable, and it made much more sense to just dismiss it as a feature of the magic castle he found himself in. Clothes that clean and mend themselves? Magic castle. Food that appears, hot and delicious, as if prepared by a master chef? Oh, that’s just the magic castle. Doors opening and closing on their own and a general sense of calm and well-being totally disproportionate to the grim reality of his current situation? Oh well didn’t you know? This castle is all kinds of magical. He grinned as he left his room, noticing that he had to open and close the door himself. So, it could be more magical, he supposed.

He easily made his way down to the dining hall he had seen the day before, and found his host already sitting at the head of the table in an intricately carved chair that seemed made to fit his enormous frame. Yashik was reading a book, turning the pages with a surprising delicacy that had the boy rethinking his earlier presumptions about the beastly man’s sewing ability. This thought was quickly replaced however, as he looked closer at the Baron. The dreary brown of drying blood covered the torn clothes of the man at the head of the table, who’s outfit which could have been described as ragged last night would today best be described simply as rags. Obviously whatever magic or method had been used to refurbish his own outfit was, like the self-operating doors, not consistent.

As he looked closer, he saw the wounds that appeared to be the source of all the blood, although they did not look fresh he would swear on his own grave that they had not been there the day before. As Yashik looked up from his book, one great finger marking a place on the page, Skyrik stuttered a greeting.

“Good morning sir, I hope the day finds you well?” he stumbled over what he had been taught as a formal greeting, but had found little use for in his life so far. Suddenly self-conscious, he looked away from Yashik and inspected a painting that hung nearby instead, without actually seeing it. The Baron spoke in a light tone, as he placed a marker in his book and set it aside.

“Good morning, Skyrik, the day finds me as it ever does. Inevitably. I hope it finds you well though, all things considered. Come, sit, eat. We have much to discuss!” The note of excitement that came through on the last sentence prompted the boy to look back to the table, but this time his eyes went to the trays laid out with fresh pastries and fruit, the likes of which he had never seen in his life. Needing no more prompting, he filled a large plate with bits of all the things that looked most appealing, although he ran out of room on his plate before he ran out of food to sample. He moved to a chair near his host that he was mostly certain had not ever been a person, and sat gingerly, half expecting it to leap to consciousness under his weight. But nothing happened, and he dug into his meal while casting an occasional curious glance at Yashik.

Seeing that the young man was well settled, Yashik opened with the good news first. “I found our friend from yesterday, and you’ll be happy to hear we won’t need to worry about him bringing us any more unwilling houseguests.” He gestured at his torn clothes and the rapidly healing wounds that still glistened slightly as small amounts of fresh blood oozed from them when he moved. “As you can see, it was not the easiest encounter, and that’s what I would like to consult with you about.” He leaned forward excitedly, and continued speaking as the boy continued chewing and swallowing at a steady pace, paying rapt attention to his meal and the story at the same time.

“If I understood you correctly, you have some knowledge of working metal through your apprenticeship. I have a forge and tools here, but no knowledge of how to shape and create anything useful with them. It is my sincere wish that we spend what time we have together in crafting some form of armor and weapons, so that I may better deal with encounters such as the one I had with our ursine acquaintance this morning.”

Skyrik nodded thoughtfully as he chewed a mouthful of some kind of crumbly pastry that had a sweet berry filling that leaked on his fingers as he held it carefully over his plate. Finishing his mouthful, he answered the implied question.

“Well, Master Zalinz didn’t have much business making weapons or armor, mostly our trade was in tools and such. But there were occasional orders from merchant guards and or hunters, and I’ve had the chance to help with some armor repairs, and once an actual set of plate that was commissioned by a man who was trying to set himself up as a local militia captain a few years ago. I only helped work the bellows but I saw the process, and Master Zalinz made sure I minded, since he said I wouldn’t get many opportunities to learn how to do something like that unless I traveled to some of the bigger cities, or went to work for the King’s army.”

He paused for a moment as the realization that he would never be able to do something even so mundane as travel to another town, much less have an adventure as grand as joining the army. He took another small bite of his pastry to calm his thoughts, and continued after it had taken effect.

“As for weapons, I’ve made enough knives and arrow points for sure. Provints is a town with a great deal of hunters who come in for supplies, and everyone needs a good knife. But as for weapons, swords and pikes and the like? Sorry to say I won’t be much use there. The principles are similar but a sword and a knife are two different items. Now, I could make you an axe or a hammer, but they’d be for cutting trees and driving nails, not splitting skulls or hewing limbs.” He frowned slightly and chewed another piece off his breakfast. “Then again, you’re not going up against Knights in armor or anything, so I don’t think the design would make that much of a difference. I don’t know, for sure. I wish…” He had been about to say he wished he could ask Master Zalinz. The village blacksmith had done his journeyman work in the Capital, and spent a great deal of time with merchant guards and hunters, both professionally and at The Lodge. The years of accumulated knowledge his master had acquired had always been there for him to tap into, but now he was on his own. “I wish I knew more about such things, I’m sorry.”

“Well, if it’s knowledge you lack, that is indeed something I can aid you with!” An enormous finger tapped that book that rested on the table. “My grandparents assembled what I understand to be an impressive library before the estate passed to my father. There are many books on many subjects, but I’ve found that without the experience of actually doing the thing that the book is about, my ability to cipher the more technical works is limited. But with your time spent in a working forge, and my books, I believe we may be able to accomplish something great!” He rose to his feet, and strode out of the room, directing his final thoughts over his shoulder. “Finish your breakfast and join me in the forge, we’ll have it burning in no time and we’ll see what we can accomplish together!’

Skyrik felt the infectious sense of excitement energize him as he jammed the rest of the pastry in his mouth and licked his fingers clean. Jumping to his feet, he hurried out to the courtyard, already beginning to sketch out plans in his head of what he would try to make for his new companion.

*******

Some weeks passed before the two had produced the beginnings of some kind of functional armor for Yashik. In spite of their differences in age and background, their time in the forge had bonded them like welded steel, and they had learned to work as a seamless team. Ideas and experiments flew freely as sparks flew from heated metal. Skyrik discovered that with a little practice, his new companion was as good as the big trip-hammer in his master’s forge, striking with awe-inspiring force. The hardest part was getting him to moderate that force when needed, so the pair would trade off who hammered based on how fine the work needed to be. Materials seemed to appear as they needed them, drawers popping open slightly at the mention of an item, the contents within usually at least close to what was required.

Thus far they had produced various armor pieces, most of which had been inspected by the young blacksmith’s apprentice before being tossed in a growing pile of scrap in the corner. Finally though, they had produced something that he felt was worth keeping, possibly even using. It was a steel vambrace, which covered the right forearm and would almost act as a full shield for Skyrik. Soon, they had made a second vambrace, then pauldrons, greaves, and finally a simple breastplate that, for the most part, would protect Yashik’s vital organs from being easily gnawed on. A flexible boiled leather gorget was added to protect the neck, while still leaving him free to move his head freely. To the bottom of the rough plate they attached their first attempt at brigandine, a wide strip of tough canvas with steel plates riveted inside, that hung down his thighs almost to his knees. Gaps in the fabric at the front and back let him move his legs freely, but still mostly protected his upper legs.

Overall, the effect was as laughable as it was frightening. The hodgepodge of armor would have looked absurd on nearly anyone, but on the massive beastly man, it only enhanced his already imposing figure. They already had plans for improvements, but It would suffice for a time, and they were on to weapons. Skyrik tried to talk his friend into a shield, both for extra protection and for the offensive uses that it could be put to, but after experimenting with a prototype, Yashik determined that he preferred to have his hands and arms less encumbered. The discussion then returned to one they had been arguing about for days, which was what offensive weapon would be best. The young Baron had an idea of wielding two massive greatswords, one in each hand, but as the blacksmith Skyrik vetoed this thought. “I don’t even know if I can make an arming sword that’s worth a damn, much less a great sword. Much less TWO great swords! I told you, I can do a decent knife but swordsmithing is an art on its own, and some smiths spend their whole lives just doing that. Better for now we focus on getting you something serviceable that I know how to make.” The young smith had put his foot down, pointing his finger at his massive companion like he was lecturing a wayward toddler. “You’re getting an axe, and you’re going to like it!”

Days of hammering and shaping later, the finished product rested easily in the great hands of its wielder. Skyrik had based the design on a carpenters axe, which he was well familiar with. Provints had a large population of woodsmen who made a living harvesting lumber from the great forest surrounding the town, and other craftsman who would shape the raw wood into forms that were closer to a finished product that could be more easily transported by merchants. Krosa’s father was one such, making clever toys and puzzles and household items out of scraps that other carpenters didn’t need. Therefore, axes were well in Skyrik’s area of expertise, and he felt his former master would be proud of the work he’d done.

The axe was bearded, the blade running along the haft with enough room behind it for Yashiks thick fingers to fit with room to spare. The bottom of the edge wasn’t as hooked as some bearded battle axes, but it wasn’t designed for pulling down shields in combat, it was designed for inflicting massive wounds on generally soft targets. So the blade was thick and heavy, weighing close to 15 pounds if it’s creator had to guess. A slight extension at the top of the blade gave it a point that could be used to stab should the need arise. The axe head fit snugly onto a handle that was the size of a normal axe handle, but looked more like a hatchet when held by Yashik. Skyrik had argued for longer handle, making the point that having distance from his opponents would be good, but had quickly been educated on how unwieldy it would be to try to swing an 8 foot polearm in the frequently dense underbrush around the castle. So the shorter handle was used, and Skyrik had added a solid ball of steel at the base of the haft so that both ends could be used to either cut or bludgeon.

Finally, his new armor and weapon complete, his wounds well healed, Yashik was ready to hunt again. As he left the castle gates, new armor making small clinking noises, Skyrik turned back to the forge, picked up a bar of steel from the coals, and began to hammer.