Well Dead

XIX. Smithless Smithy

Harun admitted to himself that he had forgotten something. Logic and Maieutics were all very fine, but angelic patience was handy into the bargain. After breakfast next morning, he got rid of Sir Christian who was longing for some inspirations from the letters of St Paul by the excuse of having to cut his fingernails in order to be able to properly follow the line with his fingers and read to his lord.

Luckily, Sir Christian did not know all that much about reading.

Harun, his fingernails being in perfect condition, went instead off to all the different people who could possibly have ordered a sword from Henrik. One of the castle guards? They normally fought with spears or even stranger makeshift weapons Harun did not know the names of. But perhaps one of them had managed to scrape together enough money to buy himself a real, good weapon. After all, as a soldier you were expected to fight to the death, and it would be very nice if, with a really good weapon, you could arrange it to be the enemy’s death instead of your own.

However, the scribe drew a blank there.

Then he went to the cook. Maybe the man had ordered an extra-large piece of cutlery? Apparently not.

Then he went to Father Ignatius. Priests had been known to ride into war and fight in battle, had they not? But when he left there, a little hurriedly, he was absolutely certain that the priest had no sword. He hadn’t stuck one into Harun.

Perhaps it would be best to return to work now. Sir Christian would be getting… no, he would not be getting impatient. Sir Christian was patience personified – after all, it was a Christian virtue. But even he might start to wonder after half a day or so what Harun was doing. Maybe.

When Harun arrived at the Scriptorium however, Sir Christian was no longer there. Strange. Where could he have got to? A noise came from above. From lord’s chambers? Maybe he was up there again, trying to decipher the bible for himself.

Harun was, in a way, a compassionate person. He turned and made his way up the stairs to come to the rescue. Yet this did not appear to be necessary. As he neared the room, the scribe could make out that the noises coming from above certainly did not originate from books. He heard scraping, then a loud clash and a bang.

He stepped onto the landing before the door – which, at this precise moment, flew open.

A giant of a warrior was standing in the doorway, helmeted, clad in armor, a naked, rusty old sword in his hand. The light of the faint, gray autumn sun sparked a deadly glitter on the darkened chain mail. The warrior stepped forward, sword raised.

Harun gave a yelp and stumbled backwards. Only a reflex movement of his long, strong fingers clasping at the last moment unceremoniously at the head of a small statue on the wall prevented him from falling backwards down the stairs and bashing his intellectual head in.

“Please…” he whimpered. “No… I…”

The warrior raised his sword hand a bit further. With it, he opened his visor. “I see you are finished with your preparations, Harun. Did you try to find me downstairs? I hope you have not been waiting for me.”

It was Sir Christian. Harun gaped at him.

“M-milord?”

“I thought I’d come up here and try this on while you were busy. Strange, it fits me as though no time had passed…”

“Milord?”

The lord shook his head sadly. “And I will be needing it soon enough, I am afraid. How sad this is. For years and years I did not have to wear the garments of battle. I had hoped to be able to discard them altogether. It is the duty of a Christian to love one's neighbour, not to slay them. But what shall one do if the neighbor does not love you?”