The Webbing Blade

THE ARMOURY

SOON AFTER that morning, Lou buried his curiosity. He had the horrible, sneaking feeling that the hobblesman might be able to listen in on just what he was thinking, so he decided his best course of action was simply to concentrate on whatever he had in front of him.

Later on that morning, his mouth still full of the buttery goodness, and those bread rolls and sausages congealing warmly in the pit of his stomach, the hobblesman showed him down to a trapdoor, concealed beneath a rug that he’d presumably not thought of showing off to the guard while he’d been searching the place for Lou.

The hobblesman threw the trapdoor back, and it landed with a wooden slap, and dust rose into the air, smothering Lou momentarily before he got over it. The dust reminded him of being out in the fields, that corn dust all around. That was just about the only familiar aspect of this situation to him right now.

Lou hesitated, eyed the ladder there, and then the gloom below. He looked to the hobblesman, realising that he was just going to have to trust him, that just like the hobblesman said, Lou really had no choice in the matter. If he wanted to save his people then he would have to do just what he said. Lou was the outsider here, the hobblesman was the local.

After another moment’s hesitation, Lou stepped down the ladder, rung by rung, feeling the flimsy wood give way beneath his weight, but stop short of completely bowing in on itself. And, before he knew it, he stood in the basement, looking up to the hobblesman, coming down the ladder after him.

Lou tried to peel back the gloom with his eyes, but had no luck. He didn’t dare so much as take a step forward into the darkness. When he held up his hand before his face, he saw nothing but obscurity.

The hobblesman thrashed some flints together and lit up a torch, or at least Lou thought he did, since he never saw the flints themselves, only the spark, and then the ensuing flame.

But, before he had time to really dwell on that at all, he watched as the glow of the torch illuminated the whole basement, sending the darkness off scurrying for the corners.

All around him, hanging from all the walls, were swords, scimitars, maces, crossbows, bows and arrows, and the odd dagger. The blades all gleamed in the torchlight, and Lou had to squint to stop his eyes stinging. He glanced back to the hobblesman, his face just as obscured as ever, and then stepped forward to examine the nearest sword.

Lou knew very little about swords. Like most working hands, he had nothing else to think about except conserving his energy for the next day. And as his pa had been a carpenter, not a blacksmith, he’d never really been around swords much. Come to think about it, even the blacksmith back in Endmere hadn’t had more than a half dozen scattered about his workshop, and all blunted, gathering dust.

The only real swords Lou had ever seen had belonged to the skullers. And even then, those swords were nowhere near approaching the condition of the ones down here in the hobblesman’s basement.

He looked over the sword before him, the biggest one in the whole place, which was to say the biggest sword he’d ever seen. The blade was twice the width of his arm, and the hilt looked like it might weigh more than he did. The edge looked razor-sharp, and it was free of nicks or scrapes. It was simply polished steel. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

The hobblesman laid a hand on Lou’s shoulder.

A slight warmth emanated from beneath the man’s fingertips. It was the first time the hobblesman had touched him, at least while Lou had been awake since he had no idea how he’d ended up out of his uniform and tucked up in bed the night before.

The hobblesman, however, didn’t so much as flinch. In fact, he tightened his grasp. The warmth got hotter. “You might be better served with something smaller, I think.”