Harlan led the way out of the inn, his stride purposeful and brisk, leaving me to follow in his wake. The old man moved with a surprising energy, given his age, and I found myself quickening my pace to keep up with him.
We walked through the narrow streets of Rackenshore, passing by buildings that had seen better days. The city bore the scars of war—cracked walls, broken windows, and a general air of weariness.
But there was also a sense of resilience here, a determination to rebuild and carry on despite the hardships. It was fitting; I thought that a blacksmith like Harlan would choose to remain in a place like this.
Eventually, we reached a small, nondescript building tucked away at the edge of town. The sign above the door was faded and nearly illegible, but there was no mistaking the sound of metal being worked inside. The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil echoed faintly through the air, a sound that spoke of countless hours of labor and skill.
Harlan pushed open the door and stepped inside, gesturing for me to follow. The interior of the smithy was dimly lit, the walls lined with tools and racks of old weapons, many of them covered in a fine layer of dust. The forge at the back of the room glowed faintly with embers, the heat radiating outward and filling the space with a dry warmth.
The weapons scattered on the ground were a mix of swords, axes, and spears, all in various states of disrepair. Some were rusted, their edges dulled by time, while others were chipped or bent, the remnants of battles long past.
Harlan walked over to one of the piles and picked up a sword, its blade pitted and rusty. He held it up, inspecting it for a moment before turning to face me.
The sword was nothing special—a simple, single-edged blade with a worn hilt—but the way Harlan held it made it clear that he knew exactly how to use it.
Without a word, he pointed the sword at me, his eyes narrowing. “Come at me,” he said, his voice gruff and commanding.
I blinked, taken aback by the sudden challenge. “Are you serious?” I asked, my hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of my own sword.
Harlan’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t make me repeat myself, boy,” he growled, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Is that so?”
Harlan’s challenge hung in the air, the tension between us thick and charged. My hand gripped the hilt of my estoc as I drew it in one smooth motion, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light of the smithy.
Harlan’s eyes, sharp and calculating, never left mine as he held the rusty sword with an air of familiarity that hinted at years of experience.
There was no hesitation in his movements, no sign of age slowing him down. Despite his weathered appearance, the old man exuded a strength and presence that belied his years.
It was clear that Harlan was not someone to be taken lightly.
–SWOOSH!
Without warning, Harlan lunged forward, his rusty blade cutting through the air with surprising speed. I barely had time to react, bringing my estoc up to parry the blow.
‘Indeed. Not a weak one.’
The force of his strike reverberated through my arm, and I realized just how strong he was. This wasn’t going to be an easy test.
I pushed back against his blade, creating a momentary distance between us. Harlan didn’t give me time to catch my breath, following up with a series of rapid strikes that forced me on the defensive.
His movements were precise, each swing of his sword calculated to keep me off balance. Despite the worn state of his weapon, Harlan wielded it with deadly efficiency.
I shifted my stance, relying on my speed and agility to evade his attacks. My estoc, designed for thrusts and quick strikes, found its mark as I aimed for the openings in Harlan’s defenses.
But each time I thought I had an advantage, the old man countered with a move that forced me to reassess my approach.
‘This crafty old man. He is using his strength advantage.’
While I may have been improving myself quite well, just from the first clash alone, I could see that Harlan was someone who was stronger than me in terms of raw power.
It became clear that Harlan was testing me, pushing me to see how I would react under pressure.
His strikes grew heavier, and I could feel the weight of his experience behind each blow. But as the battle wore on, something clicked within me.
‘I can see it.’
The blade.
The style.
While it may not be easy for a good swordsman, for someone like Harlan, who was rather using his raw strength, it was not that hard to assess his swordsmanship and decipher it.
I began to see the patterns in his attacks, the subtle shifts in his stance that telegraphed his next move.
I adjusted my own movements, and my strikes became more focused and efficient.
With each exchange, I matched Harlan’s strength with my skill, the clash of our blades echoing through the smithy.
CLANK!
My estoc darted forward, aimed at the gaps in his defense, and I could feel the momentum shifting in my favor. Harlan’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the change, but he didn’t slow down. If anything, he became more aggressive, testing the limits of my abilities.
CLANK! SWOOSH!
But in the end, it came down to one single swing.
THUD!
One single swing made the blade fly and hit the ground.
“How was it?”
I asked, with my breath slightly fast.
Slightly.
Harlan’s eyes slowly shifted downward to the blade hovering just below his chin. The estoc’s tip was steady, mere inches from his weathered skin. I expected him to acknowledge my victory, maybe even offer a begrudging nod of respect. But instead, his face twisted into a frown, deep lines of disappointment etching across his features. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
He remained silent for a long moment, the weight of his gaze fixed on the blade. My breath came in shallow bursts, the adrenaline from our clash still coursing through my veins. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, the satisfaction I’d felt moments ago began to wane, replaced by a growing unease.
Finally, Harlan let out a low, rumbling sigh. His frown deepened as he slowly reached up and, with a firm yet deliberate motion, pushed the tip of my estoc away from his throat.
The blade scraped lightly against the calloused skin of his palm before falling to his side.
I lowered my weapon, confusion gnawing at me. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
Harlan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he bent down, retrieving the rusty sword I’d disarmed from him. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the edge with a critical eye as if the fault lay not in my performance but in the weapon itself.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally looked up, his eyes meeting mine with a mix of frustration and something else—something I couldn’t quite place. “You’ve got skill, lad,” he said, his voice rough and low, like gravel being ground beneath a heavy boot. “But skill alone isn’t enough.”
I blinked, taken aback. “I don’t understand.”
What was that supposed to mean?
Skill alone is not enough?
Harlan’s eyes bore into mine, his frown deepening as he continued. “You fight well, lad. Damn well. Like someone who’s seen life and death more times than they care to remember.”
I felt a strange mixture of pride and confusion at his words. I wanted to thank him and acknowledge the compliment, but something in his tone made me hesitate. There was an edge to his voice, a warning that cut through the praise.
“But that’s precisely the problem,” Harlan added, his voice growing harsher, like the grating of steel against stone. “You’re skilled, no doubt about that. You wield that blade with lethal precision. Every slash, every strike—you know how to kill. Your blade moves with purpose, and you’ve honed that purpose into something deadly.”
He took a step closer, his gaze narrowing as he studied me, searching for something deeper. “But that’s what makes you terrifying, boy. That’s why you’re dangerous.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “Dangerous?” I echoed the word hanging heavy in the air between us.
Harlan nodded slowly, his expression grave. “Aye, dangerous. Like a wild beast. You fight with the intent to kill, with the bloodlust that you don’t even try to hide. It was there, clear as day, when you disarmed me. You’re not just fighting to win—you’re fighting to end your opponent.
And that’s what makes you like a beast, boy.”
He paused, his eyes never leaving mine, and I felt the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. “Your weapon,” he continued, “is a graceful one. An estoc is a blade of precision, of finesse. It’s meant for thrusting, for finding the gaps in armor, for striking with elegance. But the way you fight… it’s anything but graceful. You wield that blade like a beast, all raw power and bloodlust.
There’s no balance, no harmony between you and your weapon. It’s as if the sword itself is screaming against the way you use it.”
Somehow, while his words looked weird, they felt true.
“That is why, no matter how good your sword is. In your hands, it will not last long. And I refuse to create a weapon that is tied to such a fate.”
It seemed I was still lacking.
———————–
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