Chapter 7: Bronze Work
Dawn arrived in Hartsgate as a wash of iron-grey light over the eastern walls, bringing the immediate noise of the working town. Hammers were already ringing in the Ash Forge, setting a steady rhythm against the anvils. Cart wheels ground over the frozen ruts of the main thoroughfare, mixing with the braying of a mule in the adjacent pens. Woodsmoke rose from dozens of chimneys, flattening into a low haze beneath the cold.
Callis stood at the corner of a narrow side street near the forge district, trying to project more energy than his body actually held. The damp morning fog carried a chill that slipped beneath his wool cloak, finding the bruises left by the Mud-Borrower. His ribs ached with a stabbing pressure whenever he drew a full breath, and his thigh throbbed where the beast’s leg had connected. The split skin across his knuckles had tightened around the medicinal salve into pink ridges that pulled against his joints when he flexed his fingers. His newly purchased boots, constructed of stiff waxed boar hide, pinched his heels with every shift in weight. He was exhausted and hollowed out by hunger, but beneath the ache in his joints sat the clear memory of the tavern kitchen.
He closed his eyes against the fog, recalling the pressure of her hands flat against his bare chest. He remembered the heat of her mouth and the weight of her hips in his lap, alongside the quiet promise in her voice when she had finally stepped away. The memory left an ache that made navigating the narrow stairs back to Room Four feel like an extended trial. Sleep had eluded him on the lumpy cot. Whenever he drifted toward unconsciousness, he surfaced again with the physical reminder of his own unresolved tension. He had eventually given up, rising hours before dawn to dress with careful movements and venture into the dark streets in search of better footwear.
The transaction had cost him more silver than he preferred to admit. A cobbler operating two lanes over from Redhook had taken one disgusted look at the ruined Aurelion riding boots and informed him that the footwear was a waste of good leather on a soft-footed traveler. Callis had traded away the last salvageable silver buckles from his pack, along with enough coin to sting his reserves, in exchange for the practical March boots. They looked ugly and structurally sturdy, pinching his heels with a reliable stiffness that he was coming to appreciate.
"Better." The voice cut through the fog to his left as Rhett Hollow emerged from the mist. He carried his oiled spear over one shoulder and a canvas sack slung across his back, holding a bruised apple in his free hand. His breath plumed in the freezing air, the surface of his scuffed leather armor beaded with morning damp. He stopped in front of Callis, looked down at the new boar-hide boots, and offered an approving nod. "You look less like a court dancing master," Rhett observed. "You still look like you are on your way to identify a corpse at the shrine, but it is an improvement."
Callis offered a dry greeting in return. Rhett took a bite of the apple, chewed once, and tossed a bundled pair of canvas gloves at Callis’s chest. The material was stiff from extensive use, smelling faintly of raw sulfur and a sharp vegetal rot.
"Put those on," Rhett instructed, pointing with the apple core. "Keep them on your hands the entire shift, and do not touch your face once we begin."
Callis unfolded the stiff canvas, noting the odor. "That instruction is not particularly encouraging."
Rhett jerked his head toward the main road leading out of town. "This is Bronze-rank labor. Encouragement would only make you careless. Come on, Vale. Daylight is coin."
They set off toward the March Gate. Hartsgate in the early morning had stripped itself down to work: shuttered storefronts, shouting yard hands, forge smoke, and carts already arguing with the frozen ruts. The settlement operated with a steady momentum, driven by the practical understanding that lost hours meant lost wages. By the time they passed beneath the stone arch of the gate, the deep mud from the previous day’s traffic had frozen solid. Callis’s new boar-hide boots bit into the earth, providing a secure footing that kept him upright through the first quarter-mile of the hike, earning his quiet appreciation despite the blister forming against his left heel.
The Green March sat under a heavy morning frost. The coarse grass glittered silver where the freezing temperatures had coated the blades, and the deep drainage ditches held stagnant black water skinned over with fragile sheets of ice. Bare branches showed through the mist in isolated clumps along the roadside. The trade route wound ahead in a continuous ribbon of hard-packed earth, marked by deep wagon grooves and overlapping hoofprints.
Callis matched Rhett's brisk pace, waiting until his breathing settled into the rhythm of the road. "You mentioned nettle-creepers yesterday. Given the canvas gloves and the warnings, I assume they require specific handling."
Rhett grunted affirmatively around a bite of his apple, shifting the spear to his other shoulder while scanning the drainage ditches and the brush lines with veteran habit. "Nettle-creepers are a common magical flora. The root systems drink beast-blood residue directly from the soil, spreading fastest in areas where merchant escorts regularly slaughter creatures. That makes the primary trade paths their preferred location to cause a logistical nuisance."
Callis frowned, processing the ecological detail. "The plants feed on blood?"
"They feed on the residue," Rhett clarified. "Carrion seep and the contaminated soil of old kill-sites. They consume anything rich enough to thicken the ground nutrients."
"And the specific danger they pose?"
Rhett offered a sidelong look. "You ask questions exactly like a guild clerk. The creepers are thick vines that knot across the established wagon routes, choking the wheel-clearance. A patch will drag over an entire trade lane in a matter of days. The problem is that the stalks resist being severed."
Callis looked down at the sulfur-stiff canvas gloves and pulled the fabric tighter against his wrists. "What happens when they are cut?"
"The internal stalks are packed with pressurized sap," Rhett explained. "If you hack the vine in the wrong place, the segment bursts. The sap burns bare skin like a hot branding iron, and it can blind you for a week if it hits your eyes. As for the smell, imagine trapping a rotting cabbage inside a wet boot by a hot hearth."
Callis stared at him. "I cannot say I have experienced that."
"Then today will be educational."
They located the infestation where the main road bent around a drainage ditch, narrowing between a patch of dense scrub and a rocky rise. The flora had spread out of the stagnant water, crossing the packed earth in a woven mat of black-green vines glossy with morning frost. Thousands of fine, translucent hairs trembled along the length of the stalks, catching the weak sunlight and giving the structure a vaguely insectile appearance across the road.
Callis stopped walking. "That looks like a severe complication."
"It is a payment dispute waiting to happen," Rhett agreed, dropping his canvas sack onto the mud. He crouched and sorted through the contents, pulling out two short machetes with hooked, forward-weighted iron blades, a coil of hemp cord, and a pair of long-handled forks. He tossed one of the machetes to Callis, who caught the leather-wrapped handle. The iron blade carried a surprising weight.
"Lesson one," Rhett said, standing up. "This requires a specific motion, entirely unlike chopping firewood. Swinging that blade like a hero from a tavern song will cause the stalk to spray pressurized sap, and I will laugh at your screaming before forcing you to wash your eyes out in the freezing ditch water." He stepped toward the edge of the infestation and used the point of his blade to indicate a swollen joint where a vine thickened before branching. "The internal pressure is lower at the joints. Hook the blade under the node, twist your wrist upward, and pull. The goal is to pop the joint rather than hacking the stalk, then drag the severed length clear. We clear the main anchor lines first, followed by the dense root knots."
Callis studied the twisting line of the plant more carefully. The underlying architecture became clear as he traced the pattern. The vines supported one another, with thicker lengths running low and taut beneath the rest of the mass to distribute the tension. Smaller vines crossed above the main lines, providing cover and additional weight to the organized lattice.
Rhett demonstrated the technique, sliding the hooked edge of his blade under one of the lower joints. He angled his wrist and executed a short pull. The vine snapped free with a wet popping sound, and bright green sap welled up at the severed joint in a thick bead, contained safely within the stalk. Rhett flicked the cut length into the ditch and stepped toward the next joint. "Like that. Now you."
Callis stepped to the opposite side of the road, selected a prominent vine, and attempted to mimic the motion. The result arrived immediately. He secured the iron hook under the vine, but his execution relied on pulling the weapon hard from his shoulder rather than twisting his wrist. Driven by an eagerness to overpower the obstacle, he used too much broad force, dragging the blade off its line and splitting the vine jaggedly through the pressurized middle section.
The stalk burst, sending a jet of green sap straight across his canvas glove and spattering his left sleeve with a wet slap. The smell reached him a fraction of a second later. His stomach rolled at the heavy odor of rotting vegetation mixed with raw sulfur and stagnant water, carrying a deep corruption that burned his sinuses. The physical burn followed the smell. A single tear of the sap soaked through the linen of his sleeve to reach the bare skin of his left wrist, burning like a lit match pressed against his flesh. Callis swore, dropping the machete into the frost-hardened mud to clutch at his arm.
Rhett watched him without moving to assist, leaning his weight against his own machete with a quiet laugh. "You pulled the blade from the shoulder," Rhett observed. "You are trying to bully a plant instead of understanding how it operates."
Callis wiped at his watering eyes. "This particular plant appears intent on causing severe harm."
"It is a stationary vine," Rhett countered. "If the stationary vine is winning the engagement, you need to adjust your approach."
The logic of the statement proved difficult to argue against. Callis bent his knees and retrieved the machete from the mud with his left hand, wiping the burning spot on his right wrist against his thick trousers to remove the sap. The smell immediately worsened, drawing another laugh from Rhett.
Callis forced his focus past the frustration, analyzing the problem with the meticulous attention of a clerk. He approached the obstacle as a complex system of structural weaknesses. Staring at the dense patch of vines, he observed the geometry. The translucent hairs all angled uniformly along the primary growth, and the thicker, lower vines carried the structural weight of the mass. The swollen joints appeared at regular intervals along the stalks. Several key anchor lengths threaded low and tight beneath the vegetation held the center of the blocked road. Severing those specific anchors would loosen the entire structure.
He shifted his stance, moving three steps to his left for a better angle, and crouched low to the frozen ground. Setting the iron hook under a lower, swollen joint, he aligned the blade parallel to the natural seam and executed a sharp twist of his wrist. The joint popped cleanly, keeping the pressurized sap contained. Callis exhaled a plume of white steam, using the flat of the blade to drag the severed length backward out of the road. He tossed the vine into the drainage ditch and stepped to the next target, finding the rhythm of hooking the joint and twisting his wrist to pop the seam before dragging the material clear.
The rhythm developed slowly at first, requiring steady concentration before settling into his muscles. He began processing the nettle-creepers as a complex architectural structure to systematically dismantle, treating the patch like a visual ledger of connecting lines and calculated pressure points. He noted which vines carried significant weight and which only appeared important, identifying the specific knots that fed the middle mass while ignoring the sprawling branches until their primary support lines were severed.
Beside him, Rhett worked with practiced efficiency, maintaining a steady output. Across from the veteran, Callis established his own distinct pace, relying on deliberate movements that grew increasingly accurate as the morning progressed. The manual labor demanded a sustained, grinding physical effort. The iron machete grew heavier with the passing minutes, and his bruised ribs bit every time he bent to hook a low vine. Sweat formed between his shoulder blades despite the freezing temperature, cooling rapidly beneath his tunic. The blister on his heel ripened into a hot spike of pain whenever his foot slipped against the frozen ruts. Pressurized sap hit his canvas gloves twice more during the clearance, thickening the stench around him until he was breathing entirely through the heavy rot.
After an hour of continuous labor, the muscles in his lower back began to throb with a persistent ache. Two hours in, his shoulders burned as though packed with sand. The repetitive motion tested his endurance, but he kept his head down and maintained his pace, hooking and twisting through the vines without breaking the rhythm.
During the shift, the trade road began reappearing in narrow strips of brown, packed earth between the severed lengths. The tangled mass transitioned into a solvable cluster of remaining vines. Callis realized he and Rhett had fallen into a working silence, driven by the simple fact that the manual labor had stripped their focus down to the physical task, leaving no spare energy for conversation. This grinding reality was the specific detail absent from the adventure serials. The stories favored the elegant duel and the monster’s leap, omitting the deep muscular ache, the smell of rotten sap, and the practical victory of a muddy road rendered passable by two exhausted men wielding hooked blades.
By the time the pale afternoon light shifted its angle to signal evening, the trade path stood clear of vegetation from ditch to ditch. Callis straightened his spine slowly in the center of the road, pressing one gloved hand against the small of his back to support his muscles. His chest heaved, and his sweat cooled rapidly under his clothes as the wind picked up. The fatigue in his arms forced him to consciously relax his grip on the machete handle to keep his hands from cramping. He stared down the open line of the cleared route.
He had completed the task, securing the path through sheer physical persistence. A quiet satisfaction settled in his chest, carrying the specific weight of finishing a grueling job he had lacked the knowledge to perform that very morning.
Rhett walked over, wiping the sap off his blade on a tuft of frost-burned grass. He evaluated the cleared road before shifting his gaze to Callis, the usual mockery in his expression settling into a neutral observation. "You possess terrible form," Rhett observed.
Callis felt too exhausted to muster any offense. "I appreciate the praise."
Rhett snorted and tossed the empty canvas sack toward him, which Callis caught against his chest. "You overuse your shoulder muscles for the pull," Rhett continued, "and your left side collapses when you get tired. You adapt to structural patterns quickly, which matters more than form." Rhett nodded toward the sap-stained machete. "Keep the blade. I will deduct the cost of the iron from your half of the payout."
Callis processed the gesture. "Thank you."
"I am investing in my own future convenience," Rhett replied, a slight grin touching the corners of his eyes as he turned back toward town.
The hike back to Hartsgate gave his body the necessary time to begin cataloging its complaints. The blister on his heel had ruptured, rubbing raw against the stiff boar hide with every step. The sap burn on his right wrist throbbed beneath the canvas glove, and the muscles in his shoulders carried a heavy, burning ache. By the time they reached the stone arch of the March Gate, the smell of rotten nettle-creeper sap clung to them so heavily that a stationed guard waved them through the checkpoint while pinching his nose shut. The guards let them pass in silence, the quiet serving as its own kind of acknowledgment.
They processed the completed contract outside in the Beastweight Yard, a designated area where messy proof could be handled away from the main hall. Braska Hale emerged from a side door with a thick ledger tucked under one arm, holding a scented handkerchief folded against the lower half of her face. Her eyes moved from Rhett to Callis, registering their sap-stained state.
"Is the road clear?" Braska asked, her voice muffled by the cloth.
"The path is clear," Rhett confirmed. "I left burn marks along the southern ditch edge to ensure termination. You will want to schedule a watch posting for that location in a few days to monitor the growth."
Braska noted the recommendation in her ledger, then shifted her gaze to Callis. "And you survived the shift," she observed, her flat tone leaving her professional opinion ambiguous.
Callis offered a brief nod.
A brief smirk touched the corners of Braska's eyes before she counted out their respective shares of the bounty. Callis accepted his portion, staring at the coins resting in his raw palm. Two silver marks and a handful of coppers. The sum was less than the Mud-Borrower bounty, carrying the specific weight of physical labor rather than blind luck. This silver had not come from panic and luck. It had come from two hours in a ditch, one ruined sleeve, and a road left open behind him.
Rhett tied his share into his leather purse and stretched his shoulders with a grimace. "I am heading to the public bathhouse in the Lantern Ward. They charge an extra fee for the creeper-sap smell, but I am paying the rate. Are you coming?"
Callis considered the offer, weighing the draw of a proper heated bath against the memory of the tavern kitchen and the promise Mara had left hanging in the air. He looked at the silver in his palm, then back toward the lower districts. "I have other arrangements," Callis said.
Rhett’s eyebrows lifted. "Suit yourself, Vale. If you walk into a tavern smelling like rotting cabbage, the patrons may decide to remove you by force." Rhett adjusted the canvas strap of his sack. "I will see you around the board, then. Try to survive long enough to learn how to use that hooked blade properly." The veteran turned and headed uphill toward the Lantern Ward, leaving Callis alone in the muddy yard with his aching muscles, his silver, and the clinging stench of the sap.
Callis squared his shoulders against the ache in his ribs and began the walk toward The Stag & Ember. By the time he navigated the lower lanes, the sun had sunk behind the steep roofs and the forge smoke of Hartsgate. Evening lanterns flared to life along the eaves, casting long shadows across the mud while the smells of roasted supper meats drifted into the street. The frontier town was settling into its evening appetite as Callis pushed his weight against the heavy oak door of the inn and stepped across the threshold.
The lower common room was packed tightly with the evening crowd. The overlapping conversations slowed near the entrance, heads turning as the smell of the sap announced his arrival. Callis kept his chin raised, meeting the stares of the mercenaries near the door with a steady look. He carried the smell of the creeper-sap and the thick mud caked on his boots as evidence of the Bronze-rank road he had worked. Walking past the length of the bar, he mounted the narrow stairs, taking the wooden treads steadily despite the ache in his legs, and walked directly to Room Four.
He had survived the Green March again. He smelled like rot, his heel was bleeding into his new boot, and every step up the stairs hurt.
But the sun was down.
And Mara had told him to come back breathing.