Book 2 Ch 10: Not Yet-i

Rowan, the blacksmith, handed Michael an ugly hunk of metal. He held it easily, despite its weight, and gave it a few test swings. It was easily thrice the thickness of his old sword, but somehow the smith had still managed to give it a decent edge. He’d used the remains of the old sword as a base, so the hilt still felt comfortable in his hand. His swings may be slower for a while, but he was hopeful that it would stand up better to the damage caused by smite and the raw strength he now swung with as well. There was probably a better way to figure out his smiting problem, but for now this was the best he could think of.

“This is exactly what I needed, thank you.”

Rowan shrugged. “No smith grows up hoping to make pitchforks and plows. It was nice to work on swords, spears, and armor for a change.”

Michael smiled and went to sheathe his sword before realizing it wouldn’t fit. He worked it through an iron ring on his belt, making sure that he would be able to quickly draw it if he needed to and nodded when he was satisfied. He walked out of the warmth of the smithy and into the village square where a number of people had gathered.

There had already been a large exchange of goods which Marcus had also participated in, and he seemed to have been able to get each of them a heavy wool cloak that they could wrap around their armor as well as some salted fish and a few other necessities, most of which would be waiting with Francesca.

Pyotr finished making a surprisingly elaborate snow sculpture and walked over to Michael.

“You ready, brother?”

Michael patted the sword at his hip. “Much more ready than I was before.”

The other’s swords were in good shape, but the smith had managed to put some crude spears together for them. He was still working, his hammer clanging away, as he made replacement weapons for those men who were now well enough to fight again after Michael’s healing. The village ombudswoman, Stara, had insisted that they all be ready for if the attempt to seal the rift failed. Michael thought it was a smart move, though he wished she hadn’t seemed quite so certain of their failure.

He and Pyotr moved to the edge of the village where Marcus, Ollie, Davi, and Lance were already waiting.

Lance shook his head. “We already look like mercenaries more than soldiers.”

“Better than looking dead,” said Marcus doing a final cursory check on his rifle.

“Everyone ready?” asked Michael.

There were nods, and grunts in the affirmative.

Lance very nearly saluted in answer before stopping himself.

“Yep,” he said, practically forcing himself to sound casual.

Michael had to remind himself that while most of them were adults in the bodies of teenagers, Lance was actually a teenager. A teenager that had been through a lot and was still volunteering to help people he barely knew. He didn’t have the same confidence and swagger that he’d had back in Stent, but Michael was impressed by his ability to keep moving forward.

“Something wrong?” asked Lance, his eyebrow raised as Michael stared at him.

“Nothing, just proud of you.”

“Uh,” said Lance, a bit of redness in his face.

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“You don’t have to make everything awkward,” said Ollie, “you could save it for when you’re plowing old women.”

Michael looked at Marcus with a raised eyebrow.