"WAR!"

The boy shouting in the center of the market square was at least twice Merrick's age. He wore a dusty brown coat over a fraying grey shirt. His shoes were nice—far nicer than Merrick's at least—and he wore a cloth cap that was too large for his head and hung down almost to his eyes. There was a crate by his feet filled with stacks of parchment covered in black ink. The boy held one up as high as he could in one hand, waving it around as he yelled. Merrick could read the word 'WAR' hastily scrawled in dark ink at the top, but the rest was too small to make out. 

"Emperor Mo'al declares war against Eransholt! Armies flood across the Xeros!"

The boy had been shouting the same thing for over an hour now. His voice had become hoarse, but he seemed determined to sell all the papers in his crate. The market square was even busier than normal today. Apparently the news of war had sent the people panicking to stock up on needed supplies. Everyone was on edge and more than one fight had already broken out this morning.

But Merrick didn't mind the chaos.

He found it much easier to swipe a few loose coins with the increased congestion of people, even managing to snag an apple from an old man's fruit cart. He leaned against a wall near the entrance of the square and watched as the people scurried about, periodically taking a bite of his apple.

He gazed up at the sky and sighed. Grey clouds had begun to leisurely gather in an effort to blot out the sun. 

He hoped the rain wouldn't affect the project Mr. Selars had told him about.

———

The smith looked down at Merrick over the counter with more distaste than any of the wealthy folk across the wall ever had.

"What do ya want, runt?"

Selars had sent Merrick to a rather secluded area of Croden that he'd never been before. He carried fifteen coppers in a small leather pouch Selars had given him. He was to follow the directions from Selars and find 'Jaimie's Smithy' and then, using the coppers, purchase nails and hooks. 

Selars hoped to construct a small wooden shelf with hooks along the entrance of his shop. He had taken to walking with a cane in the recent months and wanted a place to store it in the shop. There had also been a rather rude man who seemed upset that there was nowhere to hang his coat when he entered, but Selars wouldn't admit that it'd bothered him enough hang up hooks on the wall. 

Merrick had found the smithy easily enough. It was a one story building constructed with dirty, weathered grey bricks. The entrance had a large wooden sign over the top of a creaky, wooden door that read 'JAIMIE'S SMITHY' in large, black letters. Along the right side the structure continued into a rectangular wooden living area with shuttered windows.

The left side of the structure held the forge. There was an overhang with mismatched shingles, but it was open to the outside. The dirt floor connected to the rest of the yard where a small pig pen housing three large, snorting sows was set against a fence marking the edge of the property.  There were shelves and hooks lining the walls with horseshoes, tools, and scrap metal. Most of the metal had a strange dark green tint to it, which Merrick found strange. There was a large, chipped anvil set on a squat oak block stained black with soot and oil on one side and a sturdy wooden workbench on the other. Finally in the center was a soot-blackened, brick forge with a leather bellows that had been patched on many different occasions. 

When Merrick had arrived, he was stuck by the heavy, smoke-filled air. It was different from the smoke of a burning torch or firepit. The smell of metal, the coal, the soot, the smoke from the forge—he didn't hate it. At the very least it was preferrable to the musty aroma of the overpacked market square where he'd spent so many days.

The door to the smithy was heavy, forcing Merrick to lean his shoulder into it, nearly toppling over when he finally managed his way inside. There was a small bell hung above the door that chimed as Merrick entered the shop proper. It was a small area—not too dissimilar to Mr. Selars' bookstore—only here, the shelves and tables were lined with all variety of metal tools. He saw horseshoes, nails, hooks, hammers, chains, even large pots and kettles were on display. Nearly all of it contained that same tinge of green he'd seen outside. 

A long wooden counter, stained a deep brown, stood at the back of the shop. Behind it was an opening to the outdoor forge on one side and a door leading to the living area Merrick had seen outside on the other. As the bell chimed, a figure hunched over the workbench outside rose and wiped his hands on a dirty grey cloth.  With the loud thudding footsteps of what sounded like a giant, he made his way from the forge and leaned against the counter.

He was a tall, heavyset man with weathered, darkened skin from age and soot alike. His head was bald, glistening slightly from sweat. Bushy black eyebrows framed an unruly beard that had already begun to grey. He wore a leather apron covered in pockets from which various tools and cloths sprouted. His eyes were squinted and his mouth curled into a snarl of disgust upon seeing a street urchin rather than a paying customer.

"What do ya want, runt?" he spat.

Merrick swallowed and cleared his throat. "I...uh...am here to buy things."

"Uh-huh," the smith grunted, unimpressed. "And you got the coin to buy these things, do ye?"

"I do."

Merrick produced the leather coin purse from his belt and shook it for the smith to hear. The man’s demeanor shifted at once. His snarl melted into something close to a grin, the kind a man wears when business finds him before the day’s gone sour. His voice was still gruff, but the presence of coin had apparently lightened his mood.

"Well, a customer with coin won't be turned away from Jaimie's Smithy—regardless of his...age. What're you lookin' for youngin?" 

"Mr. Selars wanted me to buy six nails and four hooks," Merrick replied, recalling the exact instructions he'd been given. 

The giant man reached up for a high shelf behind the counter and slammed down a handful of green tinged nails before turning back for the hooks.

Merrick stepped forward, standing on his toes in order to grab one of the nails. He turned it over in his hand, furrowing his brow.

"Why's it green?" he asked. 

Jaimie set the hooks next to the nails, laid out a brown cloth and began to wrap the items into a makeshift bag. "Cause it's made with torkite, not iron."

"Torkite?"

"Eransholt don't got much in way of iron these days. 'Specially with the war starting."

He clicked his tongue before continuing in a mumble. "Damn bastards came and took all my iron stores a month ago... shoulda known."

"Is torkite just as strong as iron?"

"Mmm..." Jaimie scratched at his beard. "Not for weapons—or anything much larger than the size of yer hand. But for hooks, nails—even horseshoes—it'll do ya just fine."

He finished tying up the cloth bag with a piece of fraying twine and pushed it to the edge of the counter, but kept his hand on it. "That'll be twenty coppers then, boy."

Merrick peered into his coin purse, feigning confusion. "Mr. Selars only gave me sixteen coppers. He said it should be more than enough."

"Selars owns that bookstore a few blocks down, don't he?" Jaimie questioned, tapping one finger on the counter. "So I know he's no fool. Let's just say he was mistaken, and when you come back with four more coppers—" he pulled the bag back, "then he can have his goods."

"I understand. Sorry for wasting your time, sir."

Merrick turned to leave, but took a deep breath and turned back before reaching the door.

"Say, Mr. Jaimie, what if I offered you a deal for those four missing coppers?"

The smith gave him the same look you’d give a dog pissing on the side of your house.

“Yer gonna swing a deal, kid? Those ain’t even your coppers.”

Merrick didn’t know much, but he knew that losing a customer was a merchant’s worst nightmare. And from the looks of this smithy, this man couldn’t stand to loose to many more.

“True, but I don’t wanna make Mr. Selars mad when I come back asking for more. So here’s what I say: you take the sixteen coppers for the nails and hooks you’ve already bagged up, and when Mr. Selars eventually needs more, I swear to make Jaimie’s Smithy our sole provider.”

Jaimie scoffed. “That’s a big promise to make for a kid who ain’t even makin’ the decisions. And what’s to say yer repeat patronage is even worth the discount I’d be givin’?”

“Mr. Selars sends me out for his errands.” Merrick shrugged. “He’s not gonna check what blacksmith I go to, I don’t mind walking a little further to find a different one. It’s a big town after all.”

Jaimie’s face was contorted into a scowl now. Merrick had him.                                                                                                                                       

“So I can either go get those four extra coppers and give ‘em to the next smith down the way.” Merrick leisurely tossed the coin purse up and snatched it out of the air. “Or you give me the discount and I’ll see you again real soon. Mr. Selars isn’t a fool, but he’s also no carpenter. I imagine we’ll be needing a few more nails, maybe even some tools.”

Jaimie’s face didn’t relax. “Anyone ever kicked the shit outta you, kid?”

“Yeah,” Merrick replied cooly. “Couple of times.”

Jaimie nodded slowly, and then sighed. “Fine. But I’d better be seein’ you again. Coin. In. Hand. Understood?”

Merrick grinned wide. “You got it, Mr. Smith.”

Jaimie handed him the bag of nails and hooks and Merrick emptied the coin pouch onto the counter. But before he could pull his hand back, the big man grabbed it, nearly lifting Merrick off the ground.

“You best be careful,” Jaimie said in a low voice. “Not everyone’s gonna be as nice as me if you talk to ‘em like that.”

Merrick nodded and pulled his arm free, wrist stinging slightly.

“And don’t call me Mr. Smith,” the man said as Merrick turned to leave. “Name’s Jaimie, so call me Jaimie.”

A low rumble of thunder preceded a misting of rain as Merrick began the trek back to the bookstore.  He hooked the cloth bag of goods on his belt and reached down to remove his shoe. The distinct clinking sound brought a smile to his face as he emptied the shoe into his hand. They were warm to the touch and damp with sweat, but the four extra coins Mr. Selars had given him would still be enough to buy himself treat before he returned.

———

Back at the bookstore Mr. Selars had lit a fire as the storm finally arrived. Usually Merrick hated storms. He’d sit in his shed as rain pounded the wood and gusts of howling wind sounded off like angry spirits desperate to enter. The water would leak through the cracks, making Merrick feel like he was trapped in a slowly sinking ship. Although he’d only ever heard about ships from Mr. Selars, they sounded quite horrifying.

Endless water. Giant Waves. Unseen creatures of the deep. And the only thing to shield you was a few planks of wood.

Merrick didn’t care what excitement the other continents held; he would never risk going on a ship.

Today however, the rain didn’t fill him with dread. He was warm, he was dry, and he was learning to build a shelf.

“Hold this here for me, my boy.”

Mr. Selars had laid everything out on the countertop, and had begun the process of “elegant carpentry” as he put it.

Merrick didn’t think it was very elegant so far, mostly hammering things into place and a lot of splinters.

“Mr. Selars?” Merrick began.

The old man looked up at him over his circular spectacles. “Yes?”

“Do carpenters make much coin?”

“Hmm… an intriguing question. The average carpenter surely makes enough to get by. But the good ones make a great deal more.”

The old man grunted as he hammered a nail into place. “That’s just the thing with craft professions, if you are able to do what your competitors cannot, you receive the luxury of naming your price.”

“So if they aren’t good at it, why do they keep doing it? Like Mr. Jaimie?”

Selars set down his hammer and leaned in close, shooting Merrick a disappointed look. “It is not good manners to speak ill of someone behind their back, young Merrick.”

He leaned back and crossed his arms, gaze still locked on Merrick. “And I have no qualms with Jaimie’s craftsmanship. He’s been a smith for a long time and his goods have always been solid. What fault do you find in a craft, about which you know so little?”

Merrick scrunched his nose. “It’s not that I think he’s a poor smith. It’s just… as you say, he’s been a smith for a long time, but he still only scrapes by selling nails and hooks to bookstores.”

“Many such stores are in need of the mundane metalworks he provides.”

“Yes, but there are many other smith’s who can provide the same thing. Wouldn’t he make more coin if he tried to branch out?”

“It’s not so simple, my boy.”

Selar’s sat up and placed a handful of nails on one side of the counter and set a single hook on the other.

“Say that this hook is the finest sword any blacksmith ever created, and these nails are horseshoes.”

He pointed at Merrick.

“You are the smith, and you have the capability of making either this one sword or two dozen horseshoes. Which do you choose?”

Merrick looked from the nails to the hook and frowned. “The sword. If it’s the finest sword ever created I could sell it for any price I wanted.”

“There’s that word, ‘could’,” Selars replied, raising a finger. “You could sell it. If there was a buyer. But what if you live in a town filled to the brim with farmers, peddlers and horse breeders?”

He placed his hand on the group of nails and pushed them forward.

“It would no longer be a question of could you sell these, but if you could make enough to keep up with the requests of the customers.”

“So,” Merrick started, furrowing his brow and darting his eyes between the hook and the nails. “I just need to make a reason for them to buy the sword.”

Selars chuckled. “That’s one way of going about it. The craftsman can only be successful by meeting the demands of the customers. For Jaimie, nails, hooks, horseshoes are in a much higher demand than any complicated designs.”

“But, the boy in the square today said that there was a war starting. Couldn’t Jaimie make swords and armor? And sell it to the soldiers?”

Selars smile faded and he let out a weary sigh. “I suppose you have yet to see a war in your life, my boy. How many summers have you seen?”

Merrick counted them on his fingers. “Eight… that I remember.”

“Then it is your first war.”

Selars paused, his glassy eyes held a sadness behind them.

“During a war, swords and armor are indeed in high demand, but in Eransholt.” He held up a green tinged nail. “We are rich in torkite, but quite poor in the metals used for armaments of war. Despire occupying less than half of the continent, the Empire of Xel’ak contains the vast majority of the iron mines of Olstand.”

 Merrick raised an eyebrow. “But that’s who they said we are going to war with!”

Selars tapped the tip of his nose. “Precisely. That is why when war begins, King Halas calls for all iron stores to be collected so that his own handpicked smiths can craft the weapons of war.”

“He can do that?”

Selars laughed again. “Oh young Merrick, there is still much for you to learn. You will find that there is not much in this world that the king of Eransholt can be forbade from doing.”

Merrick looked Mr. Selars directly in the eyes. “How do you become king?”

Selars smiled and tousled Merrick’s hair. “Tomorrow I can explain the rules of succession in Eransholt if you like. But today, let us finish building this blasted shelf. I already have so many splinters, I fear the lightning may mistake me for a tree on my way home.”

Merrick laughed, long and hard…

but his mind was lost in thought, swirling with ideas.