"Now hold still."
Branik tugged a measuring cord tight across Dym's chest, then stepped back half a pace to squint at the result as though the number itself had offended him. The stout Forte's thick fingers adjusted the line once more, then he grunted and muttered something under his breath before moving on to the next measurement.
.
.
.
- A While Ago
It had not taken Dym long to find Branik Ironhand's stall.
The armour and weapons quarter of Rudnicka Town wasn't hard to miss. Long before they reached it, the sound had guided them there—the ringing crash of hammer on steel, the hiss of quenched metal, the rasp of files biting into iron. The noise rolled through the streets like a steady storm, rising from every forge and workshop clustered together near the edge of the market.
Smoke drifted low above the lane, carrying with it the smell of coal, hot metal, leather, and sweat. Men hauled bars of steel from wagon to anvil, apprentices ran messages or worked bellows, and merchants shouted prices over the clanging din.
Luckily, Branik Ironhand's stall stood where it had the night before.
The short Forte smith was easy enough to spot, broad as an oak stump and just as solid, busy hammering dents from a breastplate he had hung for display. Sparks spat from the metal with every strike. He barely looked up when Dym and Soap approached.
Dym cleared his throat. "Good morrow, Branik."
The smith lowered his hammer at last and glanced up with narrowed eyes. "Yer back."
"Aye," said Dym. He shifted aside and gestured toward the boy. "And this is Soap. My squire."
Soap, hood drawn loosely over his bald head, gave a quick half-bow that looked more like he was trying not to be noticed. "Good day."
Though he said the words, the boy's eyes stayed firmly averted.
Branik grunted. Whether it meant greeting or annoyance was hard to tell. Either way, he did not seem bothered.
Before reaching for his pouch, Dym bent and lifted the wrapped bundle he had carried with him. He set it on the smith's table with a heavier sound than cloth ought to make.
Branik looked down. "This the armour ye mentioned last night?"
"A-Aye. My old master's armour, Ser Arlan of Brzozowa Polana" Dym said.
He unwrapped the bundle carefully. Inside lay a battered mail hauberk, a half helm with old dents along the brow, and a pair of gauntlets worn smooth at the knuckles. The pieces were clearly used hard and long. Some links had been repaired with mismatched rings, the helm bore scratches and one old crack that had been hammered closed, and the leather straps had been replaced more than once. Yet for all that, there was little rust to be seen. The metal had been cleaned and oiled often enough.
Soap glanced at the pieces with quiet familiarity. They had both spent hours maintaining them, first under Ser Arlan's orders, later simply because it was what squires did—and because armour left untended died quicker than men did.
Branik pulled the mail toward him, lifting it with one hand and letting the rings spill through his fingers. He checked the rivets, then sniffed.
"It's a wise choice o' you to sell me this old crap. They're too small for a man o' yer size."
Branik picked up the half helm next, turned it side to side, then rapped a knuckle against the crown. He examined the gauntlets last, flexing the fingers, checking the hinges and straps.
After a moment, he grunted and gave a short nod. "Good steel these. I'll take it."
Relief loosened something in Dym's chest.
At the same time, guilt settled there.
He kept his face still, but his eyes lingered on the old hauberk a moment too long. He remembered Ser Arlan wearing it in rain, in mud, by campfires, and on roads that had led nowhere good. The helm too. He had buckled those straps himself more than once.
But then another memory came with it.
By law in Kazimierz, only a trueborn son may inherit a knight's arms,
You must therefore devise a sigil of your own,
And take up a weapon that is yours by right rather than memory.
Dym drew a slow breath.
That meant he could not go on wearing Ser Arlan's castoffs forever. Not the armour. Not the memory of it either.
Not to mention, they won't fit him in the first place anyway...
Without thinking, his hand drifted to the pommel at his hip and closed around it.
But that also includes Ser Arlan's sword as well...
The thought stayed there, heavier than he liked.
He let out a quiet breath and reached for his pouch instead. The coins he earned from selling his horse felt heavier than before. He fumbled more than he meant to as his hand shook lightly, fingers catching on the drawstring before finally loosening it. One by one, then in small stacks, he counted out the six hundred silvers onto the smith's worktable.
Branik swept them in with a practiced hand and gave them only the briefest glance before grunting, "Wait here."
He disappeared behind his wagon.
The sounds of the forge quarter rushed back in his absence—the ringing steel, shouted curses, a mule braying somewhere down the lane. Soap leaned nearer to Dym.
"This better be worth it, ser," he said quietly.
"It will, don't worry," Dym muttered.
Branik returned dragging a bundle of mail over one shoulder. He dropped it onto the table with a heavy metallic thud that made Soap flinch.
When he unfurled it, a long chainmail hauberk spilled across the wood in a river of linked iron rings, broad through the shoulders and long enough to reach near the knee.
"This one's about your size," Branik said. "Made it years ago for another Forte customer, a mercenary. Big bastard never came back for it, so it's been left to dust in me wagon."
He jabbed a thumb at Dym.
"For the price, it is yours now."
Dym stared at it a moment. It was heavier than Ser Arlan's old armour, finer too. Proper riveted links in close rows, not the patchwork scraps that Ser Arlan wore.
"As for the gorget, gauntlets, and your greathelm," Branik continued, "I could forge new ones, it'll take some days to a week and more, or you can look through the large pieces there." He pointed at a rack of mismatched armor nearby. "Find something you like or close tight. I'll make it fit your size."
Dym nodded and lifted the hauberk with both hands, surprised by the weight even when prepared for it.
"Could I... try it on?"
Branik scoffed. "Of course you can, ser knight. You already bought it. In fact, you should. Else it may be too small, and you'll fight the lists awkwardly."
Soap snorted loudly.
Dym flushed red clear to the ears. "A-Aye, right."
Soap tilted his head. "What about his padded jacket? The przeszywanica?"
Branik jerked a thumb toward a neighboring stall where quilted gambesons and arming coats hung in rows of dyed linen and canvas.
"They do cloth-based armor there. I'll commission one once I know your knight's measure."
Soap nodded, satisfied.
Then a loud rattling of links drew his attention back.
Dym had begun trying to put the hauberk on.
He gathered the heavy garment by the shoulders, found the neck opening, and bent forward awkwardly, trying to lower it over his head. The mail slipped halfway, caught on one ear, and dragged sideways.
Soap bit his lip.
Dym muttered something under his breath, yanked it free, then tried again. This time he ducked deeper, pushing his head through the collar until his face emerged red and slightly annoyed from the dark ringed opening.
The rest of the hauberk sagged around his shoulders like a collapsed tent.
He shoved one arm into a sleeve, but the weight pulled the other side down at once. The loose mail rattled and swayed as he fought for the second sleeve, twisting at the waist like a man wrestling an angry fishing net.
Branik watched in silence for several seconds.
Then he sighed, stepped forward, seized the back of the hauberk, and gave it one hard yank downward.
The mail dropped properly into place with a heavy clatter.
Dym staggered under the sudden weight, boots scraping the dirt, but stayed upright.
There he stood at last, broad shoulders draped in iron links, sleeves hanging to mid-forearm, the split skirt falling nearly to his knees.
Soap's grin spread wide.
"Well," the boy said. "Now you look like a proper knight of the realm, ser."
Branik circled him once, tugging here and there, checking the shoulders, the hang of the sleeves, the room through the chest.
"Mmm... needs some bit o' work," the smith grunted. "But it'll do."
Dym shifted under the unfamiliar burden, feeling the weight settle across his shoulders and spine. Heavy. Very heavy.
Still...
For the first time in a long while, he felt a little more like the knight he claimed to be.
"Wait here, I'll take some o' my measuring tools."
The Forte smith disappeared behind the wagon once more and returned carrying what looked like a jumble of ordinary things—three lengths of rope, a stub of white chalk clenched in the corner of his mouth, and a squat wooden stool scarred by old nails and burn marks.
He dropped the ropes onto the table, spat the chalk into one hand, and jabbed a finger at Dym.
"Stand straight now."
Dym straightened at once.
"No, not like a spear just rammed yer arse," Branik snapped. "Natural straight. Ain't no need to be so stiff, man."
Dym tried again, somehow looking even stiffer.
Soap covered his mouth.
Branik grunted, shoved the stool into place, and climbed atop it with the ease of a man who had done this many times before. From there he could just about work level with Dym's shoulders. He looped the rope across Dym's back, then around the chest, pinching the spot where it met before marking it with chalk.
"Broad," he muttered.
Next came shoulder width, arm length, neck, the distance from collarbone to waist, waist to knee, and several measurements Dym did not understand the purpose of. Branik tugged rope here, pressed chalk there, muttering to himself all the while.
"Need extra room through here... trim this... widen the sleeves a bit... longer skirt... gods above, what are you built from?"
Dym blinked. "My mother, I'd assume."
Whoever she was...
Soap barked a laugh.
Branik deadpanned at them both.
The smith hopped down, circled once, then climbed back up the stool to measure from shoulder to wrist. He made another chalk mark, then grunted thoughtfully.
"Already got the images... For your gauntlets, I'll need a larger hinges. Standard ones would snap on your first punch. You look the dogged type, after all."
When Branik finally seemed satisfied, he stepped back and jerked a thumb at the maille still hanging on Dym.
"Now off with it."
Dym nodded. "A-Aye."
He reached for the collar, lifted, twisted, and immediately became entangled.
The hauberk bunched around his shoulders and snagged at one elbow. He tried pulling one sleeve free, only for the other side to slide halfway over his face. Iron links rattled loudly as he staggered in place, bent awkwardly, arms trapped somewhere inside the garment like a man being swallowed by cookware.
Soap folded over laughing.
Dym's muffled voice came from inside the mail. "Stop laughing. Bachor."
That only made the boy laugh harder.
Dym finally freed one arm and glared at him through the neck opening, hair sticking up and face red.
"I said stop laughing and help me pull this damned thing off!"
Soap wiped at one eye, still chuckling. "Aye-aye, ser. Forgive me, ser."
He stepped in and grabbed a sleeve with both his small smooth hands, planting his feet like he meant to haul a cart. He tugged.
Nothing happened.
Branik sighed the long sigh of a man surrounded by fools, strode forward, and seized the back hem.
"On three," he grunted.
"One—"
They pulled early.
Dym lurched sideways.
"Two—"
Soap slipped and nearly sat down.
"Three."
All together they hauled, and with a violent rattle of links the hauberk came free at last. Dym stumbled forward two steps, gasping as if he'd escaped drowning, while Soap nearly toppled backward under the sudden lack of resistance.
Branik caught the mail before it hit the ground and slapped it onto the worktable with a heavy metallic crash.
Dym dragged a hand through his hair. "That thing weighs like sin."
"It weighs like how maille armour should be, You want a lighter one, you'd best get some brigandines like them richer folks." Branik corrected.
Now standing only in his tunic, Dym rolled his shoulders with visible relief. They felt strangely light without the burden of iron.
Branik returned with his ropes and chalk, eyeing him anew.
"Now for the real measure."
"The real—?"
"For your gambeson," Branik said, already looping rope around Dym's chest again. "Padded armour matters more than shiny iron. Bad fit beneath means bad fit above. Then you sweat, chafe, curse, and die tired."
"That's sounds unpleasant," Soap muttered.
"It is." The blacksmith grunts.
Branik climbed the stool once more and resumed his work, measuring with greater care this time. Around the chest without mail. Around the waist. Across the shoulders. Down the arm. He pressed at muscle here, tugged fabric there, making notes in chalk on a scrap of wood.
"Need thick padding here... less under arm... extra stitch at shoulder... longer body..."
He pinched Dym's upper arm critically.
"Hm. Too much ox."
Dym frowned. "Too much what?"
"Ox. Too much of it."
Soap laughed loud enough that a passing apprentice looked over.
Branik ignored him and moved on, measuring from neck to thigh while muttering plans for quilting, ties, seams, and layered stuffing. By the end of it, Dym felt less like a knight and more like a large piece of livestock being sized for winter blankets.
At last Branik stepped down from the stool, tucked the chalk behind one ear, and nodded once.
"Hmm," he grunted. "Now I know what to build around."
Dym nodded slowly as Branik finished his measurements. Some weight had eased from his shoulders. Things are getting better and better now. He had proper armour at last—or would soon enough—and made by someone who seemed to know what he was doing.
Still, one question remained.
"How long until it's ready?" Soap asked.
Branik scratched at his beard with the chalk-stained end of one finger, then glanced over the pieces in his stall as if measuring the answer there.
"The maille?" he said. "That won't take long. Just need shortening through the body, I'll need ta' tighten the shoulders, trim one sleeve, mend a few weak links, maybe shift the weight better so it sits proper on yer knight."
He pointed with the chalk toward the hanging rows of padded coats nearby.
"The gambeson though... It'll take a while longer. Cloth-based work always take a long time. Cutting the fabrics would be quick, but the stitching ain't. Need to do some proper layering too, else it's just a blanket with no protections from assaults."
"If I had a queue of customers, I'd say two weeks or more." He spat to the side, then shrugged. "But since I don't. Folk keep wanting cheap repairs and no one wants to pay for good work. And you're the only man with the coins today..."
He furrowed his brow, "Five days for the maille to be fitted and ready enough to wear. Seven, maybe eight, for the padded jack done proper. If the cloth woman next door stops gossiping and finishes when told. Or if she already had a big sized one already, maybe you can get it on the morrow or two."
Dym blinked. That was quicker than he expected.
Branik jabbed a finger at him.
"That's if no other customers bothers me and let me work on your armours."
Soap grinned. "We'll come bother you on the fourth to sixth day then."
Branik made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a threat.
Dym nodded, satisfied. "That'll do."
Truth be told, it was better than he'd hoped for.
It's fine, he mused inwardly. This tourney'll be running for months anyway. I can wait that long.
And on the matter on our coins...
Well.
Our coins aren't going to be a problem either.
His thoughts wandered briefly to Wladyslaw's endless feasts and loud tables.
We can always freeload off his parties if we're hungry enough, as long as we didn't cause troubles, he never seemed to mind...
The thought nearly made him smile.
Then his hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the pommel at his hip.
His fingers curled around Ser Arlan's sword.
The smile faded.
Right.
The law...
He could not keep the old man's things forever...
Dym cleared his throat. "By the way Branik... could you forge me a weapon as well?"
The smith raised one brow. "Depends on what weapon." He hummed.
He gestured around the stall. Though a few blades and poleheads sat among the wares, most of what surrounded them was armour—breastplates, helms, vambraces, mail, hinges, rivets.
"I can make some," Branik said. "But as ye can see, most of my crafts are armour. I won't lie and tell ye it'll be as good as some castle-forged steel weapons from some noble house's forge."
Dym nodded. Fair enough.
Branik continued, "And since ye already have a sword, and considering yer budgets. I'd say maybe a mace. Or an axe. Something cheap, but good enough for brawls."
Dym's mind turned at once.
Axe and mace...
He was no elegant swordsman. Not like Ser Don Quixote and his swordplay back in the inn they stayed a week ago. Such things always felt like something taught to noble childrens in yards with tutors and polished sticks. Dym fought better when things got close and ugly—like a dogged fighter, with a good hard swing and end the fight as quick as possible.
But he was good with both weapons.
Use his size and strength to break a man's guard instead of dancing around it and wasting his energy. Just like that one tme he sparred with Ser Arlan a month ago...
Then he looked down at Soap.
The boy was pretending not to listen, which meant he was listening very hard. Dym remembered that his squire asking for a mace some time ago to guard the camp. That would mean that he needed to comission two weapons, and Dym had no clear notion whether he still had enough coin for one, let alone both.
He frowned faintly, counting sums in his head and losing track almost at once.
Then something sparked in memory.
The helmet ornament.
The gilded piece Wladyslaw had thrown in their direction, the one Soap had caught.
Expensive-looking. Fine work. Noble nonsense, likely worth something to someone.
Dym's eyes lifted.
He could sell it.
To Branik, perhaps. Or another smith. Or some jeweler in town with more sense than pride.
Enough, maybe, to commission a proper weapon for himself...
...and something simple and easy to use for a child like Soap.
Dym cleared his throat and shifted his weight where he stood. For a moment, it looked as though he meant to say something simple and direct, but the words did not come easily. He glanced once at Branik, then at Soap, then down toward his own hip as if the answer was hanging there all along.
"You see, I need you to make me... or, well, customize me a new sword..."
His voice faded awkwardly at the end. Instead of finishing the sentence, his hand moved to the sword hanging at his side. He rested it there for a moment, fingers wrapped around the grip as if gathering himself, before finally drawing the blade free.
The sword came out with a soft metallic rasp.
It was not a grand weapon by noble standards. There were no gemstones in the pommel; only a stamped birch tree mark. No etched verses along the fuller, no gilded guard. It was a simple, practical knight's sword—broad enough for a strong cut, straight enough for a thrust, built for hard use rather than for ceremonies. Years of wear had smoothed the grip leather, and the scabbard had long since lost whatever fine finish it once had.
Still, it was well cared for.
Dym had oiled and sharpened it as a squire when Ser Arlan still carried it.
Dym held it out across both hands toward Branik.
The motion itself felt heavier than the sword ever had.
Branik raised one thick brow and took the blade carefully, turning it in his hands with more respect than he usually gave anything that was not armor. "You want me to reforge this?" he asked, genuine confusion in his voice.
"If it can be done," Dym said quietly.
The smith grunted and examined the weapon more closely. He checked the edge with his thumb, ran a finger along the fuller, then looked at the guard and pommel. He tested the balance with a short movement of the wrist and gave a low hum of approval despite himself.
"But, why?" Branik asked at last. "This is a good sword."
Dym's eyes drifted somewhere past the stall, past the forge smoke and noise, as if he were looking at something much farther away.
"It belonged to my old master," he said. "Ser Arlan..."
At the mention of the dead knight, Soap went quiet beside him.
Dym continued more slowly now, choosing each word with care.
"And by the laws of Kazimierz, a knight's devices belong only to his bloodline. His arms, his armor, his heraldry, all of it. If he dies, they pass to kin. A son, a brother, a cousin, a nephew... o-or anyone close enough by blood to claim the right."
He paused and rubbed his thumb against the side of his palm. "I... I am not related to him..."
The forge noise around them seemed louder for a moment.
"I was only an orphan from nowhere that he took as squire."
His jaw tightened slightly before he continued.
"And since he knighted me before he died, I'm no longer just a squire carrying his things. I'm a knight now. Which means I cannot go on wearing Ser Arlan's arms as though they were mine. I could try to return them to his family, but he told me that he never had any children, and his dead nephew was the last family he had..."
Branik let out a slow grunt through his nose. "That sucks."
The Forte's answer was blunt and simple, spoken with no effort to soften it. Oddly enough, Dym appreciated it more than some long speech would have helped.
The smith lowered his black eyes back to the sword and studied it again. He angled the blade toward the sky, checked the straightness, tapped the pommel with one knuckle, then pressed a thumb near the crossguard where old stress sometimes showed.
After a longer silence than before, Branik sighed. "Sorry, lad."
He turned the sword and offered it back hilt-first. "I... There's nothing I can do about this one."
Dym blinked. "What?"
"Don't get me wrong. It's good steel," Branik said, now sounding almost annoyed that he had to explain it. "Better than most I see dragged through this quarter. Got a proper temper, decent balance, sound edge. Whoever forged it knew their trade than most."
He pointed at the blade with one thick finger.
"And I'm more of an armor smith. I mend metal, shape plates, fit maille, make helms. I can fix or sharpen it if you want me. But I'm not about to hack apart a fine sword just because the law's foolish and a man feels guilty carrying it."
He shrugged one shoulder. "Could I shorten it? Aye. Melt it down? Maybe. Turn it into some ugly cleaver or a bar of scrap? Certainly. But I won't."
Branik sighed,"Sorry, man."
Dym carefully took the sword back with both hands. He held it for a moment before sliding it into the scabbard again, slower than usual.
"A-Ah... no, it's alright," he said, forcing a small awkward chuckle. "I understand."
Soap looked up at him for a second, then glanced at Branik and the racks of weapons hanging nearby.
"Maybe," the boy said, speaking more gently than he usually did, "we can just buy a ready-made axe or mace... and leave the sword as it is."
Dym looked down at him.
Soap shrugged, trying to seem casual.
"I mean... it must mean a lot to you, ser."
The words landed more cleanly than Dym expected. He did not answer right away.
Branik hummed and rubbed his chalk-stained beard as he considered it. Then he nodded toward a rack of simpler weapons nearby—axes with stout heads, maces of flanged iron, war hammers built for breaking armor rather than looking elegant.
"The lad got sense," the smith said. "Axes and maces are cheaper than swords, quicker to make, easier to repair, and honest in what they do. No fancy balance, no noble nonsense."
He tapped the handle of a mace hanging nearest him.
"And one day, when your own squire inherits your devices..."
His eyes flicked toward Soap, who immediately straightened with suspicious innocence.
"...folk would gladly reforge one of these. Give it some new haft, new head, new grip. Anything he needs. And as I said, it's cheaper."
Branik folded his thick arms across his chest and looked at Dym expectantly.
"How about it?"