Broadswords - 12. The Peddler

Broadswords

Chapter Twelve
The Peddler

It had begun raining the night before, and the skies continued shedding a light mist well into the next morning. Elan found these the best days to visit the marketplace. Though it was a gentle rainfall, many townsfolk stayed indoors as they didn't enjoy getting wet while shopping. For Elan, it created a more peaceful experience while browsing the stalls and shops.

His status within the community often led to stares when he was in public, people gawking at his presence amongst them. Many would approach him, thanking him for his service or just wanting to touch him. And Elan was egotistical, so that kind of reaction was normally warmly welcomed. But shopping was something he enjoyed doing without distraction.

As the rain soaked into the canvas canopies and bounced off the wooden ones, he felt a semblance of sorrow for the vendors whose sales would be negatively affected by the weather. In his line of business, he made money rain or shine. For these people, inclement conditions meant a loss of foot traffic. The less potential buyers, the fewer transactions they'd have.

The dirt was just muddy enough to mold around his shoes as he stepped through the booths. There weren't many other footprints around; he was one of the few souls willing to meander.

The market had a wide variety of goods to offer from across their great kingdom. Vegetables, dairy, and cuts of meat from the farmers that resided at the furthest edge of the territory. A few jewelers and clothes makers. Sellers of herbs and spices. Knick-knacks. Artwork. If it was something created in Jhirdyr, chances were that it could be found in the marketplace.

He ended up buying himself a new knapsack for his travels; his existing one was worn, having been used for far too many years without being replaced. This one was bigger, too, which would be useful on longer treks. It was also made completely of leather, versus the canvas bag he currently used.

After a few more purchases, he decided it would be best to get the bag out of the rain. While it would get worn in over time, he didn't want it to stiffen and crack before he'd even had a chance to use it. He located the nearest pub and ducked inside. He could use a drink anyway.

In response to the weather, he opted for a mulled wine over his usual ale. He tucked himself into a corner booth to avoid the crowd and unpacked his bag to let it dry. He shoved the contents – some candles, a half dozen apples, and several various powders to refill his kitchen stores – to the side of the table nearest the wall, to keep it from drawing attention. The last thing he needed was for someone to take notice of the man in the darkened corner with his wares spread out like an invitation.

He cupped his beverage tightly, allowing the warmth to embrace his skin. Though it wasn't quite seasonal, the current state of the skies outside justified the order. He didn't often stray from his ale, but when he did there was always a reasoning.

Despite its heat, the drink went down smoothly. He finished it in no time at all, and as if fate would have it, he heard footsteps approaching. He looked up to order another only to realize that it wasn't a barmaid.

Instead, a middle-aged man stood before him. He was balding with a long mustache, greyed at the ends. His clothing was all the same neutral shade of brown. He was a very run-of-the-mill looking individual, but he was certainly not staffed by the pub. He was likely there as a fan, wanting an autograph or a chance at a conversation with a real-life dragonslayer.

Without invitation, the man slid into the booth on the bench opposite Elan. "I see you've made some fine purchases today, son," he said, gesturing toward the pile of things on the table. Clearly having shoved them aside didn't make a difference. And Elan had encountered this situation enough to know that it wasn't a fan after all. He was a peddler.

"I sure have. And I'm done shopping for the day, so if you'd kindly let me get back to my solitude." He stared at the man, hoping prolonged eye contact would intimidate him into leaving. No such luck. This man appeared to be a seasoned pro, and no amount of glaring would frighten him off.

"Ah, but you haven't seen what I have to offer," the man said, dipping his gloved hands into his deep pockets. He began pulling out random objects and unloading them on the table. A vial of purple liquid, a splintered wooden box, a pendant with an angry orange stone inlayed in its metal. They were unique items from a common street merchant. But they were of no use to Elan.

"You've nothing of interest to me," he said. It was clear the man wasn't planning on vacating the table any time soon, so Elan began putting his own items back into his knapsack. There were plenty of other drinking establishments within Jhirdyr. He would just find another.

Still rifling through his coat, the man responded. "No, no, these aren't for you. I've got something specific for you." More items joined the small pile that was forming on the table's surface. A bronze key. A large black egg. A dinged-up lyre.

"Is that a dragon's egg?" Elan demanded, suddenly wide-eyed.

"Don't be ridiculous," the peddler said. "I've got some unusual artifacts in this coat, some rare finds. But I don't have a death wish. It's a replica."

The slayer grabbed the egg from the table, turning it in his hands. Indeed, it bore the smooth, cool surface of metal and not the texturized warmth of a true dragon's egg. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, considering it had even fooled him. But it wasn't something he was interested in. He didn't deal with reproductions in his home. Even if he wanted a dragon's egg, which he didn't, he would never display a fake. "It's convincing. But it's not for me."

The man stopped searching momentarily, glancing back up at Elan. The ends of his mustache shook as he sneered. "I know it's not for you! I'm still looking!" He ran his hands along the legs of his pants, suddenly adding an "aha!" Whatever he was looking for must have been in a forgotten pocket of his trousers. He tugged it out and laid it on the table amidst the mess that had formed.

It was a long, slender box, made of a dark brownish-grey wood that Elan wasn't familiar with. It hinged along one of the elongated sides; the other bearing a clasp. "What is it?" he asked, not taking his eyes off of it. He hated to admit that his curiosity was now piqued.

"Open it," the man breathed, grasping the edge of the table.

Elan obeyed, clicking the clasp aside easily. He took each end of the box in his hands and pushed up on the lid with his thumbs. The top fell back, caught by the hinges.

Inside, a dagger rested upon a bed of Baronnian silk-velvet. The soft mauve color made the weapon stand out as if it were glowing. The metal was midnight grey, almost black. The shape of the blade itself was relatively standard. It was so pristine that one would have assumed it had never been used.

It was the handle that proved it had been used many times. The entirety of the hilt was wrapped in layers of various rags, linens, and fabrics. It gave it a mummified appearance. While most of the cloth was off-white or a similar shade, hints of brown tinged it in several areas. Dried blood. And there was little imagination required to determine why. Above all else, the feature that stood out most about the knife was the spike that ran perpendicularly out of the handle.

"A Sanguistis. Better known as a blood dagger. These are hard to come by. The ones that work properly, that is," the man explained. At some point while Elan had been entranced by the contents of the box, he had cleared the rest of his belongings from the table. Now, aside from Elan's empty chalice, the dagger and box were all that sat upon the table.

Mentally envisioning where the knife could be displayed in his weapon room, Elan had to know more. "The ones that work?"

"Ah yes," the man began. "Blood daggers wield ancient magic. The reason these blades are so rare is because the type of magic used in their creation has long since been forgotten. Weaponmakers and sorcerers alike have attempted to recreate its effects, but none have been successful. A genuine Sanguistis, such as this one, is centuries old. And still, it holds its powers."

"What kind of powers?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "In simple terms, a blood bond. I'm certain you've noticed the very obvious protrusion through the hilt?"

Elan eyed the spike. His stomach felt knotted. It made him feel uneasy, yet stimulated at the same time. It was both terrifying and tantalizing. He nodded.

"That's how the blood bond is formed. The beholder grips the handle so that the spike pierces the flesh, into the palm."

The slayer jerked out of his daydream, bumping the table and knocking over his goblet in the process. It clattered against the tabletop, but nobody seemed to notice. "Excuse me?" Had this peddler really just stated that to use this dagger, its wielder would have to shove a metal spear through his hand?

"It seems a bit extreme, undeniably. But the resulting power is momentous. The enchantments on the weapon are initiated at the contact of the owner's blood. The dagger and the person become one. It is as if it's an extension of his being. Not only do the two flow as one harmonious being, but it's also said that the enchantments bring a keener perception to the man. That he can sense things split seconds before they happen." Elan could see the man's excitement growing. He knew he had Elan hooked.

"You mean, like prophetic abilities?"

The man waved his hands about. "No, nothing like that. If these things could predict the future, fortunetellers would be a lot more successful. No. When the dagger is in use, its owner's senses are heightened. His instincts are sharper. He can't foresee the future, but he has a strong sense of what his foe will do next."

It was beginning to make sense to him. The dagger caused the person using it to be more in tune with their surroundings. It was a perfect tool for a dragonslayer; given that their adversaries were so unpredictable, an artifact such as this could fortify his position at the top of the rankings. While he didn't necessarily need it, he also couldn't risk another slayer getting their hands on something so valuable.

At the same time, the prospect of using the thing was absurd. To voluntarily impale oneself… it was insanity. But perhaps there was an alternative. The spear did only protrude from one side of the hilt. "What would happen if you held the handle with the spike going the other direction? Away from the palm?"

"It would differ in no way from a standard dagger," the man said simply. "You'd be just as well off holding a fruit knife."

"And how do I know that this isn't a fake?"

The peddler had been waiting for this question, and a devious look crossed his face. He lifted the dagger from the silk-velvet. Without hesitation, he squeezed his fingers around the shaft, the spike crisply burrowing into the flesh. The slightest hint of the spike's tip had broken the surface of the back of the man's hand. There was a definite hint of pain in the way he held himself after lifting the weapon, but it was overshadowed by what happened to the dagger.

It began glowing. Not the type of glow that emanated from the flickering of flames or the light from the sun or the moon. Instead, it was a type of warmth. A radiation. It wasn't visible, but Elan could sense it. He could feel that the weapon had taken on an intense aura.

"How much?"

The man seemed to ponder the question, though Elan knew that this was an old peddler trick. They tried to make you think that they were working out a deal in their head, or figuring out how much it was worth. But he already knew how much he was going to ask for it.

He pried the dagger from his fist, slowly and deliberately, intentionally dragging out the process. He fished a wad of gauze from one of his many pockets and began wrapping it around the wound in his hand.

"Isn't there a potion for that, or something?" Elan asked, more out of hope for himself than concern for the stranger.

The peddler snickered. "If there was, don't you think we'd have fewer fatalities in battle? A few drops of some tonic to heal them right up! Life has its surprises, especially when it comes to magic, but it certainly doesn't work that way. Although, a silver lining, the wounds from the blood dagger seem to heal at a far rapider pace than if you'd obtained the same injury via a different method."

Elan nodded, disappointed but not surprised.

"In any event, I can't let this go for cheap. You've seen the power it holds."

"Why not keep it for yourself?"

The man laughed again, snider than the time before. "It serves me no purpose. I don't battle. I don't fight. I'm not in search of monsters or out to destroy my enemies. It could provide me with an interesting introduction to a life of thievery, but that's not something I'm interested in. I'll be blunt with you. I'm in it for the money. I get my hands on rarities like this, I can make a fortune. For someone like you, perhaps, something like this would be better suited."

"How much?" Elan repeated.

"Two hundred gold pieces," the peddler said. It was a high price. For someone like Daegon, a price tag of two hundred gold would be something like three years' salary. But Elan would have gladly paid twice that much.

"Sold."