In a dark room, only lit by the forge fire, James Armstrong pounded his hammer against the flat steel that would later be an implement of death for the king's army. His first born son Jesse sat in the corner with stone cold attention on his father's work. He would soon be learning the trade and was already a happy helper fetching tools and steel even when they were too heavy and all he could do was drag them along the floor to his father. James had worked night and day for months to fulfill the order but was still not quite finished the night before the king's men were to come to pick it up. Axes, shields and spear heads lay filling wooden boxes but one last box lay open and only half full as James sweated and toiled the night away.
James woke up at dawn the next day to continue working but as he entered the shop the king's men were pulling up and dismounting from their horses. Their elaborate armor and swords shimmered in the sun and faded as they walked into the shade of the dark shop. The leader of the pack, Sir Garth, disregarded James' cordial welcome and walked past him examining the boxes and counting the items in each box.
"Lookin' good so far," Sir Garth said, "But I'm still countin'," and looked over at James with a crude smile.
James looked down hoping that Sir Garth's counting abilities were not as adept as his swordsmanship. As Sir Garth made his way around to the front he noticed the half empty box of swords. James made a glance at Sir Garth but averted his eyes quickly.
"Looks like ya missing some, aye," Sir Garth asked with a wry smile. He then kicked over the box and began to count swords as they strewn about the dirt floor.
"I've been working non-stop since I been given the order Sir," James tried to explain his position but as he attempted to continue another man, in full knight's armor, punched him in the gut.
"You shut your mouth," the man said as James gasped for air.
Sir Garth finished his counting and walked over to James until their faces were within inches.
"The king ordered you to make 25 axes, 25 shields, 25 spear heads, and 50 sharp swords. I only count 35 swords here," Sir Garth said as he pulled out a dagger from a sheath behind his back.
"I'm sorry sir, I will finish the rest in no time," James pleaded as Sir Garth smiled and brought the dagger up the his chin. "I swears to ya," James continued.
"NO!"
Just then a cry came out from behind the door to the home attached to the shop. Sir Garth walked over to the sound and opened the door revealing young Jesse Armstrong, who had been watching from the crack in the door.
"No," James whelped as Sir Garth grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him into the room and as he attempted to make his way toward the boy he was punched in the gut again. He doubled over and the now man that had hit him twice held the back of his neck.
"Well, this is perfect," Sir Garth said looking at James' worried face. "No one makes the king wait," Sir Garth explained and then put the dagger to the young boys neck and slid it across effortlessly until blood poured violently down the boy's dirty brown shirt.
"No!" James exclaimed and struggled to free himself of the large knight's grasp who eventually let go. James crawled over to his dying son and held him in his arms.
"Come get this shit," Sir Garth said and waived over two peasant men who promptly ran over from their cart and began hauling the boxes and filling up the cart. James sat with his son in his lap while they finished up and as they walked out to the street Sir Garth turned around and said,"You owe the king 15 swords. You have two weeks or I do the same to your wife." Then he turned and they all rode away.
That night James and his wife, Mallory, wept as they made their way to the plot of land, on the outskirts of the village, where the peasant folk were allowed to bury their dead. James dug the hole, placed his son inside and covered the boy in dirt. Mallory placed a large stone at the head of the mound. Etched in the stone read Jesse Armstrong, 9 Years. As the two forlorn parents looked upon the mound of dirt that covered their beloved son, James turned to Mallory and with a look of pure hate and determination said,"They will pay for this." She looked back at James not with glee but with sadness knowing that there was no convincing him otherwise and that soon she would likely be burying him as well.
The next day James went back to work hammering and shaping steel with more determination than ever. He didn't stop to eat and only stopped for water when his body forced him to. He kept on like that for eight days until the 15 swords were completed and then he went to work on a 16th. He spent the next five days perfecting this final sword making sure to fold into each layer a measure of hate. Back and forth into the flame it went until it was stronger than any sword he had ever made before and as the sun came down on the 13th night he sharpened it to an edge that could shave a pig's belly clean.
In the morning James was roused from the sound of clomping hooves coming up the path by his house. He turned over and gestured for his wife to stay where she was and be quiet. Instead of going through the door to shop to meet the king's knights he went to the back door and climbed up the ladder to the roof. On the roof awaited his new blade resting on a pile of fresh hay. He clenched the sword firm and walked to edge of the roof where he saw Sir Garth was already inside the shop who began pound on the door to the house.
"Hello!," Sir Garth yelled into the door but no one answered.
Below James were two other men standing on the cobble stone street peering into the dark shop. Without delay James dropped onto the one that had held him down and made him watch his son die and drove his blade downward through the top of his helm and into his torso to the hilt. The man fell to his back and as James pulled the sword out of him the other knight turned and drew his sword. James turned just in time as the knight swung over his head but as he did James held his sword to block and the knight's sword was cut in half, the top half of which sliced a shallow cut across James' face. The knights eyes went red as James thrust his sword through the knight's sternum and as the man fell blood sprang out from the hole in his chest.
Sir Garth made his way to the fight and just as he swung sideways James rolled left and got back to his feet. They faced each other on the street, the blood on James' face glistening in the morning sun. Sir Garth sprang forward lunging at James but James knocked the sword to the side and swung back striking Sir Garth in the shoulder causing a grunt of pain. Sir Garth turned and swung sideways but James jumped back just in time to miss being sliced at the waist. They both stepped toward each other and as James swung downward with all his might Sir Garth tried to block the hit but found that his blade was not strong enough and was struck deep where the shoulder meets the neck.
Sir Garth fell to his knees with the sharp sword sticking out of him and as he stared into James' eyes he knew he was finished. James walked up and leaned down to whisper into Sir Garth's ear, "Your first born will not live to see the morrow," and pulled his sword out with a flourish. Sir Garth fell to the ground and as blood spewed from his neck two men pulling a cart trotted by and as they passed James they gave him a nod.
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