The Cobbler

The opening chapter of a novel I'm writing. I felt it fit the prompt; I've spent a lot of time here in the last few weeks!

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The smell of leather wafted around the dim room as Lucchieus pushed open the heavy door. The watery light of the autumn morning filtered in the doorway, illuminating the speckles of dust that danced around the air. Long strips of leather hung from the walls and sat in stacks on the benches lining the room. Different-sized lasts were thrown in haphazard piles and shoved under the tabletops. The only mildly organized items were the tools on the table nearest the door in the long stone room. Though the sun had not fully risen, Master Guire was hunched over a workbench, muttering something under his breath.

Lucchieus stood in the doorway, watching the master at work. His weathered hands gripped the last with dexterity as he stretched the soft brown leather over the top. He fitted his mouth in a line, focused on the task at hand. He reached over the rough table that had given Lucchieus many a splinter and grabbed a hammer. It was a new one that Lucchieus had fetched from the blacksmith earlier this month.

He’d begged his father to let him become a blacksmith. The blacksmiths worked by the roaring fire of the forge and hammered out swords and shields. Lucchieus could see himself, muscles bulging beneath the heavy apron, his arms bringing the large hammer down again and again against the piece of metal with a resounding clang. The sparks would fly around him, but his hands would be calloused and immune to the heat.

Instead, he watched Master Guire scratch his chin through his scraggly white beard and sigh heavily. He set the shoe down, now secured over the last. “Lucchieus! There you are my boy.” He smiled, half of his teeth missing.

“Good morning, Master,” Lucchieus answered, shutting the door behind him and plunging the room back into its dim state. The sun would illuminate the room soon, but until then, he resigned himself to working in the dullness. He’d made the mistake of asking master Guire to light a lamp one morning, but the master said it was a waste of precious resources. He made Lucchieus clean the workroom and the storefront that day instead of making shoes.

“Finish cutting the leather you started yesterday.” Master Guire said. He handed him a curved knife. “This needs to be sharpened before you do.”

Lucchieus took the knife from his master and walked down the length of the room to the whetting stone, his footsteps echoing around the stone room. It was not a shabby place to work; there were worse places where his father could have apprenticed him. His cousin was an apprentice at a butcher shop. Lucchieus wasn’t sure he had the stomach for that sort of thing. Besides, his father and older brother had a worse line of work.

Lucchieus remembered the day they received the order from the king. They’d been drafted to fight in The Great Nimiriam Wars. His brother, Rema, had been only fifteen. He’d be nineteen now if he were still alive. There had been no word since they’d left.

The Nimiriam were a constant threat in Lucchieus’ kingdom. They’d been part of daily conversations since he was a boy. Those that survived the first war would speak of them in hushed whispers as if they were afraid to summon them.

They were a race of warriors whose height reached seven or eight feet. One of the greatest war heroes in their town told Lucchieus that they looked like giant humans made of rocks. They had grayish skin with armor like that of an alligator. Their little black piggish eyes were full of hatred, peering over the giant tusks protruding from their mouths. Their huge hands ended in stubby black nails.

“They speak a language of cruelty and feast on the fear of the enemy.” He said to Lucchieus. “Monsters. All of them.”

The day the white horses that belonged to the king’s messengers had come stampeding down the road was the first time the war seemed real to Lucchieus. The shoed hooves clanged against the cobblestone, sounding like thunder. The herald shouted over the din, his face red with effort. The King ordered all men above the age of fourteen to report to the town square.

Lucchieus tried to go with his father, but his mother wrapped her arms around his waist. “I’m already losing two men; I won’t lose you too.” She whispered, her arms shaking. Lucchieus stopped struggling against her.

Rema, ashen faced, looked toward their father. His brown hair, the same color as Lucchieus’, fell over his forehead. Were it not for the height difference, they could have been mistaken as twins. “Is this the last time we’ll be home?”

Their father looked out the window as if seeing far past the ensuing chaos outside. The rising sun cast a glow on his father’s face, making him look years younger. He’d fought in the first war. Was he afraid to go back? “We’ll get our orders and likely march this evening. We’ll have time to say goodbye, don’t worry, my boy.”

The two pulled on their coats. Lucchieus’ mother crossed the room in two strides. “Don’t stray one step from your father.” She whispered to Rema, her face buried in his locks of hair. “Stay together and come home to me together.”

She squeezed Rema tightly, bowing her head over her son’s.

“We’ll be back to say goodbye, Lenore.” Their father said, gently removing his wife’s arms from around their son. “It’s time for us to go now, though.”

A spark from the knife hit Lucchieus in the arm. The greenish blade shimmered as sunlight streamed through the window. He liked this knife. It was an heirloom of Master Guire’s family. If he was to be believed, it was an elven blade. But the elves were rarely seen. And they rarely spoke to humans, even when they were seen.

The handle was wrapped tightly with leather that still looked new. The silver knob at the top was polished so that Lucchieus could see his reflection. The first time the master let him use the knife was about a year ago.

“I planned to give this to my son one day,” Master Guire had said, letting the blade rest easily in his hand. “Now, I will not get the chance.”

He let Lucchieus use it after that whenever he was cutting leather.