The Fourth of the Fourth Born

By James Fortune

This is the tale of a journey embarked upon by Petrus Dun'Ain: a hard working man with good standing, both due to his craftsmanship, as well as the noble family he was born into.

Follow him as he's faced with the dangers of duty to his Queen and country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312804258

Book preview

Chapter One:

The Spear Ablaze

The city was a grand sight: it was built on what could be considered a very small peninsula; from afar it looked like a slightly misshapen finger, as it was long, narrow, and curved at the end, but up close it was enormous: three kilometres wide, and five as much times in length.

The exterior wall was built to line up with the mainland shoreline, while a shorter defensive wall was built alongside the outline of the peninsula, occasional gates through it leading into the several harbours that surrounded this magnificent capital of one of the wealthiest kingdoms in the world.

The peninsula was kilometres wide, but also had a mountain, a slowly slopping peak, upon which the main palace was built, a structure comprised of three octagons, each one smaller than the closest outer one, every single one with eight defensive towers at its vertices.

The smallest octagon indeed had its towers, but its walls didn’t stop at their height, they continued upward, effectively turning those defensive walkways into the longest balconies, connecting the tower tops.

Above the defensive line is where the main palace stood, several wide and windowless rooms filling its many floors, with guest rooms, royal bedrooms, libraries, and sparring rooms, amongst others.

The top was verdant, and roofless, as it was covered with gardens, but on such a peaceful and quiet day, the banging of metal stood out.

This room was facing the tip of the peninsula, and by consequence, the midday sun; it was a richly prepared smith shop, the one where the most skilled smith worked to serve the needs of the royal family, their honour guard, and highest nobles.

The clanging against the anvil was continuous and had a steady rhythm, the blacksmith’s black hair caught in a ponytail that swung as he hammered the metal, his green eyes glued upon the war axe blade he had fixated upon the anvil, its form becoming near final.

L-Lord Petrus! A man of average stature said as he looked at the smith that was one meter and eighty centimetres tall, the hulking looking man turning around, smiling at the person.

Good day, friend. Is there something that brought you to the King’s Smithy? He said this with intention of trained warmness, to calm the spirits of anyone astonished at his size.

Yes, actually; I was sent ahead to warn you that your order of metals has reached the castle and is coming here.

Petrus nodded and smirked. Fair enough; thank you for the warning. The man was about to leave before Petrus called for his attention. Hey, hold on a second!

Y-yes, my lord?

Petrus walked up to the man, the towering difference still leaving the poor soul in awe. Aren’t you the one that tends to the gardens and plants of the palace?

The man nodded, shaking slightly.

Petrus walked back into the smith shop and came up with a small gardener’s trowel. Here; I know for a fact that your tool broke and you were in the need of a new one. It is at my own cost and it is made of steel, so it won’t fail you for the years to come.

The man smiled, taking the hoe and bowing. Thank you, my Lord. The tales of your kindness are no longer just tales to me.

Petrus’ heart warmed as the gardener walked away at a hurried pace, almost jumping for joy. He returned to his anvil, remembering he had a war axe head to finish, and surprised himself to find it nearly done, just needing to be sharpened and polished. I must have forgotten how close it was… He commented, almost mumbling only to himself.

He cleaned away some sweat, darkening the side of his square-jawed face more than his stubble ever could. He asked one of his green-skinned assistants to spin the handle on the grindstone, staring fixedly as he watched the metal become sharp, the piece reaching its final form with each switch of the grinding side.

After thirty minutes of continuous and meticulous work, the axe head was done. Thank you, Zhulv. He patted the young orc on the shoulder, thanking him, and went over to the finalizing station, which stood next to the balcony.

Under the bright and glaring sun, he took a long black wooden stick, which had been perfectly carved out to be as smooth and straight as possible. He slid the loosely fitting stick into the vertical hole of the axe head, and reached for a small pouch, not before putting on a very specific glove that rested on this workstation. It was dark orange and had upon its back the simple symbol of a cauldron with escaping fumes.

In this small pouch was glittering green dust. He took a few grains, and slowly spread them along the stick's length. With a faint groan and a sudden jerk, the stick became longer, and thicker, fitting very tightly to the war axe head.

Petrus chuckled, thinking to himself. Those elf alchemists are very crafty, I like them. He lifted the war axe, holding it in combat form. Feeling its weight and balance to be as it should, he took the weapon and wrapped it up in leather, putting it inside a box.

He walked outside and projected his voice, which echoed down the halls. Two couriers! In just a minute, two quickly moving young men appeared at his door. Prince Ervard asked for this order. I ask that you take it to him now. He gave two pouches of twenty silver coins each to the two transporters and watched them race down the hall, each one holding one end of the box. And once you are done, I want the box back!

From down the hall, the hurried men were heard. Yes, my Lord!

Petrus massaged his shoulder, yawning, deciding to see how his four assistants were doing. He looked over their workstations, finding himself pleased with how well they were mastering the craft he was teaching them; even if stereotypically, the dwarf was his best student, as expected.

Petrus Dun’Ain!

The smith heard his name, and that of his family’s, being called out by a very familiar female voice; as he looked to the door, he saw his older sister, a well-sized and strong-looking redhead with untamable curls; her sharp green eyes displayed the trained perception of a warrior, a predator at rest. Despite her feminine features, she still had a strong jawline, and a thickly muscled body accentuated by her cobalt blue, gold-lined plate armour.

Magdalene! He walked towards her, hugging his sister, and she hugged him back, somewhat cuddling him, as she was a full two meters in height, and her armour raised this by a bit more.

My young brother, how are you? She said, love and care in her tone.

He smiled, lifting his head from her breastplate, noticing the handle of her war hammer behind her back. I am living the life; serving the Queen and King with smith-related needs, and they pay well for it. He did a short pause. And how are you, General Magdalene? He said this in a jokingly mocking tone.

She entered the smith shop, her even more tremendous size making her young brother’s assistants stop to stare involuntarily. I am fine; I just came back from the towns bordering the elven kingdom of An’du Van, as well as the monthly meeting with the neighbouring kingdom’s men to maintain peaceful relations. The garrisons stationed there have their morale high; but so is their boredom.

Petrus laughed. "You can’t expect them to not be; we