Jaspen

"Make that fire hotter, Jaspen," called my father.

I did as he instructed as he worked on the bellows, pounding the steel into place one blow after another. I stocked the fire again and blew it hotter as I watched my father with curiosity, knowing one day I would take over his forge. Right now I was his apprentice. A man walked over.

"How close to being done are you, Thekros?" asked the lesser demon that was close friends with my father.

My father wiped his brow and wiped his hands on his leather apron. "Your sword is done, Hassan."

Hassan was a lesser demon that my father had me calling uncle since I had started talking. He always got this odd half hurt smile on his face every time I did so I tried not to call him that as much as possible. I did not understand why he was so hurt by such a kind gesture.

He wore the black riding breeches of all mounted cavalry soldiers with his tall, curled, pointed boots along with a black vest. On both of his slim-muscled biceps he had gold bands. He was blind in his right eye with a purple scar running from the brim of his nose, over the eye, and down most of his cheek. Yes, he had other scars, all warriors did, but that one stood out the most. His hair was wavy and cut short and was the color of the new moon. His eyes were the color of midnight with blue topaz flecks. The way he looked at me was different than most people and I didn't understand why.

"Jaspen, try to heft his sword, if you would, and bring it to him without damaging it. If you can't lift it let me know."

I nodded, putting down my fan and walking over to my father's rack of weapons, trying to remember which blade was crafted for Hassan.

"Uncle, which one is yours?"

I glanced back just in time to see Hassan tense. Why did he hate that title so much?

"The one with the dragon head handle."

I saw it. Luckily, my father had placed it on the last holders of the rack so that I could easily try to heft it.

"Jaspen, did I wrap the hilt in leather yet?"

I could see right away that the hilt was still bare.

"Nay," I replied.

"Bring it over to the work counter then, and I'll quickly do that for Hassan."

I gently took it off the rack and almost dropped it. It had to be every bit of forty-five pounds or more, but I wasn't going to listen to my father call me weak again.

"Do you need help with that?" asked Hassan mildly.

I saw my father cast him an odd look and I was also surprised. Hassan usually gave me no thought at all. I called him uncle for my father asked that I do so. I never understood his indifference towards me, but perhaps it was because I was a Raksheesh. My parents had said that they had found me in a basket at their tent door one morning and had taken me in. Hassan didn't seem to me like a Raksheesh hater though, so I didn't understand at all.

"I... I got it," I said wearily, but my father took two long strides and took the sword from my shaking hands.

Hassan nodded at me and paid my father the money he owed as my father wrapped the hilt in the blood-red leather. The sword was one of my father's best crafted pieces with the black metal ore only found in the western mountains, and extremely hard metal to work with, cast as the hilt, which made up the dragon's head. For the eyes my father had placed two blood red gems that when caught in the light had shards of orange and yellow dancing within them. The sword blade was made out of a lightweight, strong mental that he had curved in the manner of all our blades.

"What is it called?" asked Hassan.

"Ransue," he said as he wiped the blade down and checked over it a final time.

Ransue in my language meant "bringer of death" it was a fitting name for this blade for it did belong to a minor general.

Hassan nodded. "Fitting name."

He passed the gold stack to my father who in turn counted the money.

"Before I go, Thekros, may I ask a favor?"

"Aye."

"May I borrow your son for a few minutes? The boy I usually have help me pack up died in battle."

Surprise shot through me. Hassan had just asked me, a Raksheesh to help him pack up his gear. This was an honor especially from my uncle who didn't seem to care for me much.

"You don't mean to go to the battlefield with you do you, Hassan?" asked my father, draping one arm around my shoulders and tugging me closer to his side.

"Of course not. Just to pack me up here."

My father looked down at me, waiting to see if I was willing before he nodded that I could.

"Just don't make Hassan late to get back with your slowness, Jaspen. I need you back here as soon as possible."

"I will, Father."

With that I took off my leather apron and went to go follow Hassan.

"Uncle," I asked as we walked and he was a few paces in front of me.

I saw his back tense and he stopped. "Aye?"

"Why does it bother you when I call you that?"

Hassan sighed. "I'm not used to blood kin yet. Now come on."

I followed without another word. He had been blood kin to me for my whole life and was not yet used to it? Even at my young age, I knew there was more to it than that.

"Hassan?" I asked.

"Aye?" he asked, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Would you take me as your replacement squire? My father thinks I'm too clumsy for the anvil."

I saw Hassan's good eye twitch at the mention of the word father. Why had that question come out of my mouth? He would surely shoot my idea down. He seemed not to like me and why would he choose a Raksheesh with no training with a weapon to be his squire and touch his weapons?

"Thekros would never let you, Jaspen, and you are not old enough. You also have no training with weapons or hand to hand combat and you are also a Raksheesh that would be scorned among my men. As your ... your uncle, do you really think I could put you in that kind of danger?"

So he did care about my safety. That was news to me. I dropped the subject, knowing that, by the time he would take me, he would have picked a new squire. I sighed quietly and followed Hassan to his tent.

My father had told me he was a widower and that he still mourned his wife after ten years. He said that she had been pregnant and hadn't been able to handle the birth and the child had been too weak to live. Perhaps this was why Hassan was still so cold.

"Take my tack and ready my horse," he said as he finished putting together his supplies.

I walked over and picked up his saddle, the saddle blanket and the reins and walked out to the front of his tent where his horse was tethered and set to work putting myself to work putting his tack on his horse. When I had finished, I went back in.

"What now, Uncle?"

He looked up.

"Place my bed roll, sword, and shield on him."

I nodded, taking his sword, and took the heavy piece of work out to his horse and put it on the sheath that ran on the front right side of the saddle before going in and grabbing his bed roll and placing it on the back of the saddle and then taking his buckler and placing it on the front left front of the saddle. Soon, all of Hassan's gear was on his desert mustang and he pulled himself into the saddle.

"Stay out of trouble," he called as he dug his heels into the beast and was gone like a lightning strike.

I watched him leave, wondering how I had any love for this man at all. He cared for my well-being, yes, but he seemed distant to me more than he was to my older sister. I sighed and ran back to my father's work tent and busied myself working.

That was the last time I saw Hassan for two years.