Dromos 28, Imperial Year 1645
Luminara – The Iron Anvil Armory
The smithy was at the edge of the city, where the smell of coal smoke and hot metal drowned out the tannery's stench. A wooden sign creaked above the door: a hammer and anvil, painted black, the letters worn. The Goblin Slayer pushed the door open. A bell chimed.
Inside, the air was thick, warm, heavy with the rasp of a whetstone and the clang of hammer on steel. Weapons hung from the rafters—swords, axes, spears, all dark, all functional. Armor stood on wooden dummies: breastplates, pauldrons, helms. A fire roared in the hearth at the back.
The smith looked up from his anvil. He was a dwarf, broad, grey‑bearded, his arms thick as small trees. His apron was scorched. His hands were scarred. He wiped them on a rag.
"Customer," the dwarf said. Not a question.
The Goblin Slayer walked to the counter. His mismatched armor creaked. His scratched helmet reflected the firelight.
"I need new armor," he said.
The dwarf set down his hammer. "What kind?"
"Full set. Steel. Dark."
"Dark?" The dwarf grunted. "You mean unfinished. I don't paint armor."
"Dark is fine."
The dwarf studied him. "You're the one who only takes goblin contracts."
"Yes."
"Heard of you. You don't talk much."
"No."
The dwarf crossed his arms. "Why should I sell to you? Last man I sold a full set to never came back. Left it here. I had to sell it again."
The Goblin Slayer was silent. Then: "I will come back."
"Everyone says that."
"Goblins are still there. I need armor to kill them."
The dwarf stared at him. Then he laughed—a short, rough sound. "Fine. Follow me."
He led the Goblin Slayer to the back of the smithy, where a row of armor stands waited. The dwarf gestured to a suit of dark steel, its plates angular, faceted, almost skeletal. The firelight caught the edges—sharp planes, deep shadows. The breastplate had a broad central ridge. The abdomen was layered with overlapping horizontal segments. The pauldrons were asymmetrical—the right one larger, jagged, built for a weapon arm.
A helmet sat on the stand beside it. Full metal. The faceplate had a narrow horizontal slit that curved down at the corners into a frown. A vertical ridge ran down the center. The cheek sections were angular, sharp. Near the back of the helmet, on the right side, a short red cloth was tied to a small iron ring. It hung down a few inches, frayed at the edges—a warrior's tail.
"That one," the Goblin Slayer said.
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "That's my best set. Made it for a monster hunter who never came back. Paid in advance, then disappeared. Been sitting here three months."
"How much?"
"Two hundred silver."
The Goblin Slayer reached into his belt pouch. He counted coins. One hundred. He stopped.
"Half now. Half when I test it."
The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "Test it?"
"I need to move in it. Fight in it. If it binds, I bring it back."
The dwarf scratched his beard. "You're not going to run off?"
"Goblins don't run."
The dwarf snorted. "Fair. Try it on."
The Goblin Slayer removed his old armor piece by piece. The dwarf watched, saying nothing. The new gambeson was padded, quilted, dark—heavier than his old one. He pulled it over his head. The cloth settled against his shoulders, warm, stifling.
The breastplate came next. It was heavier than it looked. The metal was cold against his chest. He fastened the side straps. The plates pressed against his ribs when he breathed. He loosened the left strap a notch.
The layered abdomen plates flexed when he bent. Good.
The pauldrons sat on his shoulders—the right one heavy, protective, the left lighter, allowing movement. He raised his right arm. The pauldron scraped his neck. He would need to file it later. He lowered his arm.
The vambraces and greaves were fitted, articulated. He knelt. The greaves did not bind. He stood.
The helmet slid over his head. The eye slit was narrow, the vertical ridge centered. The red warrior's tail swayed when he turned his head. He looked through the slit. The world was a dark strip. He could see enough.
He drew his short sword. He swung it in a slow arc. The right pauldron did not hinder him. The breastplate did not shift.
He crouched. He rose. He turned.
"It fits," he said.
The dwarf nodded. "It should. I measured the last owner."
The Goblin Slayer reached up and touched the red cloth. "What is this?"
The dwarf was silent for a moment. Then: "That was his. The monster hunter. He tied it there himself. Said it would make him easier to spot. His friends would see him in a crowd."
"He never came back."
"No."
The Goblin Slayer's hand dropped. "I'll keep it."
The dwarf shrugged. "He'd want that."
The Goblin Slayer counted the remaining silver. The dwarf swept it into a drawer.
"The old armor?"
"Keep it. Melt it down."
The dwarf picked up a pauldron. It was dented, mismatched. "This? Not worth the fuel."
"Then throw it away."
The Goblin Slayer walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the frame. The fire crackled. The dwarf wiped his hands on his apron.
"You come back," the dwarf said. Not a question.
The Goblin Slayer did not turn. "Yes."
He pushed the door open. The bell chimed.
The street was crowded. Merchants shouted. Children ran. The Goblin Slayer walked through them, his new armor dark, the red warrior's tail swaying. A few people stared. Most looked away.
A boy stood by a cart, selling apples. He was thin, dirty, his cap too large. He looked up at the Goblin Slayer, at the angular helmet, at the red cloth.
"Are you a knight?" the boy asked.
"No."
"My dad says goblins took our sheep. Three of them. We can't afford to lose more."
The Goblin Slayer stopped. He looked at the boy. The boy's hands were shaking.
"Where?"
"The eastern pasture. By the old wall."
The Goblin Slayer nodded. He reached into his pouch and set a silver coin on the cart.
"For the apples," he said. Then: "I will find the goblins."
He walked on. The boy stared at the coin, then at the retreating figure. The red cloth bobbed with each step.
The Goblin Slayer did not look back. The goblin nests would not clear themselves.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five