Chapter Fifty-Three: The Demon-Slaying Sword

“Do you have something you want appraised?” Old York asked.

Veyd nodded.

“Then come with York to the study inside,” Old York said. “It’s quiet there, and we won’t be disturbed.”

Veyd nodded again. Old York lifted his oil lamp, pulled a ring of brass keys from his belt, and headed toward a door deeper within.

“If you charge a fee, just put it on my tab,” Lucas said.

“Porter, before you say that, you should first pay York for that healing potion!” Old York shouted.

“I’ll pay you once I’ve made enough money in a while,” Lucas joked.

“By then it won’t be just fifty silver!” Old York replied. “York charges interest—you’ll owe a hundred!”

“I will,” Lucas said, grinning. “I’ll pay you two hundred silver.”

“You’d better,” Old York said, rolling his eyes at Lucas.

Clearly, the gnome and Lucas were on good terms. Though they hadn’t seen each other in some time, there was no awkwardness between them; they were already joking and bantering. In contrast, the gnome’s manner toward Veyd was much more formal.

“You saved York from the Icelanders, so today York is willing to appraise something for you free of charge. You don’t need to pay,” the gnome explained, perhaps worried that Veyd might not understand the joke between him and Lucas.

Perhaps he took Veyd for a straightforward and serious warrior. In any case, his attitude toward Veyd was friendly, with no hint of his supposedly eccentric temper.

After about fifty steps, they stopped before a wooden door that reached only as high as Veyd’s chest. The gnome carefully sorted through his keys, picked one out, and slid a brass key into the padlock. There was a slightly grating sound of metal, then a click as York removed the small lock, pushed open the door, and entered the room.

“Come in.”

Veyd bent low and followed.

The gnome set the oil lamp on a stone table. He stepped onto a little stool by the door and lowered the bolt from inside.

The room didn’t feel cramped, but the benches and tables were all built to gnome proportions—small and low to the ground.

The gnome wiped the dust off a little wooden stool with his sleeve. “Sit,” he said.

Veyd sat on the tiny bench, looking somewhat comical, like an adult who’d commandeered a child’s toy. He paid it no mind, instead glancing around the gnome’s study.

The soft glow illuminated the bookshelf opposite him: three rows of pine shelves nailed into the stone wall, holding dozens of books. The collection spoke of the gnome’s wealth. These were all expensive parchment manuscripts—a single handwritten volume often sold for three to five gold coins, far beyond the reach of ordinary folk.

Books were dearer than gems. To create a two-hundred-page parchment book required the hides of more than fifty sheep. If it contained professional illustrations and gold or gem embellishments, its price would be astronomical—thirty to fifty gold for a single volume.

Most of the books Veyd had read were borrowed from old clients or were poor-quality paperbacks scrounged at market. He’d never owned a true collector’s item, a parchment book of his own.

For the gnome to have amassed such a private library, richer than many nobles’ collections, was no surprise. As the master of an alchemy workshop, with adventurers constantly buying potions and gear, and with appraisals bringing in extra income, he could easily afford so many books.

Truly, knowledge was wealth. Adventurers risked their lives outside for seven or eight silver coins a day, while Old York only needed to buy ingredients and, with his accumulated knowledge and experience, craft them into potions to sell for dozens of silver coins each.

If the Icelanders hadn’t started a war and invaded Alvador Town, Old York’s life would have been even more comfortable and free than a petty noble’s.

Veyd reflected on this as he observed the little study. The gnome had already taken a seat across from him.

“Can you write?” the gnome asked.

Veyd nodded.

From a drawer the gnome produced ink, paper, and a quill. It wasn’t tanned parchment, but the lowest quality straw paper—likely used for drafts.

“Then write to York,” he said. “If there’s anything you want Old York to see, you can take it out now.”

“No matter what it is, York will keep it secret.”

Evidently, Old York was a consummate professional. Veyd had already decided to start simply. He drew the sword from his belt.

He placed the rune-engraved longsword on the stone table. Its blade was still keen, glinting with a cold light.

“Please appraise this sword first,” Veyd wrote on the paper.

Old York took the sword, his expression intent. He first cleaned the blade meticulously with a cloth, then ran his fingers over the engravings, clearly entering his work mode.

“Sigils of the Twilight Church—runes for dispelling evil and magic.”

He muttered to himself, then produced a small hammer and tapped various parts of the blade, listening closely to the metal’s voice, pressing his ear against the sword.

“A pleasant tone. They must have used mithril in the forging, but the color is a bit dark—was obsidian powder added?”

Old York frowned, studying the name and anvil mark on the hilt, as if remembering something. He suddenly got up and went to his bookshelf, searching for a book.

When he opened the cover, Veyd saw it was not a book, but a collection of yellowed papers. Old York drew out a sheet, and Veyd saw it was a wanted notice—the book cover contained a stack of old warrants and legal proclamations.

The wanted notice was for none other than the Viking pirate, Sweyn Freud.

“The Demonbreaker, Glimmer—this is a top-tier radiant longsword, forged over two years by Master Bosol the Smith and the Abbot of Lindisfarne Abbey. It was once stored in the cathedral treasury, to be presented as a gift for the sixteenth Saint about to take her vows.”

“But three years ago, Glimmer was stolen by a Viking pirate named Sweyn. Its whereabouts have been unknown since.”

“And now this sword has come into your hands?” Old York exclaimed. “How did you get it? Did you defeat the wanted pirate?”

He suddenly looked up, then realized his blunder and waved his hand. “Apologies, York doesn’t mean to pry into the sword’s origins.”

The gnome asked nothing further, but explained,

“This sword is best suited for fighting evil beings—demons, undead. It has a dispelling property like holy water,” he said. “The runes are persistent enchantments; they can sense the presence of demons and emit light and vibrations to warn the wielder.”

“The Church has long wished to recover this sword. Returning Glimmer to them would earn a generous reward. The wanted notice’s condition is simply: Return Glimmer, and the bounty is yours.”

He pointed to the bottom of the warrant, where in black ink it was written, “Return Glimmer to claim the reward.”