The hall of the goldsmith glittered as the door swung open and let in the morning light. His masterworks glittered in a dazzling interplay of red gold, silver, and garnets, embedded in necklaces dangled from racks and rings that adorned ropes strung across the rafters.
The messenger that entered brought a grim missive. The warmonger encroached on the borders of the kingdom and the king feared the goldsmith’s hall would soon be in the path of his army, and so the king recalled his most skilled craftsman to the safety of the castle.
The goldsmith dismissed the messenger, promising compliance with the order, but in his heart knowing he would disobey. He had a plan to save the kingdom.
He knew the warmonger to be a greedy man. Why else would he commit such horrors? So the goldsmith packed as many of his finest works as he could into a wagon and whipped the overladen horses into action.
When he arrived at the warmongers camp, outside the borders of the kingdom, the soldiers there regarded his wagon with covetous eyes. But none would dare risk the wrath of the warmonger and so the goldsmith and his heavy wagon of wares was brought before the lord of war.
The goldsmith bowed and addressed the warmonger with reverence. He explained that he brought fine gifts for the warmonger as a token of respect. The goldsmith then swore his life to the warmonger, saying that if the warmonger directed his army elsewhere and left his homeland alone, the goldsmith would work day and night forging masterpieces such as these for the warmonger.
The goldsmith opened his mouth to make further promises but whatever he was about to say was silenced by the blade that the warmonger stuck between his teeth. The goldsmith’s head split and his red gold horde was spattered with blood.
The warmongers eyes were fixed on the wagon. He hadn’t heard a word the goldsmith had said. He’d only seen the vast wealth before him and desired more.
He followed the tracks of the wagon, which were heavily set into the mud by the weight of all that gold, to the edge of his camp. His eyes followed the course of the tracks out of the camp, where they disappeared into the hills that bordered the goldsmith’s homeland.
The warmonger would follow these tracks and conquer whoever lived there, in a tireless search for more of the masterful jewellery that now sits bloodied within his tent. He musters his army and sets forth.
When he discovers the goldsmith’s hall and finds that there are no pieces finer than the ones he already has, he burns the home to the ground and moves on. When he reaches the castle of the kingdom and finds no pieces finer than the ones he already has, he burns down the keep and moves on.
So on and so on, until half the world is burned under his furious obsession to find something better than what he already has.
In a nameless field, the goldsmith’s split skull makes a cup from which flowers grow.
Paddy Dobson
5th July 2022