The steady ring of hammer on iron and the forge's flare under each pump of the bellows was normally a comforting sound, the resonant beat of hard work and satisfaction. That day, however, Hafred was anything but satisfied with his place in life. Apprenticed to Smith Garn, the youth was blessed with a strong arm, the promise of steady income, and a profession that made many regard him with a mix of awe and fear. It took a rare talent to work raw metal into useful tools, one which was regarded by many as just a step away from magic.
Yet Hafred felt restless. He longed for a life beyond the confines of that peaceful village, a life of adventure and riches, of honor and valor. Something like the tales old Garn told in the weary hours, when drink had loosened his tongue and memories of a time gone by bubbled up before they could be stopped.
With tongs he took the iron from the anvil, and thrust it into the cooling trough. It was a welcome break for muscles sore from the constant effort of shaping metal, and he wiped glistening perspiration from his brow with the back of one hand, not that it did much good. The hiss of steam captured the old man's attention, and gruff, steely eyes that knew nothing of approving looks turned over the curved form of the iron under the water.
"Ye making a horseshoe, or a hook? Toss it in the scrap and try again, boy."
Inwardly, Hafred groaned, and yanked the iron from the trough. Admittedly, it wasn't the best work, but what beast of burden would complain? He threw it back in the barrel, to be melted down again when time allowed, and grabbed another blank. He maintained his temper, though. Hafred had long given up on being rankled by old Garn calling him boy. At nineteen, he was man enough, and should be wed with his own homestead, but for lack of funds.
Garn clapped the young man on one shoulder. "Don't hate me, boy. It ain't the most exciting thing to craft, but it's every bit as important as a blade or cooking pot. You'll be thanking me one day." The old man then looked out of the broad, open front of the forge, and chuckled, "Ah, I see. It's sweepin' day then. No excuse, boy, so get back to work."
In that moment of silence after the old smith's words, the steady swish-swish of a broom's bristles across the back step of the Tepid Toad drifted down the dirt road toward the smithy. Sweeping day indeed. Hafred set the iron bar to the flames to heat, and began to work the bellows once more. Those years of his apprenticeship had at least rendered that task second nature, and allowed his eyes and mind to drift to the figure at that distant step, source of so much distraction.
Sweet, sweet Jenrea was the lone jewel that made life in Ingley bearable for a man with greater ambition. Yet the desire to provide and protect for her also stirred the very same ambitions. She was the sort of girl that deserved finery and a life of comfort, not the drudgery of village life. Hafred would move the world for her, if he could. He would brave the thief-scourged streets of dark Nornzal, cross the war-torn valleys of the Perdytan Reach, challenge all the heroes of the Free City of Aethwin, if she but spoke the desire for him to do so.
A year younger than he, she should also have been married and with family, but Rothal, owner of the Tepid Toad and her guardian had set the requirements to court her so high that few dared try. Hafred figured either the innkeeper knew he had a good thing or had done so to let Jenrea make her own decisions. Still, he was confident he would be able to approach her after his apprenticeship was up, with pride and confidence.
She had more than beauty going for her, although that itself would be more than enough for most men. Indeed, with her cascading raven tresses, shining blue eyes, fair skin, pink rose petal lips, and swan like neck, she was a nymph plucked from the old tales and made flesh.
Those with baser attractions would not be disappointed either, where sweet Jenrea's features were the image of glorious innocence, her curves seemed designed to inspire naught but lust. Narrow shoulders were all the more delicate compared to the ample swells of her bust, so large but still so uplifted, just shy of seeming awkward on her slender frame. A narrow waist flared into broad hips, and though she did not generally dress to display that figure, she was of such lush proportions that she would be hard pressed to conceal it regardless.
The dress she wore that day was simple enough, home spun wool dyed a light tan. It left her arms bared, but otherwise clung to her curves in a flowing manner, drawn tight about the chest and then cinched with a loose belt at the waist, before loosening at the curve of her hips and cascading down to her ankles. Sandal clad feet peeked out from the hem from time to time as she moved.
Jenrea swayed as she swept, and hummed a little tune to herself. She seemed blissfully oblivious to the way it made that fabric outline her form, the way the light wind tousled her hair and carried the sweet notes of her voice to Hafred's ears. She turned back and forth as she worked, which allowed him to admire every angle from afar.
"Boy!"
Garn's voice snapped Hafred back to his work, and the apprentice hurriedly yanked the iron from the fire. It wasn't too hot, but nearly so. The old smith's expression was a mix of amused and irritated before he went back to his own work. Where Hafred was set to make pots and horseshoes and the things that sustained the shop on a day to day basis, Garn was just finishing grinding at the edge of a long, tapered spearhead blade. It was fine work, the youth admitted. The old man was a master of his craft.
As the young man raised his own hammer to begin another try at a horseshoe, the steady beat of hooves upon packed dirt grew louder. A glance out of the forge down the road confirmed that a rider did indeed approach. The rider was not alone. Several others rode in a mass well behind the first, through the fields and farms that made up the bulk of the village. They bore the banners of the House of Lyonne, the King's House.
Royal riders were exceedingly rare in quiet Ingley Village. A year or more might pass without so much as a royal messenger. A whole band was unheard of. Even Garn set his own work aside, then stepped out of the forge. Hafred followed at his heels, leaving hammer and unfinished iron on the bare anvil. The apprentice cast a nervous glance up to the Tepid Toad, where Jenrea had stopped her sweeping to watch as well. When she caught him looking in her direction, she offered a cheery smile, before her eyes drifted back to the fast approaching horseman.
Hafred blushed at that smile, thankful that the soot of the forge and the perpetual tan from the heat of the same would do much to disguise the reaction. He felt filthy, unprepared for nobility, much less royalty.
The first rider was clad in armor. A long, dark cloak of black wool and a tabard of red and gold covered fine links of mail. At his side, a long sword was sheathed, and the fine decorations of pommel and guard spoke of money and land. The man had to be in his forties, with black hair just touched with gray, and a close cropped beard that was a little grayer.
The rider wheeled about, and cast his dark eyes over the gathered villagers. When he spoke, it was in a tone that carried the weight of authority. "This is the Village Ingley, is it not?"
Garn, eldest of the villagers present, bobbed his head. Hafred thought he caught a look of recognition between the two men, but it was fleeting. The old smith didn't hesitate to use the man's name, however.
"It is and you know it is, Lord Rufus. What brings you here?"
Hafred winced a bit as the rider turned his gaze upon his master, but the smile which followed soon allayed his concerns.
"Garn! You old bastard. It's been years! But I fear I come on business. We come seeking an enchantress. The crown's oracles spoke of one who lived here, who might help us with a certain matter back in the capital. Have you any knowledge of who I seek?"
More men and women had filtered out of nearby buildings as the rider spoke, but the mention of an enchantress inspired a general gasp and murmur. The very word seemed to stir fears and apprehension, though Hafred himself had never heard of such a being in the area. An enchantress was one born with magic in the blood, almost always female, capable of twisting minds and senses to her desire without any of the limitations or need for schooling that the wizards of the Arcane required.
Garn shook his head slowly, and chose his words carefully. "An enchantress? Bah, they're worse than witches. But no, old friend, I ain't heard of one near here. Now, we did have a witch nearby, but she done up and died years ago."
The words were clearly not what Rufus wished to hear. "Prince Cantrol rides with me," the statement stirred another round of murmurs and alarm from the growing crowds. "He has been tasked with finding this enchantress, and turning her to our cause."
