Soldiers shouted for commonfolk to make way as a heavily laden wagon lumbered through the Adlecrest gates. The town was well past its capacity, packed with commonfolk fleeing the Balith invaders and those who had been drawn in by the promise of food. Once they were interrogated by the guards, they were free to stay in the town or wait for a caravan to be assembled that would escort them deeper into the Finger.

Randal watched the jam packed streets with distaste from his vantage point atop the town walls. “Is it wise to let so many of them in?”

“Oh they’ll be gone long before the enemy arrives,” Vick assured his friend. “It’s important to remind our soldiers of what they are fighting to protect.”

“Well, you’re the expert in these matters,” Randal allowed, sounding dubious.

Vick’s eyes were wide with surprise as he whirled around to face the younger man. “Why, Sir Randal Thasarin, I never thought I’d live to hear those words come out of your mouth.”

“Hey, my parents were peasants ,so I am plenty humble!” Randal protested before turning serious. “They’re about to begin.”

The two men watched in silence as the wagon was guided into an empty lot. Slowly, and under the scrutiny of watchful guards, the bags were unloaded one by one and emptied out onto the ground. Soon, only one sack remained. It looked larger than the others and was slightly misshapen. The commander of the gate had seen it right away and ordered it left for last.

“If anyone’s in there, they have nerves of steel,” Randal remarked.

Vick nodded silently as his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. He could see the guards below bristle, as thought they could read their Lord General’s thoughts. The commander of the gate swallowed before nodding to his men to unload the final sack.

Breathes were held as the final sack was open and its contents tipped out. Its contents were the same as all the other sacks. Unmilled wheat, and nothing else.

“How many more wagons have yet to return?” Randal gasped, just realizing that he had been holding his breath.

“Four,” Vick replied.

“Do you think anyone’s going to be stupid enough to try and sneak in by hiding in one of those sacks?” Randal ventured.

“Probably not,” Vick allowed before giving his friend a cheeky wink. “But one can never be too careful.”

“By the way, a report came in from Larnock while you were conducting your morning report,” Randal remarked.

Vick raised an eyebrow. “Oh, what did it say?”

“That Sir Egan is in position with his skirmishers, and that Lord Vance’s heavy cavalry will be in position by evening,” the younger man replied.

“Good,” Vick said. “Together, they should be able to deal with any Balith infiltrators that attempt to bypass us.”

“And any deserters,” Randal added.

Vick’s face turned grave. “Yes, and them.”

Down by the wagon, a soldier had slipped away from the others unnoticed while everyone’s attention was on the final sack. He ducked behind a nearby building and quickly discarded his armour and his spear.

Looking like a common citizen of Norrow, Gav walked swiftly down one of the side streets and took in his surroundings. He had observed a soldier slip away from the wagon at night and discard his weapon and armour in a shallow pond before fleeing into the night. It had been a simple thing to retrieve it and join the caravan further down the road. No one had been any wiser. Unlike the town guards, the morale of these soldiers was low. After all, the recent defeat had weighed heavily on the soldiers’ minds, as did the pillaging of their own people. Besides, soldiers who were about to desert tended to keep themselves aloof from the other soldiers.

As he strode down the side street, looking like he had somewhere important to get to, Gav realized that he’d made a grave mistake in discarding his soldier gear. There wasn’t another young man to be seen who wasn’t at least carrying a spear under the supervision of an older soldier.

He cursed to himself. He had seen young men travelling down the road as common folk, but they must have been conscripted as soon as they came through the town gates. Gav was about to turn around to retrieve his disguise when he spotted a wizened old man staring right at him from across the street. Their eyes met and the man beckoned him over imperiously.

Gav’s pulse began to race. Should he run and risk the old man raising the alarm? But why was he beckoning him over? To threaten him, or blackmail him? The man was a risk, and he knew what his master would tell him to do. Kill him quietly if the opportunity arose, but the prospect of doing that turned Gav’s stomach.

Feeling queasy, Gav pushed his way across the busy street. When he saw that Gav was approaching, the old man turned around and began walking down the street at a brisk pace. Gav blinked. This was the perfect opportunity to slip away but his instincts told him to follow him. Could he be a Balith infiltrator mistaking Gav for a colleague?

Up ahead, the old man disappeared into a large workshop and Gav followed him inside. To his surprise, the workshop was quiet except for the old man who stared at him with a pair of hard, flinty eyes.

“Go on, close the door before someone sees you,” he growled.

Obediently, Gav did as he was told and took in his surroundings. Coals glowed red in a furnace behind the man, making the room oppressively warm, and an anvil stood in the middle of the room. This was a blacksmith’s workshop and now that they were alone, it was the perfect opportunity to rid himself of a witness. “I’ll wait to see what he wants,” Gav told himself.

“You must have a death wish, deserting so brazenly,” the man said as he folded his arms across his chest. He looked to be in his sixties and despite being rail thin, seemed to possess a wiry strength. “Did you think they were going to just let you join the next caravan into the Finger, no questions asked?”

Gav looked at the man for a moment before bursting into tears. “I’m sorry, please don’t tell anyone,” he blubbered. “They just handed me a spear, and I’ve never killed anyone before and, and…”

The old man’s eyes softened, and he raised a hand. “Spare me your tears, lad. You should know that they hanged three deserters yesterday, and each was far more clever than you are.”

“Please mister, I’ll do anything!” Gav wailed.

A sly smile twisted the old man’s lips. “Will you now?”

Gav’s sweat turned cold. “Yes, mister, I will,” he sobbed, wondering if he could bring himself to kill this man, even if he turned out to be some kind of monster.

The man gestured at the piles of metal tools and implements that were lying around his workshop and said, “It so happens that the two damned fools who were my apprentices ran off to fight at Sentinel two months ago and haven’t returned. Now, we are preparing for a siege, and I’m the only blacksmith left for thirty miles, so I am buried with work and have no one to help me.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“You’re offering me a job?” Gav asked incredulously.

“I think the proper word is blackmail,” the man replied gruffly. “And a job implies you’ll get paid. You work for me, and in exchange, I won’t report you to the city guard and will stop them from conscripting you for as long as I can.”

“Agreed,” Gav said quickly. Working here would be the perfect cover while he observed the town and attempted to locate his target.

“Smart lad,” the man smirked. “The name’s Arden, but you will call me Foreman.”

“Yes, Foreman,” Gav said. “Thank you!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go about thanking me just yet,” Arden snorted as he pulled on a heavy leather apron. “Go put your things away and pull an apron on. We’re going to start work.”

Gav blinked. “Already?”

Arden cocked an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard? The Balith are coming. You can keep any belongings you have in the next room. I don’t like clutter in my workshop.”

The room the old blacksmith had indicated was used to store billets and having no other choice, Gav hid his short sword behind a pile and covered it with his cloak before returning to the workshop.

“Took you long enough,” Arden groused. He pointed at a bellows attached to the furnace. “Work this until I tell you to stop.”

Gav worked the bellows and the temperature in the room increased. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and he was about to faint from the heat when Arden finally ordered him to stop.

“Looks like you’re familiar with an honest day’s work,” The old blacksmith said, sounding impressed as he threw a billet onto the hearth. Working deftly, he used a stick to cover the billet with red hot coals. “Where did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t,” Gav replied. He knew from experience that it was better to lie through omission whenever possible. That way, he it was less likely for the lies he had to tell to be exposed.

Arden gave the youth a withering look. “Don’t get cute with me, boy.”

“Long Marsh,” Gav conceded at length. He had overheard the conversation of a pair of old ladies hailing from there while on the road.

Arden grunted. “Always thought moorfolk couldn’t stand heat.”

The old blacksmith fell silent as he watched the billet. Gav sucked in his breath when the old man gripped an end with his bare hand and pulled it out of the forge. He examined the red hot tip carefully before setting it on a stone slab.

“Get that hammer, quickly,” he ordered, pointing at a large hammer with a thick, four foot long wooden shaft.

The tool was surprisingly heavy, and Gav struggled to lift it. Arden clicked his tongue irritably before snatching it out of his hands. “Hold it in place. Don’t grab the wrong end now.”

Hesitantly, Gav did as he was told. To his surprise, it was only warm to the touch. With a grunt, Arden lifted the hammer. “Don’t move now.”

The old man began hammering the billet into a thin sheet of metal. Gav found himself so transfixed by the rhythmic clang and the blacksmith’s perfect accuracy in striking the red hot steel that he didn’t even hear the first knock on the workshop’s door.

“What is it?” Arden snapped without stopping his work.

“Do you have a minute?” came the reply.

Arden pounded the partially flattened billet one last time before setting the hammer aside. He paused to catch his breath before mopping his brow. Casting one last glance at the furnace, he clicked his tongue and snapped. “We’ll just have to reheat the furnace later. This is one guest we can’t keep waiting.”

Gav swallowed nervously. “Who is it?”

Moments later, Gav ducked reflexively as a smaller hammer went whizzing by his head, missing it by a hair. “Just open the bloody door!” Arden roared.

Gav paled and rushed to do as he was told. Waiting outside were two men he didn’t recognize. However, he could tell at a look that they were nobles and bowed low.

“Sorry to bother you, Arden,” the older man said.

“No you’re not,” the blacksmith shot back. He tottered to the door before folding his arms across his chest. “How can I help you, Vicky boy?”

The younger man’s face coloured before he exploded. “How dare you address your Lord in this manner?”

Gav looked up in shock at the older man. Vicky boy? Could this be Lord Vick Dorin, his target standing in front of him? What an unexpected boon. He could kill him now and finish the job far earlier than anticipated. His companion didn’t look much of a fighter. Perhaps he could deal with both before disappearing into the crowd.

He looked outside and frowned. The streets were packed and many of the passersby were looking their way, perhaps their curiosity was piqued by their lord stopping by this humble workshop, and he wasn’t yet sure if there was a backdoor. The chance he would be caught was high, and his master had been adamant that he was never to attempt desperate suicide tactics to complete these jobs. Besides, if he slew the lord here, the old blacksmith would surely be blamed for harbouring him. As much as he was loathe to admit it, it was this last fact that bothered him the most.

“Ah Randal, you don’t understand, Master Arden here is the most important man in this town,” Vick said, completely deadpan.

The younger man’s eyes bulged, looking like they were about to pop out of their sockets. “Him?”

“Don’t you forget it, sonny,” Arden smirked.

“He’s the only blacksmith for thirty miles,” Vick laughed. “And he has served my family since my father’s time.”

“Grandfather’s time,” Arden corrected him. “I remember this one shitting himself in the street. Makes it a bit hard for me to kneel and say m’lud.”

Vick glanced down at Gav and stopped laughing. “He’s new.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Arden snapped. “For six weeks I’ve told you I need help if you want a functioning blacksmith and now that I have some, I’m not letting you gang press him. Believe you me, he’d be of far more use to your war right here than pissing himself up on the wall.”

Vick’s eyes never left Gav’s, and the youth thought his cover was blown. He had initially planned to snatch the lord’s sword out of its sheath if he had to kill him, but Vick’s hand was now resting on the hilt, so the youth decided to look as terrified as he could.

“Where are you from?” Vick’s voice was cold.

“Long Marsh,” Gav mumbled in reply.

“I went there last spring, lovely place,” Vick said flatly. “Tell me, did the chief ever finish painting the town hall?”

Gav looked up at the lord blankly and in the corner of his eye, he could see Randal’s hand stray to the sword at his hip. At length, he replied. “M’lord, Long Marsh is but a village of ten homes. We haven’t a town hall.”

Vick stared back at him for what felt like an eternity before shrugging. “Ah, I must have been thinking about somewhere else.”

He then turned around and looked pointedly at the billet that was still resting on the steel slab. “That looks a little thin for a sword,” he remarked, his tone amicable once again.

“I’m making arrowheads,” Arden said flatly.

Vick shook his head and sighed. “Several of my commanders complain that they have been waiting weeks for their swords. I must urge you to work on them.”

The blacksmith spat deftly into the open furnace before asking. “What use are swords going to be in a siege? What you need is steel tipped arrows, Vicky boy. Bodkins.”

Vick turned to Randal and grinned. “See, now I can honestly tell the commanders that I have urged our most esteemed blacksmith to work on their swords.”

He turned back to Arden and cleared his throat. “By the way, this is Sir Randal Thasirin. He has been sent over from Dramouth to serve as my second in command.”

Arden nodded coolly at the youth. “If that will be all, I will thank you both kindly to get out and leave me to my work.”

“Ever a ray of sunshine, Arden,” Vick beamed. He tugged on his forelock before leaving.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Randal said without sincerity before doing the same.

The pair walked down the street in silence until Randal could no longer hold his curiosity. “I didn’t know you’d been to Long Marsh. I thought you tried to avoid going out into the moors as much as possible.”

“I haven’t and I do,” Vick shrugged. “However, the boy didn’t look like he was lying, so I let the matter drop.”

Randal frowned. “Do you think we should look into him? As you said, one can never be too careful.”

“Ah Randal,” Vick said, slapping him on the shoulder as he erupted into a sudden fit of laughter. “There is hope for you yet.”

“You mean you didn’t think there was any hope for me before?” Randal demanded, trying his best to sound indignant.

Vick’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Let’s just call it a figure of speech, eh?”

Randal feigned annoyance for a moment before turning serious. “That blacksmith, Lord Vick. Who is he?”

The mirth left the older man’s face. He looked around to make sure no one could overhear before lowering his voice. “This is a secret known only by the Count of Norrow and the Lord of Adlecrest, but he was one of the late Count Gofri’s trusted advisors, Sir Arden Veyer.”

“Our lord’s grandfather?” Randal asked.

Vick nodded. “He is a brilliant tactician and has a remarkable eye for talent. I come by from time to time to seek his advice. I am telling you this because you are my second in command and I want you to seek him out should anything happen to me.”

“But why…”

“Is he working as a humble blacksmith?” Vick said, finishing his friend’s question. “He retired after Count Gofri’s death, saying a true knight can have only one master and gave up his fief. Smithing is a passion of his, or so he says, and the work keeps him busy.”

“He sounds like a man House Verini is in need of,” Randal remarked. “Perhaps you should coax him out of retirement.”

Vick gave his friend a wounded look. “Do you think so little of me?”

Randal arched an eyebrow.

Vick broke into a smile and shook his head. “No, if anyone has earned a peaceful retirement, it’s Arden Veyer. Besides, if he thought House Verini needed his services, he’d barge into the keep and demand to take charge. The burden of command lies with me so long as he is content to hammer steel.”