By the time Harold heard water, he had grown at little more at ease with the whole situation. While going over the entirety of the morning’s events, he concluded that his entire unease with the situation was because of Harold’s own false presumptions.  Alphus came to his father wanting something, so Harold assumed it was something his father was making him.  If that wasn’t the case, then there was nothing confusingly shady about this transaction at all.  

Except the town guard part.  And the part about not revealing where it came from.  And the speed in which he had to do it or else.

Harold shoveled all those thoughts out of his head as he caught a whiff of something in the air.  Fragrant and intoxicating. It was a smell so fantastic that Harold heard himself let out a soft groan of pleasure as his stomach begged with it’s own grunt.

Someone nearby was cooking bacon.

Stopping and listening a little harder, he thought he could even hear the sizzle, and continued to follow the sound until he saw what he presumed he was looking for.  Two horses were lapping at the lake a dozen or so feet away from an exceptionally well made caravan.  Painted a deep red, with purple trim, the whole of it looked as if the whole thing had been recently touched up. On most trader caravans, you could see the wear and tear of the road, but this thing seemed perfect.

Standing a bit of aways from it, over a fire was the squat form of a dwarf with his black beard, streaked with grey was tied into a braid that was so long, it was hanging over his back to keep it out of the fire.  Dressed in silks fancier than anything Harold ever owned and wearing a square of fabric that kept his hair out of the way, he was the picture perfect sort of merchant you would say on market days.

Harold was about to hail him, but his mind failed to come up with a name.  He knew his father had told him something that was likely the man’s name, but what was it? Sweettreat? Sweetheart?  

“Hail Sweetteee–” Harold let his voice trail off, hoping the dwarf wouldn’t realize.

The squat man stood up straight, putting down the pan and pulling a dagger from nowhere. “Whoon saiddit?” His accent was foreign and thick.

Harold took an exaggerated step, “Here!” He said, raising his hands as the dwarf turned towards him. He continued through the foliage until he was completely out in the open.  Even with a dagger prepared to be thrown at his chest, he felt fine until two thoughts hit him in short order.

The first was, ‘What if this wasn’t Sweetfoot?’

The second was, ‘His name was Sweetfoot!’

“So’in boy’o, sayer name’n be fas beefer ain lettin fly.” The dwarf’s eyebrow was raised and he waited as Harold translated that in his head. He had heard dwarven brogue before, but rarely so thick.

“Are you Sweetfoot?” Harold asked, over-extending each syllable as if he was speaking to a child.

“You’n firs’ boyo.  Quick like, eh?” Harold’s eyes watched the dwarf’s body language.  He was a small taut piece of pulled rubber, ready to snap. Snapping, in this case, meant 8 inches of metal would be projecting out of Harold’s chest.  

“My name is Harold Orian. My father, Fergus sent me.” He watched as the dwarf’s muscles went from thick bands of dagger-throwing fury to more relaxed.  He didn’t put his arm’s down, but there was less tension.

“Ahhhh, yer’n the balbh-head. You’n bring’n pay?” Sweetfoot (presumably) slowly put his arms down, and between eyeblinks, the dagger was already hiding somewhere on his body.  Harold reached down just as slowly and jingled the pouch on his belt.  He had no idea what a ‘blabh-head’ was, but he didn’t think it sounded complimentary.

The dwarf, satisfied in just seeing that the pouch was present, turned back to his breakfast. “So ain Sweetfoot asya say. Youn gon’ wansome?” A flick of the wrist and the bacon flew through the air and landed back in the pan with a crackle and spit of grease.

“Am I going where?” Asked Harold, stepping around so he was on the other side of the fire from Sweetfoot.

“Goin? Eh?” Sweetfoot tilted his head, confused.  

“I don’t know where Wansome is.  You asked if I was going to Wansome.”

The dwarf laughed loud enough that one of his horses didn’t just perk an ear towards them, but lifted his head as if to make sure his Master was doing alright. “No ye doonse. I was offerin’ a bite. ‘Cha hungry?”  And Harold now understand ‘Youn gon wansome’ was “Are you going to want some.’  His mouth was watering at the smell of the bacon.

He smiled, “If you’re offering. I’ll happily.”

“Das a good lad. If’n ye said no… well..” Sweetfoot sized up Harold, as if pondering whether that dagger would have stopped him. Harold believed it would have, but he had never really been tested in that sort of fight before. “You’n ever sit wit me kind?”

Harold shook his head and the dwarf nodded to himself, sliding the bacon to a plate next to he fire and beginning to portion it into two groups. “Well’n ye get ye food’n ta learn tings… a good morn indeed.”

“Me people have’na always been so rich’n the land and rich’n the coin. So when ye meet’a dwarfen man likes meself, ye known’in his motive if’n he offers his food. If’n he don’t… he aint’n no friend an’ wants no part in’ye.  My clear?”

Harold nodded, thinking that he was starting to understand a bit more of the dwarf’s tongue.  He also thought that perhaps he was clearing up his brogue a bit since he was telling a story. “So if a dwarf offers me food, but I say no, then I’m the bad guy?”  

Sweetfoot grinned, “Ahh, pick’n up quick he’is. If’n ye need it, ye speak so an’ have it.  If’n ye mean no disrespect, ye say thank ye’… ye take’n at least one bite.  Shows me food is good’nuff for ye an’ ye no thinkin’ ye standin above… clear?” As if to punctuate his point, he lifted the plate and offered it to Harold.  The bacon had been cut into nearly perfect equal portions. When Harold looked into Sweetfoot’s eyes, he saw the grinning challenge of the entire situation.  He wanted to know if the young man was listening and if, as he had been told, he was a ‘bulbh-head’.

Harold reached up and took a piece, hot between his fingers, and took a bite.  The flavor exploded in his mouth. It wasn’t just bacon, but salt and a dozen other flavors that he couldn’t place.  It was the single greatest piece of bacon that he had ever eaten in his life.  Sweetfoot nodded appreciatively of his bite and took the plate back, throwing a piece into his own mouth.  

“Take whatcha like boyo, when’n I get to Gate, I’ll be stockin’ up..” Sweetfoot stood up and began to walk over to his caravan. Harold reached over and took another piece of bacon, fighting the urge to not just shovel the whole plate into his mouth with how fantastic it was.  He watched as the dwarf walked up to the door of his cart and before he even got to it, it swung open.  It was likely magically locked or attuned to Sweetfoot somehow, which was a basic spell you could buy.  He went inside and there was the sound of drawers opening and closing.

When he returned, Sweetfoot had a wooden box under his arm.  The finish was sanded and lacquored to a reflective shine.  He placed it next to him and put out his hand in the universal gesture for ‘Let me see my money’. Harold undid the pouch and watched as Sweetfoot opened it and counted each coin, checking them with a bite.  Harold got the feeling that he didn’t entirely trust his father. “Good’nuff. So, now that’cha workin’ fer’ye papa, you gon’ take o’er all this dirty biz?”

Harold laughed, “Yeah, after I deliver the box, my father said he was going to start teaching me how to forge and tell me about everything he does.”

The dwarf paused, and asked his next question carefully, as if he was sizing it up in his own mouth, “An’ whattisit that’cha think’n he does?  Puttin’ hammer to steel an’ jewels in hilts an’ the like?”

Harold laughed, “Of course. It’s what my grandfather did and what I’m going to do, and maybe one day what my kids will do.”

Sweetfoot nodded.  There was something odd in his eyes as he reached behind his head. For the briefest of moments Harold worried he had misjudged the entire situation and he was about to get that dagger in his chest. It passed just as quickly when he saw the dwarf was simply untying something that was around his neck and hidden beneath his shirt.  He pulled out a key on a leather string and tossed it across the fire to Harold.  “The key’n the box. Ye give dat t’yer father an’ye tell him our dealings are done.  I’m gone down the straight’n narrow’n his was me’las business to handle.”

Harold nodded, not sure what any of that meant.  What was clear though was that this was Sweetfoot telling him it was time to end their meeting.  Harold stood up and reached over to take the box.  “Well, thank you Sweetfoot. I hope one day we cross paths again.”

The dwarf let out a sigh. He was looking at the boy and wrestling with something.  Finally, he looked up to the sky and mumbled something in dwarvish. It sounded like it was a prayer or a curse to the gods, but when he looked back at Harold his eyes were firm. “You’n seem like ye’ a good kid…”

Harold lifted up the box slowly.  He had no idea how to react to his.

“Imma good judge eh’ these tings, I is.  Yer papa ain’no mastermind er nuffin, but he ain’no good guy neither.  Now.. Imma be’in this vera spot til’ nightfall. After yer papa tells ye what the family biz’s been, if’n ye feel ye need’n… you run here.  I’ll help ye’ out.  Un’erstood there Harold?”  It was the first time that the dwarf hadn’t called him ‘Boyo’ or something else.

Harold blinked, stunned.  He didn’t know how to react to what he had just heard.  He put the box under his arm and stood up straight, considering each word. “I.. thanks?” What else was there for him to say?  

“Ye’ put’nothin into it, ye get nothin’ out.  Iffer some reason we’in don’t see each other tonight, I’ll be’in Gate. Settin’ up a home fer meself.  You look me up.”

Why did this entire exchange make Harold’s feet cold? It was like he was, all of a sudden, talking with a long time friend that was seeing him off to war. Part of his brain just wanted to ignore every word that had come out of Sweetfoot’s mouth. Hadn’t his father said something about not trusting dwarves and elves? He wasn’t sure, but he also didn’t like that part of his head told him that there was a truth to the dwarf’s words that he had been hiding from himself.  

All that was left was for him to go home and find out which version of his brain was the right one.  

He shook Sweetfoot’s wrist, and the minute he was out of sight of the camp, he began to run home with little thought to worries about the guard or anyone seeing him.  

The rustle of leaves and snapping of branches hid quite a few sounds. The sound of arrows tearing through branches, arrowheads piercing dwarven flesh, and the dying moan of a man who had turned a new leaf.  Sweetfoot was dead before Harold had even made it back to the road.

Harold looked at the shingle that hung from two chains just above the door.

ORIAN SMITH & FORGERY

His trip down memory lane behind him, Harold was now in the present and thinking about that sign and what it meant to him.  When his grandfather Eoghan bought this plot of land almost 70 years ago, he set up a small trading business to help the local community find what they were looking for.  Out of necessity, they needed nails and knives, horseshoes and buckles, so Eoghan learned how to manipulate ore.  When Fergus was of age, he took the business over, and this was the to be the first day of Harold’s ascent to becoming the town smith.

He walked through the door, his chest puffed with pride and was immediately hit in the side of the head with what felt like a rock.  He went to a knee as the rock hit the ground and shattered.

‘Rock’s don’t shatter.’ Harold thought, putting a hand to his sore temple and seeing that it wasn’t a rock that he was hit by, but a small pouch with a dozen coins that were now twinkling on the dirt floor.

He gathered them up and looked up at his father who was now staring down at him. His father was a broad man, strong shouldered, barrel chested, and with the slight paunch of a man who liked his drink.  His face was smudged with soot and his hands were encrusted with black.

“All right m’boy. Second thing I’m gonna teach you today is how to catch.” He snorted with a grin. “First things first, you have to do a pretty important job for me this morning.  I know you are aching to get back here and learn how to hammer, but we got a rush job that’s gotta be handled.”

Harold got to his feet. “Of course you can, Pop. You need me to go run whatever it is you made for Alphus to him before he goes?”

His father raised an eyebrow, “Heard us yellin, didja?  It’s related, but not exactly.  Yer gonna run, not ride, but run outta town the back way.  Avoid the town constables and get to the river. There’ll be a dwarf with a cart waitin’ for you to give him that little sack of gold.  You give him the gold, he’ll give you a box.  You bring that box straight to Alphus and his smartalek son and tell them nothin’ about it. Are we clear?”

Harold blinked.  He understood the details of what was asked of him, but he had a thousand questions pertaining to them. He opened his mouth to ask the first one when his father cut him off at the first sound, “No talkin’ to Dalton about where you went. No mentionin’ Sweetfoot. You deliver it, you come back, and I promise I’ll explain when you get here.  Got it?”

On his feet now, still standing with his brow knitted in question, his one hand clenched around the bag of coins, the other limp at his side, Harold again tried to speak and again was stopped. “I’m sorry bout beanin’ you with the coins. It’s been a frustrating morning, but trust me.. I’ve been waitin’ years to tell you all the stuff I gotta tell you today. This is just super important. Ok?”

Finally, there was a pause where Harold would have been able to get words out, but none of his questions were at the ready. His father had already told him that he would explain when he got back, so what was left to ask?  He was just stuck, like the gears of the great machine in his head were hit with a bag of coins and completely derailed. He felt like at this point he had to say something, if only to acknowledge that he had absorbed everything his father had told him.  “Do… I need to get change?”

Fergus blinked, almost audibly, at his son, “No.”  There was a pause, where it was very clear his father was reconsidering this option. “You can do this, can’t you son?”

Flint hit rock and Harold’s brain began to spark again. He nodded, “Of course. I got this. No problem.  You can count on me.”

Fergus rolled his eyes, “Fine. Whatever.  Now quit bein’ a fool and go. Last thing.  Do not, under any conditions, screw with what’s in that box. It’s for Alphus and Alphus only.  You would likely blow your fool head off. Now run, and again. Let no one see you, especially not the town guard.”

Harold nodded once more and headed out of the house, running away from the town towards the river his father had directed him to.  It wasn’t a far run, but the concern of guards was something that Harold has having a seriously hard time understanding. He was going and picking up something from a vendor, what’s the big deal?

Unless it was the vendor that was the problem.

That thought completely intrigued Harold, so much that he almost didn’t notice that he was getting closer to the edge of town, and should be on the look out for guards and other road travellers.  This particular path, referred to boringly as ‘The Green Road’, headed due west out of town and was the only road that didn’t have any sort of major fortifications due to the fact that it lead into densely wooded forest. The stories of Harold’s childhood spoke of druids that lived out in these woods that kept the forest lush and more full than anywhere else in the country, possibly the world.

As a child, Harold and his friends would go traipsing through these woods, so he knew the general path that the town guard took during their rounds. Coming to the rough path, worn away by guards, travellers, and carts, he knew this would be the time he was most exposed and potentially visible.  Nervous butterflies flitted around his stomach while he stayed crouched down off the path, out of sight of anyone who wasn’t looking directly at him, he got as still as possible and listened.

Nothing.

It was at that precise moment, hidden in the brush on the side of this rarely travelled road, that Harold felt supremely exposed.  He hadn’t grabbed his sword, a dagger, or even his sling.  In the excitement of being requested to go on this odd quest for his father, he had absentmindedly just run off.  The woods beyond the intersection weren’t the most dangerous, but they definitely had their perils.  Running back would get him a tongue lashing from his father, and on his first day of adulthood, the last thing he wanted was to seem like a child.  

He listened closely.  

Only the sound of the sweet summer breeze high up through the trees and the occasional rustling of an animal.  He realized he was now simply stalling.  For some reason the idea of crossing that threshold of the town border without a weapon for strange purposes felt like it was the biggest thing he had ever done.  Even though he had played in these woods as a child. He had gotten drunk on a bottle of apple mead that was more vinegar than it was alcohol with Dalton not far from where he was currently crouched.  He kissed Missy Carlton on the river, probably within visible distance of where he would be meeting this strange caravan.  What was stopping him?

“Nothing.” He said to himself resolutely.  He picked himself up, brushed a few nettles that had gathered on his pants, and ran across the road and into the woods. He was being silly, and he knew it.  Even the figure that had been watching him from far up in the tree branches knew he was being silly, and they would know. They were a trained killer.

Harold woke up cold and choking.

Where a few moments ago he was spooning with a beautiful elf girl who was whispering in his ear that he was the greatest lover she had ever known, now he was shivering and wet.

“COFFEE’S DONE. GO GET THE DAMN MILK.” Harold’s mother’s voice was gravel run across sand.  Through his wavering waterlogged vision, Harold saw his mother drop the bucket she had just drained on his head and walk out of his room, leaving a foul smelling cloud of smoke in her wake.

“Being an adult sure feels like every other morning,” Harold grumbled as he sat up from his wet bed and began searching for the cleanest shirt underneath his bed.  A quick sniff found him one that had probably only been worked in one or two days. He rolled it down his muscular chest, still proud of his idea to wear clothes that were at least a half size too small so that he always looked that much more impressive.  

To be fair, Harold was ox strong, but when his biceps tightened and he could begin to feel the shirt sleeves start to cut off circulation, he swore he once saw a girl he fancied swoon.

As he jogged through the kitchen, Harold breathed through his mouth as to not be able to smell any of his mother’s pipe smoke and walked out the front door to a gorgeous blue sky. Down the road about a quarter mile, he could hear the bells and hollers of vendors in the town square and in the squat stone hut a dozen yards away from his home, he could hear the clanging of his father Fergus, the town blacksmith, working on some piece of weapon or armor.  

The only thing Harold could do was smile.  His mother hadn’t been kidding, yesterday he had graduated the schooling that Arrow’s Keep offered and today he was, as far as anyone cared, an adult.  After breakfast, he would go into his father’s forge and begin to learn the art of smithing. If he chose, after a year of apprenticing, to take up the mantle as the next town blacksmith, he would be the third generation of his family that were born and raised on that plot of land and provided the town and traders with highly sought after weapons and arms.

There was nothing the strong sixteen year old man wanted more.

“Harold!” He turned, hearing his name being called from down the road. With the traditional crimson cloak of the town Mage’s Guild, Harold recognized Alphus. The older man raised his hand in a friendly gesture, and his salt and pepper hair rustled in an unknown wind. His arm dropped, and with a flick of the wrist, the gate to Harold’s home unlatched and swung open, and Alphus stepped through. Another similar gesture, and the gate swung closed with barely a sound.

It didn’t matter how many times he had seen it, magic intrigued Harold, but also scared him half to death.  He had seen enough spells gone awry to not be completely in awe of someone like Alphus, one of the top ranking members of both the regional Arrow’s Keep Guild, but also in the entirety of the country of Reginar. From everything Harold knew, a simple spell like opening a latched gate, if done wrong, could open up a gate to a void where no light ever escapes and the screams of the voidwalkers could be heard coming closer with each moment.  Excessive or not, it was a neat party trick.

“Hail Alphus. How are you today, Sir?  Aren’t you and Dalton leaving this morning?” Dalton was Harold’s best friend, and similar to Harold, began to train under his father’s tutelage today. In the case of Alphus though, that meant presenting his son to the other magic users in the country capital a few days travel from Arrow’s Keep.  

Alphus continued walking towards Harold with the authority of a man who knew precisely what he wanted and where he was going. His cool blue eyes were creased by the charming smile on his lips as he  clasped Harold by the wrist and they shook in the traditional manner of men. “I am indeed. Your father was preparing me something special for the journey along with a set of horseshoes.  I can tell from the noise that he is in, so please take no offense if I make haste.  We have a deadline to keep.”  And just as quickly as they were speaking, they were done.

He wondered what his father had made for Alphus. It was well known that Fergus’s craftsmanship was beyond reproach. Whether it was the basic, but devastatingly battle ready, swords he would sell to the town guard or the bejeweled spectacles he had been commissioned to make by various high ranking officials.  There was a time when Harold was much younger where there was a year or more wait to get one of Fergus Orian’s specialty pieces.  It was that pride that surged in the young man’s chest as he went behind his house and milked the cow for his morning coffee.

As Harold walked from the small farm area behind his home through the divide between the house and the forge, he heard raised voices. Getting closer, it was apparent that Alphus and Fergus were having words over something.  A forge, being a small fire elemental trapped in a magically encased sphere, has a tendency of not being loud precisely, but noisy. It wasn’t until Harold was standing just outside the door did he begin to make out what the fight was about.

“—nd do you think that I can just conjure one up, Fergus?” Alphus said loudly.

“I toldja Alphie, you go get your petticoats all packed, and it’ll be here before you leave!” Fergus’ booming angry voice made Harold’s knees buckle. This was the same man that wasn’t allowed to sell his work as a street vendor because he kept scaring small children in the next town over whenever he began hawking.

“IF YOU CALL ME ALPHIE ONE MORE TIME I’LL…” Alphus was screaming. He sounded like a child that had been poked one too many times. Harold had never seen one of Alphus’ perfectly coifed hair out of place, but this was a complete meltdown of composure.  This was a man that could summon the demons and gods, and his father was goading him.  Harold ducked down further, like it would make a difference if Alphus chose to throw them into a Void Dimension or something equally as horrifying.

“You’ll what? Math me to death? I got your horseshoes right here. Your other piece’ll be ready. I’ll send Harold with it as soon as I got it ready.” Fergus’ voice was calm. Intimidating, goading, and intentionally patronizing, but calm.

Alphus’ next words came through clenched teeth, “If that is the only way it can be. Believe me though, if it isn’t with the boy in short order, there will be hell to pay.”  Ice water dropped into Harold’s stomach. Hell to pay? From a mage of Alphus’ calibre, that was more than a threat worth taking notice of.  “I’ll have your business licenses revoked!”  

The ice water dissipated. Business licenses? No fiery spawned drake? No lava encrusted golem?  Harold was happy his father wasn’t in mortal danger, but couldn’t help feel at least a little disappointed.  Dalton was much better at threats than his father was.

The forge door swung open, Alphus walked out – well, not walking as much as marching to the gate. He had a sack over his shoulder which clanged with each step, likely filled with the horseshoes his father had made him.  The gate, which he had so delicately opened with a magical gesture, this time swung open with the force of an ox charging through them, and slamming shut just as hard. Harold winced as he saw the hinge splinter at the screw, and was aware he would be the one fixing that eventually.

He picked up the bucket of milk and headed inside for breakfast.  It seems his first day at the job was going to be an interesting one.  Angry mages and mysterious packages. It was just the sort of thing that Harold was hoping his new adult life would be like. He wasn’t much of a reader, but once a season a storyteller or acting troupe would come through town and tell stories like this. Sometimes it was a princess that a hero would have to go and save from the clutches from an evil vizier. Others would tell of a great beast that needed to be slayed.  He would sit with rapt attention, eating a pastry and listening.  

When he was younger, Harold was so enamoured by the storytellers that he asked his parents if he could try out for the troupe.  After each of the performances, the actors would usually stay and talk with the children and even do little impromptu plays with them.  On one occasion though, he turned and his mother had fallen asleep next to him.  He carefully tamped out her still lit pipe and wandered over to the performers. The actors put the few children that lingered into groups to learn their parts for the small performance, and Harold, a head taller than every other child, got to play the beast that the knight would slay.

He remembered beginning to well up with tears, thinking that he didn’t want to be some monster that the other children were going to kill.  That was when he saw her. Red hair, that the sun made prisms of fire dance across. Eyes wide, intelligent, devious, and kind.  She was Harold’s first crush.  She crouched down so she was eye level with him and asked his name. He told her through sucking in a snot bubble of sadness. She introduced herself as Ethel, which to this day was the most beautiful name Harold had ever heard.

“Harold. Acting isn’t like real life.  You see, sometimes the monster is the most important part of the show.  If there was no monster, there would be no show!  So don’t think that you are being made fun of because you need to wear the minotaur’s head and roar.  Think to yourself, ‘With nobody to fight, a hero is just a boring guy with a sword.  You make the hero interesting which makes you twice as interesting.”

His complaints and fears and worries of having to be a monster were gone in her twinkling eyes.

“HAROLD, GET YOUR DAMN RUMP OVER HERE, WE’RE GONNA BE LATE FOR DINNER.” came the gutteral drawl of his mother who had woken up, and was dusting herself off.  Since the crowd had dispersed, she was just laying in the street at that point. She stood up, lit her pipe, and waited for her son with eyes that said ‘you better.’

The boy sighed, “Imma hafta go. Can I try again when you come back?”

Ethel smiled, and some part inside of him blossomed with flowers, butterflies, and nausea.  “I don’t just request it, Sir Harold the Minotaur. I demand it.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead.  As she pulled away, he felt warmth flood throughout his entire body. His family didn’t hold any faith in the gods, but for this one brief moment he felt connected with the ethereal spirit and at peace with himself and the world.  This simple gesture of caring from this beautiful woman was a moment of clarity and crispness in the hazy life he had known til this point.

He vomited on her shoes and ran.

“HAROLD, FINISH YOUR DAMN COFFEE, YOUR FATHER NEEDS YOU TO WORK.” He looked down and his first cup was empty, and he barely remembered coming in and enjoying it with how lost in his past he was. He occasionally remembered that day fondly, as it was the one spot he felt that he knew his place in the world. When he would go back to the seasonal storytellers, Ethel was never there. At least, he assumed she was never there. He would stand behind trees or in bushes or stay home, too embarrassed to consider going and finding out.  

“Thanks for breakfast, Mother.” He said, cleaning his cup in the wash basin.

His mother mumbled something incoherent and took a sip of her more pungent coffee.