Chapter 1

“Osric? Osric! Damn you, boy, answer me!”

Osric hurried out from the small back room, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

“Sorry, Master Ironhand,” he said, skidding to a halt by the forge.

The burly blacksmith turned from the anvil he had been hammering at and scowled at his young apprentice. Though not an unusually tall man, Ironhand had a presence that could fill up a room. His powerful frame spoke of decades spent shaping metal. For all his size, Osric knew him to be an incredibly gentle and caring man, underneath the gruff exterior.

“Sleeping on the job again?” Ironhand rumbled, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of one meaty hand. “I told you I needed that new stove casing shaped by lunchtime. Edar is expecting his new stove this afternoon, and I’ll be damned if it isn’t ready.”

“No, not sleeping, Master Ironhand. Just fetching some materials from the storeroom. I must have lost track of time.”

“See that it doesn’t happen again. A blacksmith without discipline is no better than a drunken fool.”

Osric ducked his head, abashed. “Yes, Master Ironhand.”

As he picked up the tongs and began working the first iron strip into shape over the forge’s glowing coals, Osric could feel Ironhand’s eyes still lingering on him for a few moments before the blacksmith turned back to his own task.

Truth be told, while he had gone to the storeroom for supplies, he’d taken longer than was really needed. It was the height of summer, and this close to the forge there were times it felt like his skin might boil off. The small storeroom, which doubled as Osric’s sleeping quarters, might not be all that much cooler, but as the sun started to climb in the sky, he’d take it over the forge.

Besides, it wasn’t like it mattered. Yes, Edar needed the new stove, but Osric knew for a fact he ate at the tavern half the time anyway, and it wasn’t like he needed it for warmth. A few hours here or there wasn’t going to kill anyone. Nothing around here was worth getting that excited about.

Life in Eldham was so uneventfully mundane. Day after day, it was the same routine, which for Osric was, wake up at dawn, stoke the forge’s fires, and spend the daylight hours pounding out horseshoes, stove parts, and farm tools.

Osric sighed loudly in spite of himself, prompting Master Ironhand to glance over.

“Something on your mind, boy?” the gruff blacksmith asked.

“I was just thinking,” Osric said as he brought the hammer down again. “Doesn’t it grow tedious just making the same types of things, day in and day out? Horseshoes, stove parts, axes; it’s always the same. I saw that sword you made for that Greenwood Ranger last year. If you went to Wolfsridge, you could be one of the greatest smiths in the Crownlands. People would travel for leagues to get one of your fabled blades.”

Osric lifted up his tongs and jabbed with it a few times, as if it were a sword he could use to vanquish unseen opponents.

Master Ironhand turned to fully face Osric, a frown on his face. “Glory and excitement? Is that what you’re after? Let me tell you, boy, those things are fleeting. What we do here may not seem glorious, but it’s honest work that keeps this village going. A knight’s pretty mail won’t plow the fields or keep a family warm come winter. Don’t underestimate the value of mundane things.”

“I know, it’s just that ... I want more. To test myself against true challenges, to see the wider world beyond the forest. I know ... I know, I’m an ingrate who doesn’t appreciate how good I have it here.”

“No, lad,” he said, his expression softening. “Those feelings are only natural for a young man like you. I’ll admit to a longing or two when I was your age as well. You know I trained in Wolfsridge.”

“You trained in the capital? I didn’t know that,” Osric said, lowering his tong-shaped sword.

“Aye, I spent nigh on five years there as a young lad,” he said, getting a faraway look. “My father sent me to apprentice under the master smith, Enthnor.”

“What was it like?” Osric asked eagerly.

Master Ironhand hardly ever talked about his past. As far as Osric knew, he was born with a hammer in one hand, yelling at his mother for taking too long!

“Noisy, crowded, smelly, everything you’d expect of a big city. The capital has ten times the people of Eldham in one of its markets alone. Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere or to sell you something. You have to keep one hand on your coin purse at all times,” he said. “But I’ll admit the sights were something. The sprawling markets, the towering castle, the nonstop activity day and night. As a wide-eyed farm boy, it was like another world opened up.”

Osric tried to imagine it, a bustling city packed with exotic wares, grand buildings, and opportunity. It sounded like the polar opposite of sleepy little Eldham.

“Is that where you learned to forge a sword like you made for the ranger?” he asked.

Master Ironhand snorted, leaning a hand against the anvil. “No. Swordsmithing is a whole ‘nother skill. But I did pick up plenty working under Enthnor. How to shape a sturdy plow or smooth out buckles. The fundamentals.”

“Why’d you leave?” Osric blurted out. “If the capital was so amazing, why come to somewhere like Eldham? Why not set up a smithy there?”

“Because cities have a way of swallowing your soul, boy. All that rushing about leaves no time to catch your breath. No stillness, no peace. Out here, we’ve got clean air, open skies, and good, honest folk.”

“Boring folk,” Osric muttered under his breath.

“Enough of your grumbling, boy. If you crave adventure so desperately, I’ll send you on one. We’re almost out of limestone dust. Grab the sack and head into the forest to collect as much as you can. Maybe when you get back, you’ll be able to focus on your job and stop daydreaming about adventuring.

“We’re nearly out, and I’ll not have a useless grindstone in my smithy. Take your pickaxe and fetch enough to fill a sack. And you better not take your time getting back, or it’ll be your hide.”

“Yes, Master Ironhand. Right away,” Osric said, setting his tongs down and hurrying into the back room.

He gathered his tools and a large empty sack before hurrying out the door, not wanting to further provoke the blacksmith’s ire. Walking down the path to the forest, Osric kicked an errant rock. As adventures go, this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. He went to the forest all the time for supplies, or really whenever he annoyed Master Ironhand a little too much.

“And don’t stop to talk to Talia,” Ironhand called out as Osric left.

Talia Penrose was the assistant and apprentice, of sorts, to Elder Miriam, although what a village elder apprentices someone for, Osric never quite knew. She was also a lot like Osric, in that they’d both been given over by their guardians to be apprenticed. The difference was Osric had lived with his aunt, who shuffled him off to have one less mouth to feed, while Talia’s parents had died in a fire when she was little, and Elder Miriam had taken her in.

Osric liked Talia. She was kind, clever, and maybe one of the nicest people he knew. He enjoyed spending time with her when neither of them had duties, although that was also because there were only a handful of others in their age range that lived in the village proper, and not out in one of the far-flung scratch farms or forest cabins where a lot of the population in this area actually lived. The villagers themselves tended to be much older, closer to Master Ironhand’s age, so as two of the few young adults, they had been kind of thrown together out of circumstance as much as anything else.

Osric hadn’t been intending to sneak off to see her, though. For one, she had her own duties, and she was much more conscientious about doing those than Osric was about doing his, and because he recognized when Master Ironhand was in a mood, he had no intention of setting him off again.

As he entered the cool shadows of the forest, Osric returned to the story he’d been telling himself, imagining himself as a hero on a quest rather than a lowly apprentice on a chore. His pickaxe became a sword, and the rabbit that ran by a fearsome beast, out for blood.

He wasn’t ten anymore, so make-believe wouldn’t hold him for long, but he allowed himself to enjoy the game for a little while, as he dreamed of adventures in far-off lands.

His adventure only lasted as long as it took to get far enough into the forest to find the special limestone rock that Master Ironhand had shown him, which was part of his secret to making good, strong iron. Then, it was the backbreaking work of prying it out of the ground and smashing it into small enough pieces to fit inside his sack.

One time, he’d asked why they didn’t just buy it like they did the iron they bought from the mine, which they had to make a day-long ride to in Tom Sorral’s wagon once every month or two. Master Ironhand had told him that this stone, which they crushed and melted into the slag, wasn’t found in the mines. As far as his master knew, their forest was the only place to find it. It was also why Master Ironhand’s wares were some of the best around.

Setting the nearly full bag down by a stream, Osric knelt down and splashed cool water on his face.

“Some adventure this is,” he muttered to himself.

After a few more moments of brooding, Osric stood and picked up his tools. It didn’t take long to locate another decent chunk of limestone to chip away at.

Osric wedged his pickaxe into a crevice in the limestone and pushed down with all his weight. The rock slowly shifted and cracked, with a few pieces breaking loose. He crouched down and brushed away the debris, then inserted the bar again for another attempt. As he strained against the unyielding stone, his mind wandered once more.

What would it be like to be one of those adventurers from the tales, boldly venturing into the unknown? Slaying vile monsters, rescuing fair maidens, uncovering treasures beyond imagination? Osric was jolted out of his daydream as the rock suddenly gave way and lurched to the side.

“Finally,” he muttered, bending down to inspect the now-exposed cavity.

He froze as his eyes fell upon something within the crevice that glinted in the dappled sunlight. Gingerly reaching in, Osric extracted an intricately engraved metal ring, stunned by its craftsmanship. It somehow looked old. Ancient, even. Yet, it was polished to an almost bright finish. A delicate and highly detailed image sat in the middle, where a gem would otherwise go, depicting some kind of bird in flight, a sword in its talons, and a wreath or halo on its head. Osric wasn’t an expert, but the workmanship was exquisite. He knew what this was, or at least, what it might be.

He’d seen the scribe who sometimes came through town with the tax collectors with a ring something like this. A ring with a pattern, in that case that of the king, set in the middle. Osric had once watched as he talked to Master Ironhand, and when they finished, the scribe wrote out a long document for him. Although Osric knew his letters, he hadn’t paid much attention to the document. He had, however, noticed when the scribe rolled up the document and poured some wax into the seam to seal it, and then pressed that ring into the wax, leaving behind an impression of the symbol of the king. It had struck Osric then because it had seemed important, formal.

This ring was similar to the scribe’s ring, but ... more. The detail on this ring put the scribe’s to shame, but it looked as if the purpose was the same. The head of the ring wasn’t all that was fancy and impressive. The scribe’s had been smooth metal aside from the king’s symbol on the top, but this one was detailed across the band of the ring as well, including four tiny blood-red gems just down from the symbol in the middle. Low enough that they would not leave their impression, or at least not obscure the impression of the bird, if it was pressed into wax, but still surrounding it.

Osric reached to pick the small piece of jewelry up and thought for a moment that the gems around the face of the ring almost glowed as his fingers touched it, giving an almost pulsing sensation. It lasted for an instant before the feeling was gone, but Osric knew what he felt. Magic.

He didn’t really understand magic, although he knew that it was used by mages and sorcerers featured in many of the stories he’d heard or read. He didn’t know why, but it was the first thing Osric thought of as he touched the ring and saw that pulse. It felt ... otherworldly, and special.

After a moment’s hesitation, Osric carefully picked the ring up. Holding it flat in his palm, he examined it closely, slowly turning the cool metal over in his hand. Although it was clearly very old, it showed no sign of corrosion. Looking into those small gems, they still seemed to have an ethereal glow. As he gazed upon it, Osric felt an inexplicable connection to the artifact. It felt like more than just a ring. It felt ... important.