The Enchantress of Ingley Ch. 01

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A smith's apprentice finds his peaceful life disrupted.
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Part 1 of the 15 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 06/21/2014
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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."

The old smith snorted and shook his head, "Even if you could find one, those hell spawn vixens are more trouble than they're worth."

"Worth it or not, it must be done. Squire George still holds these lands, does he not?" The rider turned his gaze toward the distant manor, which rose on a hill at the edge of the forests that bordered the village meadows. The crumbling stone structure was clearly in disrepair, even from that distant observation.

"Yeah, I guess you could call it that. Keeps mostly to himself since his wife passed. He just sends his daughter down to see to the taxes from time to time."

Rufus nodded, then turned his dark eyes toward the radiant Jenrea, who still stood within the yard of the Tepid Toad. His gaze lingered upon her in surprise, but not long enough to really worry Hafred. "You there, girl. Tell your master to have his best rooms prepared. The Prince will require lodging for himself and seven men."

The raven haired beauty hesitated just a moment, then beamed a radiant smile up to the lord. "Might have to double up, if that's alright, milord?"

Another curt nod was offered in response, "See to it then." And with that, Rufus spurred his horse onward, to ride back toward the oncoming retinue.

Hafred watched Jenrea disappear back into the inn, and caught her gaze just before she disappeared through the doorframe. The shy smile she shot him sent another blush across his soot smudged skin, before he averted his gaze. He hustled to catch up to Garn, as the old man had already turned back toward the forge.

"Prince Cantrol," Hafred spoke breathlessly, "here, in Ingley."

The old man shot him a withering look. "Don't go getting no ideas, boy. Your place is here, with hammer in hand. Then maybe someday with a pretty innkeeper's daughter and a slew of children, hmm?" He of course saw straight through Hafred's fancy.

"I doubt Jenrea has any interest in me," the apprentice shot back, though his own words made him feel more dejected. "But if I could impress the Prince's guard, that would be status, a name-"

"A home far away from your girl, days spent doing nothing but polishing armor and long hours standing around looking tough, with nothing to break up the monotony. Trust me, boy, the grass ain't always greener." Even as he spoke, old Garn picked up the spearhead he had been working on, and began to polish it once more.

Not yet ready to resume his own work, Hafred leaned against one of the workbenches. A thought then dawned upon him. "You know that man. Lord Rufus, who is he?"

Garn couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Black Dog Rufus, the Prince's bodyguard. Of course, when I knew him he was just a boy coming up through the ranks of the King's Men. Had talent, that one, and wit enough to keep his head."

Hafred thought there was far more to the story than his master was letting on, but pressing the issue was unnecessary. It was enough for his ambitions that old Garn knew the Lord Rufus. "Master?" He ventured, "Could you at least introduce me to him?"

"What, Rufus? You really want to try to become one of the King's Men? It's not like the old days, boy. They aren't so hard up for people that they often look beyond noble circles."

"I can fight well enough, you know that."

Garn nodded. "Aye, I taught you that much, but well enough just ain't enough in the eyes of the King's Men."

The old smith's words earned a frown. "You don't believe I can do it."

"Now, now, boy. I didn't say you couldn't do it, but without a way to show what you're truly capable of, it's gonna be a hard road."

Hafred frowned, and stared at the spear point the old smith held in his hands. The blade was long, almost right for a short sword, and razor sharp around each edge. It was a heavy moment that hung after his master's words, and for once not interrupted by calls to return to his work.

"Do you think there is an enchantress in this village, Master?"

"I don't rightly know who it may be, but the oracle knows what's called for. There has to be one, whether we know of her, or not. I just can't rightly wrap my head around why an enchantress would be anything but bad news."

"Why's that?" Hafred only knew stories and tall tales of magic and sorcery, he had never seen it in action.

"An enchantress ain't like a wizard. Their magic flows natural, from the blood."

"I knew that much." He scoffed at his master's simple explanation.

"Well they ain't like a witch either. A witch's magic flows natural too, but it calls to nature. Fire and lightning, mending wounds or blighting crops, it's powerful stuff, but obvious. The signs of a witch are clear, and their workings can be good or ill."

Hafred nodded, though still didn't see the point of being told of what he already knew.

"An enchantress, though, her magic clouds the thoughts and eyes of men, or changes their strengths for better or worse. Women too, but men are greater fools for it. An enchantress can make a king go to war with a smile, sap a warrior's strength or pretend to be someone she's not, and few are any the wiser. It's a subtle magic, and used instinctively."

The image of Jenrea's smile flashed through the apprentice's mind, and he thought well that he would go to war for that smile. The thought of sweet Jenrea being anything but a bubbly innkeeper's daughter brought forth a bark of laughter before he could contain himself.

The old smith shook one finger in Hafred's direction, "That sort of power can go unnoticed, and it's addicting. Being able to tell others what to do, and then having it be done. It's corrupting enough when mortal men do it through politics and maneuvering. When someone can do it as a natural talent, and without the training and discipline that the wizards get, it can be a disaster."

"So you're saying an enchantress ends up being a spoiled brat, that always gets her way," For a moment, Hafred's thoughts turned to the Squire's daughter.

"More powerful than that, but that's about the attitude it engenders. Now can you see why they ain't particularly thought well of?"

It made sense, after a fashion, and the young man nodded. "I think I get it now."

Garn put the spearhead aside, and regarded Hafred with a critical eye. The silence between them grew uncomfortable, but when the younger man turned to return to his earlier work, Garn addressed him in a grave tone.

"You're thinking of trying to find this enchantress, boy? Find her all on your lonesome, and then that'd impress the Prince's retinue, right?"

Hafred nodded, just once. Was he really that transparent?

His master sighed, and shook his head. "That's more dangerous than anything else. Look, tomorrow, you come with me. I'll introduce you to Rufus, all proper. They'll need a local guide, no doubt, and you know the area well enough."

A wave of relief washed through the young man, and he turned to beam at the old smith. "Thank you, master! I won't let you down."

Garn sighed at that, "You already have, boy, you already have. But I guess if you've got your heart set on adventure, it's best that it be around men who can fish your ass out of the fire. Don't wanna end up like your old man, after all."

The mention of his father sobered Hafred instantly, and he bowed his head. Garn did have a point. What would happen to sweet Jenrea if he got himself killed pursuing his dreams? She'd end up married to some farmer, like his own mother had, wasting away in a village that hardly deserved her.

Hafred thrust the iron into the coals for the second time, and let it heat once more. As he watched the metal slowly turn a merry red, he imagined himself a brave warrior, protecting the Prince, earning honor and accolades. His eyes drifted upward to the plaque where his father's shattered sword hung.

Perhaps he would die, like his father had, but one could find worse deaths than defending one's family and home. And if he succeeded, he could finally look Jenrea in the eye, maybe brave Rothal's stern gaze to ask permission to court her. Maybe she would turn her sweet gaze to him as more than a friend.

The young man drew the hot iron forth and placed it on the anvil, then began to send his heavy hammer crashing rhythmically upon the glowing metal. His eyes fixed upon it, paying attention to his craft. There was no steady swish of a broom to distract him this time, and the sound of riders moving toward the inn was expected, rather than a surprise.

Hafred saw a dagger in his mind's eye rather than a mere horseshoe. Or better yet, a sword. The King's Men had their own smiths, but perhaps if he couldn't make it as a warrior, he could at least forge his name among them with hammer and anvil. One day, he would show that he was more than a smith in some back woods village.

So focused was he on his work, that he failed to catch his master's studious gaze, nor when the old smith quietly slipped away, to tuck the spear head into an old chest that had never attracted Hafred's attention in all the years he had been there.

For a long time, Hafred worked that metal. Longer than it took to merely form iron into what he should be making. while his master was occupied, it felt as if invisible hands were guiding his hammer and tongs. Hafred thrust the iron into ash and coals again and again, and worked the bellows ever harder.

Hotter. it needed to be hotter. It was as if some soft, womanly voice whispered into his ear. Hotter and harder, and then thinner. Almost as if in a trance, he hammered and worked the iron, heating it until it was almost molten, then thrusting it into coals and ash once more.

He didn't even notice when his master returned, though the old smith didn't comment at all.

It wasn't until the shadows grew long that the trance finally broke. Hafred stared down at the object he had forged. It was no horseshoe, but rather a long, tapered blade. The youth blinked in surprise, and raised his eyes from his work.

Garn walked over to inspect his work, but there, in the distance, Hafred caught sight of a familiar tan dress, and long, raven tresses that quickly turned from the rear step of the Tepid Toad to duck back inside. Had Jenrea been watching the entire time?

"Not bad, boy," Garn's grudging praise caught him off guard. "Bit long for a dagger, but it ain't no sword. And it certainly ain't no horseshoe." The last was spoken with a biting tone.

"S-sorry master," All the bluster and confidence drained from Hafred.

"No matter. Tonight you stay here, grind and polish it. I ain't got no orders for a long knife, so it's yours. Consider it a bonus, not that you deserve it for wasting my time."

Hafred bowed his head as his master turned to depart. "Yes, of course."

As Garn left Hafred alone, the young man turned the blade over and over in his hands. He certainly had never tried to make a blade of any sort before. Had he picked up how to forge it simply by watching his master work? The soft whispers he thought he had heard spurring him on came back to mind, and he glanced nervously about.

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