Fred Ironheart's Arc

Chapter 3 of 9

Fred filled Garrick's orders for a week. Blades stacked on the rack, and every one went to Garrick's buyers. But no hero in Gildenshire knew Fred's forge existed. He needed a name of his own. A name would bring work he could be proud of. He stood in the doorway and watched the empty road. No one came. Then a black horse turned off the road, pulling a chariot. The old adventurer who had chained Fred to this bond climbed down. Marcus Thornberry, Garrick's estranged brother, brushed dust from his vest. A great silver-grey wolf padded at his side, dark purple eyes fixed on Fred. Marcus had talked Fred into the contract. Fred still owed him for the field. He owed him for the chains too. "You look grim for a man who owns a forge," Marcus said. "I own the forge. Garrick owns the work," Fred said. "No hero knows I'm here." Marcus grinned. "That I can fix. I still know a few people worth knowing." He opened a chest in the chariot, silver and gold, and counted out coins. "Enough to buy iron and ore. I'll spread word to old friends. Fighters. Guards. People who need steel." Fred frowned. "Garrick sells every blade I make. Word only fills his purse." "Not every blade," Marcus said. "The contract binds your blades. Say nothing of small things. Trinkets. Buckles. Nails." He tapped the chest lid. "A smith who gives gifts is a smith people remember." Fred looked at his hammer. The idea took hold. He lit the forge. He melted scrap and worked it small. He made iron rings, belt hooks, tiny pendants shaped like anvils. His huge hands moved careful and slow. By dusk a tray of trinkets sat cooling on the bench. Marcus rode out with his coins and his wolf. Fred set the tray by the road. When travelers passed, he offered a trinket free. A merchant took a hook and turned it in the light. A farmer's son pinned an anvil pendant to his coat. Fred pointed to the smithy behind him. "Fred Ironheart forged it," he said. "Remember the name." Three days later, riders came. Marcus had done his work. Two guards from a distant hold stood in the doorway, one wearing a small iron ring Fred had given a passing trader. "We heard a giant smith works here," the taller guard said. "We need blades for our company. Twenty of them." Fred's chest lifted. Heroes at his door at last, asking for his steel. Then the weight dropped back. "I can forge them," he said slowly. "But every blade I make is sold through Garrick Thornberry. The coin goes to him, not me." The guards traded a look. "Then we'll speak to this Garrick," the taller one said. They rode off toward Garrick's holding. Fred stood alone. His name had spread. The heroes had come. But their gold would fill Garrick's purse, and now Garrick would know the demand Fred had built. The bond had just grown teeth.