1 Chapter 1: Asleep in the Forge

The smell of well roasted pig drifted out from the master's house. The week was over and tomorrow only the apprentice smiths would use the forge, their master sleeping off a belly full of beer and fat. A bundle of sticks and a small pile of burnt stones were dropped inside the doorway as the orphan boy sat down. He'd woken up far too early but there wasn't a single excuse that'd save the boy from letting the fires go out before dawn. That was what the sticks were for: to keep Connor occupied.

The village wasn't large enough to remain anonymous or even pretend disdain for rumors. Secrets were passed along like the offering plate each Lord's day, and for every clatter of iron coin there was a whisper of betrayal, sin, and of the orphan who slept through the noontime gathering every day. The boy has no time for God, the whispers said with a ring of iron on silver. The boy doesn't belong with our children or our village, said the whisperer. We don't want ashes in here. Clink.

Connor never heard these whispers but knew that no other children would speak with him when he woke up in the afternoon. They laughed that he was lazy and their parents chided him for waking so late in the day. No one should be awake so deep in the night that the afternoon was their morning. Only Connor and a dozing guard could be seen once the moon rose over the Northeastern ridges.

Every evening, the empty forge would be passed over to Connor as the charcoal burned into ashes. There were no pranks and no one would interfere directly with the forge. That would risk hours of humiliation as the people involved were bound to the punishment stone completely naked except for a crotch covering. In this village being seen without proper clothing was enough to shame anyone into silent obedience, let alone the binding and public declaration of criminal behavior.

As he had for the last few months, Connor shaped the charcoal and ashes into a pile that would burn slow and steady until dawn had arrived. Rain would simply harden the ash and wind would pass over the embers. Connor would sharpen the fire-hardened sticks into miniature spears and sell them for half an iron coin each. The first twenty sticks would buy Connor's singular meal of the day, eaten with the smith and his family. Eight more sticks would let Connor wash with soaps.

Tonight was unlit by the moon in the sky, a night of fear and dark stories told to children. This village was deeply embedded in the kingdom and had never faced any threat other than dark nights and ignorant bandits. The king's word protected this village, a promise to defend this little town with an army so long as the forge was lit. This promise was embroidered on banners and stamped on leather armors, a unity that kept the entire world from attacking this corner of the king's land.

Connor fell asleep while the moon was dark and long before dawn. Only twenty seven sticks were finished and the last one burned brightly in the darkness and carried the blaze above the ash rings. As the eclipsed moon hid itself for another year, a dark shadow smothered the ember and wrapped a thick cloak around the sleeping orphan. He would bleed on the punishment stones beside the smith's family, and the smith himself would be dead by the next moonrise. The king was coming.

The smell of the pork roast was sour to the shadow man who breathed deep, and vanished.