"Strike harder", bellowed the ironsmith. "What have I told ye 'bout the iron? Ye can't bend it just by lookin' at it. Now strike!"
The yound lad looked at the ironsmith, his mouth strained from the effort. The look was neither gentle, nor frightened. It was the look of a Mhorean, proud and haughty.
That look did not escape the attention of the ironsmith, but he let that pass. These are troubled times and worrying over petty things did not help. After all the Archduchy bred free and wild spirits, never tamed ones. His dark brown eyes, a heritage of his father who left him to fight against the Goblins of Markazor in 1525 and never came back, scanned the street.
"What are ye lookin' at me boy? Bend the deamn blade. It is gettin' cold!", he shouted once again at his assistant. That young Cardon might be useless after all. Better to teach ironsmithing to a horse.
Bergynor lies in the northern parts of Torien's Watch. The ironsmith never left his village, but he had heard stories about the civilized south by a few arrogant lords, passing by on their way to serve in the Northern Border Guard. When their service was completed, their smiles were constrained and their eyes submissive. The Northern Border Guard knew how to build character. You have no time to think highly of yourself or treat others in a demeaning way when the sergeant screams in your ears, the sun strikes you on the face, and the crude yet potentially crippling goblin spears fly all around you. When you left the unit, and returned home, a hidden pride dwelled in your heart. You have been a part of the Guardians of Mhoried, and that said something about you. You learned the value of bravery, comradership and you valued life differently. You might be a noble, but you are a Guardian of Mhoried above all.
However that was one year ago. In one year everything had changed. Raedrik is dead, Mhoried is without a heir. Nowadays the Northern Border Guard is a collection of boys who try to avoid their duties, tired veterans who eagerly allow them to do so, neither of them being able to patrol the borders efficiently.
The ironsmith spat on the ground, downhearted. He looked at Cardon, trying to bend a stiff iron bar, cool and unbendable. He shaked his head dejectedly, and said in a firm voice: "Go home Cardon. Go home. It is not your fault."
The lad looked startled at him. This was not the reaction he expected from the ironsmith. He became solemn, and gathering his tools he said with a determined voice: "Tomorrow I 'll do better Master Gavyn. Ye 'll see."
Gavyn Bronwald smiled at the boy and watched him hurrying towards his farm. "Let's hope there 'll be a tomorrow, boy" , the ironsmith muttered, and begun gathering his tools.
1530. One month before Daen Wyld's claim to the Throne of Mhoried.
