The following morning, Cyrus gathered a bundle of the strange blueberries, and wrapped them in his tunic. After binding it to his waist, he memorized the path he'd take to reach the clearing, and any landmarks along the way.
'I guess it'll probably take me about half the day to reach it,' Cyrus thought. He eyed the cottage one last time, then started down the mountain, following an overgrown deer trail.
Beads of dew glistened on the stalks of grass, and silky spiderwebs hung from the bushes, spun in beautiful weaves. As he neared the base of the mountain, the forest rose to welcome him, like a mother embracing her child.
As the hours passed, a faint clanging echoed through the trees, its rhythmic beat growing louder with each step. Occasionally, it would stop for a while, but it always resumed without fail, drawing Cyrus closer to the clearing.
Finally, as the sun neared its summit, he spotted the cobblestone cottage through the trees, no farther than a hundred meters away. His chest tightened as he crept to the edge, and hid behind the cover of leaves.
The resounding clang came from an open walled hut, built beside the cottage. Smoke billowed from the top, and waves of heat radiated from the doorway. Within, an old man stood over an anvil, hammer above his head, while a shower of sparks exploded with each swing.
On the other side of the cottage, a single stall stable slanted down from the roof, occupied by a donkey of pure white fur. It appeared to be the only other occupant of the clearing, as the house was completely silent, and the only garden on the land grew just enough food for one person.
His attention shifted back to the blacksmith, who had stopped to examine his work. Curious, Cyrus leaned forward, snapping a dry twig beneath his boot. He winced, freezing as the old man jerked upright, and grabbed his hammer, before striding out of the hut.
"Is someone out there?" The question hung in the air as the man scoured the trees.
Cyrus bit his cheek, his heart pounding louder than the man's hammer had. Raising his hands, he pushed through the brush, and entered the clearing.
"My apologies. I mean you no harm, I just stumbled across your cottage as I was traveling, and hoped to ask for a bit of help."
"Are you a thief?" The man asked. He had yet to lower the hammer.
"I'd make for a poor one if I was," Cyrus said. He turned, showing his back and sides. "As you can see, I have nowhere to hide any weapons."
"What's in the bundle at your hip?"
"A few berries I found on the mountainside," Cyrus said. He slowly lowered his hands, and unraveled the cloth.
The old man leaned forward, then frowned. "You didn't eat those, did you?"
"I did… Is there a problem?"
"You're holding a stalk of fawnsrot. It's an incredibly poisonous berry, not even the beasts of the forest would eat. Did you not know that?" The man asked. He eyed Cyrus. "When did you eat them?"
"I had a few yesterday," Cyrus said. His stomach grumbled as he studied the berries. "I felt fine after eating them."
The old man's frown deepened. "Odd. You must have been quite fortunate. Even so, I'd recommend you throw those far away, and be more cautious when eating wild plants."
"I'll take your advice to heart," Cyrus said. He tossed the berries back into the woods. "You wouldn't happen to know of something I could eat, would you?"
"I'd start with a bit of bread, and some jerky." The blacksmith lowered his hammer, and tilted his head back to the cottage. "I have a bit of extra food, if you'd like it."
"I'd appreciate it," Cyrus said. "Anything would help."
"Wait here. I'll be back in a moment."
As the old man disappeared into the cottage, Cyrus glanced over at the forge. Tongs and hammers cluttered the back wall, hung on either side of a forge, while the anvil sat in the center, the metal dented from years of use.
A stack of crates rested in the corner, brimming with horseshoes, buckles, nails, and other tools. A steaming horseshoe rested on top, possessing the quality of a well experienced blacksmith.
"See anything you'd like to buy?" The old man returned carrying a dried roll, a pouch of jerky, and a mug of water.
"I'd need a horse, first," Cyrus said. He accepted the jerky first, tearing off a strip with his teeth. The salted meat dried his mouth, so he wetted his lips with the water next.
"No problem in planning ahead. I promise, I sell my wares at a decent price." The blacksmith grabbed an empty crate and flipped it over, before offering it to Cyrus. "My name's Berrodin, by the way. What's yours?"
"Cyrus." Cyrus took the crate, and sat beneath the shade of the hut.
Berrodin sat across from him, and handed him the roll. "So, tell me, Cyrus. What brings you this way, and how did you come to be lost in the woods, looking as you do? Did you run into a bit of trouble on your way?"
Cyrus downed the remainder of his water before speaking. "To be honest, I'm not quite sure. I woke on the beach yesterday, just on the other side of that mountain, with no memories of my past save my name, and this amulet as my only possession."
Berrodin arched his brow. "Were you in a shipwreck?"
"I thought it might be possible, but there were no signs of a wreckage nearby," Cyrus said. "After I found my way here, I was planning on making my way to the nearest village, or city, to see if there was any news of ships going down."
"A decent plan. The nearest village from here is Withro, though I doubt anyone there would know you. It's a small village, and besides merchants, they don't receive very many travelers. After that, there would be the city of Galeden, ruled by Lord Jallen," Berrodin said. "If someone there knew you, I'm certain they would recognize you. Your hair and eyes are enough to make you stand out."
Cyrus tugged on his reddish-gold hair. "I take it this isn't very common around these parts then. Beyond that, are there any other cities nearby?"
Berrodin leaned back on his crate, and crossed his arms over his protruding stomach. "Well, let's see here. You have Faldersel, a two month journey to the north, along the Arcoldian sea, and then Phisloke, a month and a half west, and on the other side of the Urthenhoast Mountains. Finally, there's Tulmuth, residing in the Erath desert of the south. There's others, of course, but those are the nearest three."
"Do any of them hold a tree as their emblem?" Cyrus asked, holding out his amulet.
Berrodin shook his head. "Not as far as I know. May I see it?"
Cyrus unhooked the pendant, and handed it to the old man. His hands were rough and calloused, and layered in burn scars, but he handled the gemstone with a gentle touch.
"How curious. I've never seen anything of this quality. Not even in the stalls of famous jewelers," Berrodin said. He flipped over the amulet, and ran his thumb over the inscription. "Are these runes? It's unlike any written language I've read before."
Cyrus furrowed his brow. "What are runes?"
Berrodin glanced up. "You don't know? People consider it the written language of magic. Most kingdoms have forbidden its use, but there are still remnants out there. Perhaps, if you could find someone who knew more about this, they might help you learn who you are. Of course, I'd be careful who you show this to. There are many out there who would hunt you down for it."
"I'll keep that in mind," Cyrus said. He returned the amulet to his neck, and finished the remainder of his roll, before brushing the crumbs from his trousers. "I must thank you again for the meal. Now, all I ask is that you point me in the right direction of the village, and I'll be on my way."
"Ah, all you have to do is follow the road there straight, and it'll lead you to the village," Berrodin said. He gestured towards a small dirt path, worn between the trees. "However, if you don't mind waiting a few days, I'll be heading that direction myself. I need to sell my wares, and purchase more supplies, you see."
"Are you certain?" Cyrus asked. "I don't wish to trouble you."
Berrodin waved his hand. "Oh, it'll be no trouble at all. Until then, you're welcome to stay here, and eat my food. Of course, it won't be for free. You'll need to help me finish preparing, and provide me with a bit of company."
Cyrus grinned. "Very well. I'll take you up on that offer. Seems like a fair trade to me."
Berrodin broke into a hearty laugh, his shoulders shaking as he rose to his feet. "Good! I'm glad to hear it. For now, why don't you head inside, and get cleaned up. You'll find the wash bin in the kitchen, and an empty room near the back of the hall. If you check the wardrobe, you should find some old clothes near your size. They were my sons, but I doubt he'll notice they're missing."
"He won't mind?" Cyrus asked.
"I don't see why he would. He hasn't been home in ten years," Berrodin said. His brown eyes grew distant, before he shook his head. "No, you go ahead and take what you need. Don't worry, I'll be working you hard over these next few days to pay me back twice-fold."
"Then I'll be at your mercy," Cyrus said. As he made his way to the cottage, the rhythmic clanging resumed, louder than before. Even as the door shut, muffling the noise, he could still clearly hear the old man swinging with all his might.