The last time they rang the city bells in Gesa, it was because of the blood fever. The bells were rung to summon people to bring the dead out to be burnt.
The blood fever was an disease known for weakening the bones and trapping its victims in a fever dream that few woke up from. Worse of all, it was infectious. This meant that bodies of the dead had to be burnt to ash.
Gesa and other cities around it had barely survived the blood fever. It spared only very few.
Now the bells were ringing again. It all came back to Arindor as if it had happened yesterday: the bonfire outside the gates, bodies laid in heaps, like garbage. The fever had taken his parents, leaving him to fend for himself.
Arindor could not move. His blood ran cold and he was unable to breathe. He was once more in that awful time. His mother's face again. Blue. Hollow. Panic shot through him.
"Arindor," a gentle voice cut through his terror. Eloween laid her hand on his arm. "It's all right. You're here." The hold on his arm stayed firm, her touch steady. She knew what it was like. She'd lost her mother to the fever too.
Arindor took a shaking breath and nodded, though his chest ached. About them, the marketplace seemed to be in a bustle. People were shoving past each other, voices buzzed with anxious whispers. Rumor swirled all about the market—the fever had returned, the city was going to be invaded, or worse.
"We have to go," Eloween said, her face tense as she look around. She tugged him gently toward the path leading back to the Fonrir blacksmith shop. Too numb to do anything else, he let her lead him. Her presence was soothing.
In the shop, they found Fonrur slouched in an old chair by the door, snoring, a faint scent of ale around him; his thinning brown hair was streaked with grey.
Eloween offered to help him get the old man inside, but Arindor shook his head. "I've got it. You head home. Your brothers might be out there, and with the bells…" he trailed off, searching for words, but she understood. Her brothers were young, reckless, always charging through the streets, just like he once had been. And with the bells ringing, everybody was tense.
She nodded and for a moment remained in one place. Her fingers touched his hand. "Be safe," she said quietly, turning for one last look. He felt her warmth but did not answer. She turned and slipped back into the busy crowd.
Arindor grunted with a sigh and turned to Fonrir. "Come on, old man," he growled, tugging the other to his feet. Most barely stirred. It was something that Arindor became quite used to-having to wake him up from drunken naps. The man loved his wine and ale, and there were days when Arindor wondered if any in Gesa could match him in drinking.
Grunting, he half-dragged Fonrir over to an empty table and laid him down with a huff. Slumping against the forge, he caught his breath-only to hear Fonrir mumbling.
"Arindor… that… pretty blonde girl…" Fonrir slurred, giving a sloppy grin as he squinted in Arindor's general direction. "When're you gonna stop dawdlin' and get serious with her?"
Arindor's face coloured as he stuttered to reply. "Just… sleep, would you?" He cast a glance at the door, half hoping Eloween would pop back in and overhear the old man's ramblings.
Fonrir chuckled, a scratchy sound. "Ain't much time, lad. Sit too long, and some other lad's bound to snatch her up. Plenty of men in Gesa would love a girl like her."
Arindor turned back to his work. He clutched his hammer more tightly and focused on the glowing hot metal, trying to shut out Fonrir's words. Still, they struck a little too close to home. There was an aspect in which he couldn't escape the truth: a nagging fear perhaps that he was allowing something of value to slip through his grasp. He wanted a workshop of his own. A family, like his parents had. He'd worked at Fonrir's for years, saving gold and gathering skill to achieve it. He dreamed of moving to another city, starting fresh. He would take Eloween with him—if she'd agree.
As he hammered, Fonrir stirred again. His eyes cracked open, peering at Arindor with a somnolent stare.
"Arindor…" Fonrir's voice was husky, his gaze distant. "Your mother… she was the most beautiful thing in this city.
Arindor halted, eyes on Fonrir, at a loss where he was taking this but expecting the rambling course of the conversation, for Fonrir did much talking when he had too much ale; seldom, if ever, did he mention Arindor's mother.
The corners of Fonrir's eyes softened, and he smiled faintly. "I courted her once, long ago. Thought I had a chance. She was. everything. Bright, sharp, with that red hair she gave you. She wasn't one to be easily won over." His gaze drifted. "And then. he showed up."
"Who?" Arindor's voice was barely a whisper.
"Your father." The word was a low growl from Fonrir's lips, a hint of respect and a bitter chuckle. "Good-looking bastard, had a smile that could charm the birds from the trees. The moment I saw them together, I knew I'd lost her." A sad smile curled his lips. "She deserved better… so did he, I suppose. But I did what I could."
The quiet shop was thick with the echo of Fonrir's words, as if the very shadows sucked them in. Arindor's chest tightened. The man who had taken him in, who had trained him, raised him, did it for his mother's memory.
He had barely gotten through the thought when Fonrir sank back into sleep, snoring softly. He hefted up his hammer and slipped back into the rhythm of work as the glowing red metal rang out under his strikes, filling the shop with the steady clang of iron as he poured thought into each hit.
Then the door burst open. Arindor flinched, turning to see River, Fonrir's other apprentice, dashing in with his eyes wide. River was everything Arindor wasn't: dark-haired, lazy, with a cleft chin and a cocky grin.
"Did you hear?" River exclaimed, buzzing with excitement. "The king's crier just announced it—every lad and lass between sixteen and thirty's to report to the palace at dawn!"
Arindor paused mid-swing. "Why?"
River beamed with an even broader grin, his eyes alight with rising hope. "The king's got something planned! A call to arms, maybe! We could see the palace, meet the king, maybe become something—something big!
The wave swept through Arindor, and he could not tell if excitement or fear had reared its head. His gaze fell to his hands clutching the metal, feeling the weight of the sword. This was all life had been - this forge, this simple rhythmic cadence of iron and fire. But now… the world beyond Gesa suddenly seemed close.
River slapped him on the back, his face alight with a wide grin. "Think of it, Arindor! We could be knights! Heroes! We might make a name for ourselves!"
A pang of longing hit him. He wanted more than this. A life beyond the forge. Yet he was terrified, too. The last time he'd ever dared to hope, he'd lost everything.
Then, from outside, the town crier's voice boomed through the air, his repetition of River's message given with a calm authority that sent the hairs on Arindor's neck standing to attention.
"By order of His Majesty, all young men and women between sixteen and thirty are to report to the palace at dawn. Any who refuse shall answer to the king in person."
River was infectiously enthusiastic. "Come on, Arindor! It's our chance!
But Arindor hardly heard him, lost in his thoughts. Behind him, Fonrir snored, unsuspecting of the summons that might change everything. The old man slept, the forge burned, and outside the bells kept ringing.
Arindor turned back to the sword, his grasp on the hammer tightening. He would go. But what would he find there? And was he truly ready for the answer?