Three Links
Misty sun shafts radiated from between the trees of a wide forest, mixed slowly into fiery clouds that painted a late summer sunrise. Rising from the turrets that dotted Braewood’s gray city walls, colorful banners whipped in the blustery wind, high above hundreds of tents huddled at the city’s eastern gate. Families from all over the Isle slept within those tents, snug under their blankets. Iron pots, pans, and ladles, hung alongside wooden forks and spoons, sang a chaotic song, jostled by the gusts, like the grandest of dwarven wind chimes. Nearby, mules and horses stirred as they slumbered.
To the west, gathered along cliff-side ramparts, seagulls rapidly blurted their calls, scavenging for crumbs, shooed away by the watchmen patrolling there. Far below, ocean waves crashed against long piers, old tar-coated pilings, and rocky shores. A merchant’s carrack creaked as the choppy sea rocked her in port, her sails raised, her mighty beams decorated for the coming harvest celebration. A durable, rope-pulled elevator creaked as its operators slowly ascended the cliff, headed for Braewood’s warehouses.
North of the city, blurred candlelight brightened the thick windows of dozens of sturdy wood homes. Traders, farmers, and smiths loaded carts and wagons with their tools and wares, hitched up their horses, and slowly made their way south along the broad dirt road that led to Braewood’s north gate. Cart by cart, they passed into town, waved on by sleepy guards who knew every one of them by sight, and greeted some by name.
Within the walls, the city streets bustled, as bellringers joined a procession of vendors trundling their pushcarts along the cobbled byways toward the market square. Young men and women, dressed in coats and caps, sang cheerful songs as they decked the town with garlands of goldenrod, clover, and peony. The scents of oat, wheat, and barley breads, fresh out of the oven, wafted from the bakeries. Aromas of lamb and barley stew filled the common rooms of the city’s taverns and inns.
Near the northwest extent of Braewood’s market square, Orgroth guided his cart into the stable attached to his smithy. He was strong, with forge-weathered, sage-green skin, pointed ears, and a pair of thick tusks that jutted up from the sides of his lower jaw. As he shuttled his tools inside, his wife, Ognara, unhitched their mare, brushed her, and stabled her. Ognara was strong too, with pointed ears and stunted tusks, and her light green skin was every bit as weathered as her husband’s. They were young, with black hair and blue eyes.
Their son, a boy of four years, sprang from under a canvas tarpaulin at the back of the cart. He mustered a fearsome, if high-pitched, “Raugh!” Armed with a pair of iron drifts, he charged at his imaginary foes.
With a smile, Orgroth approached his son. “Ortog, my boy.”
Ortog gritted his teeth, his tusks little more than a pair of nubs peeking up from his lower lip. He whooshed and hissed, spun around, and slashed the drifts through the air. Suffering an imaginary blow, he closed his eyes and arched his back.
“Attention, soldier!”
His son snapped out of his trance. “Father!”
“After you’ve finished slaying that dragon, please put the drifts in the bottom drawer.” Orgroth pointed past the stable door into the heart of the smithy. “Okay?”
Ortog nodded. “Actually, ten of them attacked me, father, and I’ve only killed one so far. It’s going to take a while.”
“You can kill one more dragon, then I’m going to need the other eight to go back to their lairs for the day. Okay?”
Ortog’s shoulders sank. “Okay.” He trudged to the far side of the cart, where he gleefully resumed his battle.
“He takes after you,” teased Orgroth, and he gazed at Ognara.
“No, he takes after your thrice-great grandfather. He was the dragonslayer.”
“But you’re the one who tells his stories by the hearth every night.” He pulled her into a loving embrace, and they kissed. “For which I am eternally grateful.”
“You’d better be!” Ognara jabbed Orgroth’s side, and he guffawed as she tickled him mercilessly.
They parted, and Orgroth crossed the smithy into the shop. He strolled past bins full of arrowheads, nails, screws, bolts, hinges, and assorted fasteners, past a row of sickles, a wooden bucket full of horseshoes, and a display stand full of locks and kitchen utensils. Near the front of the shop, a weapon rack displayed various swords and axes, beside three armor stands draped in shirts of gleaming mail.
He opened the doors that faced the market square. Wind gusted inside, rocking the wooden signboard that hung over the shop’s exterior entryway. It displayed “Three Links Smithy”, set under three beveled, overlapping rings.
Within the smithy, Ognara loaded the forge’s firepot with charcoal. She used a pair of tongs to move a hot coal over from the hearth and stoked the firepot with an old bellows. Ortog raced past her toward the tool drawers with the drifts in hand, and she smiled.
A single note rang from the market’s bell tower, and the guards drew open Braewood’s east gate. Excited chatter grew into an approaching din as the laughter of visitors mixed with vendors calling out their wares. Jugglers wowed their audiences, and minstrels played songs everyone sang along to. On nearby stages, costumed men and women acted out comedies and tragedies, and a falconer drew gasps from a crowd amazed by the tricks his banded kestrel had mastered.
♦ ♦ ♦
Dressed in tattered finery and bearing a sturdy rucksack, a diminutive fellow with lime-green skin, wide, pointed ears, and a prominent nose crossed into Orgroth’s shop. He had brown eyes and gangly arms that swung noticeably with each step he took. “I need nails, my friend! Thirty-two nails, but I’ve only got twenty-two skells.”
Orgroth crossed his arms. “Good morning to you too, Banderwal. How are Eggna and the kids?”
“Great, they’re great.” He grabbed a pouch from within his rucksack; it jingled as he passed it over. “Here’s everything I got.”
Orgroth counted out the copper coins. “It’s one skell per nail. You know that.”
“How about this?” He unslung his pack, reached inside, and set down a cylindrical mass wrapped in butcher paper. “Is this worth ten skells?”
“It might be, if I knew what it was.”
“Five pounds of steelhead filets.”
Orgroth snorted. “I can go fishing for free!”
Banderwal’s eyes twinkled as he pled, “Please, I’ll pay you back. I always do. And you can keep the fish.”
“What do you need the nails for?”
“My cousin, Agbolt, came over from Avan with a chestnut pony, but there’s no way anyone’s gonna buy the beast unless it’s shod.”
“Does that mean you need horseshoes, too?”
“No, she’s got those.” Banderwal leaned in close. “Just don’t ask me how she got ‘em.”
Orgroth counted out ten coins and set aside the pouch. “Take what you need.” He passed Banderwal the loose coins. “You’d better hold on to these. Just in case.”
His friend grinned. “Right, just in case. It is Harvest Tide for the whole rest of the week, after all.”
“Pay me back when you can.”
“I will!” Banderwal set his rucksack before the bin of nails and gingerly acquired his purchase.
From the market square, a girl’s voice insisted, “Dad, I want to see inside!”
A deep voice asked, “The smithy?”
“Yes.” She stepped into view, a girl of seven with medium brown skin, wild hair, and brown eyes. She wore a green cloak, nice clothes, and a pair of good boots. The man she led inside had dark brown skin, and rugged traveling attire hung upon his lean frame.
“Greetings, good sir orc,” said the man. “I’m Jyo, and this is my daughter, Ellanie.”
Orgroth stood straighter, his jaw squared defiantly. “What’ll it be, human?”
Jyo offered his hand. “Introductions, I hope.”
With a curious look, he gripped Jyo’s hand. “Orgroth.” They exchanged handshakes.
Banderwal glanced at Jyo and Ellanie. “You two might be the first proper humans I’ve seen set foot in this particular establishment all year!”
“Come on, now.” Orgroth regarded Banderwal questioningly. “We’ve got the cheapest nails and screws in the city. Humans don’t exactly shun this place.”
“The polite ones do.” Banderwal set the last of the nails inside his pack and raised his hand. “Hey, just telling it like I see it.”
“And who are you, good sir goblin?” Jyo asked.
“None of your bee’s wax, that’s who.” Banderwal cinched his rucksack and slung it over his shoulder. “See you around, Orgroth.” He paused at the door and cast the orc a backward glance. With a wink, he added, “Thanks for the assist.” Banderwal hurried along the market square’s cobbled streets and disappeared around a fireworks stand. Coming from the opposite direction, a drummer led a soldier on horseback, and behind him followed ranks of human mercenaries decked in chain armor and fanciful blue tabards. The soldier’s standard whipped in the breeze.
Jyo wandered over to the stand full of locks and kitchen utensils. “All your wares look like they’re of the finest quality. Aside from a brusque customer or two, I can’t see why anyone would be rude to you.”
Orgroth quietly cleared his throat. “You’re from Fargah?”
“You have a good ear for accents.” Jyo noticed Ortog peeking nervously from behind the smithy’s doorway. “Fargah, born and raised.”
“That’s quite a trek.”
Jyo nodded. “It’s worth it. No other place on the planet of Espyrea, on any of her strata, brings in the harvest like Braewood, on the isle-kingdom of Asairde.”
Orgroth raised his brow. “Even so, the only time I ever see anyone from that far south is when they’ve been invited here.” Pointedly, he looked outside the shop to the castle keep, its south end barely visible from where he stood. “Usually for a meeting.”
Jyo laughed. “You’ve a keen mind, sir orc! I imagine not much slips by you, Orgroth… ?”
“Ra’gosh. Orgroth Tal Orka Ra’gosh.”
Jyo whistled appreciatively. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard that name. Tal Orka is a royal line.”
Orgroth glanced away. “Three hundred years ago, perhaps.” He took a deep breath and mustered a polite smile. “What can I interest you in, Jyo from Fargah?” He waved his arm, showing the entirety of his shop. “My wife is at the forge, if you’re more interested in seeing a blacksmith at work. For a reasonable fee, at midday every day this week, she guides customers through forging a simple creation of their own making.” He glanced toward the smithy. “Although I believe she’s booked up through tomorrow. If you’re interested and are planning to be here on Wednesday, you’d be wise to book an appointment with her now.”
Straight-armed, Ellanie pointed at Ortog. “I’d like to meet the boy who’s been hiding behind the doorway.”
Ortog stepped out, puffing his chest. “I wasn’t hiding! I was just making sure the dragons weren’t going to attack you. Dragons like the taste of humans best, you know.”
Ellanie crossed her arms. “Dragons aren’t real. Everyone knows that.”
“Actually, I’ve heard we’re pleasantly crunchy and quite delicious when roasted slowly in a nice cameline sauce,” teased Jyo, and he lowered himself to perch eye level with Ortog. “Who might you be, little dragonslayer?”
Orgroth stood protectively in front of his son. “He’s no concern of yours.”
“I’m Ortog,” declared the boy, and he strode over to shake Jyo’s hand. “Ortog Ognar!”
“Well met, Dragonslayer Ortog.” Jyo glanced toward the smithy. “Your mother’s name is Ognara?”
“That’s right! Ognara Vek Urth Tharaka.” Ortog tilted his head. “Do you know her?”
Jyo straightened. “I don’t, but I know the traditional naming convention of orcs.”
“I don’t appreciate the manner of your questions,” snapped Orgroth. “If you’re not buying anything, I have to ask you to leave.”
Jyo bowed with a look of regret. “Forgive me, good sir orc. As you supposed, I am here by invitation. I’m the High Soothsayer, and it’s my business to ask questions. I meant no disrespect.” He rested his hand on Ellanie’s back. “Come, dear daughter. I have worn out our welcome.”
Orgroth’s eyes widened. “You’re High Sooth… Soothsayer Jyo Crombie! You’re that Jyo, from Fargah!”
“That’s right.” He bowed again and led Ellanie toward the threshold. “Don’t hold it against me.”
“Against you? Sir, you’re beloved among orcs, elves, goblins, and dwarves alike! You investigate wrongs committed against us when no other soothsayers see us as worthy of their time!” Orgroth took a deep breath. “Jyo Crombie, you are always welcome in my shop, no matter how many questions you—” The bell tower clanged wildly, cutting him off, and screams filled the market square.