The Kingdom / Chapter 01.03 - "The Blacksmith"
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
CLANK!
CLANK!
The hammer struck steel, sending a spray of sparks spiraling to the floor, fizzling as they fell. Up it swung again, only to drop downward once more, igniting from the iron another frenzy of firefly lights. The blacksmith set his mouth, humming softly as he struck a third time, then a fourth, each swing of the mallet molding the metal a little more, his muscular arm flexing with each arc. A ferrous ring filled the room, and the sound of steel against steel tapped out a cadence to the man's silent song.
CLANK!
CLANK!
Some may have looked at the smith and thought him a brute; tall, broad-shouldered, burly, with a scar where his left eye should have been. At first blush, he came off brusk and blunt, perhaps even humorless, but that had more to do with his history than his attitude. Mathieu D'Andres, contrary to all appearances, was a kind man with a jovial heart and gentle spirit – or so his young wife, Catherine, would say. His humor, however, was influenced by his orphaned youth in the heart of France, and often came across as cruel or demeaning, even when he only meant to lighten the mood. As such, he kept mostly to himself, living on the profits made from several minor inventions and what work he could find in the small town of Bristol.
Mattieu felt a tug at his belt, a small hand hanging from the thick leather strap. Setting his hammer down, he turned to the child who had wandered into his shop. “Ah, Fille Sonja. It is an unforeseen honor to have you visit. What can I do for you, Mademoiselle?”
The girl looked up at him with bright eyes, her smile honest and innocent. She tugged at her braid with her free hand, then gave him an exaggerated shrug. “Mama wants you to come to lunch.”
He grinned, then bent down to pick the girl up, setting her straddling his hip. Holding onto her with one hand, he hefted the hammer with the other, spinning it in his grip. “But surely you know, bebe, Monsieur Mallet has a job to do. Now run along, and tell your mother I will be there soon.” He lowered her to the ground, then stood and turned to face his work again.
“But Papa!” she complained. “Mama said not to come back without you.”
D'Andres chuckled, a rolling noise that stood stark against the rush of the forge. “Oh, she did, now?” He turned to his daughter again, giving her a playful smirk. “I do not suppose we can disappoint her, then, now can we?”
Sonja shook her head, her gaze locked on his. “Nooo, we can't. You know she doesn't like to be disappointed, Papa.”
Mattieu walked around the anvil, reaching over the coals to turn down the forge's fire. The rushing torrent of flame flicked to a light, hissing blaze, and he turned to his current work, looking at it longingly. The shop was his life, or the life he had made for himself, in any case, and other than his family, it was his only love. Very little could pull him from his tools, his forge, his anvil, as long as some work already begun remained unfinished, but his wife – without whom he would be little more than a mechanical man, a machine toiling day and night with no emotion or ambition – he could not deny. Nor could he turn down his daughter, the jewel of his heart.
Either the smithy was attached to the house or the other way around, Mattieu had never really decided which was the case. It was a convenience that allowed him to work later hours and still be accessible to his family; they ate together three times most days, meals lovingly prepared by Catherine, who always seemed to manage a veritable feast. Today, if his nose was to be believed, they would eat [i]coq au vin[/i], a fricassee of rooster cooked in wine with back bacon, mushrooms, and garlic. No doubt a salad would be served on the side, drizzled with a vinaigrette, all followed up by a chocolate soufflé.
“Ah, mon minet, I have come, just as the bebe has commanded,” he called, his voice thick.
In a flash, she was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a taunting smile curling her lips. “Oh have ye now? And do ye think you'll be havin' even a bite of this meal looking like that, sir?” Her ginger hair swirled down to hang in front of one eye and she pushed it back behind an ear with her free hand. “Come on, hop to it. Wash up.” She waved him off, brandishing a ladle.
“Oh, Mama!” Sonja rolled her eyes and giggled.
“Now don't ye be Mama-ing me, little lady. No doubt ye've been playing with the Batson boy. Why look at those fingernails!” She gave her daughter a wink, then shooed her off to the washroom and was just about to disappear back into the kitchen when a bell rang, sounding out the arrival of a visitor. Four steps took her to the front door, which she swung open. On the porch stood a young man of perhaps fifteen or sixteen years with unkempt hair and wrinkled clothes, a cap clenched in his hands. “Well now, what is it?” she asked impatiently.
“I'm um... here to see, er, Moan-Sure Matthew Duh-Andrews?”
She almost laughed, would have, if she was not certain it would be a major blow to the young man's ego. “Monsieur Mattieu D'Andres,” she corrected him,” is busy at the moment, lad. What kin I do for ye?”
“Well, I have a delivery,” he said, a little more certain of himself now that he was past saying the blacksmith's name. “A package for, er, the smith.”
“I see. What do ye have for us, now?”
“Horseshoes, ma'am,” he said, his hand waving his cap out behind him to indicate a cart with a rather large pile of used iron. “Thrown shoes, and broken ones, ma'am,” he added.
“Well it's just going to have to wait, laddie,” Catherine returned. “My husband is just about to have lu--” Her response was cut short by a blinding light that filled the air over the vale of Bristol, followed a fraction of a second later by a thunderous CRACK! and a high-pitched whistle.
“What in name of Saint Jude..?” she said, staggering back into the room. The stable boy turned and was staring in awe as a dozen green beams speared from the clouds above into the town.
It was only moments before Mattieu appeared again, his eyes wide with an emotion that could only be interpreted as dread. Catherine watched with trepidation as he made his way to the door, gazing out over the village. A single syllable spilled over his lips as he stepped back and slipped an arm around his wife, pulling her protectively to his side.
“Merde!” he swore.
“Papa, what is it? What's going on?” Little Sonja wrapped her arms around his leg and he reached down to ruffle her hair comfortingly.
“They are back,” he said simply. “The Rikti have returned.”
