Chapter Ten:

Smith Grier had not lied about the amount of work; soldiers came in and out until darkness fell each day bringing with them saddles to be repaired and trapping affixed, horses to be shoed, swords to be straightened, all demanding to be first to be taken care of. While Joseph hammered away ceaselessly in the stifling heat, Grier would sit on a barrel by the door, mending bundles of arrows and sharply telling officers to 'come back tomorrow'. In spite of the steady flow of Joseph's work and the high quality with which the young man crafted weapons, Grier amused himself by raining insults on his assistant nearly all day. Joseph hardly heard them and occupied himself with work.

At the end of his first five-day work stretch, Joseph found that the expense of feed for Belator as well as his own food had depleted his personal resources down to almost nothing. Since he would not work for two days, Joseph went out early the next morning to find a day's work. Not many people needed any help; the local stables did not need another peasant to clean out stalls, three Inns had no need of any firewood chopped or any other labor.

"Why not go down and join up with the army, boy?" one Innkeeper told him, curtly. "You're a strong lad, old enough not to be lazily walking about. At least have the honor to be a soldier." Disheartened, Joseph walked back towards the village, slowing as he passed the grounds of the fort.

On the wide stretch of grass behind the Fort, partly hidden from the road by shrubs, he saw several townsfolk watching soldiers sparring to hone their skills. One area of activity caught Joseph's eye; a square of ground, fenced off with rope, about twenty foot square. Inside, a tall soldier removed his officer's coat, tossing it carelessly to a fellow officer; his sparring partner was a peasant and awkward with the blade he held. Joseph stepped in among the observers to get a closer look; it appeared this was the only entertainment to be had this time of day and rich man and poor man alike were watching. Looking around, Joseph saw a general sitting in a fine carriage not far away, watching the matches with interest.

The officer in the ring had no qualms in taking advantage of his partner's inabilities, driving the peasant into a state of fearful panic; Joseph watched as the officer toyed with the man, and then in a catlike move drove his sword right into the peasant's shoulder. The small crowd of spectators gasped as peasant dropped his sword, crying out in pain. The dark-haired officer seemed disgusted at his partner's reaction.

"Are you finished already?" the young man taunted; he circled the wounded peasant menacingly, using the tip of his blade to poke the man. "Is this all the sport I am to expect today? Useless creature!"

The young captain threw down his sword and went over to one of the ropes where a fellow officer handed him a goblet of wine. The bleeding peasant left smartly, not looking back as he went through the crowd.

"Now then, Von Curtis," another captain said to the victor. "You've been through seven partners in three days. You're not supposed to be cutting them up."

"A trifling wound," Captain Von Curtis shot back, bitterly. He handed the empty goblet back and spun around to face the onlookers. "Is there a man among you? A man fit to fight? I'll give five silvers to the man who comes into this ring with me!" The rope lifted and Joseph stood up inside the square of trampled grass. The sword the peasant had been using was still on the ground, along with a few small pools of blood. Leaning down, Joseph picked it up, never taking his eyes from the arrogant young officer.

Von Curtis' mouth twisted into a sort of grin as he saw his new sparring partner.

"A strong peasant, this one," the captain said, taking up his own blade. "Your strength can do little here. It takes training to win over an officer." The captain's mocking tone appeared to have no effect on the tall man in the rope square; Joseph leveled his steady eyes at the leering blue orbs of the young captain. As he waited the smell of the trampled grass rose up to him; his opponent walked to and fro in his corner, impatiently tapping his boot with the flat of his blade. Slowly, Joseph raised the borrowed sword to a ready position, as did Von Curtis. Quiet spread over the small audience and nothing stirred but the breeze.

The captain lunged first; Joseph deflected the blow and stepped aside quickly, almost making Von Curtis lose his balance. Someone in the crowd laughed; the captain heard this and reddened. Fierce jabs and quick lunges proved useless; Joseph walked easily around the captain, deflecting blows off his sword, all the while watching the captain's hands steadily. The audience began to chatter noisily and a cheer rose up every time Joseph dodged another lunge. After several minutes, Von Curtis jabbed at his opponent incautiously and missed his footing, falling hard onto the grass. He rolled over and sprang up, only to find himself at the point of Joseph's sword. The spectators went silent.

"Here, here," one of the other captains said, nervously. "A draw! It's a draw... how about that Von Curtis?" He stepped into the square and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "You're tired out; you've been sparring since daybreak. Pay the man and come to my house for some wine."

Joseph stepped back from the two officers and stuck the tip of the sword into the grass. Some in the crowd applauded but were silenced by a look from Von Curtis. The young captain haughtily put on his uniform and made a great show of taking out five silver coins from a heavy, red silk money pouch. Throwing them at Joseph's feet, the captain strode away, followed by the other officers.

As Joseph picked up the coins, a voice hailed him.

"You there!" Joseph stood up, looking in the direction of who spoke. A captain, not much older than Joseph came walking up to him, grinning broadly. "I saw you with Von Curtis; you're very good with a sword. You should be a soldier." Disliking the young man's smile Joseph kept his peace and nodded politely. "I'm Captain Foster," the officer continued affably. "Spar with me tomorrow. My sword skills need work."

"I need to find work tomorrow," Joseph stated, flatly, beginning to walk away.

"I'll pay you a silver..." the officer continued. Hearing this, Joseph turned and nodded at the young captain before continuing on. "Be here before noon!" Foster called after him.

Belator ate a good deal of the feed Joseph brought back from the market, but Joseph paid no mind; he had plenty of money for the week's food. Sitting down on his cot with his own supper, Joseph's thoughts were confined to how good it felt to wield a sword again, and in friendly combat. He hoped this Captain Foster would need a lot of practice.

Three weeks went by in this manner; working five days with Grier, then sparring two days with Foster and a few of his fellow officers. Von Curtis did not join in, but stood on the sides with his own entourage, mocking 'the peasant swordsman's' methods and stance. Joseph ignored this and fought each man to a draw, never inflicting a wound, nor taking one. The small sack of coins hidden under Belator's saddle slowly grew heavier; Joseph spent money only on food for him and hay for his horse.

The first morning of Joseph's forth week in Khilar, Smith Grier walked into the forge. Working the bellows, Joseph noticed the old man was dressed unusually well, for a blacksmith.

"I'm going cross town… I've er, business with Sergeant Clentyn's wife," the man informed his assistant, gruffly. "I'll be gone all day. Haven't been able to take a holiday in awhile; might do it more." Joseph gave the grizzled man a sideways look.

"Is not her husband gone with his battalion to the southern defense?" he inquired. Grier narrowed his eyes at the young smith.

"Never you mind, boy," he spat. "You have two score shoeings and all those arrows to finish." He waved towards the huge stack of bundles. "See you close up at sundown." With that Grier hurried out the door and was soon out of sight. Joseph continued pumping the bellows, though with more force than perhaps was necessary.

In the middle of hammering a shoe around the curved shaping piece, Joseph thought he heard a woman's voice outside. Laying the hammer down, he wiped his hands on his apron and went to the door. A young woman in a veil stood by a petite looking horse, looking away, towards the market; a man nearby, likely her servant was holding the reigns of her horse.

"My lady?" Joseph greeted, abruptly; he wanting to get back to his work.

"Oh…" she said, a little startled by Joseph's sudden appearance. "Ah, yes. I need... well, my horse needs new shoes."

Through the girl's veil Joseph saw she had gold-colored eyes that held a slightly nervous look; she had dark red hair. Her manner of dress was modest but finely made; the pale green color of her gown suited her well. Going over to the horse, Joseph knelt down and examined each of the small hooves; he stole looks at the young woman and met her shy glance more than once.

"Leave the horse," he said, standing. "They'll be ready by noonday." The manservant stepped forward with a money bag. Joseph waved it aside. "Pay when it's finished. Four silvers." The manservant nodded, putting the pouch in his tunic; the young woman took the servant's arm and nodded at Joseph as they walked towards the market.

Watching the young woman walk away, Joseph suddenly realized he was covered in soot and sweat, and probably smelled strongly of horses. He tied up the fine pony to the hitching post and patted the rich mane reassuringly. Back inside the smithy, Joseph threw himself into making the small shoes, affixing them to the horse's hooves as gently as possible. When the sun was almost at the top of the sky, Joseph dumped a bucket of clean water over his head in the cover of the smithy, trying to rub some of the soot away.

"Grier!"

A harsh, angry voice rang out from outside the smithy; Joseph wiped his face off and stepped out the door; an older man of medium height stood without, dressed in the manner of a farmer. The man was a bit taken aback, expecting the small, grimy blacksmith, not this formidable figure; he recovered quickly, however and rage once again overtook his features. "Where is Grier?!" The farmer glanced at the dark opening to the smithy. "Is he hiding in there? Come out you illegitimate swindler! Come out and reckon with me!"

"He left this morning," Joseph said, remaining calm. "I am Joseph, his assistant." The farmer studied his face briefly and then nodded, slowly.

"Grier shoed my good plow-horse two months ago," the man stated. "Now my horse is lame! I took him to the other blacksmith; the shoes Grier fitted were for another horse! They do not fit my horse at all!" The farmer's face grew redder as he spoke. "Grier has been over-charging me for years, but this is the last straw. Now I have to sell my horse to the butcher, for meat! I do not have enough silver to buy another plow-horse. We'll starve this winter!" Joseph looked at the man carefully; he could see no falsehood in his face. Indeed, the old farmer seemed desperate.

"Bring your horse," he instructed the man. The man's face brightened considerably; within a few moments, the farmer was leading a middle-aged horse over to the smithy hitching post. The animal's gait was hampered by a pronounced lameness. As he watched the horse limp by, Joseph was moved for the animal could have had many good years left in it, but now was good for nothing but slaughtering. As the farmer held the horses bridle, Joseph knelt down and examined one of the hooves; he saw at once that the shoe was far too big for the hoof, and had worked loose. The nails were sloppily driven, further proof that Grier had been the smith responsible. Joseph let out a sigh as he stood to face the farmer. The gray-haired man was soothing his horse with soft sounds, his face pained as the animal shifted its weight off the injured leg.

"What did you pay Grier for the shoes?" Joseph asked. The farmer looked at him grimly.

"Same as always," the man told him. "Six silvers." Joseph almost swore; townsfolk paid only four silvers.

"If the money was returned to you, would you then have enough to purchase a plow-horse?" he asked, quietly.

A small amount of hope glimmered in the farmer's eyes.

"If I sell him to the butcher as well… yes," he said, looking back at his horse.

"Wait here," Joseph told him, shortly. Dodging around the side of the smithy, he ducked into the stables behind. Taking out his money bag, Joseph counted out six silvers; the precious coins felt heavy in his palm and for a moment, he hesitated. The small amount in his hand represented half his earnings this last month. A sigh escaped him. Turning, he walked back to the smithy yard.

The farmer looked at the coins in his hand as if they were not real.

"Do not tell Grier," Joseph told him. "I would lose my position here." For the first time, the farmer's face relaxed; he nodded and even allowed himself a smile. Taking the young smith's hand, he shook it firmly.

"The Lord bless you, son," he said, with frank sincerity. "'Twill keep us alive, this will... what, with my sons dying at the Battle of Munitio and my horse gone, I'd have never broken ground to plant." He clapped Joseph on the shoulder and happily put the coins away in his tunic.

At the mention of the name Munitio, Joseph immediately harkened the battle he'd witnessed, the scores of men advancing and being mowed down by the Westerly armies. The image of the brave soldiers falling down slain while their general fled conjured up a deep grief in Joseph, so much that he was unable to speak. "My name's Mordecai," the farmer said, taking off his straw hat. "I'll find some way to repay you."

Before the young smith could reply, the farmer led the lame horse slowly away, into the market; the man's step was lighter now than when he had come. Looking after him, Joseph beheld the lady and her manservant standing fairly close by, watching the farmer and the horse as well. The young woman glanced at Joseph, a soft smile on her face. Ashamed that she'd heard of his employer's swindling, Joseph felt his face grow red and turned away to the hitching post. Taking the petite horse's bridle, he led the fine animal to its owner.

The young lady seemed pleased with the shoes. Her manservant, Harold, inspected the shoes and stood, nodding to his mistress.

"Will they need to be adjusted often?" she asked, stroking her horse's mane. Joseph considered this.

"You could come back in... seven days, to see if they still fit properly," Joseph said, trying to speak calmly. "Sometimes shoes can work loose. You don't want your horse to go lame." At this, the manservant coughed into his hand and looked away.

"We will," the young lady said her smile bright. "Thank you." She looked over at her servant. Harold took out the money pouch and gave five coins. "An extra coin, for such fast work…" the girl explained hastily. Joseph was about to protest but the girl's smile stole away his words. He stood there in the yard with a hammer in one hand, watching as the girl walked her own horse through the market, over to a fine carriage. Harold hitched the horse to the back of it and climbed up beside a uniformed driver. As they drove off the girl stole a last look at Joseph. Some moments later the young man realized he was staring at nothing and went back into the smithy. Stoking up the forge fires, Joseph found his mind wandering to more pleasant thoughts than ironwork and arrows.

The next day at dawn, Joseph stepped out the stable door and nearly tripped over a bundle of hay, place on the ground. It was enough feed for Belator for a week, tied neatly with twine. Next to the hay ad small basket sat covered with a wicker lid; unfastening it, Joseph saw a few loaves of bread within, along with dried fruit and meat. Looking around he saw no one; smiling lifted one hand up.

"Thank you Lord for Mordecai." Taking a strip of meat he tore some of the bread off for his breakfast, putting the rest away under his satchel. Belator munched some of the hay as his master stood in the door, looking out at the dew-covered yard behind the smithy.

Seven days passed; the young woman came back, with the manservant and her horse. Joseph told her to come again in a week for more adjustments. Harold never said anything about this, but grinned a good deal as Joseph explained why more adjustments might be necessary. The young lady seemed to accept the explanations, and began bringing a different horse from her father's stable each time, saying they needed new shoes. In the midst of Grier's abusive manner, the hot toil of the forge and the scoffing of the officers at the sparring matches, the young lady's brief visits were like a fresh breath of sweet air.

Some of the officers at the fort found that Joseph worked at the forge; word got around to Von Curtis and two of his fellows. They went to the smithy and demanded work on saddles and weaponry and made it a point to complain about the quality of Joseph's work to Grier, who in turn became more and more irritated at Joseph for causing trouble. Only the fact that Joseph had doubled the forge's profits kept the greedy smithy at bay.

Weeks turned into months and months into a year. The sparring matches had invoked a sort of weekly entertainment for the town and the amount of spectators grew. Officers now lined up to try to defeat Joseph, but always it would come out in a draw. The general over the fort, General Octavian Hays, watched every match from his carriage. He mentioned the 'peasant swordsman', as he was now called, often at supper to his wife and daughter.

"It is amazing the restraint he shows," Hays said one night at the table. "He never has drawn blood. I have made a tidy profit betting on him." His daughter spoke up.

"Wouldn't he be executed if he struck an officer?" she asked, interested.

"Unprovoked, yes," her father answered. "But this is a mutual agreement to spar in a match."

"I would like to see this sparring," the young woman said, stirring her soup thoughtfully.

"I have heard that there are many officers that come to fight this... peasant," said the general's wife. "Elizabeth, you should go. There are many men among them who are in want of a wife; not a Sergeant of course, but a captain, or better, a wealthy colonel."

To this her daughter said nothing, but the General laughed.

"She'll be married soon enough," he said. "Come along with me tomorrow, my dear and you can watch all you like."

The sparring had begun by the time the general drove up in his carriage. As usual, he watched from beyond the crowd but this time his veiled daughter sat with him.

"There are so many officers lined up," Elizabeth said, looking at the rope square. "Are they all going to fight the peasant?"

"Yes. Well... fight is more a barbaric word for it," the General explained. "They are sparring, really. Getting valuable practice… here comes the peasant now."

Elizabeth gasped a little as the tall young man came out from the crowd and stepped into the ring.

"Father, that's the blacksmith!" she blurted out, surprising the General.

"What blacksmith?" he asked, looking at her, puzzled. Elizabeth blushed, hoping he wouldn't see it through her veil.

"The blacksmith that Harold found," she explained hastily. "He has done all the work on our horses..."

"Is he the one doing such excellent work on my saddles?" Hays said, shading his eyes and looking at Joseph. "My horses have never been so well shod." He thought for a moment. "I have been desirous to meet him," he said, rubbing his chin with his white glove. "Perhaps I should go to the smithy."

"We could have him over for supper, Father," Elizabeth suggested, quietly.

Her father stared at her, and then he smiled.

"A peasant blacksmith, for supper?" he said, liking the idea. "Your mother would be displeased with me for days..." He chuckled to himself. "Yes. Have Harold send him over an invitation."

The match first began; over the heads of the assembled spectators, Elizabeth could easily make the young blacksmith. Watching him move and dodge the parries and thrusts from his opponent, she held her breath until the draw was called. Joseph's opponent shook hands with him before withdrawing from the square.

"He is skilled," Elizabeth remarked, leaning back against the carriage seat. Her father nodded.

"Indeed he is," the general returned, watching a new match begin. "My officers have too little experience with such swordsmanship." Elizabeth looked at her father questioningly.

"What do you mean, father?" she inquired.

"Well, any peasant can wield a blade," Hays replied. "The fighting style is often crude, though… hardly any control unless they've been trained. This young man makes a good deal of my officers appear unfit for battle." Elizabeth watched the match closely; the young captain sparring with Joseph seemed eager enough to increase his own skill; most of his fellows were outside the square, some appeared uneasy, while other jeered at the peasant swordsman.

"Are not your officers trained to fight at academy?" she asked, turning back to her father. Hays' brow wrinkled thoughtfully.

"They are to a degree," he informed his daughter. "But he has more skill than even they. Some of my captains are… well, I suppose they feel slighted by the comparison. Indeed, these weekly matches are the talk of the town; the peasant swordsman accrues praise and the townsfolk cannot help but gossip about my captains' lesser abilities." The general was quiet some moments before speaking again. "I know it is unlikely, but the way he moves indicates much training. Somewhere the boy learned ancient fighting stances, skills for which the Kingdom knights have been feared and renowned." Elizabeth mulled over this information in her mind.

"Do you mean he was a solider?" she asked. Hays shook his head.

"No, the army would not have discharged such a valuable fighter… and a smith to boot. Perhaps he grew up among soldiers… a father or uncle may have taught him the sword."

They watched the rest of one match and then drove home.

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