KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  As the smithy emerged from the cellar, he could hear the demanding cries of men outside his walls.

  “This is the South Rock Regional Guard!” yelled the stern voice of a man,“ By high order of his Majesty King Radulf the Third, and in accordance with General Public Safety Protocols, all elves and elf-kin are to be apprehended and detained. We demand that all resident elves surrender themselves immediately, and the premises be made accessible for searching. Failure to comply may result in further sentencing, with a possible penalty of execution!”

  In his left hand, the smithy held a large tin jug filled to the brim with Ale. He’d taken a moment to walk towards his window to gaze upon his visitors before reaching for the lantern he’d left by the hatch—three men, he saw, marked by the prominent light of their lanterns in the dark. One by the door was knocking and looking around, trying to glimpse any sort of activity within the home. The other two were a couple of yards out, the first, reading off a large sheet of paper, while a second, taller man, stood firmly staring ahead.

  Placing the jug of overflowing liquid upon the centre piece of his kitchen, the smithy made his way to the door, swinging it open assertively. The sudden movement shocked the young soldier by the door into recoil. He’d been gazing right at the heavily wrinkled visage of the old smithy by the door. He’d propped up a welcoming smile, which sent a pinkish blush all over his cheeks that bunched up above his beard, giving him a sort of gnomish likeness.

  “Hello!” he beamed. The younger man looked back towards his accomplices as if to ask for assistance.

  “Well, Good evening there, sir,” shouted a man from the back, raising his hand in greeting before marching towards the door. The other, who held the manuscript, was walking right behind him, folding it into his backpack.

  Now that they stood closer, the Smith could take a better glimpse at their attire. They were the local guard, true. Dressed in a blue-gray buttoned coat that fell just above their knees, their waists were decorated with a thick leather belt, where a standard-issue pistol and sabre sat on either side of their hips. Their bleached white pants were contrasted by a pair of glossy black boots that matched domed caps on their heads. Two insignias decorated the lapels of their coats, in the shape of woven badges, were the bright red poppies of South Rock and the Asgardian stag.

  “The name is Maxime, Captain Maxime Ovelle,” claimed the larger man, as he finally reached the doorstep and stood before the Smithy. Considerably taller than the smithy and only slightly larger than his companions, his broad shoulders made him quite an imposing figure. It was clear to see that he was in charge of the other two from his behaviour alone, but the markings on their gold-dyed epaulets had confirmed that without a doubt. “The other men here are Privates Sylvian and Walshland.” They took a men to give nods of acknowledgement before the captain continued, “Quite chilly outside, you mind if we come in?”

  “Oh, please do!” boomed the smithy, making way for the visitors to waltz in.

  Once inside, the men took off their caps, a sign of courtesy, and began to visually survey the perimeter of the room they stood in. Their hulking captain bore a more venerable guise; his emerald eyes, stalwart and sharp, told stories of a hardened past. His skin, aged yet unwrinkled, looked dull against the waxy sheen of his slicked hair and thick mustache. It would be unfair for one to describe him as old, yet he was no youngster; his best years not too far behind and his worst not too far off either.

  The other boys, however, looked to be barely of drinking age, if so at all.

  Sylvian, the manuscript reader, had more local features. He had wide brown eyes, fair skin, and dirty-blond wavy hair that he wore in a bob. Handsome and boyish, his eyes darted around every corner of the home as he looked for clues to claim some sort of personal triumph above his peers.

  Walshland, the door knocker, appeared more Northern. He had dark hair and innocent blue eyes that sat upon his unassuming face. Above his lips, he sported a light moustache, which, along with his slicked-back hairstyle, resembled a nod of admiration to his superior. He was coyly looking at the floor and avoiding eye contact as a means of eluding conflict.

  “Excuse me for being so late, I was fetching you boys some drink! It’s how you call it,” he paused before boastfully laughing, “Northern hospitality!”

  “Well, usually,” explained the Captain,” I am against drinking during work hours, but it seems we have long surpassed that, am I right?” He looked back at the boys with a playful smile; they nodded back with excitement.

  As the men took their respective seats, the Smithy poured them each a frothing mug of ale before sitting into his seat with the half-full jug as his own portion. Walshland had refused to drink, respectfully shaking his head and pushing his drink away. The other three, however, were quick to raise their mugs in silent cheers before hurling the liquid down their gullets. Grinning widely, the smithy let out a contented sigh of pleasure, a sentiment his visitors struggled to share.

  “Oh,” remarked the captain, furrowing his brows and attempting to be as subtle as he could, “Northern, you said?”

  Sylvian had taken to spitting out his drink in a spray of discontent, viciously rubbing his tongue with his sleeve as he winced in agony.

  “Sylvian, please,” begged an embarrassed Walshland.

  “Shut it, Walshie,” retorted Sylvian.

  Giggling at the exchange, the Smithy replied, “Yes, indeed. All the way from Black Forest.”

  “Explains the Gulch Ale,” said the Captain, “If I hadn’t seen you drink it yourself, I’d have thought you were trying to poison us.”

  The ale was warm and thick, its texture like flowing sheets of velvet on the tongue. Pale white froth veiled its dark, almost black tint, which distinguished it from the lighter lagers of the region. Its taste was remarkably bitter and tart, awfully unpleasant for those unfamiliar with it. A favourite in the far North, Gulch Ale was a cultural staple, integral to all who acquired its taste.

  They both laughed. Walshie did too. Sylvian grimaced.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr…?” questioned the Captain.

  “Oleg,” responded the Smithy.

  “Ah yes, Mr Oleg. While I appreciate your hospitality, I believe it is best we cut to the chase, isn’t it?” the Captain requested, to which the Smithy approvingly nodded, stroking his beard.

  “We’re here on official business, you see. It seems we’ve had a sort of elf madness outbreak, the first one in decades,” he continued,” You wouldn’t happen to have any elves around here, would Mr.Oleg?”

  “O, no, sir. I am but a humble man; I get all my work done myself,” he responds, raising his hands to display his worn, calloused palms. The captain nodded softly, looking right at the smithy as he waved towards Walshland, who took off from his seat to begin probing the far ends of the house. The smith’s eyes followed the young private as he walked by before setting back down at the Captain in front of him.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Long way from home,” asked the captain.

  “Business goes where business goes. Also, the weather’s much better down here.”

  “Damn right.”

  They nodded before a moment of silence.

  “Big house, got any family? Wife? Kids?”

  “Used to… Wife and a daughter,” responded the smith, a painful weight to his voice,” Lost them to a clan raid while I was on duty.”

  He looked down at his empty flask, shaking his head in regret.

  “Must have been 20… no… 30 years now. Birna would’ve been a mother. Children of her own. Grandchildren of mine.”

  The air at the table had changed; the dreadful seriousness of the topic had brought a dense unease to the participants. Even Sylvian had changed his expression to one more remorseful and empathetic.

  “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to…” stuttered the Captain.

  “It’s alright. ’Twas long ago. I left that life behind, left the army, and started a new one here,” explained the Smithy.

  The captain inhaled softly before casting his gaze to Walshland, who now stood behind the Smith.

  “Sir. Nothing to note on this floor of the structure!” he exclaimed instantly, ”There is a cellar, however, Sir.”

  The captain looks at the smith, as if to seek permission, “May we?”

  Approving the rhetorical request, the Smithy rises from his seat to lead the men down to the cellar where he had been earlier. Following him, respectively, were Sylvian, Walshland and the Captain.

  “Eukh! Arrest him!” demanded a sneering Sylvian, revolted by the sight of the barrels of Gulch Ale that lined the wall of the cellar.

  Walshland snickers.

  “You must really love the stuff,” concluded the Captain as he glanced at the corners of the room and its concurrent structure.

  “You know what they say about old habits,” shrugged the Smithy, who’d kept a surprisingly calm demeanour as the men searched the different crates within his store. He thought it highly unlikely that they would find the tunnel behind the stacked pantry, and if they did, he was confident he could handle the situation less conventionally. Fortunately for the men, however, the staunch scent of the Lager had kept them from investigating that corner too thoroughly.

  “I believe we’ve bothered Mr.Oleg here quite enough,” stated the Captain, signalling his men to stop their search, then pointing toward the exit with a tilt of his head.

  As they made their way to the door, they kept a steady silence, eyeing objects in their surroundings every so often but never remarking. They propped their hats on before marching out the door, their Captain, who was last in line, pausing by the doorstep for parting words.

  “Once again, I thank you for the generous hospitality and apologize for disturbing you at a time like this,” the Captain expressed.

  “Quite the contrary!” responded the Smithy, “I actually enjoyed the company. Please come by more often, my workshop’s always open if the ale’s not to your liking!”

  The Captain chuckled, “We sure will, Mr.Oleg. You have a wonderful day ahead!” Tipping his hat to bid the Smithy farewell before retreating to his reddish mare. His subordinates had already mounted their horses, eager to return to their respective homes for a well-deserved sleep.

  “I am never coming here again,” muttered Sylvian.

  “Sylvian!” Walshie begged.

  “Behave yourselves,” commanded the Captain.

  As the three men rode off beyond the treeline and out of sight of the Smithy, he let out a deliberate sigh. Despite the unwelcome nature of their visit, their parting left him as sad as he was relieved; he did not lie when he claimed to enjoy their company. He had taken up being reclusive for the past 12 years to avoid bringing trouble to his doorstep, and the conversation brought a welcome change of pace to his hermitic life.

  A gust of wind brought him back to his senses as he gazed emptily ahead. The sky had been overcast with warm hues of dawn’s break, marking the coming of a new day. You could hear the crescendo of the morning birds’ chirps bring the day to life, yet only one avian stood out to the Smithy.

  For upon the vibrant pink canvas above, hovered a rogue assailant, shrouded in the dark of night’s allure. Its stygian coat ruffled in the chill breeze as it gracefully perched on the thin branch of an elder oak. Twisting its hooded neck, it seemed to peer right into the eyes of the Smithy, its eyelids gliding eerily sideways over large, beady orbs.

  The Smithy gazed back silently at the corvid, which replied with a jarring screech, contrasting the calming tunes of the morning song. He exhaled before retreating into his home with a powerful slam of the door. The journey ahead was arduous, and he had to prepare for it appropriately. He stuffed some items inside saddlebags, which he then mounted onto Rosie, before heading east to check on the girl.

  Although he appeared at ease, he was unusually concerned, not that the girl wouldn’t make it, but that the past events might have lingered on her mind. He worried she may not be the same girl he had known the night before. That she may perhaps resent him for putting her through all of this. She would be right to do so, afterall.

  His worries would soon soften as he came to their meeting place, where the girl lay soundly asleep by a tree, her favourite novel clasped between her hands and her head like a makeshift pillow. He smiled warmly, glad to see she’d managed to find some form of peace through all of this. Descending from his stead, he lay down by the girl, pondering the heavens in wait for the girl’s wakening.

  The day had taken on its full glory by the time the girl roused from her sleep. Her soft, sweet voice caught the dreaming Smithy off guard.

  “Papa?” she questioned momentarily, before going in for an embrace.

  “Oh my sweet girl,” replied the old smithy before hugging her back.

  They held each other for a moment beneath the oak before getting up and dusting off their clothes.

  “Papa, what happened? Why are we here?” questioned the girl; part of her didn’t really want an answer. It wanted assurance that it was dealt with, that tomorrow things would be as they were before.

  The Smithy sighed as one does when delivering unfortunate news,” There are people, ba… no… misguided people, trying to get to you, to get to me. You have this… gift… I… I can’t explain everything now, but I need you to trust me again,” he held her by the shoulders,” Do you trust me?”

  The girl’s face had begun to contort, her lips quivering, and her eyes welling up. She knew what he was about to say wasn’t going to please her; how it would shatter her dream of returning to normalcy.

  “Do… you… trust… me?” he repeated.

  Holding back her tears, the girl responded with a hesitant nod. What option did she have but to trust him?

  “Alright. You will take Rosie and head up the stream to the crossroads,” he explained as slowly and clearly as he could,” follow the signs to Tir Albis, that’s T-I-R-A-L-B-I-S; it’s quite a big town, you’ll know it when you see it.”

  The girl nodded, beginning to frown in suspicion.

  “You will go to the stables, and you will sell Rosie, don’t accept anything below 150 Bezils, she’s a fine mule,” he went on,“ you will use that money to buy an all-expense carriage fare to Dansfurt, it’s a town to the North. Ask for Mr.Eskel, he runs a store selling rugs by the market square.”

  The girl was beginning to get a little lost.

  “You give him this,” he handed her a tiny pouch tied by a rope, about the size of her palm. She stared emptily at the pouch for a second before he snatched it back and stuffed it into her satchel.

  “I know it’s a lot,” he told the girl who stared blankly at him,” I wrote everything down on a piece of paper in Rosie’s left bag in case you forget. I also packed her with enough food and water to last you 3 weeks, though the trip to Tir Albis should take no longer than 3 days if you keep to the road.”

  “Do you understand?” he asked the girl three times to no avail, and despite it not being a valid response, she asked calmly.

  “What about you?”

  “I… I have matters to tend to fir…” he stutters.

  “No!” she shook her head violently.

  “I…”

  “No! No! Not again! You promised you would explain! You said you’d be back! You told me to trust you!” the girl screamed in rebellion as she broke down in tears, furious at the fate her father had set upon her.

  The smithy silently embraced the distressed girl, letting her weep into his chest one last time before gently remarking, “And I am here, am I not? I kept my promise and you… You were so brave… so strong, like a true warrior, like Skadi. I need you to stay brave and strong. I need a warrior. The whole world needs a warrior.”

  The statement, though confusing, sent a chill down her spine.

  “Take the lead, ride ahead, and I’ll be right behind. Whether you see me or not, I will always be there; for I, Oleg of The Blackforest, am the first of your armies, the flame of your wrath and the rains of your mercy. I am your shadow.”

  The Smithy knelt before the girl, who was taken aback by the speech, her cheeks still wet and sticky with the tears that poured down her face. She breathed in, inspired by the words, but not taking them all too seriously, she hugged her father once more.

  “I love you, Papa!” she stated.

  “I love you too, my Queen.”

  He set her up on the mule’s saddle and looked to her before adding, “Oh, and... cover your ears.” He took off his old hat and placed it on her head, where it sat loosely. Though it appeared quite comical, it served the purpose of hiding her ears quite well. “Folks, bad ones I might add, have taken to a dislike of elves as of late.”

  She nodded in understanding; she’d heard about how people treated her kind in books. There’s a reason her father kept her from mingling with the local folk.

  “Yip yip!” He gently smacked the rear of his mule, signalling it to get going.

  As she faded away beyond the horizon, she kept her eyes locked with the Smithy’s, sending little waves every couple of yards. He found them quite repetitive after the 3rd wave or so, but he kept returning them with a broad smile.

  He’d been standing there for a while; she’d long passed his line of sight, but he stood there, his mind calculating every possible outcome of her journey. He calms himself. She was strong, stronger than him, stronger than anyone he knew; he needn’t worry. He breathes out before proudly proclaiming.

  “Let it be writ upon every paper, every stone, on every oak in the North and South. Long live Fjalla the Elfborn, rightful Queen of Asgard!”

  Back at his workshop, he’d set one of his chairs outside, facing the oak where the crow had landed. The once proud evergreen was stripped bare, its branches lined by hoards of crows forming a sable silhouette, as if its own shadow had stood in its place. Cawing and shrieking, their obnoxious chorus brought death to any semblance of peace within the forest.

  Gazing upon the omen, a displeased Smithy retorts.

  “It’s been some time, you old witch.”