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Chapter 2 - Fox

The barn is filling quickly with corn and potatoes. In half a moon, the wheat will be ready for harvest too.

Dread filled his heart as he clambered ashore. Mother was standing in front of the smithy, her arms crossed in front of her chest. He didn't like it when she stood like that; it hid most of that pink apron of hers that made her look like a wild rose in a cornfield.

With full force, he kicked against a pebble that lay in his path. The stone shot into the air and crash-landed into a bigger rock a few feet further. Life wasn't fair. While Nick and Seb were still frantically hunting down a hare in the reed banks, playtime was officially over for him.

He grumbled. Why did Father have to be the only blacksmith in town? Sure, they never had to worry about what to eat, but he was sick of always being locked inside. Just once he wanted to play outside all day without any interruptions.

Using his dirty shirt, he wiped his body dry, leaving long brown stripes on his skin. At least he now looked like Laneby's warriors before the first hunt of the season.

"I'll try to come back later," he said but wasn't surprised when neither Nick nor Seb replied. He could never keep his promises because of Father, so why would his friends expect him to come back this time?

"Fox! I'm waiting for you, young man. Don't make me repeat myself," Mother shouted.

He stomped his feet on the ground, yelling so loudly his voice scratched his throat. "I heard you! I'm coming!"

"Stop making so much noise, muttonhead," Nick hissed, gesticulating wildly. "You're scaring all the animals away."

"Sorry." Fox tugged the semi-wet shirt over his head and jumped into his shorts. He pulled them back on.

Mother had moved closer. She was now standing with one hand on her hip and the other one holding a sandwich. Food!

He pushed his feet into his boots. Without tying them, he ran towards her like a real predator, almost tripping over his own feet as his right shoe loosened, and he nearly lost it along the way.

"Sweetling." Mother's long red hair swirled lightly as she shook her head. "Please fix your shoes. I don't want you to hurt your pretty face."

"I don't have a pretty face." He pouted, yet not even a heartbeat later he crouched down to make two sloppy knots in his mud-brown laces.

As he rose up, she handed him the fist-long sandwich stuffed with an orange filling. "Here, a sweet snack for my sweet boy."

"I'm not sweet," he said before sinking his teeth into the fresh prey; the bitter sugary taste of the marmalade filling his belly. Exactly what he needed after a good swim with his friends.

Mother gently ran her fingers through his hair, fussing over those stray locks that had a mind of their own. No matter what she did to tame them.

He jerked away from her. "Stop. Real warriors don't get groomed by their mothers."

"But they do enjoy their sandwiches, don't they?" Mother glanced at Amy, who was leaning against the oak brown wall of their house, on the opposite side of the smithy. His sister's uncharacteristically messy red hair bore a strange white tinge. Specks of a white power dotted her freckled nose. "Amy made the bread this time."

"Yours is better. She used too much flour." He smacked loudly as he took another bite. A little lie. He wouldn't have noticed if Mother hadn't told him.

Amy rolled her eyes at him. He stuck out his tongue. With a snort and a huff, she went back inside.

"Now, my sweet little firebug, why are you so grumpy today?" Mother's fingers ran across his cheek, careful not to touch his skin with her iron ring. He didn't like when she did that; it burnt.

"I'm not grumpy. But I can never become the best warrior in the world when I always have to work for Father." He stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth to kill the tears that were welling up in his eyes.

"Hush, hush, every village needs a blacksmith. And I thought you enjoyed keeping the fires burning?"

He nodded as he continued to munch on the bread. Mother was right. Father usually made him control the fire in the forges until he was finished working. It wasn't the worst thing. Plus, he liked playing with the flames, and they liked him in return.

Father had once told him it was because of his bright red hair, but he had never believed that. Both Mother and Amy's hair had the same colour, but their fires could hardly boil water.

"So, are you ready to be a Master of Flames?" Mother asked.

"I'd rather be Fox the Warrior."

"I like Henry the Blacksmith too."

"I don't."

Fox wasn't his real name. Old Bessy had nicknamed him that after he had stolen some flowers from her garden. Seb had liked the name so much he had asked Lord Brandon to officially change his name. He didn't, but soon every villager in Laneby had started using Fox, and his real name, Henry, had been forgotten. Except by Mother, of course.

"I understand you prefer playing with your friends, sweetheart, but your father is under a lot of pressure. Lord Brandon came by to inspect Sebastian's blade. He wants something completely different. The new sword needs to be finished by tomorrow. You know our Lord wants everything to be perfect for Sebastian's eleventh birthday." Mother took the cloth from her shoulder, ready to attack his cheek. 

He jerked his head away, licking the sticky goo from his face. "Yeah, Seb is my friend. I want it to be perfect too. I'll go and help Father. Seb's party will be the best party ever."

"That's my sweet boy." She smiled so much the dimple on her chin appeared. "Come on then, off you pop."

He stretched out his arms. "First a hug."

"I thought you didn't want those."

"I never said that."

She squeezed him into her tight embrace and planted a kiss on his cheek. His belly tingled. Real warriors didn't like hugs, but surely the hugs they got from their mothers weren't as soothing as the ones he got from Mother.

Fox skipped along the sandy path, to the back of the smithy where the entrance to Father's workshop was. He leant against the door, pushing it open. The man was pacing back and forth, dividing his attention between the hammer on his anvil and the bellows in front of the main forge.

"There you are—finally," he snarled. "The main forge needs to be lit all evening. You know what to do."

"Yes, Father."

Resisting the temptation of the God of Greed, Fox rushed around the ringed rack of freshly forged swords in the middle of the room. Father would not be able to resist the God of Wrath if he caught Fox gawking at the weapons. He scampered to the back, to the large metal construction that covered the entire southern wall.

A long, long time ago, his great-grandfather had travelled all the way to the mines of Rascal Rock to dig out the iron ore. He had forged the large plates from scratch. The forge was built to last hundred thousand years, but Fox didn't believe that; not with this many dents and scrapings.

In the hearth burnt flames that could hardly be called flames; they were barely the size of his pinky finger. To be hot enough, the forge's fire had to be so intense sweat started leaking down Father's forehead and drenched his shirt. But never him. He had never found fire too hot.

Tonight he was going to show the forge he was the hero and save the flames from certain death, but when he turned to the basket underneath the tool rack, there were only some twigs left. He grabbed what was left, then carefully placed the twigs into the smouldering mouth of the hungry beast, one branch over the other.

"Burn, pretty flames. Devour this fine tree."

The flames obeyed immediately, like they always did whenever he talked to them. They grew and grew until the warmth snarled and bit at the air. It was beautiful, mesmerising, and all his doing. He smiled.

All he wished to do was sit down and gaze at the dance of fire all evening, but couldn't. The twigs would soon be ashes, the smoke and heat already flying upwards towards the chimney.

He turned around. "Father, there isn't any wood left."

There came a bang, and then another. The man only had eyes for the steaming steel on his anvil. Three more rapid bangs followed after one another, then he sniffed. "You know what to do—go to the forest, get some more."

Fox took a deep breath. He didn't want to defy Father, but there was no other way. "But I don't like going there all by myself. You know what Lord Brandon said when I got lost all those years ago. There are wolves there, and bears, and other monsters. And Lord Brandon wouldn't lie. He's the Lord of Laneby."

Father murmured something incomprehensible, then said, "Stay near the edge of the village then. You won't find any beast there."

"But—"

"Honestly, how can you be so afraid?" he snapped. "This entire place is surrounded by a forest."

"I'm not afraid, but—"

"What?"

"Nothing, I'll get some." He padded across the room, his head held low. It was no use. Father would never understand why the forest was such a scary place.

But to gather wood, he needed a coil of rope to secure the branches. The rope he needed lay on the crowded shelves by the door where Father kept all the small tools. And like the tools, Fox was small, and the shelves so high.

Since he didn't dare ask Father, he jumped up and down. On his first attempt, he almost touched the top shelf. On the second, his fingers ran over the rough fibre of the rope. He tightened his muscles in his body for the third attempt, but when he leapt up and grabbed the rope, the tin can full of bolts and screws thundered to the floor.

Steam blew out of Father's nostrils. "Isn't there anything you can do without causing a racket? And then your mother thinks I should allow you near my workbench, teach you the trade. Over my dead body."

"I'm sorry." The tears were threatening to come out, but he held them back. Father would be furious if he saw him cry.

"Leave them. I'll clean up your mess like I always do. Go!"

Fox clutched the rope firmly between his hand and shoulder and left. 

Playful laughs were coming from the river. Nick's arrow had flown into the reed. It was another arrow lost; another arrow Father would have to forge.

"The lost hare can never be found again, Sebastian." Nick sighed. "It's hopeless. I give up."

"Don't be so overdramatic, Nicolas." Seb snatched the slingshot from his hands. "Your future Lord will show you how it's done."

"Yeah, like the last time—when you missed."

They were too busy to notice him. Fox blinked his eyes while he slowly trotted towards the Forest of Lane, clenching his fists in search of his inner courage. Though he didn't understand why Father always made him go there all by himself, he needed to be brave. Gods of Virtue, he needed to show he wasn't afraid.

The large birch trees loomed over him, their thick branches like arms ready to attack. A distant howling sent shivers down his back. A pack of wolves must be roaming these lands in search of their next meal. His whole body was trembling; his heart beating louder than Father's hammer on the anvil.

"Sing a song to chase the monsters away," he muttered to himself. But which one? He couldn't remember any of the songs that Mother had taught him, like they were all hiding under the blanket in his head.

The deep orange hue of the setting sun blinded him, but it was better than heading deeper into the forest. He didn't want to walk into the lair of the most terrifying beast in the world. The beast that preferred children's meat instead of wood, he was sure.

Beneath his feet, the forest floor cracked. With one hesitant eye, he looked down and sighed.  Thank the Goddess of Charity for sending a thunderstorm to these lands yesterday. While he had spent the entire evening shaking and shivering under his bed, Her feisty wind had broken off so many branches the ground was covered in drying kindle wood that would loved to get eaten by Father's forge.

Just as he was bundling up all the wood to carry it back to the village, one stick fell out. As he picked it up, it seemed as ordinary as when he had added it to the pile. But then he grabbed it tightly; smooth as a hilt, it fit so perfectly in his hand that it was as if the God of Diligence had designed Himself. Nature's sword, as he dubbed it, was still a bit moist from the storm, but it wasn't anything a night under Father's forge wouldn't fix.

"Go back to Sinner's hell, you monster." He swung the sword through the air, pretending to cut the throat of an imaginary wolf with crooked fangs and grubby fur.

He whirled around the forest, slashing one demon's belly after the other. Then, as he passed the buckthorn shrubs, a menacing rustle growled loudly. He gasped, immediately dropping the stick to the ground.

"It's just the wind—just the wind—just the wind," he said as he pressed his eyes shut. Repeating it over and over again wasn't enough to keep the vivid images of a foul ghost-like creature away.

He stood still, too petrified to move. This was how he was going to die. This was how everyone was going to die.

No. He wasn't a coward. Hurrying to warn the people of Laneby, he pulled the rope behind him, running out of the forest as fast as the God of Diligence allowed him to.

He lost a few branches along the way, but none of that mattered. He needed to get out of there. It may have been a few years since the wolves last showed themselves near Laneby, but if they had returned, he had to tell someone. He had to tell Lord Brandon!

As he sprinted past the stable, a panicky neigh slowed him down. Twice more, he heard the noise. None of the stable boys seemed to be around anymore, neither was Stable Master James. All was quiet, except for the horse's cries.

He looked over his shoulder—no monster was following him—then turned his head towards the river. Nick and Seb weren't there anymore.

Had he been scared for nothing again? He could already hear Father's Wrath-filled voice. You and your crazy imagination; it will be the death of me.

He had to go home.

Yet, as he shifted the rope to his shoulder, the same panic-stricken sound came out of the stable. He bit his finger. What if something had happened to the poor horse? He needed to help him... or her, if it was a mare.

Without giving it another thought, he abandoned the bundle of wood and darted down the stomped down path in between the two bigger patches of grass. He pushed his body against the weathered red door—more green and brown from the ivy growing on it—and entered, panting.

A lanky black stallion stood outside his box, surrounded by the remains of what were once two bales of hay and two of straw. The creature was new, but too old and too big to be a foal fresh from a mare's belly. Could he be another of Seb's birthday presents?

"Hello! Is anyone here?" His voice echoed through the stable. 

Three heartbeats later, the only reply he got was the scurrying of a large family of mice through the bales of straw. The smallest one, all the way at the back, took a particular interest in the colt; its tiny nose moved back and forth as it sniffed the horse's hooves.

 The stallion stood as stiff as a stick; his ears all flat. Out of his mouth escaped another high-pitched neigh.

"It's just a mouse looking for food. They won't hurt you." Slowly he approached the colt, picking up the rope with which it used to be tied to his box. "Aren't you hungry? I sure am."

Fox took the first step, hoping for the colt to follow him, yet instead, the creature staggered. he was pushed to the ground. The flailing rope sliced his hand open.

The colt neighed louder than before, with even more panic in his voice. He took off, into the direction of the door, which was still wide open.

"No, stop!" But there wasn't anything that Fox could do when the colt galloped onto the path and headed straight for the forest.

No-no-no. Tears sprung to his eyes, his limbs trembling with fear. A horse cost more gold than he had under his pillow. Everybody would hate him now. Lord Brandon was going to treat him like he had done that horse thief and chop off his hand. Or worse. Seb would forever hate him for ruining his birthday.

The crimson drops of blood that were dripping down onto the floor were the least of his worries. His breathing grew heavy; his heart racing faster than the galloping colt.

From behind came the roaring voice of the Stable Master to make it all a dozen times worse. "What's all that racket? For once I wanted to enjoy a nice and quiet dinner? Bloody animals!"

A waterfall of regret poured down Fox's cheeks. He was in so much trouble only the Gods could save him now...

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