It was the summer of Handur's twenty-fifth year when he noticed Jess.

As he sat in the smithy eating a simple lunch with Belden, his eyes followed her graceful progress down the street of Tarwin's Reach. Although Belden was getting too old to swing a hammer, his eyesight was far from gone: "Sure is a looker," he murmured. Realising that he had been staring for a full half-minute, Handur choked on his mouthful of cheese. "She's Old Tom's daughter, Jess, from over Gunada way," Belden confided knowingly, as Handur's red-faced spluttering subsided, "me and Old Tom go back a ways, you know. Would you like to meet her?" Handur nodded, thumping his chest as a fresh round of choking rendering him speechless.

The following summer, they were married.

* * *

Jess stood a couple of paces away, blinking against the light snow. Their daughter, Reecee, was wrapped in thick blankets in Jess' arms. The child was unusually quiet today, perhaps sensing the solemnity of the occasion. As Handur patted down the earth with a heavy shovel and straightened up, a tear fell from his face and joined the others, which were slowly freezing solid on the frigid ground. He had found both his mother and father dead in their home that morning, the fire in the hearth long since gone out. Apparently, they were the latest casualties of an especially bitter winter. "Oh, Han," Jess murmured, searching his bloodshot eyes, "first Belden, now this..." Handur's only response was to wipe his nose with an already-soiled sleeve. Undeterred, she continued, "It just seems so...so cruel."
"Cruel? No," he muttered, staring into the wind, "no, I think the Dragons were smiling on them. Would you want to wake to find me dead?" Still searching for something in his eyes, Jess conceded the point with her silence. Pulling their heavy cloaks around them, they set off for the house.

* * *

Handur awoke with a start, to find himself alone with the glowing coals in the fireplace – Jess and Reecee must have gone to bed already. Reecee had survived two winters, and was finally sleeping through the night. Rubbing his eyes with hands clearly too big for the job, Handur hauled himself out of his chair as the knock on the door came again, louder this time. Loping to the door, he opened it just a crack and peered out into the cool night air. By the light of the moon, Handur could make out a tall, pale man in elaborate robes and a heavy woolen cloak. Although late-night visitors were an object of some well-justified suspicion in Tarwin's Reach, the man seemed unarmed and a little feeble – well-dressed, unarmed, slightly feeble men were usually important. "Please, come in," Handur croaked reluctantly. With a brief glare of distaste for the simple furnishings, the visitor strode past Handur and stood with his back to the fire. Closing the door, Handur urged his sleep-fogged brain to supply him with the proper greeting for an important person. Mercifully, the new arrival broke the silence with a curt, "You are Handur?".
"I am."
"It has come to the attention of the House that you are a capable weaponsmith. We could use such men in our forge on the Blessed Isle."
"I already have a forge-"
"We have a bigger one. You will be well paid, and provided with food and lodgings."
"And my family?"
"They may come with you."
A brief silence descended, as Handur mulled this over. "Do I have a choice in this?" he finally asked.
"Everyone has choices. But sometimes all options but one are...unacceptable."
The man's cold delivery made his meaning amply clear. "Be ready at dawn," he announced, and left.

* * *

Handur struck the Jade Daiklave one more time, and plunged it into the barrel of water at his side. Turning his head away from the resulting steam, he sighed heavily; it was delicate work, and he would not be finished for at least another week. Blinking into the sun streaming in from the doorway, he saw a stocky man with a carefully-manicured beard stride purposefully into the forge, flanked by two attendants. The man's fine garb proclaimed him a noble of House Mnemon, as if his air of unshakeable superiority was not enough. His gaze swept the room, fixing on Handur, and he approached briskly. As Handur opened his mouth to ask how he could help, the noble abruptly broke in, "I am Mnemon Sand. My horse needs shoeing. Do it quickly." Mentally, Handur sighed in exasperation – he was busy, and the shoeing of horses was below even the dimmest of his apprentices. Shouting over the din of the forge with the little politeness he could muster, Handur informed the man that this forge did not shoe horses, but that the smaller smithy on the east side of the yard would be happy to meet his needs. The noble's eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and he turned on his heel and made for the door without another word. As he left, Handur shouted to the man's retreating back, "It's the one with the horses being shoed outside!" Chuckling as he turned back to his work, Handur inwardly chided himself – he would be reprimanded for that last remark.

* * *

Opening the door to the apartments House Mnemon had provided for his family, Handur called out, "I don't know how much more I can take, Jess! This fellow today, the sheer arrogance of the man was beyond-". Walking into the parlour, his voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper. Stunned, he fell painfully to his knees and began to shake. As he beheld the ruination of all that he held dear, a cold little corner of his mind wondered: had his wife been forced to watch while their seven-year-old daughter was raped and slowly killed? Or had it been the other way around?

* * *

Sand awakened to the sound of shattering wood. Steadying his breathing, he schooled his body to stillness and opened one eye, just a fraction. The tattered remains of his bedroom door swung lazily on the hinges. Silhouetted in the doorway was a person – a burly male, unless he missed his guess. The intruder was holding something in his right hand. Quickly closing his eye again, Sand listened as the man padded closer. He allowed himself a mental cackle at the man's ineptness – the heavy footfalls were about as stealthy as a collapsing barn. As the harlot beside him rolled over and groaned, still drugged, Sand tightened his grip on the curved dagger beneath his pillow and again opened an eye. The intruder was beside him now, breathing heavily, and clutched tightly in his right hand was a smithy's hammer. As understanding dawned, Sand's lips drew back in a tiny smile. Unhampered by the untucked sheets, Sand's leg flew out in a twisting kick, connecting squarely with his would-be attacker's hand. Using the momentum of the kick to carry him to his feet, the general plunged the dagger into his would-be attacker's side, just underneath the shoulder, before the man's hammer had even hit the ground. Stunned, the smith grunted loudly and stumbled backwards into a table, knocking a statuette to the floor. Unsatisfied, Sand strode forward and delivered a ringing blow to the man's jaw, then another, then another. He easily pushed the larger man to the floor, sat astride his chest, and proceeded to pummel him further. Although prodigiously strong from his years in the forges, the smith clearly knew nothing of fighting – Sand easily overcame the last feeble attempts at resistance, as he inflicted blow after stinging blow on the man's bruised and bloodied form. As the last light of consciousness was about to fade from the tattered remains of the man, Sand leant in close to his blood-slicked ear and whispered, "You only live because death would end your suffering. Never again forget your place, peasant." Standing up, he tore the dagger from his newest victim's side. Finally awake, the harlot began to scream.

* * *

* * *

Handur limped into the outskirts of Tarwin's Reach. It had been a difficult two months, to say the least, but a small measure of cunning and a large measure of good luck had gotten him back to Tarwin's Reach. Not entirely sure that Tarwin's Reach held anything more for him than the Blessed Isle, he hobbled awkwardly into the center of the little hamlet. On the southern edge of the town square, the smithy still stood.

* * *

Handur sat silently in a corner of the smithy, his gaze lost in the glowing coals of the forge fire. Dimly, he registered that he was supposed to be working. Dimly, he realised that he did not care. His gaze shifted – a young girl had crept in to the smithy, her eyes downcast and a bundle clutched to her side. Reluctantly, he lumbered to his feet and stepped over to the girl. After briefly glancing up, her eyes shot shyly back to the floor, but not until they had lingered just an instant on the dark circles under Handur's eyes. For sake, he hoped she would not ask. He recognised her as Fang's slave girl; she had fallen in with Aesa recently, he had been told. Impatient, Handur snapped, "Yes?". The girl did not even flinch. Keeping her distance, she announced, quietly but clearly, "My master wishes these knives sharpened. Your fee is in the bundle."
"Come closer, girl. I cannot sharpen them if I don't have them."
Gingerly, she handed the bundle to the burly smith. As she turned to leave, she looked into his eyes for the briefest of moments. She looked...scared, but at the same time...not. Like a caged monkey, waiting for the right moment.
Good for her.

* * *

* * *