Shadows of Consequence - 1. Chapter 1

“I’m not hearing the clang of that hammer!”

Sam winced at the blacksmith’s gruff voice blaring from the opposite end of the workshop. The hammer was in Sam’s hand, forgotten. Instead, his attention was focused down the lane leading to the village’s main thoroughfare. Horse-drawn covered waggons passed by at a leisurely gait.

“Sorry, Mr Kent. The trader convoy arrived. I’ve been waiting for them.”

It was a welcome distraction. With no customer orders to complete, the day had dragged on, so Mr Kent ordered Sam to fall back onto usual busywork: horseshoes—a monotonous, repetitive task. Despite being late autumn, the workshop was hot and stuffy from the forge. The breeze, scented with a hint of fallen leaves, cooled his sweaty face.

The blacksmith joined Sam and followed his gaze. The waggons were painted, acting as billboards to draw in curious buyers, but there was only one trader Sam was interested in.

“More books, eh?” Mr Kent said, as though reading Sam’s mind.

“Maybe,” Sam drawled. “You know me too well.”

“More like I’ve known you for too long. I hope that bookseller appreciates your loyalty.”

“I’d say he does. He always has special picks for me.”

The blacksmith glanced at the late afternoon sun brushing against the mountain range overlooking their tranquil village, then back into the workshop. A tall stack of horseshoe blanks told him Sam hadn’t neglected his duties. “Well, I reckon we’ve got a decent supply of shoes. Why don’t you clean up and head out for the day.”

“Yeah?” Sam replied with a grin. “I’d appreciate it, Mr Kent.”

The blacksmith didn’t return the smile, and instead regarded him with a stern glower. “But you be here prompt tomorrow morning. No excuses of staying up too late reading those books.”

“That only happened once.”

Mr Kent’s mock anger broke with a tart smile, and he uttered a dubious grunt before waving him off.

After Sam hung his heavy leather apron and organised his tools back where they belonged, he rushed down the lane toward the village’s only road.

Reabury was a tiny settlement, essentially unknown to the wider world, yet the residents were still proud of their home. The road of any other village would be dirt and dust, scarred by a litany of deep cartwheel depressions. Reabury was different. Its road was cobbled. Perhaps that explained why the trader convoy always made a point of travelling through Reabury twice a year. Of course, the villagers appreciated their visits and always spent enough coin to show their thanks. More than likely, that was the real reason.

Despite the friendly folk and well-kept character of the village, Sam had always planned on leaving home, and with each passing year, his motives for staying only diminished. He had no interest in taking up his parents’ farm. They respected his wishes, but once he was sixteen, they said he’d have to pay a modest rent to continue living under their roof. Sam considered that a fair trade. With a need for income, he approached the village’s blacksmith. Mr Kent, a retired soldier, arrived at Reabury a decade prior. While he’d never shared his reasons for taking residence there, Sam got the impression that the village’s remoteness had drawn the old warrior in. He never talked of his time in the army, and if prompted, would actively change the subject.

Fortuitously, the soldier-turned-blacksmith took Sam under his wing, sharing his knowledge and expertise. Now, six years on, working for him was the prevailing reason Sam never left home. Mr Kent had spent all that time teaching him a valuable trade. For Sam to up and leave would’ve been terribly ungrateful. But at what point would he have paid his due and be able to leave without any hard feelings?

That was a question Sam didn’t know how to answer, and right now, not one he wanted to explore. He reached the usual spot where the convoy always settled—a semi-circle in an open field at the western edge of the village. Like Sam, folk were roused from their usual routine, gathering patiently as they watched the traders set up their shoppes. Sam didn’t wait, though. He knew he didn’t have to. The bright explosion of colours decorating Mr Bradley’s waggon was easy to spot, and he approached the bookseller with a wave in greeting.

“Ah, Sam Harkenstone,” the bookseller said. “My favourite customer. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Mr Bradley was always an animated fellow, often flourishing expressively with his hands as he spoke, almost comically so.

“You’re my favourite trader, so the feeling’s mutual.”

The bookseller offered a wide smile and a dramatic bow. It was an act, but Sam believed there was a nugget of true appreciation in his display. After all, they were both avid readers, and had developed an unspoken respect for each other.

“I’ve uncovered four books in my travels where you immediately came to mind. I’ve already set them aside. Just a moment.” The trader ducked into a small cupboard inside the waggon. Nudging fallen items aside caused by the bumpy ride, he pulled out a cloth bag with a pull cord to keep the contents safe. “As you know, whenever I come across a book featuring knights, I’ll always think of you.”

He opened the bag to reveal four books. “Three of these are fiction. I’ve read them, of course. I don’t want to sell you trash. While none are what I would call original in their storytelling, they’re exciting adventures nonetheless.”

Sam eagerly took each one to inspect the cover and scan through the pages. They were ample tomes, and he excitedly imagined what tales were held within.

Mr Bradley held up the fourth book. “This one is different. A biography of an actual knight from one of the northern provinces. A fascinating read, but I must say that some of the details are a little too fantastical to be believed.”

Sam laughed as he flipped through the final book. “That’s fine. Whether the stories are true or not, I’ll enjoy them either way. I’ll buy all four.”

The bookseller clasped his hands in delight. “Wonderful.”

Sam made a point to never haggle price with the man. He appreciated Mr Bradley acting on his behalf when searching for books, and his time spent was worth whatever price the bookseller asked for. They shook hands upon completing the transaction.

“As always, I look forward to our next meeting, Mr Harkenstone. We shall meet again next spring.”

Sam lifted the four books in his hand. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy these. Thanks again, Mr Bradley.”

By this point, the other traders were set up and receiving customers. They sold a wide collection of wares such as trinkets and toys, herbs and spices, salves and potions—all from faraway places. These traders provided an invaluable service. Sam never took them for granted, and he certainly believed none in Reabury did, either.

With his new treasures in hand, Sam walked east through the village, greeting others still drawn in by the new visitors. Beyond the village limits, the cobblestone road ended, giving way to a common dirt track. The walk to his parents’ farm was a short quarter-hour, and upon arriving, Sam caught sight of his father unhitching his horse and positioning a cart under a lean-to. Sam ran up the lane flanked by tall poplar trees, their branches bare for the season.

“Pa, you’re back!”

His father waved in greeting. “Made it in time before sunfall, too.”

The cart was empty, and Sam looked to his father in amazement. “You managed to sell all those turnips?”

“Yup. Langscott’s autumn market was busy this year.” Tied securely beside the saddlebag was a compact lockbox. He gave it a pat, and its contents jingled. “Lots of coin. This winter will be comfortable, I reckon.”

Sam hugged him. “I’m glad. But you look tired. You head inside and see Mum. I’ll take care of Lonnie.”

“Aye. The trip to Langscott and back—over a fortnight each way—is starting to wear on me. I appreciate the help, son.”

Sam passed his books to his father. “Take these in for me?”

“Ah, yes, I passed the trader convoy on my way here. You’ve wasted no time, I see.”

Sam chuckled. “You know I’ve been waiting for them.”

“Aye. I’ll give them a visit tomorrow.”

Sam rubbed the horse’s neck as he watched his father head inside. “C’mon, Lonnie. Let’s get you cleaned up so you can visit your friends.”

Whether Lonnie understood or not, she nickered favourably in reply. Sam led her to the stables, freed her of the tack and saddle, brushed her down, and inspected for injuries. Once he was satisfied Lonnie was fine, he gave her another rub on the neck.

“Off you go.”

Lonnie trotted to a broad, grassy paddock on the opposite side of the stables. His own horse, Winx, and his mother’s, Daisy, whinnied at the sight of Lonnie, and the three mares joined in a frisky display of amicability. Sam smiled and left them to play, shouldering his father’s belongings in the saddlebag and carrying the lockbox under an arm.

He entered the small farmhouse and was hit by a waft of warm air and savoury cooking. Only now did he realise how cool the late afternoon had become. The house was of simple design—the majority of the space allotted to a common area and attached kitchen. The room was lovingly decorated with all manner of dried wildflowers hung in garlands and wreaths. When in season, Mum also kept fresh ones in vases. Pa, sitting at the table with a mug of tea in hand, was in conversation with Mum, who was tending to a steaming pot. He glanced toward Sam, laden with his belongings.

“Could you put that in our bedroom?”

Sam nodded and headed past the kitchen, offering a quick hello to his mum, then opened the door to his parents’ bedroom. The suite was decidedly cooler, so after depositing his father’s saddlebag and lockbox, he left the door open.

“Supper’ll be on in an hour,” Mum said.

Sam let out a groan. “Turnip stew again?”

“Don’t tease your mother,” Pa said. “We’ve plenty of turnips to last us all winter, and no reason not to eat what we don’t sell.”

“I’m not teasing.” Sam kissed his mum on the cheek, then retrieved his books from the table. “I’ll have a bit of time to read, then.”

A knock at the front door—a series of heavy, deliberate thumps—caused the three of them to look over in surprise.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Pa asked.

Sam peeked out the front window. From his position, he couldn’t spot who was at the door, but an elegant black mare was hitched to a nearby tree. He didn’t recognise it, but what truly caught his eye was the sheathed longsword and heater shield tied to the side of the horse. Who was this visitor? More importantly, why were they knocking on their door?

“Who is it, son?” Pa asked.

Sam, still trying to process what he’d seen, could only shake his head in confusion. A momentary flush of wariness passed through him, but then curiosity took control. His hand, as though given a life of its own, reached for the door latch and pulled up without his consent.

The door opened, revealing a man clad in armour. The quality of the steel cast a blue-silver prismatic sheen, resplendent despite the dying light of the day. A sleek helmet covered the man’s face—its visor’s narrow eye-slit a black void, offering no clue to the man’s identity. And draped over the armour was a white, travel-stained tabard proudly displaying a coat of arms Sam had never encountered before—a soaring red hawk. This wasn’t just a man, this was a knight.

The sight of this magnificent warrior left Sam stunned, and the grip on his books loosened, causing them to tumble from his hand. It was as though a knight from one of those books had manifested before him. Only the thud of them hitting the floor jolted him back to reality.

The knight looked down at the mess before him. “My apologies,” he said, his deep voice reverberant within his helmet. His accent was peculiar—exotic, even—intriguing Sam all the more. The knight moved to kneel and pick them up, but Sam hurriedly scooped them back into his arms.

“No harm done, Ser Knight,” Sam stammered. His cheeks glowed with embarrassment.

“Mr Harkenstone, I presume?”

“Uh—”

“I’m Joefre Harkenstone,” Pa replied. Sam hadn’t realised his father was now standing at his back, with his mother not far behind.

The knight imparted a single nod. “Greetings. My name is Graeme Veilwyn.”