Rannor

Rannor looked across the empty field that held wheat in season and watched the sun rise.

Oranges, purples, and pinks eked their way across the sky, fighting past the mass of black smoke on the horizon that tried to blot them out.

He tugged at his soot‑colored beard and sighed. After a bite of the apple in his hand, he strode toward the barn.

A whinny and an excited stomp greeted him.

Rannor stroked the horse’s neck and offered him the rest of the apple.

After another firm pat, he opened the gate and let the horse trot into the morning air. Then he crossed to the back of the barn and, with a grunt, lifted the plow by its handle and beam.

Bracken snorted, shaking his mane in bewilderment as his master walked past without stopping to hitch the tool.

“Not today, Bracken,” Rannor said as he continued on.

The sun continued to rise, splashing her light over Rannor as he carried the plow to another building several feet away.

He set it down, reached into his pocket, and drew out a key. It slid into the large iron lock hanging from the door handles.

He hesitated, pulling his hand back from the key, rubbing thumb and forefinger together.

A slow, deep breath. Then, with firm resolve, he turned the key, removed the lock, and swung the doors wide.

Sunlight poured into the newly opened space, illuminating the anvil and forge within.

He moved around the room, throwing open the shutters. A strong breeze swept through, brushing aside cobwebs and driving their skittering makers into the shadows.

Kneeling before the forge, Rannor swept away the mix of dust and long cold ash with a slow and careful reverence.

Standing, he then retrieved two buckets, making the journey back and forth from well to forge to fill the cooling tank and soak the coal.

Fire pot in hand, Rannor entered his home and set it beside the hearth. He went to his bedroom, threw the concealing furs aside, and opened the chest beneath. The leather apron and hammer lay inside, untouched for too long. He lifted the apron and draped it over his shoulders like a priest’s stole, then took up the hammer and tested its familiar weight in his hand.

He returned to the hearth, coaxed several glowing coals into the fire pot, and carried them toward the forge.

Bracken trotted over, curious as ever, pausing only to take mouthfuls of grass, ears flicking at the strange sounds and work his master had begun.

Rannor offered the burning embers to the forge, and stacked the damp coal, piece by piece, around it like a cairn.

His trained hand gripped the dangling rope, and the bellows answered with a roar of triumph. Light and heat surged upward, licking the waiting coal.

Leaving the coal to burn itself into coke, Rannor wrested the share and mouldboard free from the plow.

He plunged the iron into the burning coke. The bellows gave another roar, and the buried metal began to glow.

Rannor drew it out, heat and light shimmering, and laid it upon the anvil. He raised the hammer high and struck, a deep, ringing chorus surging out across the fields.

Bracken whinnied and pranced, dancing to the tune.

Rannor worked the metal, returning it to the fire and back again. With each cycle, he coaxed its new shape into being. From blade to tang, symmetry emerged like something shedding its cocoon under the hammer’s song.

Satisfied with the form, Rannor plunged the sword into the waiting water, steam rising as he wiped sweat and soot from his brow. The water received the blade with a sharp hiss and gave it back, newly baptized.

Wood and leather closed around the tang, and the whirling grindstone exclaimed as it honed the edge.

After three swings of the sword and a contented nod, Rannor removed the apron and carefully lay it across the anvil.

Bracken watched as his master, sword in hand, disappeared into the house. When Rannor emerged again, he wore simple padded armor and carried a traveling sack slung over his broad shoulders.

“Where I am headed is no place for you,” he murmured, resting his brow against the horse’s head. “Goodbye, old friend. The fields are yours.”

Rannor shouldered his sword and marched toward the black smoke staining the far horizon.