Shadowed Horizons

Prologue

In the depths of the forge, metal rings and clangs across the walls, ricocheting amongst the flashes of fire and gleams of smouldering iron fresh from the hearth. Huffs and puffs from irritated bellows cloud the area like storms take up the sky; the grate and crash of metal on metal and the screeching hiss of heat touched by cool water bounds above the leathery bellows like steaming horses, driven by the crack of whips that clank, striking and driving onto midnight anvil and leaving black dust behind their hooves.

The master sits at his anvil, looking over it all like the sun does the earth, bending, twisting, molding, his hands working with skill and speed. This is his home: the loud drum of metal, the stench of coal and flame, the click of pieces fitting, the raw beauty in each product gleaming. In the constant roar, there is a silence, one of comfort and light, one that only seems tuned to him.

For who else could hear the firm knock at the front door over the din of metal work?

*

Mex is silent, utterly entranced by the book in hand. Her dark eyes are bright, devouring word after word, page after page, until a loud knock pulls her out of the novel. She hurries to her front door, impatient to get back to her book.

*

The roar quiets in the forge as the tall smith leaves his station; he ducks the door frame, muttering to himself to fix it for his height. This room opens to a more homely setting, equipped with a ragged rug, bedraggled curtains, and rundown furniture. He passes over it all to grab a small pup from the ground where it has been barking at the door and brings it to his long chest before reaching for the doorknob.

He shakes his head and steps back. The place is a mess as usual, with dirty shoes slung about and trails of grit and oil about the room, as unkempt as its owner. The smith's slick skin sticks to his white wifebeater, soaked with sweat and caked with dark grime. Looking down at the dog, he sighs again--wondering why he even bothers to wear white--yelling out. "Come--!"

The door slams open, pounding the wall next to it.

*

Mex's slender fingers reach for the doorknob, but before she can press her fingers to the cool metal the door swings open with a loud screech, almost as if it too has been pulled from some utopia of its own.

"Colonel Sheriff," she grumbles, the distaste in her tone incredibly audible, "what a...surprise."

*

"Sheriff--" The smith's electric blue eyes light up with surprise. Glancing down at his pup-filled hands, he pushes the dog into one arm, putting out his free, blackened hand for shaking, hoping his visitor, the town's Sheriff, will not be offended by the grime.

"Hola, Mexecutioner." His 'h' is clear and incorrect, but it's such a Colonel Sheriff-esque greeting that Mex lets it slide right over her head. The unpleasant nickname, however, does not slide, and Mex scowls.

Colonel Sheriff takes a step forward, then another, and then another, and he continues until he has pushed past Mex and crossed the threshold of her home.

*

"Bway-nose-die-ahs." The sheriff grunts, gold-flecked blue eyes sparkling under rusty brows. With a grin, he takes the hand, paying no attention to the dirt on it and giving it a firm, enthusiastic shake and barking a laugh. "Colonel Sheriff, by the way compad-ray." His western accent gives him a long, thick drawl that adds no beauty to his Spanish.

With several steady strides, the visitor carries himself into the home, looking about as the smith puts down his quieted dog.

"Ah, buenos días. I'm sorry 'bout the mess--" He stomps his work boots, pushing the pup away from the sheriff with the toe of his shoe.

*