Singing Steel

Chapter 1 - The Reluctant Lord

- Orin -

When two vassals dressed in silk tunics had walked into his smithy, Orin had barely lifted his head from his work. He gave them a passing nod, expecting them to skirt around the edges of his workshop to examine the wares that hung on the wall. He was unpleasantly surprised when they stopped beside his anvil instead, putting down his tongs and hammer to deal with whatever it was they wanted. Now that the room didn't echo with the blows from his hammer, he could finally hear what they had come to tell him. It was fortunate that he'd already set down his hammer, otherwise he might have dropped it on his foot in shock.

Apparently, it had taken some months to track him down, but they had been searching for him ever since the wars ended. The fighting between the Orcs and the Lords of the Riverlands had dragged on for several years, and the country had suffered greatly for it. Several old and noble houses had lost their entire lines in the fighting, their names now relics of a different age. House Rainemere had nearly been one of those houses. The prior Lord Rainemere had five sons, and his heir had two of his own. Orin's father had been the late Lord Rainmere's youngest son. There was little inheritance left for a fifth son of a Lord, and so Tybalt Rainemere had left his fathers keep and made his own way. He'd apprenticed with a master, and eventually became a Master Blacksmith in his own right, and he'd passed the trade on to his only son; Orin.

Given the large swath of higher-ranking male relatives that had been present for most of Orin's life, he'd never even considered that one day he might be the sole heir to Whitehawk Keep and all the lands it presided over. The war had ravaged the holdfast and had ravaged his family tree with it. At first, Orin laughed. He let out a low chuckle and shook his head. It had to be some kind of twisted joke. The laughter died on his lips when the two vassals didn't return his mirth. It appeared they were quite serious about the whole matter. They demanded that he pack up his belongings and ride with them to Whitehawk Keep immediately.

"There's got to be some mistake..." he insisted, shaking his head at the two vassals. He was a blacksmith, a worker, a no one. He certainly wasn't Lord of a holdfast. He'd known that his uncles were nobility, but his parents had a simple life in the small village of Kirksgard. It had been just him and his parents until they'd passed of fever two winters ago. Now it was only him left here to work the forge, making do on whatever steel he could sell. He'd been hoping these vassals were here to shop for trinkets, but there would be no coin from them today. The elder of the vassals narrowed his pale eyes at the blacksmith, shaking his head sternly.

"No mistake, My Lord. You are Orin Rainemere, last male heir of House Rainemere. Your presence is required as soon as possible at Whitehawk Keep, there are several things that must be addressed." The vassal barked out, folding his hands behind his back as he stared down the young Lord. Orin blinked a few times, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to find the right words. Couldn't they see they had the wrong man?

"I'm not a Lord, I'm a blacksmith. I don't know a damn thing about running a castle or a holdfast... This has to be a mistake." He was stumbling over his words now, shaking his head vigorously, reaching up to run his hands through his black hair. He was rough and worn and scarred from battle and covered in soot. He wasn't a Lord; he was just a blacksmith.

"My Lord, there is no one else." The younger of the two vassals spoke now, his dark eyes meeting Orin's green ones pleadingly. The blacksmith clenched his teeth slightly, tearing his gaze away from the two men, scowling down at the tools sitting across his anvil.

"So, what if I refuse?" This smithy was all he'd ever wanted; all he'd ever had. He'd never had ambitions of greatness; he simply wanted to work the steel and maybe be recognized for his skill. He never wanted to be a lord. He was the last male Rainemere, but they couldn't make him do the job. There was no law that said he must run that castle, that he must take on the title of Lord. It was expected of him, but they couldn't drag him from the forge, they had no authority to do so. The older vassal let out a low sigh at his words, clearing his throat slightly before he barked a reply back at the young Lord Rainemere