Arter awoke to the sound of birds chirping just outside his window, harkening the first day of spring. The thought made him smile as he sat up and stretched. A few warm beams of light, like strings to a harp, streamed through the cracks between the wooden blinds at the window. The smell of morning dew wafted about the room with a cooling breeze.

As Arter dressed himself, taking care to button each button of his shirt, he thought that today would be a grand day. He imagined the projects he had in store for him as he grabbed a loaf of bread from the cabinet and a slice of cheese to go with it. All the doors and shutters to the house were thrown open to allow the forest air to permeate through the cottage. With one hand, the young smith ate his breakfast, sliced bread and cheddar, while with the other he hauled open the portal that separated his smithy from his home.

The coals in the forge were still warm, and it took but a few pumps of the blower to wake the fire once again. Arter finished off the last of his meal and donned his apron. He threw a hunk of metal into the coals and listened to the sizzle of heat on steel as he opened his shop to the outside. Water-glazed, green grass and full trees met his gaze while he looked about the small clearing that contained his cottage. The man stood just outside of his home and drew in several breaths of fresh air as it swept in from the mountains to the west.

Sunlight, flickering between the clouds above, caused the shadows of leaves to dance along the ground. Arter entered his smithy and, with the light of the forge at his back, began to work. He hummed between strokes of his hammer, and thought of the crackle of the fire as added percussion to his one-man symphony while he, both the strings and the bass drum, worked away on the anvil.

Arter continued this trend for several hours. Soon, the morning waned and the smith had turned several hunks of metal into the shape of blades — albeit ones that still required shining, sharpening, and hilts. Even so, the man, proud of his work, found it time for a break. It was around noon when he paused for lunch. As he stood from his seat at the anvil, the sound of twigs snapping met his ears, and he froze in place, his head jerking to look in the direction of the unusual noise. All at once, the forest seemed to fall into silence.

What sort of creature would be large enough to make such a sound, thought he. No bears or wolves came near his cottage, and squirrels certainly did not carry the weight to snap a branch in that manner. Arter could only assume that someone had come to his home seeking his employ. But, if that were the case, why would they not use the road? Out of the corner of his eye, Arter spied his sword resting against a leg of his workstation. He pondered calling out first, in hopes of startling the stranger in the woods into coming forth. The smith even tried to convince himself that he were imagining things. In the end, however, fear got the better of the smith and he reached for his sword.

No sooner did he move his arm, but there was a loud thwick, like the snapping of a bowstring, and an arrow soared from the darkness between the trees and planted itself deep in the wooden surface of Arter’s work table. 

At first, the smith froze. A misunderstanding perhaps? No. Adrenalin pumped through his veins and he seized his sword before turning and heading for his home. Two more arrows followed him and stuck in the doorway to his living room just moments after he passed it. Home was no longer safe, thought he. Arter bolted from his house and ran for the forest.

Trees passed him in a blur. Heavy footsteps followed him. The archer that sought him was not alone, though it was impossible to tell exactly how many pursued him. The sounds they made echoed off the trees as they shouted between one another.

“Cut him off!”

“On your left!”

“Aim for his legs!”

“Between those trees!”

Arter did not dare look over his shoulder. Any pause in his pace could spell the end for him. Even still, his legs already ached from running, and his breath soon grew ragged. Sweat collected in his palms and made it difficult to grasp his sword — not that it would be much help anyhow. An arrow whizzed by his head. Arter heard the archer that fired it swear loudly. He could hear his own blood pumping in his ears.

Just a little further, thought he. Then, an arrow landed. It sunk itself into his thigh and the sudden pain caused the blacksmith to trip and collapse into the underbrush, skidding to a stop at the foot of a great oak tree. Arter gripped his sword as he listened for approaching footsteps.

So this is to be the end.