Page 2 of Warmongers and Wands
Chapter 2
Bronwyn
Iclinched the last nail and surveyed my work. “Declan, I swear by all that’s holy, if you lose one more shoe this week, the next ones I’ll put on you will be cement. Then I’m dropping you into the pond.”
The centaur chuckled, twisting his torso so he could look down at his hoof. “It’s been a wet summer. I’m always standing in water lately. Maybe you should enchant the nails to stay in better.”
The problem wasn’t the nails; it was his crappy hoof-care routine. Hooves that were constantly in water were soft, and the nails wiggled loose, making the shoe come off and often taking a good chunk of foot along with it. The guy was lucky he had enough hoof wall for me to nail this to.
“Maybe you should apply some Keratex to all four of these suckers every day like I told you to,” I scolded.
He sniffed.
“Declan, I mean it. Unless you want to transition to barefoot, that is.”
A low vibrating sound came from his throat. In horses, it signaled a sort of wary uneasiness. In centaurs, it was the same as a human disgruntled scoffing noise. I knew why Declan didn’t want to go barefoot. All the city streets and sidewalks were tough on unshod hooves. And although he never wanted anyone to know, the centaur was woefully flat-footed, which meant gravel driveways and rocky trails were uncomfortable for him without shoes.
I hid a smile and fitted the metal against his hoof, noting adjustments I’d need to make. Hooves expanded, contracted, and changed shape just like feet did. The difference wasourshoes went around our feet with adjustments via laces. These were nailed onto his hoof and needed to fit perfectly as well as accommodate any growth in the hoof wall until his next appointment in four to six weeks.
Putting the metal to heat in my forge, I picked up a set of leather pads and threw them into the tub of water to soak. I’d never dreamed my farrier duties would end up being over half my career. As a kid, I’d always loved working with metal—bending and shaping it, enchanting it to hold a spell. Welding, casting, soldering…that’s what I’d envisioned when I’d thought about my life’s work. But we had a lot of town residents that had hooves. Besides the centaurs, there were a few Pegasus, the unicorns, and even the satyrs. Yes, most of them could manage basic trims on their own, but everyone enjoyed a professional taking care of things—especially when it came to shoes.
Human farriers came into town, but they’d promptly forget about the interesting creatures that were their clients the moment they crossed through the wards out of Accident. It made record keeping and scheduling problematic. And while we did have humans who permanently lived in Accident, none of them were trained in hoof care.
As a teenager, I’d hung out with a few of the farriers when they were working and tried my hand at a few rudimentary shoes, filling in when there was an emergency and a client couldn’t manage to bring a farrier into our town. You wouldn’t think there would be that many hoof-emergencies, but let me tell you, these centaurs were especially prone to throwing a shoe, getting an abscess, and the occasional laminitis episode that require specialized supportive footwear. Or hoofwear. These centaurs…spring grass really was their Kryptonite when it came to their hooves. I could lecture all I wanted, but each spring I ended up with three or four clients complaining about heat and pain in their hooves. Bar shoes, reversed shoes, you name it. I’d become somewhat of an expert before I’d been able to legally drink a beer.
By my sixteenth birthday, I’d started driving outside Accident to apprentice to a farrier, and at seventeen I was enrolled in formal training. I still attended the occasional seminars and conferences, although I had to be a bit cagy about the types of “horses” I shod and trimmed.
Outside of my farrier duties, I welded pipes, manufactured stock gates, and did custom ironwork. And in my spare time, I made metal art—sculptures and wind chimes.
Spare time. I had a lot of that because my social life was zilch. Less than zilch.
“Saw the shoes you put on Corianna the other day,” Declan commented. His voice was carefully casual, which clued me in that he’d been more impressed by Corianna’s shoes than he wanted to let on.
I hid a smile and grabbed the tongs to pull Declan’s shoe from the fire. “You want pink as well?” The female centaur had hot pink shoes that contrasted with her fancy, painted hooves—creamy white with little pink hearts on the front. I wasn’t exactly an artist when it came to painting, but I liked Corianna, and we’d had a sort of girlfriend night last week. She got a mani-pedi with special polish and pink shoes. I drank wine and got to hear all the gossip.
No, I didn’t paint my nails. I don’t think I’d painted them since I was thirteen. When you work with metal every day, it seems kind of silly to have long, red nails.
When you go home alone to an empty house every night, it seems kind of silly to have long red nails, too.
“Not pink. And no little hearts. They look pretty on Corianna, but I want something manly. Stallion-like.”
Of course. I admirably restrained myself from an epic eye roll. “So, what were you thinking of?”
“Maybe red?” he asked hopefully.
“Corianna’s shoes are aluminum, Declan. I need to hot-shoe you, so I can only do steel. But…” I paused for dramatic effect, noting that I had the centaur’s rapt attention. “Ifyou can get your hoof walls in better shape, I might be able to use those new plastic shoes. They come in different colors. I’ve been told they’re very comfortable, too. Like walking on clouds.”
Declan sucked in a breath, his eyes sparkling. “I’d like that.”
I hammered the shoe I was working on into shape, holding it up to make sure it was just right. “Keratex, Declan. Every night. And try to stay out of the marshy areas.”
He nodded, forelock drifting across one dark eye. “Red shoes, and you’ll paint my hooves glossy black?”
I walked over to him, eyeing the centaur. He was gorgeous and he knew it—wavy black hair, golden-brown skin, and a rich deep bay on his horse half. His black tail matched the hair on his head and was long enough to brush the ground. Red shoes would make a statement. They’d be gaudy as all heck on his brown-and-black self, but they’d make a statement. And Declan was all about making a statement.
“You’ve got a deal. Red shoes and glossy black hooves.”
Twenty minutes later, I’d reset all the centaur’s shoes and watched him walk and trot around the yard. There was a low rumble of thunder off in the distance, and although there weren’t any dark storm clouds in view, the sky had an odd yellowish cast that I wasn’t liking.
