Book 1 of the Dance of The Blacksmith and The Huntress Series
In a world teeming with monsters and death, caterans are the guardians entrusted with maintaining the delicate balance between the realms of creatures and humans. Two such caterans stumble upon a vulnerable young boy, orphaned in the wake of his parents’ tragic demise. They name the boy Doyle, unaware that he is destined to become a renowned cateran, potentially even the most formidable of them all.
Enduring a childhood devoid of love, Doyle is resolute in his determination to carve out a solitary existence in the world. Yet, at his darkest hour, he crosses paths with a captivating young woman named Ophelia, sparking a profound connection that ignites a passionate dance between them. Both possess remarkable bravery as caterans, yet they hesitate to confide their innermost emotions to one another. The turmoil of violence, adversity, and injury becomes Doyle’s convenient shield, shielding him from expressing his true feelings to Ophelia.
This is Doyle’s half of the tale, the narrative that the world yearns to experience.
“The Blacksmith” unfolds as the initial installment of “The Dance of the Blacksmith and the Huntress,” a spellbinding fantasy romance chronicling the journey of Doyle and Ophelia. Their lives intertwine as they grapple with the daunting task of acknowledging the sentiments concealed within their hearts.
Read an excerpt from the book below the book cover or go to the Amazon page to buy The Dance of The Blacksmith:
“Goblins,” Tyler, the red-headed swordsman in simple yet worn armour said grimly.
“How do you know?” the archer accompanying him asked.
“See those cuts? They’re from the short swords’ goblins like to use and I thought an archer would have recognised goblin arrows. Poor bastards. Probably got ambushed. Didn’t stand a chance.” Tyler said with genuine sympathy.
The scene the two were looking at was a cart tipped over, and a dead horse at the front with arrows in it. A man and a woman, covered in blood, next to it. Flies were already swarming over them in the warm sun. It was a messy and tragic scene.
“Looks like they were on their way to town. They nearly made it,” the archer said, grimacing.
Suddenly there was a movement. Quick as a flash the swordsman was in his ready position, sword above his head, the archer had an arrow knocked in his bow with the string pulled back, ready to fire. There was then the sound of a child crying. The two men looked at each other with puzzled expressions. They nodded at each other and then Tyler moved carefully to the cart, the archer covering him in case something nasty should jump out. Tyler pulled back the sheet covering the cart and found a scared and crying little boy of no more than three or four years old, with light brown hair and blue eyes.
“Hello, young master,” The swordsman said kindly, sheathing his sword as he did so.
“Careful, Tyler!” The archer said cautioning his friend unnecessarily.
“Mate, it’s a little boy! Relax!” Tyler replied, rolling his eyes with exasperation.
“What are we going to do with him?”
“Well, he can’t stay here, can he? We’ll have to take him back to town with us.”
“He can’t stay with me,” the man with the bow said unhelpfully.
“You’re all heart! But you’re right living with caterans isn’t a place for a little boy either.” Tyler thought for a bit then said as an idea popped into his head, “I’ll take him to my brother he always needs a pair of hands to help in the blacksmith’s shop and the boy can learn a trade.” That simple thinking was typical of caterans.
“I take it we’re not going to get paid for this?” The archer lamented surveying the scene and only seeing lost earnings.
Tyler shook his head sadly. Caterans were always in it for the money.
Tyler lifted the frightened boy onto the saddle of his horse and rode with the boy in front of him. He liked children, spending his life killing and seeing so much death and destruction in his job that watching them play innocently made him realise why he did what he did. He would hate it if the world was less safe. Monsters never differentiated between adults or children.
The three of them rode to town with the boy riding on Tyler’s horse. Tyler left his horse at the stables, and he walked hand in hand, up the steep hill, to the blacksmith’s shop with the boy. Despite the boy’s tears, Tyler felt the boy’s grip. “He’s strong,” he thought, “he’s a survivor.”
“What have you got there, Tyler?” asked the Blacksmith impassively looking down at the boy.
“It’s a boy, Nate,” Tyler replied. “I found him in a cart that had been ambushed by goblins. He’s lucky to be alive. His parents weren’t so lucky.”
“Does he stop crying?”
“His parents just died, Nate! Give the poor boy a break!” Tyler pleaded.
“What’s he called?”
“I don’t know, how about Doyle?” Tyler offered.
Paul Willson Fantasy 
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