Chapter Twelve - The Blacksmith's Boy

(Part I)

‘Lokk?’

Lokk glanced over his shoulder at the sound, frowning, and thought better of responding. Carel could manage without him a few moments longer.

‘Is someone calling you?’ the girl beside him asked, looking up at him with large eyes. Wanda, her name was, with a set of generous, pleasing dimples either side of a smiling mouth, freckled skin framed with a shock of crimson hair. His age. Maybe a year or so older. Who could tell? Who would care? Fifty men and women called Rindon home. Ten were close to his age. Four of them were women. Three of those weren’t his kin, and only one of those wasn’t already sick of the sight of him. Not yet, anyway.

‘Lokk?’ she asked him again, and he met her eye, brushing a strand of fair hair back from his brow.

‘They’ll wait.’ he told her, favouring her with a careless smile. ‘What were you saying? About your mother?’

‘Lokk!’ the call came again, louder this time, and accompanied by a loud clatter of pots through the kitchen door. He flinched, glancing up irritably. When he looked down again, Wanda was frowning, dimples dimpling into a polite, if apologetic, smile.

‘I… had best be going.’

‘Wait, Wanda, I...’ But she was already gone, hurrying off through the little maze of tables and chairs towards the Nest’s door. Lokk watched her go, not a little wistfully, ignoring a quiet smirk from one of the early arrivals. Then he sighed and went out through the door behind the bar, scowling.

The heat in the kitchen was thick with vapour. Steam poured out of a large pot hung swinging over the fire, steam that smelled of scavenged herbs and stale meat. Carel was standing beside it, stirring the contents with a ladle longer than her arm, pale hair tied back in a tight knot behind her head. On the counter beside her, the desiccated remains of a half-dozen different vegetables. The meat had left nothing behind.

‘What?’ he asked irritably, closing the door behind him.

‘What do you think?’ his sister replied, shooting him an irritable glance over her shoulder. ‘I don’t think me doing all the work whilst you drink our casks dry is what Da had in mind.’

‘I wasn’t just drinking.’ he told her. An apron was hanging up by the door, and he hung it sullenly over his shoulders, frowning. ‘Besides, you look like you were managing just fine without me.’

Carel snorted. ‘Someone had to.’

‘You’re much better at it than me, anyways.’ he added offhandedly, taking the ladle from her hands and sipping appreciatively from the little bowl of brownish broth. ‘Leave me to the casks. I’ll keep them company instead.’

‘I’m only better at it because Da taught me.’ Carel told him, scowling. ‘And he only taught me because he knew you’d be off trying to bed every girl in the village whenever his back’s turned. How is Maddy, by the way?’

‘Wanda.’ he corrected.

Carel snorted. ‘Anything that breathes, I suppose.’

Lokk gave her a hurt look. ‘Now, I’d hardly say anyth-‘

‘That’s actually my point.’ she interrupted him, snatching back the ladle. ‘You would say anything, if it got you what you wanted. Now make yourself useful and cut some bread.’

‘No need to be hurtful.’ he told her with a frown, going over to the counter and snatching up a knife. ‘Would be much simpler if I only had eyes for one someone. Not all of us have it so easy.’

He ducked just in time as part of a turnip crunched into the wall beside his head.

‘You’re right, I’m better off without your help!’ Carel told him, turning back to the pot. ‘Go back to your barrels.’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’ he shrugged the apron off his shoulders, and ducked through the door, just as another dismembered vegetable whistled past his ear.

Back in the common room, a few more of the villagers had assembled around one of the tables near the fire, making the early overtures of evening conversation around the edges of their ale mugs. Da had emerged from the Nest’s bowels, and was now skirting the table skilfully, fresh cask under arm. Lokk took his place behind the bar, doing his best to look busy. It was only then he noticed the other table. Further from the fire, this one. Quieter, too. Dark cloaks, dark faces. Lokk didn’t recognise them, and there wasn’t anyone in Rindon he didn’t know. As he watched, one of them looked up towards him with dark eyes, and he looked away, busying himself polishing a particularly stubborn mug.

‘You look busy.’

Da had appeared at his side, setting the cask down on the bar with a little sigh of effort. His rosy cheeks were rosier than ever, and his clothes smelt of pipe-smoke.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

‘I am busy.’

‘I suppose your sister didn’t need your help?’ The innkeep smiled knowingly, taking his old pipe from a pocket in his shirt and rubbing it clean on his sleeve.

‘Said so herself.’

‘Course she did.’

‘I-’

‘Well, it was a fucking storm wasn’t it. Not every little shower gets farted out a wizard’s arse.’ Albin, the butcher, exclaimed from near the fire. Overtures done then. Time for an argument. Lokk might have smiled, had he not been so terribly bored by it all.

‘This is a long one. They’ll be here a while yet.’ Da told him thoughtfully, chewing idly at the nib of his pipe. He frowned. His Ma had hated that thing. But Ma was gone, and it wouldn’t do any good, thinking about her. ‘We’ll need another cask.’

‘Older the better?’

‘Oldest the best.’ the innkeep agreed, grinning at him.

Lokk nodded and turned towards the door, then hesitated.

‘I don’t know them folk.’ he said quietly, nodding towards the little group of dark figures sitting away from the fire. The innkeep caught his look and frowned.

‘Solen’s new hands. Lowlanders.’ he replied, tamping some weed into the end of his pipe with the end of his thumb. ‘Nosey bunch. He’s got a few more besides, I hears. Must be a busy season up at the mine.’

Lokk frowned. ‘Do mines have busy seasons?’

‘Damned if I know. Keep to ‘emselves, mostly, anyways. Been here best part of a month, I reckon. Had one of ‘em in here asking questions, few days back, nothing since.’ The innkeep stopped fiddling with his pipe for a moment, giving his son a sideways look. ‘Still, they pay their way. Up front. Which is more than I can say for most of this lot.’

Lokk stole one last look at the quiet table of strangers, then turned and went out through a side door and into the night beyond, leaving Da at the bar alone.

The cold air bit at his skin as he emerged into the dark, and he shivered, shrugging himself a little deeper into his shirt. Winter came quickly, this close to the Teeth, filling the rocks with the kind of deep, dark cold that lasted well into spring. Presently, a rumbling cloud of purpling rain was drawing in over the mountains, and the wind was picking up. Lokk shivered again, scowling. Just his luck to catch the rain.

He made his way around the side of the sloping roof of the inn, head low against the gathering whine of the wind. Another night, another cask. Another squabble over nothing by the fire. Another restless sleep, wrapped in cold blankets. Alone. Summer was bad enough, but winter in the foothills was slower than a monk in a brothel. The women, such as they were, stayed home, for the most part. Those that did make it to the Nest didn’t wait out the first mugs. Even Cal had stopped calling, this past month.

Overheard, a pale flash of light, followed by a distant rumble. Rain had started, somewhere off up the slopes. Lokk aimed another choice curse at no one in particular. No women, no friends. No money. It was a sorry state of affairs, if ever he’d seen one.

He reached the store and began fiddling with the lock with numb fingers, frowning. It was hardly Cal’s fault, he knew. That blacksmith was quite mad. Everyone knew it. Locked up in that old forge, hammering away, night and day. Lokk had seen him a few times. Fonder of glaring than talking. Wasn’t exactly afraid of him, but he certainly didn’t like him. Big tree of a man, arms thick as thighs, had to stoop to get through most doorways. And his eyes! Lokk shivered again. Felt like ice on your skin when he looked at you. Strays like Cal couldn’t be choosers, Lokk knew that well enough. But if he was him, he’d have run off years ago.

The latch finally gave, and he swung the door open with a triumphant snort. He felt his way along the row of casks closest to the door, where the older ones were, fumbling in the dark. Behind him, the thunder crashed against the side of the hills, vibrating through his boots, and he flinched in spite of himself. If that mad blacksmith was going to keep Cal locked up like some trained animal, he’d have to get by without him. Not like Cal was the best company, anyway, these days. Always had been a strange one, but pale eyes had started getting far too clever for his own good, recently. More full of secrets than a Westri merchant. Sometimes he wondered if Cal saw the world the rest of them did, or one entirely his own. And then there was the Carel problem.

His hand settled on the cask closest to the far wall, and he dragged it grumbling from its place, wedging it under one arm. No, he could hardly blame Cal for any of it. He was just bored. Still, better bored at the inn than locked up in that damn forge with the cracked old blacksmith and his scarred face. He snorted under his breath, shivering at the thought. They’d been talking about leaving for years now. Going west. Arinath, maybe, Uldoroth, even. Men could make a good living in the white stones, so they’d heard. Makers knew they couldn’t stay here forever. Run the inn? Take up mining? No, they wouldn’t be here, forever. Maybe this year. Maybe next. But they’d get there. Tough place, the Lowlands, but they’d look out for each other. Always had. Besides, couldn’t be any tougher than these fucking hills. He wondered if Carel would follow them there, too. Who’d do the Nest's cooking, then?

He was halfway to the door when he heard it. The slow whisper of a thousand thousand breaths, brushes on the stones, rippling closer. He hesitated for a moment, then cursed, staggering for the door, cask slipping against his arm. The rain caught him on the doorstep, turning him silver with a layer of frigid water, and he spilled clumsily into the firelight beyond, nearly dropping the cask.

‘Easy!’

‘I’ve got it!’ he snapped back, straightening and setting it down on the bar beside the other. Da had got his pipe lit in the time Lokk had been outside, and the little twisting strings of smoke were curling upwards from his whiskered mouth. Carel was beside him, spooning her steaming brown broth into three small bowls on the bar.

‘Just in time for dinner.’ Da told him, sucking on his pipe.

‘As always.’ Carel murmured.

‘I-’

‘You look wet.’

‘I swear to-’

‘Get the door, will you. You trying to let the storm in?’

Lokk scowled, latching the door, and snatched up his bowl silently. He looked out at the rest of the common room, savouring the heat of the fire for a moment. Just as he left it. Of course it was. What would have changed?

‘What about Isandur, then?’ one of the villagers beside the fire was asking. Lokk snorted.

‘This one, again?’

‘It’s a good story.’ Da said quietly, blowing a little stream of smoke through his pursed lips.

‘Heard it a half-dozen times already, this month.’

‘Don’t let Godry hear you talking rot.’ Carel told him, taking up her own bowl and stirring it gently. ‘Wouldn’t want him giving it up. Albin would have to take over.’

Lokk’s eyes caught the little group of strangers again, sitting in the shadows away from the fire. Talking quietly amongst themselves. Dark cloaks and dour faces. At least that was new. They even looked like they might be more bored than he was.

Outside, the rain drummed down over the thatching, and the wind whined over the hills. He sighed, and took a mouthful of the steaming, tasteless stew, frowning to himself. Another night. Another boring fucking night.