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rohirric-hunter · 22 days

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A Blade for a Life

Look at my 6.3k word oneshot, boy

So I had half of this written and was "basically done" so I sat down to "finish it real quick" and that got out of hand fast. But the half that was already written was mostly written years ago. It all started out as an exercise to figure out how Hathellang interacted with law enforcement in Bree and let me tell you. It absolutely did not do that.

Anyway. Hathellang's POV

~*~*~*~

“You there! Thief!”

You do not recall stealing anything yet today, but the owner of the voice, a stocky, angry-looking Dwarf, is definitely speaking to you. Nonetheless, you indicate yourself and say, “Are you talking to me, sir?”

“Yes!” he growls. “You haven’t seen a sword about, have you? One of mine was stolen this morning.”

You feel a sinking sensation in your stomach. You have not stolen a sword, but it is no mystery why he might suspect you of it. You offer him a disarming smile, at the same time stepping back to put some distance between you. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t,” you say.

“Then you didn’t steal it?” he asks, and you flinch. Chief Watcher Grimbriar is just on the other side of the little roadside cabin that serves as a guard-post along the Greenway north out of Bree-town, and while a glance tells you that he has not yet tuned into this conversation – he is seated on the top step, bending over a sheaf of papers and occasionally marking a map that sits beside him with a piece of charcoal – if the Dwarf maintains this line of questioning he certainly will.

“You can’t make an accusation like that one without evidence,” you say, a little sharply.

“Then that wasn’t you loitering about my shop all this morning?” he asks.

“Your shop?” you repeat. “I don’t know where your shop is. And why would I want to steal a sword? Helena won’t stop making them, even though nobody buys them.” This is not strictly true: Helena is new to swordmaking and most of her attempts so far have not been of high enough quality to be sold. But you are mostly talking to buy time, as you run over your morning in your mind. It had been long and slow; you had arrived in town as the sun rose and gone about gathering work – tailoring work, that is – orders and clothing to be refitted and resized and mending for those too busy to manage it themselves, or wealthy enough to hire the service. This had been done in an hour, but somewhat later in the morning you had had an obligation for the other sort of work you do, and so to pass the time you had purchased a stuffed cabbage from Darin Whitflor and brought it to the Stone Quarter to eat, perched on the jutting foundation of a house just down the street from where several Dwarves share a prolific little smithy. Now you recognize this individual as Lofar Ironband, a craftsman well-known for his quality steel, and the owner of the Dwarf-smithy. You had indeed spent several hours loitering near his shop once you had finished your breakfast, making a start on some of the simpler work in your bag and then catnapping, for the house was built inexpertly, and the foundation offers quite a wide ledge, and the sun had warmed it delightfully.

“It was me,” you say. There is no use in denying it. “But if I was looking for an opening to steal something, I shouldn’t have done it so brazenly. Anyway –” you raise your arms to the side and turn in a quick circle, showing that you are carrying nothing but your work bag “-- do I look like I’ve got a sword on me?”

“No,” Lofar admits, “but you could have done away with it already. Resold it to one of your Man-smiths, maybe? They’re always jealous of Dwarf-craft. Well, I want it back.”

“I don’t have it,” you say bluntly.

Lofar begins to turn, and as you follow his line of movement you realize with a start that Chief Watcher Grimbriar has taken an interest, though he is not looking your way yet. His hand has stilled, and he holds himself with the air of someone who is listening to a conversation that he is not part of.

“Wait!” you say quickly. “I didn’t steal it and I don’t have it, but what do you want? To not get the guards involved, I mean.”

Lofar eyes you suspiciously. “If you didn’t take it, then what’s the harm? If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”

“Except two nights in the city jail while they investigate!” you exclaim. “I can’t spend time in jail. I’ve got work to do. There’s another babe come in that’s not been weaned, that’s two now! and two wet nurses that have got to be paid for, not to mention food and clothes for twenty-one, with the winter coming on and all.” You nervously bite at your lower lip. “I’ll ask around, see if I can find out who took your sword.”

Lofar frowns, but he turns to face you, crossing his arms in a manner that brooks no nonsense. “I suppose I know your name and where you live,” he says. “It’s not as if you’re going to skip town in the night.” You could, of course, but you don’t feel that information is likely to be helpful in this circumstance. “I would rather have the sword back than anything. Bring it back and I won’t ask where you got it or who stole it.”

As you shoulder your work bag and turn back toward Bree, you reflect that you will certainly be asking who stole it. There are many people about who, unlike you, have ample reason to steal a sword, and enough of these are not people you particularly trust with one, especially a stolen one. If nothing else, you have a bone to pick with the thief on your own account.

You have no better lead to follow than Lofar’s own suspicion that it was one of the smiths of Bree. You doubt very much that any of them took the sword; you have always known them to be honest, though their rivalry with the local Dwarf-smiths is widely known. Perhaps one of the less experienced young pickpockets who hang about the Mud Gate might have considered it a worthwhile risk, but you very much doubt it. Everyone knows that the best money is in jewelry and coins and other small objects that can be quickly pilfered and easily hidden. And if it was a commissioned burglary, a client paying a thief to take the sword, such arrangements go through Albra Lowbanks, and she will tell you nothing, as sure as the sun rises and sets. Nor will you ask, for she keeps your secrets as well.

The smiths, of course, are patently offended at your questions, and with no better ideas you return to the Stone Quarter to look over the smithy there, but you see nothing out of place. The Dwarves there have seen nothing, save one, who eyes you thoughtfully and asks if you weren’t there earlier in the day. His voice carries no suspicion, and it seems that you will find nothing here, before he mentions almost offhandedly that he has seen more Men here today than in the past week.

“Your lot don’t come down here too often,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron, “meaning no disrespect. But it was you and that other fellow today, and the last one before that was a Ranger. We don’t –”

You cut him off, rather rudely, but this is the first lead you’ve dared entertain. “Who was it?” you ask.

“The one they call Strider, I think,” the Dwarf says. “What do you want to be knowing that for?”

“I apologize,” you say. “Not the Ranger, the other man who was here today.”

“Oh, him,” the Dwarf says. “I don’t rightly know. Young-looking fellow; taller than you, but then most Men are. Red hair. I used to see him at the Man-forge by West-gate quite a lot, but he’s been scarce in the past month.” You crease your brow in thought, and he crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “Well? Just because Dwarf work is better doesn’t mean your lot’s never come up with a trick or two. I’m allowed to learn wherever I please, if you please!”

“I agree!” you say, raising your hands defensively. “And thank you! That’s what I needed to know.”

You quickly take your leave of the Dwarf and turn northward, walking at a brisk pace. You do not recognize the description, but a smithy-worker who has been absent for a month can only be one of the new workers at Thornley’s Work Site. Nearly a month ago Thornley had brought on a great many new workers, in response to the increased brigand activity in recent months. None of them are fighters, as far as you know, but you can certainly imagine why they might want a sword, out in the Bree-fields without even a fence around the site. There is a reason Helena has recently taken an interest in making them.

You have little interest in encountering Lofar again on your way to the work site, so you leave town through the North-gate and skirt along the ridge east of the Greenway. This allows you to avoid Lofar and Grimbriar both, and you are congratulating yourself on your cleverness when you stumble across the body.

The wind is in the south, or you should have smelled the blood and avoided it. As it is, however, you step out from among some dense bushes onto a trail that leads down into a shaded hollow, and there you discover what remains of someone who seems to have fallen afoul of the boars that live in the hollow. There is not much left to identify the man, but as you approach you notice the hilt of a sword lying on the bloody ground where he must have dropped it. The blade is snapped off and nowhere to be found, but the hilt is brand-new and shows no signs of wear, and the detailing is distinctly Dwarven.

You consider, briefly, taking the hilt back to Lofar and washing your hands of the whole business, but the poor sap deserves a burial, if nothing else, and the body cannot be left here. Thornley’s Work Site is close, anyway, so you continue on, twirling the hilt idly in your hands as you walk.

When you arrive at the work site, you ask the first Man you see for the foreman. He raises his arm and opens his mouth to answer, and then he catches sight of the hilt held loosely in your right hand and goes deathly pale. He appears terrified, as if the presence of the hilt spells terrible news, and you can’t but conclude that there are more layers to this mystery than you thought. “What do you know about this?” you ask quickly.

“Nothing!” he says, even more quickly, if that is possible. “Please go away! I – I have work to do. Foreman Rosethorn is over there.”

This Man matches the description the Dwarf at the smithy gave you. “Now look here,” you say, sternly but not unkindly. “I’m not going to rat you out. But I very nearly got pinned for this, and I don’t imagine Master Ironband is going to be too pleased at its condition when I return it.”

The man wavers for a moment, and then says, “Fine, I stole it, but I had a good reason! I wasn’t trying to pin anyone. It was for my family! Nate said he would hurt them if I didn’t make a sword for his captain, Blake. But I didn’t have the iron to forge one, so I took the Dwarf’s! Please, you must understand, it was to save my family! Please don’t tell the constable!”

“Who are Nate and Blake?” you ask. “For that matter, who are you?”

“Who are – why, didn’t you take the hilt from Nate?” he asks.

“If I did, then he’s dead,” you say. “Ran afoul of the boars in the hollow across the Greenway.”

“And good riddance to him,” the man says. “I’m Kenton Thistleway. Nate is, or was, a brigand. He said he was going to test the sword against the workers on the silo across the way. But this is terrible! What if Blake comes looking for his sword? I won’t have one to give him, and they’ll hurt my family!”

That seems likely to you. The Hackberry House has thus far escaped the particular notice of the brigands as they robbed and drove off most everyone around because orphans and abandoned children make for good recruits. Lady Hackberry’s do not, because she raises her children right and sees to it that they are loved and want for nothing she can provide, but you have never felt particularly inclined to share this information with any of the people slipping you shadowy notes promising adventure and freedom and wealth, and even less so in recent years, when the letters changed to offer power and fulfillment. You offer a bounty in sweet honey-cakes to any of the younger children who bring you such a letter, for once you have destroyed it they have no in with the brigands. More than one of them are taking advantage of this arrangement, but it is a small price to pay to keep them out of such mischief. All children, in your opinion, ought to know a few basic swindles anyhow.

You are unsure how much longer this arrangement will keep the household safe, however. It was mainly the Blackwold who recruited locally, and the past several days have brought dark rumors with them. They are outlandish, and you believe less than half of them, but all agree that the Blackwolds are no longer a power to be reckoned with in Bree-land. You are sorry, for you had several friends who had run off to sleep in the woods and live off the land and be their own masters, back when that was all the Blackwolds did. More urgently, the power among the various local gangs is out of balance, and you do not know who will fill the vacuum or what they will do. You fear it will be one of the new lots, composed mainly of strangers from the south, and before long they will come to your home and threaten your family, just as they are doing to Kenton Thistleway.

The Man in question looks deeply uncomfortable, and a little constipated. “Do you think,” he asks slowly, “that Lofar would make another sword? If you asked him and explained the situation, that it’s to save my family?”

“I’ll ask him,” you say. “And if he says no, I might be able to get you a near-endless supply of swords that snap off just above the hilt.”

~*~*~*~

“Another blade?” Lofar exclaims, when you have explained the situation to him. “Another blade? I’m already behind on other work, and now I’ll have to forge a new sword to fill the order this one was for. ‘Time is precious, don’t give it away for nothing,’ my father used to say…” He pauses, brow furrowed in thought. “Actually lost my father to brigands a few years back. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

“Bah!” he says, sounding annoyed, though it is not directed at you. “Give me that hilt. I must be getting soft. I’ll help that Kenton Thistleway, but with two conditions. First one is that if that brigand don’t come around looking for the sword, I get it back. Second, Thistleway gives me a hand and does some of the simpler work I’ve got piling up.” He fiddles with the straps on a workbag much like yours and produces a bellows. “These need new leather. Take them back to Thistleway and tell him I’ll send two or three more projects later today. If he fixes them all and I’m happy with his work, I’ll call it even on the cost of the two swords.”

You take the bellows under your arm – they are too big to fit into your work bag – and once again turn north up the Greenway. Once you have delivered Lofar’s message and bellows, you think, you will turn for home; you have much still to do this day, and you are hungry. The sun is well past its zenith now. You wonder if there are any honey cakes at the house, and if Gareth will have your hide if you take them.

Kenton Thistleway is nervously pacing when you return. You explain Lofar’s offer to him and he takes the bellows almost eagerly. He examines them carefully, and then nods in satisfaction. “I can repair this in an afternoon,” he says, “but I’ll need some leather to replace the worn patches.”

This whole affair is really no longer your business, but you hate to leave a task unfinished, so you quickly volunteer, “I can get you some.” Kenton ought at least to have a sword to bargain with, you think, before you can quite call this done.

He looks at you like you hung the stars, and you excuse yourself quickly and rather awkwardly. The Hackberry House is a short walk away, half an hour, perhaps, or less if you are willing to take a shortcut across Eric Dogwood’s fields. The outer fields lie fallow, as Eric and his wife Eltrys are too old to work so far from their home, and their son Horace had run off before the spring planting. Some of the children at the Hackberry House sometimes set aside time over the summer to assist them, especially Helena, and Léonys when she was not busy, but none of you had the time or resources to plant and maintain entire fields. If the harvest is not good, the Dogwoods may lose their farm – that is, if brigands and worse do not drive them off of it first.

The Hackberry House is larger than most other houses in the Bree-fields, except perhaps the Thornleys’. It boasts two stories and three outbuildings on a sizeable parcel of land: Lady Hackberry had inherited a comfortable fortune in land, livestock, and money from her father, though the latter is spread quite thin in recent years, with more children than she is really able to house about, and the brigands driving up the prices of whatever goods they don’t manage to steal.

The land is surrounded by a hedge, perhaps waist-high to you, which serves to keep some six cows, three sheep, and a dozen or so chickens contained. The only gate opens to the east, but you approach from the north and jump the hedge quite easily. Lady Hackberry has told you not to do this many times, but from here it is a clear shot to the tanning shed, where Léonys lays out and cures leather from her hunting trips. The place reeks, but you are more than used to it, and you slip in and begin browsing the drying racks, where finished leathers hang, ready to be sorted. After a few moments you find something suitable for bellows and reach up to undo the clamps that keep it on the rack.

“Hathellang?”

You turn with a start to see the form of Lady Hackberry framed in the doorway. “Oh! Lady Hackberry,” you say. “You startled me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she says. “Will you be home for dinner?"

"I hope so," you say. "I just have a quick errand to run and then I'll be heading home for the day." You pull the leather down and walk towards the door, taking her hands in yours and squeezing them affectionately.

She smiles fondly. "Don't forget, you promised Anna you would help her at the forge this afternoon."

"I won't," you say. "I couldn't if I tried. She's spoken of little else since last night."

Lady Hackberry leans forward and presses an affectionate kiss to your forehead, and the two of you step out into the late morning sunlight.

~*~*~*~

You don't think you could have been gone for more than half an hour, but when you return to Thornley’s Work Site, Kenton Thistleway has abandoned all pretense of getting work done. Indeed, everyone has. He is sitting on the ground beside his forge, head in his hands, with some unfinished nails scattered on the ground about. The other workers are clustered in little groups, speaking quietly together or casting pitying looks toward Kenton. The foreman looks very displeased with the whole situation, but has made no move to encourage anyone to return to work.

Kenton looks up as you approach, and speaks before you can ask what happened. “Oh, it’s terrible! Blake, the brigand-captain who wanted the sword, came and told me he knew Nate was dead and that he knew I had something to do with it! I tried to tell him I didn’t, that I would have another sword for him soon, but he wouldn’t listen.” The man pauses and takes several steadying breaths. “He said he’s taken my daughter, Maribell! If I don’t give him another sword, and soon, he’ll kill her!”

This affair is really no longer your business, a voice in your mind says, but it’s a quiet one, and you brush it aside. “Get ahold of yourself,” you say. “We’ll get the man a sword, then. Where is he?”

“The brigand-camp in the Bree-fields, up to the west,” Kenton says. “Blake’s in charge there.”

You swing the rolled-up leather down from your shoulder where you were carrying it and drop it unceremoniously on the ground at Kenton’s feet. “Well, there’s that,” you say. “I’ll go get the sword from Mr. Ironband and take it to Blake.”

“Please hurry,” he says. You don’t respond, instead turning away and making for the Greenway at a light jog.

You are sweaty and out of breath by the time you reach the cabin guard-post, where Lofar Ironband still stands, talking to Chief Watcher Grimbriar. It seems to be a discussion of some importance, as both of them are consulting pieces of parchment and making notes on them in charcoal, but it doesn’t interest you. “Have you -- have you finished -- Thistleway’s sword yet?” you ask, gasping for breath and supporting yourself on your knees.

Lofar looks at you as if you had asked him if he had managed to lay an egg. “Do you know how long it takes to make a sword?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Listen, Blake came back and told Thistleway that he has his daughter Maribell up at the brigand camp west of the Everclear Lakes, and he’ll kill her if he doesn’t have a sword and soon.”

The Dwarf’s face softens. “This is bad,” he says. “No, I don’t have a sword. I have a few in progress and I sent word to my assistants to finish one as soon as may be, but I don’t have it yet. I know these types of fellows. they won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. They’ll kill that girl! You’ll have to mount a rescue.”

You turn and look expectantly at Chief Watcher Grimbriar.

“No,” he says. “Brigand’s Watch? They have a fortification built up there, and can see for miles around. They see a guard anywhere nearby and they’ll kill the girl without a second thought, and do who knows what else. I don’t have the men for a full assault.”

“So you’re just going to leave her?” you ask.

Grimbriar looks at you long and hard, and at length he says, “You’re the one who broke into the Briarstones’ estate last month, I know it. Slipped right past their dogs, somehow.”

“Well --” you say, “you can’t prove that.” You are actually quite proud of the feat, and don’t often get the chance to brag about it. Lady Hackberry feels it’s an inappropriate topic of conversation for mealtimes.

“Unfortunately, no,” the Chief Watcher agrees. “But I know it’s true. And if anyone can make it into Brigand’s Watch undetected, it’s the man who got past six bloodhounds without getting caught. What do you say?”

“I’m a tailor, Grimbriar,” you say. “I don’t adventure.” You know that he knows this is not true, but it’s only good form for him to keep up the ruse when he doesn’t have any evidence.

“So you’re just going to leave her?” he says.

~*~*~*~

The brigands have left one approach to their camp unwatched, and that’s the northern side, where the land rises up into a cluster of foothills around Starmere Lake, nestled beneath the Wildwood to the north and the Brandywood to the west. It is no small wonder; the land is wild here, too rocky for farming and too overrun for grazing. A few hunters come here occasionally, or so you have heard, but not many. It is far from Bree-town and Léonys has told you that it’s more trouble than it’s worth to haul a kill back from these woods, not with the Chetwood so near the town.

They’ve erected a palisade around their camp, but it’s a rush job, just a lot of logs driven into the ground and lashed together with rope. They’ve felled a great many trees to the south-east for this, which serves the double purpose of clearing the land between them and the town, and the farms and homesteads between. It doesn’t seem much like the other brigand camps you’ve seen -- the Blackwolds had watchmen, but their main camps were always nestled in comfortable ruins. This feels like they expect an attack of some sort, and it puts you on edge.

Not so on edge that you aren’t able to approach the palisade undetected. You hear voices on the other side, slurring with alcohol, but after a moment they pass on. You test the logs -- they’re placed sturdily enough -- and then quickly pull yourself up by the rope lashing the tops of them together, swing a leg between the sharpened points of the logs, and then throw yourself the rest of the way over, landing in a roll on the ground. You scramble to your feet immediately and duck behind a nearby tent, tucking your cloak close around you and hoping that to the casual observer you will look like just another bundle or blanket scattered around the sleeping area. But no one seems to have noticed your intrusion, and after a few moments you stand and quickly glance about.

You see no sign of any captives, but people typically keep things they don’t want to be stolen inward, rather than outward, and you imagine the same applies to prisoners they don’t want to escape. There is a gap in the palisade nearby, and from the outside you had seen a smaller compound here, tucked between two steep spurs of rock in the cliff behind. You quickly walk toward it, hoping anyone who sees you will assume you are simply one of their own, and slip inside.

There is a cage built on wheels inside the little area, and inside it you see a young woman sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest. She looks up as you approach, but does not speak at once.

“I’m here to help,” you say as you examine the lock. It’s a simple two-pin lock like thousands of others you could pick with your eyes closed, but the workmanship is odd -- shoddy. The metal is not formed well and it seems to you that someone tried to cool it too fast, and perhaps also form it when it was not hot enough. No smith in Bree-land that you know of would put their name to such work. You wonder where it came from.

“I filched the key a while ago,” the girl, Maribell, says, sitting up and reaching into her pocket. “I was too scared to use it, though. There are so many of them.”

From her voice, you think she’s about Helena’s age. She hands you a key that is somewhat better made than the lock, but still not good. “All right,” you say. You unlock the cage door, but even as Maribell slips out, you hear a sound to your right.

The cage is not the only structure in the little inner palisade. There is also a tent, larger than the ones outside and with blankets and furs covering the floor inside, and from this tent a man has emerged. He is holding an ugly rowan club, little more than a broken branch that someone has tied some rags around for a handle, and he looks angry.

“That’s Blake!” Maribell hisses, and you see why Thistleway was so intimidated by him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he snaps. “You’d better have a sword for me, boy.”

“You know,” you grumble, stepping forward to face Blake, “if I had a silver for every time someone asked me if I had a sword today, I would have two. It’s not very many, but it’s odd that it happened twice, seeing as how I’m very clearly not carrying a sword.”

Blake charges, raising the club high. You stoop to the ground, catch a handful of dust, dry grass, wood shavings, and small pebbles, and then straighten up and throw the lot directly into his face. He stops short, dropping the club, and clutches at his eyes with both hands. Almost in the same movement you step forward, snatch a dagger from his belt with your other hand, and drive it upwards, into his abdomen.

You turn away from Blake before he hits the ground. “Quick, over the palisade,” you say, pointing at a stack of crates behind the cage. Maribell nods and climbs the crates, gingerly pulls herself to the top of the palisade, and then slips over it. You follow as quickly as you may. Even as you stand up, you hear a shout from inside the palisade behind you, and you take Maribell’s hand and the two of you begin to run.

~*~*~*~

Thornley’s Work Site is probably the nearest safe place, or safer, at any rate. The two of you hurry north for some distance before turning west to pass the Everclear Lakes on the north. You are both exhausted, but you don’t stop running until you reach the work site. Work has not resumed in the past few hours, and murmurs and then cheers arise as the two of you approach. You slow to a halt, leaning against the foundation of the building in progress to catch your breath, but at the sight of her father Maribell seems to gain a second win and she runs ahead and throws herself into his arms.

Kenton Thistleway catches his daughter and pulls her close, holding her tight. Someone offers you a waterskin and you accept it gratefully. You aren’t used to so much running after a heist; usually there is a hiding spot much closer that you can retreat to until everything blows over. And you dearly hope this blows over. Hopefully none of the brigands got a good look at your face -- else this might lead to dire consequences for you and your family. The Hackberry House is not too far from Brigand’s Watch.

You aren’t sure how long it is before Kenton approaches you, Maribell just behind him. He clasps your hand in his and there are unshed tears in his eyes. “Bless you,” he says. “You’ve returned my daughter safe to me! I cannot thank you enough!”

“How about some more water?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood. Really, you would rather not think about what might have happened to Maribell, for a number of reasons.

“Get the man some water!” Kenton shouts to no one in particular, and although you know he has no real authority here, someone passes up another waterskin, which he presses into your hands. “You’ve done so much for me,” he says. His expression darkens. “What about Blake?” he asks.

“Blake is dead,” Maribell quickly says. “He --” she looks at you and you realize with a start that you have not introduced yourself to her.

“Hathellang,” you say.

“Hathellang killed him,” Maribell says. “And good riddance to him.”

The foreman pushes through the workers and scowls at Kenton. “Thistleway,” he says, “take your daughter and go home. Take the rest of the day off. And next time you’re getting blackmailed, don’t just come in and not say anything about it. Tusks o’ fury!”

Kenton gathers his tools and he and Maribell head south along the Greenway. It is not the quickest way back to the Hackberry House, but you opt to walk with them. There is safety in numbers, and you would rather see them safe at least as far as the guard’s cabin, since you’ve apparently decided to make this affair your business.

When you arrive at the cabin, Lofar is still there. He looks up as your little party approaches with a broad smile. “Excellent!” he calls. “Glad no harm came to the lass.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kenton says. “I’m so sorry for stealing your sword. Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Don’t thank me,” Lofar says gruffly. “I sent you some work to do. What about it?”

“I haven’t finished it,” Kenton said. “I’ve barely started. I haven’t been able to focus much today. But here’s what I have.” He pauses to swing his workbag from his shoulder and draw out what you recognize as a set of old bellows-leather, marked to be used as a template for a replacement.

“Well, I can see you know what you’re doing,” Lofar says. “What’s all this?”

“The leather was cut wrong at the ends,” Kenton says. “It was putting too much strain here and here when they were used. They still worked, but that’s why they were wearing out so fast. I’ve added an extra measure at each end and I’ll reinforce these stress points when I replace it, so they’ll last longer before it needs replaced again.”

You think you see a spark of respect in Lofar’s eye, but he just nods and says, “Very good, very good. That’s good sense, that. Almost as sharp as a Dwarf-smith, this one. You can expect more work from me in the future, Thistleway.”

“Thank you,” Kenton says. You think he recognizes the high praise for what it is, coming from Lofar Ironband.

“I’ll be off, then,” you say.

“Not so fast,” Lofar says.

You scowl. “I have work to do too, Ironband,” you say. “Don’t tell me you want me to find another sword for you.”

“No,” Lofar says. “Actually, this is for you, seeing as how Thistleway doesn’t need it anymore.” He holds out a long, suspiciously sword-shaped bundle wrapped in cloth. “My assistant just brought it to me not an hour ago.”

You stare at it for a long moment. “Sir,” you say at length. “What am I going to do with a sword?”

Lofar scowls. “Consider it compensation for the fact that I accused you of a crime you didn’t commit and then tried to get you arrested,” he says.

“All right,” you say, taking the weapon. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Just don’t actually be stealing anything from my shop.”

You look pointedly at Chief Watcher Grimbriar, who is standing behind Lofar with smugness and frustration warring on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ironband,” you say.

“Bah!” Grimbriar says. “Get out of here, Hackberry.”

You consider a parting barb, but think better of it, and instead you hurry ahead, down the lane that leads to the North-gate. More work to be done; you have to get rid of this sword. You have no use for a sword. But at least it should fetch a good price, if not at the market then among the Man-smiths near the West-gate. After you have dealt with this, you promise yourself, you will be headed directly home and you will not go out again today.

As you pass the Windview Estate and near the Sandheaver home, you stop short. You would recognize the bright green and red jacket up ahead anywhere -- but Léonys cannot be here. She’s on a hunt, in the north-eastern Chetwood, up away past Archet. You break into a jog, and call her name, but she does not hear you, and she turns and walks towards the West-gate, and when you round the corner and look after her she is gone.

You turn back to where Lily Sandheaver is standing outside her house. “Was that Léonys?” you ask breathlessly.

“Yes, it was,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

“What’s she doing here?” you ask.

“Nothing, anymore!” Lily says, and chuckles at her own joke. “She just bought some traveling rations from me, and firewood from Pasco Underhill up the hill. Said something about going into the Old Forest and not wanting to risk cutting wood there.”

You stare at Lily in disbelief for a moment. “The Old Forest?” you ask incredulously. “Whatever would she want in there?”

“Well I don’t know,” Lily says. “And what’s more, she said she was going by way of the Barrow-downs! It’s quicker, she said. Seemed in a terrible great hurry.”

What could Léonys possibly be thinking? You glance down the road to the West-gate, and then drop your eyes to the bundle in your hands. Well, perhaps you have a use for a sword after all.

“I’d like to buy some travel rations as well,” you say.

“Of course,” Lily says, and she collects a small bundle from the crate she keeps on her porch to sell to workers and travelers leaving town who have forgotten their lunches. “Forty-eight coppers, please.”

You count out the money, and bundle the meal into your pocket, then unwrap the sword. It’s a nice thing, sturdy and well-made, Dwarven designs worked into the hilt and pommel and running up one side of the otherwise unadorned sheath. You undo your belt and slide the scabbard loops over it, settling the weapon on your left hip, and then with a nod at Lily you turn and leave Bree behind, following Léonys out the West-gate, towards the Barrow-downs.

#lotro #lotro fanfic #the wind will set me racing #lotro oc #love my idiot son #my idiot son loves his idiot girlfriend #im an idiot too btw. were a trifecta

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