From Man to Man Page 3

  IV.

  'Would I forgive me?'

  The sudden torchlight from the open door caught Draven full in the face. Laid bare in the night, with nowhere to hide, he shaded his eyes with a hand and stepped inside.

  'Even having to ask that is answer enough.'

  "Ah, but I see ya've changed ya mind!" The Blacksmith's tone was neither gloating nor bitter, but Draven still swallowed a reproach.

  'Can forgiveness be taken back? What about when you go back on a promise? Back to the old ways.'

  He more felt rather than saw the Huntsman brush past him, still blinking smudges from his eyes. The sweltering heat of the forge forced Draven back a step, the breeze tugging at his shirt. Knuckling the felling axe, Draven rallied his wits.

  'Back to the fire…it's village life or this. What will she think of me?'

  He stepped into the heat, unable to stop himself. "What's the job?"

  The Blacksmith, McGowan, discarded a hammer to the workbench and wrung his hands with a grimy rag. "Should be simple enough fer a man o' yer line o' work."

  "What's the job?" Draven grated the repeat, eyes narrowed.

  McGowan looked from Shrike to Draven and back again. Tugging a fist length of beard, gaze fallen, lips murmuring soundlessly, the Blacksmith slouched against the workbench.

  "It's nowt all that much – don't know why ya're making such a fuss." McGowan did not meet Draven's stare. "Shrike, best if you tell him."

  "Why me? It's your offer."

  "'Cause he'll listen to you without threatening you with that axe o' his."

  Draven shouldered the haft for good measure. 'Now that you put it like that, best play the part if I'm to earn my keep.'

  The Huntsman settled himself into a chair beside the furnace – rickety enough to be firewood, not furniture – legs stretched out before him, short bow crossing his lap. "McGowan's right, it's simple. We head west from the village and meet the Arneuton taxman in the forest. Then, well, we escort him back here."

  Draven worked his jaw. "Escort, as in kidnap?"

  "No, escort as in guard."

  "Why would the taxman need a guard in the village?"

  A splay of hands from Shrike. "Let's just say not everyone who lives here will welcome him with open arms…or open purses for that. And there’s more than many outlaws in the forest who’ll be happy to collect from him in turn."

  Draven turned on McGowan. "Outlaws aside, you’re saying the village won’t welcome his visit. But, you will?"

  "Aye, can't not. I've a Smithy to run. I trade in iron and coin, not vegetables and yarn like the rest o' the village. Can't barter blades for bread, arrows for ale. If the taxman is driven out, and I don't pay my dues a'fore he's gone…Fraid and Govannon's bloodied blades, if he's driven out at all there'll be more than coin to pay!"

  Draven steadied the axe head-down on the stone floor, hands steepled on the haft. "So, escort the taxman to the village, guard him on his rounds, then deliver him safely on his merry way again…?"

  'Why does it sound easier than it's going to be?'

  Both McGowan and Shrike nodded.

  "All in a day's work," the Blacksmith chortled, slapping his ample gut. "Plenty more ta be handled around the village, ask the right people. Everyone's got a little dirty work."

  The axe hissed to a stop at McGowan's chin. A dusting of hair trailed to the floor, tickled from the beard.

  "This is the first and last time…I need the money and you're offering." Draven steeled his gaze, sharper than the axe, colder than its iron.

  "You…" the Blacksmith gulped, fingering the axe blade to one side, "certainly know yer weapons…ever thought about the Smithy trade?"

  "No, but let's see how this job goes first. If the rest of the village don't run me out of my home, then you'll offer me a job."

  "Another job like-"

  "Don't get ahead of yourself."