“Well? What can I do for ye? If ye need a new blade I—”
“What did he want?” Magnus said, cutting him off.
The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. “What did who want?”
“The man who was in here earlier. “My lot”, as ye named him.”
The blacksmith said nothing. His eyes roved up and down Magnus, his gaze calculating. “Looking for ye, I reckon. Asked if a big man fitting yer description had been seen in Hodwell recently.”
Magnus growled under his breath. Curse it. This was a complication he didn’t need. He’d hoped to have more time to do what he needed. If they were already this close...”The man... did he give ye a name?”
The blacksmith grunted and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of soot in its wake. “Nay, and I didnae care to ask. I’m not fool enough to get mixed up in yer lot’s business. Now if there is naught else, I’m a busy man—”
“There is something else,” Magnus said, stepping forward. He took the broken sword from his belt and unwrapped it. Holding it up to the blacksmith, he said, “Can ye tell me who made this?”
A flicker passed across the man’s expression, so fast Magnus might have missed it had he not beenexpressly looking for it.
“Canna say as I can,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.
“Take another look,” Magnus growled. He took a step closer to the man, using all his size and strength to appear menacing. “There is a maker’s mark on the blade, see? I was hoping ye could tell me whose it was.”
The blacksmith made a show of examining the mark, taking the broken blade from Magnus and moving it to and fro to catch the light. “Nay, never seen it before in my life.”
“Strange that, seeing as yer guild has such strict rules about who is allowed to use such marks.”
The blacksmith hooked his thumbs into his belt. If he was intimidated by Magnus, he didn’t show it. “What my guild does or doesnae do is no concern of yers. I’ve answered yer questions. Now get out of my forge.”
Magnus didn’t move. He regarded the man in silence for a long moment. “Do ye know where I got this blade?”
The blacksmith shrugged. “I dinna know and I dinna much care.”
“I got it from a village. A destroyed village. A villager picked it from among the ashes of a house that had been set ablaze for no other reason than cruelty and greed. This blade belonged to the people who did it. Ye wouldnae know aught about that would ye?”
“Why should I?” the blacksmith snapped. “I didnae make the blade and even if I had, I have no control over who buys my goods.”
It was a smooth answer, but one that didn’t convince Magnus. This man knew more than he was letting on. He had hoped it would not come to this. Healwayshoped it would not come to this, yet it always seemed to, in the end.
With a burst of speed belying his size, Magnus exploded into motion.
His fist slammed into the man’s chin, snapping his head to the side and sending blood spurting. The man grunted in shock and pain but did not have time to react before Magnus grabbed his shirt with one hand and a discarded poker from the fire with the other. The metal glowed an angry, fiery red, and radiated heat.
“Think carefully, my friend,” Magnus growled, dragging him towards a nearby barrel. “This will only hurt if ye keep lying.” He slammed the man’s head into the barrel with a satisfying thud. The man tried to push himself up with trembling arms but Magnus held him down effortlessly.
“Now,” Magnus said, pressing the burning end of the poker dangerously close to the blacksmith’s eye. “I asked ye a question and I hope for yer sake, yer memory improves. Who made this blade?”
The blacksmith’s eyes bulged and he squeaked out something unintelligible.
“What was that?” Magnus said, pushing the hot poker closer to the man’s eye. “I didnae hear ye.”
The man had gone white with fear. These were not tactics Magnus enjoyed and he hated himself a little as he intimidated the man like some village bully, but he didn’t have time for pleasantries. If he was to stop more attacks like the one he and Isabelle had seen in Morwenna and Able’s village, he needed answers.
“His name is Armand!” the blacksmith cried. “A Frenchman! He works out of Torloch!”
“And who does he work for?”
“I’ve no idea! That’s his mark—that’s all I know, I swear!”
Magnus released his grip and the blacksmith collapsed in a heap on the stone floor, gasping and clutching at his throat. The poker clanged loudly as Magnus tossed it aside, its glow dimming as it cooled. Despite the harshness of the interrogation, he found no pleasure in the man’s pain. The look in the blacksmith’s eyes was one he was all too familiar with. Fear.
