The blacksmith’s forge was located on the edge of the settlement, where the risk of fire spreading to the houses was less pronounced and Mistress Kearnan had given him directions when he’d asked her earlier. As he approached, Magnus could see plumes of smoke billowing out from the wide chimney and hear the rhythmic clang of iron against iron.
He reached the door and kicked it open, stepping through into a wall of heat. The interior was filled with an angry glow of crimson and orange firelight flickering on walls darkened by years of soot and grime and revealing the blacksmith himself slowly straightening from where he’d been bent over an anvil.
He was short and squat, barrel-chested and with arms like the trunks of trees. He reminded Magnus of nothing so much as a battering ram. His square jaw tightenedand his eyes narrowed as they flicked over Magnus who filled the small space, his head almost brushing the ceiling.
“What do you want?” he asked, a faint trace of a French accent in his voice.
“Are ye Armand?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I am,” Magnus growled. “My name is Magnus Kerr.”
He watched the man’s face intently, looking for any sign of recognition. There was a faint tightening around the eyes that most would have missed if they weren’t looking for it but it was enough to tell Magnus that he’d recognized the name.
“Good for you. It’s late, and I have work to do—”
“Recognize this?” Magnus took out the broken sword and tossed it onto the anvil with a clink.
The blacksmith glanced at it but his expression betrayed no reaction. “Should I?”
Magnus stepped forward. “Look more closely. That’s yer mark on the blade is it not? An expensive blade, this. Not the kind of blade made for just anyone. The kind of blade for the nobility perhaps?”
The man’s eye twitched. “I am a master blacksmith. I make lots of blades. So what?”
“So what?” Magnus echoed, that smoldering ember of anger beginning to burn as hot as the forge that glowed behind the blacksmith. “So what? This blade was used by an outlaw who attacked a defenseless village. It bears yer mark. Ye are going to tell me who ordered it from you.” He took out the bag of coins he’d made from the sale of the horse inHodwell and bounced it on his hands, the coins inside clinking. “I will pay ye handsomely for yer trouble.”
The blacksmith crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes were two cold shards of metal in the flickering firelight. “My, my, you must want that information pretty badly. But you’re mistaken. I sell blades to whoever can pay the price and don’t keep records of who ordered them. Nor do I ask what they do with them.”
Magnus’s patience snapped like a frayed rope. He’d tried the civilized way, now it was time to try the more direct approach. He lunged, snatching the blacksmith by the shoulder strap of his charred leather apron. “Dinna play coy with me! Ye know exactly who ordered this blade and ye will tell me!”
There was no fear in the blacksmith’s eyes, only defiance. “I’ll tell you nothing!” he growled back.
With a swift, practiced motion, the blacksmith swung his hammer. The metal tool whistled through the air, its path illuminated by the glowing embers of the forge. Magnus had barely a moment to react, releasing his grip and throwing himself backwards. His back hit an old wooden table laden with iron scraps and half-finished swords, scattering them in a loud clatter.
“You have no right to be making demands here,” the blacksmith bellowed, pointing the hammer at Magnus’s heaving chest. “Now get out!”
He swung the hammer, a blow that would likely have caved in Magnus’s already bruised ribs had it struck. But although the blacksmith was strong, he was slow and clumsy,and Magnus swiftly stepped away from the hammer blow, hooked his leg around the man’s calf, and tripped him.
The blacksmith thudded onto his back with a thump, the hammer flying out of his grasp. Magnus followed him down, kneeling on his chest to pin him. The blacksmith roared and struggled, but was unable to shift Magnus’s bulk.
“I’ll ask ye politely one final time,” Magnus hissed, grabbing the blacksmith’s tunic in his fists. “Who ordered this blade? Was it Lord McRae?”
“I’ll tell you nothing!”
Magnus punched him. He did not hold back and the blow was hard enough to send blood and a tooth spurting from Armand’s mouth. “Was it Lord McRae?”
The blacksmith spat, bloody spittle flecking Magnus’s face. “I said I’ll tell you nothing,” he hissed through his broken teeth. “Do what you will. Whatever you do to me will be nothing compared to what he’ll do should I betray him.”
“He? Who? Lord McRae? Tell me, damn ye!” Frustration surged in him. Again he saw the smoking ruins of Morwenna and Able’s village. Again he heard the sharp accusations of the angry villager.
Ye should have protected us.
Aye, he should have. He should have stopped this from ever happening. If he could go back and do things differently...
But he could not. All he could do was try to put it right in the present and this mulish blacksmith was getting in the way of him doing that. He felt the rage building inside, felt his control begin to slip.
Magnus drew his fist back once more, muscles coiled and ready to strike. The blacksmith looked up at him, spat again, and waited for the blow to come. But just before his fist could connect with the man’s battered face, something caught Magnus’s eye.
