‘I’d like a bow,’ I tell her. ‘A good one. And some arrows. Please.’
She points to her husband’s crossbow. ‘One like that?’
‘Mm, I was thinking something a little more … classic?’
Iris smiles as she draws a red-hot blade from the flames and plunges it into a vat of water. She sets to work gathering what she needs from her stores, occasionally barking orders at Glen, who does as she asks without comment, his gruff, hardened demeanour dissipating like smoke from the fire.
Sheen stands by the door, stiff and alert, poised to combat any potential threat.
Spinner skips past me and perches on the sill of a boarded-up window, running her hand along the shutters. ‘Can I ask who you mistook us for when we arrived here?’
There’s a pause, in which husband and wife exchange a look.
Then Iris says, ‘For some time our village has been targeted by a group of brigands. They come in the night, silent as ghosts. They steal from us – taking our grain, our tools, our livestock – attacking anyone who gets in their way. We never know when they’ll strike.’
‘That’s awful,’ says Spinner.
I practically jump as Sheen, who has been silent since we entered the forge, clears his throat and asks, ‘Who are they? These people?’
‘They call themselves the Green Bandits,’ says Iris darkly. ‘I’ve never seen such barbarism.’ Her gaze flickers to me. ‘Speaking of, what happened to you?’
It’s as if her words open up a hole in the centre of my chest, and for a moment all I can hear is the fire snapping and crackling in the corner. My stomach heaves.
Sheen is watching me.
Hold it together, Flint.
I plaster on a smile – the smile of a boy who wins, and keeps winning.
‘This old thing?’ I say cheerfully, gesturing to my eyepatch. ‘I wear it to look tough.’
Glen, who’s busy fletching the shaft of an arrow, scoffs. Iris raises an eyebrow as she brushes a pile of wood shavings off the table and on to the floor, but doesn’t press me.
‘You don’t happen to know a physician, do you?’ Sheen asks.
‘I’mfine,’ I mutter, irritated.
Iris shakes her head. ‘Afraid not. Physicians are hard to come by in outlying villages. They tend to flock to the central provinces, big towns and cities where they’re morelikely to find work. The more people, the more sick people.’ She finishes carving the riser and sets it down on the table. ‘Here, we make do. We learn to live with pain. You survive or you die.’
‘Ever thought of moving?’ Spinner suggests.
Iris selects a wicked-looking arrowhead from a pile in front of her. ‘This is our home.’
Spinner nods politely, but I can tell she’s thinking about the Golden Palace. For her, home means opulence, luxury, high society and pretty dresses, not struggling to get by in a poky cottage surrounded by sheep and heather.
‘Where are you lot headed, anyway?’ Iris asks.
I see no reason not to tell the truth. ‘The Waterlands.’
‘Then I take it you’re planning to travel through the Greenwood?’
I nod.
‘You’ll need more than that bow to protect you in there,’ says Glen.
I take a swig from my waterskin. ‘Perhaps. But I suspect the constant threat of death will keep things interesting.’
Sheen gives me a look.
