Chapter 9

9

S weat dripped from Rory's brow and rolled down his shoulders. His tight biceps glowed and glistened as he drew his arm up and brought the hammer down with a mighty blow yet again. His lips were parted, and he hammered with such intensity that he roared like a wild animal. It wasn't just the heat of the forge that made him sweat this time; it was the intensity of the work and the fury of the emotions that were crackling inside him. All of the frustration and shame and guilt he felt swirled together and exploded in these harsh bellows, which left his throat raw. He gripped the hammer tightly, all the sinews in his forearm stretched to their limit, and he did not care that they had begun to ache a long time ago. He looked at his hands, the palm resting against the handle of the hammer. The same hand that Elvira had so delicately used to destroy him. How had she done it, he wondered, was there really magic in those eyes. He could hardly call it a trick either, as she had gotten to the root of his shame, uncovering it as though it lay basking in the sun. He was a coward, he was craven, and he turned his back on people in need.

No longer would he do such a thing.

Every time he brought his hammer down, it was a blow against his reluctance to help. It shattered the dulling of his instinct to help. It obliterated this fraud of a man he had become, and instead allowed the boy beneath to shine through again. Obeying rules was one thing, but the laws of the land did not always equate to what was right. He had learned that a long time ago, both from Anne and from Ian. He had always raised objections, and they had always calmly explained to him that sometimes people needed to break the rules because they were made by unjust men. He had always gone along with them in the end, but it was only now that he truly understood why they had been so passionate. Some men were content to stand by and let the world pass before them, never involving themselves in anything. These men died a thousand times over. Rory himself had died many times, every time shame pricked his heart he bled out until there was nothing left but a husk. He had this forge, but was that all he wanted? Did he want to be the kind of man about whom people muttered? Who gave him dark looks as they passed, because they knew that he could never be counted upon to do the right thing? Slowly and surely, he would be isolated from the rest of the village, for they would not bother to tell him their secrets.

There's Rory, they would cry, Rory the useless, Rory the craven, Rory the lapdog of the lords. Oh yes, he would have a fine career, but nobody would appreciate him. Nobody would admire him. Nobody would ever want to be like him. If he stood for nothing, then he would fall for anything, and people like Glennrock and Laird McKovac could trample him like a wounded lamb whose bleating was drowned out by a stampeding herd. Elvira was right in everything she said. He had his home, his shelter, but was he the only thing that mattered? She had lost so much, and he was ready to condemn her for it.

He was disgusted by the man he had become, and all of this pain and self-loathing and revulsion was channeled into his blows as they came crashing down.

And then he stopped.

His shoulders and chest rose and fell with heavy inhalations. He drew his forearm across his head, wiping away a sheen of sweat. He gazed upon his work, and nodded. Six swords had been produced that day, fine, sturdy swords that would have been the envy of any warrior. They were long and sharp, weapons to be used honorably, by honorable people for honorable ends. It was just the beginning. Rory would make more swords, daggers, arrow tips, spear tips, anything the villagers could use to defend themselves from an imminent attack. And if trouble should find him, well, Rory would just have to cope with that. There were all different kinds of trouble in the world, and some of them weren't as bad as all that.

After the swords had cooled down, Rory wrapped them up in a rough cloth and bound them together by rope. He hoisted them under his arm and decided to deliver them to Torrin in the hope of mending the tension that had risen between them. Along with the swords, he would also deliver an apology. He hoped that Torrin wouldn't mind the late interruption. Rory was surprised at how late he had worked. He slipped out into the night and headed towards the tavernwhen his thoughts drifted towards Elvira. His feelings for her were as yet unresolved. She was a most uncommon woman and had the ability to make the ground shift under his feet. He was often left speechless around her and said the first thing that was on his mind instead of considering his words. He could not forget the way her fingers grazed his palm. Even now, the echo of her touch made him twitch inside. She was so at ease with her tactile nature, whereas for Rory, it was something of an unexplored land. He tried not to think of it, though, and he hoped that Elvira was absent when he spoke to Torrin. He needed time to think about what he was going to say to Elvira.

Except, he soon realized that he did not hope for such a thing at all. When he reached the tavern, his keen eyes were drawn to a dagger that lay on the ground. He bent down and recognized it as the one Elvira had shown him as proof that she knew Ian. When he held it in his hands, he was immediately filled with shame. It should have been enough to earn his trust, yet he had turned her away, assuming the worst of her when she had not deserved that treatment at all. Then, a second thought quickly entered his head. Why was it out here? He couldn't imagine Elvira would have been so careless with such a cherished possession. He narrowed his eyes and looked closer towards the ground. There was a mixture of footprints, perhaps signs of a scuffle. His heart skipped a frantic beat as he barged into the inn, finding it empty.

"Torrin? Isla?" he cried out, the words shattering the silence. They emerged from the back storeroom, their hair tousled and their faces flushed. They had either been in the midst of an argument or something equally as passionate. Perhaps it was both. Torrin's eyes narrowed when he saw Rory.

"What are ye daeing here? I hae a good mind tae ban ye from the bar, especially the way ye just stormed towards Elvira that afternoon. What could ye possibly want at this hour?"

"Where's Elvira?" Rory clenched his jaw. All thoughts of the swords left his mind.

"Elvira? Well, she's…" Torrin looked around, and then turned towards Isla.

"She was cleaning the tables."

"Ah, well, she must hae gone upstairs then. Whatever it is ye want can wait until the morning. She works hard and deserves her rest," Torrin said, but then Isla made a small cry.

"Look at that," Isla said, pointing to a cloth that had fallen to the floor. "She would nae leave it there. And most of these tables hae nae been cleaned. Torrin… there were two men sitting at the table. I dinnae recognize them."

"Ye left her out here with two strangers?" Rory thundered.

Once again Elvira was causing him to act on instinct, but this time it was a fierce need to protect her that consumed him, and anger that she had been taken. He couldn't help but think this was all his fault. If he had just taken her into his forge, then this would never have happened. He should have listened to her when she spoke of the danger that pursued her. He was as angry at himself as he was at the men who had taken her.

"I dinnae realise we were gone for that long!" Torrin ran his hand across the back of his neck and looked ruefully towards Isla.

Rory knew that time was of the essence. With the signs of struggle, it was clear what had happened, and there was surely only one thing men would want with a woman as beautiful as Elvira. Rory sheathed the dagger in his belt and then dumped the swords on the table. He tore the knots free, and the cloth fell away, revealing the swords. Torrin's eyes widened as he gazed upon them.

"What are these? They are things of beauty… I dare say they are even better than what Ian would hae done." He picked up one of the swords and examined it. Rory grabbed one as well.

"They are gifts, and an apology. More are gaeing tae come, but for now, I need tae test one," he said grimly, and stormed out of the tavern without saying another word to Torrin. He made his way to the stables, where he could see the hoof prints trailing off into the distance. He took one of Torrin's horses and geed it for a late-night right, weapon brandished, eyes like fire. He would track down these men, and he just hoped that it wasn't too late to finally start protecting Elvira.

Elvira's teeth chattered as the horses sped along at a good pace. She tried to take notice of the world around her in case she did break free, but it was all a blur. She assumed she was being taken back to McKovac lands, and despaired. Her only hope was that Samuel might hear word of a Romani woman being captured and come to her aid, but he had already risked a lot for the sake of her and her family. She wasn't sure that help was going to present itself. If she was going to get out of this, then she was going to have to do it herself. She chastised herself for losing the dagger. She had already realized it was useless to struggle against the tight knots, so she allowed herself to be carried by the rhythm of the horses and gathered her strength. The night was dark and bleak, the moon barely a crescent. It was as though a shroud had been draped over the world, chilling her to the bone. It was easy to hide sins in the darkness.

Eventually, they reached a small clearing and the horses slowed their pace. Elvira was roughly pulled off the horse. For a moment, her arms were free.

"Help!" was the strained cry that escaped her lips. She was struck across the face for her trouble, the sting of the blow lingering long after the impact.

"More of that and I'll cut yer tongue out. There's nae point mewling for help. Naebody is coming tae save ye," one of the men said. He dragged her to a tree and wound ropes around her body, so tight that she could barely breathe. Her arms were rigid by her side. The other man was making a fire. Both men sat around it, taking out and laying a few pieces of meet over the fire. The scent of the roasting food made her stomach rumble. At least they had remained true to their disgust of her and had not laid a hand on her, although she wondered for how long this was going to last. Some mens' taste could change on a whim, and she feared their curiosity might get the better of them.

There was only one chance she had, and that was to draw upon the mystique that surrounded the Romani in the hope of chilling them with fear.

"Ye are making a mistake," she gasped, fighting against the tightness around her chest. "Ye should let me gae. Hae ye nae heard of the curses that befall men who refuse tae help the Romani?"

The men scoffed. "Oh aye, a likely tale. It dinnae seem tae be gaeing sae badly for Laird McKovac, daes it? There's one good cure for a curse, and that's hard, solid gold," one of the men said. The other nodded.

"Ye may think that now. But in years tae come yer blood will turn as dry as dust, and all the strength will ebb away from yer bones. There will come a day when ye will nae be able tae lift a finger, and what good will ye be tae anyone then?"

The men laughed. "As long as I get my fun in when I can, I'll be fine."

"Then perhaps it will be yer children that suffer, the curse passing from one generation tae the next. Every drop of life that drips from ye will be tainted, and end in a shadowy creature screaming in pain, doomed to live for only a short time."

"I never hae a desire for bairns anyway," the men shrugged.

"Ye act sae mighty when ye hae a woman tied tae a tree. I come from a long line of Romani witches, who hae whispered secrets tae each other, secrets that are as old as the wind. If ye deliver me tae Laird McKovac, then I shall make sure that ye suffer. I will make yer skin slough off and yer blood boil. I will rob the sight from yer eyes and twist yer mind. It will be as though insects are crawling under yer skin every moment of every day. I will take away the taste of food, and ale will be as bitter as poison. And as for lust… I will make it sae that nae strength flows tae that part of yer body. Ye will certainly never hae tae worry about children again. Ye will never hae tae worry about anything, and oh how women will laugh at yer shriveled thing."

This was the only thing that brought fear to their eyes.

"She cannae really dae that, can she?" one of them asked in a fearful whisper. Elvira smirked, wishing that she did indeed possess the power to do all of these things. If the Romani did possess these abilities, then life would have been easier for all of them. In fact, she couldn't understand why a lot of people still believed these old stories. Surely, they realized that if they did possess these powers, they would have used them to make life better for themselves?

"She's just trying tae scare us. And if she keeps wagging that tongue I'll find a way tae shut her up," the other man raised his voice as he spoke, ensuring that Elvira could hear. He wore a nasty, menacing look on his face, and Elvira grew quiet. But, at least she had sown a seed of doubt between them. It might be enough to keep her safe, and if they were hasty in taking her to Laird McKovac they might make a mistake. She closed her eyes, and prayed to all the gods she knew of as well as her own ancestors that she might be protected, and that she would find a way back to her family.