Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Callum

S now is falling heavily beyond the open workshop doors. Yet the blazing forge and the heavy work as I pound the metal into shape keeps me warm. As a young lad, I loved to help in the workshop, and would be given simple tasks that built a sense of value and satisfaction. Now that I am older, I appreciate the order. Everything has its place: the various tools neatly hanging on the back wall, the coke for the forge, the raw materials for crafting, the piles of completed weapons for our current commission, and the long workbenches with various tools for the more detailed work.

Then there are the twin anvils, one for my father and one for me.

I can still remember my pride when I got my first anvil and hammer. Following in my father's footsteps and learning his craft was all I ever wanted. It's fair to say I love my work—the good kind of ache it instills in your muscles, the satisfaction of watching lumps of metal take form.

We have a visitor today: one who is making me uneasy, even though I have seen him before in the tavern.

My father talks to the man with dark blond hair, who is wearing a heavy winter cloak. I try to listen surreptitiously between the pounding of the metal, but at the risk of drawing attention to my nosiness, I can only catch the odd word.

The man nods to my father then, drawing his hood forward over his head, he slips out into the street.

"What did that bastard want?" I ask my father the moment the shifter disappears from view. I drop the sword I've just finished into the growing pile beside me, and, grabbing a fresh metal bar, I shove it in the forge to begin heating. "They don't carry weapons. What would they want with a blacksmith?"

My father raises his brows.

I realize I am being unnaturally heated about this. The metal Pa was working with cooled while they spoke, and he shoves it into the forge beside mine before turning to me.

At least it wasn't the other shifter, that big bastard who is always eyeballing Ada. If one of them had to come here, I'd rather it was his companion, Drake.

"They heard we had contacts among the city guardsmen. Wanted to know who they could trust."

"Did he tell you what his business was?"

My father shrugs. "Not specifics. I've been in this game long enough to know not to pry into another man's business."

"Did you tell him what he wanted?"

"Aye," my father says.

"So you trust him, then?" I sound belligerent, yet I cannot tone it down.

"I do." His eyes turn distant, a look I usually associate with him thinking about my mother.

I frown. What would make him think about my mother now? Do I remind him of her in some way? "And why do you trust him?"

"There are yet more conversations that you and I must have, Callum. We've been busy with this shipment of swords. It seems that no sooner have we finished one job than another comes in—which I am not complaining about, mind you. I promise you, though, I'll make time for us to talk. It's not a matter to speak upon lightly, though, nor is it a quick discussion that should be broached in haste. Once we start, well, there is no going back." He indicates the pile of raw materials ready for us to craft into swords. "And right now, we've not got time for more than a swift pint and food at the end of the day."

It is not difficult work when the weapon design is simple, like these are, but they need many and are paying us handsomely for this reason. No craftsman turns down work unless he must; it is better to save a little coin for the times when work slows, as it inevitably does each year as we move deeper into winter. And yet I want to know this big secret that he is keeping—the one that grows bigger every day.

"I understand, Pa," I say slowly, unable to shake off the notion that somehow these unfolding events are tied together… maybe with his past. "Has this got something to do with my mother?"

He is tending to the heating metal, and although he doesn't answer, his head swings around in a way that is telling.

My frown deepens. "What does this have to do with Ma?"

The shop door opens, and another customer enters. This one is smartly dressed and is accompanied by his own guard.

A conversation ensues with my father about a sword he wishes to commission. The customer is a fancy lord or merchant with quality clothes and shiny boots. He does not have a local accent; perhaps he is traveling through.

I check his heating sword and my own raw metal. His half-finished one is hot enough, so I take that out and begin to work it. The quicker I get this done, the quicker I will learn the secrets that I now suspect involve my mother in some way. Maybe the shifters, too. My father must have lived or worked closely with such as them, at some point, for him to recognize their kind when they first entered the tavern those many weeks ago. And further, he trusts them enough to offer up the name of the city guard.

It feels like the pieces of a giant puzzle are being revealed one by one. Only, they are being cast down randomly and, further, many pieces are missing.

Even if I had all the pieces, I'm not convinced it would make sense.

I remain unsettled. The one bright light is that it is Friday again, and on a Friday night, we go to The Green Man, and I can sneak some time with Ada.

I return the sword to the forge, waiting for it to begin to glow as my father carries on chatting to the fancy lordling about his fancy sword.

Fuck. I'm obsessed with Ada. She's all I think about. It has been three days since I last saw her, slipping away a couple of evenings ago while my father was finishing off. She was busy, too, and only had a few minutes.

We shared a kiss… Well, it might have progressed to me lifting her skirts and feasting on her slick pussy until she came for me, gushing over my waiting tongue.

I continue working the metal, beating it into shape, while glancing over at my father. He is still deep in discussion with the lord, who is providing great detail on the sword he wants, the timelines, and the costs.

My father is polite. He knows how to speak to men, be they lowly or high. He has always had that way, I realize.

As the lord finally agrees on terms and passes over a bag of coins before taking his leave, I turn to my father expectantly. He left my final question unanswered, and I feel I deserve an answer to that much, at least.

He takes the heated bar out of the forge and places it on his anvil, turning it this way and that before deciding on an angle and reaching for his hammer. "They are looking for someone… the shifters," he adds when I look on, confused. He turns to his work and begins pounding on the metal in earnest.

I asked him what this had to do with my mother, and he brought up the shifters. Why do I feel like he's evading my question?

"Pack members that were taken by the Blighten," he continues as he turns the forming sword over before pounding it a couple more times. "They have been looking for a year, or so Drake said."

My brows pinch together, and I rescind a little of my ill charity toward them, shoving my cooling work back into the fiery coals. "That is a long time to search for someone," I say.

"It is," my father agrees. "They are important to them, or to the pack, or maybe both. I do not wish anybody to be a prisoner of orcs for a moment, never mind a year. I would offer them any information that might help them in their quest. Told them to ask for Anders. He will aid them if he can."

I nod, feeling churlish for my earlier mood of ill charity toward the shifters.

"The world is a vast place," my father says, shoving his forming sword beside mine, which is now glowing nicely. "And there are layers within it of good and bad—black and white—and between them are a myriad of shades of gray. The Blighten are not all bad, despite what we might presume. And humans are far from all good. Nor are all poor people who live in the slums of Bleakness wicked and criminal. Your lass, Ada, is a testament to that."

I feel my chest swell as he acknowledges Ada as mine; although I want to press him about my mother, I sense now is not the time.

"Shifters do not often trouble themselves with the affairs of men," my father continues. "But change is coming, and we must move with it. They will move on, sooner or later."

His words ought to soothe me. He is telling me that I do not need to feel threatened by the shifter sniffing around Ada, for he has his own business, and Bleakness is not his forever home.

"They have been here for many weeks already," I point out.

"Aye, lad. And they might be here for many more."

I feel foolish—a belligerent whelp—yet I know what I saw. The way Gray looks at Ada is the look of a man who harbors desires.

I pull the iron from the forge, take my hammer, and pound it into shape.

As I do, I am imagining a certain shifter's face.