- ...and then I told them I had important things to attend to back in the north, so I left.
- You left your commander wounded?! Son, this is not what I taught y..
- Father, it wasn't much left for me to do. We were in a safe place and some of the militia stayed with Arundar. I was useless there, answered Athanaric, frowning a bit hearing his father's harsh tone.
Wealda shook his head and gazed in the fireplace for a few moments, then took a sip from his tankard and layed it down on the table slowly.
- I hope you still have a leading officer when you get back to Bree, son.
- I am sure I'll have one, father. Only nice chaps die stupidly. Bad ones just make others die a s... Did you hear anything?
A silent knock on the door, and the two men exchanged quick glances. Who could it be at this time of the night? Athanaric leaned slowly for his sword, then stood up, while his father went to open the door.
- For your sake, better have a good reason to come a-knockin' at my door, stranger! he said.
Wealda turned the key a few times and slowly opened the heavy log door. His eyes narrowed as he tried to discover something outside, in the dark. His face suddenly turned to express utter surprise.
- You?! Curse me, Bema, and feed me to them dogs!! You bloody rag-tag rat, you dirty good for nothing son of a thousand fathers!! almost cried Wealda. He reached out and pulled a slender, almost skinny, cloaked man inside. Athanaric rushed to the door and pulled the hood off the man's head.
- Hershey? Gods have mercy, its Hersh! Athanaric smiled.
The man grinned and pushed Wealda's hand away from his throat.
- Always a pleasure to meet Combe's most famous blacksmith, master Wealda, whispered the stranger. He was clad in an assortment of clothes, all patched up, dusty and decoloured. Only a dagger shone, hiltless, at his belt.
- Why does a poacher and a brigand come to see Wealda, son of Herumer?! enquired the old man with a menacing sparkle in his eyes. By his side, Athanaric was smiling oddly as he sized Hersh up.
The brigand - because he was a brigand, everyone in the town knew that - suddenly became serious.He walked to a chair near the table and sat down.
- Master Wealda, I shall be short, to the point. Combe is in grave danger. If nothing is done, in two days there wont be a wall standing in this fine town. Men, women, children, all dead.
The old blacksmith shivered.
- What?!
- We have knowledge of a large scale attack. Blackwolds. A few dozens of them. Tomorrow night.
- We?! We who?! Ye lot of brigands are not blackwolds?!
- You insult us, master Wealda, though you know better. We steal cattle and potatoes, we scare off herds, but we aren't assassins. Not here, not in Combe. Bree, maybe. You know better! almost shouted the man.
Wealda held his breath for a moment, then began walking in circles around the room. Athanaric kept silent: he was in his father's house, he would speak only if asked, in front of strangers. But memories came bursting out in his head.. Hersh had been one of his childhood friends. Almost unseparable they were. With Hersh and a few others he got drunk for the first time, with him he was when he gon into his first fight. Then, almost 10 years ago, all hell broke loose into his friends' family. His parents died because of the plague, the land was lost, creditors sold off the belongings and Hersh's only solution was to become an outlaw and set a camp together with other misfits in the forests of the South Chetwood.
- Alright. Why did you come to me? saked Wealda in the end.
- Because I was sure you wouldnt kill me on sight, master blacksmith, said Hersh, smiling.
- Don't count on that, thief. Now speak..
(to be continued)
