Page 30 of Darach

With the crossbow loaded Fyn propped it on the sill of the window, and checked along the shaft of the bolt before centering the arrowhead at the foresight. Aiming at the entry to the garrison hall would mean shooting a moving target, but thanks to hunting he had a good eye for envisaging where his prey would be in the moment after he released an arrow.

Fyn took time to get into a comfortable position by pulling some grain sacks over to the window to make a perch, and securing the crossbow with his shoulder sling. The rich scent of old death drifted around him, pungent and welcoming, thanks to the master’s cleverness. Now all he had to do was watch and wait for the ugly facker to show himself.

And then Darach would become the first MacRoss loss in the clan war to begin.

* * *

Charlotte heard the sound of loud banging coming from the other side of the big door as she approached the forge, and for a moment she wondered if she should just go back to her room. Yet after several days of following Emery around the castle she was reasonably sure no one working inside would get angry with her for visiting. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

Heat wafted in her face, and as she walked inside she saw an enormous hearth made of pale bricks that had a large metal door standing open. In front of it a bare-chested Camdyn stood hammering a gigantic sledge hammer against the glowing red tip of a long sword. Sparks flew as he worked, and his muscles gleamed with sweat.

The scene reminded her of an illustration she’d painted of the smith-god, Vulcan, for a book of children’s mythology. She also suspected most women would have been mesmerized by the armorer’s god-like physique, and imagine what he’d look like without the rest of his clothes. All it did was remind her of seeing Darach climb out of the spring, his wet trousers clinging to his long legs and the gorgeous curves of his buttocks.

That’s who I want to see naked. The man who doesn’t want me.

“Unless the Carack attack the keepe, or ’tis burning to the ground, get out,” Camdyn said. “And tell Luthias I’m no’ a facking druid, and his blade shall be done when ’tis done.” He lifted the hammer and gave the red-hot steel another mighty whack.

“Do I have to use those words exactly?” Charlotte asked, walking up beside him. “I’d rather not curse at the laird. He might kick me out.” As he finally looked at her she offered him a polite smile. “Hello again.”

“You’ve a bold tongue, Mistress Walsh.” Camdyn put the blade he’d been hammering into a barrel of water, which immediately sent up a plume of steam. He then regarded her with a flattering amount of wariness. “You ken every female in the stronghold fears me.”

“Emery seems to like you well enough.” Charlotte waved a hand to dispel the steam wafting into her face. “Do you want to be feared?”

“No’ especially,” he said. “Only ken that Darach shallnae approve of you coming here alone, Mistress.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed his permission. Please call me Charlotte.” She glanced around the big workroom. “If you’ll tell me where you keep the smaller blades I’ll have a look at them, and you can go on working.”

“You truly want a knife?” The armorer held up another blade to inspect it in the light from one of the narrow windows before placing it in the furnace and setting aside his hammer.

“I’d truly prefer a gun, but Emery tells me they won’t be invented until the end of this century.” She watched him pull on a tunic. “You don’t have to stop working. Just point me in the right direction.”

“’Tis more to choosing a dagger than you ken.” Camdyn took a large bundle down from one of the shelves over a long table, where he unrolled it. “Then, too, I dinnae forge them for the wee hands of wenches.”

“I have fairly large hands for a wench, I think.” Charlotte took a moment to admire the long row of polished knives. “You do beautiful work, Camdyn.”

“I dinnae forge them for admiration. Show me your palms.” When she did the armorer selected three different blades, and set them in front of her. “Pick up each one, and let the weight of the dagger rest on your palm. Choose one that seems right to you.”

She did that with the first, which seemed almost too heavy, as did the second. The third, the lightest of the trio, should have been the most comfortable. Yet once she set it down she went back to the first blade, and picked it up again. The heaviness of the weapon was unfamiliar, and yet seemed to fit her hand better.

“This one,” she told him.

“Good. ’Tis the one I’d chosen for you.” He eyed her wrist before he said, “Now hold the hilt as you would to use the dagger to stab me.”

Charlotte smiled a little. “That’s easier.”

Camdyn watched her grip the blade, and then reached for her hand.

“If I may change your hold?” Once she nodded he adjusted her thumb so that it wrapped over her index and middle finger. “Always keep all four fingers curled tight around the hilt, and secure your grip with your thumb thus. ’Tis proper for fighting, and your hand shallnae slip. Once you draw the blade from the sheath, ever hold on tight as you may.”

She tightened her grip on the hilt, and suddenly the weapon seemed very lethal. “What if I don’t want to hurt anyone?”

“Then dinnae carry a fighting dagger.” Camdyn plucked the blade out of her hand and tossed it onto the table. “’Tisnae shameful. Most females wouldnae choose to wound by purpose. ’Tis for a man to do such work.”

“What do you think a woman’s work is? This?” She touched her injured cheek. “Should I just stand there the next time I’m attacked, and let myself be beaten while I wait for a man to come and rescue me?”

“No, Charlotte.” His gaze shifted over her, but not in an insulting fashion. “You should run away and scream.”

“There are some things you can’t outrun.” Charlotte grew furious now. “So yes, I need to carry a knife for fighting, and I want to learn to use it properly. Because next time anyone attacks me or tries to hurt me, I’m going to fight for my life. I won’t just wound him, either. I’ll kill him.”