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Reluctantly Rogue – P01:Ch08 “Errands in Woodstead”

  (Note: This is a long, ongoing story. It is a story with sex. It's a sexy story. It is in many ways a story about sex. But, it is not strictly a sex story. Many chapters may even be SFW.)

  CHAPTER EIGHTErrands in Woodstead

  Rehamel, the smith, was a smiling, pleasant young man with perpetually tousled, orange-red hair. He had taken over the forge early in his apprenticeship when his master, the former smith, had succumbed to a sudden smelter's cough, lingering barely a week at Bird's Healing House. Now, only a few years Atyr's elder, he was considered something of a metal-working prodigy amongst the folk of Woodstead. In jest, people liked to attribute his youthful expertise to some fae sympathy with fire, due to his bzing hair. In reality, every bit of skill the young man possessed was due to the diligence and hard work which responsibility at a young age can bring.

  Flipping the chipped hatchet back and forth in is hands, Rehamel snapped his fingers and pointed cheerfully at Atyr.

  “I made this. It must have been a long while back; it has my old master's mark on it, but his hammer strokes would never have been this rough. I'd do much better work now.” He smiled at Atyr, holding the bde up between them. “I bet you'd have been a wee little boy when I forged it. Must have been your father's?”

  Atyr nodded, smiling back slightly. “It was. He had it made when I was young. You're not that much older than me though, Rehamel, I'm catching up fast.”

  “Not much older, but enough.” He chuckled. “But this looks like my beginner work; you'd have been not much more than half my age at the time I did it.” He looked at Atyr. “It was your father's though, so you'd like to keep it? Sentiment, and all that?”

  “You're making it sound like he's dead.” Atyr screwed up his face. “But yeah, I'd like it fixed up and useful again. I'm building a cabin out in the Brookwood, and I'm stuck without a decent hewing axe.”

  “Building in the Brookwood are you? Well, you are your father's son, I suppose. And you'd like to keep this bit?”

  “It's the only one I have.”

  Rehamel nodded rapidly, his fiery hair bouncing. “I only ask, because, there's a couple things we can do. If you have the missing chip – ?”

  Atyr shook his head.

  “Ok, well, with the chip, I could forge weld it back together and regrind the edge. Not perfect, but it'd still be a serviceable tool.” He shrugged, looking at the bit. “With this much of the bde missing, my options are basically to reshape this into a smaller one.” He looked at Atyr closely. “Or, I can just forge you a new hatchet.”

  Honestly, Atyr hadn't even considered the sentimentality of the ax. He shook his head. “I just need a good bit that'll hew me some beams. My father always says tools are for using. You take care of them, and they'll take care of you, he'd say. But I know he'd rather I have the tool I need, than something that's only partway.” He bit his lip for a moment, looking at his palms, then shook his head again. “What's the price?”

  “Well, if you want me to beat it out and grind a new edge, five kips. If you want me to forge you something strong, sharp, and useful, a full banner. If you want something beautiful, something you'll save for your children... it depends what you want. Could be a handful of banners, could be more.”

  Atyr thought. A banner wasn't nothing. “If I make my own haft?” he asked. “I'm good with wood.”

  “Oh, prices are without the haft. I'm for metal. You know wood has always been a mystery to me.” The smith smiled at him apologetically.

  Atyr tried again. “I earn my way, but a banner for a bit is a lot for me. Is there anything you need a hand with around here?”

  Rehamel sighed slightly, but he was still smiling. “I know you're handy with an axe.” Atyr nodded. “Alright. How's this. You split me up the dry hardwood rounds behind the shop, down to the width of your fist, and I'll forge you a new bit for twelve kips. If we use your old bit for material, I'll make it eight kips.” He looked back through the shop, out the rear window. “I think there's a good three cord or so back there.

  Atyr thought about his hatchet, his father's old hatchet, being melted down in the forge, and he realized there was a hint of resistance in him. He was quiet a moment, but he nodded. “If anything, I'd like it if my father's old hatchet was part of my new one. Eight kips and three cords it is.”

  Rehamel flipped the axe in the air, catching it in his other hand, and grinned. “Eight kips and some firewood, split and stacked. There's a maul on the stump out back. You'll find it. We both start now, and I'll have this cool and waiting for you before you've got the wood stacked.”

  Atyr grinned back. “We'll see who's done first.” He turned to door and saw a rge crosscut saw hung on the wall. He looked back at the young smith. “Hey, how much would that be?”

  “The saw? Big saw like that, I have to hire help when I forge it. Takes a lot to grind it to shape. That one's headed out with some merchants in the coming days, but if you wanted something like it, that's a four banner saw, there.”

  Atyr looked at his palms, then looked sidelong at the other man. “Don't suppose you need a dozen cord split?”

  Rehamel ughed, and shook his fiery head. “Don't suppose I do. If you need a saw though, I got a smaller one here, uncimed. I could give it to you for two banners and six.”

  Atyr ughed back. “I wish I could. But I'm working my way through what I need in town, and that'd take me weeks to earn. If I ever fall into some luck, maybe I'll take it off you.”

  Rehamel ughed again, and turned to his work, hatchet in hand.

  Behind the smithy, splitting axe in hand, Atyr was unsurprised to find Pesky buzzing around his head once more.

  “I was wondering,” she said, giggling, “if he'd be interested when you asked if he needed a hand with anything. Right after you told him you were really good with wood.” As she emphasized 'hand' and 'wood,' Atyr felt brief fshes of her weird voice, though it was somehow muted now, with less of a direct, physical effect on him. Still distracting, though.

  “Don't do that! And ugh. I'm not... I don't go with men. Plus, he's known me since I was too small to lift this.” He hefted the heavy maul, wrinkled up his nose, and then, in case she doubted him, added another, “Ugh.”

  “Sounds like you're trying to convince someone,” she said, dancing in the air in front of him. “Why don't you get busy and give him a hand with his wood, already.”

  Atyr rolled his eyes so hard they hurt, and turned to the task at hand.

  A while ter, he was back in the front of the smithy sweating and tired. Rehamel was still working on the hatchet, and spared him only a brief gnce before turning back to the forge. Atyr was gd for a break, the past days having worn on him, and dropped himself down onto the floor in a corner to wait. The two young men shared a small amount of idle conversation, but for the most part, the smith was focused on his work.

  As the gloom drew around, the smith finally lifted his fme-red head, and raised a gleaming bit of metal, shaking it to catch Atyr's attention. He walked over to where the young woodsman was slumped against a wall, and presented the new-forged ax head. Atyr stood, and took it from him, then looked up in surprise.

  “This is... surely this isn't what you promised me? This is beautiful work!” The metal shone in Atyr's hands, polished steel fairly glowing in the fading light, smooth, and honed to an edge that would trim a falling feather without disrupting its flight.

  “It's solid. It's a fair tool. I don't make anything half good. But it's no nobleman's bde.” Rehamel looked at him, a quiet pride to the smile on his lips. “It's a fair tool.”

  “I'd have split you the dozen cords for this, and felled the trees besides.” Atyr paused. “Only, I haven't the coin to pay the rest yet...” He hadn't considered that before, caught up in his eagerness to demonstrate his skill with an axe.

  For the first time, the smith's cheerful brows drew down slightly, but only for a moment. He looked out the rear window, eyeing the newly stacked firewood.

  “Well. I'll consider that firewood your earnest coin. You take the bit with you, and I'll trust you to return when you've the rest you owe me. Fair deal?”

  Taking a lower price in exchange for some menial bor, and then being happy to wait on payment seemed a more than fair deal to Atyr, and he said as much. “I promise, I'll have the coin I owe you soon, as soon as I find some work in town. A day or two, no more. I earn my way.”

  The other man smiled, as he always did. “I'm sure you do. But I'll not fret it if you need longer to pay. I'm the only smith in Woodstead, so I'm not hurting for coin.”

  Atyr was more than grateful for the trust, and his face showed it. He looked at the darkening window, and hefted the axe bit in his hand. “Well, my thanks for this. And I promise I'll have the coin for you as soon as I can. Even if I have to forgo food or lodging. I don't mean to hang on charity.”

  Rehamel ughed then. “Please, don't go hungry, or sleep in a ditch on my account! Pay me when you're ready, and not before. Really, I'm fortunate in my pce here, and waiting a couple days for a few kips won't hurt me. You take care of your affairs first, then you see to what you owe me.”

  With a few more assurances on Atyr's part, and a few more smiles and ughs on Rehamel's, he found himself back on the darkening road outside the smithy, bit in hand.

  A short walk across town brought him to Gant's lodging house, the only inn in town, and a bit of a local attraction for Woodstead and the surrounding country. This evening it was quiet inside, though Atyr knew it could get more than a little rowdy on occasion. He walked to the bar and caught the innkeeper's attention.

  Gant was a small, elderly man, short, thin, and perpetually hollow cheeked and sunken eyed, with a personality to fit his mournful appearance. The townsfolk joked that long ago his parents had meant to name him “Gaunt” and that only their poor spelling had saved him from a more appropriate appeltion. Jokes aside, the small innkeeper was well liked in Woodstead, and his lodging house was held in high regard.

  “Hullo, and what can I do you for tonight?” Gant eyed him, then cocked his head in recognition. “Arlet, isn't it? The Bracken's boy?”

  Atyr smiled. “That's me. It's Atyr. Atyr Bracken. I've been in a couple times tely. I used to come in with my father when I was a boy as well, when we made trips to town.”

  “When you were a boy? Are you not still?” Gant looked at him wryly. “But at my age, you're all boys to me, all boys...”

  Atyr smiled slightly, not sure if it was a joke or true mencholy of age.

  The old innkeep continued. “You'll be wanting a bed, I imagine. And meals as well? I can have you in for both, though the bed may be crowded.” Gant frowned. “The nice weather brings the travelers in thicker than usual, but if ye'll take a bed that's a bit over-filled, I can have you in for three kips a night. And that's dinner and breakfast included.”

  Atyr was no stranger to uncomfortable lodgings, and an overcrowded bed under a roof was better than dirt and no roof any night, even if the weather was clear. “I'd be more than grateful for a bed and a meal. Only – ” he paused, hating to make the request. “Only I haven't the coin now. I'll need to work a day in town to earn it. I earn my way. If you know my father, you'll know I earn my way.” He looked up at the gaunt, sullen innkeeper, ashamed at having had to ask.

  The old man looked back somberly. “Aye. Aye, I remember the Brackens, and your father in particur. You'll pay, I've no doubt, if you're anyways like to him. And if not, I'll let him know next I see him. You'll stay the night, and we'll feed you, and you can pay on the morrow, or as ye can.”

  “On that note,” Atyr raised a brow hopefully. “I figure you must know a fair bit about the goings on in the town. Everyone always swinging through here, and all that. Normally I just knock on doors and offer help when I come through, if I need to earn some coin, but it was a rough trip on the way in.” The old innkeeper eyed him sadly. “Long story, but basically I ended up spending several days in the Bir- the Healing House. Now I'm a bit rushed. If you had any leads on work for a young man not afraid to sweat and hurt a bit, I'd be grateful.”

  “Several days up at Abarabirdadellet's pce, have you? Well, can't say you look it. Must have done you up right, she must have. But aye, there's some work to be found. Few things I can think of that come to mind easy.

  “You good with wood-shaping, like your father? The old Teggums, they've a farm out of town just a short walk to the North. Fire got into their hen house, burnt it right up. How I don't know. Hen's ain't usually got much use for fire. But anyhow, the Teggums are on in their years, though still young to me. Their children all live up at the city now. Don't suppose you can repce the hens, but the house would be a help I've no doubt. I'm sure they'd be well pleased if you offered to build them a new one. They've run a good farm for generations; they'd be able to pay you well.

  “Also, that young boy Rehamel often needs an extra hand at his forge, if you wanted to check in there.”

  Atyr smiled and held up the spotless axe head, hanging at his belt. “Just came from there. Split him a few cord to help pay for this. But I already owe him some coin, and he didn't offer any other work.”

  Gant nodded dourly. “Well, can't say you aren't busy I suppose. And stacking up the debts too, if you don't mind my mentioning.”

  “I did say I needed work, and swift.”

  “Right, right. Well, those two would be my only thoughts for real work. There's also a witch taken up her home in the old watch tower. You clear her out, and I've coin for you.”

  Atyr blinked, smiling incredulously. “I'm sorry, a witch?”

  Gant frowned back at him. “What's this about a witch?”

  The younger man opened his mouth, then paused. “You said, just now... in the old watch tower?”

  The sunken-eyed innkeep was squinting at him. “Aye, aye there's an old watch tower just east of town. Been falling in on itself for a generation now. You telling me there's a witch in it?”

  Atyr was likewise squinting in confusion now. “You said there was a witch? I thought-?”

  “Now boy, don't go confusing me. You're the one as brought up witches. I've no doubt those fae creatures are about, out there in the wide world, in the Oldwood no doubt. But I don't go talking about them here in Woodstead.” His aged chin jutted out, as he tilted his head reproachfully at Atyr.

  “Now Abarabirdadellet, since you know her, she'd no doubt talk to you about witches, she would.” His voice got quiet and conspiratorial, and he leaned in across the bar. “Few folk remember now, but when we was both young, she started going about talking as she'd met some fae beast or other, in the guise of a man, she said, who'd offered her great magics, no doubt in exchange for her...” He squinted meaningfully at the younger man, “well, she was a beautiful girl then, if you follow me. Folk thought she'd gone a bit off for a while, but then she dropped it. Won't talk about it for nothing or to nobody for three score summers now.”

  Gant straightened up, and patted the bar with both hands. “No, but you'll get no luckless chatter about faeries and ghouls from me. Ain't seen a sign of one in all my years, and I mean to keep it that way.” He scowled now, eyes seeming to sink yet deeper into his skull. “Talking only tempts the fates, you hear?”

  “Right, right. Of course. I guess I misheard.” Atyr patted the counter as well. “So, sounds like I'm offering to build a hen house tomorrow!”

  “An honest pn that. Don't forget you owe me three kips when they pay you.” Atyr nodded, and the old man nodded back. “Well, you'll be wanting food, and then I'll show you to your bed.”

  A meaty stew and some bread filling his stomach, Atyr was directed up the narrow wooden stairs to one of the small, simple rooms above the main floor of the inn. Late as it was, his three bed mates were already under the bnkets, apparently asleep.

  He ignored them, affording them the privacy of disinterest which was expected of all who shared a lodging house bed, and stripped out of his vest and shirt, leaving his pants for modesty, ripped and imperfectly washed though they were.

  He climbed onto the worn mattress, suddenly exhausted. It was, he realized, the first time in scores of days that he had id down to sleep in a proper bed, not counting his time unconscious at the Birdhouse. His head hit the pillow, and he drew the thin bnkets up to his chin, ready to fall into the welcome void of sleep, when an annoyingly familiar, bell-like voice tinkled in his ear.

  “Good night, dummy!”

  He jumped, snarled to himself, and faded almost instantly into the dream world.

  Thanks so much for reading. Chapter 9 will be out in a couple days!

  -ScryBells

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