that Markus was a member of her crew and she trusted him, but she couldn’t – because, deep down, she couldn’t help but think that Fender was right, and when the going got tough they would never see Markus again.
FIVE
T he song of steel was not a pretty tune. It rang out, discordant and loud, hammered in with muscle and sweat and dirt. Nobul Jacks performed the song like an artist, working his anvil as well as any fiddler at his bow, his powerful strokes expert in their precision. His formidable frame struck out the rhythm; hammer smashing white-hot steel, which sparked in quick quick time, filling the smithy with a dirge to rival any orchestra.
In the darkness of the forge a fierce fire burned, blades protruding like the spokes of a wheel, ready to be struck flat or quenched in water, ready to sing like the strings of a harp. Nearby stood the grinding stone whose voice called out as it sharpened and honed in a perfect falsetto.
For Nobul this was more than mere craft, more than a living. When working the forge he could forget what his life had become – all that existed was the song, the music of his labours, and it swept him from the world, his nightmares and his grief. Once he had closed the door behind him, he felt safe, deep in the sanctuary of his noisy, dirty, honest work.
But the door could not stay shut forever.
It opened, letting the sunlight from outside wash the interior of the forge and breach its sanctity. Nobul paused, hammer raised, as, with the opening of the door, the magic of the song was lost.
Two men entered; big men, burly men. Both taller than Nobul, with thick necks and shaved heads, but they were not lean like him, not hard, not wrought of iron sinew as he was. Nevertheless, Nobul placed his hammer down gently, and with a leather-gloved hand shoved the glowing steel back into the coals of the fire.
One man walked forward as the other closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the street. The first smiled, confident, his head slightly cocked to one side.
‘Hello again, Nobul,’ he said, in a deep, arrogant voice. ‘You know the drill.’
Nobul did not speak; he did not have to. Instead he moved to the back of the forge to the worktable that sat against the wall. It was scattered with cross-guards and pommel heads, some ornate and made from bronze or silver, others simpler, crafted from polished iron or other base metals. Whatever the material, they were all of the highest quality; Nobul never made second-rate gear. He was a craftsman: though his wares varied in price they were all finished with meticulous care.
A layman might have considered the table a mess, but Nobul knew where everything was, everything kept in its proper place. He reached for a small leather pouch secured by a drawstring. Still silent, he walked back across the forge and placed the pouch in the big man’s upturned palm. The brute smiled, weighing it in his hand and jingling the contents before untying the drawstring and glancing within.
‘Feels a little light. Do I have to count it?’
‘It’s all there,’ Nobul replied. There was no fear in his voice. These men didn’t inspire fear in him as they did in others. Nobul was too proud to be scared. He’d gone through too much to be afraid of men such as these, despite their size. Despite their reputation.
‘I’m sure it is,’ said the man, smiling again as he secured the drawstring and secreted the pouch within his jacket. ‘How’s business anyway? Good, I’ll bet. You must have more work than you can manage, what with the war coming.’
‘Business is fine,’ Nobul answered.
‘Come now, Nobul. It’s more than fine, we both know that. The Guild keeps abreast of these things. We’re always watching, even if you can’t see us. Weapons and armour for the soldiers at the front are in high demand, especially from a smith of your … talent. And a man of your talent needs protecting, needs looking after. You never know when an agent of
FIVE
T he song of steel was not a pretty tune. It rang out, discordant and loud, hammered in with muscle and sweat and dirt. Nobul Jacks performed the song like an artist, working his anvil as well as any fiddler at his bow, his powerful strokes expert in their precision. His formidable frame struck out the rhythm; hammer smashing white-hot steel, which sparked in quick quick time, filling the smithy with a dirge to rival any orchestra.
In the darkness of the forge a fierce fire burned, blades protruding like the spokes of a wheel, ready to be struck flat or quenched in water, ready to sing like the strings of a harp. Nearby stood the grinding stone whose voice called out as it sharpened and honed in a perfect falsetto.
For Nobul this was more than mere craft, more than a living. When working the forge he could forget what his life had become – all that existed was the song, the music of his labours, and it swept him from the world, his nightmares and his grief. Once he had closed the door behind him, he felt safe, deep in the sanctuary of his noisy, dirty, honest work.
But the door could not stay shut forever.
It opened, letting the sunlight from outside wash the interior of the forge and breach its sanctity. Nobul paused, hammer raised, as, with the opening of the door, the magic of the song was lost.
Two men entered; big men, burly men. Both taller than Nobul, with thick necks and shaved heads, but they were not lean like him, not hard, not wrought of iron sinew as he was. Nevertheless, Nobul placed his hammer down gently, and with a leather-gloved hand shoved the glowing steel back into the coals of the fire.
One man walked forward as the other closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the street. The first smiled, confident, his head slightly cocked to one side.
‘Hello again, Nobul,’ he said, in a deep, arrogant voice. ‘You know the drill.’
Nobul did not speak; he did not have to. Instead he moved to the back of the forge to the worktable that sat against the wall. It was scattered with cross-guards and pommel heads, some ornate and made from bronze or silver, others simpler, crafted from polished iron or other base metals. Whatever the material, they were all of the highest quality; Nobul never made second-rate gear. He was a craftsman: though his wares varied in price they were all finished with meticulous care.
A layman might have considered the table a mess, but Nobul knew where everything was, everything kept in its proper place. He reached for a small leather pouch secured by a drawstring. Still silent, he walked back across the forge and placed the pouch in the big man’s upturned palm. The brute smiled, weighing it in his hand and jingling the contents before untying the drawstring and glancing within.
‘Feels a little light. Do I have to count it?’
‘It’s all there,’ Nobul replied. There was no fear in his voice. These men didn’t inspire fear in him as they did in others. Nobul was too proud to be scared. He’d gone through too much to be afraid of men such as these, despite their size. Despite their reputation.
‘I’m sure it is,’ said the man, smiling again as he secured the drawstring and secreted the pouch within his jacket. ‘How’s business anyway? Good, I’ll bet. You must have more work than you can manage, what with the war coming.’
‘Business is fine,’ Nobul answered.
‘Come now, Nobul. It’s more than fine, we both know that. The Guild keeps abreast of these things. We’re always watching, even if you can’t see us. Weapons and armour for the soldiers at the front are in high demand, especially from a smith of your … talent. And a man of your talent needs protecting, needs looking after. You never know when an agent of
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