Read Online Weapon of Flesh by Chris A. Jackson - Free Book Online

streets of Twailin.  The hunt had begun.

    “Leavin’?”  Flindle turned from the forge to face Lad with a scowl that would have curdled milk.  “Why, you only been here three days, haven’t ya?  Six pennies ain’t gonna buy you enough food to get you anywhere, Lad.”
    “Six pennies will buy four loaves of hard tack and one measure of jerky, Flindle.”  He inclined his head quizzically at the blacksmith.  “I have eaten much more than I usually do for the past three days.  This should be enough.”
    “But, I…  Well, dammit Lad, I was just gettin’ used to seein’ your face around, wasn’t I?”  He scowled again and spat into the forge fire.  “I’ll double your pay if you stay another two days.”
    “I cannot stay longer, Flindle.”
    “You got someone chasin’ you?” the smith asked, his eyes narrowing.  “If you’re runnin’ from somethin’, Lad, this is a far safer place than the road.”
    “I am not running from something,” he assured the man with a quizzical look.  “I am walking to something, but I am not sure what it is.”
    “Ha, well, you keep that sense of humor, Lad.  And, here.”  Flindle went to the back of the forge and dug into a pile of junk that littered the bench.  He returned with a short knife in a moldy leather sheath.  “A man oughtn’t to be without some kind of weapon, even if it’s just an old belt knife.”  He held the sheathed blade out to Lad hilt first.
    “I do not need a weapon, Flindle,” he said, his mind clicking onto a magically reinforced memory.  “I am a --”
    “Nonsense!  Take it!”  Flindle grasped Lad’s hand and pressed the hilt into it.  “The world’s not a safe place, is it?”
    “No, Flindle.  It is not a safe place.”  Lad looked at the knife and drew the short blade, which was sharp and clean despite the bedraggled sheath.  It was not balanced for throwing, but would part flesh readily enough.  He sheathed it and tucked it into his rope belt.
    “Good!”  Flindle extended his huge scarred hand.
    Lad stared at it, then at the man’s face, misunderstanding written plainly on his features.  Did Flindle want the knife back now?  Was this some test?  The palm was held vertically, not flat as if he were expecting to be handed something.  Then a memory surfaced; he had seen many of the burly lumberjacks clasp hands in a short ceremonial greeting.  But this was not a greeting, rather a parting.  Could it be that the same ritual served two purposes?  Lad slowly extended his own hand in the same manner, and Flindle snatched it and squeezed so hard that Lad had to return the pressure.
    “Take care, then, Lad.”  The big man turned away then, and began pumping the huge bellows that fed air to the forge.
    Lad felt an odd tugging in the pit of his stomach, watching the man tend his forge alone.  Though it felt like hunger, he knew it could not be, for he had eaten a large breakfast.  He turned to go, but glanced back again, his hand drifting to the twisting in his stomach.  He felt like he should say something, but he knew not what.  He felt that maybe he should stay and work longer for Flindle, but he could not.  There was one word he had heard others say many times when parting, though he didn’t know if it was appropriate now.
    “Goodbye, Flindle.”
    The big man’s head snapped up from his work, and a stiff smile stretched his features.  “Goodbye, Lad.”
    Lad attempted to mimic the smile, but it felt strange.  He had never smiled before.  He turned away and let his feet carry him toward the mess hall where he knew he could buy the bread and jerky that would sustain him back to the crossroads and beyond.
     
    “The boy leavin’?”  One of the teamsters was leading two heavy draft horses up to Flindle’s stall.
    “Yep.”  The smith thrust four pieces of bar stock into the glowing forge fire, glancing in the direction in which Lad had left.  “He’s a strange one, ain’t he?  All