The Assassin's Redemption
With his toe on the rough line traced in the dirt, the raven-haired man drew back his arm and flung the hammer with a shout. It whirled end over end and landed far beyond the others, scudding to a halt with a thud and a puff of dust.
A few onlookers cheered. The thrower fixed the lineup of competitors behind him with a smug sneer and held out his hand.
Surly fellows wearing the brown and silver uniform of the Zandorian Imperial Army reached into pockets and pouches. Each pulled out two encomiums and dropped them into the winner’s palm. After a few donations, he required both hands to hold his wealth.
“I hope you can brandish your weapons with more strength than you’ve displayed here,” the victor mocked.
“And were the competition archery or swordplay, any of us might defeat you, Joseph Callahan,” a soldier grumbled. “But challenging a blacksmith at hammer throwing? Well, we’re outmatched.”
Joseph pocketed his coins and swigged a mouthful of ale from a tin cup on a nearby stool. “I wield a hammer all day, that’s true, but I don’t throw it any more often than you do. The horses wouldn’t like that much.”
His dark brown eyes scanned the group, who were taking on an orange hue in the glow of the setting sun. “Who’s next? Who can defeat me?”
The others muttered, and a twig of a lad squeaked, “We know when we’ve suffered enough for one evening.”
“Speak for yourself!” A soldier whose corded arms matched Joseph’s for thickness pushed through the cluster of men. The stench of ale was strong on his breath. “You’ve proven you have the brute strength of an ox, Callahan, but can you use those scarred and calloused hands for accuracy?”
He shoved an iron stake at the thin boy. “Go collect the hammers and pound this into the ground fifty paces away.”
The lad opened his mouth to argue, but when the burly man clenched his fist, the youth snatched the stake and sprinted off as though the entire army were in pursuit.
“I’ll bet you a full day’s wages you can’t hit that stake,” the burly man challenged Joseph. “Brawn you may have, Callahan, but you’re no marksman. Money to the man who strikes the stake or lands his hammer closest.”
The encomiums weighted Joseph’s pocket. To count them would have shown poor taste, but he knew he had won far more than the weekly pittance the Crown paid its soldiers for the honor of serving. A day’s wages lost would not impact his fortune gained in minutes.
“I’ll take your bet.” Joseph shrugged with the disinterested air of one who cared not a whit for the contest’s outcome.
“For the Crown!” his challenger rejoined.
With the iron spike positioned, the contest began.
“You first.” Joseph deferred to his opponent.
The man hurled his hammer, which skimmed left of the spike and landed three paces beyond it.
Joseph grimaced. “That’ll be a tough throw to beat.”
A wide grin parted his challenger’s lips over a missing front tooth. “You won’t, Callahan. You can forfeit if you’d prefer to avoid humiliation.”
“I’ve never forfeited a contest in my life.” Joseph flung his hammer, landing it three paces short of the spike and to the right.
“They’re close!” The boy darted out to examine the lay of the hammers. “I can’t decide the winner.”
Two other men concurred with the lad.
“Another try, then?” Joseph suggested.
His challenger’s face grew sour. “Fair enough.”
The burly man threw a second time and landed his hammer within a foot of the target.
“Good job.” Joseph stepped to the line, concealing his dismay at the shot’s accuracy behind his usual mask of placid disinterest.
Hurling the hammer for distance, no one present could beat him, but striking a piece of iron an inch wide and a foot tall presented a unique challenge. The stake wavered in his vision, splitting into two, then merging into the single target and blending with its shadow, giving a misleading illusion of height.
He had drunk too many cups of Zandor’s watered-down ale. Joseph raised the hammer, contemplated the spike, and took careful aim.
“No, not a marksman,” his competitor repeated, his tone that of one who discusses the weather. “You hide behind an anvil to avoid the front lines and disguise your lack of skill with weapons.”
Joseph’s eyes narrowed.
“You measure your service to the Crown in rounded iron and sheared off nails. The horses possess more valor than you do.”
Joseph’s mouth contorted. He’s trying to distract you. He doesn’t know that you’re as likely to hit that stake at fifty paces as you are of flying to the palace in Grymwalde.
“How old are you, mid-twenties?” his competitor continued. “But you’ve left no one at home to miss you.”
Joseph lowered the hammer and shot the man a resentful glance. “And what of that?”
A sneer curled his opponent’s lip. “A fellow of your years without a wife must prefer the company of gents.”
Rage burned in Joseph’s chest, but his voice remained quiet. “I find no inspiration in spineless mice garbed in gowns as bulky as the mess tent.”
“No, you find it in the brawny bodies around you here.”
Joseph clenched his jaw, raised the hammer, and flung it with a violence that ripped a gasp from the onlookers. The implement collided with the iron stake, producing a resounding clang that erased all doubt as to the accuracy of Joseph’s throw.
Joseph whirled on his opponent with an open hand. “Pay up, and I’ll take my leave of this contest tonight.”
The burly man reached into his pocket and threw a handful of coins at Joseph, who caught one but allowed the others to bounce off his chest and arms. Too haughty to stoop and retrieve them, Joseph spat in the dirt at his opponent’s feet.
“Be thankful my father trained me so well not to feel, or I might have wrapped the hammer around your neck and flung you with it. I bid you good night, sir. For the Crown!”
“For the Crown.” The other avoided Joseph’s eyes.
Joseph spun on his heel. The onlookers parted before him, as though his dark visage warned them not to antagonize him further. The sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the army camp in a pink glow that deepened to purple in the east, and the air took on a sudden chill. Joseph drew a deep breath.
Why lose your temper over insults from a brainless oaf? The generals would never permit wenches here. Everyone is lonely, and plenty of soldiers left only mothers and sisters at home. You’ve no family, but that’s no cause for shame. A man like you can devote his energies to serving the Crown. You have no distractions like those who pine for wives and female companions. Don’t feel.
As dusk fell, the white canvas tents pitched in aligned rows looked ghostly, and those with lantern light shining within gave off an otherworldly aura, as though inhabited by spirits.
Joseph’s post was on the border between Zandor and Langdon. His unit did border patrol: inspecting carts, checking papers, arresting infiltrators who lacked proper documentation, and waiting for orders to do something more interesting.
Their horses traveled miles, day and night. Joseph’s task of trimming their feet and forging their shoes was essential, despite the burly soldier’s derision. Without sound horses, the Zandorian Imperial Army would be crippled.
The bored soldiers were eager to push Zandor’s claim west into Langdon, but “Hold the line” was the daily order from the general. Days melded into weeks. Shoe the horses, eat the watery stew. Seek entertainment in the evenings with arm wrestling or hammer throwing to break the monotony.
Joseph’s small tent stood at the rear of the camp, with his anvil and firepot a few dozen paces away. He drew a deep breath that tasted of smoke remnants, hammer scale, and warm horseflesh. This place soothed him and calmed his unease, as though he had drenched the emotion in his slack tub. He stirred the banked coals in the firepot enough to ignite a stick and light his lantern.
Three silent horses stood in the corral beside the forge, silhouettes in the flame’s soft glow. Joseph climbed the fence. “How are you lot tonight?”
One horse nickered, and another limped toward Joseph. He caressed the animal’s velvet nose and smiled as the creature huffed warm air into his palm.
“That abscess hurts, doesn’t it, Intrepid? Let’s have a look.”
Joseph ran a gentle hand down the horse’s leg. Intrepid lifted his foot, and Joseph drew it forward to examine the coronary band, where a small stream of pus traced a path down the hoof to the toe.
“Still draining. We’ll put a poultice on that tomorrow morning if it’s no better, lad.”
He lowered the hoof and stroked Intrepid’s sleek neck. “Don’t you worry. You’ll be as sound as a whistle in a week or two, and I won’t let them slaughter you for the stew meanwhile.”
Intrepid shoved his nose into Joseph’s chest while the blacksmith’s calloused hand scratched behind his ears.
The general disliked keeping wounded animals, but Joseph paid for their upkeep out of his earnings for the chance to rehabilitate them. Feeding and watering them for a few weeks while they healed, seeing them return to the ranks, was well worth his trouble and expense.
Joseph checked his other charges and then retired to his tent to empty his pockets. Thirty-two encomiums and not a match lost. A wry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps indulging Wrath was a beneficial way to hone his skills beyond his expected capabilities. If his opponent had not angered him, Joseph would not have hit the stake in fifty tries.
He placed his winnings into a canvas bag and pulled the string tight around the neck to close it. Joseph slipped the sack under his pillow for safekeeping, then rolled onto his cot and wrapped himself in his blanket. He extinguished the light, turned his back on the tent flap, and closed his eyes. A lengthy queue of horses awaited trimming and shoeing tomorrow, and the injured three in the corral would need attention.
Joseph slipped into a dreamless sleep, content with the evening’s results, despite the burly man’s insults.
In the night, he awoke to rustling sounds. In the dim glow of a lantern shuttered on all the panels but one, he spotted a man rummaging through his trunk and another inspecting his coat pockets.
“Get out!” Joseph swung off his cot with a panther-like grace unexpected in one muscle-bound from hard work at the forge.
The shadows whirled to face him. Joseph recognized the burly soldier he had defeated in the contest and the thin lad who had fetched hammers and set the target.
“Where’s the money?” The burly man drew a dagger from his belt.
“My money’s location is no business of yours.”
The man lunged.
A few onlookers cheered. The thrower fixed the lineup of competitors behind him with a smug sneer and held out his hand.
Surly fellows wearing the brown and silver uniform of the Zandorian Imperial Army reached into pockets and pouches. Each pulled out two encomiums and dropped them into the winner’s palm. After a few donations, he required both hands to hold his wealth.
“I hope you can brandish your weapons with more strength than you’ve displayed here,” the victor mocked.
“And were the competition archery or swordplay, any of us might defeat you, Joseph Callahan,” a soldier grumbled. “But challenging a blacksmith at hammer throwing? Well, we’re outmatched.”
Joseph pocketed his coins and swigged a mouthful of ale from a tin cup on a nearby stool. “I wield a hammer all day, that’s true, but I don’t throw it any more often than you do. The horses wouldn’t like that much.”
His dark brown eyes scanned the group, who were taking on an orange hue in the glow of the setting sun. “Who’s next? Who can defeat me?”
The others muttered, and a twig of a lad squeaked, “We know when we’ve suffered enough for one evening.”
“Speak for yourself!” A soldier whose corded arms matched Joseph’s for thickness pushed through the cluster of men. The stench of ale was strong on his breath. “You’ve proven you have the brute strength of an ox, Callahan, but can you use those scarred and calloused hands for accuracy?”
He shoved an iron stake at the thin boy. “Go collect the hammers and pound this into the ground fifty paces away.”
The lad opened his mouth to argue, but when the burly man clenched his fist, the youth snatched the stake and sprinted off as though the entire army were in pursuit.
“I’ll bet you a full day’s wages you can’t hit that stake,” the burly man challenged Joseph. “Brawn you may have, Callahan, but you’re no marksman. Money to the man who strikes the stake or lands his hammer closest.”
The encomiums weighted Joseph’s pocket. To count them would have shown poor taste, but he knew he had won far more than the weekly pittance the Crown paid its soldiers for the honor of serving. A day’s wages lost would not impact his fortune gained in minutes.
“I’ll take your bet.” Joseph shrugged with the disinterested air of one who cared not a whit for the contest’s outcome.
“For the Crown!” his challenger rejoined.
With the iron spike positioned, the contest began.
“You first.” Joseph deferred to his opponent.
The man hurled his hammer, which skimmed left of the spike and landed three paces beyond it.
Joseph grimaced. “That’ll be a tough throw to beat.”
A wide grin parted his challenger’s lips over a missing front tooth. “You won’t, Callahan. You can forfeit if you’d prefer to avoid humiliation.”
“I’ve never forfeited a contest in my life.” Joseph flung his hammer, landing it three paces short of the spike and to the right.
“They’re close!” The boy darted out to examine the lay of the hammers. “I can’t decide the winner.”
Two other men concurred with the lad.
“Another try, then?” Joseph suggested.
His challenger’s face grew sour. “Fair enough.”
The burly man threw a second time and landed his hammer within a foot of the target.
“Good job.” Joseph stepped to the line, concealing his dismay at the shot’s accuracy behind his usual mask of placid disinterest.
Hurling the hammer for distance, no one present could beat him, but striking a piece of iron an inch wide and a foot tall presented a unique challenge. The stake wavered in his vision, splitting into two, then merging into the single target and blending with its shadow, giving a misleading illusion of height.
He had drunk too many cups of Zandor’s watered-down ale. Joseph raised the hammer, contemplated the spike, and took careful aim.
“No, not a marksman,” his competitor repeated, his tone that of one who discusses the weather. “You hide behind an anvil to avoid the front lines and disguise your lack of skill with weapons.”
Joseph’s eyes narrowed.
“You measure your service to the Crown in rounded iron and sheared off nails. The horses possess more valor than you do.”
Joseph’s mouth contorted. He’s trying to distract you. He doesn’t know that you’re as likely to hit that stake at fifty paces as you are of flying to the palace in Grymwalde.
“How old are you, mid-twenties?” his competitor continued. “But you’ve left no one at home to miss you.”
Joseph lowered the hammer and shot the man a resentful glance. “And what of that?”
A sneer curled his opponent’s lip. “A fellow of your years without a wife must prefer the company of gents.”
Rage burned in Joseph’s chest, but his voice remained quiet. “I find no inspiration in spineless mice garbed in gowns as bulky as the mess tent.”
“No, you find it in the brawny bodies around you here.”
Joseph clenched his jaw, raised the hammer, and flung it with a violence that ripped a gasp from the onlookers. The implement collided with the iron stake, producing a resounding clang that erased all doubt as to the accuracy of Joseph’s throw.
Joseph whirled on his opponent with an open hand. “Pay up, and I’ll take my leave of this contest tonight.”
The burly man reached into his pocket and threw a handful of coins at Joseph, who caught one but allowed the others to bounce off his chest and arms. Too haughty to stoop and retrieve them, Joseph spat in the dirt at his opponent’s feet.
“Be thankful my father trained me so well not to feel, or I might have wrapped the hammer around your neck and flung you with it. I bid you good night, sir. For the Crown!”
“For the Crown.” The other avoided Joseph’s eyes.
Joseph spun on his heel. The onlookers parted before him, as though his dark visage warned them not to antagonize him further. The sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the army camp in a pink glow that deepened to purple in the east, and the air took on a sudden chill. Joseph drew a deep breath.
Why lose your temper over insults from a brainless oaf? The generals would never permit wenches here. Everyone is lonely, and plenty of soldiers left only mothers and sisters at home. You’ve no family, but that’s no cause for shame. A man like you can devote his energies to serving the Crown. You have no distractions like those who pine for wives and female companions. Don’t feel.
As dusk fell, the white canvas tents pitched in aligned rows looked ghostly, and those with lantern light shining within gave off an otherworldly aura, as though inhabited by spirits.
Joseph’s post was on the border between Zandor and Langdon. His unit did border patrol: inspecting carts, checking papers, arresting infiltrators who lacked proper documentation, and waiting for orders to do something more interesting.
Their horses traveled miles, day and night. Joseph’s task of trimming their feet and forging their shoes was essential, despite the burly soldier’s derision. Without sound horses, the Zandorian Imperial Army would be crippled.
The bored soldiers were eager to push Zandor’s claim west into Langdon, but “Hold the line” was the daily order from the general. Days melded into weeks. Shoe the horses, eat the watery stew. Seek entertainment in the evenings with arm wrestling or hammer throwing to break the monotony.
Joseph’s small tent stood at the rear of the camp, with his anvil and firepot a few dozen paces away. He drew a deep breath that tasted of smoke remnants, hammer scale, and warm horseflesh. This place soothed him and calmed his unease, as though he had drenched the emotion in his slack tub. He stirred the banked coals in the firepot enough to ignite a stick and light his lantern.
Three silent horses stood in the corral beside the forge, silhouettes in the flame’s soft glow. Joseph climbed the fence. “How are you lot tonight?”
One horse nickered, and another limped toward Joseph. He caressed the animal’s velvet nose and smiled as the creature huffed warm air into his palm.
“That abscess hurts, doesn’t it, Intrepid? Let’s have a look.”
Joseph ran a gentle hand down the horse’s leg. Intrepid lifted his foot, and Joseph drew it forward to examine the coronary band, where a small stream of pus traced a path down the hoof to the toe.
“Still draining. We’ll put a poultice on that tomorrow morning if it’s no better, lad.”
He lowered the hoof and stroked Intrepid’s sleek neck. “Don’t you worry. You’ll be as sound as a whistle in a week or two, and I won’t let them slaughter you for the stew meanwhile.”
Intrepid shoved his nose into Joseph’s chest while the blacksmith’s calloused hand scratched behind his ears.
The general disliked keeping wounded animals, but Joseph paid for their upkeep out of his earnings for the chance to rehabilitate them. Feeding and watering them for a few weeks while they healed, seeing them return to the ranks, was well worth his trouble and expense.
Joseph checked his other charges and then retired to his tent to empty his pockets. Thirty-two encomiums and not a match lost. A wry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps indulging Wrath was a beneficial way to hone his skills beyond his expected capabilities. If his opponent had not angered him, Joseph would not have hit the stake in fifty tries.
He placed his winnings into a canvas bag and pulled the string tight around the neck to close it. Joseph slipped the sack under his pillow for safekeeping, then rolled onto his cot and wrapped himself in his blanket. He extinguished the light, turned his back on the tent flap, and closed his eyes. A lengthy queue of horses awaited trimming and shoeing tomorrow, and the injured three in the corral would need attention.
Joseph slipped into a dreamless sleep, content with the evening’s results, despite the burly man’s insults.
In the night, he awoke to rustling sounds. In the dim glow of a lantern shuttered on all the panels but one, he spotted a man rummaging through his trunk and another inspecting his coat pockets.
“Get out!” Joseph swung off his cot with a panther-like grace unexpected in one muscle-bound from hard work at the forge.
The shadows whirled to face him. Joseph recognized the burly soldier he had defeated in the contest and the thin lad who had fetched hammers and set the target.
“Where’s the money?” The burly man drew a dagger from his belt.
“My money’s location is no business of yours.”
The man lunged.
(c) 2022 Christine Stobbe
|
The Assassin's Redemption
|