Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
The last traces of daylight disappeared as he left the path and started up a gradual incline. He knew every stone and root beneath his feet and needed little light to find his way.
His home stood beyond the trees.
Torden had built much of it himself over the years, adding to it whenever the need arose. The stone house sprawled wider than most cottages, its heavy timbered roof pitched steeply against winter snow. The doors were taller and broader than usual, as was nearly everything inside. He had little patience for ducking beneath doorways or sleeping with his feet hanging off the end of a bed.
A separate stone building stood a short distance from the cottage which housed his forge. Even in the darkness he could smell the familiar remnants of coal and iron.
Torden paused beside it. The forge was where he found the peace that so often escaped him elsewhere.
Iron didn't argue and it didn't lie. It didn't demand that he choose sides. It yielded only when properly worked, and if it failed, the fault belonged to the man holding the hammer.
He made weapons when there was need for them, but preferred making other things. Axes that split wood. Hinges that kept doors secure. Hoes and spades that worked the earth. Horseshoes. Cooking hooks. Nails. Things meant to build rather than destroy.
His gaze drifted toward the small stable beside the house and he headed that way.
A soft whinny greeted him.
Torden smiled for the first time that day as he opened the door.
His mare immediately thrust her head toward him.
“There you are, Sorcha.”
He ran a hand along the neck of the large, dapple-gray mare, broad through the chest and strong in the legs. She was a beauty with a thick silver-gray mane and intelligent dark eyes. Despite her size, she possessed a gentle nature, though stubbornness surfaced whenever it suited her.
He crouched to examine her injured hoof and was relieved to see the swelling had gone down considerably.
“You are doing much better, Sorcha.”
The mare nudged his shoulder.
“Aye, I missed you too.”
Another impatient nudge nearly knocked him sideways.
Torden straightened. “Demanding female.”
She nudged him again.
He laughed softly and found an apple in the bin near the door. “The only one I tolerate.”
She took it eagerly from his hand.
He remained with her a while longer, checking the hoof once again before leaving her for the night.
The house was dark when he entered.
Torden lit an oil lamp and set his claymore in its usual place near the door. The main room was large and uncluttered, furnished for comfort rather than appearance. A long table stood near the hearth, several oversized chairs surrounding it. Shelves held tools awaiting repair, bits of iron, books, and various objects he'd collected on his travels and never found reason to discard.
One glance toward his sleeping chamber and he realized how tired he was. His bed called to him more strongly than the cold hearth.
Torden carried the lamp into his sleeping chamber, stripped off his clothes and dropped onto the mattress.
At last… peace.
He stretched out, enjoying the familiar comfort of a bed made to accommodate his considerable size and closed his eyes.
A petite woman smelling of horse piss appeared in his thoughts.
Torden's eyes opened.
Ismera.
He frowned at the ceiling.
Why the devil was he thinking about her? Perhaps because no woman had ever stolen his supper before. Or jumped onto his table. Or answered his warning with ‘not anymore’ before making off with his stew.
Torden shook his head.
The woman had been trouble from the moment she'd burst through the inn door.
She was small, furious, foul-smelling and apparently, she wandered through a Highland village asking questions no one understood.
What was she looking for?
Torden frowned again. It was none of his concern.
He rolled onto his side. Whatever Ismera was searching for, someone else could deal with it.
He had finally found his peace, and this time he intended to keep it.
Chapter Six
Torden
Two days passed without anyone asking Torden to settle a quarrel, fight a battle, or solve a problem that should never have become his in the first place.
He considered that a good start.
The morning of the third day found him at his forge, hammer in hand, shaping a length of glowing iron against the anvil. Sparks scattered with every strike, the steady rhythm filling the open-sided building.
He wasn't making a sword. A farmer who lived several miles east had broken the head of his best axe and needed another. Torden had promised him one.
There was satisfaction in watching shapeless metal become something useful beneath his hands. No arguments. No wounded pride. No one threatening bloodshed over an insult that sensible men should have been able to settle themselves.
Only heat, iron, and the strength of his arm.
The distant rattle of a wagon interrupted the steady clang of his hammer.
Torden glanced toward the road.
A familiar merchant wagon appeared between the trees, piled with goods beneath a canvas covering. A man sat comfortably on the driver's bench, lean and of average height with sandy-brown hair, an easy smile, and sharp hazel eyes that missed little. He dressed well, though the quality of his wool cloak and finely made boots hinted that he was far more prosperous than the ordinary merchant he appeared to be.