Chapter Eleven
The blacksmith’s workshop was built of stone on the far eastern edge of Ath Luain, placed far from any other buildings to prevent the spread of fire.
The packed earth floor was littered with tools that Conan didn’t know the first thing about.
A fire-filled forge took up the back left corner of the square cottage.
On the right side of the room, lit by a window and the door, two anvils sat waiting, hammers perched atop each.
Conan tested the weight of the example dagger the smith had handed him. “What’ll it cost to have the handle laid with gold filigree?”
“An extra three ounces of silver.” The smith’s thick, grey beard moved as he rumbled his reply. “And it’ll add two days’ time.”
“That’s no trouble.” In fact, it was perfect. They needed the dagger to be complex enough that it took the better part of a sennight, giving them several days of excuses to cross the causeway and wander the eastern shore.
Conan handed the dagger back to the smith, along with the first two ounces of silver—a full forty silver pennies, half of the cost of the elaborate dagger. Before he could ask the smith when they could expect it, Emer tumbled through the open door behind them in her underdress, wide-eyed.
“Conan!” She leaned against the door frame, catching her breath. “Alannah’s going after Oran! She went to his hostelry. You’ve got to stop her.”
Swearing under his breath, Conan bolted past Emer.
While he didn’t disagree that Oran deserved to have his arse handed to him, Alannah had no business attempting that alone.
Unprovoked, he could try to exact a fine from her—if he didn’t beat her, that was.
Alannah was fierce, but untrained. Without more practice, she’d not be able to win against Oran.
Luckily, Oran’s guesting house was a few buildings away, just south of the smithy. He heard shouting the moment he stepped out into the glaring sun. The door to the large, wooden building was already open, the cries from within escalating to screams as he stepped inside.
And came to a full, sudden stop.
Two men who looked as though they had piles of rocks where their minds ought to be held a struggling Alannah back by her arms.
And his brothers held back Oran.
Conan’s pulse raced so fast that he thought his heart would give out. Glancing about the room, he noted that it wasn’t just Cormac and Diarmid. Broccan and Brian stood inside the common room as well, no doubt investigating the commotion.
God’s bones they must’ve been passing through when Alannah came in here. At least it hadn’t been Teague or his father. But still, this was a far more delicate situation than he’d expected. If Alannah discovered that he knew any of them, their ruse would be compromised, along with the mission.
Diarmid noticed Conan first, his blue eyes widening beneath dark brows.
He nudged Cormac, who turned a similarly shocked expression on Conan.
Broccan picked up on the change in the room, as did Brian, who both turned to watch Conan approach.
Brian’s face was unreadable. Broccan’s was furious, though that likely had little to do with Conan.
Broccan seemed more angry than not these days.
“Apologies for the interruption,” Conan began, stepping in between the squirming Alannah and a scowling Oran. “Alannah, Emer sent me to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed.”
“You know this woman?” Brian demanded.
“I do.” Conan turned toward his king. “My friends and I have been staying at her guesting house while we perform in the area.”
“You’re—what—bards, then?” Broccan demanded, knowing full well the ruse they’d planned.
Conan nodded once. “We are. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get my gracious host back to her hostelry.”
“I’m not leaving until he’s dead!” Alannah shouted unhelpfully.
“I’m afraid there won’t be any killing today, young lady,” Brian chuckled. At least he found this all amusing. “What manner of dispute do you have with this man, to attack him in his own home?”
“He attacked my sister!” She groaned in frustration when the men yanked her further from Oran. “She’s covered in bruises!”
Conan’s stomach dropped. “What?” He drew his sword, stepping toward Oran.
“Ah.” Brian called, the sound clearly intended to halt Conan.
Reluctantly, he turned toward the king. “I saw the attack,” Conan told him. “What she says is true.”
“Ignore that old man and help me exact justice,” Alannah demanded.
Out of the corner of his eye, Conan caught Diarmid’s grin at Alannah’s choice of words.
“Watch how you speak to the King of Mumhain, girl.” Broccan’s threat held more malice than Conan liked.
Alannah froze, her gaze sliding from Oran to Brian. “You’re Brian Bóruma mac Cennétig?”
Brian crossed his arms and stepped into the fray. “I am.”
“We had no idea,” Conan apologized.
The corner of Brian’s bearded mouth lifted in amusement.
“Of course not. How could you?” He gave Alannah his full attention now.
“I’m afraid that, regardless of his attack on your sister, I still cannot allow you to slay him.
However, you are entitled to the full payment of the fine on her behalf.
She had bruising, you say? For God’s sake, let the woman go. ”
Alannah and Oran were both released. Before she could make any rash decisions, Conan walked right up to her and took her hand in his, giving it a squeeze.
“Yes, lord,” Alannah replied, squaring off with the king. “And he broke into our home, I believe with intent to do more than just that.”
“Lies!” Oran spat, storming toward her.
Conan stepped in the way. Cormac and Diarmid took hold of Oran’s arms again.
“All she ever does is slander me!”
This time, Brian turned to Conan. “Is that true?”
“It is not, lord,” Conan replied honestly. Alannah had told him she paid for folk to praise her business, not slander his. “He doesn’t have the right of it.”
“You lying son of a—”
“That’s quite enough from you,” Brian interrupted. “You will pay the victimized woman’s family three ounces of silver. If there is a repeat offense, the fine will triple.”
“You’re not king here!” Oran argued. “It’s Cahill’s laws we follow, not yours.”
Brian didn’t look the least flustered by Oran’s continued outbursts. “He’s just down the way if you’d prefer I fetch him. I doubt he’ll be pleased at being disturbed over something I’ve already handled, though.”
Oran roared in agitation, but didn’t argue further.
“Good,” Brian announced. “Now that that’s settled, let’s be on our way.” He turned a sharp eye on Conan. “Can I trust you to see the lady back home once she’s collected her payment?”
“Yes, lord,” Conan assured him.
“I don’t have the coin now,” Oran muttered.
Brian tsked. “Then you will give her your sword.”
Conan took great pleasure in watching Oran take off his sword belt and drop it on the ground, like a child throwing a tantrum over sweets.
Alannah retrieved it, pinning Oran with a menacing glare.
If the king hadn’t been standing there with his warriors, Conan had no doubt she’d have pulled it on him.
Without another word, Brian strode out of the guesting house, Broccan, Cormac, and Diarmid right behind him.
Conan sighed in relief a moment too soon.
“Cahill!” He heard Brian call loudly. “We were just on our way to your home.”
He heard his father’s voice just beyond the doorway, a chill coursing through him. It was a sound he’d hoped never to hear again.
“This isn’t finished,” Oran growled, taking a step toward Alannah.
Conan didn’t have time for this nonsense. He couldn’t risk his father catching him. Taking Alannah’s hand, he headed to the back door—as far as he could get from the bastard who’d sired him.