Medieval 02 - Forbidden

twice.”
    Erik waited.
    “Only one man be able to do that,” the outlaw explained.
    “Aye,” Erik said.
    He knew from experience that that particular fighting maneuver was more often talked about by knights than done successfully. In fact, Erik knew of only one warrior who could be depended upon to show such a combination of strength and skill. It was how the knight had received his name.
    The Scots Hammer.
    “I would like to have seen that,” Erik said.
    And meant it.
    The false pilgrim grunted. His expression suggested that he could have lived and died very well without seeing the Scots Hammer at work.
    “Then what happened?” Erik asked.
    “The ruffians that still be able, they run like deer. The witch and the Scots Hammer rides off at a gallop.”
    “Toward this keep?”
    “Nay. Away from it. I run here quick as I can, to tell you I see the Scots Hammer and get the reward.”
    Erik looked at the blade of his dagger and said nothing.
    “Do you nae believe me?” the outlaw said anxiously. “It be the Hammer. Bigger by half than most men, dark of hair and light of eye, strong as an ox.”
    The dagger glinted as it turned idly in Erik’s long fingers.
    “It be not the first time I see the Hammer,” the outlaw said quickly. “I be in Blackthorne on my, er, pilgrimage, when the Hammer be fighting Dominic le Sabre. I be as certain as sin of it.”
    “Yes,” Erik said, “I believe you saw the Scots Hammer.”
    “The reward, lord?”
    “Aye,” Erik said very gently. “I shall give you a suitable reward for your day’s work.”
    The peregrine’s wings flared abruptly, startling the outlaw into backing up. His sudden motionbrought the heads of all seven wolfhounds around to watch him.
    The outlaw froze.
    “Alfred,” Erik said, pitching his voice to carry down the length of the great hall.
    “Aye, lord!”
    “Bring thirty pieces of silver.”
    “At once, lord!”
    Erik watched the outlaw with an unblinking gaze. The man shifted unhappily.
    “One small thing, my good pilgrim,” Erik said softly.
    “Aye?”
    “Empty your purses.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me. Do it. Now.”
    The gentleness of Erik’s voice never varied, but the outlaw finally understood what lay behind the fine manners. It was no precious lordling he confronted, but a warrior in whose yellow eyes the fires of hell burned. With jerky motions, the outlaw began emptying the purses he had tied beneath his clothing.
    The tip of Erik’s dagger pointed to a table standing near the man.
    Sullenly, the outlaw put the contents of the first purse on the table—two daggers with silver handles and steel blades. The stain on the blades spoke silently of blood.
    The next purse revealed three combs of silver whose delicate designs suggested that they had once adorned the heads of fine ladies. A long, pale lock of hair was tangled in one comb, as though it had been ripped from a woman’s head.
    Erik watched with apparent indifference, but his eyes missed nothing.
    Bread, meat, cheese, and a handful of copper coins appeared on the table. The outlaw looked up, saw Erik’s baleful eyes, and cursed beneathhis breath. Another purse spilled its contents onto the table. This time there was a gleam of silver and a single flash of gold.
    “That be all,” the outlaw muttered.
    “Not quite.”
    “Lord, I be empty as a widow’s womb!”
    Erik came out of his chair with a speed so great that the outlaw had no time to flee. One instant Erik was sitting at ease. The next instant he had one hand buried in the outlaw’s filthy hair and the point of a silver dagger resting against his dirt-caked throat.
    “Do you wish to die unshriven with a lie still fresh on your lips?” Erik asked gently.
    A single look into Erik’s eyes convinced the outlaw that he would rather trade glances with Satan himself than with the sorcerer who was watching him right now.
    “I—I—” stuttered the outlaw.
    “The amber. Fetch it out.”
    “What amber? I be not rich enough to—aiee!”
    The lies stopped as the dagger’s tip bit delicately into flesh. The outlaw’s hands dug frantically beneath his mantle. A purse appeared. A string was yanked. A broken bracelet fell out onto the table and gleamed in shades of gold.
    Amber, pure and transparent, valuable beyond the means of any but a wealthy lord.
    Into the silence came the sounds of Alfred hurrying up the great hall. There was a hesitation in his steps when he saw the point of Erik’s dagger pricking the