He shrugged. “Am I interested in a reward that would set me up with a larger house and prettier wife? The answer is, yes. But I am not interested in helping power-hungry people to kill a child.”
She placed the coin on the work table and selected the first of the curved knives. The workmanship was acceptable, if not the best. It did not compare to the knife Sir James had given her, but one that had been crafted by a master. She tested the edge with her thumb. While sharp, the knife lacked the balance and feel of the other. Still, it would do for cutting meat, whittling tinder, and other jobs.
The thin, black knife reminded her of the enchanted knife in her father’s drawer. While simple, it held a beauty in design. The blacksmith watched her move it from side to side, feel the sharpness of both edges, and the balance. The blade and handle felt the same weight, while other knives were blade-heavy. She raised her eyes to the blacksmith.
“For throwing.” He held out his hand, took the knife and flipped it to catch by the blade, then again to the handle. In a single movement, he threw to knife three steps to the log that held up the room of the shop, where it struck with a solid sound.
“I thought it was for stabbing.”
“Both. Throwing takes practice, and you only get one chance. If you miss, or the knife handle hits first, you need to run. Stabbing means you’ve let your opponent get too close.”
“You talk like a knight,” Hannah observed.
“Nope, but I was a weapons maker for the King’s army until I lost my foot.”
Hannah hadn’t noticed. The work table between them prevented her from seeing the carved piece of wood that replaced his left foot, and he didn’t favor it. He said, “If you’re satisfied with the knives, I’ll cut your coin.”
“Cut it. Are you going to show me more about fighting?”
He hefted a chisel and placed the coin on his anvil. A single swing of his hammer splits the coin into two pieces. “Hold the curved knife to defend yourself.”
She picked it up and imagined an attacker as she set her stance.
“No,” he said, adjusting half the coin to strike it again. “Turn the knife over so the sharp edge is up. Swing it from side to side.”
“I want to stab him.”
The blacksmith split the half coin with another blow. “You want to slice, not stab. If you stab, that means you’re close enough to be grabbed, thrown to the ground and stomped. Slicing keeps your opponent at a distance until you can run.”
“Same with the other knife?”
He split the second half and scooped the four pieces into his hand and returned to the work table. “The other knife is your surprise. It stays hidden. The edge will cut bindings if someone ties you, the point will stab an opponent who comes too close, and you have a single chance to throw it.”
“You said you’d teach me,” she said, selecting the largest of the four pieces and sliding it closer to him while gathering the other three and placing them in her bag.
He pulled a drawer open and selected a scabbard from among many. Glancing at her waist, he pulled a belt and cut it to size. He threaded the scabbard to the belt and looped it around her. Cinching the belt, helped hold up her pants.
Silently, he pulled another scabbard and held it up. It was stiff leather with soft thongs hanging from each side. He carried it to her. “Turn around and remove your shirt.”
She did, and he looped the first thong over her shoulder and tied it to the bottom of the scabbard, then repeated it for the other side. “Pull your shirt back on and let me see how it sits.”
With the shirt on, the unfamiliar feel of the knife sitting between her shoulder blades felt odd and awkward at the same time. She worked her shoulders a few times until the sheath felt comfortable.
“Good,” he said. “The top of the hilt is below the neckline, and I can’t even see the knife. Now, reach over your shoulder and pull it free.” She reached, and he seized her fingers as she grabbed the knife. “No, don’t wrap your hand around the hilt. Pull it out with the tips of your fingers—like you’re going to throw it. You don’t want to waste time readjusting it when you have to throw.”
She pulled the knife with her fingertips, and he guided her hand to a throwing position with minimum movement. As the blade came free, her hand was as high as the top of her head, as far back as her ear. He said, “Good. Now replace it and do it again. Pull it exactly the same, but this time, when the blade comes free, throw at that post.”
Hannah struggled to fit it back into the scabbard, then dropped her arms to her sides and relaxed. In one movement she reached for the knife, pulled it free . . . and dropped it on the ground.
“You expected it to work the first time?” he growled in response to her embarrassment.
She replaced the knife and tried again. The knife smacked against the post, blade down, and fell. Hannah left it in the dirt. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. When you throw, the knife will spin the same amount each time. Take a small step back and try again.”
She marked her spot with a foot, making a line in the sand. The knife struck tip first but turned up too far for it to stick. She retrieved it and moved another half step back. It stuck for a second, then fell.
He nodded. “You're too nice to that attacker. If you’re going to slow or stop him, you’d better throw harder. And take one more step back because the blade will spin faster.”
Hannah replaced the knife in the scabbard and pretended the post was one of the three men fighting over pennies who chased her the day before. She reached her hand behind her head, drew the knife from the scabbard and threw, all in one motion, quick as a snake striking. The blade hit the post point first and quivered.
“That’ll do,” the blacksmith said, smiling for the first time. “That is as good as I’ve seen most warriors do, and you’re still learning. Look at the distance between you and the post. That’s what you have to memorize. A skilled fighter might have three different distances, but you need one. Nothing fancy. Get the right distance and throw for the chest. Then run.”
“You keep saying to run.”
“You only have one knife to throw. Once you do, you’re weaponless, and your opponent is going to be very angry. Run. Get away.”
“Why are you teaching me this?”
“I teach all my buyers how to use what I make.”
Hannah looked at her black knife in the post and the smirk on the face of the blacksmith. “No, you don’t. Not like this.”
“Will you ever return this way?”
“Yes,” she told him solemnly.
“Would you mind stopping by here and telling me what you’ve been up to?”
She stuck out her hand to shake his. “I always enjoy talking with my friends.”
“So, we’re friends, now?” The smirk evolved into a genuine smile.
“We are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hannah left the blacksmith with her new knives, one at her hip and one hidden under her shirt, and instructions to throw the knife a hundred times each evening. The joke was on him because she didn’t know how to count to a hundred.
Being in the forest now felt almost like home. While ever changing, it took on a sameness that she felt comfortable with. A dozen times she saw trees that made good targets and she estimated the distance for the throws and imagined the knife spinning in the air and striking the trunk. However, she also imagined missing her throw and the knife spinning off into the forest where she couldn’t find it again, so the throws remained imaginary.
Twice she returned to the road and walked until she found it. Then she slipped back into the cover of the trees and continued on her way. After climbing a hill, the view of the far side revealed a valley filled with farms. It was not where they had taken the wagon, but the one after. She was getting close. She recognized a large farmhouse made of layers of logs, each distinct from the others as the house had several additions. Probably as another child or two were born a new room had been added. It gave the house a personality, something she could understand and appreciate.