Intermission: The Paladin and the Blacksmith

It was just before noon when the strange, armor-clad man stepped into the blacksmith shop. "Hello, is the blacksmith in?" he boomed, rapping on the counter.

*Knock*

*Knock*

*Knock*

He banged so hard he nearly shook the back desk, where the store's only other occupant is diligently mulling over records. The call jolts her from her focus, and she jumps from her chair so suddenly that she nearly spills her ink on the papers she was diligently editing. "Just a moment," Jane calls, desperately reorganizing the wooden slats dipped in dyes the shop used for bookkeeping.

"What could they want now?" Jane wonders, desperately whipping her hand free of dye before they add yet more stains. She rubbed with all the power her teenage arms could muster, only stopping when she caught a glimpse of the stranger in her shop. A giant of a man towers over the counter, clad in armor. He wore chainmail, sturdy steel gauntlets, a sleek helmet, and a greatsword on his back. The divine seal on his chest, a red cross she doesn't recognize, marked him as some kind of holy warrior. “Must be an order different from Nala and Ericson,” she thought, having little experience or instruction of gods other than the Seven Virtues. The cross is spotless, almost gleaming, while the rest of his armor shows road dust and grime. She could tell at a glance that the armor was brand new, aside from the orange-stained gauntlets; the metal still had its showroom shine. "Goblin blood no doubt," she reasoned, looking the man over from head to waist, where the counter blocked her view.

"What—" she began, stumbling when his eyes fell upon her with a strange intensity she'd only felt from a seasoned warrior. "What can I help you with, Sir Paladin?" she asked, mustering her best shop voice.

"Are you the blacksmith?" he asks without missing a beat.

"His apprentice," she replies, her voice wavering but defiant.

"Where is he then? I must speak with him." His gaze sweeps the room.

“He… well, he…” The words snagged. Thinking of her father's passing was like putting a hand to a red-hot stove.

"I see," the paladin says, catching the hesitation. "Who's in charge, then? Surely he had an intended successor?"

"That would be my brother," she lies, as easily as she breathes. Her father always warned her about strangers who'd take advantage of a woman, in business or otherwise. It was safer to mention a brother, ideally, one due back any minute. "He's out helping with the cleanup but should be back soon."

"Ahh. So should we wait for him, or can you negotiate without him?" he asked, not missing a beat. "Wouldn't want him thinking I gave his sister a bad deal."

"It'll be fine," she assures, outstretching her hands on the counter; a position practiced to lull customers into a sense of ease." Father always said I'm the better negotiator anyway."

"Well then, I have a proposal," he says, laying one arm along the counter and leaning in. "I'm going to raid the goblin camp that attacked this village, and afterward, I'll have a lot of goblin arms with no way to carry them. To that end, I propose an investment with collateral." He unstraps a greatsword and lays it down beside two hand axes. "If the camp is in a cave, these will be cumbersome. I'd procure a longsword, a sturdy shield, three shortswords, and two daggers—if you have them."

As he lists steel, Jane calculates the cost. “Smaller weapons fetch less on the frontier… but in those numbers? What's to stop him from running off with them?”

"Once the camp is cleared, the real business begins," he continues. "Once accounts are settled, we'll split the loot ninety–ten to my advantage. What do you say?"

"What do I say?" she blurts, shocked and appalled. "Ten percent? Are you insane?" Even if all she does is outfit him, ten percent for that order is both laughable and insulting.

"Quite the contrary," he says, turning and gesturing at the barren walls. "It'll replenish your stock in a single day."

"With goblin weapons?" she scoffs, convinced the man was either a charlatan, mad, or both. "I'd sooner fill the shelves with sharpened rocks. They'd sell faster, and smell better in the meantime."

"Oh, you misunderstand," the armored man says, turning back to her. "I'm well aware goblin weapons are hardly worth the metal they're made of, but you'll need every nail you can to restock after the militia ransacked your shop."

"How do you—" Jane starts, but he raises a hand to stop her.

"It's not hard, my dear," he says, confident as a lecturer. "Half the men out there look like it's their first time holding a blade. Given last night's attack, it's not hard to guess where they procured them. I'm not sure what deal you worked out with Matt, but from the way he spoke when I asked about procuring arms, I doubt he was favorable. And I can't imagine the men will return anything until the goblin threat passes."

His words came fast but precise—exactly the tone that would’ve put even her hardball father on guard. She didn’t know how he pieced all that together from a few stray details, but he was right. The larger weapons were out with the militia; most shields and medium arms, too. Was that why he asked for short swords? He said "cavern fighting," but it might just be a convenience. Either way, even if it favors him, small blades are what she has left.

"So what do you say?" he asks, stripping off a gauntlet and offering his hand.

"I say you're still a madman. Ten is too little for the risk. If you die or fail, I'm left with nothing. I want 65% at minimum."

"15," he shoots back, ready for the haggle.

"60."

"20."

"45."

He tucked his lips into his cheek, surprising Jane. This man was haggling like a pro. She recognized his tactic, offering a lowball first to haggle for the price you wanted. She’d done the same thing, knowing there was no way he’d accept 65, and at the rate they were going, they’d meet at 35. Not the best deal, but practically charity compared to what Matt had offered her.

"40, but I get first claim on anything magically enchanted," he says.

"You think goblins will have enchanted items?" she asks, making no attempt to hide her skepticism.

"Enough to bet five percent on it," he says, the eye slits of his helmet seeming to narrow.

"Fine," she says, gripping his hand. "I'll give you as many of the weapons as I have on credit, take these as collateral, organize a cart to bring the goblin gear back here; we split profits sixty-fourty in your favor, along with first claims on any magical items they possess."

His grip tightens, like he means to press an advantage, but Jane doesn't budge. A decade at the anvil has given her a grip that can shape iron.

"Deal," he says, pumping his arm to shake, only to find Jane's arm unmoved.

"Well then, let's see what I have," Jane says, releasing him and heading to the back. "I should have one shield left, but it's worse for wear; some moron broke the straps. I should have the blades at least."

"A holy boot still has a soul," he quips, confusing her. She finds most of the order after rummaging through boxes and grabbing the last shield from a rack. The wood is old and the strap broken, but he says it will do. While she stitches leather, he tests the short swords and daggers. She watched from the corner of her eye and was struck by his odd set of skills. His footwork and sense of balance were pristine, the mark of someone trained in combat. Yet his swings with the short swords looked more like a child swinging a stick than a warrior practicing their craft. His work with the daggers was better, well-acquainted with the basics, but still amateurish at best.

"He may not be new to combat, but certainly new to the blade," she thought, wondering what his weapon of choice was and why he was without it. Just as she finished the stitches, the bell at the front door jingled.

"Coming," she calls, setting the shield aside.

"D‑don't bother, Jane," answers a familiar voice as she steps into the main room.

"Gideon," Jane calls as the young man hangs his longbow and quiver on a hook by the front. His clothes are damp with sweat, and his boots leave wet spots of morning dew as he walks. "Anything of note?" she asks, making her final approach.

"No, the d‑damn g‑goblins ruined my best snare trap," he says, arms crossed and face scowling. "Found the rope cut to ribbons near the creek.”

"You had to check, Gideon," Jane says, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "We can't have food or pelts going to waste. Now less than ever."

"Yeah, right. Not like I was g‑gonna be much help here."

"If you're still looking to be of help, I could use you," the armored man says, leaning in the doorway.

"Who are you?" Gideon asks, eyes widening at the sudden appearance of the stranger.

"Just a traveling seeker looking to destroy the goblin camp," the man says, unmoving. "I'm here to get arms for the task. What I still lack is a way to find them. Are you a hunter?" he asks, nodding at Gideon's bow.

"Yeah," Gideon says, stepping between the stranger and Jane. "What are you g‑getting at?"

"I have a proposition," he says, words hanging in the warm, sooty air.