Fred Ironheart's Arc

Chapter 5 of 9

The leather sold fast. By week's end Fred had a heavy purse of his own coin, earned outside the contract. He weighed it in his palm and thought of a bigger forge, a second bellows, room for real work. Then he thought of Garrick, and his stomach turned. A busy stall could not stay quiet forever. Garrick came at midday. The old dragon slayer walked the yard slow, grey beard low, eyes sharp under scarred brows. He was the man who held Fred's bond, who took every blade Fred made. He stopped at the linen stall and ran one finger along the gold trim. "Fine cloth," he said. "Fine coin too, I hear." Alexander stepped between them, tusk broken, one hand on the tanning rack. The ogre had scraped and washed these hides himself. He said nothing, but he did not move. "The contract is blades," Fred said. "Leather is mine. Trinkets are mine. You read the words yourself." Garrick nodded. He knew the words held. "They do," he said. "So I'll not take your leather." He turned his eyes to Fred's hands. "But every hero who buys a belt asks the same next thing. Where's the sword? And that sword comes through me." Fred saw the trap. His own name pulled buyers close, and every buyer wanted steel. The leather built the crowd. The crowd fed the contract. His success only deepened his chain. "I want to grow this place," Fred said. "I have the coin now. I'll build a second forge and take more orders." Garrick's mouth bent. "Build what you like. More forges, more blades, more coin to me." He tapped the counter. "Keep your stall. It sells my swords for free." Alexander growled low. Fred lifted a hand to stop him. He looked at his purse, then at the piles of drying hides, then at the forge cooling in the shed. He made his choice. "Then I'll buy the years back," Fred said. "Not the blades. The bond. Name your price to end it early." Garrick went still. No one had offered that before. He studied Fred a long moment. "The bond is ten years or nothing," he said. "No price ends it. My brother wrote it tight." His jaw worked. "But Marcus wrote one gap. Read your own contract, smith." He walked off without another word. Fred pulled the contract from its chest that night. Alexander held the lamp close. They read every line by the fire. Near the bottom, in small script, sat a clause Fred had never marked. The bond ended early if Fred armed a hero who slew a dragon. Fred set the paper down. His heart pounded. There was a way out. But dragons were long hunted, and hatchlings were kept as prizes, not loosed on the land. To free himself, he would have to find one.