Orin Ironfoot's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The wild elf's name was Shredra Clawrend, and Orin learned it the hard way. She did not wait for his coin. Her body bent and stretched. Fur swallowed her tattoos. In a breath, a black panther crouched where the archer had stood. Its claws raked the dirt near his boots. Orin swung his forge hammer. The panther slipped aside. Claws tore his sleeve and opened three red lines on his arm. He backed toward his camp, a small tent beside a dying fire. His hammer shaped iron well. It did not stop a cat that moved like water. He needed a real weapon, or she would gut him here. He hit the dirt as she leapt. His pack lay by the bedroll. He clawed the flap open with one hand. His fingers found the goods he had just bought from the merchant. Among them lay a short sword he had bartered for, its blade sleek iron, its copper guard shaped like petals. He had meant to sell it. Now he tore it free. The panther landed on his chest. Its weight crushed the air from him. Fangs snapped at his throat. Orin jammed his forearm under its jaw and shoved. He drove the sword up into its shoulder. The blade bit deep. The panther screamed and sprang off him. Blood matted the black fur. The cat limped back, then buckled. Its shape broke apart. Fur pulled inward. Shredra knelt in the dirt again, one hand clamped over a wound below her collarbone. Her fangs showed, but her breath came in gasps. Orin rose. He held the short sword level, its copper pommel warm in his fist. The forge hammer hung useless on his belt. He knew now which one had saved him. "Finish it, then," Shredra spat. Blood ran between her fingers. He did not. He wiped the blade on his apron and stepped back. "I pay debts," he said. "But not to a corpse, and not to a thing that jumps me from behind." He dug into his purse and threw four copper bits into the dirt at her feet. "For the ore. That squares us." She stared at the coins, then at him. Slow, she gathered them. "You wound a wild elf and let her live." She bared her fangs, but the threat had thinned. "My people will hear both halves of that." "Let them," Orin said. Shredra pressed a leaf to her wound and slipped into the trees. She left no sound behind her. Orin sat on his bedroll and bound his arm. The short sword lay across his knees. His forge hammer had failed him tonight. Iron and edge had not. He had come to this land to hunt a thief and win back his family's stolen hammer. Now he knew the plain truth. A blacksmith who could not fight would never live long enough to reach the man who took it.