brought a rout of laughter from the room and several derisive comments regarding what Flindle could do with his threats and his new laborer. Several of the suggestions made little sense to Lad, but he decided to stand mute rather than respond.
“Just you ignore that bunch, Lad, and come on over here.” Flindle led the way to the serving table, where a few men and women were dishing out huge slabs of braised beef, mounds of potatoes, steaming biscuits and greens onto large wooden platters, then dousing it all with heavy brown gravy.
“You eat hearty, Lad,” Flindle instructed, pointing out where to retrieve a fork and knife. “Seconds, thirds, whatever you want! You put in a man’s work today, and you should eat like one!”
This, at least, was one task at which Lad needed no instruction. When he placed his laden tray down and took his seat beside Flindle, the noise and motion surrounding him faded into the background of mouthful after mouthful of wonderful, delicious and life-giving food.
“Well, the way you eat, we’ll be puttin’ some weight on you right enough, that’s for sure, ain’t it, Lad?”
“Yes.” Lad walked slowly from the mess hall back toward the forge, both to match Flindle’s pace, and to ease the discomfort of an overfull stomach. The heavy-set blacksmith was strong as an ox, but walked at the pace of one, as well. Lad was growing accustomed to the man’s ceaseless questions, realizing that most of them were rhetorical.
“I gotta say, you’re a right good worker, I do.” The blacksmith snorted in laughter and fished a small flask from his apron pocket. He tilted it back to his lips and swallowed. Lad didn’t know what was in the flask, but Flindle sipped from it constantly. “You did more work in half a day than anyone else I’ve hired could have done from sunrise to sunset, didn’t ya?”
Lad just walked along, not knowing what to say, which was often the case with Flindle’s questions. He had discovered that staying mute was often an answer in and of itself.
“Ah, here we are now.” Flindle stepped into his forge and sat on one of the low stools. He propped his feet up on the edge of the banked coal fire and let out a sigh of contentment, his eyes squinting up at the deepening night sky. “Aye, this is the life, ain’t it? Why, look at all them stars, would ya!” He took another swallow from his flask and held it out to Lad. “You want a snort?”
“What is a snort?” Lad asked, looking dubiously at the flask. He’d been curious about its contents; now was his chance to find out. He took it from the blacksmith’s wavering grasp.
“A drink! You know, a li’l bit of the dragon’s breath!”
Lad sniffed the open container carefully, his nose wrinkling at the astringent odor. He had been schooled in the use and detection of more than a hundred different poisons and potions, but had never smelled anything like this!
“What is dragon’s breath, Flindle?” he asked, deciding that he would rather not taste something so foul-smelling. He held the flask back out to his employer.
“Why, it’s whiskey, ain’t it?” The flask tilted to the man’s lips again, a stream of the liquid escaping to trickle into his bushy beard. “Good stuff, too! None of that rot-gut potato squeezin’s that the dwarves make. Good corn whiskey!” He sipped again. “Sure you don’t want some?”
“Yes, I am sure.” Flindle seemed to be acting strangely since he’d eaten, and Lad was beginning to think that it had something to do with this whiskey he was drinking. Perhaps it was poison after all.
“Well, that’s okay.” Flindle tilted his stool back on two legs until his back thudded against the anvil; then stretched his broad frame in an expansive yawn. “So, what’s your story, Lad? Here you come, walkin’ in out of nowhere, no shoes, not a penny to your name and skinny as a half-starved rat. On
“Just you ignore that bunch, Lad, and come on over here.” Flindle led the way to the serving table, where a few men and women were dishing out huge slabs of braised beef, mounds of potatoes, steaming biscuits and greens onto large wooden platters, then dousing it all with heavy brown gravy.
“You eat hearty, Lad,” Flindle instructed, pointing out where to retrieve a fork and knife. “Seconds, thirds, whatever you want! You put in a man’s work today, and you should eat like one!”
This, at least, was one task at which Lad needed no instruction. When he placed his laden tray down and took his seat beside Flindle, the noise and motion surrounding him faded into the background of mouthful after mouthful of wonderful, delicious and life-giving food.
“Well, the way you eat, we’ll be puttin’ some weight on you right enough, that’s for sure, ain’t it, Lad?”
“Yes.” Lad walked slowly from the mess hall back toward the forge, both to match Flindle’s pace, and to ease the discomfort of an overfull stomach. The heavy-set blacksmith was strong as an ox, but walked at the pace of one, as well. Lad was growing accustomed to the man’s ceaseless questions, realizing that most of them were rhetorical.
“I gotta say, you’re a right good worker, I do.” The blacksmith snorted in laughter and fished a small flask from his apron pocket. He tilted it back to his lips and swallowed. Lad didn’t know what was in the flask, but Flindle sipped from it constantly. “You did more work in half a day than anyone else I’ve hired could have done from sunrise to sunset, didn’t ya?”
Lad just walked along, not knowing what to say, which was often the case with Flindle’s questions. He had discovered that staying mute was often an answer in and of itself.
“Ah, here we are now.” Flindle stepped into his forge and sat on one of the low stools. He propped his feet up on the edge of the banked coal fire and let out a sigh of contentment, his eyes squinting up at the deepening night sky. “Aye, this is the life, ain’t it? Why, look at all them stars, would ya!” He took another swallow from his flask and held it out to Lad. “You want a snort?”
“What is a snort?” Lad asked, looking dubiously at the flask. He’d been curious about its contents; now was his chance to find out. He took it from the blacksmith’s wavering grasp.
“A drink! You know, a li’l bit of the dragon’s breath!”
Lad sniffed the open container carefully, his nose wrinkling at the astringent odor. He had been schooled in the use and detection of more than a hundred different poisons and potions, but had never smelled anything like this!
“What is dragon’s breath, Flindle?” he asked, deciding that he would rather not taste something so foul-smelling. He held the flask back out to his employer.
“Why, it’s whiskey, ain’t it?” The flask tilted to the man’s lips again, a stream of the liquid escaping to trickle into his bushy beard. “Good stuff, too! None of that rot-gut potato squeezin’s that the dwarves make. Good corn whiskey!” He sipped again. “Sure you don’t want some?”
“Yes, I am sure.” Flindle seemed to be acting strangely since he’d eaten, and Lad was beginning to think that it had something to do with this whiskey he was drinking. Perhaps it was poison after all.
“Well, that’s okay.” Flindle tilted his stool back on two legs until his back thudded against the anvil; then stretched his broad frame in an expansive yawn. “So, what’s your story, Lad? Here you come, walkin’ in out of nowhere, no shoes, not a penny to your name and skinny as a half-starved rat. On
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