Page 80 of Wizards & Weavers
Hot food in the belly and a bit of rest always helped. He tipped bacon onto Augustin’s plate and patted him on the back. The wizard gave him a grateful smile as he picked up his fork. Augustin had barely started on his bacon and pancakes when the bell above the door tinkled again.
“It couldn’t be a customer this late at night,” Braiden muttered.
Three pairs of boots tromped down to the ground level, the staircase creaking, unused to the weight of so many visitors. Braiden peeked around the corner first. Elyssandra pinched the hem of his sweater in her thumb and forefinger. Augustin was so close behind that Braiden could hear him still crunching on a rasher of bacon.
Braiden’s hair stood on end when he spotted the green-skinned man hovering at the doorway, enormous war hammer in hand.
“Oh, gods,” he hissed. “It’s the orc from the dungeon. He’s come to finish the job.”
Elyssandra threw her hands over her head. “I don’t want to get my skull bashed in by a hammer. This isn’t how I wanted to go.”
“If you’re comfortable with some ruined merchandise and broken windows,” Augustin said, breath smelling of bacon, “I can conjure a gale and blow him out of here.”
“I can hear the three of you back there,” the orc growled. “And no, I haven’t come to bash your heads in.”
He propped his war hammer against the wall with a thunk, careful to settle its heavy metal head on the carpet, as if concerned for the floorboards. He raised his hands to show he was unarmed, then stepped forward.
“My name is Craghammer. I know how to wield the weapons of war, things made for slashing and crushing. I travel these lands to learn how the people of Aidun fight, ever honing my skills in battle.”
Braiden stepped out, at the very least satisfied that the orcish man hadn’t come to snap their necks.
“So why have you come to my craft shop?” Braiden asked.
The orc pulled his vest apart, revealing a muscular torso crisscrossed with scars. Elyssandra gasped. Augustin oohed.
“I have earned these scars in battle. I have been humbled enough times to know that I cannot master everything about the ways of war. But I am always eager to learn, especially from those strong enough to defeat me. Please. Teach me.”
Braiden’s eyes went wide as he regarded the orcish warrior. Strong? Braiden didn’t think he was very strong at all. And what could he possibly teach this seasoned warrior?
“I am not adept enough at weaving magic to teach you,” Braiden said. “But if you’re curious about the fiber arts, Ihave plenty to show you about knitting. And crocheting. And macrame. None of it is very useful in a fight.”
The orc looked around the craft shop, studying the handcrafts unperturbed as Braiden listed his skill set.
“There are lessons to be learned everywhere. This, for example.” The orc thumbed a hanging macrame display. “Is this not merely a miniature throwing net?”
Braiden thought back to how he’d entangled Warren in a huge net of his own making, how he’d similarly diminished the threat of both Bones and Craghammer by wrapping their extremities in large quantities of string. Maybe the orc had a point.
“I’ll do my best to show you everything I know,” Braiden said. “Still, I have to admit, the timing is awkward. We have something of a dilemma on our hands.”
Craghammer frowned. “The frozen chamber where we fought. Yes. Much colder there than in the rest of the dungeon.”
They gave Craghammer a quick account of what they’d discovered, and what needed to be done. Cube, sweaters, hurry. The orc frowned harder, more resolute than ever.
“I will bring as many of these battle sweaters of yours as I can carry.”
“Thank you,” Braiden said. “Also, they’re regular sweaters.”
“Of course. Regular sweaters that may be worn in battle and may potentially turn a blade or catch an arrow in their finely woven webbing.”
“Um, sure. Why not?”
Once he could secure a supply of moongrass filament, Craghammer’s wild notions might just become a reality, but first things first.
“We’re thrilled to have you on board, Mr. Craghammer,” Elyssandra said. “But the four of us together still isn’t enough to transport everything.”
The doorbell tinkled again. Braiden held his breath as the Gwerenese twins walked in.
“That bony bard of yours,” said Falina. “Where is he? We must speak to him.”
