[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

'There is no shame in that,' answered Halasan gently. 'None of us wishes to die and this is not your fight. I am grateful that you came with us thus far.'

The smith's words had reminded him of how it felt to be a husband and father, with a family and followers around him. He remembered the sadness of parting from them and the joy of returning, and he forced to keep his expression neutral as the pain of their loss tore at his heart-strings once more.

'Return to your family, Tunar Estomer,' he continued. 'For it is with his people that a man belongs, and I am here because I have none.'

His last words seemed wrung from him, dripping with bitterness, and he fell silent as his sadness became anger once more and his mind turned again to thoughts of blood and fire. His right hand curled around the hilt of his sword and gripped it until the knuckles were white. 'I am coming for you, Kiatus' he murmured, his eyes suddenly wide and mad, and then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

It was the axeman Haleg, who had overheard some of their speech. He spoke gently to his companion, but his words were no comfort to the smith.

'His time will come, Halasan. Until then, put him from your mind. Before we can mete out justice we must first find the criminal.'

Here was no thought of mercy, only of how best to take revenge. Halasan was briefly reminded of his words at their meeting: "It was given me to choose between vengeance and prosperity, and my revenge was terrible.", and he was curious to know more, but the smith was chilled to the marrow. Here was one who spoke of revenge and punishment with the voice of experience; and more than ever it was clear to Tunar that here was something he could never comprehend, nor even want to understand. He longed to be free of these men, the brooding widower and the watchful killer. He looked away, but Haleg spoke suddenly.

'He is right,' said the mercenary. 'We walk a dark path, he and I; and you should not have to tread it with us. You have done more than enough as guide and your place is at home. No man worthy of the name leaves his kin needlessly or stays away longer than he must.'

That, it seemed, was the end of the conversation. Tunar’s spirits were a little higher now, but still he found the silence that hung around these men oppressive. As soon as they had made their way back to the inn with the supplies and stowed them safely he took his leave and went to sit in the public room, where he struck up a conversation with some local men. Halasan and Haleg, though, repaired to the room they shared, where the farmer drew out his new sword and began once more to sharpen it with long, deliberate strokes.

'I think the blade is sharp enough, my friend,' said Haleg quietly. ‘It holds an edge well, that one. It is a chieftain’s weapon.'

Halasan’s curiosity boiled over. 'How did you come by it?' he asked. 'And why so eager to give it away? You could live on its worth for years.'

'The answer to those questions could take all night,' replied Haleg. 'And I am not in a mood to tell that tale now. But I will say something of the sword’s history, for you should know it:'

'It was forged by the Dwarf Ónar, whose people made my own axe, Durithil. He was a master smith, and the work was done for a captain among the horse-lords many years ago. It was passed from father to son, as good weapons should be, and as Durithil was among my kin; but if the lord died childless as sometimes happens, it fell to his successor, who would be the best of his followers. At such times its bearer was always the finest swordsman, the bravest soldier and the most honourable man among the old lord’s company, and he would choose its next owner with care before he died.'

'This weapon has never been used for an ignoble purpose. It has only ever been wielded by great men, who used it wisely and unsheathed it only at need. I took great pains to see that it did not pass to an unworthy man, though I was not fit to own it myself. You receive it to help you in your search for your daughter, which seems to me a fitting cause in which to bear such a weapon. I ask only that you remember that when you look on it, else I cannot allow it to remain in your hands.'

'I will carry it proudly,' answered Halasan.

The axeman nodded and moved to a chair in the corner of their room. He took up Durithil and drew a whetstone from a pouch about his neck. Then painstakingly he honed the edge to razor sharpness before polishing the blade with his own ragged garments. He performed this task in silence, seemingly engrossed in his work yet glancing up sharply at each footfall in the passage outside. Whatever revenge this man had taken was bound up somehow with the sword and for a moment Halasan's desire to hear the tale displaced even his anger and sorrow. Taking up the blade he gazed down at its magnificent hilts as though its story had been incised there at its making. What was it that led a man of honour to sell his skills to the highest bidder? What drove a mercenary to work without pay in a cause that promised no booty? The questions gnawed at his mind, but there were no answers. Haleg would say no more on the subject, and merely quoted more cryptic staves:

"He bargained the blood of his brothers for gold:
thus his mede was meted..."

After that the two men fell silent again. They checked their equipment carefully and settled down to wait for their companions. Haleg took out a knife and a roughly-shaped piece of wood and began to whittle idly, fashioning it into some shape or other, and speaking while he worked of their progress. Soon they were lost in speculation about the route their quarry would be taking and the possibility of overtaking them before they reached their destination, and so the others found them.