Page 103 of Forbidden

Erik waited.

“Only one man be able to do that,” the outlaw explained.

“Aye,” Erik said.

He knew from experience that that particular fighting maneuver was more often talked about by knights than done successfully. In fact, Erik knew of only one warrior who could be depended upon to show such a combination of strength and skill. It was how the knight had received his name.

The Scots Hammer.

“I would like to have seen that,” Erik said.

And meant it.

The false pilgrim grunted. His expression suggested that he could have lived and died very well without seeing the Scots Hammer at work.

“Then what happened?” Erik asked.

“The ruffians that still be able, they run like deer. The witch and the Scots Hammer rides off at a gallop.”

“Toward this keep?”

“Nay. Away from it. I run here quick as I can, to tell you I see the Scots Hammer and get the reward.”

Erik looked at the blade of his dagger and said nothing.

“Do you nae believe me?” the outlaw said anxiously. “It be the Hammer. Bigger by half than most men, dark of hair and light of eye, strong as an ox.”

The dagger glinted as it turned idly in Erik’s long fingers.

“It be not the first time I see the Hammer,” the outlaw said quickly. “I be in Blackthorne on my, er, pilgrimage, when the Hammer be fighting Dominic le Sabre. I be as certain as sin of it.”

“Yes,” Erik said, “I believe you saw the Scots Hammer.”

“The reward, lord?”

“Aye,” Erik said very gently. “I shall give you a suitable reward for your day’s work.”

The peregrine’s wings flared abruptly, startling the outlaw into backing up. His sudden motion brought the heads of all seven wolfhounds around to watch him.

The outlaw froze.

“Alfred,” Erik said, pitching his voice to carry down the length of the great hall.

“Aye, lord!”

“Bring thirty pieces of silver.”

“At once, lord!”

Erik watched the outlaw with an unblinking gaze. The man shifted unhappily.

“One small thing, my good pilgrim,” Erik said softly.

“Aye?”

“Empty your purses.”

“What?”