Scribbles and Drabbles

Notebook Drabble 21

Reivers took what they wanted and left behind ruins. It didn't stop them from needing people to do specialised jobs. Just meant dealing with them too, with a certain charm and willingness to ignore the blood running across the stone slabs of their towers. Lawless men understood that if someone walked their roads and drank their beer, they were also running from something.

Fingall counted on it as he strode along the path cutting into the hillside. He carried little more than his tools for his job. He had enough food to keep him going until he came across a family willing to shelter him over the winter months. The full moon had been a week prior; the men would be back from their raids and willing to deal with a stranger for room and board. Solo craftsmen rarely dared deal with these groups, but Fingall had been lucky at other Reiver clans. That didn't guarantee anything but his boots needed replacing. He needed leather for that, and the border lords took plenty of stock from the English and Scottish alike. He could haggle for some if they had enough things to be repaired.

Standing on top of the hill, the next tower came into view closer than planned. More alarming was the flag blowing proudly from the top. He turned and tried to guess the distance to the next family. How he'd missed the Kerrs and dropped here baffled him. The Armstrongs were no fools and not people willing to take in weaklings for the winter. It also didn't stop the threat of a blade on his neck.

A few steps later, a man blocked the path; head cocked and sword on his hip.

"Morning," the man grunted. Probably, it possibly could have been something else, but Fingall knew Reiver well. Grunts made up half their communication as if speaking was beyond manly men who killed for sport. The women would speak clearer, but the moment the boys grew taller enough to be put on raids, their words melded together like the metal Fingall fixed.

"Morning," Fingall nodded, letting his hand rest on his tool bag. Occasionally people tried to steal a tinker's tool, but most didn't bother. They weren't worth as much as the fingers attached to them and the mind using them. They'd kill him before stealing his tools.

"Tinker?"

"When the moon's right," Fingall nodded, straightening his back and lifting his chin.

"Heard there was one wandering," the man nodded to himself, eyes looking him up and down unimpressed with what he was seeing. "Boss wants a word with you. We got work."

"Work is always wanted, sir," Fingall tightened his grip on his bag. Declining was not an option. Not while others were nearby, and the man looked ready to take his head off there and then if he refused. Armstrongs took what they wanted, and if that was a tinker to work for a few weeks, that's what they got.

The man strode forward, covering the ground fast despite the mud clutching at his feet. "Ain't no sirs round this place. Name's Bhaic."

---

The clan treated him well. He got a rug to sleep on in the hall, plenty of food to keep the meat on his bones and work aplenty to keep his word. Their blacksmith kidnapped him on most days to lend a hand and get the gear prepped and ready for raiding. The Armstrongs had one of the larger clans, and the work was steady. Fingall knew it had to end eventually. No clan had enough work to keep a tinker all through the entire winter.