Mullins could feel many eyes on him as he approached Lord Muc’s shed. The atmosphere of distrust and fear was palpable, and men fidgeted as they pretended to focus on their tasks. Mullins got to the doorless frame and knocked on the wood but did not go in.
“What is it?” a harsh voice called out.
“It’s the blacksmith,” Mullins called in. “I want to talk.”
“Come in.”
Mullins stepped inside to what looked like a makeshift workshop. Some of what he saw he recognised as poor variations on his own work tools and equipment and the rudiments of any other numbers of trades. There were animal skins and fabrics spread about in one corner, weapons and farming tools in another. Piles of scrap steel and wood lay strewn about the floor, leaving walkways between them, almost like those in a well-trod field or forest. Lord Muc had his back to Mullins, and he was hammering on something. Mullins stopped about ten paces from him and waited.
“What is it you want?” Lord Muc asked when he stopped banging. He lifted a metal ball on the end of a club; it seemed to Mullins that he had been knocking some sharper points into the metal, turning it into a mace of sorts.
“I want you to help me catch the Dolocher.”
Lord Muc turned at this, and a broad smile spread over his face. “We already tried that; I lost a few good fighters that night and with fuck-all to show for it in the end,” he said, as though the memory was funny to him.
“I’m not asking for another rampage, just some of your people to help me patrol some nights.”
“And what’s in that for me?”
“Any one of your men could be killed as things stand on any night. You yourself have been harassed by the soldiers thinking you are the killer.”
“My men can look after themselves, and as long as you are around, I’ll never be the chief suspect for the killings.”
“So you won’t help me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“Join us, and you’ll get all the help you need.” Lord Muc looked at him steely eyed and seriously. Mullins stopped a moment; he had partly expected this but hoped it wouldn't come to it.
“Help me for a week and I’ll join one of your fights.”
“Not good enough.”
“Five nights?”
“I’ll give you three this week if you fight with us next Saturday morning.”
“Fair enough.” Mullins he knew he had gotten less than he would have liked from the bargain. “If I help you win well, I get a week of help afterwards,” he demanded.