Chapter Eight: A Letter from Home

The one who barged violently into the tavern, nicknamed Iron Hammer, was a burly giant with a thick, bristling beard. He was nearly as tall as the tavern door itself. Draped in a heavy black bear-skin coat, steam rose from his bald scalp. A jagged scar, left by a deep knife wound, twisted across his ugly face, writhing like a many-legged centipede.

At Lin Qi’s cry, Iron Hammer—broader than a northern icefield grizzly—let out a raucous laugh and strode towards him. With one great arm, he scooped Lin Qi up and tossed him high. Lin Qi yelped, barely avoiding the ceiling by bracing his hands against it. Had he not been so agile, he surely would have split his head open.

“Young master, it’s wonderful to find you here!” Iron Hammer wiped his nose with a heavy hand, then turned and bellowed at the barmaids, “Women, fetch me a proper drink! I warn you, if there’s a single drop of water in that wine, I’ll break every bone in her body!”

The barmaids behind the counter blanched. Working at Cripple’s place, they’d seen every manner of tough from the docks, but Iron Hammer’s sheer size and menacing aura eclipsed anything they’d known. There was no doubt—this brute wasn’t bluffing; if he said he’d smash their bones, he would.

Lin Qi and Iron Hammer embraced heartily, Lin Qi laughing aloud. He turned to introduce Enzo: “Enzo, this is Uncle Iron Hammer, my first teacher in combat. Uncle Iron Hammer, meet Enzo—my brother, my right hand, a master swordsman!”

Enzo stared, stunned by the heat and force radiating from the bear-cloaked man. Even as the wind and snow howled through the open door, Enzo felt scorched, like standing before a glowing ingot.

Iron Hammer fixed Enzo with a penetrating gaze. Enzo felt a sudden flush in his chest, as though struck by a sledgehammer. He staggered but tensed his muscles and stood firm. Iron Hammer nodded approvingly, slapped his shiny head, and laughed heartily, “Young master, this brother of yours is something else. Such strength at his age—not bad!”

With a backward kick, he slammed the heavy tavern door shut, then roared toward the counter, “Are you deaf, wenches? Good wine! Bring me real wine! In this cold, a guest comes in—especially an old friend of your boss—and you don’t even offer a drink?”

Iron Hammer’s voice was like a beast’s roar; bottles and glasses rattled on the shelves. The maids trembled, one nearly collapsing. The boldest of them, hands shaking, grabbed a tankard holding a full liter of strong rum and hurriedly filled it.

With a satisfied grunt, Iron Hammer waved a hand from across the room. From his sleeve, a pinky-thick chain snapped out with a sharp crack, curled around the tankard, and brought it to his hand. He inhaled the scent deeply, raised the cup, and shouted, “Young master, it gladdens my heart to see you well!”

In one gulp, he downed the entire liter of liquor. He belched contentedly and dropped into a wooden chair, rummaged in his coat, and handed Lin Qi an envelope. “Young master, you haven’t been home for three years. The old man says, this year, come home for the holiday, no matter what.”

Burping again, Iron Hammer drew out a leather tobacco pouch, stuffed a wad into his mouth, and chewed. Mumbling through the tobacco, he said, “The old man’s got a job for you. Now that you’re a university man, he’s proud. He wants you home to show those local tycoons what you’re worth!”

Swallowing, Iron Hammer spun toward the barmaids and roared, “Where’s Cripple? If he’s not dead, tell him to get out here and greet an old friend! It’s been three years—by thunder, I’ve missed that old scoundrel! Hah! Has nobody lamed him yet?”

At Iron Hammer’s shout, Cripple slipped quietly from a shadowy corner. He spread his arms in mock surprise and cried, “Ha! Look who’s here! Iron Hammer himself! How does it feel being wanted by the Brelai Constabulary, eh? You wouldn’t dare set foot in this city except on my turf! When did you dock?”

Iron Hammer cackled and embraced Cripple in a bear hug.

Cripple asked warmly, “How’s Old Blackbeard’s health?”

Iron Hammer puffed out his chest and replied, “The old man’s as tough as ever. The only thing—business hasn’t been great lately, so his mood’s foul.”

Meanwhile, Lin Qi opened the envelope and read his father’s letter. The familiar handwriting was as steady and bold as ever, each stroke carved as if by axe, brimming with wildness. Seeing those characters, Lin Qi could almost picture his father—a burly, untamed man, like a wild bear.

Enzo sidled up, peering curiously at the letter. He knew a little of his boss’s family—by Lin Qi’s own account, his father was a miller in Dunkirk, the empire’s third-ranked port city, controlling nearly all flour trade in and out, supplying at least three northern provinces.

By Lin Qi’s telling, he was from a line of prosperous merchants. But how could a respectable merchant’s son, in just three years, have built up something like the Iron Fist Brotherhood?

Glancing sidelong at Iron Hammer, Enzo wondered even more—what kind of honest miller kept a man like this? A wanted man, no less; not just any petty thug made the constabulary’s list.

Cripple picked up the conversation, asking, “How could that be? These past years the empire’s had good weather and bumper crops—Old Blackbeard’s business should be booming!”

Iron Hammer gave a long, helpless sigh. “You’re mistaken, Cripple. The better the harvests, the worse the old man’s business. Too much flour—can’t get a good price! What he wishes for most is disaster—famine, drought, so our wheat fetches gold!”

He jabbed a thick finger ceilingward and roared, “Curse the gods! If they don’t bring drought for a few years, we’ll all go hungry! The boss has stockpiled twenty warehouses of grain—when will it ever sell?”

Cripple sighed in sympathy and hurried the maids to bring more drink and meat.