Yern had no desire to follow him. The donkey simply came to a halt on the path, turned to the other side, and nibbled the grass nearby.
As the old man drew closer, the answer to his question became a little clearer. The man beside the horse was easily head and shoulders taller than he was. His broad shoulders were well-muscled, but the wide scars that marred his skin were difficult to ignore. They weren’t those that had been carefully tended by the caring hands of a skilled surgeon. He had seen scars like that. More importantly, he remembered the screams of pain from those who had been healed that way.
The stranger hadn't heard him approach, likely because he berated the horse that pulled a crudely built plow. The language itself wasn't unfamiliar to the old man, but the precise meaning was lost on him.
Still, their nature was not difficult to discern. The man made no attempt to strike or abuse the horse in any way but verbally. The animal seemed to pay no attention to him. Instead, it stood motionless and stared ahead like he wasn't even there.
The beast was smaller than most farming horses, although larger and more powerful than those used for simple riding. This was a warhorse, which identified the man more than his size and scars did.
He paused in his verbal tirade, likely to breathe, and turned quickly, his hands raised and ready for a fight.
"You have keen hearing, warrior," Turvall called before the stranger attacked him. He raised his hands in a placatory gesture, although he left his staff planted in the soft earth for easy recovery. "Have no fear, however. I did not intend to approach unheard, but your voice is quite deafening and the soft earth does make it difficult to hear footsteps."
The man stood his ground but his fists lowered slowly to his waist. His eyes narrowed but his expression didn't change as he studied the old man suspiciously. His hair had an odd, reddish-brown hue and was long enough to require being tied loosely with a strip of leather. A scar over his left eye made his appearance look more ominous than it was probably intended to, although the deep scowl and the tense muscles—seen clearly as his well-tanned skin was coated in a light sheen of sweat—left little doubt that he wasn’t to be trifled with.
Oddly, though, Turvall noted that he could discern no scent from the man. The horse was easy to identify and a man working hard in the afternoon should have been equally easy, but his olfactory sense found nothing.
"Do you speak the common tongue?" he asked, not comfortable enough to move until he was sure the man would not attack him. "Spriken gurral doves tiak?"
The stranger smirked as he tried to speak the tongue of the Western Clans to him and shook his head.
"Common," he said simply.
"Excellent," the old man answered and relaxed. "Do you mind? I think I can help with your horse troubles."
A moment of consideration passed before the warrior took a step to the side and gestured for him to approach.
Turvall bowed his head slightly in thanks before he moved closer to the horse, avoided the range of the beast's hind legs, and approached from the front.
"There now, greatheart." As he moved closer, he realized the animal had almost as many scars as his master. These turned his gray coat white in crisscrossing patterns. He looked calm and his ears were up and attentive but otherwise, he showed no sign that he was bothered by the stranger who approached him. The old man reached into his sleeve, withdrew a bright red apple that he had been saving, and offered it slowly on his open palm.
The horse's interest was immediately aroused by the sight of the fruit. He turned his head and his ears faced fully forward as his thick neck arched to reach the fruit and pluck it whole from his hand.
"You see," Turvall said, speaking in a calm, quiet voice, "one attracts the bees with honey rather than vinegar. The secret to working with anyone is to give them a treat to move them in the direction in which you want them to go. Once momentum is achieved, alacritous work is easier, wouldn't you agree?"
The warrior's expression did not change and his sharp green eyes watched him carefully before he snorted and shook his head. "Large words, old'un. Speak simple."
"Yes, they were," he muttered and spoke under his breath. "But not too large for you, I think."
The warrior showed no sign that he had heard what he said and continued to watch him. He resembled a drawn bowstring, ready to spring forward.
It was time to change the subject. "What has you farming out here? You know the Woodlands is dangerous for all those who live in its proximity."
The large man smirked. "Open lands near forest cheap."
He wasn't wrong, of course. No farmer in his right mind would willingly elect to earn a livelihood this close to the woods, no matter how fertile the soil was.
"Yes, well, there are ways to make a living that bring a great deal more coin than simple farming."
"Not thief," the warrior rumbled after a moment of thought. "Not guard. War over and need food. Winter comes soon."
Another good point, the old man conceded silently. The stranger undoubtedly had a barbaric appearance, but that wasn't all he could see in him.
"It's spring." He tugged his beard gently before he retrieved another apple from his sleeve, which again caught the horse's immediate attention. "Winter won't arrive for a good while yet."
The barbarian raised an eyebrow. "Winter always comes sooner than expected."
He noticed immediately that it was a complete sentence. It seemed as though the man tried to hide his intelligence behind a hard and brutish exterior.
"You don't want to farm." Turvall made an assumption but one that had too much evidence supporting it to ignore. "It's not the life you would have chosen unless you felt you had to. If I were to give you another choice—one that would give you the means to live out the winter without needing to till the soil—would you take it?"
The man's massive shoulders bunched into a shrug. "Depends on choice."
"It always does. How does mercenary work suit you?"
"What kind?"
He felt a twinge of exasperation. There was nothing in the warrior’s expression that provided the slightest clue as to whether he was willing to accept the offer or not. No hint of desperation lurked in his eyes, only suspicion of the man who had appeared at his farm and begun a conversation with him.
The old man had hoped to not have to share all his information yet, lest he be of similar mind as the brigands he had dealt with the day before.
But there was no way to avoid it now. "I have a contract from the Mercenary Guild in Verenvan to clear a dungeon of all dangers found within. It is worth a great deal of coin to any man brave enough to accept it. I would be willing to trade it with you in exchange for your farm and the horse. The house and barn are your work, yes?"
The barbarian nodded.
"And the barn is full of seed for planting?"
Another nod was followed by, "Barley. Oats."
"Perfect. What say you to the offer, then, my friendly giant?"
The man paused to think, and after a few seconds, extended his hand. Turvall couldn't believe that it had been so easy, but as he reached out to take it, the man snatched it back. The barbarian growled, shook his head, and extended his hand again.
"Ah, yes, the contract," Turvall muttered, fumbled in his coat, and drew the scroll clear. "It is wise of you to wish to inspect it before taking the deal, of course."