He takes a single step forward and shuts the cold out with a clap. His hair is long and black, a braid on both sides keeping it out of his face. He’s clean-shaven, his jaw square and pronounced, his nose straight as an arrow. I’m careful not to meet his eyes directly, but my peripheral vision tells me that one has been lost to battle, a scar slashing down through his brow and continuing to his temple, an opaque whiteness staring out into the world. The injury does nothing to diminish the power and authority of him, however—or the sexual charge that rolls off him like lightning.
He possesses… a brutal beauty.
And the working women clearly recognize the virility of him. All around at the tables, they plume in a way that has nothing to do with their profession. The men, on the other hand, don’t seem to be breathing at all.
Mr. Lewis loops his suspenders, which have been hanging loose, up onto his shoulders. His voice is tense as he says, “Well, what d’ya want, then.”
Like he’s very much done with that door opening up to bad surprises tonight.
The warrior scans the pub slowly, and the drunks shift in their seats, making me think of a restless herd aware that a hungry predator has entered the grazing pasture.
As we all wait for the man to speak, I wager that most are thinking what I am: No royal insignia. So he’s a mercenary looking for somebody, and when he finds them? There’s going to be bloodshed.
“A room,” he says in a low, resonant voice. “And some food.”
FiveThe Dream of Horses.
“Take it to him. G’on then.”
At the bar, the tender’s command to me is impatient and he shoves a tin plate in my direction. There’s a wedge of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a roasted turkey leg on it. All of the food is cold, having been prepared over day in the kitchen by the cook and myself. I’m surprised the tender isn’t delivering. He hates dealing with combustibles, but Mr. Lewis doesn’t want me near the eat or drink because of the Pox. I only deal with empties.
Glancing over at the mercenary, I don’t want to go near the man, either. He’s dampened the establishment like a fierce winter storm, dropping the temperature, causing us all to hunker down into ourselves. The pub has emptied out, most of the drunks stumbling off out of self-preservation, the women banished upstairs by Mr. Lewis.
Much to their disappointment.
Our employer is planted at a nearby table with two shepherds and a farmer, and he’s listening in on me and the tender while his suspicious stare stays locked on the mercenary. When he nods impatiently in the man’s direction, and then glares at me, I know I have no choice. Not that I’ve ever really had one.
“Yes, sir.”
I dry my hands on my cloak. They shake as I take the plate, and the already hushed voices get quieter as I begin the trek through the tables. No doubt the men want to see what gets eaten. Me or the food.
The mercenary has finished his tankard. It sits at his elbow, empty. As I approach, I feel his stare on me and I become the mead, something he drinks in. I keep my eyes on his hands, noting the healed scratches, the calluses. He’smissing the first sections of both pinkies, and I wonder how he lost them. I picture him captured, someone with a blade threatening him.
If that’s how the mutilations happened, I also imagine whoever it was didn’t survive to tell the tale.
“Thank you.” His voice is surprisingly soft, and I pick up on an accent. “I am hungry.”
Coming back to attention, I realize I’ve just been standing in front of him, and I place the plate on the table. When he doesn’t move to take the food, I’m forced to lean over and push the meal toward him. Up closer, his chest is massive under the leather and steel of his fighting garb, and his arms seem thick as tree trunks.
Is he from Prosperitus? I doubt it. From what we’ve heard here, King Rehm the Just keeps strict control of his populace, and mercenaries aren’t allowed inside the territory to disturb the order.
Well, most of the territory. A transgression here in our village wouldn’t be so much excused as irrelevant to the King.
I clear my throat. “Would you care for more ale—”
“I would, yes.”
He holds out the tankard instead of letting me pick it up. I’m careful not to make contact with him as I take the weight, but he moves his forefinger at the last moment. The stroke over my thumb is a shock, something sizzling between our flesh.
“I’ll keep using this particular tankard,” he says softly. “If you don’t mind.”
In a trance, I turn away, and I can feel his eye on me as I return to the bar. When I put the tankard in front of the tender, the man recoils as if it’s contaminated, and I know what he’s thinking. I’ve already been sacrificed to disease, and he doesn’t like the idea of touching anything I have unless it’s been washed first.
“He wants to use this one,” I explain.
“Then you fill it.”
Shuffling behind the bar, I take a cloth and cover my hand so as not to be accused of contaminating the drink. Then I draw the ale from the barrel’s base, and too soon, I’m back over at the table. The mercenary nods as I place the serving by the plate, and as he shifts to the side, I jump out of range on instinct.
