When is a centaur not a centaur? And why do I know these things when I don’t really even know my own name?
It’s not a question I’m going to let keep me up all night. I’ve better things to be doing. However, it is well known in this area monsters are not allowed in the tavern. It’s not a rule I’ve made, but it’s one which has been long enforced.
Which means I’ll be evicting another would-be customer tonight. The Brag can join the Redcaps and sling his hook. I probably shouldn’t be selective in who I let into the Dark Gibbet, but I am. It’s part of what keeps the peace.
Monsters are nearly always bad news, and I have staff to think of.
Outside in the small courtyard, which is covered with a fine dusting of snow, my breath comes in clouds.
“Where is it?” I demand, placing my hand on the hilt of the sword and feeling the familiar tingle.
“He’s by the water trough,” Edgar says. “With Hilda.”
I lift my skirts as I march through the snow, around the outhouse privy, noting the huge hoof prints in the white.Imprints so large I could fit both my feet in just one and then some. As I pass the privy, I see Hilda stood in the snow, twisting her golden ringlets around her fingers as she stares up at the monster.
And he is a monster.
ThisBragis absolutely enormous. His chestnut flanks shine, one huge hoof cocked up on its tip to show a burning bright shoe. He is, as I said, a centaur, a male torso rising from the front half of the horse, a torso which ripples with muscles, broader even than Cuthbert.
He wears a set of bandoliers criss-crossed over himself, but these are the only items on him, save for the set of saddlebags across his back. His dark hair is long, gold rings glinting within it as well as on his pointed ears, which mark him out as a magical creature. Two short, sharp horns protrude from his mass of hair, also banded in gold. He stares down at Hilda as she continues to talk to him and then turns towards me as I approach.
His face is handsome, with strong cheekbones, the scruff of a dark beard, full lips, and intelligent dark brown eyes. Yet another gold ring glints in his nose.
I can see why he’s captured Hilda’s attention. She’s interested in anything with a pulse, but faced with this amount of brawn and looks, I suspect she’s turned to complete mush.
“We don’t have any room,” I growl. “You’ll have to find other lodgings.”
The Brag turns to face me, his massive hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles, even though the sound is slightly deadened by the snowfall. He has to be close to nine feet tall.
But I have the sword. He can be as big as he likes. It won’t make any difference.
“Lady Ryle?” he rumbles, and I realise Hilda was talking at him, not with him. He hadn’t spoken a word up until now.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I respond. “Or I’ll have to charge you.”
He takes a pace towards me, those hooves and shoes ringing out in the crisp night air. I grip the sword and his dark eyes flash.
“I’m sure you would.” He looks around himself at the empty stalls. “But you have no room tonight?”
“We’ve got a late party of Reivers coming in,” I lie. I don’t know why I’m lying, but I double down on it. “They will take up all the stabling.”
“And all your rooms?” he asks.
“No,” Hilda says quickly. “Not all the rooms are taken.”
I give her a death glare. She simpers at me, twisting her blonde curls again and toeing the disturbed snow next to the huge monster.
“Then I will take a room,” the Brag booms as he stamps the ground.
“I don’t…”
In a swirl of dark and light, the centaur is gone. In its place is a huge man, well over six feet, with the same long, dark hair, glinting with gold, small horns banded with metal protruding from his hair, a broad, muscular torso with a smattering of chestnut hair in the centre, which disappears into the thick leather pants he wears. A set of saddlebags are slung over one shoulder.
“And I won’t require stabling,” he adds.
“Right this way, sir.” Hilda giggles, giving him a once over which I think could strip paint and is certainly intended to get him out of those ridiculously tight hide trousers.
She passes me by with the most obvious of winks as the Brag follows her. His dark eyes rake over me, and a growl echoes in his chest. My nostrils are assaulted by the scent of leather and horse, with just a hint of spice.
