Page 5 of An Arrow to the Heart

“Did you find it?” He asked with genuine curiosity, a smile etched in his features.

“I did,” she smiled, her thoughts clearly drifting before she caught herself as she continued, “anyway, the legend says the land here was carved by a giant wyrm who’d had enough of the windy peaks, looking for a more peaceful protected holm to call his own. Apparently, he worked at wind speed hence the name.”

Ardál's chest vibrated as he struggled to hold in his laughter.

“It’s a very silly story I know, but I find it charming, just like Wyrmwind.”

“I can definitely agree with that,” he said, taking another swig of his ale.

He surveyed her for a moment, she was relaxed basking in the heat of the sun. He’d grown quite fond of her and the other two owners of the Alehouse, Lonan and Ortolf. He’d spend his evenings chatting in the tavern, listening to the stories the locals were in no short supply of and telling his own tales from his adventures. He’d always loved stories, even as a young child, so much so he’d taught himself to read just so he could consume more of them. He considered himself as much a storyteller as he did an adventurer, though he supposed the two went hand in hand.

“How long are you planning to stay in Wyrmwind?” She said, whirling him out of his thoughts.

“I hadn’t given it much thought as of yet,” he said and paused, scrunching his eyebrows before carefully continuing, “I haven’t overstayed my welcome I hope?”

“Oh Gods no, of course not,” she shook her head, “I’d have nothing but customers like yourself. I almost feel bad taking your coin. I was only asking as there’s someone I’d like you to meet…… how about later tonight, after the supper rush?” She asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Count me in,” Ardál said with a genuine smile. Although curious, she had turned on her heel and left again before he could ask any further questions. He supposed, perhaps one of the locals had a story for him. He had been asking after dragons after all.

Ardál had been chatting to Ernst, a gentleman who frequented the Alehouse on a regular basis. His face weathered by age, wrinkles clustered around his pale eyes and his shaggy hair was somewhat unkempt looking, in fact it reminded him slightly of Phelan’s. They were seated in one of the front corners under one of the windows, near the big open fireplace. Phelan lay nonchalantly nearby in front of the roaring fire. It was Ernst’s usual spot that allowed for him to observe the comings and goings in the tavern, as well as keep an eye on the streets. It came as no surprise to Ardál to learn that Ernst knew everything about everyone and anything in the village. But that also meant he had his fair share of stories which Ardál was keen to listen to.

Ernst had been chewing his ear off about recent raids in nearby villages and farmlands whilst the bard was singing the famed song about Ulf the red.

That was when he noticed her.

Despite the sound of the music and the chatter, it was the sound of her laughter that caught his attention. The sound of it weaved across the busy tavern, dancing between clinking tankards straight to him like an unwavering arrow, striking him with unexpected precision, dimming the sound of all else in its wake. The sound of it filled him with a warmth that made his heart skip a beat.

The woman was leaning on the bar, she threw her head back in glorious laughter, her blue-tinted silver hair cascading down her back, the loose curls bouncing just above her behind. He couldn't help but notice her curvy figure as his eyes lingered on her hips and the voluptuousness of her backside. Ardál absent-mindedly rubbed his jaw as he swallowed hard, forcing down the heat that was beginning to flush his cheeks.

The woman was deep in conversation with Valeska and he found himself watching her for a few moments, perhaps to work up the courage to get up and go to the bar and strike up a conversation, but for that moment, he was simply enthralled by the sound of her laughter and he didn’t want it to stop so he sat, contently watching her.

“That’s your best bet if you ask me,” Ernst said, as Ardál realised he hadn’t been paying attention and had lost track of the conversation.

“Sorry,” Ardál winced, “could you repeat that last bit, I didn’t quite hear you over the music,” he lied, shifting his posture ever so slightly.

Ernst only sighed briefly before recounting his story. If he had noticed Ardál’s attention on the woman he hadn’t let on. “As I was saying, just two moons ago the folks up on Brekenhill lost their entire herd of goats. That’s twenty nannies and their young. Normally it’s just one here or there, not the entire herd. That’s a sign as sure as any. dragons must be nesting nearby. That’s your best bet if you ask me, if you’re still sure about tracking down dragons that is.” Ardál sat back in his chair, his leg resting on his knee as he pondered, “nesting you say? But no one has seen a young one for decades, if not longer,” he said.

“Aye, true that,” Ernst nodded in agreement, “there’s been something in the wind of late, the earth is stirring, you feel it more up here in the mountains. Something is coming, you mark my words, and the mountains are preparing to defend.”

Ardál pondered on that for a moment, “well, I’m not wanting to disturb any nesting, just catch a glimpse of one close enough to see it properly. Though if it is as you say I ought to stay clear.”

“Another?” Ardál asked as he got up, gesturing to the empty tankards. Looking for any excuse to approach the woman who was still up at the bar with Valeska. He’d tried his best to seem interested in what Ernst was talking about, and normally, Gods, he would have been more than just interested in any information about dragons. But, that woman, Gods, she had a hold over him and he hadn’t even seen her face. The things he’d let her do just to hear that laugh.

Just as Ernst opened his mouth to respond, their attention had been forced to the streets outside before he managed to utter a single syllable. The men’s eyes widened as they looked at each other for a brief moment before they shot into action, along with the rest of the folk in the tavern. Ardál pulled his scian from its sheath where it had been attached to his belt, as it was everyday for occasions such as this. The versatile dagger had been his fathers, it was the only thing of his Ardál still had. He gripped the worn wooden handle tightly as he made his way toward the commotion.

The scent of smoke tore through the streets, choking out all and any laughter. Where there had been nothing but the sounds of joyful conversations and the everyday bustle of busy streets a moment before there was now the sound of screams and metal clanging.

The villagers fought against raiders and rallied to put out the fire that had been set at the far side blocking off the main street.

Immediately sobered by the threat to life, Ardál sprang into action, thrusting his scian into one of the largest of the raiders, who had been too distracted by the woman he was pawing at to notice Ardál’s arrival.

Ardál wasn't trained professionally like a knight would have been but he certainly wasn’t terrible. He had learnt a thing or two in his twenty years on the road, and fought in many a fight. And above all he wasn’t afraid to play dirty. Someone appeared from his right and tried to bludgeon him with a club, he managed to swerve and stab the man in his core. Although he avoided the main blow of the hit, he had caught the edge of it, and his head swam with the pain of it, he clenched his teeth fighting swallowing the ache before carrying on.

Ardál was now fighting back-to-back with Ortolf, the large orc was incredibly skilled with the grand two-handed axe he wielded and Ardál was glad to be on the same side as him. He’d also briefly caught sight of Sera aiming her bow and arrow from one of the upper windows of the Alehouse and he almost felt sorry for the bandits for their poor choice in choosing this village to raid.

Ardál swung his scian and it clashed with an enemy’s scabbard, and he watched as Ortolf’s axe crashed into the back of the man’s neck. He fell to the ground in an instant in a puddle of his own blood.

Along with the other villagers they had managed to kill at least half a dozen of the raiders and it was clear to see that the fight was now going in their favour. The raiders, noticing the same, began to retreat.