by Kim Bowman
“Goodnight, Ronan.”
“Sleep well. Dream of me,” Ronan goaded, his voice playful like a young maid.
Marek leaned out of bed and punched Ronan in the thigh.
~~~~
Finalizing his belongings, Marek checked his armor and weapons one last time with his fellow warriors before the long journey to the Crossroads.
“Keep a watchful eye, my son,” warned Murron, embracing her eldest. “Not all Archaeans pursue victory with honor.”
Marek wrapped the frail woman in his arms. “Be well, Mother. I will come back to you, I swear it.”
“Promises, promises.” A soft smile formed on her lips. “Take care of your brother.”
“I will.”
“Fight with courage and uphold your honor.”
“I always do.”
“I know.” Murron wiped a tear before turning to say her goodbyes to Ronan. “Take care of your brother, Ronan,” she told him. “His heart is weak — weakness will get him killed.”
“I promise it.”
~~~~
“And so it begins,” Marek told his men with backs turned toward the village. “Let us hunt some Engel!” For days on end they rode hard, keeping to the hidden paths within the trees, rivers and caves. They met no confrontation along their way. The only problem Marek encountered was with the strong-willed filly. He resorted to letting her fly like an out of control wind down slopes and through the shallows. She was a fine traveling horse for she made her own path over rocky terrain and eager to please by being headstrong, but how would she fare in battle? Marek hadn’t made his mind up about her just yet, although he certainly was entertained by their outright mad dashes across the plains together. His spirit ran wild alongside her.
~~~~
Returning from his scouting mission at the Crossroads, Aiden brought news of Westmore’s whereabouts. “He’s there, I’m sure of it.”
“At least the rumors were true,” said Ronan.
“But there are other details.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve never before seen so many people at the Crossroads. Sorting out one Engel from another may be difficult. A battle we would surely lose.”
“Can we not separate them from the others?” an accompanying warrior asked.
“We’re too small in numbers to strike head on. We must lay low for a while — find out where he goes, where he frequents, where he sleeps, and when he is alone… strike.”
The group turned to Marek for direction.
He paused for a moment, taking in all of Aiden’s report. The conditions were not at all favorable to say the least, and certainly not what he’d been expecting. “We will wait until the cover of darkness and walk our way in. The less noticeable we are the better.” Their skillful bounty hunting efforts had given them notoriety in years past. The threat of being recognized could prove detrimental.
“Aye,” the men agreed, dismounting to rest until sunset. The men snacked on what little food they had left and tossed a few games of dice while waiting for darkness to cover the valley.
When the hour approached, Marek gave the order to head to the village. “All right, let us go, aye? We shall make base camp here to hide the horses. Split up and try not to make a scene. I know that’s asking a lot from some of you…” Marek glared at Gavin. “…but the less visible, the less likely Westmore is to know something is amiss. If you have the opportunity, take it. It will not offend. His death is all that matters. Is that understood?”
“Marek?”
He turned toward Gavin and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Can we at least get pissed? ’Tis early yet. The gods know we won’t be finding the Engel tonight anyway.”
“I will meet you in the tavern after I take a look around.”
“What a good lad!” Gavin smacked Marek on the shoulder. “I will save you a pitcher… and a woman.”
“I prefer the pitcher.” Rummaging through his belongings, Marek found his cape and flung it over his shoulders, pulling up the hood to hide his face.
People roamed the streets with mugs in their hands, gambling and trading stories at every corner. Engel and Archaean alike crowded every street vendor for food and ale. Wine flowed like water and before long, Marek found himself in the midst of a celebration dance. Pipers bellowed to the beat of drums while young maids twirled around each other, toeing the ground in perfect synchronization.
Marek caught the collar of a passing child and pulled him taut to his side. “Boy, what celebration is this?”
“A wedding, sir. People have arrived from all ends of the world!” The boy soon broke free and returned to chasing after his companion.
A wedding. Three days of celebration and festivities, and strangers abound. He would fit right in. Marek wandered the streets and welcomed whatever was thrust in his hand by an intoxicated partygoer. But soon he grew tired of being shoved around by sopping fools and sought out the tavern to inform the others of what he had learned.
Chapter Seventeen
Revelations
The Crossroads
Early Summer
“Abby, I don’t know how much more I can bear.” Exhausted, Brynn plopped down on a stool in the kitchen of Godric’s tavern. Pulling up her skirts to cool her ankles, Brynn fanned herself with her hand as she took deep breaths to calm her racing heart. Daman’s brother, Godric, had demanded Brynn work the wedding knowing his tavern would be filled with attendees searching for ale and beautiful women.
“Have some water, dear.” Abby poured a small glass and handed it to Brynn.
“If another one of those heathens cuffs my backside, I swear I will slit their throats!” Brynn declared, sipping her water.
“They’ve been traveling, Brynn. Give them a day or two to get it all out. Here, take these pitchers out to the table in the back corner. They are calling for you.”
Brynn moaned and rose from her chair, reluctant. “A day or two, eh? How long do these weddings usually last?”
“A day or two.” Abby laughed, taking a ball of dough from a large bowl and tossing it onto a wooden baking sheet. “Just please the customers and make sure to hide your tips. We shall be released soon enough. They are bound to collapse sometime…” Abby’s voice trailed off as she turned her attention to the bread.
Sighing, Brynn pushed the kitchen door open with her hip and returned to the bustle of the spirited group crowding every inch of the tavern and bar area. Surveying the room as she often did, Brynn searched for her brute. He was missing from his usual post — a side table in the front corner of the room.
Lord Westmore had arrived the day before, so her brute was more than likely preoccupied serving him. Brynn kept out of sight as much as possible, staying deep in the early summer fields during the morning and afternoon hours and only returning to the tavern when she was needed. Word spread that Westmore was in need of foot soldiers to carry on his raids against those not willing to partake in a “treaty” between the Engels and Archaeans. He hadn’t fared well during his last raid, and many of his troops had abandoned the cause. Rumors were told that Westmore had been injured. Brynn wished the wound had proven fatal.
Squeezing her way past a sea of overcrowded tables, Brynn reached the far corner in time to refill the mugs before rowdiness overcame the men.
“Will you sing for us later?” one asked, staring at her chest, attempting to get a peek down her revealing bodice.
“Perhaps if you don’t stiff me my tip this time, lads,” she remarked, her voice thick with disapproval. A few coins clinked to the table, and she scooped them up before Godric’s ever watchful eye locked on her.
“Brynn!” Godric called from the bar. “We’re out of lager! Go tell the lads I need some help bringing over a few barrels!”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, placing her empty pitchers in the kitchen and making her way through the cluster of men lingering near the entrance. Gathering her skirts, Brynn jumped over the stagnant puddle and scurried in the
direction of the nighttime festivities.
~~~~
As Marek walked toward the tavern, he recalled the last time he’d travelled that very alley. A lump settled in his throat. He’d been taking Brynn to Daman. His fingers wandered up to his neck to feel the weight of the silver.
“Oh, pardon me, sir.”
A voluptuous barmaid bumped by him, catching him off guard. His eyes were playing tricks on him again, as they often did. That place haunted him; every female voice sounded like the ghost of his heart. Every golden-haired beauty seemed to resemble the graceful features of his little Engel beauty. Reaching the tavern, Marek slipped through the door and easily found his men laughing while downing ale and rolling a game of dice. “Sorry I’m late, lads.” He pushed a man who was passed out from his drink from a nearby chair. The man thumped to floor, and Marek turned the chair to sit with his men.
Ronan greeted his brother with a smile. “Marek, you’re just in time. We ordered another round, and there’s food on the way. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat,” he absently muttered, removing his cloak and draping it over the back of the chair.
“What bothers you?” Ronan pushed a mug toward his brother.
“Nothing — just seeing things, ’tis all.”
Allina, a barmaid, returned with a fresh pitcher and plate of cakes. “What can I get for you, love?” she asked Marek, nearly falling in his lap.
“Lager, and leave the pitcher.”
“We’re refilling the stock. Give me a few moments and I will be right back for you.” She touched his chest with a playful finger. “Would you be interested in a little… entertainment while you wait?”
Marek spied her tousled locks and dirtied face. “Not with you.”
Allina scowled and left the area.
Marek told his men what he knew. “There’s a wedding. From what I gather, the ceremony will be in the morning. Lord Westmore should show his ugly face then. The trick will be getting him separated from his group so that we don’t get ourselves hung in the process. If anyone has any good ideas, feel free to share them now.” With no one speaking up, Marek took a swig from his brother’s mug and added, “Bastards,” before turning his attention to the commotion by the tavern entrance. A pretty barmaid rushed through the door carrying a large basket.
She was the same curvy woman who’d bumped into him outside. She tripped over a barstool leg, nearly dropping her things, but the bartender caught her in time. She beamed up at him and planted a big kiss on his cheek before scurrying off behind a closed door.
Marek thought it remarkable how much she looked like his Engel, except that Brynn was on the smaller side, certainly less endowed, and not as brazen as the barmaid with the basket. This barmaid was quite curvaceous and practically spilling from her bodice — but a welcomed sight none the less. Casting her from his mind, Marek focused on the lads, content to watch them play their games and listen to their comical prattle. Gavin bragged of his equal height to length proportions while Ronan bet he could last twice as long with the barmaids. Laughing, Marek tilted up his cup until he could see the bottom of it.
~~~~
“Thank you, Owen. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t caught me. Where is Godric?”
“He’s just left. Is there something I can help you with?” Owen followed Brynn to the kitchen.
“Inform him the lager he asked for is being delivered. Thank you.” Brynn hoped that in the bustle of the crowd, no one saw her almost bury her face into the floorboards… again.
“Abby, you should step outside. It’s a rather gorgeous night. Perhaps you would cool off a bit?” Brynn suggested, noticing Abby’s sweaty brow and flushed face.
“No time for gorgeous nights. Ahh, there’s my lager. Thank you, gentlemen. Aye, right there is fine. Owen, tap that for me, will you? Thank you, lad. You are such a sweet boy. Brynn, fetch me that pitcher.” Abby barked out orders.
Brynn did as she was told and waited for further instruction.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Go keep them occupied while I get the lager ready. Fill their cups until they fall to the floor for all I care. Make us some silver! Those skirts are wearing thin, are they not?” With a thrust, Abby shoved Brynn from the kitchen to fend for herself amidst the ever growing crowd of drunken men.
As she collected empty mugs in need of refilling, a large man teetered onto a chair and stepped up on top of a table. “Kind friends and companions, come join me!” he bolstered. “Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain, for we may and might never all meet here again. A toast to the newly wed this very pleasant eve — may the gods be with you and bless you. May you see your children’s children, and may you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.”
The men raised their cups in agreement as Brynn continued her work, surveying the many surrounding faces. From the corner of her eye she caught the glimpse of a man in the shadows but quickly doubted her eyes. He was no one of consequence, but still, he stirred a memory. The room soon returned to an elevated humming of voices as she crossed to the center of the tavern dancing on the tips of her toes, unable to keep up with the demand for more drink. Brynn hummed to herself while winding through the passageways of the tavern floor, lost in her own little world.
~~~~
It was the melodic voice that captured his attention — eerily haunting yet calmingly beautiful. He’d heard that voice over and over again in his dreams. Marek stumbled to his feet, shoving his chair back against the wall. Was he that drunk? He couldn’t be — he could pick that sweet sound out of a thousand just like it.
Ronan pushed his brother back to his seat. “What ails you? Sit and play with us.”
Marek shrugged off Ronan’s hold. Just a bit closer and he could put his suspicions to rest. The barmaid worked her way back to the bar. She had just barely skimmed past him, but it was all he needed to justify the racing of his heart. The sweet smell of honeysuckle and lavender combined with that voice could only mean one thing — either Marek had gone raving mad or his Brynn never left the Crossroads.
That woman was, without a doubt… Brynn. The tripping barmaid… every curvy, delectable, seductive part of her. A wave of nausea flooded over him. Gripping the table with his palms, Marek sunk low in his chair and sucked in a long gasp of air, trying to keep from pummeling every man in the place for staring at her.
“Oh, be still my loins. The gods be damned. Never have I seen a more desirable woman. That is one you hang on to.” Gavin gawked at Brynn. “Apparently I have been searching the wrong countryside. Give me your coins, lads. I will be having that tonight.”
“Not if I claim her first. I won’t be having seconds.” Aiden gulped a long swig of his ale.
Did they not recognize her? Jealously crept its way up through Marek as the men continued to comment on who would be doing what to Brynn while she tended to the bar. “She is mine.” Marek claimed. Leaning comfortably back in his chair, he nursed the last of his lager as he waited for his pitcher. He couldn’t take his eyes from her. She shined when she smiled. The man behind the bar with the fiery hair leaned in close to her, whispering in her ear. She tossed her head back and laughed, pressing her hands to her chest while the man beamed, besotted. Marek knew that look. Any man could see another man’s lust just by studying the want in his eyes, and oh, how he wanted her. Marek’s murderous plans suddenly screeched to a full halt.
“Why do you feel you can always claim whatever you want first?” Ronan asked his brother. “We saw her first — we should get her first.”
“Because I’m oldest.” Marek smirked, amused his brother still hadn’t recognized her.
“Och, piss off,” Ronan told him, giving up the quarrel as his attentions turned to a refill of ale. Together, the men thumped the bottom of their mugs on the table and pounded back the foaming liquid as fast as they could before it overflowed the mug.
~~~~
“Here, girl, take this and quit your gabbing.” Abby set
a fresh pitcher of lager on the bar. “Well? What are you waiting for? There’s a lad over there waiting for his lager, and he’s a mighty handsome one at that!”
“Which table?” Brynn glanced about the room, searching for the area in which Abby had pointed.
Agitated, Abby heaved a sigh in annoyance. She reached over the bar and took hold of Brynn’s shoulders, twisting her frame toward the far back corner. “The man on the end near the wall has been waiting for his pitcher. I suggest you get it over there. They are a rowdy bunch, and I would rather see you get the tip than Allina. Now take this and git!”
“Aye, madam!” Brynn snapped with a huff. “Please just let this night end,” Brynn muttered as a menacing group of men pushed their way past those still awaiting service. They approached the bar demanding ale in Engel. Westmore’s men. Brynn tugged at her sleeve to cover the dark ink etched on her skin.
Owen blankly stared back at the Engels. “They all want a drink.” Brynn translated as she moved from their path. “Lager for them all, Owen, and make haste — they are not in a peaceful mood.”
“Aye!” he replied, sending a wide, dimpled grin in her direction. “We wouldn’t want to upset the darling Engels, now, would we?”
Brynn rolled her eyes. “Call for me if you need anything. I have lager to deliver.” So much time had passed since she last heard Engel words. It seemed foreign to her ears. Had she forgotten it that quickly and readily? Placing both hands around the belly of the overflowing pitcher, Brynn started for the awaiting table.
As she crossed the bar, her eyes connected with the man waiting for his lager. He lingered on the curvature of her chin as if they knew every bend, every arch. Even from across the room their piercing cobalt shot through her heart.
Never, not even in this cruel place or in the best of dreams, had she ever expected to see that shade of blue staring back, etching over her. As if all the world had stopped with her, Brynn froze, unable to move her unyielding frame.