Anwen of Primewood

by Shari L. Tapscott

  The prince looks as disgusted as I feel, but as he debates our next move, the barman calls to us. “Visitors! Welcome!”

  Half the crowd turns to us, curious to see who the barman addresses. “Visitors!” They bellow in mimic, holding up their tankards. More than a few of them are quite drunk already, and their drinks splash to the floor. None seem to notice, and they all take gusty swallows. A large blond-haired man finishes his drink and slams the clay tankard on the table. It smashes, and his comrades laugh.

  Galinor tugs me close, and we move to the bar.

  “We are traveling through,” Galinor says, his voice low. “We met a man named Peter.”

  The barman nods knowingly, his eyes lighting with recognition. He leans closer. “You must be careful in these parts.” His eyes wander to me, and they travel over my face as if they’re assessing my character. “Stay clear of the games,” he warns.

  “We intend to.”

  A man next to us at the bar leans over and grins. He’s missing half his teeth, but he must think himself still quite a charmer because he winks at me.

  I shudder and look away.

  “We need a room,” Galinor says to the barman while staring down the drunken man. The prince sets his hand on the hilt of his sword and raises his eyebrows in challenge.

  The drunk holds up his hands in a placating gesture and laughs.

  The barman slams a new tankard in front of the man. “Take this, Maynard, and get out of here before you cause trouble.”

  The man accepts the mead and leers at me as he steps away. I only feel faint relief when he joins the group at the tables and doesn’t look back.

  The barman’s eyes flicker over me. “One room for you and your wife then?”

  Instead of correcting the man, Galinor nods.

  The man turns toward the hanging keys behind him. “What brings you to Errinton?” He hands Galinor a key. “Outsiders seldom grace my tavern.”

  Galinor glances around the room. “We’re here to hunt an iktar beast. Are you familiar with such an animal?”

  The barman’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “An iktar?”

  He looks at us like we’re fools. What beast could bring on such a reaction in a kingdom where hunting dragons is considered afternoon entertainment for children?

  The barman leans closer. “Have you seen one yet?” he asks, his voice ominous.

  Galinor shakes his head, and the barman nods.

  “Do you know much about them?”

  “No.”

  The man takes a deep breath. “They’re fearsome creatures.” He shakes his head. “Even dragons give their nests a wide berth. Are you sure you want to hunt one?”

  “We have no choice,” Galinor answers. “We came for an iktar, and we will not leave without one.”

  “You’ll need a guide.”

  Galinor narrows his eyes. “Tell me where I may find one, and we will guide ourselves.”

  “It’s impossible.” He ladles thick stew into two earthen bowls. “You need someone who can track them, someone who knows their ways. The iktar have taken to the high mountains this time of year.”

  “Don’t most animals move lower when winter comes?” I ask as I accept the stew.

  The barman rests his weight on his forearms. “Most do, yes. Not the iktar. It moves high and looks for animals that are weak and vulnerable.”

  “What is this beast?” I ask.

  “It’s like a bear but larger and muscled for speed like a mountain cat. Its teeth are like razors, and its senses are heightened past that of a normal predator.” His gaze moves to Galinor. “Few men have ever seen one, though many have become its prey.”

  Just lovely. Thank you Ergmin.

  Concern shadows the man’s face. “You’d best not take your lady into the mountains, friend.”

  I press close to Galinor’s side. “I go where Galinor goes.”

  Galinor glances at me, his expression solemn, and he nods. He turns back to the man. “Where can we find a guide?”

  The man huffs out a breath, and his eyes travel the room. “Nine out of ten men would rob you blind.” He surveys the crowd and shakes his head.

  A gust of wind blows through the overly warm room as a man strides into the tavern. Many call to him, but he shows little in the way of a greeting. The man is tall. His hair is dark and short, and there is a jagged scar that stretches from temple to chin, crossing his eye. As if sensing our attention, he glances at us. I look away, but not before I notice the wicked looking hunting knife strapped to his hip.

  “Ah,” the barman says, satisfied. “There is your man.”

  I stir the lifeless vegetables in my bowl. “Who is he?”

  “Penrith of Bourke,” the barman answers, his voice quiet with awe.

  Galinor seems unimpressed. “Should that mean something to me?”

  The barman’s sharp eyes snap back to Galinor. “Before the Dragon Wars, there were few as renowned as Penrith. He was a ruthless slayer. They say he bested every scaled beast he came upon.”

  “But can he hunt an iktar?” Galinor demands.

  “If anyone can track and kill the beast, it will be Penrith.”

  “Is he trustworthy?” I ask.

  The barman raises his hand to the slayer. “Welcome, friend,” he calls, and then he turns back to me. “More than most. You will be safe with him.”

  Galinor seems unconvinced.

  Penrith joins us at the bar, and he tips his head to me. “My Lady,” he greets.

  Ten years older than Galinor at most, he must have been a young, eager slayer. He slides into the seat the leering man recently departed from.

  The barman hands him a tankard. “This man here would like to hire your services.”

  Penrith snorts. “I doubt you can afford me.”

  “Gold is not a limitation,” Galinor states wryly.

  I bite my lip and peer around us. No one seems to be paying attention, but I’m not sure it’s wise to announce our worth in this company.

  A small smile tips Penrith’s lips. “Not a limitation? Then—please—proceed.”

  Before Galinor can begin, the barman says, “They’re hunting iktar. I told them if any could track and kill the fearsome creature—it is you.”

  Penrith snorts a laugh and takes a long drink of mead. He gives the barman a questioning look before he turns to Galinor. “You’re serious?” He takes another sip. “If you’re seeking death, by all means. When do you wish to leave?”

  “In the morning,” Galinor answers.

  Penrith eyes me. “This will be a dangerous hunt. The girl doesn’t go with us.”

  “The girl does go with you,” I snap.

  The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he laughs. “Fancy yourself an adventurer, do you?”

  Instead of answering, I clamp my lips shut and glare at him as I try to think of something witty to say. The long scar is unsettling, but I try not to let him see how nervous it makes me.

  Galinor wraps his arm around my shoulders. “I will not leave her here.” He looks at the barman and holds up his hand. “No offense.”

  A loud chorus of cheers breaks out from the gambling tables, followed by a bellow of rage. A man turns toward the man next to him, takes hold of his tankard, and then crashes it down on the fellow’s head. This sets the whole mess of them in a fit, and for a minute, maybe more, they all go at each other, screaming and taunting and threatening, before they finally calm down.

  The barman turns his attention back to us and laughs. “No offense taken, friend.”

  Galinor watches them a few moments longer, his face lined with disgust. “How long will the hunt take?” he asks Penrith when he looks back.

  Penrith mulls over the question, seemingly unaffected by the violence. “A week, maybe two.”

  That’s too long.

  I’m about to tell Penrith that’s unacceptable when he says, “Get some sleep. It will be an early morning.”

  And just like that, we’re dismissed. I
look at Galinor, wondering how he will respond. Apparently he is not eager to linger in the company of the hunter. With his hand on my waist, he leads me away. We avoid the men as well as we can, but the crowd is thick. A few dare to stare, but they look away when Galinor’s eyes meet theirs.

  It is fortunate he is so intimidating.

  We pass the leering man, and he grabs hold of my arm. “Don’t make company with Penrith, lovely. You can’t trust him.” He grins, and I recoil at the sour smell of his breath. “Cozy up to me. I’ll take care of you.”

  Galinor is fast, and before the man realizes what is happening, the point of the prince’s sword is pressed to the man’s jugular.

  “Touch her again,” Galinor says, “and you will no longer enjoy the drink you are so fond of. Do you understand?” His words are spoken coolly, but his eyes are hot with anger.

  The man blinks and gulps. “Yes, My Lord.”

  The tavern has gone quiet. All attention is on us, the patrons wondering if Galinor will shed this pathetic man’s blood. None come to the man’s rescue. They watch with cold, curious indifference.

  “Good.” Galinor withdraws the sword, but before he sheaths it, he surveys the crowd. “That goes for the rest of you, as well. Does anyone wish to dispute it?”

  A head taller, and significantly more muscular, than any in the tavern, Galinor is an impressive sight. Heads shake and slowly the spectators go back to their alcohol, gambling, and women.

  Galinor nods, satisfied his point has been made, and gently pulls me out of the room.

  Once in the hall and up the back stairs, Galinor releases me. I cross my arms and follow behind him, worrying my lip as he searches for our room. We come to the door at the end of the hall. The torch light is weak in this corner, but it feels farther from the chaos downstairs, and that’s somewhat soothing. Galinor opens the door and motions for me to enter. I hesitate outside.

  A smile plays on Galinor’s lips. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  I shift my weight to my other foot. “Still…”

  The crowds roar downstairs, and Galinor pulls me in the room, locking the door behind us.

  “Do you think the barman keeps extra keys?” he asks.

  My brow furrows. “I’m sure he does. He may need to enter a room at some point.”

  Galinor cocks his head to the side.

  “Oh.” I look at the floor. “I don’t think he’d give out that key, do you?”

  “I think it would depend on how much someone were willing to pay.”

  I shiver and let the subject drop.

  Self-conscious, I go to the bed and pull back the covers to inspect them. The furs on top seem somewhat clean, as far as I can tell. The blankets underneath are not. I cringe and lay the furs back down.

  “That bad?” Galinor asks.

  I nod, feeling a little sick.

  “It’s only one night,” he reminds me. He stretches out on the rug in front of the door and clasps his hands behind his head.

  I debate finding a spot on the floor for myself, but I’m not sure it’s cleaner than the bed. Finally, I wrap myself in my cloak and lay fully dressed on top of the furs. I’m exhausted from the night before, and I find sleep easier than I expect.

  ***

  I wake up, mid-scream. My heart races. I sit up and try to catch my breath.

  The weight of Galinor’s body shifts the bed as he sits next to me. “Anwen.”

  It’s cold in the room now, and I shiver. “I’m fine.” I hold my hand over my heart and wait for it to slow its frantic pace.

  “Nightmare?”

  I nod and take a deep breath. It’s the same as always, and I always awake with a sense of urgency. “I feel like we’re running out of time.”

  Galinor shifts and sits with his back against the headboard. He holds out his arm, inviting me to sit with him. I scoot back so I’m next to him, and he wraps his arm around me.

  He lays his head back against the wall. “We’ll save him.”

  I yawn, still exhausted despite my desire to stay awake. Every time I close my eyes, I see the monster again.

  He nudges my shoulder. “Tell me about how you came to have Danver.”

  He’s trying to get my mind off the dream, and I am happy to oblige. Long before I finish my story, my eyes get heavy. I set my head on his shoulder and finally fall asleep.

  The nightmares don’t return.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Hunt

  The wind is bitter high in the Errintonian mountains. I can’t imagine what it will be like come winter. Thankfully, we won’t be here then.

  I secure my cloak and attempt to tuck the hood more tightly around my head. Though cold, the weather would be bearable if it weren’t for the sporadic gusts of wind that send snow flying into my face.

  Penrith rides in the lead. I’m behind him, and Galinor follows. I’ve kept up fine, but I am growing weary. The sun has almost set, and I wonder if Penrith plans to travel through the night. I will surely freeze if he does.

  Pika and Danver are somewhere behind us. When we left Gelminshard this morning, I watched for them, hoping they would follow at a distance. Pika has yet to show herself, but I do steal a peek of her occasionally.

  I’ve seen no sign of life since we’ve neared tree line. The birds have already flown south and the weasels and small rodents are in their cozy holes.

  What are the iktar feeding on?

  Again, the wind screams past the mountains and through the trees, crying its desolate wail. I shiver, both from the frigid air and also from fear. With the absence of sustenance, the iktar could well be hunting us.

  “We’ll make camp just over this ridge,” Penrith calls back.

  The sun has set by the time Penrith finally arrives at his destination. The colors are leaching out of the already dull landscape, and it will be impossible to make camp if we don’t do it soon. The spot Penrith has chosen is protected under a lip in the cliff face. The only snow is that which the wind has blown in. A ring of blackened rocks sits in the middle of our soon-to-be camp, and there are ashes asleep in the center. We’re not the first to use the sheltered nook.

  A sharp cry fills the air, and Penrith’s head snaps up as he surveys the land around us. It’s Pika, and she is hunting. Galinor and I share a glance.

  Has she found our quarry?

  Penrith doesn’t address the cry, probably hoping we didn’t catch it, but he looks unsettled. He and Galinor set to work starting a fire, and then they construct a tent. The stained ivory canvas looks nothing like an opulent gypsy tent, but it should keep out the wind and snow.

  As night falls around us, we sit by the fire and eat a meager meal of dried meat and hard biscuits, sharing a single skin of mead between us. I notice Galinor doesn’t drink much, having had the bad experience with mead in Lauramore. I don’t like the drink either, and only gulp down enough to wet my throat.

  I take another bite of stringy meat and then pause mid-chew. There is a strange cackling noise coming from somewhere on the cliff above us. The men speak low, and neither seem to hear it over their conversation. I strain to pick it up again, but the mountain is silent except for the wind.

  I take another bite but set the rest aside. Having been spooked, my appetite is gone.

  Wait.

  There it is again.

  It’s not a mammal of fur and bone; it’s something else. The faint noise grows louder. It’s almost as if it’s speaking to itself. Whatever it is, it’s a wholly inhuman sound. Its voice is raspy and high pitched, like a bird or a—

  I scream when the dark shape dives from the cliff above us and stretches out its large, leathery wings to break its fall. It lands, shaking the ground.

  I grasp hold of Galinor. His hand finds his sword, but he does not dare unsheathe it.

  The creature moves closer.

  Penrith looks up from his meal, undaunted. “Away with you, beast. Our business isn’t with you.”

  “You are on my mountain,” the
dragon says, tilting her green head. “That makes it my business.” She turns her reptilian eyes on me. “Why are you trembling, human girl? You have nothing to fear from me.”

  The memory of Marigold’s villa thick with flames bursts unbidden to my memory, but I nod anyway.

  The dragon turns back to Penrith. “Nothing to fear unless you have come to my mountain to hunt me or my young—then you will have much to fear.” A wisp of smoke curls from her nostril.

  She turns toward Galinor, whose downcast eyes are focused on the fire. “Why do you not look at me, young slayer?”

  “He has taken oath to one of your own,” I answer for him, my voice quivering. “To never again speak to your kind.”

  The dragon breathes a soft flame on the waning fire. “And you still respect that, even after the treaty?”

  Galinor nods, his teeth clenched.

  “Consider yourself free of it,” the dragon says, stretching her scaled shoulders in an almost human shrug. “No dragon will break the treaty. We are honorable creatures—unlike humans.” She settles down as if she’s going to stay awhile. “What is your name?”

  Galinor looks up, meeting her eyes for the first time. “Galinor of Glendon, second born of King Howell and his queen, Penelope.”

  Penrith’s eyes go wide.

  The dragon is silent, thinking. Finally, she says, “I know of you and your oath. Old Murgstead died years ago. You are free.”

  “Thank you.” Galinor’s shoulders sag with relief. “Truly.”

  The dragon stretches and shakes the falling snow off her wings. “I like you, Galinor of Glendon.” She turns to Penrith. “I don’t like you, Errintonian. See to your business, and get off my mountain.”

  Penrith gives the dragon a mock half bow.

  She pins him with a gaze so hard, I shrink back. Penrith doesn’t flinch.

  The dragon opens her great wings and takes to the sky. It isn’t until she disappears into the clouds that Penrith turns to us. “I’ll take the first watch. You two get some sleep.”

  Galinor agrees, and we lay our bedrolls on the cold, stone ground. I toss and turn and shiver. I’m sure I won’t sleep at all tonight.

  ***

  I wake, unsure what’s roused me. I glance across the tent. Galinor is asleep, and the night is still black. Not yet time for our watch, I close my eyes and try to find sleep again. I ache with the cold. I don’t know how I fell asleep at all; I have no idea how I will find it again.