"Leave it alone, Brandel," she shot back. She swaggered to the bar, tossing down a few coppers. "Get me a drink."
Still grinning, Brandel snatched up the coins and turned to a keg behind him. He talked as he poured. "I'm surprised to see you. Reckoned your parents wouldn't let you out of sight after what you did today."
"Can we leave alone what I did today?" Dezra snapped. "I'm sick of hearing about it."
"Whatever you say." He set her ale in front of her.
Dezra drank in silence. The beer was stale, but she finished it and ordered another. While Brandel refilled her stoup, she turned and surveyed the taproom.
The place was nearly empty. Besides Brandel, the only person working was the barmaid, Edelle. Youth had left Edelle behind, but that didn't stop her from trifling with customers half her age. Right now she was whispering with Fingers, a pickpocket who'd lost half his hand years ago in a failed snatch-and-grab. A couple local drunks snored in the shadows. And sitting by the door was a big, blond-bearded man with a battle-axe strapped across his back: a sellsword. She'd seen plenty of his kind in the Shield over the years, and was used to the leer that creased his face as he looked her up and down. Sneering, she turned back to the bar.
After a moment, she heard a chair push back, and the jingling of chainmail. A shape appeared beside her, eclipsing the lamplight. He said nothing, but simply stared, breathing heavily and leaning against the bar.
Dezra glowered. "Looking at something?"
"I'll say," he answered, grinning drunkenly. "I'm Storvald. Storvald of-" he stifled a belch "-of Wayend. What's your name, lovely?"
Lummox, Dezra thought, studiously ignoring him.
His hand reached out, touched hers. His fingers were callused and crooked. "Have I seen you somewhere? At the fair, maybe?"
A strangled laugh came from behind the bar. Dezra glared at Brandel, who quickly strolled into the storeroom in the back of the tavern.
"I doubt it," she told the sellsword.
"Well, no mind," Storvald declared. "We know each other now, don't we?"
Suddenly, his fingers seized Dezra's wrist. His bearded face lunged toward hers, and he kissed her on the mouth. His breath was sour.
Dezra leaned back, breaking the kiss. "Let go."
Storvald snarled, his grip on her arm tightening painfully. "Now, love, be nice. We'll find someplace quiet, a hayloft maybe-"
Brandel came back into the taproom. His lips tightened when he saw Dezra's red face. "Everything all right, Dez?" he asked. He held a knotted wooden cudgel. "You-don't make me use this."
For someone so drunk, Storvald was surprisingly fast. Reaching over his shoulder, he yanked his massive axe from its harness and slammed it down on the bar. It buried itself an inch deep in the wood.
"This ain't your trouble," he growled.
Brandel stopped, staring. His cudgel fell to the floor with a thump.
"That's better," Storvald said. "Now, the girl and me are leaving to find a nice, quiet hayloft." He jerked Dezra's arm. "And no one's stopping us, right?"
"Wrong," Dezra said, and stomped on his ankle.
Her attack came with no warning. Storvald howled in pain, staggering. He let Dezra go, grabbing the bar with both hands. Her fist slammed into his jaw. She wore a ring, set with a green cat's-eye gem. It opened his cheek, and blood ran down his face.
Reeling, Storvald shook his head and lunged for her. She danced aside, however, and he stumbled against the bar, flattening his hand against the countertop. Dezra drew her dagger and drove it through that hand, pinning it to the bar. There was more blood, and Storvald cried out again. He clawed for her clumsily. She ducked, spun, and hooked his uninjured leg with her foot, then hit his forehead with her knee as he fell. He went limp, hanging from the bar by his impaled hand.
Dezra straightened and pulled her dagger free. Storvald crumpled in a heap.
The Rusty Shield was silent. She pried Storvald's axe out of the bar and handed it to Brandel. “Yours," she said, nodding at the cudgel on the floor. "Thanks for trying to help-but next time, stay out of it."
She drained her half-empty tankard, then bent over the unconscious sellsword and grabbed his arms. "Give me a hand, Edelle," she said.
Grinning, the barmaid hurried over and took Storvald's legs. They carried him out and dumped him in the prickly hedgerow. "What if he wakes up?" Edelle wondered.
"He won't," Dezra said, and kicked him, hard, in the head. "That should keep him till morning."
They went back inside. Now that the surprise had worn off, the patrons carried on with their business. This wasn't the first time someone had been beaten senseless in the Rusty Shield.
Brandel poured Dezra another beer. "I'm looking for new muscle," he said.
Dezra laughed, taking a deep drink. "Look somewhere else. I'm leaving this louse-ridden town."
"Sure. You say that every week."
She shrugged, tracing her fingers around the rim of her stoup. "I mean it this time. Tomorrow morning, I'm gone."
"Dost thou, perchance, want company?" asked a voice from the doorway.
Dezra sighed. "Not another one," she muttered, quaffing her ale. "Can't a woman have a drink without every lout in town thinking-Brandel? What's wrong?"
The barkeep didn't say a word; he just gaped at the door. Curious, Dezra glanced over her shoulder, did a double-take, and stared.
It was the centaur, the one her father had been wrestling when Ganlamar caught her stealing the amethyst. He stooped down awkwardly, half in and half out the door. He wore a quiver of arrows and an enormous bow, and there was a long-bladed lance strapped to his war harness.
"Sorry, friend," Brandel said. "No horses allowed."
The centaur's eyes blazed. "I'm no horse!" he blustered, chin rising. "I am Trephas, son of Nemeredes!"
"Son of an old nag," Brandel muttered.
"Easy," Dezra said.
"No," the barkeep shot back, loud enough for Trephas to hear. "I don't want him in here, stinking the place up."
Trephas's face darkened. He lifted his head, sniffing disdainfully. "I hardly think my smell would hurt this place."
"Let him in, Brandel," Dezra murmured. "You've heard the stories about how much his kind drink. That's a lot of money to turn away."
Brandel thought it over. "Good point," he noted. "But if he craps on the floor, you're cleaning it up." He beckoned to the centaur, smiling thinly. "Come in, then, whatever your name is."
With some difficulty, Trephas squeezed through the door. He glanced around, then walked toward the bar, his iron shoes clacking against the wooden floor.
Edelle bustled over to Dezra with a tray of empty mugs. "You should see him from behind," she whispered, grinning. "Now I know where that saying comes from."
Brandel and Dezra snickered, drawing another hot look from the centaur. "What'll you have?" the barkeep asked, composing himself. "A glass of wine?"
Trephas regarded him like something he'd just scraped off his hoof. “A glass?" he asked scornfully. "You may as well fill a thimble, man. Bring me a pitcher!"
Brandel bristled, but Dezra gave him a look, and he brought himself under control. "Fine," he said.
"And it had best not be watered." Tossing his mane, Trephas pulled his lance from his harness and leaned it against the bar.
"Of course not," Brandel said tightly. He disappeared into the back. He carried a ewer, brimming with red wine, when he returned. Trephas reached for it, and he snatched it back. "I think you're forgetting something."
"What?" Trephas blurted. Then he chuckled haughtily. "Oh, of course. I forgot-humans pay for their drinks." He reached for the purse that hung from his harness. "Will five pieces of silver suffice?"
Brandel had been about to ask for only two pieces, but he quickly swallowed his words. "Er, yeah, that's right," he declared. "Five." He waited while the centaur counted the coins-they were old, dating back to before the first Cataclysm-then handed him his wine.