Outside the tavern, rough voices, one growling, another snarling. A sharp order crackled, then silence. A breath of air on a quickening breeze slipped beneath the door. Kerian smelled horses. Hollow in the belly, suddenly she thought she smelled blood.
At the hearth, the older hound lifted its head. Tail curled tight, hackles high, it looked from Nayla Firethorn to the door. Nayla made sure of her short sword, while her companion spoke sharply to the hound.
A thud boomed through the tavern, the sound of a booted foot slamming into wood. The door flung opened. The hounds never moved, the older growled low.
Three Knights came into the tavern on a chill gust of wind. Behind them tattered leaves and golden bits of straw whirled around the feet of three of Eamutt Thagol’s Knights. Armed, mailed in black, the Knights wore helms and kept the visors down. They drove a prisoner before them, a woman with hands bound in front, ankles hobbled. Her silvery hair hung in her face, matted with sweat and blood, She wore a hunter’s gear, leathers and a shirt of bleached cotton. Cut loosely, meant to lace in the front, the shirt hung on her torn, rent nearly in half. She held the pieces together across her breast with bound hands. Cuts and bruises marred her lovely face, dirt and tears smeared her cheeks. She’ d fought hard before her capture.
In the firelight and shadow, Kerian realized the woman was Kagonesti. Tattoos wound between the bruises and scratches on the sun-browned skin of her neck and throat, the creamier gold of shoulder and breast. The prisoner looked up, her glance skittering around the common room. Her eyes had a haunted, hunted look in them.
Bueren touched Kerian’s arm. “Hush,” she whispered. “If you do the wrong thing, or even say the wrong thing, you could get her killed. Her, yourself, or the rest of us.”
Eyes on the Knights, the two hounds held their posts. The elf at the window and the two villagers shot glances at each other, looked away, and then quickly abandoned their tables with a skitter of coins. Like shadows, they slipped behind the Knights and their prisoner and out into the chilling night.
Bueren looked up, keeping her expression neutral, her voice level. “Sirs, can I get you food and drink?”
The tallest Knight flung back his visor and removed his helm. His bald pate glistened with sweat, and his scarred face was hardened by the habits of cruelty, eyes cold as stone and narrow, lips twisted in a sneer. He shoved his prisoner forward, so hard she fell to her knees. On elbows and knees, she stayed there, head hung, catching her breath. In her ragged breathing, Kerian heard low groaning.
Bueren gripped her arm, held her back.
The other Knights removed their helms, a dark-haired youth and a red-beard in his middle years. They wore merciless expressions. In another time, in the days before the Chaos War, the Knights of Takhisis admitted only the sons and daughters of nobility to their ranks. Men such as these would not have been allowed to muck out the stables of a Knight’s castle, let alone take a Knight’s oath. The Dark Knights had been hard warriors in the cause of their Dark Queen, dauntless in pursuit of her Vision, but they were Knights, and they had prized honor and all the noble virtues. In these dragon days, these godless times, the Knights of Takhisis-now the Knights of Neraka-must fill their ranks however they could. It was rumored- though no one in Qualinesti could imagine the rumor true-that in some places even half-ogres wore the black armor.
“Sir Egil,” Bueren said, striving to sound casual as she acknowledged the bald one. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Won’t you and your men take that large table in the middle there? I’ll bring drinks-”
“Ale!” snapped the dark-haired one, his voice cracking.
“Dwarf spirit,” growled the red-beard.
In the corner by the hearth, Stanach Hammerfell never budged, not even a twitch of his hand, but Kerian thought she saw the faintest flicker of scorn in his blue-flecked dark eyes.
Bueren jerked her chin at the woman on her knees. “What about her? You’re not going to just leave her there, are you?”
Sir Egil shrugged. He strolled past the prisoner, kicking her absently. The dark-haired boy did the same, though kicking with more enthusiasm. Red-beard grabbed the woman by the rope binding her hands and dragged her to her feet. He shoved her ahead of him to a small table near the bar and tied her by the hobbles to the chair. His eyes were small and mean, like a pig’s, when he narrowed them meaningfully at Bueren Rose.
“She don’t get nothing, that Kagonesti bitch. No water, no food. I won her, and she bit and cut me tn rne ngxii, so now I get to say. Ain’t no one goes near her, hear?”
The younger Knight wiped his drooling mouth with the back of his hand. Kerian’s belly shivered in disgust as he turned his gaze upon her.
Bueren poked her sharply. “You. Didn’t you hear? They want food.”
Kerian stared, Bueren gave her an impatient shove toward the kitchen. “Go on. Tell my father we have customers out here. Three plates, piled high.”
Kerian nearly stumbled over Bueren’s father as she went through the swinging door into the kitchen. She knew Jale as well as his daughter-a little deaf Jale claimed to be, but he heard most of what went on in his tavern. His face slick with sweat from laboring over the steam pots, spits and baking ovens, he handed her a laden tray.
“Out with you. Go feed them before there’s trouble,” he said in a low voice.
Kerian balanced the tray on her hands and turned back to the door.
“Wait!” Jale slipped her knife out of her belt, and threw a food-stained white towel over her shoulder-in all lands, dragon-held or free, the badge of a tavern waitress.
As she had seen Bueren do many times, Kerian managed the door with her hip, kept the burdened tray level, and returned to serve in the tavern. She put a plate of food before each of the Knights. Already boisterous with drink, the Knights filled the tavern with their shouted oaths and rough curses. Kerian bore the jostling and lewd comments. She managed to keep her temper when the red-beard’s arms encircled her waist, his hands sliding swiftly up. Eyes low, she wrenched away, hoping he would think her cheeks colored with embarrassment rather than anger.
The one called Sir Egil rocked his chair back on two legs, picking his teeth with his dagger. The dark-haired young man licked his lips.
“Come here, girl.” Red-bearded Barg’s eyes grew colder.
The boy snickered, rattling dice in the pouch. Spittle glistened on his lips, and he licked it away. Sir Egil yawned.
“Don’t,” groaned the prisoner.
Kerian turned.
Barg shouted, “Shut up, you!” in the instant before an empty pewter wine pitcher hit the floor with a clanging thud.
Swift as a rabbit out of the snare, Kerian leaped to retrieve the pitcher. Her fingers closed round the handle, and Stanach held up his right hand, showing broken fingers in the firelight.
“Damn thing just fell out of my hand,” the dwarf said, snorting in disgust. He glanced at two gravy-stained napkins piled on the table. His voice louder, his tone suddenly irritated, he said, “Clear this mess off the table, will you, girl?”
Kerian picked up the napkins, nearly dropped the long-bladed knife tucked between them. With wide eyes she made what she hoped were convincing apologies for neglecting the dwarf and his companions. “If I can bring you anything else-”
Stanach just turned away as though she weren’t there. Haugh leaned across the table to say something to him about how he was tired and would be going upstairs.
Kerian didn’t hear the rest and didn’t try to. In her hands now she held a weapon, at the back of the kitchen, she knew, was a door that promised escape. In their furtive way, the dwarf and his companions had told her they were with her, whatever happened next. Pitcher in hand, knife hidden, she now passed the prisoner, the bruised Kagonesti woman. She glanced at Bueren Rose. Her friend’s eyes widened slightly.