Honey opened her mouth to speak, but Ainsworth couldn’t resist interjecting. “It’s one of the few metals that can pierce through most enchantments on a foundational level, and it has been theorized it can even pierce through the hide of a dragon. All knowledge, of course, has come from accounts of adventurers, and no full experiments have taken place, but it has long been assumed in folklore passed from generation to generation that should you face a dragon, a weapon of slivang is what you should seek. Some even say it manifested originally for the heroes that rose up against the dragons during the Great Sweep, piercing the hearts of the dragon rulers and allowing those that could not use magic a defense of their own. Oh, Fern, although I pray for your safety, please do tell meevery detail of what happens if you strike the dragon with one of these!”
Ainsworth thought he might topple over from the excitement. He might have the opportunity to contribute to scholarship on dragon-hide with such an account! He’d gain an audience with some of the most intelligent, powerful, and well-connected scholars in the Skarrow Library.
Fern’s laughter brought him back to the table. “Well, we’ll only strike if it strikes us first!”
“Let’s say it strikes you, then you strike it andkillit. Would you go rooting for its treasure?” asked Quiddle.
Fig gave a good-natured laugh. “We take each day and opportunity as it comes, lad. We’ll see what happens.”
Honey fiddled with one of the trinkets on her horn as she spoke—a small crescent-moon charm that appeared to have become entangled with an adjacent charm depicting a shooting star. “The dragon has never shown its head around here, nor has it given us any trouble. Like some of its kin across the kingdom, it seems to have slinked away with its tail between its legs. It may just let you pass if you do not pester it.” Bren sat a little straighter at Honey’s words. “As it has never given us trouble, I do not think it an unreasonable beast—if it is indeed, as they say, presiding over a great hoard hidden there. But— Well, these musings do not make the stuff of songs! Move the table, Bren, and the rest of you move your chairs closer to the hearth, and I shall grab my harp. I’ll sing a song befitting your quest to give you courage for tomorrow.”
Honey perched on a small velvet stool next to the flickering flames of the hearth, the amber light setting her usually cold visage aglow. The blue hues of her skin were infused with warmth and light, complementing the surprisingly husky, melodious tone of her singing voice. Her tail seemed to sway in time to the beat of the song she spun, interlacing Fern and Fig’s shared history with their courage, making the days ahead sound like a small challenge for such bravery. Ainsworth cursed himself for not having his writing materials and watched Honey intently, committing her words tomemory. Surprised and mesmerized by Honey’s performance, he leaned forward in his chair as the song progressed, as though being physically closer to her would envelop him further in the exquisite notes. What a talent! Her songs, he decided, must be included in his manuscript—a starting point for spreading the legend of the Misnich Inn and its adventurers far and wide. It might even raise Honey’s name to prominence, cementing her as a bard whose tales were worth circulating across the kingdom. Ainsworth could be responsible for helping her escape such a dreary, isolated life here at the foot of Mount Vengeance.
At one point, her eyes flickered to his, and upon meeting his intense gaze, she seemed to fumble the next note in surprise. But such was her skill that she covered the almost-slip, her only tell a deepened flush on her face that could easily be explained away by the heat of the fire.
When she finished, the staff and guests whooped and applauded, then Honey launched into more lively, well-known songs. Fig and Fern sprang up with glee as Honey began the jaunty number depicting the chase between Gwyneth, the Huntswoman, and the Borderlands Boar, and Ainsworth straightened in his seat. He knew such a song only existed because of the account made of the adventure by a Skarrow scholar, and he had even examined the original manuscript (with the utmost care) in his first semester of study. He turned to share such information with Quiddle, but the boy had already jumped up to join the rest.
Spinning and laughing, the guests and Quiddle carved a space for dancing. Bren swayed happily on his stool, his cup miraculously full despite it never being far from his lips. Quiddle tried, in vain, to get Ashe to dance with him, but she instead sat with folded arms and laughed at his pleading. He finally turned to Ainsworth. “Come on, sir! Honey never brings out these tunes!”
Initially, Ainsworth balked. This was not the kind of music he would normally dance to, and he very much hoped that whatever folk songs came from his published work on Mount Vengeance were not as bawdy as this one!
Everyone knew the words to these kinds of songs, which spilled from taverns and were whistled and sung by every passing sailor. But…dancingto them? For him, dancing was reserved for Hinslyth’s balls. He and Enach would practice, breathlessly, in their small rooms beforehand, determined to make a fine, elegant show of their courtship. Sweeping, intricate steps, stiff backs, and impeccable timing were required. So as he watched Fern and Fig throw each other around, spin, laugh, and jump while Honey increased the tempo, he cringed a little. Not at them, but at himself. Could he ever be so…unrestrained in his joy? He imagined what Enach would say if he caught Ainsworth in such an act.
Quiddle nudged him again. “Come on!”
“Scholar! Join us!” Fern called, bending over to catch her breath. Privately, Ainsworth wondered if she was fit enough to actually traverse the mountain. “Let us mark the beginning of our journey, and our newfound friendship!”
“Oh, very well!” Ainsworth replied. Impulsively, he downed his wine and jumped to his feet. Honey, he thought, was watching him from beneath lowered eyelids. And…was that a grin on her face? Well, if she would dare mock him for his attempts, think him not up to the task, he would prove her wrong!
However, he did find himself remarkably out of breath after just one song, the stamping and spinning occurring at such a furious rate that his shirt was sticking to his back by the end of it. As Honey and Bren started a new song, somehow even faster than the last one, Ainsworth sought the relief of the cool night air. Caught up in the dancing, he was sure no one noticed him slipping through the front door. Outside, he stood doubled over with his hands on his knees, welcoming the rush of cold air into his lungs. He then realized that, should Honey see him in such a state, she would mock him. He shot upright at the notion, and his eyes followed the slither of golden light that spilled from the inn door as he did so. It stretched and soared across the ground—
Illuminating a set of ghastly, enormous green eyes some way up the inn’s path.
Ainsworth froze, his druid-blood lineage suddenly reminding him that he was prey to the creature in front of him, which revealed a set of gleaming, sharp teeth as it growled, black ichor dripping from its maw.
It raised its huge head to the sky and howled.
The door burst open behind him and Ainsworth yelped. “Matron, Gladsly, what do you think you’re doing out here?” Ashe strode in front of him. She wiped the remnants of some ale from her face with the back of one hand and held out her staff with the other. The beast—which was at least twice the size of a wolf and had fur as black as the night—had been about to charge toward him, but now it hesitated, its hackles raised in the wildeshifter’s presence. “I knew I should not have retreated inside for so long tonight,” she sighed. “I’ll handle this.”
Ainsworth, still too paralyzed by shock to move, only jumped into action when Ashe roared at him as she ran toward the beast. “Get inside and stay out of my way, Gladsly!”
He stumbled back, but another figure rushed out and pushed past him. “Ah, time for a warm-up, is it? Wait for me, wildeshifter! I can be of assistance!” Fig drew his rapier, chasing after her.
Before Ainsworth could get ahold of himself, a hand snatched the back of his shirt and pulled him inside. “Come on, leave them to it. They’ll be back in a few minutes,” Honey said as she closed the door, speaking as though Ashe and Fig were merely retrieving water from the burn. She looked at her hand, then at Ainsworth. “Ugh, your shirt was damp. Why are you so sweaty? Is the dancing too much for you?”
“W-what do you mean ‘leave them to it’?” Ainsworth gaped. “This is— I mean…The inn is under attack!”
“Honey, come over here, Quiddle’s requesting we play the one from that city of his,” Bren called. “I cannot remember how the ending goes.” Fern and Quiddle were whooping with joy and twirling across the floor, and Honey went to meet them. Ainsworth felt as though he was going mad—or perhaps he was the only sane person in this feral place. Why was no one else currently fearing for theirlives? Why did no one move to barricade the door, or even so much as wince at the snarls and roars carrying through the walls from outside?
“Don’t just stand there, Ainsworth!” Honey called from her bard’s stool. “I told you. They’ll be back in a moment.”
“What was it anyway, Honey?” Quiddle asked.
“Looked like a madadh-dubh. Quite a big one.”
Ainsworth shivered in recognition of the name—a savage, canine beast whose ichor inflicted more pain than its bite. The stuff of nightmares, manifest at their door!
“Oh. Boring,” said Quiddle. “Ashe’ll be done with it before we’ve finished the next song.”
