Page 11 of The Scouts

Fuck, I needed a drink. “I’ll wait for you there.” I jerked my chin towards the tavern located several buildings down the road.

He acknowledged it with a nod. Just before jumping on the step to get inside the carriage, he clasped my hand in his. It rendered my fingers numb for a while.

* * *

ERVYN

Even though the signboard above the bar declared it The Hare & Donkey, most Gwhwÿnians referred to the tavern as ‘the Hairy Arse’. A poorly executed depiction of two long-eared critters of undetermined affinity loomed in the background, painted beneath the runes. The artist's questionable choice aside, the place sold quality drink and tended to get lively in the evenings. It mainly catered to gendarmes and City Guards.

I positioned myself in the corner, securing a clear view of the entrance. Having handed the rosy-cheeked innkeeper a fistful of silver, I instructed him to keep pouring until I ran out of coin.

To start with, I went with dark Trovian rum. After two measures, I switched to the local spiced wine and, eventually, moonshine. The latter came with more kick and less strain on the bladder. And it reminded me of home.

I was doing grand at first. Just killing time and keeping my shit together. A full glass and the crowd swarming about served as a distraction, allowing me to hold my worry and imagination in check.

However, that didn’t last.

I had a strong head in general, but these days my alcohol consumption tended to be sporadic. And apart from titbits served with tea at the heiku earlier, I hadn’t eaten. The shots downed on an empty stomach caught up with me faster than I’d expected—and not quite in the way I’d hoped. Instead of winding me down to the point of pleasant indifference, I began feeling queasy, unsteady on my feet and more irritable.

The tavern continued to fill up.

With every passing moment, the air inside grew staler—pungent with the odour of beer and gravy. Punters continued to push their way through to the bar, bumping into each other, cursing and squabbling. Incessant howls of laughter, lewd jokes and out-of-tune singing jarred my nerves.

Soon, the little cogs in my head jolted into swing and wouldn’t quit turning. Doubt and disturbing images raided my brain. If the old Highland proverb about sweating jealousy in the form of vinegar held true, I must’ve reeked like a jar of pickles.

Around midnight, the atmosphere around me shifted. Even preoccupied as I had been, I couldn’t fail to notice.

Having declined—perhaps a little abruptly—several drinks and chat offers, I found myself a target of dirty looks.

A nearby group of guards continued to eyeball me, exchanging quiet comments between themselves.

Not quiet enough for my liking. Even though I tried my best not to listen, fragments of the conversation met my ears.

“… looks like a Dark Elf.”

“...can’t be.”

“… sure as shit has the accent.”

“His hair…”

“… unnatural...”

“… a freak.”

They weren’t being particularly original. Of all the insults, the latter had never stopped being a personal favourite. I clicked my tongue Highland-style, a coded message for dumb motherfuckers.

I wasn’t a tavern brawl novice. Far from it, in fact. I’d been barred from an inn or two in my time back in Black Mountain. Mostly with good reason, even though it often had plenty to do with Verhan’s mouthy gob and me backing him up. But that night I wasn’t seeking trouble. I just wanted to get wankered, wallow in self-pity and wait for Lochan. Even if I liked the odds of one against ten—and I didn’t—starting a fracas would surely put me on the cover of Heinnés’ shit book. That didn’t string my bow in the slightest. Therefore, unless the guards really stepped on my little piggies, I resolved not to engage.

Careful to avoid anything that could’ve been perceived as a provocation—like a glance that went on too long or an eyebrow arched in condescension—I threw back another shot.

Sadly, my goodwill to overlook their bad manners went unappreciated.

One of the men must’ve craved entertainment more than the others because he decided to kick it off. Of course, he turned out to be the biggest of the bunch—the circumference of his neck easily surpassing that of my thigh.

“Oi,” he said, taking a step in my direction. “Oi, fairhead.”

Confronted with such a grand conversation starter, I shifted and craned my neck. Quite a way up.