Page 233 of The Discount Damsel

Terrified goats abandoned their mindless munching and dashed for the safety of the village as the copper galleon crested the hill into the sky. Their bleating alerted the chickens, who tossed their feathers into the air like a squid dispels ink in an attempt to befuddle a predator.

In short, the little village nestled in the southern hills of Calumbria was thrown into chaos in a matter of seconds. The shepherds, having no weapons against such a threat, quickly gathered their herds and hunkered down with them in their stone cottages.

Only one man rushed towards the perceived danger. He was about the size of a bear and just as thickly haired and muscled. He beat the hilt of a carving knife against one pectoral the size of a watermelon and bellowed a challenge. The juggernaut barbarian was just as Millie remembered him, though he’d traded his hide trousers for a fur kilt.

“Ivar!” She waved down at him. “Wonderful to see you again. Mind if we come down for a quick chat?”

“Keep your panties to yourself,” he shouted. “I have a new ice flower now.”

“How lovely for you. Still need to chat with you about a job proposition, though. You’ll get to use a battle-axe,” she sang.

“Not a freaky, whispering one, right?”

“You knew?” Bradley exploded, almost vaulting over the gunwale to get at the barbarian thirty feet below.

Millie hauled him back and forced a smile. “Only the best uncursed battle-axes for you, Ivar the Bane.”

The barbarian chewed on his lower lip as he mulled this over, then jabbed the carving knife towards the inn on the southern edge of the village. “I’m supposed to be watching the bread.”

Under the eaves of the inn’s sod roof, Ivar the Bane stole glances through the window, presumably at an oven inside, as he waited for Millie and Bradley to approach after anchoring. His eyes narrowed on the sorcerer, now in blue cashmere instead brown homespun.

Without asking permission, he reached out and tested the fabric between thumb and forefinger. “Mistress Kimbraleah’s work.” His gaze traveled up to Bradley’s face. “You’re still a very ugly woman.”

Bradley punched the barbarian square in the jaw. He hadn’t needed to infuse his fist with magic to make the barbarian’s head snap back either. “That’s for giving my dragon a cursed warhammer. It almost killed him!”

Ivar didn’t retaliate, instead prodded his jaw for loose teeth. “Cursed? Huh. It was sneaky, whispering. It made me feel strange, but it made me stronger.” He shrugged. “Live and learn.”

“Is that it? Is that all you’ve got to⁠—”

Millie tugged on his arm. “Perhaps it’s best not to provoke the simpleton with the carving knife, hmm? Now, Ivar, about that job?”

Grunting, the barbarian opened the inn door and gestured them inside with a jerk of his bearded chin.

“What was the source of that unseemly disturbance?” a peasant woman called from the stove. She had her back to them as she stirred a pot of blackberry jam, her long blonde hair swishing in time to her stirring. “And did it raise more than your blood, my Tireless Thruster? My Ravishing Champion? My⁠—”

“Miss Sicily?” Millie gasped.

Her former etiquette tutor spun around with a scream and a sling of blackberry jam. Her face drained of its crimson embarrassment to milky mortification.

She collected herself with the same speed that had earned her that Exemplary grade in Principles of Poise. Sicily tossed the wooden spoon back into the jam and perched her hands on her hips. “The bread, Ivar.”

The barbarian hurried over to the oven and extracted the loaves with his bare hands. Rosemary and wild garlic lifted with the steam as he set them on wire racks to cool.

“To what do I owe this unpleasure, Your Highness?” Sicily asked.

Millie couldn’t reconcile the uptight, dignified etiquette tutor of three months ago with the rustic innkeeper who spoke in lusty epithets standing before her. She blurted, “Are you tumbling the barbarian?”

“A proper young lady would never ask such a question.”

Millie tittered. “Oh, we both know I am no such young lady. And good for you!”

Sicily smacked her lips, but it lacked the vigor of disapproval that usually accompanied the gesture. No one of her former life would have ever accepted this risqué (and very liberating) decision with such unadulterated enthusiasm. Her lips didn’t exactly smile, but they relaxed out of her frown.

“This is a lovely place you have here,” Millie continued.

“Folks needed a place to land after certain Tisanes uprooted them, first a king and then his daughter, so we made an inn. Wanderer’s Rest.” She eyed her former pupil. “What are you doing here, Your Highness?”

“I’m here to offer Ivar a job.”