Page 30 of The Ashborn

“You think dear old dad will cut me slack for being kidnapped? Or is he as rough around the edges as you say?” Broan started across the river as a small village came into view, tucked low at the base of the mountains.

Kaelthar ran his hand down his thick, graying beard. “Hard to tell.”

As they neared the mountains, only a handful of homes were scattered across the rocky slope, their walls braced with fieldstone and lined with rough plank siding. Exposed beams crisscrossed the structures, weathered but sturdy. Thick chimneys rose from each straw-thatched roof, smoke curling into the cold sky. Woodsmoke and meat coated the air, along with the faintest hint of ale. That was a smell Broan intended to follow.

“The inn is this way,” Kaelthar said, pointing to a quaint building with little life around it. People went there to sleep. Broan wanted to drink.

Ithril disappeared into the inn without saying much. Broan would have preferred to go on this journey with her alone, and Kaelthar could have stayed cozy with the queen for all he cared. At least they would get to their destination without the ear bleed.

“I’m going to eat and drink,” he said dully.

Kaelthar grabbed Broan by the arm. “The Meadstead’s not for us. We pass through, nothing more, lad.”

Broan lit his hands with a faint copper glow. “Piss off, Chatterbox. I’m hungry.” He ripped himself from Kaelthar.

The councilman only sighed and slumped, “I’ll fetch Ithril in case it turns foul.”

Broan walked away, annoyed. He didn’t need Ithril if things turned foul. Broan was strong with his own magic. If Kaelthar couldn’t see that, he could fuck off, too.

As he entered the Meadstead, an immediate wave of comforting heat from the fireplace greeted him. He hadn’t realized how biting the newfound chill was until he abandoned it. Ale scorched his nostrils, a welcomed burn. His lips curled as men and women bustled loudly around the room. Long tables and benches were draped with fur and occupied by a group of people, sitting, drinking, and singing. Some towered over the others but didn’t meet the same stature as Broan or Kaelthar. Half-bred?

Animal hides lined the walls, stitched together in rough patterns that spoke more of warmth than anything else, and antlers adorned the fireplace. Everything about this place screamed survived comfort, the kind only a mountain town could know through brutal winters and tight-knit seasons.

At the bar, a broad-shouldered barkeep wiped at the counter with a soaked cloth, barely keeping pace as mugs sloshed over the mead and laughter. The place smelled of roasted meat, pine smoke, and a sweat that only too much ale could bring. Broan closed the door behind him, shutting out the cold. As he did, the entire room turned and bellowed in unison, “Ho there!”

Finally. A group of people Broan could rally with. He let out a deep chuckle and approached the barkeep. “What’s the best thing you got?”

“EitrAle’ll put a fire in your belly,” said the barkeep.

“But frost on your beard!” Another man laughed, bumping into a mug and spilling the contents all over the bar. The barkeep reached for another rag, wiping yet again.

Broan laid a coin on the table, one that Tristian had given him. The barkeep looked at it, brows raised to his hairline. “Elvish coin? This could buy the whole Meadstead.”

“Well,” Broan laughed. “Looks like I’m buying a round for everyone tonight.” The room erupted in cheers as the barkeep served a drink to Broan. He chugged it, the ale barely settled before he wiped at his lips and belched. “Another.”

He drank more than he ate, which was nothing. He clinked mugs with another in the room and sang loudly with his new companions, buying another round for everyone as they resumed their merry dance. Kaelthar entered soon after, crossing his arms.

The Viking councilman approached Broan, muttering something, but Broan could barely hear over the laughter and chants. At one point, he told Kaelthar to loosen the fuck up, buying a third round for good measure. Certainly, Broan deserved a night like this. He survived two battles against the King of River Storm, fighting monsters that could rip his fucking throat out. If Kaelthar couldn’t see that, well… Broan stumbled a little, nearly hitting a group of hooded figures in the corner.

“Apologies,” he grumbled and then laughed.

When he turned back to the crowd, Kaelthar was singing. The EitrAle certainly had magic to it.

“I gotta piss,” Broan slurred and stumbled outside.

He found a corner to stand in and stared off into the distance. The ale did what it was meant to do. Warmth danced alongside the frost, and a haze of images blended in weird patterns. Broan belched, composed himself, and turned to see three men in front of him. He leaned toward them, hoping to get a better look in the clearing. “Hey, fellas.”

Their faces were hidden under hoods. They were in the Meadstead earlier; he remembered that much from their dark cloaks and particularly human nature compared to the others, who had Viking in them somewhere.

“Guardian of River Storm,” said one man, voice firm and low.

Broan sobered as much as he could, standing straight. He only had a knife with him, but he counted…one…two…five…six? Six swords in front of him. He wiped his face again to clear the doubles and realized there were only three. Broan needed to sober up faster, otherwise he’d destroy the village with magic to deter these men.

“Who are you?” Broan asked. His tongue turned to lead. He should have eaten before the fourth pint.

“Soldiers to the true king of the realm,” said another. “What’s your business here?”

“I don’t think I would share that with King Vaerin’s puppets.” Broan pulled his knife from his belt. “Are we expecting trouble?”