Romeria
All I can think about as Abarrane crouches in front of the man, her face inches from his, is how foul his breath must be after a night of drinking and sleeping, given how rancid it was when he propositioned me last night.
Pan and Fearghal rooted him out in this animal stable, surrounded by musty hay and horseshit, sleeping off the copious ale. Even half unconscious and hungover, he came up swinging, delivering several solid blows before Fearghal pinned him down and Pan hog-tied him.
This must be where he was thinking of squeezing me in for his little “give-and-take” deal. The thought stirs the urge to lose my porridge.
“Where would they be by now?” Abarrane hisses.
“I dunno.”
“Wrong answer.” The tip of her dagger digs into his chin, blood welling where the skin splits.
He grimaces. “I saw ’em leavin’ before dawn yesterday with a wagon and other supplies to take north. That’s at least a day of traveling? They probably would have handed off their cargo by now.”
“Where?”
“Hard to say. There’s a couple different meet spots. The saplings watch for signals. They always find ’em.”
“Flann here’s been on those runs before, so he knows at least one of those meet spots.”
The man glares at Fearghal. “What are ya doin’? Shut your big mouth!”
“How many mortals are transporting them?” Zander asks.
With another sneer at his bar mate, Flann says, “Three, likely. I ran into two of ’em in town the other day, but they usually travel in threes. Any time Isembert’s got one of yous from down south to get rid of, he calls them. If you’re missing people, he’s behind this.”
“Unfortunately, corpses don’t speak. If you do not want to become one, you better keep telling us what we want to know.” Abarrane releases her grip on his hair and stands. “So Isembert sends immortal travelers to the saplings, and in return, the saplings leave Norcaster alone. Clever. How long has he been conspiring with them?”
Zander’s nostrils flare. “For as long as elven have been going missing in these parts, I would wager. It’s how he’s remained in power for so long.”
Holding power by sacrificing his own kind. Except he didn’t see them as his own kind. They were from the south and bowed to the king. Enemies, as far as he was concerned.
“This does not make sense.” Jarek shakes his head. “I’ve seen Drakon fight a nethertaur on his own. How would three mortals best him?”
“Maybe your guys had too much mead.”
Abarrane grabs a fistful of Flann’s hair again, wrenching his head back. “They could drown in a vat of it, and they would still fight off your friends.”
“Dunno what to tell ya, then. Maybe they had help,” Flann manages through a pained wince. “I heard ’em talkin’ about the Ybarisans once.”
“That makes even less sense.” She shoves his face into the dirt.
He’s throwing out any bit of information he can, hoping for a reprieve from Abarrane’s abuse.
I have questions, and so far Fearghal has been the gold mine I’d pegged him for. “How many Ybarisans are left up there?”
He scratches his chin. “Hard to say. No one’s gone lookin’ for exactly where they are, and they mostly keep to themselves, but from what I’ve heard, I’d guess at least two hundred.”
I share a look with Zander. He’s thinking the same. Two hundred elven soldiers. That could either be a huge aid or a huge problem, depending on how willing they are to abandon their previous orders and follow new ones. “And how many vials of this poison?”
“Dunno.” Fearghal hesitates. “But most from Woodswich have taken it. Includin’ Flann here.”
“You bastard—”
Abarrane kicks the hog-tied man in the gut, earning a grunt.
I don’t feel sorry for him, though. He was trying to lure me in to kill me.