“Suit yourself.” She left him alone at the table, counting his coppers, and went to the bar for one last drink. It was late, and she didn’t want to be staggering back to their camp, but she really needed to wash the taste of defeat and lies from her mouth.
The barkeep behind the counter was a middle-aged man with dark hair and a thick, bushy beard with streaks of gray. He and his staff had been attentive to the Crows’ every whim all night, which was more than she could say for the staff at the last roadside tavern. When they’d stopped close to Ostovan, she got the feeling the people there would rather spit on them.
“Doing good business tonight, I hope?” she said, putting one of the few coins she’d held in reserve down on the bar.
“Aye,” said the barkeep. “Better’n the last couple of weeks. You and yours’ll likely drink me dry, though. Stores’ll be empty ‘fore the end of the night. Guess the extra coin’ll make up for the fact I’ve got to go fetch me own goods now.”
She frowned. “What about the merchant caravans? They should still be running, even with the war. Especially with the war.”
There was a lot of money to be made during war, and one of the most opportune ways for a hired sword to make it was to escort merchants from one place to another. The Crows had been forced to turn down several such lucrative contracts to honor Ruith’s bargain with Lord Rowan Sullivan. Now, Rixxis and Ieduin were marching across the Free Cities with twelve hundred crows to reinforce Sullivan’s troops at Greymark. They were a day's march from the castle.
The barkeep shook his head and poured her a fresh tankard of ale. “Caravans won’t come this close to Greymark no more. Too dangerous with the bandit queen and her kind about.”
“Bandit queen?”
He nodded and put the ale down in front of her. “Aye. They say she’s a terrifyin’ sight. Wears all black and carries a whip. Can crack it and slit a man’s throat from twenty paces. She has her men lie in wait at the crossroads under some ruse. Convincing good, Divine-fearing men to stop to help. Then they slit their throats and take their goods. Ain’t safe to travel no more neither. Friend lost his daughter just recently, comin’ back from sellin’ seeds to Greymark. ‘Cept she didn’t make it home this time. Three days later, they find her corpse nailed to a tree. They took her down only to have the whole family come down ill. All of ‘em dead within the fortnight.”
“Magic? A curse?” Rixxis asked.
The barkeep shrugged. “Who knows? Makes a fella want to believe those old stories about the Wild Hunt.”
“What stories?”
He glanced around before leaning in, almost as if he were afraid he’d be overheard. “They’re spirits of vengeance that ride out under the full moon. They say it’s a ghastly sight, to see the eight pale riders emerge from the fog, and that any who do don’t live to tell the tale. Some say it’s the Thief himself who leads them. He rides in a shroud of black, his skin the pallor of death. Eyes the color of rot and ruin, his hair made of flame. He comes in times of dire need, summoned by the wails of women, the keening of orphans, the farmer whose fields burned, the mother who buries her sons. Their pleas to the Divine conjured the Hunt out of thin air, summoned them to this land to hunt and kill. But it’s just a story. Ain’t no spirits of vengeance out there, lass. None but you all.”
“It’s true,” said the man to Rixxis’s right. He turned on his stool, setting his tankard down. He was an aged man with a grievous scar across his right eye, leaving it cloudy and useless. Silver tinged his chin hairs, and his clothes were stained with mud and sweat. “It’s all true.”
“Not another one of your stories, Cullen, and I mean it,” the barkeep warned.
“I saw it with me one good eye just the other night,” said the drunk, pointing at his left eye. “My family owns the mill upriver. I was makin’ a timber delivery down to Greymark. Trinta says not to, but a man’s got to eat. Empty bellies don’t give two shits about civil war. I go where I’m paid, and Lord Sullivan always pays the best for the best timber. I’d tell you all ‘bout it, but me throat’s parched just now.”
“Honest, miss, it’s just how he gets free drinks.”
“Let him speak.” Rixxis held out two coppers.
Cullen grinned while the barkeep refilled his tankard. “Had a horse throw a shoe at the border, so we was late comin’ back. It happened at the crossroads, near here. Was a straw cart blockin’ our way and some poor tart begged us to stop and help her old man. So what do I do? I get down to help. I ain’t no monster. I don’t get two steps before there’s a knife at me throat. I tell the fucker I ain’t got no goods. I just finished me delivery, see? He says he’ll take the gold I made instead.”
“You were lucky to get away alive,” she said.
Cullen leaned in. “That’s just the thing. I don’t think he meant to let me. But just as I’m considerin’ puttin’ up a fight, a fog descends upon us, and then this arrow comes flyin’ out of nowhere. Eight horses, white as snow, come a gallopin’ out of the bloody fog, screaming like demons. And the men atop them—if they could be called that—well, they might’vebeendemons. Swords clashed. Arrows flew. Before I knew what was happenin’, six bandits lay dead or dyin’.”
“What did you do?” Rixxis whispered, fully enraptured by the story.
“I fell to me knees ready to beg for me life!” Cullen said and took a sip of ale. “I thought I was next. Then their leader dismounts and comes over to me, blood still dripping from his sword. And you know what he says?”
Rixxis shook her head, leaning in even more.
“He says I can leave unscathed on one condition. That I tell everyone what I saw that night. ‘Tell them loud,’ he said, ‘and tell them often. Tell any who will listen that Death himself rides to defend Greymark.’”
“Greymark?” Rixxis wrinkled her nose. “Why Greymark?”
“It’s all wild tales,” remarked the barkeep, shaking his head. “Stories about witches, demons, and monsters. It’s all nonsense. And Cullen needs to shut up about it ‘fore I toss him out on his arse.”
Rixxis returned to the table she’d been sharing with Ieduin all night, her untouched tankard of ale in hand. As she sank into her chair, she couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some truth to the tale the old drunk had told her.
“What?” Ieduin scooped the last of his coins into his bag. “Why do you look like you just saw an eight-legged ghost?”
She placed her tankard on the table. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any rumors tonight, have you?”