Thornbear (Book 1) (3 page)

Grace covered the line of yarn that served to indicate her mouth with one stuffed paw, “Master Gram, how bold of you! Are you asking to see me without my clothes?”

“What?” blurted Gram, already turning red. “No!”

***

That evening Chad Grayson was at the Muddy Pig, sitting in a corner of the main room, nursing a dram of whiskey. He was there most evenings, the huntsman was fond of his drink, but unlike most evenings his expression was dour and uninviting.

During the daytime many mistook his sharp tongue and quick reprimands to mean that he was unsociable. His given vocation did keep him in the woods for long periods of time after all. ‘They’ couldn’t be more wrong however, for once the sun went down and the tavern filled with people his more colorful side came to the fore.

He drank perhaps too much, though it varied considerably with his mood. Tonight he drank with the air of a man who had found his proper vocation, with seriousness and a distinct lack of small talk. The waitresses and other patrons avoided him. They had seen his darker moods on occasion in the past and knew better than to disturb him on such an evening.

Cyhan had never been one to exercise such caution. Entering the room he spent a long pause scanning the crowd before selecting his table. He sat across from Chad in the dark corner, signaling to the barmaid with one hand that he’d have a pint of brown ale.

“Piss off,” ordered Chad before the massive warrior had even fully settled into his seat.

Cyhan ignored the remark as he watched one of the hostesses bringing his pint over. He accepted the heavy wooden mug from her, nodding to indicate his thanks. He had never been overly expressive.

Chad lifted his own mug, his arm swaying as he called to the server, “Hey! Darlin’, I’m out.”

The young woman, Danae, gave him a concerned look. “Haven’t you had enough for a while?”

“Not yet, lass, not yet,” answered the woodsman. He glanced over at Cyhan as he sat back down, “Stop givin’ me that look. Ye can keep yer opinions to yerself.”

Cyhan took a long swallow from his mug, giving the hunter only a quick glance over the rim. He said nothing.

“Ahhh, ’m just tryin’ to make up for a spectacularly shitty day,” explained Chad.

Danae returned and filled his mug, pouring brown ale from a clay pitcher.

“That ain’t what I was drinkin’ lass, an’ ye know it,” noted the hunter.

“You’ve had enough of McDaniel’s whiskey,” she told him. “You really shouldn’t be drinking beer either.”

Joe McDaniel was the owner of the Muddy Pig and the first man to introduce distilled spirits to Cameron and Lancaster. The whiskey he produced was still ‘rough’ by his own estimation, but it was quite popular with the locals.

“Beer just sobers me up,” complained the hunter.

The statement might have been a boast coming from someone else, but Cyhan had seen the proof of it before. It took wine or strong spirits to overcome the master huntsman’s tolerance for alcohol. More than once he had watched the man grow sober after an hour or two of beer. Chad and the tavern owner, Joe, were much alike in that regard. Few men were fool enough to engage either of them in a drinking contest.

“Well it’s all you’ll be getting for a while,” said Danae.

Chad glared at her as she walked away, swearing under his breath. Drunk and angry as Chad was, Cyhan noted that the hunter’s eyes never left the gentle sway of her hips. Not until she had rounded the bar and passed from sight.

Cyhan snorted quietly.

The hunter looked at him, “You can jus’ shut up. I’ll stop lookin’ when I’m dead.” After a moment he added, “She ain’t that much younger’n me, anyway.”

The knight gave him a solid stare, then lifted his mug for a long pull.

“Go fuck yerself,” stated Chad quietly in response, lifting his own mug. Out of habit he used his right hand to grab the handle and winced automatically when his bruised bones sent shivers of pain through the alcohol induced haze. He switched the mug to his left hand.

The big warrior’s raised eyebrow was question enough.

“Ah…,” sighed the hunter. “I hurt it today. Got in a pissin’ match with young Master Gram. The lil’ prick took a swing at me, an’ I made the mistake o’ trying to catch his staff.”

Cyhan put his mug down, furrowing his brows.

“Nah, the boy started it,” said Chad. “Came out and stomped all over a spot I’d been layin’ at, waiting for a fat doe. Not that he knew that, but the boy’s got no sense o’ proper manners!”

The warrior waited as the hunter paused in his story.

“Well, I’ll admit, I was pretty irritated, and a little hung-over, but the boy’s got an awful short temper; nothing like his dad at all. Dorian was practically docile when he was a lad. He never even got in fights with the other boys, and he damn sure never took a swing at someone without good cause.” Chad looked over at Cyhan to gauge his companion’s reaction.

“It wouldn’t ha’ come to that,” argued Chad, “if the lad had had the least bit o’ respect or the slightest bit of patience. The boy was awful damn tetchy.” He paused for a moment, taking another sip of his ale. “An’ he sure don’t know how to take a joke—or cuss worth a damn.”

Cyhan raised both eyebrows.

“I called him ‘Rose’s doltish get’,” related the hunter, chuckling a little as he spoke. “What can I say? I was inspired. My da’ always said not to hide yer gifts.”

The Knight of Stone brought his hand up to his face, passing it over his eyes, and then up to smooth his forehead before running it back through his hair. Then he lifted his hand and waved at Danae to bring them more ale. He could tell it would be a long tale.

“I kinda wanted to forget about the whole thing,” said Chad, “but I guess if you insist, I’ll tell you about it. I almost bit off more’n I could chew. It was damn foolish really.”

Cyhan nodded, and Chad launched into an abbreviated version of his encounter with Dorian’s son, leaving the story more or less unembellished. Chad wasn’t one to color his stories, whether to boast or to sugarcoat. At the end, he came close to admitting his embarrassment.

“I never meant to let it get that far, but the boy’s damn strong, an’ he really does have a bad temper. Big as he is, ye expect him to be strong fer his age,” said Chad, slurring the words faintly. “But normally they ain’t
that
strong, or quick. He damn near broke my hand, and then he came close to pullin’ my arm outta its socket when I had him in a choke.”

The old knight coughed, muttering something before taking another pull on his mug.

“Yeah, I know,” said Chad, acknowledging the sentiment even though he hadn’t heard the words. “I shoulda’ expected it an’ jus’ left the boy alone. But by the time I got inta’ it, it was too late, an’ I’ll be damned if I take a beatin’ from some kid what ain’t even wet his sword yet, if ye take my meanin’. Shit, that boy was so mad he mighta’ killed me. He’d lost his head, and I ain’t exactly young anymore.”

“You should stop being an asshole, then,” suggested Cyhan, speaking his first clear words since taking his seat. “Sounds like your body can’t afford to pay the tab for your mouth any longer.”

The hunter stared at him without expression before laughing. “You should know!”

“If Rose would listen to reason, it probably wouldn’t have been a problem,” commented the quiet warrior. “He’d be training already, and you would have probably been more careful with your words.”

“Sometimes I think ye only come in this place to try an’ piss me off,” responded Chad.

The large warrior broke into a frightening smile, “Why do you think I usually sit next to you?”

“I figured it was my good looks,” said the hunter with a chuckle.

Cyhan glanced up, noting Danae’s eyes on Chad’s back from across the room. “Maybe I was wrong; the maid is definitely watching you closely. She might have an eye for you after all.”

Chad looked over his shoulder, nodding at the younger woman before turning back. “Nah, she’s just worried about me.”

“That usually indicates something,” said Cyhan.

“She’s not my type anyway,” said the hunter already sobering up.

Cyhan lifted an eyebrow once more.

Chad grinned, “Girl’s got a mouth on her. Ye should hear her cuss.”

The irony of that left Cyhan laughing for a long while.

Chapter 3

A few days later Moira encountered Gram in one of the halls not long after the morning meal. “Gram!” she called. “I wanted to catch you before you ran off somewhere or got busy.”

Busy?
he thought,
as if I am ever really busy.
Then another thought occurred to him, “Whatever Grace said, that is not what I meant!”

Moira paused, “Grace? What do you mean?”

Gram’s face felt hot, but he hoped it didn’t show. “She didn’t say anything to you?”

The young wizard frowned, “I talked to her this morning. Was there some message she was supposed to give me?”

“Err, no,” said Gram, fumbling to figure a way to gracefully erase his blunder. “Not really, don’t worry about it.”

Moira smiled wickedly, “Did she overhear something she shouldn’t have?”

“No, I—uh—I don’t think so.”

Moira Illeniel pursed her lips into a brief pout, “Well if she did, she didn’t repeat any of it. Despite what some think, she isn’t a gossip, or a spy. She speaks her mind, but she doesn’t eavesdrop for me.”

“What did you want to talk about?” said Gram, hoping to leave the subject.

His friend narrowed her eyes, “It’s a girl isn’t it?”

“What?!”

“I knew it!” she declared.

“No! It isn’t a girl. I—just stop!” he told her.

She watched him carefully for a moment, “No, I suppose not. But
if
there were to be someone, you should come talk to me.”

“I’m not interested in anyone,” he responded immediately. “And why would I talk to you about it anyway?”

Moira sighed, “So I could give you advice, and find out what she thinks, or maybe even help you avoid making mistakes.”

Exasperated, Gram started walking, “If this is all you wanted to tell me, then you should have saved your breath.”

“Matthew wanted to ask you about something,” she replied.

“About what?”

“Who knows?” she answered. “He hardly talks to me at all. He’s always cooped up in his workshop. It’s a miracle he gets any sun.”

“You could have told me that from the beginning,” complained Gram.

“It wouldn’t have been as much fun,” she admitted with a smirk.

“Do you know where he is now?”

Her eyes unfocused for a second before she replied, “In the workshop again, as usual.”

Gram thanked her and left, heading toward the entry hall. There were two workshops now; the old one that had once been the Matthew’s grandfather’s smithy, and the more secluded one beside the Count’s secret mountain home. Mordecai had switched to working in the shop beside his home over the past few years, and Matthew had begun using the older shop in the castle yard. He claimed it was so that he would have his own space, but Gram knew it was more for privacy. Matthew’s father was sometimes too overbearing when it came to safety.

He found his friend there, sitting at a table and scratching something into a heavy leather-bound journal. Glancing at it from across the room, Gram wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t decipher it. His eyes were more than sharp enough, but Matthew’s handwriting was famously deplorable. That, along with the fact that most of what he was writing was in a different language, punctuated by strange symbols, made it impossible to guess at its meaning.

“Hey,” he said, announcing himself.

Matthew grunted, acknowledging Gram’s arrival without looking up. He continued to scribble in the journal.

He looks just like his dad,
noted Gram mentally, for probably the hundredth time. He knew his friend well enough to know that he was in the middle of something important, or he would have set the book aside already. Leaving Matthew to finish whatever he was doing, he wandered over to the right side of the room where a long shelf beneath a window held a collection of oddities.

Most of the objects there were odds and ends that Mordecai, or in some cases Matthew, had created as amusements. Gram picked up one of his favorites, two wooden balls that, while physically unconnected, were nevertheless incapable of moving more than a foot and a half apart. They were heavy, roughly a pound each when held in the hand, but as soon as you released one it would hover in the air, as though weightless.

Gram placed them in the air in front of himself and began gently batting at them with a small paddle. The first ball flew away in one direction until it reached the end of its invisible tether. At that point it jerked the other ball into motion, and they began circling one another while drifting at half the speed of the original. Stepping around them, Gram struck one hard, causing it to fly violently in the other direction, yanking its partner out of its previous path.

He distracted himself in that fashion for several minutes, until he heard Matthew’s voice, “You ought to keep those. They were always your favorite.” The two of them had frequently shared the odd toys that Matthew received.

“Didn’t your dad give you these?” asked Gram.

“Nah, I made those. One of my first projects. I can make more,” explained his friend.

Gram was sorely tempted. “Thanks, but I think we’ve both outgrown ‘em.”

“Screw you then,” said Matthew with a half-grin. “I was going to make another set immediately. I still like to mess with a lot of that junk.”

“Fine, I’ll take them,” announced Gram. “If only to make you work more.” He caught one of the balls in his hand and watched the other spin in circles around it for a moment, and then he stopped it as well and put both of them in the pocket of his waistcoat. “What did you want?” he asked.

Matthew’s face became more serious, “About the other day…”

“Forget it,” said Gram. “I was just cross.”

“Yeah, I understand, but I had an idea…,” said his friend.

Gram gave Matt a sidelong look.

“…about what you said the other day…” began the young wizard. Matthew’s arms moved as he spoke, always seeming to be in danger of knocking something over, though they never quite did. “…about how you thought a wizard could do anything…”