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26

Clover

One lookat the elf and you know the man is trouble. He’s good-looking in a roguish way, with a crooked smile that proclaims he’s the worst sort of scoundrel. He has slender, aristocratic features, but his nose is just crooked enough it must have been broken at least once, and there’s a short, thin scar above his right eyebrow. Though the imperfections mar his beauty, they make him undeniably intriguing.

And he’s obviously very aware of this.

With a dramatic bow, he says, “Welcome to Crevershim Hollow. You are our first visitors in… Well, you are our first visitors.” He takes my hand and brushes a kiss over my knuckles. “To what do we owe the honor?”

I pull my hand back, less than impressed. “What’s an elf doing in a Dorian community?”

“Ayan, you worthless thrall,” one of the gnome women yells at the man. “We’re not paying you to stand there yammering.”

“You’re not paying me at all,” he calls over his shoulder.

That’s met with a string of gnomish words I don’t understand—and likely don’t want to.

The elf looks back and winks. “We’ll talk later.”

I roll my eyes as he walks away. When I glance up at Henrik, I find him studying the tables a little too intently.

“Come on, soldier,” I say, looping my good arm through his. “Let’s find a place to sit.”

He looks down, mildly surprised, and cracks a smile. “Preferably not by the muircorns.”

I laugh as my eyes wander to the paddock at the far side of the community area. Several of the animals stand near a fence, looking bored.

Like the donkeys the humans brought over when they came to Caldenbauer, muircorns are stout, horse-like creatures, no larger than ponies, with two curling horns protruding from their heads between their long ears.

Native to this land, they were originally domesticated by the Boermin and used for pulling plows.

Even though they’re strong workers, humans don't generally keep them because they emit a unique smell from a pair of glands that could easily compete with the cheese my aunt makes.

The particular ambiance they’d lend to the dining experience wouldn’t be a pleasant one, and we purposely choose spots at the furthest table from them. Two gnomes sit across from us. They cut off their conversation abruptly and glare at us as we find our seats.

Naturally, the tables are short, and Henrik looks like a giant as he tries to fit his large self on the bench—which is no easy task. Finding the situation amusing, the gnomes snicker into their mugs of home-brewed mead.

Henrik offers them a tight smile, too well-mannered to let his frustration show.

“Why don’t you sit at the end of the table?” I suggest, taking pity on him.

The soldier nods, uncomfortable, and abandons the long bench to sit on the ground, crossing his long legs. Even in that position, the table only comes to his stomach. Once he’s settled, he grimaces, and I try not to laugh.

Bartholomew joins us a few minutes later. Shorter and lankier than Henrik, he doesn’t have nearly as much trouble maneuvering onto the short bench, though there is no room for his legs, and he too must cross them under the table.

“How is Pranmore?” I ask, knowing Bartholomew stayed with him while Maisel tended to my arm.

“Better, I think,” the young man says, nodding a friendly smile to the inquisitive gnome next to him. “Evening.”

The gnome grunts and turns back to his mead.

“Dinner smells delicious,” Bartholomew says brightly, crossing his hands on the table as he watches gnomes filter in around us, filling the tables. “I’m famished. What do you think we’re having?”

Before I can answer, Gruebin stands and clears his throat, drawing the attention of those in attendance. He’s tall for a gnome, putting him at roughly the same height as a five-year-old child. His thick brown beard is braided, and the tail falls to his chest. Even in the safety of the glade, he wears his metal and leather cuirass, making me wonder if it’s more a fashion statement than a functional piece of armor.

“As you’ve all noticed,” he begins, “we have guests tonight. They claim to be passing through on the human king’s business—”

Several grumbles interrupt the jarl, and suspicious eyes dart our way.