Page 37 of Anwen of Primewood (The Eldentimber #2)

A s the days grow colder, they are also shorter.

By the time we cross into Errinton, it is mid-afternoon, and the sun is already making its descent.

In a few more hours, it will be dusk. The mountains rise around us in jagged ice-capped peaks, but the snow that blanketed the ground this morning has melted in the meager sunshine that broke free of the clouds early this afternoon.

Now the roads are mucky and rutted from wagon wheels.

Gray patches of snow linger in shadows under trees and behind rocks and crags.

On one side of the road, a sheer cliff rises.

Only a few persistent evergreens cling to rocky shelves.

There are caves in the rock face that most likely shelter bats.

The thought makes me tense. Surely, like rodents, they are asleep for the season.

“You look uneasy,” Galinor says.

“I am a little.”

It’s not bats that truly make me nervous. Though the flying vermin would be unpleasant to encounter, they aren’t nearly as bad as dragons. We’re in their land now.

We’ve passed no one on the road the entire day, and the emptiness is eerie.

“How far to Gelminshard, do you think?” I ask.

Galinor carries a map with him, but he doesn’t consult it, having already studied it at length. “An hour—maybe more, maybe less. It depends on the road ahead.”

I chew my lip, waiting for trouble.

Pika seems nervous as well, though I don’t know if it’s because she senses something, or if it’s all the new smells. She walks beside us, her tail snapping back and forth. Danver darts between rocks, never straying too far from Pika.

A large plain stretches to our right. In any other kingdom, this land would be farmed, but here, it is littered with rocks and the occasional boulder.

Patches of dry, brown tundra grass blow in the wind.

They are the only sign of life. It’s possible wildflowers grow here in summer, but now it’s desolate.

In the distance, a small herd of shaggy cattle graze.

What they could have found to eat, I don’t know.

We ride on, never seeing a soul. Soon, nestled in a valley ahead, a village appears in the distance.

“It’s not what I expected,” I say.

Gilded rooftops gleam in the evening sunshine like beacons. A castle rises from the rear of the town, an impressive fortress of gray stone. The gates to the village are flanked with two huge, life-size dragon statues. Even from this distance, it is impressive.

I give Galinor a questioning look .

He shrugs. “Only a decade ago, Errinton was the wealthiest of Elden’s kingdoms.”

“How sad,” I whisper, and then I turn to Pika, motioning to the rocks and trees. “Go on now. Danver, you too.”

We’re well away from any people, so they should be safe here. I don’t dare take Pika into Gelminshard—not into a village of dragon slayers.

Once Pika and Danver are hidden from sight, Galinor and I ride into the village.

Sharp-eyed guards watch us enter, but they don’t ask our business.

As we ride through the gates, I realize the grandeur from a distance is deceiving.

The streets are dirty. Small, pale children sit in groups, playing in the dirt.

Half are dressed for summer, and the others are in clothing both tattered and too small. They watch us pass, their eyes intent.

The adults are no better. Women scowl at us, and more than a few shifty men track us with their eyes.

Toward the center of the village, a stone building stands.

At some time—though I do not believe it was recently—its roof caught fire.

It was a grand building once, standing proud in the middle of the square.

As we pass it, I study the charcoaled sign, which hangs askew from the shop front.

“It was the armorsmiths’ guild hall,” Galinor says quietly. “It’s best not to show too much interest.”

I look away, instead studying the cobbled street. Across from the guild hall, there is an inn. A young girl sweeps the step. She’s not well dressed, but she is clean, and when she sees us, she smiles.

Her smile falls when we ride past. For a moment, I wish to stop, but then I remember the man from the road in Coppel’s warning. Galinor seems to hesitate as well, but he continues. We make our way through the town. The air is getting quite cold, but it’s nothing compared to our welcome.

The Dragon’s Claw is toward the back of Gelminshard, not far from the castle.

There is raucous laughter drifting from the interior, and I give Galinor a questioning look.

He isn’t impressed, but he pays a boy to mind our horses and offers me his hand.

I glance at the youth. He appraises the horses greedily.

I hope they are still here come morning.

When we enter the inn, we have to press through the crowds.

A fire roars in the hearth. It would be quite welcoming if it weren't for the drunken chaos.

Near the hearth, two tables have been joined together, and it seems there is a game of chance underway.

A crowd has gathered around, and they roar with approval when a large man, dressed in armor, tosses the dice on the table.

Two women flank him, and he leans down and kisses one before he turns to the other.

I wrinkle my nose and look away. Something tells me this is not our sort of establishment. “Galinor…”

The prince looks as disgusted as I feel, but as he debates our next move, the barman calls to us. “Visitors! Welcome!”

Half the crowd turns to us, curious to see who the barman addresses. “Visitors!” they bellow in mimic, holding up their tankards. More than a few of them are quite drunk already, and their drinks splash to the floor. None seem to notice, and they all take gusty swallows .

A large, blond-haired man finishes his drink and slams the clay tankard on the table. It smashes, and his comrades laugh.

Galinor tugs me close, and we move to the bar.

“We are traveling through,” Galinor says, his voice low. “We met a man named Peter.”

The barman nods knowingly, his expression brightening with recognition. He leans closer. “You must be careful in these parts.” His eyes wander to me, and they travel over my face as if they’re assessing my character. “Stay clear of the games,” he warns.

“We intend to.”

A man next to us at the bar leans over and grins. He’s missing half his teeth, but he must think himself still quite a charmer because he winks at me.

I shudder and look away.

“We need a room,” Galinor says to the barman while staring down the drunken man. The prince sets his hand on the hilt of his sword and raises his eyebrows in challenge.

The drunk holds up his hands in a placating gesture and laughs.

The barman slams a new tankard in front of the man. “Take this, Maynard, and get out of here before you cause trouble.”

The man accepts the mead and leers at me as he steps away. I only feel faint relief when he joins the group at the tables and doesn’t look back.

The barman’s eyes flicker over me. “One room for you and your wife then?”

Instead of correcting the man, Galinor nods .

The man turns toward the hanging keys behind him. “What brings you to Errinton?” He hands Galinor a key. “Outsiders seldom grace my tavern.”

Galinor glances around the room. “We’re here to hunt an iktar beast. Are you familiar with such an animal?”

The barman’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “An iktar?”

He looks at us like we’re fools. What beast could bring on such a reaction in a kingdom where hunting dragons is considered afternoon entertainment for children?

The barman leans closer. “Have you seen one yet?” he asks, his voice ominous.

Galinor shakes his head, and the barman nods.

“Do you know much about them?”

“No.”

The man takes a deep breath. “They’re fearsome creatures.” He shakes his head. “Even dragons give their nests a wide berth. Are you sure you want to hunt one?”

“We have no choice,” Galinor answers. “We came for an iktar, and we will not leave without one.”

“You’ll need a guide.”

Galinor narrows his eyes. “Tell me where I may find one, and we will guide ourselves.”

“It’s impossible.” He ladles thick stew into two earthen bowls. “You need someone who can track them, someone who knows their ways. The iktar have taken to the high mountains this time of year.”

“Don’t most animals move lower when winter comes?” I ask as I accept the stew.

The barman rests his weight on his forearms. “Most do, yes. Not the iktar. It moves high and looks for animals that are weak and vulnerable.”

“What is this beast?” I ask.

“It’s like a bear but larger and muscled for speed like a mountain cat. Its teeth are like razors, and its senses are heightened past that of a normal predator.” His gaze moves to Galinor. “Few men have ever seen one, though many have become its prey.”

Just lovely. Thank you, Ergmin.

Concern shadows the man’s face. “You’d best not take your lady into the mountains, friend.”

I press close to Galinor’s side. “I go where Galinor goes.”

Galinor glances at me, his expression solemn, and he nods. He turns back to the man. “Where can we find a guide?”

The man huffs out a breath, and his eyes travel the room. “Nine out of ten men would rob you blind.” He surveys the crowd and shakes his head.

A gust of wind blows through the overly warm room as a man strides into the tavern. Many call to him, but he shows little in the way of a greeting.

The man is tall. His hair is dark and short, and a jagged scar stretches from his temple to his chin, crossing his eye. As if sensing our attention, he glances at us. I look away, but not before I notice the wicked looking hunting knife strapped to his hip.

“Ah,” the barman says, satisfied. “There is your man.”

I stir the lifeless vegetables in my bowl. “Who is he?”

“Penrith of Bourke,” the barman answers, his voice quiet with awe .

Galinor seems unimpressed. “Should that mean something to me?”