Page 34 of Tusks & Saddles

Chapter Seven

Welborn

H igh Cleric Gnaul Swoth had been missing for an entire day.

According to Amaldona, she had last seen the High Cleric the day before. He had been in high spirits, but there had been some matter he needed to take care of further into the city. When Welborn pressed for more information, there was little else to go on.

The High Cleric had shared breakfast with Amaldona—sausage and beans—then he had gone into town to run errands. Those errands consisted on checking on the supplies he ordered from Irongarde General , stopping by the sheriff’s office, and stopping by a tavern to pick up a bottle of Eshorion whiskey.

“It’s very good whiskey,” Amaldona had said. “All the clerics at the seminary raved about it. I never had any but they all swore by it.”

Welborn’s concern had only grown worse as Amaldona went on. He nearly fell over when he realized his fellow cleric had spent the night camped out near the well. She insisted that it was fine—it was how she and the High Cleric had been living for weeks .

“That was when you had the High Cleric with you, but it’s not safe to camp alone, Amaldona,” Welborn chided—as much as he would allow himself to. “If we can’t find the High Cleric by nightfall, I think it’s best if we find an inn to stay the night.”

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Maybe Miss Eaves put a little fear in him with her talk about the dangers of the new continent.

Or maybe it was that Welborn simply knew better.

Despite Amaldona’s reluctance, she eventually agreed.

They had a late lunch—dried fruit and jerky—and Amaldona packed up camp.

While she secured her pack, Welborn scribbled a note in case the High Cleric came back, directing him to Cutter’s Tavern he had grown up with an older brother after all. He understood the meaning of a good ‘scram’ when he heard one. Respectability had it’s place, and Welborn had ever intention of respecting Miss Eaves’ wishes…

But his curiosity . It was eating at him that he didn’t know more about her. That she had blown into his life—rather literally—and he had yet to see her face. Miss Eaves was mystery, she was curiosity personified. If she wasn’t a sign from the All Seer, Welborn wasn’t sure what else she could be.

“Understood. I’ll do my best to respect your wishes,” Welborn murmured.

“Good.”

Miss Eaves collected the rest of her drinks and walked away. The gnawing feeling in Welborn’s chest wouldn’t allow him to keep quiet, though.

“Miss Eaves?”

She paused.

“What is it?”

Welborn pressed his boots into the floor.

“If I happened to need help…locating a missing person…would you know where I could go about finding help?”

The question hung in the air, getting lost within the shuffle of new patrons entering the tavern. A bark of laughter could be heard from the other side of the building, and conversations filtered in and out of Welborn’s pointed ears. A moment later, Miss Eaves continued walking away.

Disappointment made Welborn weary as he turned back to the bar.

The barkeep had laid his beer and milk within reach.

Welborn would take a few minutes to sit in the feeling—the alcohol would help with that—then he would get back to the task at hand.

He needed to find High Cleric Gnaul Swoth, no matter the danger.

With renewed resolve, Welborn turned, drink in hand and nearly let out an undignified squawk as he collided with Miss Eaves.

His hands instinctively shot out in an attempt to keep the liquid from spilling onto either of them.

The brief sensation of their bodies touching was so fast, Welborn wasn’t sure if his heart hadn’t made it up.

The only thing that assured him it had was Miss Eaves had grabbed a hold of the belt at his waist. In her effort to keep him from falling over, her gloved hands tightened and pulled him forward.

“M-miss Eaves!” Welborn stammered.

“If you want to do it the legal way, report to the sheriffs office. It’ll take some time, but the Dust Wardens aren’t completely useless,” Miss Eaves said.

“But…?”

“ But , if you don’t have time, look into the mercenary guild. A handful of the folk in here work for them directly,” Miss Eaves shook her head, a sigh disturbing her veil for a moment. “And if you’re really, really desperate, I can introduce you to one of the members.”

Her hands were still on his belt and Welborn was struck by it.

Miss Eaves was the first woman to ever put her hands on his belt— while he was wearing it.

And while her hands were covered, Welborn could still feel her hold on him.

She was so close to him. Close enough that Welborn could see the subtle silhouette of her face behind the curtain of cloth.

There was definition to her jawline, an angular shape to her face.

Welborn wished for more, wanting to greedily take in everything that lay beneath her veil.

“Welborn?”

He flushed green.

“That’s very generous of you, Miss Eaves,” Welborn managed with a small amount of relief at his almost normal tone.

“Oh, it’ll probably cost you, make no mistake about that,” Miss Eaves said with a hint of a smile.

Welborn wished he could see it. When her hands retreated, Welborn tried not to mourn the distance.

He was being ridiculous, there was no doubt about that.

Welborn had been slow in comparison to his brother.

Boone had always tackled the task at hand.

He supposed that’s just what big brothers did.

Welborn hadn’t been like that. Maybe it was what little brothers did, but Welborn had always felt like he was falling behind.

Last to grow up, last to leave home.

Last to be sweet on a woman…