Chapter Three
Three
Juniper rolled over on his pillow, which was much firmer than he remembered. He lifted one hand groggily to pummel the offending pillow into a softer shape and—
Mo’s hand closed around his wrist.
Mo?
In his bedroom?
Juniper jolted upright, the room immediately spinning around him. Except it wasn’t his cozy farmhouse bedroom, after all. He had been lying on the hard, cold floor of the local jail, his head pillowed on Mo’s firm thigh.
That was why it had been an uncomfortable pillow. Mo’s legs were simply too strong.
“Um,” Juniper said, looking at Mo, who was leaning serenely against the wall of the cell. “What in Divona’s name is going on?”
“You,” Mo said.
“Me?”
The night was coming back in flashes now. There was Mo’s sadness, and there was Bill, and drinking, and fighting, and distracting Mo but doing it badly, and listening while some poor sap sang during náiriú poiblí, and—
Oh.
A muscle in Mo’s jaw twitched, as if he were trying not to laugh. “We got in quite the brawl,” he said. “With an entire band of mercenaries. I think you mistook one of them for Bill.”
Juniper groaned and sank down on the grimy stone floor of the jail cell. “And why are you here?”
“Well, I wasn’t about to let you fight them all alone,” Mo said. He did grin this time, just a little. He had a split lip and a scratch down his arm, but he looked altogether better than Juniper felt.
“And why are we in jail, and not them?” Juniper asked.
A clink, and the outer door opened before Mo could answer. Three men entered—one of them a short, eyebrowless man who looked very unhappy to be there. The other two flanked him, tall, pale human men with gaunt faces and swords on their hips.
“You’re awake,” the small man said. “I am Quest Recruiter Garreth. Gentlemen, please bring these two out.”
The two others opened the door, the first grabbing Juniper—likely because he didn’t want to have to grab Mo. Juniper didn’t blame him, because Mo looked as strong as he was, tall for a human and more broad-shouldered than most of the people of their land typically were.
Juniper bit, though. So he had that going for him.
“Are you aware of the penalty for harming the captain of a band of sworn mercenaries?” the recruiter asked.
“Oh, dear,” Juniper said.
“He thought the man was Bill,” Mo offered up, shrugging one shoulder when the recruiter leveled a cold stare at them.
“Do you go by Gary?” Juniper blurted. He seemed like the kind of man who would go by Gary.
Mo sighed softly.
Guilt threaded Juniper at the sound, riling his already upset stomach. It was no wonder Mo wanted to leave him behind—Juniper was exhausting.
“What is the penalty, exactly?” Juniper asked when the recruiter didn’t answer.
The men with the swords were standing very close to him, and that made him anxious—and when Juniper was anxious, it caused something Juniper and Mo had nicknamed “Irritable Bruggane Situation,” in which Juniper’s stomach sounded more like the grunting of an elderly bruggane grandmam than a human organ ought to.
“You have to take his place.” Garreth—probably Gary, Juniper really was sure about that one—stared down his nose at Juniper, as if Juniper ought to know the consequences of his actions. Far be it from Juniper to think ahead about such things.
“Or?” Juniper asked faintly.
Mo reached out his free hand, settled it on Juniper’s shoulder.
The guard yanked him back roughly. If it wouldn’t have made things immeasurably worse for Mo, Juniper would have turned around right there and landed his fist in the guard’s face, come what may. Nobody, nobody treated Morn Elmthorn that way, not on Juniper’s watch.
Gary wiped his nose on his sleeve before he answered Juniper’s question. “Public execution,” he said, his voice sounding more nasally than before. “Now, you’ll be signing to take the place of the man you injured last night.”
“If I’d known he was important,” Juniper muttered to Mo, “I would’ve only headbutted him once or twice.”
Mo’s lips tightened, but not angrily. “You kept calling him Bill as you were punching him,” he said. “And said something about ‘no, you get a room’ and about the werewolves being fake.”
Juniper squinted down at the scroll Gary was holding out. “The Bill Bronson, Esq. party?” he blurted. “That’s the one you want us to join?”
Mo sighed again, this time turning his gaze toward the low stone ceiling as if praying to the old gods for patience.
“The law requires that you join a mercenary party,” Gary said. “Unless, of course, you had a different party to join?”
A mercenary party, as defined by the king (may he stub his toe for this), contained at least two people of mature age, whatever that was for their species.
Twenty winters, for Mo and Juniper’s. Thirty-four, for the bruggane.
With the sidhe, of course, it was impossible to tell who was fifteen winters and who was fifty, so on that front, Juniper remained ignorant.
“A different party?” Juniper stammered. “I don’t have a party.”
How embarrassing, to be an adult with such a limited circle of friends. How did people make friends as an adult?
Juniper filed that question away for later.
And then Mo’s eyes snapped to Juniper, his gaze holding and burning. “He has me.”
Three words, heavy and soft, and they changed everything.
For a moment, Juniper could hardly stand. It felt as if he were a stray seam unraveling. As if he were standing and watching his beloved cottage crumbling in front of him.
Because Mo wanted to go.
“He does?” Juniper blurted.
Mo nodded, just once, and when Gary held out a new scroll, Mo took it wordlessly.
“A party of two is a foolish choice,” Gary said, but he shrugged one shoulder.
“Usually, you would receive two payments—one, a small fee you collect just for joining, and the other a prize if your band completes the quest. Though, of course, in this case, you’ll forfeit the joining payment because of your lawless activity, and—”
The guard still hung on to one of Mo’s arms, but Mo held up a large, calloused hand, and Gary fell silent.
Juniper shivered at the sight. His Mo, mild-mannered even when getting in a fight as Juniper’s backup, looked different to him in the cold, dull light inside the cell.
He looked unbending and sure of himself.
Despite the dim surroundings, Mo looked like the kind of image drawn in scrolls, the ones that contained stories of saving children from burning cottages or defending a ship from a sea serpent, or whatever other heroic feat the old gods would smile upon.
“The usual payment is more than enough to cover a bloody nose,” Mo said firmly. “And to generously cover any trouble we may have caused. If we are successful, we will still receive the full reward.”
Gary hesitated, and then scoffed. “You won’t win it,” he said. “But of course.”
When he drew up the papers, Mo signed first, and then Juniper, his hand trembling.
“What about our farm?” Juniper asked, but nobody answered him. He desperately wanted to also ask, And what about my cheese? But that was a foolish, selfish question, so he kept it locked inside.
The paper was a little crumpled—and smelled a bit foul—but Juniper read it with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
De-Dragon Your Homeland (Single-Scroller)
Health benefits of going on a quest: Healers don’t want you to know this simple trick for increasing your lifespan and—
Of course there was an advertisement first. The recruiters always included those; it got them extra coin.
Juniper scanned past to the legal jargon, all written in the common tongue.
Quest: Capture a dangerous adult dragon and any offspring in the north of the kingdom, near the Gray Mountains.
Chief deliverables: Dead dragons
Timeline: From the autumnal equinox until Samhain, to be extended by order of the king or by two moons, whichever is longer.
Note: Please see your recruiter about bonus opportunities and to set SMART* goals that will enable you to stay on mission and align with kingdom objective of eradicating the dragon problem.
*SMART
S: Stop at nothing
M: Make every moment count—if you have time to smoke, you’re not a king’s bloke.
A: Attack! Attack each day—rise early, fight hard, and make your country proud.
R: Respect other mercenaries. We are all in this together!**
T: Track your progress by reporting to a recruiter at least once every moon.
Terms and Conditions apply.***
**Please note that only one band of mercenaries will receive the reward.
***Early exit from this quest will result in—
The rest was smudged, but Juniper signed wearily at the bottom anyway.
When they were finished, Gary handed Mo a map and strict orders to remain on the quest until it was finished or until it was Samhain, whichever came first, and told him to read the extensive terms and conditions in their packet (attached).
But Juniper hardly heard a word. When they stepped back out into the village, it was still dark, the sun a few hours yet from coming up. Juniper shivered, hugging his arms against the cold.
Mo said nothing, but placed the cloak—looking much the worse for wear and smelling of mead—around Juniper’s shoulders. “We leave at first light,” he told Juniper softly.
“First light?” Juniper gasped. “It’s the off-season. I will be asleep, for several hours. And then I will have caife, and a little jaunt by the stream. And then—”
Mo clapped Juniper’s shoulder, guiding him down the street and back toward the taverns, which were quiet as the dead now. And where, Juniper prayed to the old gods or whoever would listen, there would be no sign of Bill Bronson.
“Let’s be off,” Mo said. “Lots to do tonight. Lots to pack. An early start.”
“Lots to— No,” Juniper said. He shook his head. He was still a little drunk, he realized, though not drunk enough to ignore the fine cocktail of shame and anxiety swirling in his belly.
Mo’s big hand found his shoulder again. “Off we go?” he said cheerfully.