Chapter Seven #2
They reached Filleadh just as the shadows began to grow long, making the burnt husks of trees look like gnarled, bony fingers reaching toward the golden-and-pink-streaked sky.
“We’ll stay at the inn, of course,” Juniper said. Beds were a glorious invention, as opposed to whoever had invented sleeping on the fucking ground.
Filleadh was a bigger town than Tús, but only slightly, and only because many travelers passed through it on their way farther north into the wilds.
The king was dead set on exploring all the wilderness until it was no longer wilderness and was instead bustling villages and farms. For the economy, he said each time he cut down swaths of trees and brought in more businessmen circling back about coins.
The wolves, Mo always said, were less sure about the king’s plans. Juniper, for his part, opposed the businessmen on principle, of course. They were useless in a brawl and cried too easily. As for the rest of it—kings and economies were not his strong suit.
Here in Filleadh, the roads were packed dirt, just like back home, and while the street they walked on was quieter—shops had all shut for the day—the sound of merriment drifted from a few streets over.
“I don’t think we’ll stay at the inn,” Mo answered Juniper. His gaze swept the dark street, his posture alert. “We can replenish our supplies and then find a campsite outside of the city walls.”
Juniper pulled up short in front of a barbershop that advertised silky smooth manly skin in blooming painted letters and all the latest in beard styling below it. “You think we’ll fucking what?”
“Besides,” Mo said. He didn’t slow at all, as if he just expected Juniper to run now that he was a few paces behind. “These inns are notorious for having only one bed.”
Juniper, run? Maybe, for the right mead. And certainly for cheese. But with a pack on his back, and bad news to boot?
Mo was incorrigible.
“Only one bed is better than only no bed,” Juniper declared. “And the woods, in case you had forgot, have no beds. None at all. Even less beds than usual, because I kicked mine into a forest fire.”
“Wait here,” Mo said. “Keep watch for me? I want to learn more about how far this dragon news has gone, but I want to do it subtly.”
Morn Elmthorn was many things, but subtle was not one of them. Juniper, however, was even less subtle, so he accepted Mo’s plan. Reluctantly.
When the door shut behind Mo, Juniper slumped against the wall. Was it his imagination, or were the nearby sounds of merriment turning a bit…fierce? The sound of shouting grew closer.
Juniper stood up a little taller immediately, his hand dropping to the single knife he’d brought along.
He’d known they were untrained, unprepared.
But he hadn’t thought until this moment, where he stood alone in an unfamiliar town, just how bad this could get.
The dragon itself had been more theoretical to Juniper than anything.
A group of human men—well, one could be part-bruggane—staggered out through an alley, arguing loudly with one another. “They said there’s a whole horde of dragons,” one insisted loudly.
Juniper drew back into the shadow of the shop, glancing at the door. He should go inside. Oh, but Mo had asked him to keep watch, and he so rarely asked for what he needed. Juniper could do this.
“There’s not a horde,” another man in the party snapped. “It’s just one, you dimwit.”
The group continued down the dirt road, but the sounds of a scuffle intensified as they went—along with a grunted Don’t shove me, you gods-cursed mountain midge alongside of it.
Juniper was just about to knock on the shop door and see if Mo was all right in there when a man in a long cloak, hood up over his face, came racing down the street, waving his arms.
“Help!” he shouted.
Juniper straightened. Help was inside. He was just Juniper.
But he wouldn’t leave someone calling for help. That was not the Tús way, or Juniper’s way, despite it all.
“What is it?” Juniper called, stepping toward the runner.
But the other man had no chance to answer, because a tall, well-muscled man wearing finely crafted armor and carrying a sharp, curved blade, rounded the side of a nearby shop.
The first stranger tripped, sprawling near Juniper’s feet, the second charged in, blade raised, and Juniper didn’t think. Just—
Stepped out of the shadow of the building, raised his hand high above his head, and slammed the hilt of his knife into the armed stranger’s head.
There was a loud thump, and the man slumped to the ground.
Juniper breathed out with a loud whoosh of air before offering his hand to the man who’d been chased through the streets. “You all right?” he asked. “What was that all about?”
Juniper’s luck was holding, because the man he’d just saved shoved his hood back.
Bill. Juniper had saved Bill fuckin’ Bronson.
As if on cue, the shop door opened, and Mo exited, his brow furrowed. “I heard shouting,” he said. “You all right— Oh, I see.”
Mo didn’t see, though Juniper could understand the mistake.
“It wasn’t actually Bill and I fighting,” Juniper explained, wrinkling his nose as he looked at Bill, who looked back at him with astonishment.
Probably surprised that Juniper had saved his hide.
“Let’s go,” Mo said. Then he gestured to the unconscious man who’d been pursuing Bill. “Wait, who’s he?”
“He was trying to kill Bill,” Juniper said. “I’m sure he had a very good reason.”
He nudged the man with his boot.
Bill was still staring at them both. Now his mouth opened, just a little. “We joined a mercenary band,” he said. “He wanted to be part of it. I said we were full, and he—”
Bill shivered.
Juniper would not sympathize with him. Would not think about how terrified Bill—who was also only a lad from Tús, when it came down to it—must have felt.
The sound of footsteps thundering made all three of them stop, Mo’s hands dropping to his belt of knives. He stepped forward, blocking most of Juniper’s view as he stood between Juniper and whatever threat came around the corner.
It was Phteven, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Oh, Bill,” he gasped, rushing in to grab Bill’s hands. “I— What?” He stared in confusion at Morn and Juniper.
“Um,” Bill said. “Juniper…I was being chased, and Juniper knocked the man out. I don’t think he knew it was me.”
Both Phteven and Mo looked at Juniper.
They didn’t have to look that surprised. Juniper was a hater, not a monster.
“Thank you,” Phteven said. Like Mo’s had earlier, Phteven’s gaze swept up and down the street, looking for more threats.
“Phteven.” Mo acknowledged the man with a nod.
“Morn.” Phteven nodded back. “We were just headed to the inn to meet with a possible business partner when Bill wandered off. You sure you don’t want to join us?”
Mo stood steadfast, feet planted on the packed brown soil. “We’re all right,” he said.
“Are the rooms nice?” Juniper blurted.
“Oh, lovely,” Bill said. “Though they’ll likely be sold out for the night, since we have rooms promised to us already, and there’s royalty in town. I’m sure you hadn’t heard.”
Juniper had just saved his life.
And he had already met the prince Bill was trying to brag about. Still, he raised his fists, grinning at Bill.
“Not tonight,” Mo said quietly. His hand found Juniper’s shoulder and squeezed, sending a shiver racing down Juniper’s spine. “Sleep well, Bronson.”
Juniper’s head snapped to Mo.
For two reasons.
One: Mo almost never stopped him before he got in a fight. He preferred to let Juniper brawl until he needed help, or jump in immediately and join the pummeling.
Two: Was there a threat in his tone just now? Why had he made sleep well sound like Bill should be sleeping with one eye open?
Maybe that last part was just wishful thinking. After all, Morn didn’t usually try to wade into the undercurrents of speech that way.
But by the way Bill’s already white skin paled considerably, Bill had heard that, too.
The men moved on, their pace quicker, while Juniper trailed behind Mo again.
“We really can’t stay at the inn?” he asked, definitely not sounding like a petulant child who has just been told that no, he may not have a lick of the honey sticks at the market. “If we run”—ugh, there he went suggesting running again—“we could probably beat Bill to a room.”
“Only one bed,” Mo repeated, as if that was the only rebuttal necessary. “I know you value your space. Let’s get you a replacement bedroll, and some food, and off we go.”
If Mo didn’t stop saying off we go, Juniper was going to have to do more tackling.
And he didn’t want to do more tackling, because his shoulders were very, very, very fucking sore.
So it would be considerate of Mo to stop saying annoying, cheerful phrases like off we go and spare Juniper’s poor shoulders.
I know you value your space.
The words rattled in Juniper’s chest, hollowing him out.
Mo was already walking again, his stupid long legs making his pace look easy.
They dodged a lively group of sidhe who were arguing about how much of the coin prize each of them would get when they found the dragon, and stopped outside a small stone building on the corner a few streets away.
Mo looked down at Juniper with that steady, warm gaze that made Juniper feel like he was unraveling. “I think that was brave of you,” he said.
“Oh.” Juniper swallowed uncomfortably. “I—thank you.”
Mo nodded, and pulled open the door before Juniper had a chance to make it weird (start crying, throw himself into Mo’s arms, launch into a story. Divona only knew what could happen; the options were endless).
Inside the shop were rows of gear people must often take into the wilds: thick, heavy cloaks, red leather jerkins, bows with deadly sharp arrows, hefty boots.
“One bedroll, please,” Juniper told the clerk, a short, squat man seated on a stool behind the counter.
“On king’s business?” the man asked in a voice that reminded Juniper strongly of the large-billed herons that hunted for fish in the creek back home.