Chapter 5 #2
Initially, Ainsworth balked. This was not the kind of music he would normally dance to, and he very much hoped that whatever folk songs came from his published work on Mount Vengeance were not as bawdy as this one!
Everyone knew the words to these kinds of songs, which spilled from taverns and were whistled and sung by every passing sailor.
But…dancing to them? For him, dancing was reserved for Hinslyth’s balls.
He and Enach would practice, breathlessly, in their small rooms beforehand, determined to make a fine, elegant show of their courtship.
Sweeping, intricate steps, stiff backs, and impeccable timing were required.
So as he watched Fern and Fig throw each other around, spin, laugh, and jump while Honey increased the tempo, he cringed a little.
Not at them, but at himself. Could he ever be so…
unrestrained in his joy? He imagined what Enach would say if he caught Ainsworth in such an act.
Quiddle nudged him again. “Come on!”
“Scholar! Join us!” Fern called, bending over to catch her breath. Privately, Ainsworth wondered if she was fit enough to actually traverse the mountain. “Let us mark the beginning of our journey, and our newfound friendship!”
“Oh, very well!” Ainsworth replied. Impulsively, he downed his wine and jumped to his feet. Honey, he thought, was watching him from beneath lowered eyelids. And…was that a grin on her face? Well, if she would dare mock him for his attempts, think him not up to the task, he would prove her wrong!
However, he did find himself remarkably out of breath after just one song, the stamping and spinning occurring at such a furious rate that his shirt was sticking to his back by the end of it.
As Honey and Bren started a new song, somehow even faster than the last one, Ainsworth sought the relief of the cool night air.
Caught up in the dancing, he was sure no one noticed him slipping through the front door.
Outside, he stood doubled over with his hands on his knees, welcoming the rush of cold air into his lungs.
He then realized that, should Honey see him in such a state, she would mock him.
He shot upright at the notion, and his eyes followed the slither of golden light that spilled from the inn door as he did so.
It stretched and soared across the ground—
Illuminating a set of ghastly, enormous green eyes some way up the inn’s path.
Ainsworth froze, his druid-blood lineage suddenly reminding him that he was prey to the creature in front of him, which revealed a set of gleaming, sharp teeth as it growled, black ichor dripping from its maw.
It raised its huge head to the sky and howled.
The door burst open behind him and Ainsworth yelped.
“Matron, Gladsly, what do you think you’re doing out here?
” Ashe strode in front of him. She wiped the remnants of some ale from her face with the back of one hand and held out her staff with the other.
The beast—which was at least twice the size of a wolf and had fur as black as the night—had been about to charge toward him, but now it hesitated, its hackles raised in the wildeshifter’s presence.
“I knew I should not have retreated inside for so long tonight,” she sighed. “I’ll handle this.”
Ainsworth, still too paralyzed by shock to move, only jumped into action when Ashe roared at him as she ran toward the beast. “Get inside and stay out of my way, Gladsly!”
He stumbled back, but another figure rushed out and pushed past him. “Ah, time for a warm-up, is it? Wait for me, wildeshifter! I can be of assistance!” Fig drew his rapier, chasing after her.
Before Ainsworth could get ahold of himself, a hand snatched the back of his shirt and pulled him inside.
“Come on, leave them to it. They’ll be back in a few minutes,” Honey said as she closed the door, speaking as though Ashe and Fig were merely retrieving water from the burn.
She looked at her hand, then at Ainsworth.
“Ugh, your shirt was damp. Why are you so sweaty? Is the dancing too much for you?”
“W-what do you mean ‘leave them to it’?” Ainsworth gaped. “This is— I mean…The inn is under attack!”
“Honey, come over here, Quiddle’s requesting we play the one from that city of his,” Bren called.
“I cannot remember how the ending goes.” Fern and Quiddle were whooping with joy and twirling across the floor, and Honey went to meet them.
Ainsworth felt as though he was going mad—or perhaps he was the only sane person in this feral place.
Why was no one else currently fearing for their lives?
Why did no one move to barricade the door, or even so much as wince at the snarls and roars carrying through the walls from outside?
“Don’t just stand there, Ainsworth!” Honey called from her bard’s stool. “I told you. They’ll be back in a moment.”
“What was it anyway, Honey?” Quiddle asked.
“Looked like a madadh-dubh. Quite a big one.”
Ainsworth shivered in recognition of the name—a savage, canine beast whose ichor inflicted more pain than its bite. The stuff of nightmares, manifest at their door!
“Oh. Boring,” said Quiddle. “Ashe’ll be done with it before we’ve finished the next song.”
Ainsworth clutched his chest, still trembling from being in the presence of such a beast. “Fern! Y-your brother is out there. Aren’t you worried? What if there’s more?”
“Well, it’s only polite that we pull our weight where we can, and I left my bow upstairs.
He’ll be fine. Right, can you show me how to do that spin again?
” She turned back to Quiddle and began a spirited dance once Honey and Bren became engrossed once more in their music.
Ainsworth watched as Quiddle and Fern bounded across the floor, elbows flying, and wondered briefly if he was more in danger of being injured in here than out there.
Oh Matron, just what kind of unruly place is this!
After another song, Ashe and Fig strolled inside, arm in arm.
“That was quite invigorating!” Fig boomed, the fur of his face and arms rumpled.
A thick, black liquid and blood dripped from the end of his rapier.
The pair stopped in their tracks when they saw Ainsworth rooted to one spot on the floor.
“Scholar? What’s wrong? Should you not be dancing? ”
“A beast attacks the inn and you truly think it’s fitting to continue dancing?”
Ashe reached over to Honey’s counter, retrieving a tankard of ale she had left when coming to Ainsworth’s rescue.
“It was just a brief interruption, a lone madadh-dubh. Sometimes they roam down from the mountain this time of year, having gone off track looking for mates. That one won’t make the mistake of coming this way again, if it lives to see the morning.
It’s nothing worth worrying about.” She looked across the room to Honey and gave a small nod.
The innkeeper returned the gesture, then continued with her song.
“You best get used to it, scholar. Now show some appreciation for Honey’s music and get back over there. ”
Ainsworth, in possession of newfound respect for and fear of the wildeshifter, did what he was told.