Chapter 8 The Curse of Griken
The trio entered the tavern that evening and were struck by the unusual bustle.
Every table overflowed—men squeezed onto benches, perched on chair arms, and loitered anywhere they could find space.
The air vibrated with tension. Patrons leaned together, exchanging hurried whispers and furtive glances. Some eavesdropped at one table, then wove through the lantern-lit haze to pass urgent snippets of conversation to the next.
The whole room pulsed with rumors and unease.
In stark contrast, the rear bar offered a pocket of quiet—its polished surface nearly deserted, save for a few empty stools.
As soon as the trio settled onto barstools, a plump, homely woman approached. She wore a flour-dusted apron, her hair pinned back in a frazzled bun, cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat.
She wiped her hands on her apron, eyes darting from one to the next with suspicion.
"Welcome," she said flatly, her voice betraying exhaustion more than warmth.
"What'll it be?"
Gareth settled onto the barstool, leaning a little closer to Rowena than necessary.
He flashed a broad, easy grin—deliberately out of step with the anxious mood—and called out, far too loud,
"Ale. Large ones. And meat. Whatever you have. Don't be shy with the portions. My wife and I, and our friend here, are famished."
Rowena opened her mouth to protest, but Gareth's words hung in the air, loud enough to turn heads.
She closed it again, biting her lip, acutely aware of curious eyes lingering from nearby tables.
The woman eyed them for a moment, scrunching her nose at the scent of days-old travel clinging to their cloaks. Her lips twisted in disgust before settling into a forced, professional smile.
"Right away, sir," she replied, her voice a shade more polite than before.
Rowena shot Gareth a sharp, wide-eyed glare—a silent, urgent plea for caution.
Around them, the tavern's anxious gloom pressed in. Every shadow seemed to listen.
Gareth's lightheartedness rang hollow against the room's brittle tension, making him seem—at least to Rowena—almost recklessly conspicuous.
Gareth met her glare with an exaggerated shrug, lips quirking in mock innocence.
"Gareth, you shouldn't draw attention to us like that," Rowena whispered, leaning in once the woman was safely out of earshot.
"What was that, Lora?" Gareth replied, lowering his voice and giving her a teasing nudge.
His eyes sparkled with mischief, as if daring her to play along. But beneath the jest, a trace of calculation lingered.
"I'm serious," she hissed, refusing to smile. "You know what's at stake. We need to stay vigilant—if even one person suspects who we are—"
"No. We need to blend in," Gareth interrupted gently, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried above the clatter of mugs.
"Nightfall is still hours away. If we're to wait until then, we can't look afraid, or act suspicious—that's what will draw their attention. The people here believe we're just merchants passing through. If we play the part, they'll be none the wiser. Trust me."
He brushed her hand for the briefest moment.
Rowena heard truth in his words, but her mind raced on. Each stray glance from the crowd fed her anxiety.
"But the soldiers—"
"Don't worry about them," Gareth said, his voice low and steady. His eyes were intent.
"You are my wife, remember? I will protect you."
He held her gaze, the candlelight flickering in his eyes.
A strange feeling came over Rowena.
Something behind his easy smile made her pause.
For a moment, she could swear there was more behind his eyes than just a jest.
Heat crept up her cheeks as embarrassment took hold. She turned away, pretending to study the tavern's other patrons, and quickly dismissed the thought.
She was imagining things. They barely knew each other. Of course it was just duty—a simple kindness, nothing more. Once they left this town, he would disappear from their lives, never to be seen again. She felt foolish for thinking otherwise.
Determined to follow his advice, she settled into her role as a weary traveler and tried to let herself relax.
The barkeep returned with four pints of pungent ale in tin mugs. She placed three in front of them and set the last before the only other patron at the bar—a man already very inebriated.
She stood close by, off to the side, pretending to wipe down the bar with a cloth—clearly trying to eavesdrop.
Gareth wasted no time. He picked up the tankard and swallowed large, greedy gulps.
It had been some time since he'd had a good ale, and he wasn't about to let the town's dim mood ruin his only opportunity to enjoy it.
The Dissolver sniffed his hesitantly, uncertain about the pungent aroma of hops and alcohol.
Gareth watched with amused expectation, waiting for the boy to take a drink.
Noticing Gareth's eyes on him, The Dissolver lifted the mug and gulped down a foamy mouthful.
As soon as the taste registered, he choked, only half swallowing.
Golden liquid spurted from his nostrils, trickling down his snout as he coughed and gurgled.
"Atta boy!" Gareth encouraged, patting him hard on the back and laughing heartily.
The Dissolver managed a weak grin, then took a much smaller, more wary sip, grimacing only slightly at the flavor.
"Gareth!" Rowena exclaimed. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
Gareth waved her concern away. "Don't be silly! He's nearly the size of a grown man. He can handle himself. Besides, he has dragon blood in his veins. It'll hardly affect him."
Rowena watched uneasily, unsure if he was right.
Gareth glanced at Rowena's untouched mug.
"You should go ahead and have some too," he suggested, a glint of teasing in his eye. "It might do you some good."
He added, pointedly, "In fact, you might even finish it, perhaps."
Rowena raised a brow.
"Are you calling me uptight?"
"Yes," he said plainly, chortling and swallowing more gulps of ale.
Rowena gasped, partly in play, but also genuinely surprised by his brazen insult.
"I don't like ale," she said. "I never have."
"If you say so." He smiled, feigning disbelief.
Just then, the bartender reappeared, balancing three large plates in her arms. They landed on the bar with a heavy thud.
"Ah, yes!" Gareth gushed with subtle sarcasm as he laid eyes on the food. "A fine meal."
Rowena stared down at her meal, displeasure plain on her face.
Although the smell wasn't altogether unpleasant, the lukewarm food looked like slop. The meaty bits were indistinguishable from the burnt vegetables—some already missing bites. Everything was drenched in gelatinous, gray gravy.
"Um... what is this?" Rowena asked hesitantly.
"Pigeon and veg," the barkeep huffed.
Rowena curled her lip in disgust.
"Well?" the woman grumbled, tapping her foot. "Ain't you going to eat it?"
Rowena glanced at Gareth, who was stifling a laugh, mouth hanging open as he chewed a large bite of food.
She saw the challenge in his eyes as he watched to see what she'd do.
Stubbornly, Rowena picked up the dingy two-prong fork, fished out a hunk of goo, and shoved it into her mouth.
Somehow, she managed to chew convincingly, despite her urge to gag.
Gareth nodded his approval, admitting defeat, and went back to his own meal.
Rowena only slightly regretted winning the game.
After Gareth and The Dissolver finished their meals and ale, they fell into playful conversation, laughing and joking, enjoying the brief comfort of civilization.
Rowena, sober and hungry, having hardly touched her plate, sat awkwardly beside them. She was still acutely aware of the tense, somber mood that hung over the other patrons.
Her attention was drawn to the drunken man at the far end of the bar. He hiccupped and swayed, mumbling an eerie song:
"Good tidings this winter
Oh lumberman
Swing your axe and gather
All that you can
Good tidings this season
Do not delay
Swing your axe and gather
Gather this way
The fall to chop
The winter to stock
The spring to sow
The summer to grow
Remember, remember
Oh lumberman
Swing your axe carefully
Choose well your tree
The forest is watching
Steady your speed
The fall to chop
The winter to stock
The spring to sow
The summer to grow
Good tidings lumberman
But don't forget
Remember your promise
Do not neglect
Good tidings this winter
Oh lumberman
Swing your axe and gather
All that you can"
As soon as the man finished, he began again—droning endlessly, his words slurring more with each sip from his mug.
Rowena listened carefully, struck by the ominous warning woven into the lyrics. She called the bartender over.
"What is it now, ma'am?" the woman said, nearly rolling her eyes.
"I beg your pardon, but I was curious about that song the man is singing," Rowena said, gesturing toward him.
The woman's face fell, suddenly sad and uncomfortable.
She spoke carefully. "It's the lumbering song, ma'am. Just an old tune folks here pass down to their children—it's about how the men used to fell the trees."
"I don't mean to pry," Rowena continued, as politely as she could, careful not to upset the volatile woman. "But why have the men stopped harvesting lumber?"
The woman shifted uneasily, glancing around to see if anyone was in earshot. Then she leaned closer to Rowena and whispered, "The men believe they've angered the spirits of the forest."