The adults are no better. Women scowl at us, and more than a few shifty men track us with their eyes. Toward the center of the village, a stone building stands. At some time—though I do not believe it was recently—its roof caught fire. It was a grand building once, standing proud in the middle of the square. As we pass it, I study the charcoaled sign, which hangs askew from the shop front.
“It was the armorsmiths’ guild hall,” Galinor says quietly. “It’s best not to show too much interest.”
I look away, instead studying the cobbled street. Across from the guild hall, there is an inn. A young girl sweeps the step. She’s not well dressed, but she is clean, and when she sees us, she smiles.
Her smile falls when we ride past. For a moment, Iwish to stop, but then I remember the man from the road in Coppel’s warning. Galinor seems to hesitate as well, but he continues. We make our way through the town. The air is getting quite cold, but it’s nothing compared to our welcome.
The Dragon’s Claw is toward the back of Gelminshard, not far from the castle. There is raucous laughter drifting from the interior, and I give Galinor a questioning look. He isn’t impressed, but he pays a boy to mind our horses and offers me his hand. I glance at the youth. He appraises the horses greedily. I hope they are still here come morning.
When we enter the inn, we have to press through the crowds. A fire roars in the hearth. It would be quite welcoming if it weren't for the drunken chaos. Near the hearth, two tables have been joined together, and it seems there is a game of chance underway. A crowd has gathered around, and they roar with approval when a large man, dressed in armor, tosses the dice on the table. Two women flank him, and he leans down and kisses one before he turns to the other.
I wrinkle my nose and look away. Something tells me this is not our sort of establishment. “Galinor…”
The prince looks as disgusted as I feel, but as he debates our next move, the barman calls to us. “Visitors! Welcome!”
Half the crowd turns to us, curious to see who the barman addresses. “Visitors!” they bellow in mimic, holding up their tankards. More than a few of them are quite drunk already, and their drinks splash to the floor. None seem to notice, and they all take gusty swallows.
A large, blond-haired man finishes his drink and slams the clay tankard on the table. It smashes, and his comrades laugh.
Galinor tugs me close, and we move to the bar.
“We are traveling through,” Galinor says, his voice low. “We met a man named Peter.”
The barman nods knowingly, his expression brightening with recognition. He leans closer. “You must be careful in these parts.” His eyes wander to me, and they travel over my face as if they’re assessing my character. “Stay clear of the games,” he warns.
“We intend to.”
A man next to us at the bar leans over and grins. He’s missing half his teeth, but he must think himself still quite a charmer because he winks at me.
I shudder and look away.
“We need a room,” Galinor says to the barman while staring down the drunken man. The prince sets his hand on the hilt of his sword and raises his eyebrows in challenge.
The drunk holds up his hands in a placating gesture and laughs.
The barman slams a new tankard in front of the man. “Take this, Maynard, and get out of here before you cause trouble.”
The man accepts the mead and leers at me as he steps away. I only feel faint relief when he joins the group at the tables and doesn’t look back.
The barman’s eyes flicker over me. “One room for you and your wife then?”
Instead of correcting the man, Galinor nods.
The man turns toward the hanging keys behind him. “What brings you to Errinton?” He hands Galinor a key. “Outsiders seldom grace my tavern.”
Galinor glances around the room. “We’re here to hunt an iktar beast. Are you familiar with such an animal?”
The barman’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “An iktar?”
He looks at us like we’re fools. What beast could bring on such a reaction in a kingdom where hunting dragons is considered afternoon entertainment for children?
The barman leans closer. “Have you seen one yet?” he asks, his voice ominous.
Galinor shakes his head, and the barman nods.
“Do you know much about them?”
“No.”
