The man takes a deep breath. “They’re fearsome creatures.” He shakes his head. “Even dragons give their nests a wide berth. Are you sure you want to hunt one?”
“We have no choice,” Galinor answers. “We came for an iktar, and we will not leave without one.”
“You’ll need a guide.”
Galinor narrows his eyes. “Tell me where I may find one, and we will guide ourselves.”
“It’s impossible.” He ladles thick stew into two earthen bowls. “You need someone who can track them, someone who knows their ways. The iktar have taken to the high mountains this time of year.”
“Don’t most animals move lower when winter comes?” I ask as I accept the stew.
The barman rests his weight on his forearms. “Mostdo, yes. Not the iktar. It moves high and looks for animals that are weak and vulnerable.”
“What is this beast?” I ask.
“It’s like a bear but larger and muscled for speed like a mountain cat. Its teeth are like razors, and its senses are heightened past that of a normal predator.” His gaze moves to Galinor. “Few men have ever seen one, though many have become its prey.”
Just lovely.Thank you, Ergmin.
Concern shadows the man’s face. “You’d best not take your lady into the mountains, friend.”
I press close to Galinor’s side. “I go where Galinor goes.”
Galinor glances at me, his expression solemn, and he nods. He turns back to the man. “Where can we find a guide?”
The man huffs out a breath, and his eyes travel the room. “Nine out of ten men would rob you blind.” He surveys the crowd and shakes his head.
A gust of wind blows through the overly warm room as a man strides into the tavern. Many call to him, but he shows little in the way of a greeting.
The man is tall. His hair is dark and short, and a jagged scar stretches from his temple to his chin, crossing his eye. As if sensing our attention, he glances at us. I look away, but not before I notice the wicked looking hunting knife strapped to his hip.
“Ah,” the barman says, satisfied. “There is your man.”
I stir the lifeless vegetables in my bowl. “Who is he?”
“Penrith of Bourke,” the barman answers, his voice quiet with awe.
Galinor seems unimpressed. “Should that mean something to me?”
The barman’s sharp eyes snap back to Galinor. “Before the Dragon Wars, there were few as renowned as Penrith. He was a ruthless slayer. They say he bested every scaled beast he came upon.”
“But can he hunt an iktar?” Galinor demands.
“If anyone can track and kill the beast, it will be Penrith.”
“Is he trustworthy?” I ask.
The barman raises his hand to the slayer. “Welcome, friend,” he calls, and then he turns back to me. “More than most. You will be safe with him.”
But Galinor appears unconvinced.
Penrith joins us at the bar, and he tips his head to me. “My Lady,” he greets.
Ten years older than Galinor at most, he must have been a young, eager slayer. He slides into the seat the leering man recently vacated.
The barman hands him a tankard. “This man here would like to hire your services.”
Penrith snorts. “I doubt you can afford me.”
