They didn’t, much.
While Jonty had his mead and his food and all the attention he’d been starved for, entertaining the whole taproom with his tales and a lyre under his arm, Wrynne and Thaydor landed in the promised bed with the chamber door locked and no thought of dire wolves or dissipated kings.
Soon, they were completely absorbed in sensation. Thaydor showed her positions she had not known existed. Positions that might well be a sin. She didn’t care. He took her from behind on all fours, he took her from below, he took her from above, with her leg thrown across his shoulder. Wrynne gave herself to him completely in the unfamiliar bed, while the hearth’s light played across his gorgeous, velveteen skin.
She heaved under him, her skin damp with perspiration as he took her to new heights of pleasure and left her nearly sobbing with release. He growled like he’d become the ravenous dire wolf when he came the second time, and then he finally collapsed atop her, shaking and sweaty.
“Oh, Thaydor,” she groaned in blissful exhaustion.
He kissed her brow and eased his heavy weight off her, blowing out a long, satisfied breath. His work done, he crashed onto his back next to her and took her hand, lifted it wearily to his lips.
“Very well,” he panted at length. “Every now and then, the bard has a good idea.”
Wrynne burst into laughter at this admission and punched him softly in the chest. He scooped her into his arms and pulled her atop him, kissing her once more.
“Mine,” he said as he held her.
“Always.”
“You are beautiful. And very good at this,” he whispered.
“Am I really?” she asked, rather gleeful at the latter.
He nodded with an almost pained look of pleasure, flicking a glance down to her breasts. “Oh
yes
.”
“So are you, Sir Thaydor,” she purred.
“No, I need more practice,” he protested. “Lots and lots of practice. Daily. Nightly. Any free moment, really…”
She laughed. Caressing and speaking lovers’ nonsense to each other, they had not even bothered to discuss yet what Jonty had revealed.
But tomorrow would be another day, and with the authorities on the hunt for them, Wrynne was learning to enjoy the moment.
Even more surprisingly, Thaydor was, too.
As it turned out, her mighty paladin was not
all
business. All he had lacked was the right playmate.
Until now
, she mused as she stroked him in contentment. Then she pressed a tender kiss to his hard jaw, hopelessly smitten.
Hate him?
Impossible.
This man was the love of her life.
Chapter 12
Pagans
“W
ell, that’s unexpected,” Jonty said the next day, when the three of them were suddenly forced to rein in their horses.
A thick iron chain had been strung across the lonely wooded road leading up to Silvermount, the Harmonists’ retreat.
DANGER! KEEP OUT!
read the wooden sign hanging from it, with a skull and crossbones painted beneath the words.
But why?
Wrynne glanced around uneasily. The woods seemed very still.
Though the area felt remote, in actuality, the mountain shrine to Efrena, goddess of harmony, lay just ten miles north of Veraidel’s bustling capital city of Pleiburg.
She turned to her husband. “Should we be worried?”
“Perhaps.” Brow furrowed, Thaydor sat astride Avalanche beside her, contemplating the ominous placard.
He was dressed as a civilian today, too recognizable in his suit of armor. But considering the number of people trying to kill him, she was glad that he still wore his short coat of chain mail hidden beneath the dark blue gambeson that he had paired with black braies.
When he glanced at her, she could not help noticing how the indigo shade of his coat made his eyes look as deep and blue as the sea.
He shrugged off the nominal barrier before them. “Maybe they just want to scare people away.”
“Or maybe this means they
are
hiding something, just as I suspected,” Jonty chimed in.
He, too, looked much better after their brief respite at the Spicy Cup. He’d eaten enough for three men at the inn—and had drunk enough mead for half a dozen. He’d had a bath and washed the stench of Blackport Dungeon off him, shaved, washed his wild mop of dark auburn hair, and tied it back in a queue.
Having shed the kilt that made the famous bard so readily identifiable, he was now dressed in the set of fresh clothes that Mistress Margaret had sold him. The landlady had been glad to make the trade—her grown son’s Sunday best in exchange for a few of Thaydor’s gold coins.
The striking Runescar Highlander looked more presentable but a lot less exotic in brown braies and a dark green wool coat, with a brown belt around his waist, clean boots, and a charcoal cloak hanging from his shoulders. Thaydor had given the bard his choice of weapons from his extensive traveling armory, as well. Jonty had chosen a good sword and a dagger. Other than being armed to the teeth, they looked like three ordinary travelers.
Unfortunately, of course, they were still being hunted by the law.
“Let’s leave the horses here so we can approach more stealthily,” Thaydor suggested. “The Harmonists claim to be pacifists, but who knows? We may run into any opposition. Wrynne, can you hide the animals for us with a sanctuary spell?”
She agreed, and they dismounted. They led their horses off the road and tied them up, then she concealed the animals. Returning to the road to go the rest of the way on foot, she felt her heartbeat quicken with uneasiness over what they might find at the top of the hill.
She had never been to a Harmonist religious site before. It was not forbidden to set foot in one, but the Ilian church generally frowned on such commingling.
“Let’s keep our eyes open,” Thaydor advised in a low tone as he assisted her in stepping over the chain.
Then they proceeded up the winding drive, weapons drawn. Walking between the men, Wrynne scanned both sides of the narrow country lane continually, her small crossbow at the ready. There was nothing to see but woods.
Until they reached the crest of the hill. Then the colossus of the hermaphrodite goddess Efrena came into view. A huge white marble nude of “the One” towered at the end of an avenue made of white and silver-blue pavers.
On both sides of the promenade, stately white columns stood, only reaching about as high as the massive Efrena’s hip.
The pearl-white statue, with breasts and phallus bared, had blank, serene eyes and wild, coiled hair barely tamed by a circlet crown. One hand was raised, pointing upward, the other pointing down. Around its huge bare feet were braziers for burnt offerings, but the low, round pedestal on which the colossus stood was encircled by a stone lily pond.
Fire and water paired
, Wrynne mused as she studied it. Obviously in keeping with the Harmonist philosophy of all things as balanced pairs of opposites.
Beyond the marble shrine itself, lush green gardens stretched out with mathematical symmetry on both sides. It was obvious to Wrynne’s horticulturally trained eye, however, that the once-tidy beds and garden walkways had lain untended for many months.
Tucked away behind the trees, she could just make out the sprawling, domed villa where the Harmonists who came here on their annual retreat here would be housed.
“I wonder if anyone’s home,” Thaydor said as they stepped gingerly onto the promenade.
“I doubt it. The whole place looks abandoned,” Jonty said.
He was right. There was not a soul in sight, and the only sound was the wind lightly strumming the Aeolian harps that graced the gardens here and there, and the wind chimes hanging from the trees.
Wrynne did not even hear any birds singing, though it was a fine spring morning, and the orchard nearby would be burgeoning at this time of year with all the fruits and seeds and nuts their little hearts could desire. So where were they?
“Eerie,” Jonty said, looking around, his green eyes narrowed.
“Something’s definitely wrong here,” Wrynne agreed in a wary murmur. “I sense the presence of some sort of evil.”
“As do I,” Thaydor said. “Not sure if it’s human, though…”
“You two and your tricks. Must be nice to have that gift,” Jonty muttered.
“Quiet. Whoever—or whatever—is here, we don’t want them to hear us. Stay sharp.” Thaydor scanned ahead, keeping Hallowsmite angled before him as they slowly moved deeper into the Harmonists’ sacred place.
Efrena seemed to stare down her haughty Roman nose at them.
Jonty kept watch behind with agile steps, his borrowed sword at the ready.
Wrynne stayed between the two men, surveying the beautiful but overgrown grounds. Her crossbow rested on her forearm, already loaded with a mistletoe dart.
The quiet was unnerving. But there was nothing to see but a haze of yellow pollen and dandelion fluff drifting on the air.
She searched the shadows of the shrubs and the branches of the trees with every step, grateful for the flat expanse of lawn on either side of the marble avenue. If someone or something charged out at them from the leafy cover of the garden, at least they’d see it coming.
“Do you get the feeling we are being watched?” she asked, a chill running down her spine.
“Aye,” Jonty said. “But by what? Or whom?”
“Hard to say,” Thaydor mumbled, his gaze continually moving over the landscape.
Still, they saw no one, which certainly seemed to lessen the need for stealth. Her heart beat faster as they proceeded up the promenade, past the shadows of one column after another striping the marble pavers.
“Should we go to the villa?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” said Thaydor.
She frowned, jittery with nerves. There had to be something here that would give them a clue about what had happened to Lord Eudo while he’d last been here.
Thaydor had said that if they could manage to uncover a definite lead here, then he could find a way to bring the information to the king, to warn him privately.
“There’s something,” Thaydor murmured, pausing.
“What is it?” Jonty quickly turned to look.
Wrynne also stopped and followed her husband’s nod.
“Dead animal.”
She grimaced at the deer carcass lying on the grass. She instantly thought of Urmugoths. And dead squires.
Queasiness pulsed through her, but she shrugged it off.
The deer looked like a fresh kill—the traces of blood on the torn fur and antlers still crimson, not brown. The bones, however, had been picked clean.
“Well,
some
sort of predator is here,” Thaydor said.
“I’m fairly sure the Harmonists keep a herd of tame deer in the park.” Jonty’s usual jovial tone had turned taut. “It’s one of Efrena’s totem animals, if I am not mistaken.”
“I’ll go have a look. Maybe I can figure out what might’ve killed it,” Thaydor started, but Wrynne suddenly drew in her breath.
“Don’t move.”
Both men froze.
Thaydor glanced at her in alarm. “What is it?”
“Look to the trees,” she uttered.
Jonty cursed under his breath. “Rocs! I don’t believe it!”
“So that’s why this place is closed down,” Thaydor mumbled, sounding vaguely like he had just been punched in the gut.
“
That
little sign for man-eating birds?” Jonty said in outrage through gritted teeth, reminding them of the placard on the road. “They could have been a bit more specific!”
“What do we do?” Wrynne whispered, half terrified, though, so far, the rocs were thankfully minding their own business, just sitting in the high branches of some huge, old trees.
Nobody answered.
“What in the world are they doing this far south? Don’t they usually keep to the Bronze Mountains?” Jonty asked.
Thaydor nodded, not taking his eyes off them. “They’re a hundred miles from home.”
“Maybe Eudo summoned them,” Jonty said.
“Why would he do that?” Wrynne whispered.
“We can puzzle it out later.” Thaydor moved his body between her and the rocs. “Let’s just get out of here without getting eaten, shall we? Everybody, move very slowly. And don’t make a sound.”
“Bloody hell, first dire wolves, now rocs? Never a dull moment with you two.”
“Stop talking!” Thaydor ordered the bard in a wrathful mutter.
Wrynne’s mind spun with questions while they moved as a unit, inch by inch, back the way they had come. She could only hope the rocs were sated from their feast of venison.
A whimper escaped her as one of the huge birds launched out of the treetops and flew over to investigate them.
“Steady,” Thaydor murmured. “Hold your ground. Whatever you do, don’t run.”
The roc soared closer, its wingspan twelve to fifteen feet wide, easily. Its glossy black feathers resembled those of a crow, but it had the bare black head of a vulture, with leathery skin, a hooked beak, scarlet throat markings…and blood-red eyes.
When it landed on its sickle-claw feet right in front of them on the grass, it stood as tall as Wrynne.
Indeed, she was on eye level with the terrifying creature.
It blinked and cocked its head.
“Nice birdie,” Jonty murmured as they continued backing away slowly.
The roc flicked its massive wings in a warning display like an annoyed shrug, and squawked at them. This brief, aggressive movement made plain its displeasure about their intrusion on what was apparently now the flock’s territory.
“I think we’re done here,” Jonty said brightly.
“Agreed,” Thaydor said. “Don’t worry, we’re leaving,” he assured the monstrous creature in a low tone.
Not that the roc could understand.
It tossed its ugly head belligerently and squawked again.
“How’s your aim with that thing, wife?”
“Accurate enough. He’d be hard to miss, big as he is.”