Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Did we fall… in reverse? It’s not something my brain can accept at face value, but as a fabric-covered shape jerks under Sylvan, he too jumps off the massive bed we’ve landed on with a high-pitched shriek. That’s all the motivation I need. Nothing’s going to happen to him on my watch!
But as I get to my feet and am about to reach for a sword hanging on the wall, the velvet blanket uncovers the monster we’ve accosted, and as it turns out… it was no monster at all.
Sky blue eyes watch me from a face handsome as if it’s been chiseled by one of those famous artists from Italy. He’s young, with red hair styled into elaborate braids. He could be a model, if it wasn’t for the scar cutting across his cheek.
“What… are you?” I ask, pulling Sylvan behind me as we both study the stranger staring back at us from a massive wooden bed with a dragon-shaped headboard.
“What am I?” the stranger asks, adjusting his black shirt. He has the same elongated ears as Sylvan, but his accent is deeper, more melodic. He takes us in, much less fazed than I would have been if two men had woken me up by falling on top of me from the ceiling. “It is you who crawled into my bed without permission.”
“This is not what we expected, but we will be on our way,” Sylvan says, but the man isn’t having it and grabs his wrist.
I slap it away, and the stranger frowns at me. He stands on the bed, hands on hips, as if attempting to show off his belt made out of a variety of coins. Not that he has any pants. He wears the belt over the shirt, which is fortunately long enough to just about cover his crotch.
“I demand an explanation. You came from Tassarion’s forge, and he always gives me a heads-up about anyone passing through. And pays for it.”
When Sylvan and I both remain silent, wondering how to respond, the man continues. “There’s but one explanation: Tassarion is no more.”
“That’s a bit far-fetched—” I try.
The elf silences me with a gesture. “Unfortunate. He and I had a good working relationship for over twenty years. Alas, what’s done cannot be undone,” he says and grabs the slender yet intricately decorated blade off the wall. I’m ready to dash for the nearby stool, to use it as a shield, but the man leaps onto the floor with the grace of a buck in his prime and offers us a smile. “No matter. At least I no longer owe him a debt for this beauty. Best sword I ever had. It’s a pity he won’t make any more weapons of such prime quality.”
Sylvan releases a long sigh, but his shoulders loosen a little. “We shall bother you no more—” he tries, but is once more thwarted by the chatty elf.
“I do not advise that. You,” he points to me with his sword, “are human, and you,” he turns to Sylvan, “are the shortest elf in the Realm, Prince Sylvan Goldweed. Banished. Therefore you must be here illegally.”
Sylvan’s face turns pink. “I do not need to explain anything to you!”
The elf spreads his arms. “Where are my manners? Maybe if you know who I am, it will be easier for us to speak plainly about your predicament, Your Highness. I am Fenren, King of Smugglers, and Procurer of Things. I too walk the shadowed path, only adjacent to the law. I see no silver collar around your neck, but the purple burns on your throat tell me it has not been taken off by our benevolent Lord of the Nocturne Court. If you walk out of my tavern like this, who knows how fast the news of your arrival will spread?”
I stare at him in horror, because if he could identify us both so easily, then so can everyone else. We need to rethink this. As my thoughts drift to the possible disguises we could utilize, I take in the dark interior illuminated with just a few candles. Panels of carved wood decorate all the walls, heavy velvet curtains obscure the only window, and… gargoyles stare at us from every corner of the ceiling. This place looks like the fever dream of a rich goth chick.
I squeeze Sylvan’s shoulder as he stiffens, touching the marks on his neck. “No… the grimsmith did that.”
Fenren clicks his tongue and approaches a desk, which belongs here like a fist belongs in a person’s eye. White, plain, and made of particle board rather than wood, it’s a cheap, mass-produced item from the world of humans. Maybe even from IKEA. But on top of it is a glass of black crystal, and a decanter in the shape of a howling wolf, which contains a black liquid. Still, Fenren has a sip of it and smiles at us, as if it’s exactly what he needs after such a rude awakening.