There was a tavern on the eastern side of Willow and, bidding farewell to Astiana, who headed for the church, we entered the building, taking a table near a shuttered window and ordering meat, bread and ale. There was no ale to be had, we were told, but the village was renowned, said the innkeeper, for its cider. It was indeed very fine, and after several tankards I felt a great warmth for Willow growing inside me.
Mace called the innkeeper to our table and bade him sit with us. There were no other customers and the man, a round-faced Highlander named Scoris, eased himself down on to the bench alongside me. He smelled of apples and woodsmoke, a most pleasing combination. I warmed to him instantly.
‘We are seeking a man named Gareth,’ said Mace.
‘By God he is becoming popular,’ replied Scoris. ‘Has he discovered a gold mine?’I take it we are not the first to ask for him?’ I asked.
‘No. Two days ago – or was it three? – Kaygan the Swordsman came here. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘No. Who is he?’ asked Mace.
‘Mercenary soldier. It is said he’s killed seventeen men in one-to-one combat. He’s Azrek’s champion now, so he says. He put on a show here. Never seen the like. Tossed an apple in the air and cut it into four slices before it fell. And sharp? His sword cut through two lit candles, sliced through them but left them standing.’What kind of blade does he carry?’ enquired Mace, his voice soft in tone but his eyes betraying his interest.
‘Sabre.’What did he look like?’Tall man, much as yourself. Only slimmer. Golden hair and slanted eyes, like one of them foreigners in the old stories. Only he ain’t no foreigner. Born in Ziraccu – almost a Highlander.’What did he want with Gareth?’ I asked Scoris.
‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. He was a showman, all right, but not a man to question, if you take my point. Friendly enough on the surface, but he has dead eyes. Never question a man with dead eyes.’What did you tell him?’ put in Wulf.
‘Same as I’ll tell you. Gareth is a hermit. Strange young man, white-haired, though ‘e’s no more than twenty-five, maybe thirty. Lives up in the hills somewhere. Comes to the village maybe twice a year for supplies – salt, sugar and the like. He’s no trouble to anyone and he pays for his food in old coin. Some say he has a treasure hid in the mountains, and a few years back a group of ne’er-do-wells journeyed up into the high country to take it from him. They didn’t come back and they weren’t missed, I can tell you. I expect Kaygan heard the treasure stories and wants it for himself.’We seek no treasure,’ I told him, ‘though I think you are right about Kaygan. How shall we find Gareth?’Just head north. If he wants to be found you’ll see him.’How many men were with the swordsman?’ queried Mace.
‘Seven. They had a tracker with them, Cheos. Local man. He’s good. They say he could trail the north wind to its lair in the ice wastes.’You have been very helpful,’ I said. ‘Many thanks.’Ah, it was nothing,’ replied the innkeeper with a wave of his
hand. Mace produced two silver pennies which he laid before the man, but Scoris shook his head. ‘I’ll not have it said,’ he told us, dropping his voice, ‘that I charged the Morningstar for breakfast.’With a broad smile and a wink he rose and returned to his kitchen. ‘How did he know you?’ whispered Wulf.
Mace chuckled. ‘It is not me he recognized, half-wit! How many men travel the forest in the company of a giant and a hunchback?’He was just downing the last of his cider when Astiana ran into the tavern. ‘Lykos!’ she shouted. ‘He’s here!’ Wulf leapt to his feet, grabbing for his bow. Mace and I rose. Piercollo curled his hand around the haft of a long bread-knife.
‘Time to leave!’ said Mace softly.
‘Show yourself, wolfshead!’ came the shout from beyond the tavern. Mace swore and moved to the shuttered window, peering through the crack.