“No fighting,” he said quietly, ominously.
He glared at the comely barmaid, tall and red-haired. She was the cause of the fight. It was the second such fight he’d broken up over her.
“No more fighting.” This time, the words were for her.
The smaller of the two men meekly recovered his dagger. The other mumbled an apology.
Laronnar stomped back to his chair, so sure of his anger, of his control over his men, that he didn’t hesitate to turn his back on them. With his foot, he righted the chair, slammed it into place, and sank into it. He motioned for the red-haired barmaid to refill his mug. He was in no mood for barroom brawling. Not when Second Company should be out fighting the enemy instead.
His plan had been working beautifully. Just as he’d predicted, the contingent of humans and dwarves who were guarding the port town of Lenat had been taken completely by surprise when Second Company swooped in from over the water. They must have appeared to be an attack direct from the dark gods, arrowing from out of the fiery afternoon sun.
The troops of Paladine had fled Lenat in disarray, heading for the safety of the nearby foothills. Laronnar’s squad had been about to cut them off when the storm came. The rain had stung like needles, the driving wind had caught in the wings of the dragons and sent them careening through the sky. Had Laronnar been in command, they would have continued to fight regardless.
“So close,” he muttered for the twentieth time since he’d entered the bar, taking a gulp of ale. “We were almost upon them!” He glanced at his lieutenant, Haylis, sitting across the table from him, then up at the red-haired barmaid who was pouring more ale into his mug.
Haylis grinned at him over the shoulder of the plump, pert woman who was perched on his knee. His dirty blonde hair was perpetually rumpled. It stuck up in tufts, giving him a malicious, devilish look despite his affable grin.
“Forget it, Captain,” he urged, laughing as the woman tried to wriggle free of his grasp. “We took the town. We’ll get the Warriors of Light tomorrow.”
Despite the weight of the woman on his lap, Haylis lifted a booted foot, planted it on the hip of the red-haired barmaid and shoved her toward Laronnar. “Enjoy the lull.”
More by reflex than desire, Laronnar caught the barmaid as she stumbled toward him. She fell into his lap, balancing the pitcher of ale so well that she spilled not a drop. Her lips were pursed, whether in mock anger or real, Laronnar could not tell. Nor did he care. She was the spoils of the victors.
She tried to rise, but he held her close, pressing his face into the riot of waist-length red curls. She smelled of smoke and ale and spice-better than anyone with whom Laronnar had come into contact for several months.
Perhaps Haylis was right. There was, after all, nothing Laronnar could do about the battle until the storm blew over and his commanding officer decided they could sound the recall. He might as well loosen up.
The Striped Monkey Tavern was the best of a sorry lot in the port town of Lenat, but it was better than some he’d seen. The tavern was lit with sputtering candles, smoky torches and one huge fireplace that gave off a sooty light and the scent of damp wood. The heavy oak bar gleamed with the shine of generations of elbows, and the plank floors showed the scarring of many boots. The ale was bitter, but plentiful, and while the barmaids weren’t overly friendly, they were at least too frightened to be openly hostile.
The L-shaped common room of the tavern was filled with troops-a mishmash of human, ogre, and draconian, all celebrating in high spirit. Noisy. Unwashed, smelling of battle and blood. Rapaciously trying to down as much ale as possible, to attract the attention of the barmaids before the storm blew over and the battle was renewed.
“Here now.” Laronnar snuggled the red-haired one closer, caressing the pale skin of her upper arms, halting her wiggling attempts to escape. “I’m the captain of this ragtag band. You’ll not do any bet-“