Dark Magic by B. V. Larson Page A

Shepherd’s Rest . Night was soon to fall over the land, and they were all very glad to just to be out of the Deepwood before that happened. Heaving heavy sighs, they quartered the roan in the stables and rented a room. The first thing they did was head to a Kindred physician, who were known for their craft. Their bandages were rewrapped and fresh poultices of spice and mustard were applied. They headed back to the Inn with spirits lifted. After washing the dust from their faces and hair they headed down to the common room, hoping for some of the best beer they’d tasted in months.
    They were not disappointed. Not even bothering to ask, the Kindred serving wench brought them each a tall wooden mug of brown ale. The mugs, being made of polished stone, were very heavy indeed. Tomkin wasn’t able to lift his at all, so stuck his face down into it. Unable to reach the bottom, he requested a bowl. This was also made of stone, but allowed him to finish his beverage in comfort. Drinking deeply, they all quickly cleared the dust from their throats.
    While they drank ale, they noticed a large evergreen that stood in the midst of the common room. It was living and planted in a circular planter built apparently for the specific purpose.
    “The Kindred always like to have a bit of greenery in the center of their homes and Inns,” explained Tomkin with a belch. “Cheers up their stony dwellings which rarely sport decorations, I suppose. Strange folk, but quick with good ale.”
    By the time the glow of the ale had set in, a great platter of food had arrived. They had not been asked to make an order, as in Kindred lands apparently, choices and menus were unnecessary. Glistening mutton chops, steaming and stacked higher than was reasonable, topped a bed of brown rice and huge mushrooms. They dug in and soon their moods were uplifted.
    Tomkin grew festive. He hopped from one stone table to the next, insisting upon singing songs to everyone present. The Kindred, when serenaded, at first looked stern and annoyed, but after hearing his limericks they set to chuckling. After a time, they were roaring in laughter. Brand looked on, smiling for the first time since he’d buried little Ari Sacken in the Deepwood.
     
    Th ere was an old Kindred of the isles
    Who suffered deeply from piles
    He couldn’t sit down
    Without a deep frown
    So he had to row standing for miles
     
    Tomkin sang his limericks perfectly. While he did so, he performed a dance and walked on his hands. The Kindred loved him. They pounded the tables and let fly with gouts of beer from their beards.
    When they had finally had enough carousing and retreated to their room, everyone was ready for sleep. Brand found his feet hung over the end of the bed, but such was his state of mind and body that he didn’t care. He slipped into a deep sleep almost immediately.
    In the morning he found he had the axe, still in its pack, wrapped up in his arms like a babe. He roused himself and set it aside, eyeing it blearily. He could not recall having taken it to bed with him.
    After they had bathed and dressed they headed down to the common room again in search of breakfast. Brand for one was glad not to see more mutton. They were served omelets stuffed with mushrooms and meat. Brand chewed and then smiled. He thought to taste a hint of goat.
    For the first time in perhaps weeks, Brand sighed contently. He felt gratitude toward the Kindred. Here were a folk he felt comfortable with. They did not consider his manners gruff and rude. They were not concerned with his doings and moods. They were friendly, but not overly nosy. He felt they understood adventure and risk better than his own folk did, as his people had grown unaccustomed to such things and worried overly much.
    Even as he was thinking these thoughts, he noted a figure, taller than all the rest in the room save for Brand himself. The man sat in the darkest corner of the common room. He had his arms crossed and his hood pulled low.