Page 12 of The Scouts

“Something I can help you with?” I drawled, taking the measure of the big’un.

The guard’s frame was loaded with muscle. His deep-set gaze brimmed with unfriendliness.

Thanks to Lochan showing me a trick or two, I could’ve probably handled him if need be. Perhaps one of his companions, too. But hoping for more would be idiocy. No matter how I considered the issue, it appeared I would get the shite beaten out of me.

“You too good to talk to us, pretty boy? Fancy yourself something special?” the guard said.

I did, actually, but before I could respond—or knee the oaf in the bollocks—something told me to glance towards the entrance.

Well, fuck. The cavalry had arrived.

Lochan stood in the door and inspected the room. Almost right away, his eyes darted to mine.

As always, he instantly captured my complete attention. I no longer paid any mind to the tosser in front of me.

Joy and relief hit me first, so palpable I stumbled. I made to rush forwards to meet Lochan halfway, only to still in my tracks the next moment.

I appraised his appearance with the beady eye of a betrayed lover, not missing a single thing about it. Time seemed to slow as if tampered with by magic. Immediately, every out-of-place detail screamed at me.

Lochan’s hair fell over his shoulders and back in mussed disarray. His dishevelled clothes suggested he’d recently thrown them on in a hurry. A blush tinged his cheeks and a broad smile spread across his face, the white of his teeth flashing. This full-on grin, so rare on him, nearly transformed him into a stranger.

He looked carefree and radiant. Rapt with happiness.

Eviscerated by hurt, I snatched a sharp inhale, clutching at my chest.

Hours of wretchedness, of agony, of burning anguish on my part—and he’d just sauntered in beaming, bathed in the afterglow of rolling in someone else’s bed. As if nothing had happened. If a mountain scorpion had pierced my heart, it would’ve stung less.

A flood of newcomers entered the tavern, laughing and waving their arms about, and obscured my vision. I leapt to the right in an abrupt attempt to follow the movement of Lochan’s black-clad figure. Nonetheless, he vanished from sight.

As luck would have it, the big City Guard chose that precise moment to sidestep to the left, causing us to collide. The impact knocked the copper tankard out of his hand. It fell to the floor with a clank, splashing the remnants of his ale.

Angry voices erupted around me. Somebody pushed me and someone else elbowed me in the ribs. Blindly, I shoved the fucker right back—too absorbed with locating Lochan to comprehend that my actions had just sparked the very fray I’d been trying to avoid.

When Lochan resurfaced again, two paces from me, he no longer smiled. His features turned sharp and feral, radiating menace. Now that—Lochan, the bringer of obliteration—I was thoroughly familiar with.

He’d charged towards my opponents with the speed of an arrowhead. I wanted to stop him, but it was already too late.

I only registered it with the corner of my eye when it couldn’t have been dodged anymore: a set of huge, hairy knuckles flying in the direction of my jaw.

The uppercut connected with my chin. Pain exploded in my face. The floor hit my arse, knocking the wind out of me. Slowly, the background noise diminished, reduced to my pulse whooshing in my ears. I blinked a few times. But then my eyelids became so heavy that I deemed the effort of lifting them too great. And everything faded to black.

* * *

Chapter 4

CONFESSIONS

Gwhwÿn

ERVYN

I came round to an odd sensation of rocking, similar to being on the ship. Panicked by a notion of a sea journey—common knowledge had it that Dark Elves made terrible sailors—I prised my eyes open.

Shivering in the night’s nippy wind, I glided above cobblestones, looking at them from a perplexing angle. It took my alcohol-laden brain a few moments to make sense of my situation. Or rather, I resigned myself to the fact that Lochan had me in a rescue carry, dangling head-down from across his shoulder.

Wondering how the fuck I had become such a pathetic caricature of a jilted lover who drank himself into a stupor and provoked bar brawls had to wait. I had more immediate worries—namely, the world spun around me. My temples and the back of my head throbbed, cheating me into believing I wore a hat several sizes too small. Taking further stock of my wellbeing, I noted waves of nausea rippling through my gut. All that swaying about in the upside-down position did my body no good.

“Lochan,” I croaked. “Put me down.”