Excerpt: Diana of the Hunt

Darreg gave the barmaid a weary smile as she slid mugs in front of him and his two companions. He could tell the ale was poor without even needing to taste it. It was watery, with little foam to speak of. He brought it to his lips and confirmed the worst of it – thin and sour. A Halfling would die of thirst before he drank this, Darreg mused, but he was no Halfling. A trader with no goods and scarcely any money had little room to be picky.

“Shern, keep your trap shut,” he said, cutting off the man sitting next to him. “Just drink it. Week's been long enough without your constant belly-moaning making it longer.” Shern gave him a mutinous glare, but didn't say anything. Ellik was too busy staring at the barmaid's retreating backside to notice the swill he was drinking.

The tavern door slowly opened, spilling the last of the day's light into the dusty air. Quiet stole about the room as a young man strode confidently in. He wasn't a physically imposing man – Darreg guessed he had an inch on their barmaid, if that – but everybody turned to watch him. There was an air about him, something Darreg couldn't quite place – although the bow he openly carried may have played some part. He had delicate, almost feminine features, made even more pronounced by the braid of long, light blond hair. A deep green cloak fell from his shoulders, tucked neatly behind the sword on his right hip.

The stranger scanned the crowd for a moment, then set off purposefully toward Darreg's table.

“Are you Darreg the Trader?” he asked. His voice was every bit as light as his features suggested.

Darreg glanced at his crew. Shern looked at the stranger appraisingly. Ellik had a stupid smirk on his face for reasons Darreg was fairly sure he didn't want to know.

“Aye,” Darreg said after a moment. “What of it?”

The young man pulled out a chair and sat down across from Darreg. He leaned forward, resting one arm on the table.

“Word is it you're in need of someone. Someone swift with a sword, and keen with a bow.”

So the lad was here on behalf of his master. Under normal circumstances, this was a good sign. Having a squire showed that a sell-sword had lived long enough and well enough to afford one. Some adventurers brought on squires more for that statement than any real need. But such men did not come cheap, and Darreg had nothing to offer in advance. Still, it cost nothing to hear the boy out.

“Aye,” he grunted.

The young man puffed up, declaring with a grin. “I know of a person who never misses a mark, and learned the sword under Lander the Dire.”

“Lander the Dire?” Shern exclaimed, almost knocking over his mug. “Lionblade? The champion of Brimsdale?”

“It's quite a boast,” Darreg said, cutting Shern off. He was beginning to suspect he was the heel of a joke. “Out with it. Who is this man?”

“'Tis me!” he said, pointing his thumb at his chest. Ellik burst out laughing.

“You?” he cried, “A warrior? It's a fine enough joke to dress in men's clothing and strap a sword to your pretty little hips, but enough is enough. Keep this up, love, and I'll die laughing!” Darreg stared at his wagoneer for a moment, believing the man to have lost his senses, when a realization struck him and his head snapped back to the lad across the table.

Rather, Darreg amended, the lass across the table. He had seen the clothing and assumed the boy merely had a girly face. But if Ellik could be counted on for anything, it was spotting women.

“I assure you, I-” the woman started, but Darreg didn't let her finish.

“Enough! Bad enough that I lost just about everything this week. I don't need you or whoever your master is rubbing salt in my wounds. Get out!”

She looked as if he had slapped her. She stood, clumsily knocking over her chair. She made no move to right it. Wordlessly, she turned and headed for the door. Every head in the bar turned to watch her leave.

“Hey, wait!” Ellik called after her. She stopped, but didn't turn. He raised his empty mug “If you're so keen on helping us, could you get us another round of ale?”

It showed in her shoulders first. A tensing Darreg could see, even through her cloak. In one swift motion, she turned, raising her bow and fitting an arrow to it. Without hesitating, she let the arrow fly, two more joining it in less than a second.

Thin, watery ale spilled from Darreg's tin mug, out of the two holes the arrow had made. Shern's and Ellik's mugs also each had an arrow stuck in them, the latter arrow having stopped an inch from Ellik's eye.