Mud and Horn, Sword and Sparrow (Runehammer Books Book 1) by Gilhelm Brandish

Author:Gilhelm, Brandish [Gilhelm, Brandish]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Runehammer
Published: 2016-02-23T16:00:00+00:00

14

Three nights had passed since Dobbs Tarny had been visited by Sparrow in his pub. All three he had thought of her. What happened to the heroes of Westburg after that fateful night? Where had they been these two long, slow years? Why had she suddenly reappeared?

His wonder turned to worry. It was a downpour that night. He sat alone in the tavern, sipping, thinking. Something would not let his instincts rest. Forget it, he told himself over and over, adventures only ruin towns and spoil business. But he couldn’t shake the feeling she needed help. The rain intensified as if to belittle him.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, rising from the wooden stool. He sloshed down one last gulp of Red Gar and grabbed his fur cloak. He donned a wide brimmed leather hat, grabbed a few cheese loaves wrapped in sackcloth, and lit a box lantern. He had no swords or axes, but there was an old soldier’s spear above the doorway from his conscript days. It was three spans long and tipped with a steel blade that still shone bright. The haft felt good in his hand.

“These charity ventures will be the death o’ you, Dobbs,” he grunted. There was no one to worry about him, no one to keep the hearth warm. He took a long look around and went outside into the dark. The rain was heavy, but the wind stayed low. It was mid autumn, but the night was warm for the Westlands. Travel wouldn’t be so bad, and the downpour would keep the bugs and baddies in their hidey holes.

She hadn’t known it, but Dobbs had seen Sparrow dart off into the woods. She moved with terrible purpose. He had no idea how far she’d gone or why, but here he was a damn fool going to look for her anyway. He shook off the doubt and took his first step off the road. That first step was into an ankle deep puddle of muck.

“Ahh the woods!” he practically yelled over the noise of the rain.

He took his first reprieve at Coffin Rock. A sip of brandy and a nibble of cheese out of the rain and he was off again. His hillman’s stride wasn’t all gone, and he could still cover ground like a soldier. The spear he used as walking staff and pole vault, moving quickly through the dark. Every step deepened his feeling of woe. Something was wrong. The Little Sparrow was in danger and he knew it now.

By sun’s first muted, misty light he’d covered miles, moving in a straight line. The light gave him some comfort, and the ability to do a bit of homespun tracking. He inspected branches and mossy dents with simulated wisdom. Enough patience and a sign was found: boot prints straight on, and deep in the toes as if running. A real tracker could’ve found much more, but he was just a worried barkeep.

That track he followed and came to an odd barrow, or mound, crowned with high alders.

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