Poet's Bane (Sellswords & Spellweavers series Book 7) by Rachel Ford

Author:Rachel Ford [Ford, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-09-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Our trek up the mountainside passed in something of a haze. Brynjar seemed to have an unending supply of alcohol about his person, for whenever one flask or bottle or skin ran dry, he’d produce another.

When I inquired about this, he tapped the side of his nose in a knowing manner and said, “I’m a planner. That’s me. The man who looks out for the details.”

He was, I think, rather drunk at this point.

But then, though it didn’t feel like it to me, so was I. And so I remained as we went on. If I didn’t reach for the bottle myself, Brynjar was quick to press it into my hands.

Especially when I thought to ask questions about our endeavor. Then, he’d urge me not to overthink the matter. “It’s all clear, if you don’t get mired up in the weeds, so to speak. Here, take a sip. More drinking and less thinking. That’s what you need.”

Which in the moment made a good deal of sense. Further evidence of just how addled I really was.

The black of night faded to a grim gray, and then a slate of colors chased the gloom from the sky. As far up as we were, the damage had become more apparent than below. Down there, a few trees had split, and rocks tumbled out of place. Up here, I’d already begun to spot the odd fissure – deep, dark gashes in the mountain, disappearing into the depths until they became as black as the fading night.

When I thought of what lay ahead, of the devastation – of the death – I found my steps lagging. My legs felt heavy, and my head woolen, so finding a fallen tree, I set myself down on it.

“What are you doing?” Brynjar demanded. “We’ve got to go.”

“I just need a breather,” I said.

Grumbling, he drew up beside me. Back to the log, he stared out over the vast fjord – and as was our well-established custom at this point, popped the top on a wineskin.

“Tell me again, where this dragon is,” I said.

He waved vaguely behind us, farther up the mountain. “Up there.”

“But where?”

“For Odin’s sake, woman,” he said, thrusting the skin into my hand and sloshing wine over us both in the process. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Despite my annoyance, I accepted the drink. “I ask questions,” I said, pausing to imbibe, “because only fools face dragons without knowing what they’re getting into.”

“Only fools face dragons at all,” he said. Then, laughed heartily.

I frowned at him. “You really are drunk.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

He reached for the wineskin, but I pulled it away. “Oh no. You’ve had too much already.”

He hissed with annoyance. “Careful. You’re spilling it. Anyway, who are you to tell me I’ve had too much? Look at you.”

I took a long, deliberate sip. “I can hold my drink better than any man.”

He snorted.

Ignoring his skepticism, I explained, “It’s the elven blood. I can outdrink anyone. Well, not Liss. She’s…”

Pain washed over me, and for a moment I sat still, blinking into the morning.

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