Only One Woman
There was no sense in marching Ebonvale’s army down a deserted street when their feet already chafed in their boots and they’d squeezed the last few drops from their sheepskins. Instead, Bron led them to a small park where they could watch the ocean waves lap across a sandy beach. Travel-worn and heart-sore, he took off on his own to find shelter and food.
Wind gushed across the usually bustling boardwalk with no vendor stalls to block the gales from the ocean or the salty spray of the sea. Hastily nailed boards covered every window and door to all the inns. Bron walked the length of the bay. Would he find any provisions, or would they have to sustain themselves on Ebonvale’s dried jerky and whatever they could fish out of the sea? Surely, one would have to be mad to stay open in a no man’s land.
Bron turned back. How would he brace his men for the ill news? A gust of wind blew and hinges creaked. He whirled around, hand over hilt, and spotted a sign with yellow painted letters reading The Broken Oar.
One more. He owed it to his weary men to check.
Gazing down an alley to make sure he wasn’t being followed by looters, or something worse, Bron jogged the remaining steps to the sign. The old wooden door stood slightly ajar and a warm fire glowed from inside painted glass windows depicting sailors lost at sea.
Seemed like a trap.
Bron tensed his fingers over his hilt, ready to draw at any time, and walked in. His armor clinked as he stepped, stealing any sense of surprise. Wooden booths with linen pillows lined the inside walls, and a series of bottles of all shapes and sizes stood on a glossy oaken bar.
“Good afternoon, soldier. May I tempt you with a draught of our famous, or shall I say infamous, blackwood brew?” An older man with a leathery brown patch over one eye and a head full of silvery hair standing up on end stared at him. Two blue bottles filled with a bubbly substance stood before him.
“No thank you, kind sir.” Bron stepped toward the bar, acutely aware of any motion on all sides. Bron didn’t want to give away the position of his army, or of Danika and the ships, until he knew more about the situation and this man. “What brings such a dutiful bartender to open his tavern in times such as these?”
“Kingdoms rise and fall, rulers come and go, but one truth remains.” He paused, examining a bottle of dark, amber liquid. “If the sun continues to set and the moon dances in her shadow, there will always be a need for drink for the likes of any man.”
Bron didn’t like the idea of kingdoms falling. “What have you heard of the wyverns?”
“Rumors, mostly. Yula’s son found a scale as big as that door washed up on the beach. Old Wolly upstairs saw a cloud of worms amassing over the eastern seaboard. City folks have abandoned their dwellings for fear the beasts will pay a visit to Brimmore’s Bay. Pah!” He waved his hand. “If they come, then so be it. I’m not gonna let some fish-headed worms ruin my life’s work. They’ve already driven away all my business, but they’re not running old Tarle Bluebottom outta town!”
Bron smiled. He was beginning to like this man. “You have the bravery of a soldier.”
“Nah. I was never one for battle and bloodshed. Give me a bucket, though, and I’ll brew mead that will knock your helmet to the starry sky.”
Bron stepped to the bar and dug into his travel bag. He pulled out a velvet sack and dropped it onto the countertop. A few golden coins leaked out, glinting in the hearth’s light as they rolled and spun on the oaken tabletop. “I believe I can drum up some business for you.”
Tarle Bluebottom leaned forward with a glint in his good eye. “Just say the word.”
* * * *
As the first round of the Royal Guard filed into the booths with four men squeezing onto each bench, Bron took a seat at a one-man table in the back. Seeing Danika with Valorian again brought out the brooding side of him, and conversation wasn’t a dance he wanted to engage in.
“More water, soldier?” A chubby-faced barmaid no older than Bron leaned over the table with a metal pitcher, condensation forming on the sides. She gave him a quizzical look, probably wondering why he hadn’t tried Tarle Bluebottom’s famous blackwood mead.
Bron never consumed mead on a quest. “Certainly. Thank you, ma’am.” He pushed his mug forward.
Her black curls fell over the table as she filled his mug. Dark eyes studied the scar trailing along his jaw. “What’ll it be tonight?”
Bron absently rubbed his chin where the scar ended. The image of a man with blackened skin and white-blue eyes, thick with cataracts, flashed through his mind. A leather rope hung around his neck, a golden ring dangling around his Adam’s apple. He’d been human once. It had only taken that millisecond of pause for the undead to awkwardly swing a knife at Bron’s face. It was good fortune the morning chill had frozen the dead man’s limbs, and the reanimated had imperfect aim at best.
Bron blinked to clear his thoughts. “The pork and mutton dumplings sound tasty.”
“An excellent choice for such a fine man.” She appraised him with a smile. “Name’s Lisha if you need anything.”
Bron nodded without comment. Her interest in his scar unnerved him. He was a fractured man made tough by battle and silent by duty. Only such a woman as Danika would truly understand.
The barmaid twisted on her heels. Her hips swayed as she walked to the next table.
He’d killed the undead man in one fatal swing. A lull had fallen over the battle, and he had had enough time to bend over the corpse and break the leather strap around his neck. Holding the ring between his forefinger and thumb, he’d read the inscription.
Bound by love, Ursula and Claric.
Bron had searched for Ursula when King Artemus brought the men home. He’d found her in the farmer’s village beside his, and it took him more courage than heading into battle to return the ring. She’d cursed him, saying he’d killed her one true love and his scar would never completely heal. True to her word, the scar burned in the sun and chilled in the evening air.
Another battle with more carnage, more death, loomed.
“Here you are.” The barmaid Lisha pushed a plate of steaming pork and mutton dumplings with brown gravy in front of him. “Enjoy.”
“My thanks to you.” Bron picked up his fork.
“Oh, and one more thing.” She dug into her apron and pulled out a small silver flask etched with a filigreed pattern on the front. “Courtesy of Tarle.” She placed the flask on the table beside him.
Bron studied the glinting silver, running his hands along the grooves in the pattern. He admired the beauty and craftsmanship. “I have no need for this. I do not drink.”
“It’s a gift. Take it. You’ll find a use for it.” The barmaid leaned on his table, exposing her neckline and robust chest. “Is there anything else I can fetch for you?”
“No, ma’am.” Bron cut a piece of meat with the side of his fork. He expected her to tend to the other tables, but she leaned on his as if she planned to stay. Bron wished for the company of his soldiers. Eating alone wasn’t such a good idea anymore.
Her fingers trailed along his arm. “Tell me, do you have a sweetheart pining away for you back in Ebonvale?”
Bron couldn’t lie to this young woman. “I do not.”
She inched up closer and her fingertips left small halos of heat on the shoulder of his armor. “A man strong and honest-gazed as you should have women in droves surrounding him.”
Bron pulled away and took a draught from his mug. “Duty keeps me from love.”
Her chubby face scrunched up in sadness. She could be pretty when she dropped her seductress façade. “Pray tell, why ever is that so?”
Bron paused. If he gave her a shadow of a reply, she’d hound him all night long. He took a bite of bread, thinking upon his words.
The barmaid chewed on her bottom lip.
The bread had no flavor. Nothing could compare to Danika’s kisses. He breathed in. “There is only one woman for me, and I cannot have her.”
Lisha gasped and put slender fingers over her pouty mouth. “Parted by death?”
“Nay.” Bron turned toward her. He’d never opened up to a stranger before. “Bound by duty.”
The barmaid pursed her lips and gave him a scolding look. “Not a valid excuse, soldier.” She placed her hands on her wide hips. “Love transcends all worldly trappings. If you truly loved her, you’d find a way.”
She turned around and tended to the next table, her sly eyes and seductive facade returning.
Bron waited for her to come back to his table to explain further, for she’d made him out to be a fool. His empty plate sat on his table and his mug sat dry until the last soldiers had made their way back to the docks.
A saying his father used to mutter on occasions when his mother threw him out to sleep with the pigs came back to him:
Wise advice comes when you least expect it, but when you need it most.