“You bloody didn’t.”
“I’m tellin’ ya I did!”
“What right under the tree?” Hort asked incredulously.
“Aye! Right under the tree, not two ‘undred yards from the brigands what were looking for us!” Taraborn grinned at this, leaning back and swigging from his mug of cider.
“I don’ believe you!” The other sell sword declared, thumping his own mug down, “No way did you go at it with ‘er so close t’ the danger.”
“I f***kin’ did, and it made it all the sweeter.”
“So what, you sneaked in, killed their leader and got ‘er bow back, then ran away and found the nearest tree to use as shelter fer yer f***ing?”
“Not the nearest tree but aye.”
“An’ they didn’t see you?”
“No they didn’t see us it were night ya bloody moron.”
“I don’ believe you!” He declared once more.
Taraborn shook his head. “That’s the fourth time you’ve said that, but it don’ change the fact tha’ it ‘appened!”
“Well where is she now?”
Taraborn paused, his voice catching in his throat before he could answer. He didn’t know rightly. He couldn’t even give a rough whereabouts without lying. “Back at ‘er home, away west.”
“Well why ain’ she ‘ere then if she’s yer woman?”
Taraborn frowned, the conversation had taken a sharp turn south, and he wasn’t enjoying it one bit. “She had ‘er parents t’ look after, promised t’ wait fer me t’ return.”
“No lass’d promise somethin’ like tha’ to a man like you or me. What if you ain’ never returnin’?”
Taraborn looked into his nearly empty mug, and considered cracking it off his friend’s skull. It’d ruin the job. He decided, and set it down. He’d been worried for Narys, something dark had been looming over him of late. “Well ye don’ know ‘er like I do.” He stood up quickly, and began walking to the bar.
“Oh don’ be like tha’!” His friend called out to him, then noticed who Taraborn was walking towards. He quickly jumped to his feet, drawing his knives from the belt under his cloak.
Taraborn grabbed his target by the collar and slammed his head into the grotty wooden counter of the bar. “Our employer wants his money back.”
“Wha’?” The reply came from the adolescent, he barely had time to register anything before his head was slammed into the table again.
“The money ye stole, f*** wits.”
“I didn’t steal nothin’ from no one!” The boy panicked, trying to pull away but Taraborn had a firm grip on him.
“Don’t lie t’ me boy.”
There was a loud thud and a crunch, followed by a scream of pain about five steps behind him, and he quickly looked back to see an older man approaching with a knife in his hand, and another sticking out from the top of his boot. He dropped the knife in his hand and bent to clutch his foot in agony. Hort stepped over and kicked him in the head knocking him sideways. Once again, Taraborn decided he would always need someone who could fight with a bit of range at his side. The boy in his grip looked back and saw his ally out cold on the floor and tried to pull away some more.
“Please sir I did nothin’ I promise!”
“Well we know different, considerin’ tha’s yer uncle who you were seen with when ye were doin’ the robbin’.”
The boy froze then, and reluctantly nodded.
“Ya gonna be’ave?” He nodded again, “Take us t’ yer stash then.” Taraborn let go of the boy’s collar and let him stand up whilst he counted out a couple of coins to toss to the barkeep for his trouble. “Cheers fer the drink!” He marched the boy from the room, leaving his uncle in a heap on the floor.
Hort fell in beside him, the other side of the teenage boy. “I still don’ believe you.”
“Per’aps one day you’ll meet ‘er an’ she’ll tell ya straight.”
“Aye. Per’aps.”
