Alton
and Velda is my first, and so far only, attempt at medieval fantasy.
I have some modern fantasy novels, but I never tried one with naiads,
wood sprites and sorcerers before. It was fun and I might try it
again.
Revanth
is an ensorclled man, turned into a horse by an evil swamp naiad. He
and his fiancee, Astrid, have been traveling with Alton and Velda.
They stop for the night at a tavern only to have something untoward
happen during the night.
While
the women packed, Alton went out to the stable to saddle Revanth. He
checked the stall where the black stallion had bedded down the night
before. Saddle and bridle were where he'd left them, but Revanth was
gone.
"Where's
my horse?" Alton demanded. "I left him here, in your care,
last night. Where is he?"
"What
sort of horse, good sir?" The groom appeared somewhat touched in
the head. His speech was slow and deliberate.
Alton
wasn't sure the man understood him, but he described Revanth in
detail.
The
groom shook his head. "Warn't narry sech horse here when I come
to work dis mornin'. I check 'em all. I'd o' remembered a horse that
sleek—all black, you say? And a stallion? Rare, that is."
"Very
rare, hence my irritation that my—horse—is—gone! See here, this
is his bridle and saddle."
"Likely
run off," the groom said, scratching his stubbly chin.
"He
wouldn't do that."
"Why
not? All animals like freedom like us folk."
"Not
Revanth. Who's the law around here?"
"You
don't need the law, young master. . . ."
"The
name is Sir Alton of Lyndon Mead. Not young master. I
want the sheriff or constable—whoever the authority is here."
"You
be wanting Tom Joyce, t' Magistrate."
"That
will do. Where is he?"
"Out
back. He owns the tavern."
Alton
barely thanked him. He went behind the tavern and found a stout,
balding man. His pants and shirt were homespun and grubby from hard
work. He was trying to fix a wagon wheel without much success.
When
Alton approached the tavern keeper turned toward him, touching his
forehead in respect. "What can I do for ye, milord?"
"My
horse is missing from your stable. I saw him put up last evening. My
traveling companion curried him before bed. His tack is where I left
it, but my horse is not."
Tom
Joyce pulled on his forelock. "Well, then. It appears we've a
problem."
"Do
you think so?" Alton said, surprise in his voice.
The
chubby man had enough intelligence to know he was being chastised. He
frowned. "No need to be like that."
"There
is, I'm afraid. I have places to go. I need my horse."
"He's
worth a lot of money, is he?" The older man's expression changed
subtly.
Alton
frowned, leaning over the much shorter man. "He's worth more
than your scurvy life, old man. He's the war horse for a knight of
the realm. The mud in his hooves is ten times the cost of this flea
ridden tavern. If you know where he is, I'll have him back. If by
your ineptitude, you're hoping that the thieves will spirit him away,
let me assure you." He took a step closer. "There's no
place he can go where I can't find him. And when I do, I'll make it
my business to come back here, lay you open from groin to gorge—nice
and slow. Am I clear?"
"As
crystal." The taverner gulped, his flabby chins bobbing
nervously.
©
2017 Dellani Oakes
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