Alton
is a Wood Sprite, his fiancee Velda is a River Nymph. Their friends,
Revanth and Astrid have a problem—he has been turned into a horse
by an evil witch. The four stay the night at an inn. In the morning,
Revanth is mysteriously gone from the stable.
"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. "Some lads may have took him," he mumbled.
"Early this morning. They might have walked in and led him out,
like."
"And
what direction might they have gone?" Alton played with
the hilt of his sword.
"They
might—might be taking him to the horse market. Down to West
Farland."
"And
how does one get to West Farland?"
"Follow
the road for two days—or the faster way is by river, about a day."
Alton
stepped forward, touching the man's shirt with his fingertips. "You
had best hope I find him swiftly and without hurt, or I will be back
and I'll do what I promised." He stepped back. "Out of
curiosity, how often do horses go missing from your stable?"
"Fairly
often, my Lord," the man replied with a leer.
"Then
you'll accustomed to guests who don't pay," Alton replied. He
turned away once more.
"Now
see here!" Tom bellowed, coming hastily after the Wood Sprite.
Putting
a hand on Alton's shoulder, he intended to stop him. He found himself
looking at the business end of the Wood Sprite's dagger mere inches
from his eye.
"My
horse is worth more than your house and land. It's only fair that you
not only gift us with our night and meals, but guarantee our safe
passage. And if my horse or friends come to harm, no place on this
Earth will be safe for you—neither land nor water. Are we clear on
that?"
The
man blinked nervously, not daring to nod for fear he impale himself
on Alton's blade.
They
made a hasty departure on foot, following the road to where it
crossed the river. Alton knew either he or Velda could pick up
Revanth's trail.
©
2018 Dellani Oakes
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