Red Heir - Lisa Henry Page 0,20
here,” Ada said at last.
“Me neither,” said Calarian.
“Mustard,” said Dave.
They looked to Scott.
“Well,” Scott said, scratching his nose and making his makeshift mask dance, “I have heard things. But we’re fine. We’re the heroes.”
“What have you heard, Scott?” Loth asked.
“Oh.” Scott waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing to worry about, your Worshipfulness. Just this story about some monster who lives in the Swamp of Death who catches lost and unwary travellers and then kills them and eats their flesh and wears their skin as clothes.”
“Huh,” said Loth. “You see, the issue is that we’re currently lost and unwary.”
“Actually, I’m pretty fucking wary after hearing that,” Ada muttered.
“Point,” Loth said. A thought struck him. “Who exactly told the story, Scott?”
Scott shrugged. “Just a stranger in town. He was probably making it up for the glory and the free drinks.”
Loth glanced at Grub’s prone figure and resisted the urge to pet his arse. “Except Grub also knew about monsters in the swamp. And he wasn’t out drinking with any strangers in taverns, was he?”
For someone who’d claimed to have been a hostage in Delacourt’s dungeons, Grub knew an awful lot of things, actually. Loth didn’t trust it—Loth didn’t trust anything, but that was beside the point. Grub was definitely not being honest with him. And maybe they’d gotten off on the wrong foot what with Loth telling everyone he fucked horses, but was that anything to hold a grudge over? Besides, if Grub hadn’t been so delightfully prickly when they’d met, Loth wouldn’t have felt the need to continually poke at him. He only had himself to blame.
“Anyway,” Scott continued blithely, “I’m sure that the monster doesn’t really have claws the size of ploughshares and red eyes that burn like flames.”
“Or vicious fangs dripping with the blood of his enemies,” Dave agreed. Everyone swivelled to look at him. “Monsters, you said. Not mustard. Monsters in the swamp, yeah, I've heard of those. They’re terrifying.”
And then he shuddered. And Loth didn’t want to even imagine what kind of monsters made an orc shudder. Except he had to imagine it, didn’t he? Because here they fucking were, in the Swamp of Death, which, it now turned out, had monsters. He really, really should have stayed in a dungeon cell in Delacourt, even if he had been given the world’s most annoying cellmate.
“Well, that’s just great!” Ada threw up her hands. “We’re about to be consumed by a bloodthirsty something, and I haven’t even been paid yet!”
“What? That’s your main concern here?” Loth stared, open-mouthed.
“It's a matter of principle, for a dwarf. Never die with unresolved debt. It brings dishonour to the family.” She fixed Scott with a glare. “So before we get munched, crunched, and spat out, I want my gold, or else it won't be the monster you have to worry about.”
“We won’t get munched and crunched,” Scott maintained stoutly. “It’s a fairy story. And we’re the heroes! Whoever heard a ballad where the hero got eaten?”
“Um,” Calarian ventured, “maybe those don’t get written, because the hero isn’t around to tell about how they got eaten?”
Scott went deathly pale as reality finally penetrated. “We’re—we might be in actual danger here,” he whispered, horrified. “We might be the heroes who don’t make it home.”
“I don’t think they’re called heroes, Scott,” Loth said gently. “I think they’re called victims.”
“Or lunch,” added Ada.
Scott paled further, his pallor almost matching Grub’s. “I—” A strange gurgling noise came from his lower midsection. “I—excuse me!”
And he dashed off behind the nearest tree.
“Did he—” Ada threw up her hands again. “Did we not just talk about how there are monsters in the swamp, and he goes off alone to shit his pants?”
“I am not shitting my pants!” Scott called from behind the trees. “I’m shitting without my pants! Besides, what do you think is going to happen? That some monster is going to grab me while my breeches are around my ankles and drag me away? I don’t think that’s very—”
But whatever else Scott was going to say was cut off by a roar, a thwack, and a thud as a monster—Loth presumed—dragged him away
“Well,” Ada said moments later as they peered down at the steaming pile of shit left behind, “they probably won’t put that in the ballads.”
Chapter Six
The trail left by the monster dragging Scott through the swamp—Calarian insisted on calling them skid marks—was easy enough to follow, even in the rapidly gathering darkness.
“This is probably a trap, you know,” Ada said.
“Probably,” Calarian agreed, with a gleam in his