Red Heir - Lisa Henry Page 0,21

eye as he crept ahead. He held his bow in front of him, an arrow notched and ready to loose, and he looked every part the dangerous elven warrior. Unfortunately, Loth heard him murmur “Roll for initiative!” as he moved ahead. The fact that he was treating this moment like it was something out of Houses and Humans didn’t inspire much confidence.

“Are we sure we want him back?” Dave asked.

“Yes,” Ada said firmly. “He’s our only contact for Ser Factor. If we don’t get Scott back, we don’t get paid.”

“I’m gonna buy dragon eggs with my share of the reward money,” Dave said conversationally to Loth as they plodded along with the horses after Calarian and Ada. “Calarian is going to throw his into a bog and then spit on it because collectivist anarchists oppose the retention of money.”

“Do you know what any of that actually means?” Loth asked gently.

“Bog,” Dave said, a frown creasing his green forehead. “And spit.”

Fair enough.

Loth absently patted Grub’s arse and received a half-hearted groan in return. He was still alive then. That was a good thing, and probably more than they could say for Scott at this point. He reflected briefly on the irony of having to rescue his rescuer, before patting Grub’s arse again. Grub grunted and raised his head, one eye open and peering at Loth. “Whu?”

“You fainted. And now Scott’s managed to get himself captured by the swamp monster, and we’re currently following a trail of his shit to try and rescue him.”

“Skid marks,” Calarian chimed in from ahead of him, and Loth snorted.

Loth paused in his walking so Grub could struggle upright in the saddle. “So he got captured…?”

“While he was shitting himself in fear, yes,” Loth confirmed.

Grub’s face screwed up. “Why are we rescuing him again?”

“Cause he’s the one who knows how we can get paid,” Dave supplied. He paused, thinking, and added, “If we’re not dead by then.”

Grub groaned and made a move to climb off the horse, but Loth put a hand on his thigh, stopping him. “No. Stay there.”

Grub raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t have the energy to pick your pitiful bones up out of the mud again,” Loth said.

Grub rolled his eyes, but he stayed on the horse.

Calarian slowed and held up a hand. “Up ahead,” he whispered, pointing.

The trail of shit stains veered sharply to the left, through a gap in the stunted, twisted trees. The group slowed as they approached and went deathly silent—Loth wasn’t sure if it was from competence or caution. His money was on the second one.

“I’ll go ahead,” Calarian said, looking over his shoulder as if he expected someone to try and stop him. Absolutely nobody did. Loth didn’t blame them—he couldn’t speak for the others, but he wasn’t about to go rushing headlong to meet his demise. Loth had a well-developed sense of self-preservation, and right now it was screaming at him to run. The only reason he was ignoring it was because in this instance, it really was a case of safety in numbers. Just look what had happened to Scott.

Calarian’s shoulders drooped at the lack of response, but after a few seconds he breathed deeply, straightened up, and strode down the path, bow and arrow extended in front of him. Loth waited for the inevitable sounds of battle and the devious, self-serving part of him that had kept him alive all these years wondered if they’d be able to grab Scott and run while the monster was busy eating the elf. He liked Calarian, and personally wouldn’t have chosen him to be devoured first, but Scott was the money guy. Or at least the guy who knew the money guy. And Loth had always liked money.

There was a roar that seemed to go on forever, and then Calarian’s voice rang out in the gloom as he addressed the monster. Loth had to give him credit—he sounded confident, for someone who was about to be eaten. “Show yourself, foul beast, and release the prison—”

The roaring cut off suddenly, and they heard, “Cal? Is that you?”

A moment’s silence, then Calarian hesitantly asked, “Benji? Cousin Benji?”

The mist in front of them seemed to part as a figure stepped through it. It wasn’t a monster at all. It was an elf—Cousin Benji, presumably—except instead of wearing the brown and green earth tones that Loth associated with his people, this one was wearing all black, except for the gleaming metal stud through his lip. And his ear. And his eyebrow. His hair