a thänæ, a paragon among his people for virtuous accomplishments.”
“Paragon?” Chane rasped in disbelief. “That bellower?”
Someone snorted, and Wynn flinched around to meet pellet black eyes. A dwarf seated an arm’s length away tilted his head with an angry glare. He slowly set down his mug.
“Apologies!” Wynn spit out quickly in Dwarvish. “My friend is an uncouth foreigner . . . out of his element.” She turned on Chane, switching to Belaskian in a sharp whisper. “Keep quiet, before you start something! Dwarven virtue differs from human cultures. He is telling them a story of his exploits.”
“That is not virtue,” Chane hissed, “only bluster.”
“I found no tracks,” Hammer- Stag continued, and his low conspiratorial tone brought the room to attentive silence. “But I could smell their passing.”
He paused near one table. The room remained silent as he stepped off the platform.
Hammer-Stag reached across the nearest table. He dragged the mug of one patron slowly toward himself, as if waiting for its owner to object. But that dwarf and all others remained quietly still. Hammer-Stag hefted the mug, took a long gulp, and slammed it back down.
Wynn had no idea what this meant, but his audience roared as he returned to the platform.
“So, I tracked them,” Hammer-Stag went on, tapping the side of his broad nose.
Chuckles and snickers rose briefly, likely at some jest concerning the stench of goblins.
Wynn stopped listening. Solving the mystery of the thänæ’s presence here wouldn’t help her find the Iron- Braids, and Chane’s elitist contempt was only going to get them in trouble.
Standing close, Chane looked down and gave her a short, sharp shake of his head.
“Some of these people must live nearby,” she whispered, ignoring his suggestion that they leave.
Quietly, Wynn slipped forward, trying not to interrupt the thänæ’s story.
“Excuse me,” she whispered between a pair seated on the outskirts. “Could you tell me where the Iron- Braids live?”
Dwarves were usually willing enough to help a lost stranger. If one of them knew anything, perhaps a quiet response would be enough.
The male to her right dropped his jaw in shock, and then gritted his teeth as if she’d committed some terrible offense. He spun back toward the platform, crossing his arms and pretending not to see her. Others at the table grumbled and followed suit.
The thänæ glanced over but didn’t break stride in his tale.
“When the first three came, I took two heads at once!” he called loudly. With one hand, Hammer-Stag whipped the ax off his back into a level arc. It passed swiftly before those nearest, as if severing heads right before their eyes.
A cry of triumph rose in the crowd, and Wynn sighed. Clearly she’d chosen the wrong table, and she moved farther toward the back wall near the entrance.
“Pardon me,” she whispered to a small group in the leathers of laborers. “Could you please—”
She was cut off in a gasp as someone grabbed the back of her robe and cloak.
Wynn was up on her toes as she headed unwillingly toward the exit. Shade burst into a loud snarl, and Chane began pushing toward Wynn, his expression darkening. Her heart sank as she flailed her hands before her, trying to wave them both off before this all ended badly.
Chane still had his hand on his sword hilt as Wynn’s heels hit the floor. She spun about, wobbling a bit under her pack’s weight, and came eye- to-eye with a wide-faced woman.
“If you want to act like a rude little turnip,” the female warned in a baritone voice, “then at least be silent like one!”
The dwarven woman straightened and brushed off her muslin apron.
Chane looked about uneasily as a dozen irritated patrons turned in their seats. Shade stayed put and ceased snarling as the woman proceeded back through the tables. Although the thänæ never paused in his telling, his squinting eyes turned once in Wynn’s direction.
“Then the pack was upon me!” Hammer-Stag shouted. “I thought to face fifteen or twenty of the half beasts, but they poured from the forest’s dark spaces by the scores. . . .”
Wynn rolled her eyes.
Scores? Hardly! A rare pack of goblins had been known to raid far settlements beyond Malourné’s eastern reaches. No more than a dozen had ever been seen at one time. Her frustration grew.
Someone here had to assist her, for where else could she go asking at this time of night? But no one seemed willing to speak during the thänæ’s tale. By his overly dramatic manner, he might go on until dawn.
Chane jerked