The Moon Market’s festivities were well under way by the time the boys approached the outskirts of the village. The buzz of excitement echoed through the valley; roars of laughter and awe as storytellers from Gilsa and Camylin wove their fanciful tales could be heard amidst the constant hum of the cheerful, melodic music being played around campfires. The Moon Market was the biggest festival in the villages. It occurred every cycle, when the moon was at its fullest. Traders, entertainers, and bards from all across the western lands gathered in the market square of The Glade to flog their wares, commune with old friends, and share in the festivities.
The town guards nodded as the boys trudged along, each on the brink of collapse from exhaustion. Calen heaved the body of the stag behind him on the sled.
“Just in time, boys,” Ferrin Kolm, one of the guardsmen, remarked, drawing his gaze towards Calen. Ferrin had been one of Haem’s best friends. His face was warm and friendly, spotted with freckles. The skin on his lips was cracked from the frosty night wind. “Gods, that’s a nasty one,” he said as he caught sight of the gash that ripped along the side of the stag. “You boys all right?”
Calen nodded. “Aye.”
Ferrin’s mouth twisted as he and the other guard, Dalmen, exchanged a sideways glance.
“Will we see you both in The Dragon later to hear Therin?” Calen asked, changing the subject. He liked Ferrin, but they were already late and he had no intentions of getting caught up in any conversations that might make them even more so.
Ferrin gave a weak smile. “Aye, we shall see you there, young Bryer. We change over shortly.”
The boys said their goodbyes and carried on. They kept to the edges of the village to avoid trudging through the crowds. Even then, they drew the odd glance from a drunken traveller or two who had gotten lost in the moonlight.
When they got to Dann’s house, there was not so much as a flicker of candlelight to signal that anyone was home. “Father must already be down at The Dragon,” Dann mused. “We can leave the stag hanging out back. It’s cold enough tonight that it will keep till morning.”
The others nodded. Calen would have agreed to whatever Dann had suggested. He was cold and tired, and they should have been in the inn already.
It was difficult for the boys not to get caught up in the excitement as they made their way towards The Gilded Dragon, weaving through the crowd with ardour. The streets of the village were packed to the brim. Drunken revellers traipsed about, arm in arm, not heading anywhere in particular. Groups of young men bellowed songs of summer as starlight illuminated the streets.
As Calen, Dann, and Rist made their way into the middle of the village, the large, stout structure of The Gilded Dragon came into sight. Built from long, thick beams of spruce, the inn was one of the largest buildings in the village. It was also one of but a few buildings in town to possess a second storey; from which a thatched canopy extended outward. Under the canopy, there was a raised deck with a central staircase that formed the entrance to the inn. The top of the staircase was framed on either side by two ornate wooden dragons. Each scale was carved with masterful precision, and their tails coiled tightly around the balusters atop which they sat. They seemed alive, as if ready to tear, limb from limb, anyone who would do the inn harm. Lasch Havel, Rist’s father, commissioned them from a passing craftsman many summers ago. He was so thrilled with the finished pieces that he promised the craftsman free accommodation and mead for life. The man has made frequent visits back to The Glade ever since, and Lasch has stayed true to his word.
As they ascended the staircase, Calen heard the tumultuous hubbub of the drunken crowd within. The familiar sound was oddly pleasant to his ears.
The doors to the inn swung open abruptly. For a moment, Calen smiled, eager to join the celebrations within. Then Kurtis Swett and Fritz Netley came stumbling out onto the deck. Arseholes.
The two young men guffawed, shoving each other back and forth. “Anya is only waiting for you to take her, Kurtis. I don’t know why you’re waiting. I would have her in a heartbeat!” Fritz teased, stumbling a little and taking a deep slug of mead from his tankard.
“You will keep your filthy hands—” Kurtis stopped mid-sentence as he saw Calen, Rist, and Dann standing in front of him. A scowl spread across his face. “What do we have here? Has Mother allowed the children to come and have a drink?”
“Get out of the way, Kurtis,” Dann snarled, attempting to push past the two young men.
As he did, Fritz rushed towards him and shoved him in the chest with two hands. “Whoa, now. Don’t you speak to us like that, you little piece of shit.” The smell of mead wafted from his breath. Fritz was bad enough sober. Alcohol only made him worse.
Fritz manoeuvred himself to shove Dann a second time. Calen leapt forward, balled his hand into a fist, and caught Fritz across the cheek with his knuckles. Calen couldn’t keep the look of shock from his face as Fritz touched his forefingers to his tender cheek. “You are going to regret that!” Fritz shouted, his eyes narrowing into a glare.
“Regret what, might I ask?” queried the calm, smooth voice of Lasch Havel, who had appeared as if from nowhere, standing between the young men and the door to the inn. Lasch was not a tall or imposing man, but he was highly respected in the village.
