Page 43 of Tusk Love

“Absolutely not,” said Oskar.

“My lady mentioned you might say that,” the dwarf replied. “In which case, I am obliged to inform you that we don’t offer refunds. The weapons have been paid for, sir. You need only make your selections.”

The thing was—itdidmake sense to replace the swords Oskar had lost. He could hardly fend off the mercenaries in close combat with a hunting knife and a plucky horse. He would give the purchased weaponry to Guinevere at journey’s end, he decided. Then she could gift them to her betrothed or…whatever. It would be no business of Oskar’s by then.

After several minutes of browsing, he selected two of the blacksmith’s finest swords. They were plain in appearance compared to the ones with engraved hilts or jewels set into their pommels, but theblade was the important thing, and these blades were as sharp as ice, crafted for fighting rather than display.

Gods help him, but he was in a buoyant mood as he left the shop. He had started the morning making love to a beautiful woman, and now she’d bought him a pair of dwarven-made swords. He had to thank Guinevere sincerely.

“You gave awayeverythingleft in your satchel?” were the first words he barked at her.

“You were the one who believed I should have no qualms exchanging the wares for what I needed,” came her lofty response. “And I need you to be adequately armed if you are to protect me from the mercenaries.”

But she was clearly fighting to suppress a smile, her frame vibrating as though she wanted to jump up and down, awash in the simple joy of gift-giving. He scowled and took her hand and didn’t let go of it until they reached the city gate.

Afternoon found them on Vindicator’sback, trotting along the Amber Road behind a procession of two covered, ox-driven wagons that bore a ragtag assortment of travelers and all their earthly possessions. One of them was an orange-skinned goblin—a musician who liked to dangle his brightly stockinged feet outside the wagon’s canvas bonnet while strumming his lute and singing lusty songs that Oskar fervently hoped went over Guinevere’s head. There was an entire army of goblin children, too, occasionally hopping down to run beside their conveyances’ spinning wooden wheels, flying kites and blowing soap bubbles out of pipes. As the hours wore on and boredom set in, more than a few of them took to doubling back and pestering Oskar and Guinevere’s own party.

“Leave that alone!” Oskar bellowed at the tiny horde of devil spawn who had clambered onto Pudding and were using the pearwood trunk strapped to the mare’s back as a drum.

The children ignored him. Where were the parents? He glared atthe musician, who was the only adult visible in the wagon a few feet ahead. “Can’t you do something?”

The musician plucked a mournful note from his lute. “Those’re my sister’s kids. They don’t listen to me.”

“Can’t we leave them be, Oskar?” Guinevere pleaded. “They’re just having fun, and Pudding appears to like their company.”

“I doubt Pudding understands what’s going on around her enough to form opinions on people,” Oskar muttered.

“She’s a very sweet horse,” Guinevere said loyally.

“She is,” he agreed. “Like treacle. And just as slow.”

Offended on their pack mare’s behalf, Guinevere turned around with a huff and spent the next several minutes looking straight ahead at the road, shoulders rigid, refusing to talk to him. He poked and prodded at her, stifling his chuckles every time she so very pointedly veered from his touch as far as the saddle would allow. Eventually, he couldn’t stand it any longer, and he pressed a fond kiss to the side of her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. She shrieked with laughter and half-heartedly tried to push him away, but he persisted. Another kiss. Another little nip. She sighed, leaning back against his chest.

“Ah, the bloom of romance!” the goblin musician called out. In a fit of inspiration, he wove a beautiful melody from his lute. The sound of strings was lighter than sunbeams on a forest pond, serenading the autumn leaves and the clear horizon, impossible not to get lost in.

“Oh, my beloved’s eyes are violets, her hair spills like a moonlit stream.” The fine tenor of his voice rang exquisitely over the open road. “She is a gentle warrior, she handles my sword like a dream—”

“I’m going to kill you!” Oskar roared.

The children cackled. Their uncle hastily vanished into the darkness of the wagon in a flash of bright stockings, the echoes of goblin music still haunting the air.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Guinevere

In hindsight, it had been foolish to believe that the sunny days would hold fast three weeks into Fessuran. Although it wasn’t that Guinevere hadbelievedit would never rain, exactly—she simply hadn’t thought about it.

That was the thing with the weather: one tended to take the good for granted until the bad crept up on them.

Or, in this case, until the skies clouded over, swallowing the sunlight, and a growl of thunder was all the warning that the gods deigned to issue before a blinding deluge fell over the Amber Road.

Vindicator pranced anxiously while Pudding let out a high-pitched neigh of distress. Through sheets of water so thick that they all but plastered to her eyes, blobs of diminutive orange streaked across Guinevere’s vision as the goblin children abandoned the mare and raced to the shelter of their wagons.

“Come!” The musician had reemerged and was now beckoning atOskar and Guinevere, shouting to be heard over the din of the elements. “Inside, quickly!”

Oskar urged Vindicator forward. The ground had turned to mud, but the stallion prevailed, and soon Oskar was lifting Guinevere into the wagon.

“I have to stay with the horses,” he told her.

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