Page 17 of Ashes of Betrayal

He was onto something, yet this greedy bastard had already taken two of his rapidly dwindling coins and told him little in return. After the first coin, he’d revealed that he’d indeed attended a fight and spoken to the man in charge. And after the second coin, he’d admitted that the fighters had all borne iron collars, which marked them as slaves.

His jet eyes gleamed now as he stared up at Cailean.

The mercenary could smell his desperation.

And hewasdesperate. He’d waited far too long to go after Eilig, although now he had, all he could think about was revenge. It kept him awake at night and drove him from fort to fort. This search was getting to him. He was tired, irritable, and sick of sleeping rough.

This mercenary had the information he needed. But unless he emptied his coin purse, the man wasn’t talking. Finally, he had a lead, but this dog humper thought he could play with him.

He was out of patience.

Reaching out, Cailean knocked the wooden tankard out of the mercenary’s hand. “You’re not getting any more silver,” he ground out. “Tell me what I want to know.”

The amusement on the mercenary’s face vanished, and he shoved himself up off the bench seat, unfolding his long, lean body. The man’s movements had a fluidity that warned Cailean he was dangerous.

He didn’t care.

It had been a while since he’d had a fight. Some violence might improve his mood, might release the anger that had simmered in his gut ever since he’d walked away from that pyre in The Hallow Woods. It might even clear the bitter taste that Bree Fellshadow had left in his mouth.

“Prick!” the mercenary snarled, reaching for the blade strapped to his thigh. “You’ll buy me another drink.”

“No fighting!” The proprietor of the ale-hall—a narrow, rectangular building lined with long tables, where men in oilskins drank and diced—bellowed. His meaty hand grasped Cailean’s arm, but he shook him off.

Instead, he reached out, grabbed the mercenary by the collar of his vest, and hauled him into the aisle between the tables. Hethen grabbed the man’s wrist, just as he went to draw his knife, and headbutted him in the face.

Reeling back, the mercenary lifted a hand to his bloodied nose. He went still then, his gaze narrowing. “You’ll regret that,enforcer.”

Cailean favored him with a hard smile that showed his teeth as he flexed his hands at his sides. Aye, he was enjoying himself. Hopefully, this opponent would prove to be a worthy one. And after he’d spilled some blood, he’d get him to talk. “Will I?”

Of course, this man knew what he was—the tattoos that covered his arms and snaked up his neck made it hard for him to hide in a crowd. His size too, the muscle that he’d spent years putting on, marked him as a warrior-druid.

The men surrounding them were mostly locals: men who’d just finished work in the fields outside the fort or sold the last of their catches on the wooden docks below and were enjoying a cup of ale before going home to their wives. They scattered, clearing a space in the center of the ale-hall. Muttering followed as they started to lay bets.

“Enough!” the proprietor roared, wading in. “You won’t—”

However, he never finished his sentence, for the mercenary whipped out the knife from its sheath upon his thigh and slashed it across the ale-hall owner’s throat.

Eyes snapping wide, the big man staggered, his hands clasping where the blood now pumped out of his neck.

Cailean’s mouth thinned, his anticipation of a good, bruising, fight shattering. “There wasn’t any need for that,” he growled. “Your problem was with me.”

The mercenary’s gaze glinted. “Aye … and it still is.”

He struck then, his blade flashing for Cailean’s throat.

Reeling back, he avoided the lethal move, even as he felt the whisper of the dagger blade, too close to his skin.

Cailean had enough iron strapped to his body to make a Shee warrior shriek, yet he didn’t draw the dagger at his hip or one of the knives sheathed on the belt across his chest. If he did that, this maggot would be dead within moments.

And he needed him alive.

It was unfortunate that the only person he’d spoken to over the past three moons who had anything useful to tell him was a grasping mercenary with a vicious streak.

That couldn’t be helped though.

Dodging another swipe of the gleaming blade, Cailean grabbed his opponent by his wrist and drove him backward. Violence ignited in his blood, the earth magic that slumbered there crying for release. He ignored it.

Grunting a curse, the mercenary reached for another dagger with his free hand, this one hanging from his belt, but Cailean drove his knee into his groin.

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