Page 37 of Ironling
“It would be nice to have another blacksmith out this way,” Aoife said. “Especially if we could catch him for ourselves. Thehorses always need shoes.”
Sorcha threw a smile over her shoulder as she set the used dishes by the sink. “Careful, Aislinn. Sounds like my mother intends to steal away your new blacksmith.”
Aislinn forced a grin. “Well then, I’ll have to make good use of him while I have him.”
The pack of manticores led them in one last rowdy drinking song, their short whiskers twitching in merriment as beer and mead sloshed over tankard rims.
Over a dozen of them crowded outside Varon’s tiny homestead, celebrating the new life about to be lived there. Green skin and golden fur and blue feathers all joined in a cacophony of textures, their toneless voices ringing in good fortune and fat harvests for the new farm.
As they all belted the last word, their loudness shaking the doorframe, the manticores led them in pouring their drinks on Varon’s head in a show of celebration and good luck. The male took it well, grinning around his tusks as foam ran along his brows.
After slaps on the back and more well wishes, many headed to the cask to refill their tankards.
Before he could refill his own, Hakon looked down, feeling feathers rustling against his calf.
Maritza, the eldest of the harpy flock who now called the Darrowlands home, squeezed between him and Orek, smiling up at them in that unnerving way of harpies. They lacked beaks likebirds, instead having rows of sharp teeth perfect for swooping down and taking a bite out of prey—or partners. Big round eyes, dominated by overlarge irises, dilated and focused on him.
He felt her tail of blue-black feathers swish against his calf again. She and her sisters were all of similar coloring; long inky black manes of hair; gray-blue skin on the face, chest, and legs; violet eyes that were always moving; and blue-black feathers. All harpies had wing-arms—not true arms but instead wings with a clawed, four-fingered hand at the middle joint—and legs with backward-facing knees that ended in birdlike feet with three talons each.
Maritza’s sister Andreen scratched a few symbols around Varon’s new house with those strangely elegant feet. The other two, Ysera and Nareeda, had already cornered Jör, another half-orc, their tails swishing behind them. When unfurled, their tails fanned around them at least five feet, and Hakon had learned in his time in camp that harpies flirted with their tails.
Looking between them, Martiza smiled, tossing her glossy black hair over her narrow shoulder. Martiza, though, flirted with everything she had.
“We miss you in camp, Hakon,” she crooned. “And Orek’s become a stranger, finishing that house.”
Hakon could feel his ears burning, and Orek looked like he’d swallowed a rock.
Harpies were known to be lusty creatures, with a fierce love for hunting, flying, and fucking. They often mated for life, sometimes a flock of females taking just one male, but that male had to earn his place. In the meantime, harpies enjoyed testing potential partners.
Hakon knew that Orek being a mated male wasn’t a qualm for Maritza—he’d heard her invite Sorcha to join them more than once.
Their little camp on the outskirts of the Brádaigh estate wasoften a hotbed of intrigue and flirtation. He knew at least one of the manticore pack, probably Balar by the way he was glaring at Nareeda fawning over a flustered Jör, had taken the harpies up on their flirtations.
Hakon himself had been sorely tempted, but if he was honest, Maritza and her sisters terrified him. Something in their hungry gaze…he was male enough to admit he might not be enough male for them.
“They keep me busy at the castle,” Hakon said, quick to put his empty tankard to his lips for something to do.
“There are many pretty human women there, I suppose.”Swishwent her tail.
“And men. Many knights.”
Her brows arched in interest, feathers rustling. “Are there now.”
Hakon had the sudden image of Maritza and her sisters descending on the courtyard of Dundúran castle, catching Captain Aodhan unawares and unprepared. The knights of Dundúran wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Perhaps you can visit the castle,” said Hakon, happy for the diversion. “I’m sure Lady Aislinn wouldn’t mind.”
“You’ve spoken with Lady Aislinn?”
They looked up at the deep rumble, the festivities muting at the sound of Allarion’s resonate voice.
The imposing fae warrior stood a few steps away, his face severe and attention trained on Hakon. It was unnerving, to say the least. Little was known about the fae and their kingdom in the western highlands. Tales told of great castles that overlooked the sea, sparkling cities that shone brighter than the sun, all ruled over the powerful Fae Queen and her court. The fae were ancient; no one knew how long they lived nor how long they had inhabited the western coasts.
What little was known was that fae were deeply attunedand attached to their land. They imbued their own magic with that of the earth, intertwining themselves with the forests and mountains and lakes. Their kingdom was considered impenetrable, for how could any force break the combined magic of all fae.
So to see a lone fae warrior, detached, was startling enough. Although more human in appearance than harpies, they were no less striking. Their sclera were black rather than white, and their grayish-purple skin so pale the black blood in their veins was visible in patterns and whorls just below. Allarion’s hair hung in a long sheet of silvery white, kept back from his face by the long points of his ears.
A cloak of purple velvet so dark it was nearly black shrouded him, in stark contrast to his pale skin. Those dark eyes, a rich amethyst color set in a whirl of black and framed in long white lashes, fixed on Hakon, and he made an effort to lock his knees. An ancient being looked at him now, older than the forest around them.
