She was dreaming of horses. Black and white. They galloped freely across a vast, green meadow near a river. They were happy. She could feel their happiness. One of them turned and looked at her, its large, wet eyes gazing into hers. She was happy too.

  She knew she was dreaming. It was one of those dreams where her mind was both aware and clear, knowing it was a dream, yet unwilling to wake up and return to reality. She liked it. She could smell the grass, and the horses ran around her. It was as if she was five years old again, wearing her white dress, with her sister standing beside her. The sister she had been thinking of all these years.

  A violent tremor shook the ground, causing the horses to scatter, and the earth beneath them began to quake. The river beside her turned turbulent, waves rising from its surface. It was the first time she had ever seen waves in a river. Suddenly, it started to swell, flooding the land around them. Sylvia wanted to get up, grab her sister, and run, but she couldn’t move. She heard her sister’s voice but couldn’t understand the words. Then she saw her, walking toward the water. She couldn’t even call out to her.

  She knew she was dreaming. And she knew that if she opened her eyes, everything would disappear. The horses, the meadow, the grass, the river... and her sister. She would vanish again.

  With an effort, she opened her eyes. The first thing she heard was Riven’s cursing.

  She felt the wooden cart she was lying in. The planks around her were soaked, and the hay was damp. At least the rain had stopped. She propped herself up on her elbows and saw her tall husband pacing nervously around the cart.

  “What’s wrong?” Sylvia gripped the blade she had taken from the blacksmith in one hand and steadied herself on the edge of the cart with the other.

  Riven ignored her. Another curse slipped from his lips. He didn’t speak much, but when he cursed, it was best not to ask questions, as it could easily lead to her becoming the target of his frustration. It had happened before.

  Instead of asking, she leaned over and saw the problem. One of the wheels had sunk into a muddy rut. She got down from the cart, trying to avoid the mud, but it was nearly impossible. After several failed attempts to dodge the larger, water-filled holes, she simply started stepping into them.

  “What now?” Sylvia sighed heavily and watched as Riven found a piece of wood and tried to wedge it under the wheel. Spooked by the noise, the horses tied to the cart unsuccessfully tried to bolt. Riven gripped their reins and joined in the pushing, but to no avail. Sylvia didn’t move. She knew there wasn’t much she could do to help, and if she tried, she would only draw Riven’s irritation onto herself. So she stayed put. After each failed attempt, Riven cursed and slammed his fists against the cart, which only made the horses pull harder, causing the remaining three wheels to sink deeper into the mud alongside the one already stuck.

  “I’m covered in mud from this beast,” she dared to say.

  Riven shot her one of those looks, the kind that no one liked to see in his eyes. But he loved her. He would never raise a hand against her. That was why she allowed herself to speak to him like this. She didn’t blame him.

  “Get your things from the cart,” Riven said, finally tearing his gaze from her. “We’re walking.”

  “In this mud?”

  “Stay here if you want.”

  The clouds were already starting to break apart, and in the distance, the sun was beginning to peek through. It would reach them soon. The very thought of it warmed her.

  “And the horses?” she asked, turning to him.

  Riven unfastened the leather straps holding the two animals to the cart and then stroked one of them. The horse took a few steps back but stopped when it felt the resistance from the reins in Riven’s hands. He placed his hand on its forehead again, calming it. The horse seemed to understand. Sylvia thought of the horses in her dream. The river had swallowed them.

  Sylvia lifted the hem of her ankle-length dress and hopped between a few stones. After the last one, she gave up and let her dress fall. There was no point in keeping it clean anymore. Everything was covered in mud anyway.

  “Come here!” Riven rarely spoke, but when he did, his words were law to her and always sent a shiver through her. She obeyed, walking toward him with tentative steps.

  “Get on!” Riven pointed to where she should place her foot. Sylvia stepped up and swung herself onto the horse’s back. She hadn’t ridden in a long time, and she enjoyed the feeling. The horse seemed accustomed to her and accepted her easily.

  Riven mounted the other horse. He gave the reins a light flick, and his horse started moving. The one she was on followed, setting off on its own. They walked slowly.

  There was no saddle beneath her, and the horse’s back was beginning to hurt her. But she had no right to complain. And despite that, the horse rode well. It was well-trained, and its previous owner was surely a refined lord or at least a knight. Of course, none of them had Riven’s temperament. And that was important, though the horse likely couldn’t care less about Riven’s temperament until it felt it firsthand.

  Riven rode close, subtly guiding the horses through the mud, ensuring they didn’t get stuck. She watched him. Not her horse, but Riven. Sometimes she wished he were more talkative. She wanted to talk to him, to share something with him. But he wouldn’t respond. Or at best, he’d say something quietly, something that would kill the conversation even if she heard it. This frustrated her even more.

  The two horses emerged from the mud, and on the even ground, they picked up the pace. Their strides grew more confident, their necks straightened, and their muscles, strained from the effort of not sinking, relaxed. One of them neighed, seemingly in happiness. But Sylvia kept her eyes on Riven. From the horse’s back, she could see his posture. Even his hair, neatly falling on either side of his head. He hadn’t bathed in a while, and his masculine scent wafted around him. But the horse’s smell was stronger now.

  “Is that…?”

  “Mungard!” Riven answered before she could finish. “We go in, get a cart, and leave. If there’s no cart, we’ll stay the night.”

  “Stay the night? We don’t have that kind of time. We’re supposed to be in Chernoval by tomorrow.”

  “I know what Garvin wants, but without a cart, it’ll be harder. I can’t walk that long.”

  “We could just swap these horses for some fresher ones and leave these here.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t agree.

  “What will we tell them there?” They were slowly approaching the village gate, where two men stood. Sylvia nodded toward them.

  “You stay quiet.”

  Calling it a gate was generous. The fence surrounding the settlement wasn’t taller than an average person, and barbed wire was strung along its top. The two men waiting at the front weren’t particularly impressive either. One was short and somewhat plump, his military clothes stretched tight by the fat underneath. The other was tall and thin, with a pair of thin mustaches that made his expression more comical than intimidating. The town was close to the main kingdom of Volkar and didn’t need much protection. Anything that happened here would quickly reach the kingdom.

  “Stop!” The fat one stepped forward and halted them. “Who are you?”

  “Lady C,” Sylvia said, glancing at Riven. He seemed to expect her to come up with something and kept his gaze fixed on the guards. She was good at lying when necessary.

  “Lady C?” The fat man laughed. “That’s stupid. What do you want here?”

  “We want to enter Mungard.”

  “I can see that myself.” The fat man scratched his nose. “For what reason?”

  Sylvia looked at Riven, then back at the fat guard.

  “I have a meeting here. Tonight. At the tavern.”

  “A meeting? With who?”

  “I can’t tell you that. What are you guarding?”

  “The gates, obviously. And you’re not coming in.”

  “You’ll lose your head for those words, fat man.”

  “And who says so?”

  “Lady C.”

  “Who I don’t know. Please, Lady C, turn around and go back the way you came. You too, beanpole.” The fat man gave Riven a light push.

  Sylvia felt a pang of worry. But it was more for him. She slowly dismounted and approached the two guards at the front. Both of them, as if on cue, drew their swords and pointed them at her. Their swords were no better than the one Riven had taken from the blacksmith earlier. Plain and not well-sharpened. She didn’t think the guards would do anything to her.

  But Riven reacted. Of course, he wouldn’t let her handle it alone. Sometimes this irritated her.

  Her dark-haired husband swiftly drew his weapon and kicked the sword from the tall guard’s hand. Then his sword met the fat man’s. The more Riven pressed, the more the fat man lost his stance, his hand beginning to tremble.

  “Riven!” Sylvia called out. Riven heard her, stepped back, and sheathed his knife. The fat man looked fearfully between her and Riven. He had fallen to his knees. He stood up and dusted himself off. Then he turned and grabbed something from the saddlebags on the ground next to him.

  “Look, Lady C,” he said, trembling. “Just tell me who you are so I can write it down. We log everyone who enters the town. Then you can go in. I didn’t want it to come to this.”

  The fat man spoke with a trembling voice. Riven sheathed his weapon and stepped back as if nothing had happened.

  “I am Lady C,” she said, pointing to Riven, “and this is my warrior, a gift for Mungard.”

  The fat man jotted something down, then looked up. His hands were shaking, and so was his voice.

  “It was just a joke. Mungard is a free town, especially for travelers from Volkar.” The fat man bowed and then stepped aside. Sylvia said nothing.

  Mungard was not one of the finest towns in the kingdom. It had a low stone wall that, in some places, was soaked with moisture, with small trickles of water seeping down from who knows where. Moss clung to the stones, ranging in color from vibrant green to dark black where the dampness had turned to mold. A few stray dogs ran around, howling, their calls answered by their brothers or cousins at the other end of town. Occasionally, similar sounds echoed from a nearby hill, sounds Sylvia couldn’t tell if they were canine or lupine. In any case, the dogs knew that strangers were entering the town, and while some greeted them with friendliness, others bared their teeth. Riven managed to kick two of them, but then he gave up dealing with them. The dogs didn’t attack, but they were a serious waste of time.

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  They had been here before, though only briefly. It was one of the first places they visited after meeting each other. They had made love in at least three places in the town. And she remembered all three. In the house of an old woman who had sheltered them—they did it several times while making the elderly woman brew them tea. The old woman thought they were brother and sister. Neither she nor Riven tried to convince her otherwise. And they didn’t need to. The second place was in the clock tower. She didn’t even remember what they were looking for there, but she remembered the pleasure. To this day, she still felt the same passion for Riven. Her desire for him never waned. And what happened in the tower was entirely spontaneous. On their last day in town, they did it in a narrow alley. Fortunately, almost no one saw them except a few whores who mistook Sylvia for one of them. Well, at that moment, they weren’t wrong. She was Riven’s whore.

  The deeper they went into town, the more people appeared around them. Most stopped, looked them over, and returned to their previous activities. But some kept their eyes fixed on them. Suddenly, a child ran up. It had very light blonde hair, light eyebrows, and a pale face. The boy was holding an apple, freshly bitten. He stood in front of her horse and, after staring into the animal’s eyes for a few moments, extended his hand, offering the apple. The horse lowered its head and sniffed the apple with its large nostrils. It snorted and opened its mouth.

  “Get away, child,” Riven had dismounted. He took the apple from the boy’s hand. The horse followed it with its head, wanting to chew it. The boy’s eyes filled with tears. Riven held the apple out to return it, but the boy didn’t take it and pointed to the horse again. Riven swung his arm and threw the apple far away. The child ran off, crying, and the horse tried to follow the apple but was stopped by Riven.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  Riven looked up at her, then dropped his gaze again, showing his usual temperament.

  “It’s just a child, Riven. What’s wrong with you?”

  There was no answer. There was no point in continuing.

  The people on the streets sensed that they were strangers, but they were used to others, so after glancing at them, they returned to their tasks.

  The tavern they entered was not new to them. They had visited before. Sylvia was surprised to find that the tavern’s sign was still the same. The craftsman who made the wooden sign had carved a mug and a bowl crossed as if they were weapons for fighting, not eating, and the innkeeper, Waldemar, had named it just that—“Mug and Bowl.”

  Riven tied the horse in the stable where everyone left their animals. Sylvia dismounted as well. It took her a moment for the pain from the saddle to leave her thighs. Riven tied the horses near a few goats, which strangely stood in the tavern’s stable, patted his horse on the forehead to calm it, and headed for the tavern. Sylvia did the same with hers and followed him.

  The inn itself was a mix of bricks, stones, and wood. It was one story, but it was dug deep into the ground. The entrance led directly into a large hall where the local drunkards had already gathered, watching everyone who entered with one eye. At the back, opposite the entrance, a large hearth smoldered, despite the hot days outside, because the nights in these lands were cold. And the nights did indeed get cold, as they had learned the hard way on their last visit. The tavern smelled pleasant to her. On one hand, the beer and wine had soaked into the walls so much that this place would carry the scents of the past for centuries. Around the fire, some food was sizzling, which most of the patrons were eyeing hungrily. Sylvia noticed their eyes fixed on the food near the fire and smiled at their attempts to taste it with their eyes. Most of them were poor and could only afford something like that if they caught and cooked it themselves. They came here just for the cheap alcohol, which gave their lives a bit more meaning.

  Riven had already settled in, with a wooden cup filled with red wine in front of him. Sylvia sat next to him while she scanned the inn. This was another difference between her and Riven. She liked to know everything about the people and places they encountered, while Riven didn’t care about anything. But he was always ready to draw his sword if something happened. And she hesitated.

  Sylvia was observing everyone again. She recognized only drunks. For example, she was sure the old man with long white hair had once been a blacksmith. His forearms were huge, and his fingers bore burn scars. Two small men sat with him, their feet not reaching the floor even while seated. They looked very much alike, perhaps brothers. Both behaved oddly and amusingly, but they entertained the bearded old man while beer spilled down his beard. At a nearby table sat a woman who looked young until she turned, and Sylvia saw her eye. It was closed, with a scar over it. That alone aged her several years. And when she spoke, her throaty voice filled the place, silencing everyone around her, and Waldemar, the innkeeper, quickly approached her. They spoke quietly. A few tables of young men, a bit more armed, glanced her way, but she amused herself with them. She knew that if they dared approach, Riven would take at least their hands. Maybe more. But there was one person who caught her attention the most. They were hooded, with eyes peeking out from the darkness of their face. They seemed to glow. They sat alone at a table, with an empty cup before them. Sylvia couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but they seemed to be watching her constantly.

  Behind them were three more people. All three were well-dressed, with nice clothes and tall hats. One of them had a mustache, which made him look even more important. Sylvia made one of her playful faces and turned to Riven, who was eagerly gulping down drink after drink.

  “If you keep this up, I’ll have to carry you to the stable and take advantage of you there.”

  Riven glanced at her and drank again.

  “Yes, I know you desire me too.” Sylvia rolled her eyes and glanced back at the hooded figure. She couldn’t decide what bothered her more about them: their bright eyes or their hidden face.

  She looked at Riven again. Her lover was already lifting his second cup, occasionally glancing around the tavern. Nothing hinted at the kind of trouble they often found themselves in. And often not by their choice. They were just like that. They attracted attention.

  “Brandtor!” The innkeeper’s voice echoed through the place.

  Sylvia turned her gaze toward it. Her feminine curiosity tried to help her learn everything. Riven pretended not to hear.

  “You lazy good-for-nothing! Get over here now!”

  At the second call, the innkeeper used a heavier, stronger voice, which seemed to break against the stone walls.

  A boy, no older than seventeen, slowly moved from the back of the tavern and, with hesitant steps, walked toward the large wine barrels behind which his father stood.

  The innkeeper wasn’t very patient. He quickly closed the distance, grabbed the boy by the shirt, and yanked him behind the barrels.

  Sylvia couldn’t hear what they were saying, despite the complete silence that had fallen over the dark place. Everyone was watching. Everyone except Riven. Nothing interested him. That’s just how he was.

  A loud slap echoed behind the barrels. A moment later, the boy with chestnut hair and a slender frame, apparently named Brandtor, was thrown to the ground by the innkeeper. The silence in the inn was so deafening that for a moment, the conversations of people outside on the street could be heard.

  Sylvia clenched her cup. She didn’t know what to do or how to help the boy. And it wasn’t wise to interfere in other people’s fights. She looked for Riven’s eyes, hoping to gauge his thoughts. But she couldn’t find them. Riven was staring at someone across the tables. Sylvia didn’t turn to look. That would be suspicious. And they didn’t know anyone here.

  “No!” the boy cried out, and she looked back at him. A bottle of wine flew through the air and shattered near his head. The innkeeper was like a madman.

  Sylvia’s hair was blown back. Someone had passed so quickly by her that she hadn’t noticed. She only felt the breeze the stranger created. Then she saw him. He was dressed entirely in black. In his hand was a knife, not the most dangerous of weapons, but it could be deadly.

  The stranger pushed one of the barrels. It fell to the ground, and within moments, the entire wooden floor was stained red. Now the innkeeper was visible in almost full stature. He was crazed. And from the neck up, he was entirely red. Sylvia could bet he was the same color as the wine.

  The innkeeper was so preoccupied with beating the boy on the ground that he didn’t even notice the wine spilling or the other person standing next to him. A person who was swinging a knife. Sylvia could now see the knife more clearly. It was an ordinary knife, the kind servants and cooks used to kill a pig or cut a lady’s dress. Sometimes the very thought of the ladies in the kingdoms made her sick. She couldn’t stand them. Them and their whims.

  Any moment now, the stranger would strike the innkeeper. Sylvia’s mouth was agape. Deep down, she knew she should get up and help, but shock had frozen her in place. She regretted it later. For now, all she could do was wait to see whether the knife would strike the innkeeper’s neck or chest.

  The innkeeper still didn’t notice the other man, instead reaching for a glass bottle to throw at the boy on the ground.

  She couldn’t recall another moment in her recent life when she had been as startled as she was now. It was like witnessing one of those entertainments that the kingdoms sometimes put on for their people with local actors or jesters.

  The stranger swung at the innkeeper, but in an instant, he was stopped, stabbed in the throat, and knocked to the ground. And to her even greater surprise, the one who had killed him was Riven. Sylvia turned to look at Riven’s chair. It was empty. When had he stood up? When had he gone over to the innkeeper?

  At that moment, chaos broke out in the tavern, the only sound being the many chairs clattering to the floor.

  The innkeeper stared in disbelief at the dead man next to him, whose blood was mixing with the wine. The boy, whom the innkeeper had been beating moments before, was now on his feet, leaning fearfully against the nearest wall. Blood trickled from under one of his eyes.

  “What?” the innkeeper stammered, not knowing what to say. “Why did you kill him? Here?”

  Riven didn’t respond. He bent down, pulled his blade from the victim’s throat, stood up, and with his foot, managed to roll the body over to see the face. By now, Sylvia was already by his side. As she had expected, they had once again become the center of attention, surrounded by a crowd. The bad part was that this crowd was not calm.

  “Who do you think you are?” shouted a man as he stepped forward. “Who are you to draw a weapon here?”

  Riven didn’t reply. Talking wasn’t his strong suit. But Sylvia spoke up.

  “He’s with me,” she said, the only thing she could think of. “Now everyone, go back to your places.”

  Laughter mixed with jeers and shouts came from the crowd.

  “So brave. Why don’t you come to the back, and I’ll shut your mouth for you?”

  Laughter again rippled through the crowd. Only the man at the front wasn’t laughing.

  Everyone fell silent. Three more of them drew swords. Riven was ready. Sylvia also drew her two blades, the ones she had taken from the blacksmith. She truly enjoyed this tension. She waited for Riven to take the first step in the dance that awaited them. She tingled all over when she saw him ready to kill. If she were alone, she wouldn’t have the strength or confidence. But now, with Riven by her side, she could face the whole world.

  Riven took the first two steps. Sylvia moved alongside him. Three of the attackers were in front of Riven, and she had to deal with just one. Behind them, she could hear the shrill cries of the innkeeper, who was trying to stop them. Sylvia swung at the man in front of her. He was ugly. His face looked gaunt and pale. He held a sword that hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. The thought that it might even cut her disgusted her. In her peripheral vision, she saw Riven spinning his two swords as if he were truly dancing. While she parried her opponent’s blows, she understood why Riven had wanted the weak sword from the blacksmith. He didn’t want to waste his own sword blocking attacks from scum like these. She smiled. And the ugly man in front of her was trying to attack her yet again.

  Riven had taught her everything she knew about fighting with swords and shorter blades like hers. But she never managed to become as good as him. She attributed it to his male strength. Although she never fully understood this distinction, she could feel it. She wouldn’t have been able to handle the three Riven was fighting. And judging by the shouts of the drunks in the crowd around them, he was winning. She could tell by his heavy breathing and the slight grunts he made with each strike. He wasn’t exactly quiet in battle. Just like when he made love to her.

  The stranger attacked again, and she did the same thing every time. She blocked with one weapon and tried to attack with the other. Unsuccessfully, every time.

  They circled each other. She could feel her opponent’s uncertainty. He wasn’t particularly strong. Riven would finish him off quickly. The ugly man began to gain the upper hand, pushing her further back. Sylvia didn’t give in easily. She watched him, then his feet, trying to come up with something to turn the fight around.

  Riven killed the first one. He had two left. She had one.

  Her opponent tried another strike, now lulled into the monotony of their fight, expecting the same movement from her. But this time, she didn’t block. Sylvia stepped forward, feinted with one hand, and with the other, she sliced deeply into her opponent’s arm. Riven had taught her that if a fight dragged on, she should come up with something different, even if it was the dumbest move in battle history. It would surprise her opponent. And it did. He roared, and as he raised his other arm for what might be one last, desperate attack, his head fell to the floor.

  It was Riven.

  Now she could see the crowd in the tavern more clearly. All this time, it had seemed like there were many people. But there were no more than twenty. Behind her, the innkeeper was crying in a corner, and the boy who had started it all was trying to console him. Sylvia carelessly kicked the head of the ugly man she had fought and made her way to Riven. She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. He didn’t react. That didn’t surprise her.

  What surprised her was the voice from the back of the now-silent tavern.

  “My old friends have learned some new moves...”

  At first, the voice seemed familiar. Riven also looked in that direction, stopped wiping his weapon, and gripped it again. Sylvia readied herself too.

  “Relax, my dear friends. I’m not here to attack you.”

  A tall, dark figure approached them. Sylvia immediately recognized the hooded stranger. The hood was now down, revealing a tall woman, around their age, with long hair that started white and darkened to black at the tips. Her eyes were light, and her skin was dark. She had a spear strapped to her back.

  “Elarra?”

  Sylvia could have sworn she felt Riven’s pulse. And it wasn’t calm.