Free Dragonhunt by Garon Whited Page A

narrowed as he looked hard a Llewellyn.
    “Oh?” He swigged from his latest tankard and set it roughly aside. “How taken?”
    “My brother, please,” Maedel said, and laid a hand on his forearm. “Father has approved of the joining, and most heartily!”
    Gorgar's eyes narrowed further. “Father's got no great love for minstrels, either,” he said, almost to himself. Louder, he asked, “Why's he so pleased?”
    “Because he's soon to have a grandson, I'd wager,” Llewellyn said. Maedel gasped in shock and one hand flew to her abdomen.
    “Llewellyn!” she cried. “That's not—”
    Llewellyn shushed her with a sharp gesture. “Hush! That will be enough from you. You're safe now, and I'm marrying you. Count your blessings!”
    Gorgar extended his hand again, saying, “And congratulations on that!” Llewellyn reflexively reached out to clasp forearms again, but Gorgar, drunk or sober, was as fast as a striking snake. Instead of forearms, they clasped hands. Gorgar, massively built and hardened by a profession of arms, squeezed.
    Llewellyn's eyes widened, then bugged out. He gasped, a startled eep! sound, and tried desperately to jerk his hand away.
    Gorgar squeezed slightly harder. Bits inside the minstrel's hand ground together in ways the gods had not intended. Llewellyn, by main force of will, ceased to struggle and Gorgar slacked off slightly.
    “You want to explain,” Gorgar informed him, and gave out a slightly-flammable belch. “Sorry; I should clarify that.  I've been drinking, you see, and I need to have it explained to me. Before I break every bone in your skirt-lifting, button-working, harp-strumming hand.”
    “Gorgar!” his sister cried, laying her own hands on the paired wrists and pulling vainly at them. “Let him go.”
    “I will in a moment,” he replied. “Just as soon as I have what I want. He might even get to keep his hand.  And all the bones.”
    Llewellyn spoke quickly. “There's a dragon terrorizing Pelamir and they need virgins to give to it so I saved your sister from being kidnapped and was persuaded to marry her.”
    “'Persuaded'?” Gorgar repeated. His hand flexed slightly, encouraging the minstrel to speak even more quickly.
    “Your father described you and I've heard of you and you're proving their point right now with my hand and I'll need it to earn a living for the both of us and your nieces and nephews please?”
    Gorgar thought about it. It took doing, considering the number of mugs of mead he had already downed.
    “Come with me.” Gorgar, without releasing the hostage hand, walked off. Llewellyn, perforce, followed. Maedel fluttered along with them, like a butterfly caught in the wake of a storm. Gorgar led them straight to Sir Aramon, Tindal, Y’vin, and Fliss.
    “Hey. Guys.”
    “Here's the lucky brother-in-law now,” Fliss said, feet comfortably on a table while the rest of him leaned gracefully back in a chair. “Hail and well-met, all.” He lifted a mug, drained the dregs, and flipped it underhand into the air to twirl several times before rattling to a stop on the tabletop. It remained upright upon landing.
    “Got a problem,” Gorgar said.
    “It would seem you have your brother-in-law's hand,” Sir Aramon observed. Of the entire pre-wedding party, he was the only one in full armor. Then again, he was also the only man with the right to the coat of arms he wore over it.
    “No, that's his sister,” Fliss replied, grinning. “Well, it's maybe not his hand that she's got—”
    “Hush, you,” Tindal said, watching the storm signals in Gorgar's eyes. “Listen up.”
    Gorgar explained. Sir Aramon's eyes lit up instantly with the word “dragon,” but he held his peace to better hear the rest. He and Tindal frowned at the circumstances that required a wedding. Y’vin and Fliss looked less concerned with the propriety of the thing, but still interested.
    “So, since I haven't got the safest occupation,” Gorgar said, “I was sort of hoping