Free A Stone's Throw (The Gryphonpike Chronicles Book 3) by Annie Bellet

A Stone’s Throw
     
    The village of Stonebarrow was just barely large enough to have an Adventuring Guild chapterhouse, which turned out to be a simple two-room stone and wood building with bunks and a cooking hearth. We arrived in town in the afternoon, travel-worn and starving. The caretaker for the Guild house here was a quiet and craggy old man who had married the baker. After checking our medallions against the Guild book, he offered up the keys to the chapterhouse, clean blankets for the bunks, and a large platter of hot venison pasties.
    After washing the worst of the swamp grit from my hair, I stuffed a third pastie into my mouth and got out my arrow bag. Drake had noted the village had two taverns and wanted to go out, which meant he was, between bites of food, currently trying to convince someone to go with him. Azyrin’s rule was no one went drinking alone in strange towns, especially not Drake.
    “Do not look to me,” Rahiel said as she shook a slim steel wand at Drake. “You can find someone else to watch your back while you drool over your human cows.” The pixie-goblin and her mini-unicorn were curled up on one of the upper bunks, a pile of shimmery fabric in her lap.
    “Hey, dipwing, who’re you calling a cow?” Makha paused in her shield cleaning and looked up. Whatever oil she was using to scour the metal had an eye-watering chemical smell to it that made me wish I had dull human senses.
    “You are not one of his lightskirts, so it does not apply to you. Relax.”
    “Come on, Azy. How about it?” Drake stuck his tongue out at Rahiel and then turned to the half-orc.
    The shaman shook his head. “I need to check ingredients. Make sure have what we need before we leave town.”
    “Good grief. I’m bathed, fed, and ready to talk to someone who ain’t you people. I’m going with or without someone.” Drake ran a hand through his damp black curls.
    “Take Killer,” Azyrin said, turning his pale blue eyes on me.
    “Killer?” Drake turned to me.
    That’s good. Pick on the person who literally can’t say no . The best I could have managed with my curse would be to just ignore them all but I had learned that this wasn’t always the most effective tactic.
    I rubbed the surprisingly soft woolen fabric of the blanket on my bunk and sighed. I had planned to fletch a few arrows and check over my gear, but that could all wait. Drake and a tavern generally equaled trouble. Trouble might be entertaining. I sighed and stood up, picking up my bow, Thorn.
    “You’re taking your bow out drinking? Seriously?”
    I raised an eyebrow. Be glad I’m not putting my hauberk back on .
    “You’re taking your sword,” Makha pointed out.
    “All right.” Drake held up his hands in surrender. “Beggars and choosers. I get it.”
    The tavern Drake picked was, predictably, The Duelist’s Daughter. We entered the well-lit establishment and I immediately felt nostalgia for the acrid smell of Makha’s cleaning solution. While the tavern was well-lit with oil lamps, its thick, polished wooden floors retained the abuse of a thousand drunken nights that no amount of sawdust and fresh rushes could erase. Spilled and soured beer, the sharp tang of old wine, and the bite of human sweat assailed my nostrils.
    The place wasn’t crowded at least. Three women with sun-reddened faces and leather aprons threw a set of bone dice at one of the tables to the side of a large stone hearth. A fire was laid in the hearth, but not lit. Above the hearth was a sword plaque on which rested an empty rapier sheath. The window shutters were thrown open, letting the cool summer evening air do battle with the tavern smells. A handful of tables were laid out in a rough grid, forcing us to weave through them. To the other side of the hearth was a wide wooden bar with a polished copper top, behind which two women leaned and watched us with interest.
    “Whoa, an elf!” An older human male, reeking of sheep, got up from a bench and swerved