Callan’s Sons
1232 Words
Callan’s Sons~
Nate Callan
Turniff Drove, Aleron
Red waves of cattle washed over the green hills in the distance. A black horse galloped away from the Gruder herds. Nate signaled Harry to take charge, and he rode to meet Duncan.
“Younger brothers should be sent away and raised by monks,” Duncan said in greeting. “It would avoid the messy business of being flayed by their older and wiser siblings.”
“Edgar with you?”
“Edgar and Braden. Competing to see who can gripe the longest and loudest about the rain.”
“It’s not raining anymore.”
“Mother of Aurel, don’t tell them that. You’ll have them griping about the heat,” said Duncan. “How many head and who’s riding with you?”
“Eight hundred Callan,” said Nate. “About three hundred from Dundarien.”
“Never thought we’d top Dundarien numbers,” said Duncan. “We’re six hundred strong this year.”
“Not bad, for a Gruder,” said Nate. “Rory and Harry are with me. Grandmother sent four of Windermere’s guards.”
“Cade?”
“In Ellard with Daor Ranald. Gazing at constellations or some such rot.”
Duncan smirked. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“We took on Shaye Royce at Dundarien, and some scrawny lad Captain Royce decided to spare us. They’ve been riding the midnight shift.”
“Dundarien’s stingy with the help this year.” Duncan frowned. “Are things all right there?”
“Could be better. Ava’s too stubborn for her own good.”
“So, Lord Gaven’s still drinking the world away? A man has a right to grieve, but at some point, he has to pull on his boots and muddle on.”
A Gruder would know that all too well.
“Tell your father Dundarien could use a visit,” said Nate. “Maybe between the two of them, he and Da can straighten out the mess there.”
# # #
They settled into a quiet stretch of the journey. Nate let the guards break away for turns in Fiddler’s Green. The village on the shore of Lake Robin was barely a wide spot in the trail between Dundarien and Buchanell, but it had a tavern. Reason enough to stop for a mug and a hot meal.
The Lucky Buck tavern was a timber frame wattle-and-daub, long and narrow with a couple of rooms for rent under its steep-pitched roof. Waterwheels turned paddle fans and a pig on a spit. Skinny windows lit the place in smoky sunlight at midday. The Lucky Buck smelled like every other tavern Nate had ever stepped foot inside, its layered aroma of tobacco and ale and sweat the unapologetic reminder of patrons served and gone.
Nate settled at a trestle table, and Duncan and Rory pulled back chairs across from him. A fat collie with a greying muzzle wagged up for a scratch behind her ears. Men seated at the far end of the table, farmers from the look of them, raised mugs or pipes in greeting before resuming their conversation.
A ragged lad perched on a stool in the corner. A cripple’s crutch leaned against one bony leg as he fingered a tune on a dulcimer that had seen better days, and the bearded tavern keeper wiped a rag over the well-oiled wood at the bar.
“What can I get ye lads?”
“Three plates and a round of Black Hawk, if you have it,” said Nate.
“Aye, I got a bottle. Are ye sure ye can afford it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Nate,” said Duncan. “Can the Rhi’Aleron’s boys afford a round of their father’s aurello?”
“Shut it, Duncan,” Rory muttered.
“Ye be the Callan brothers? The Glenayre Callans?”
Nate’s hand reflexively sought his sword. He came for a quiet meal, and Duncan had every eye in the place staring them down.
“We’re drove guards,” said Rory. “Riding with the Glenayre herd.”
Rory cared as little as Nate did for the attention that came with being Seth Callan’s son. From most people he met, it got him deferential respect he’d done naught to earn. From a few, it stirred an ornery streak bent on challenging him for no reason but having a story to tell.
It was enough to make anonymity in an unfamiliar tavern a damned good option.
“I met Seth Callan once. Years ago, when he was naught but a second son,” said one of the farmers, tipping back in his chair. “Ye got the look of him.”
The farmer had that ornery look of one out to tangle with a son of the Rhi’Aleron just to say he had. Short and stocky, with a slur that came from a mug too many, the man was trawling for an answer he could decide he didn’t like.
“I’m not hungry,” said Rory. “Let’s get back to the herd.”
“Sit back down, pup,” said Duncan.
Duncan pushed back his chair, real slow, so it scraped good and loud on the uneven planks. He stood and dropped his hands to his side. His long fingers flexed over his sword’s hilt, curled into a fist, and relaxed.
“Bring a round for the table. This one’s on the Gruders.”
The farmer thudded his chair back down to the floor. His companions flitted glances to Duncan and back. A moment’s silence stretched into a few more, then the farmer gave a deep guffaw and raised his mug.
“To the Gruders, then.”
Duncan smirked that wolfish smirk no one could pull off quite like Duncan did. He settled back in his chair.
“Let’s eat,” he said.
“Gilley! Mae,” the tavern keeper called. “Get to servin’, girls.”
The young women sauntered out from behind the bar, all smiles and sashays. Ruddy-cheeked, tight-laced, and plump in all the right places, they swept up and leaned over Duncan and Rory’s shoulders.
“G’day m’lords,” said one, her young voice turned husky by the tavern’s smoke. “Shoo on, Gilley, fetch cups for the table like his lordship said.”
“But they be hungry.” Gilley was busy twirling her finger in Rory’s hair.
“They be thirsty first. And there’s the other end of the table ye need to tend to.” Mae nodded at the temporarily placated farmers. “Shoo on, now. Fetch their cups.”
Gilley gave Rory’s hair a tousle and left.
“It’s lamprey pie or roast pork today, m’lords,” Mae drawled, draped over Duncan like a shawl.
“Is it now?” said Duncan. “With Lake Robin outside your door, it seems you should be able to offer us some fine trout.” He caught her braid and pulled her closer. “I am fond of trout.”
Mae’s husky laugh got Nate’s gears turning clear across the table.
“If ye be wantin’ to stay awhile,” she said, l*****g her lips. “I’ll cook ye up what ye want.”
“We can’t stay,” said Nate.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Lord Nathalyan says we’ll have the roast pork.”
Mae made a face at Nate and left to fetch their meal. Gilley came back with their aurello and bent beside Rory with the tray, giving him a good look at her bosom. Rory snagged her and drew her to his lap, laughing as he nuzzled her neck. She gave him a quick kiss before taking the farmers their cups.
“How do you do that?” Nate frowned.
“Do what?”
“You don’t say a word, and a woman falls in your lap. Why you? I hear it often enough. How we all look alike.”
Rory tapped his forehead. “It’s your shingle.”
Duncan choked on his drink. “Damn, I think you’re right.”
“What?” Nate said, kicking himself for asking.
“The shingle you hang out there for the world to see.” Rory traced his finger across his forehead.
“D-U-L-L,” Duncan spelled out and rocked back with a laugh. “He’s right, you know. You are far too serious a man to be trifled with, Lord Nathalyan.”
“My shingle,” Nate grunted. “I suppose yours is better.”
“Sure it is,” said Rory. “Mine says I know it’s all just a game.”
Chapter 6
- Writer
