General Shem was cross as hell by the time he and Captain Amos left the Refugees to make their own way in Grenfaire. Obed had lectured them the whole way about religious minutiae, mostly having to do with Shem and Amos’ sinful failings: their drinking, their cursing, their warlike ways. The rest of the fair-skinned people were sullen, either staring sourly at the soldiers or blankly off into the distance.
“Good riddance,” Shem muttered as they rode away from the Refugees. “Hard to see how Hunter ever took up with one of their women.”
“A great, b****y fool’s cult,” Amos opined.
“Fool’s cult is right. Imagine not drinking liquor. Not even ale. Quamdamn, just thinking about it makes me thirsty. You need a drink?”
“Tavern sounds good to me, General,” Amos replied.
They found a tavern quic
