Realm of Dragons. Морган Райс

      When it is done, it is done. You focus on the practical, and you don’t regret any of it.

      That was easier said than done, but Erin forced herself to her feet. She cleaned her sword on their clothes, then dragged the bodies to the side of the track. That was the hardest part of all of it, because they were all bigger than she was, and a corpse felt heavier than a living thing too. By the time she was done, there was more blood on her clothes than there had been from the fight, not to mention the cut where the knifeman had struck. She had the strange, sudden thought that she was going to have to make sure they got to a servant to mend before her mother saw them. She laughed at that, and for several moments, she couldn’t stop laughing.

      Battle nerves. The greatest threat to a swordsman, and the greatest drug the world has ever known.

      Erin stood there a moment or two longer, letting the excitement of the fight run through her veins. She’d killed men, and she’d done more than that. She’d proved herself. The Knights of the Spur would have to take her now.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      Renard kept coming to the Inn of the Broken Scale for three main reasons, and none of them had to do with the frankly terrible beer. The first was the barmaid Yselle, who seemed to have a thing for burly men with red hair like him, and who seemed to alternate between accusing him of cheating on her and demanding that he come by more often.

      The second reason was that, on the days when he was inclined to try to make an honest living, they didn’t mind him taking out his lute and playing a few of the old ballads. Mostly, Renard didn’t feel like doing it, but sometimes his fingers itched for the performance.

      The third reason was that his fingers more often itched for other things, and the inn was a good place to hear rumors.

      “It sounds too much like a story,” he said to the man opposite him, carefully using the distraction to switch a card for one of those he had hidden in his sleeve.

      “Ye can call it a story if you like, but I saw it with my own eyes,” the man insisted. He was dressed in rough sailor’s clothes, and claimed that he worked on the ships that sailed the long route out, away from the crippling rapids of the river and across the sea. That alone made Renard suspicious. Sailors were madmen; had to be, when it was far easier to trade via the bridges between the Northern and Southern Kingdoms than to stray into the dangers of deep water.