Renir awoke with a thumping head in the room he shared with the Bear.
“Bear, are you up?”
“I am now,” grumbled Bourninund, who sat up with a growl. “My head’s throbbing. How’d I do last night?”
“Fine, apart from viciously attacking the barmaid.”
“What?”
“Don’t you remember? You tried to drag her back her with you, and she clubbed you on the head. We had to carry you back. You were out cold.”
“I thought my head ached too much for mere ale.”
“Well, what do you expect?”
“Hmph. You’d think a fat girl’d be grateful.”
“Well, Bear, live and learn. Anyway, time we were off.”
They all met for to break their fast with fruit and cheese.
Renir was grateful he only had to ride Thud this morning. Practice was out of the question. His head felt like someone had tarred and feathered the inside. Bourninund had told him once that the practice was for the action — to have the tool at hand when the time comes, but also to take away thought. He said that when action was called for thought could sometimes get a man killed.
‘When you are better you will think before action. The best, like Shorn, can move so fast, so naturally, they have the spare time for thought. They move outside of time…’
Renir wished the same were true for drinking.
With a sigh, he looked to his companions. They all looked weary, and three of them were at least three times his age.
A motley band to be saving Rythe, but, he thought ruefully, they were all they had.
As one, they mounted, and rode slowly to the northern gate. Renir bid the city farewell, and hoped he would return once again.