When they finally arrived, Othello led them straight to a boarded-up tavern, where he said they could bed down for the night, while Seraph’s team followed Sacharissa, presumably to find whoever Arcturus had chosen as their guide. Lysander also took his leave, launching into flight without any prior warning. Fletcher guessed that Lovett had stopped scrying and the Griffin was eager to return to her side.
The tavern’s rafters hung extremely low, as if designed for dwarves instead of men, and the inside looked as if it had not been disturbed for a long time, with tables and chairs scattered haphazardly around the bar. Othello had lit the few remaining lanterns, but the room stayed gloomy, relying mostly on the moonlight that filtered through the shuttered windows.
‘Where the hell are we anyway?’ Fletcher groaned, wiping his finger along the edge of the table and showing them the dust. ‘It’s filthy in here.’
‘The Anvil Tavern,’ Cress replied, pointing at a sign with the same name and symbol above the door. ‘It’s where the Anvils used to meet, believe it or not. The clue’s in the name.’
She winked at him.
The name was familiar, and Fletcher had a hazy memory of Athol suggesting he go there on his first day in Corcillum, when he gave him the Anvil card that had been used at the trial.
‘I used to come here,’ Jeffrey spoke up, leaving the table and leaning on the bar. He’d barely said a word since they had chosen him as their guide. ‘I was even a junior member, before they became arsonists and this place was shut down. Best beer in all of Corcillum. Worth joining up for that alone.’
‘Dwarf-owned,’ Othello said, his chest swelling with pride. ‘My cousin’s place actually. He said we could use it to prepare for the mission.’
‘The instructions said that the mission starts the day after tomorrow,’ Fletcher said, ignoring them. ‘I’d rather get in some shuteye now, because I don’t think we’ll get much in the jungle. We can sort all this out in the morning.’
‘Actually, Fletcher, you’ll need to stay up a little while longer,’ Othello said, a sheepish smile on his face. ‘We have visitors coming. They’ll be here any minute, with any luck.’
There was a knock on the door, the rat-a-tat-tat making Fletcher jump.
‘Right on cue,’ Othello grinned, running over to the door and throwing it open.
Two figures stood in the doorway. The closest wore long, flowing robes of pink and blue, with twisting flowers embroidered down the centre. Although she wore a veil, from the way Othello hugged her, Fletcher guessed it was Briss, his mother.
Beside her, Athol stood with his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his breeches, a tired but satisfied look upon his face.
‘Would you give us a hand with the goods?’ Athol said, motioning with his head to a boar-pulled cart behind him. It was piled high with packages, and the boar’s sides were soaked with sweat from an arduous journey. ‘Be careful, it’s precious cargo. Might save your life.’
The swarthy dwarf winked at Fletcher, then laughed uproariously as they embraced. Fletcher pounded him on the back while Jeffrey, Sylva and Cress ferried the packages inside and laid them on the table. He had not realised how much he had missed Athol until now.
It did not take long for it all to be unloaded, and Athol gave the boar a slap on the rump with his hand. The animal gave a disgruntled squeal, then trotted away, the cart rumbling behind it.
‘He knows his way back. Smarter than horses, boars,’ Athol said, leaning against a table and plucking his braces with his thumbs. He gave a low whistle as he looked around him.
‘Look at this place,’ he moaned, picking up a discarded tankard from the table behind him and turning it upside down. A thin stream of dust trickled out and he wrinkled his nose.
‘Used to be the best tavern in all of Hominum,’ he grumbled. ‘Soon as the first terror attack happened, it was boarded up and closed. Would have been burned down by some enterprising human otherwise. Damned shame.’
‘What did happen?’ Fletcher asked, trying to understand what had changed during his long incarceration. ‘What do the Anvils have to do with these attacks?’
Athol sighed and rubbed his eyes.
‘The Anvils were just humans who were friendly to the dwarves at first,’ he explained, settling down on one of the low benches. ‘Started with a few of them drinking in one of our pubs, because of our beer, of course. Soon we started handing out membership cards to keep out troublemakers, like some of the racist gangs who came looking for a fight. Didn’t take long for them to become something of a gang themselves, making sure their dwarf friends got home safe, demonstrating at dwarven protests, that sort of thing. Nothing violent though. Nothing like what happened.’