Keeper Of Gudrun ~ Chapter 3

"My one and only Moryse," greeted Haramond, returning her smile as he reached out to meet her hands.

"Serving stew for the impudent at this late hour? Looks like you could use some help."

"Bloody runners of Tourla! I swear they get cockier with every passing month!" muttered Moryse angrily.

"Well hand me an apron and one of those alluring white caps," said Haramond as he rapidly dropped his bag and hung his green cape on a nearby hook, revealing the dapper, close-fitting attire underneath.

Moryse gingerly tied the white apron around Haramond's athletic waist and set the biggins cap on his head.

"How do I look?" asked Haramond.

"Droll."

"Well then, I'll carry the pot to the hall fire and you...regrettably, see to your snooty guests," Haramond looked fixedly into Moryse's green eyes and brought a cryptic finger to his lips.

"When we walk out there my name isn't Haramond anymore. You can go ahead and call me foot-licker, or dew-beater, or gnashgabber, or whatever you're calling folks nowadays," joked Haramond with a brazen smile. He then gnarled his arms and slumped forward, limping awkwardly toward the heavy bronze bowl and lifted it with unseen ease.

"I've been working you too hard already. Nice touch there with the bad leg," laughed Moryse.

"Let's go."

Moryse grabbed some small bowls and tableware and they both made there way back into the mead hall. Haramond waddled with his head down to the corner fire and deposited the bronze tripod bowl of stew near the flames, stirring the slop slowly with a wooden spoon.

He stooped with his back turned away from the three men who sat a few feet away.

A few patrons still lingered in the hall. Their calm buoyant murmurs could be heard over the crackling fire. Moryse sauntered over to Haramond and placed four bowls on a nearby bench.

"You're probably hungry as well my trusty foot-licker. It's your favorite, cabbage and potato. Onion and tomato."

Moryse smiled and fondly placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Pickled hot peppers too?" asked Haramond.

"I'll bring some over in a minute, you dew-beating gnash-gabber."

Haramond chuckled under his breath —

"Begging your pardon maiden! But when you're done with your aproner friend we would like our ales replenished, and also a word or two with you my dear," The runner named Singer spoke emphatically, his voice cutting through the calm. Several heads turned to glance a moment before turning away again and the drab sound of chatter carried on.

"On my way!"

Moryse quickly shuffled to the bar, filling an ale pitcher and strode back to the three men sitting at the table.

"Thank you for your patience my good sirs," she filled their pewter tankards with drink.

"Singer, Urry and Kosta, is it? Your soups are heating now. What else can I do for you?"

The man calling himself Singer smiled calculatedly and took a sip from his cup.

"Have you seen a man in recent times, tall and stalky; bearing gifts and customarily garbed in forest green. We know that he's frequented this place in the past. Goes by the name of Haramond."

"Haramond!?" said Moryse abashedly, glancing over her shoulder.

"Hmmm...Haramond...yes...I think I remember him. Dressed in green and with a rusty beard. I've not seen him since early winter. What's he done now?"

Singer stared searchingly at Moryse a long minute and surveyed the whole of the room, his shaded eyes moving deliberately from table to table.

"He's an insidious and dangerous man. A slanderer and a thief—"

"Hey scobberlotcher! Is the stew hot yet!? Good, straight-fingered hungry persons are waiting here!" Moryse squawked directly at her concealed accomplice.

The hunched, apron wearing figure nodded feebly with his back turned and continued to huddle over the heating bowl, sheepishly stirring the pot of stew. The men at the table chortled in unison.

"Forgive and pardon me lads, not easy getting good help nowadays!"

Moryse swung around and stepped a few chancy feet over to Haramond, snatching the bowls from the bench which she at once undertook to fill with steaming hot cabbage soup.

"Haramond the liar and thief is it now?" breathed Moryse into Haramond's ear.

He looked into her eyes assuredly.

"The only straight-fingered persons here are you and I," whispered Haramond.

"I know."

Moryse seized three dishes and skipped back over to the table, duly serving them their sultry meals.

"Pickled hot peppers anyone?"

Singer, Kosta and Urry nodded approvingly.

"Hey limp-prick! Hot peppers from the cellar now!" yelled out Moryse.

All three men roared with laughter.

Haramond moved the bronze bowl away from the flames and shuffled away with his head bowed and limping theatrically, disappearing gradually into a side passage leading away from the hall.

"You are most enjoyable and indeed, most delectable Moryse. We'll be sure to tarry at The Good Horn from here on whenever in Lyon."

Singer smirked with self-possession, carefully sipping the soup from his spoon and wriggling tendrils of boiled cabbage in his mouth and swallowing.

"If this crooked Haramond character comes walking in one day, be watchful. Guard yourself well against his deceit and scaremongering, summon one of the ridge runners to fetch a Tourlanian," said Singer.

"Scaremongering?" asked Moryse.

"He spreads mad fears of evil and monsters; of secret plots within the regencies. Pay no mind to such falsehood."

"Well that all sounds nutty and well round the bend. I'll most certainly be on the lookout for that troublemaker."

"Very good. Be sure to—"

"Now where are those pickled peppers?! Where is that fopdoodle now?! Excuse me a short while gentlemen."

Urry and Kosta cackled and carried on, gobbling their stewed cabbage medley. Singer remained still and resolute, riveting his dark eyes upon Moryse.

Moryse bowed and stepped away from the table, moving quickly out of the room and into the sidelong corridor. She tread only a few hurried paces before noticing Haramond standing fixed by the window.

"Haramond what are you doing?!" she hissed.

"Shh. Please fetch my rucksack, quick and quiet."

Moryse didn't hesitate and rushed silently. It shocked her straightaway how naturally she responded and trusted his commands like a veracious ally.

She clutched his knapsack and was staggered to find it so heavy. Almost as hefty as a full metal cauldron of soup. She lugged the bag around the corner and dropped it at Haramond's feet.

"Over there..." muttered Haramond in a very low voice as he motioned toward the outside of the large window.

Moryse peered out of the window and into the darkened pavement.

What she saw was shocking and horrifying.

Sheltered and shadowy in the alley was a monster. Vivid yellow eyes undulated like lights and illuminated an obscene face. Sharp pearly teeth caught the light exceedingly. It's black frame was sinewy and muscular. Smoke rose enigmatically from its shoulders.

The beast rose, standing tall on its hind legs and thereupon declining to all fours. It's drenched snout sniffed the air and fumed.

"What is that?" whispered Moryse in terror.

"An abnormality," said Haramond quietly.

"Oh no! Look!"

To one side of the alley a peasant woman approached, moving heedlessly toward the monstrosity.

"Dammit!"

Haramond jettisoned the hat and apron attire and hurriedly reached into his bag, yanking out a stunning and decorated scabbard sword. He slid out the large shimmering blade which resounded and sung wondrously, glowing with a blazing gold intensity.

"Oh my..."

"Wish me luck darling," said Haramond as he threw his green cape on.

"Haramond no!"

Haramond smashed against the adjacent door in a frenzy and dashed outside.