Jace
I meant to ride straight through till dark, but just an hour outside of Havenhill I pulled the horses into the yard of an inn called The Drunken Chicken. It was an apt name if ever there was one, and getting drunk sounded like a damn good idea.
I handed the horses over to the stable boy, with a few coppers to make sure they got a good stall and a ration of hay before I slung my saddle bag over my shoulder and headed for the doorway of the tavern.
At noon the bar was already half full. A traveling bard had set up in the corner with a homemade lute, but he wasn’t playing, he was drinking and eating a bowl of boiled meat.
The innkeeper was an old, frail looking man, but his sharp, shrewd eyes contradicted his hunched frame. Our eyes met over the bar, and he gave me a respectful nod.
