Borwick slammed his fist down on the tavern table; the dazed jugs of ale bounced up in shock.
"A pox on your simple-oaf-mind! You worthless dolt!" he scowled at Pocket.
His disparaging tones were almost lost against the heady background din of the other revellers who crammed onto the low hewn stools and benches of The Lone Calf Inn.
Around him, the wooden floor creaked and groaned in a futile protest under the weight of its jovial customers; they chattered and laughed with an irritating volume, about the success of their busy day in the market.
The tantalising smell of hog - roasting over the well-salted fire - rejoiced in every corner the room; but its succulent bubbling juices and moist seasoned meat had tasted bland and insipid in his irate mouth.
Even the tavern's fine ales, which usually danced merrily on the tongue and were renowned throughout all the southern counties, seemed stale and bitter.
His nerves grated further as the rosy-cheeked fiddle player in the corner struck out a lively tune. The merry revellers around him squealed with delight as they linked arms and jigged to its discordant, screeching melody.
Even the lively fire which danced in the hearth seemed intent on joining in with the fun. But its hearty welcome did little to invigorate or warm away the dank gloom of autumn.
It had not been an encouraging day's work - and this tavern had definitely gone down-hill since last he was there.
"I should skin you for your worthless efforts!" continued Borwick.
Pocket whitened and looked away, suitably cowed and quiet.
Borwick stared and waited, daring the fool to answer back.
But if Pocket was useless, he still knew who was in charge.
He had doled out plenty of bruises across his ugly, stupid, grinning face before now - and was more than ready to do so again.
Slaves, women and dogs were not the only things which needed to be kept in line with a good beating.
Shame the simpleton only had the one nose to break.
"That dammed girl!" Borwick barked. "She's cost us dear! If I ever get my hands on her again - the Surrounder himself wouldn't be able to put the pieces back together."
His companions all seemed determined to avoid his eye; they stared down hard at the table and the floor.
Cowards!
He gulped down another tasteless swig of ale.
"At least we managed to get most of the others back, boss," Dak said.
"And the horses - don't forget about them," Pocket added.
"The ones we recaptured were all so weak and worthless, even you two dolts couldn't mess that up!" Borwick glowered.
He drained the last of his jug and slammed it down on the table.
"And they'll hardly bring in any profit at the port - this whole trip has been a wasted journey!"
Why had he been cursed to work with such incompetent fools?
Even the ale could not blind him to their worthless failings.
This had not been an encouraging day.
Perhaps another drink would help ease his troubles?
And far better to drink at the bar than sit here with these useless idiots and be constantly reminded of their miserable bungling.
YOU ARE READING
The Fickle Winds of Autumn
幻想When witches attack, dark secrets begin to unravel. A young girl, who has spent her life behind the cloistered walls of a convent, is thrust into the dangers and complexities of the outside world. She must fight to discover the truth before destiny...
