The Northerner's Call

Chapter 4

 Torr's smile grew wide as he tapped Ayla's shoulder and brought her to the small canteen where they had eaten before. Instead of a long table, they sat at a small, round table in the corner.

Torr smiled at a few of the occupants as Ayla eyed them cautiously. She thought these people were different than the ones she left behind, but they seemed to be drifting closer to that ideal. It wasn't something Ayla liked, and she doubted Torr could change her mind before she decided to leave again.

"Two ales," he told a woman who brought the cups over promptly, spilling droplets on the table as the brims swayed in her hands.

"Anythin' else for ya?" The woman was boisterous and bountiful in stature. She was no stranger to the ale, and the strange meat they had eaten, or anything else in the kitchen. It was her comfort-no different than anyone else's.

"No, that'll be all, Magda," Torr said happily, grabbing his cup, and swigging it down.

Ayla took hers and sniffed it, trying to decide if it was anything like the ale she was used to. It had a flowery perfume to it, and it tickled her nose like usual, but she couldn't tell until she took a swig. The thing about ale, was that you couldn't just take a dainty sip of it, a hearty gulp was in order to task the true sense of it. Dripples spilled from Ayla's pursed lips as she gulped it down.

Torr laughed softly. It was amusing to see Ayla so intent on something as frivolous as ale. It was ale. It wasn't meant to taste good; it was meant to dull your senses and warm your belly. At least, that's what he hoped for, for the ale to relax Ayla enough to let him persuade her to stay. But knowing her, it was likely to do the opposite.

"Don't laugh," she sneered, setting the cup down, glaring at his face.

His face grew instantly somber and he muttered a quick, "Sorry, narrae," though he didn't mean it.

"Again with that word," Ayla bit, taking another large hankering of the ale.

"Aye, again with the word, narrae," he smirked, settling his large forearm against the table. "Ya aren't in the South anymore. Things are different here, words are different."

"Well if you want me to stay so badly, shouldn't you tell me what these things mean?"

"In due time, pea snap."

He loved to infuriate her. Her warm cheeks grew red around the bone and her brows wrangled together over her stormy eyes that looked like the crags at dusk. She was such a small thing for such an anger to brew within her; he wondered if her teeth grinded behind her lips.

The ale went smoothly down their throats. She didn't mind the feeling of the cup against her wounded lip after half of it was gone. She didn't mind anything after the entire glass was gone, not the glances from Torr's villagers nor the intent stare of the aforementioned man. Two additional glasses went down along with various foods that were brought to their table. By the time Ayla had filled her belly, the light of the day had been dancing along the horizon.

"Where exactly are ya from?" Torr slurred slightly.

"I told you. South." Ayla hiccupped. Her hand tried to lift to cover her mouth, but it was a breath too late.

"South where?"

Ayla's eyes shrunk and Torr matched her wary expression playfully.

"What does it matter? We aren't going there."

"I thought we were friends, narrae."

"We are hardly friends, prāg."

Torr stilled at the word. "What does that mean?" He demanded.