Page 16 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
Still, Kester’s hand dropped to his sword’s hilt as well.
Just in case.
A man didn’t spend four years fighting a slash-and-grab feud with the Murrays andnotexpect trouble, even this far onto an ally’s land.
From up ahead, Pudge growled, “Who in the fook areye?” at the same time Mook bellowed, “Hello, pretty lad!”
Giric’s horse jumped forward.Mayhapthe animal was just twitchy, or mayhap the warrior wanted a look at whomever Mook would call “pretty lad”.
Auld Gommy had also pushed forward, but now he clucked at his horse to step out of the way, because the path had become crowded as a seventh animal stepped from the other side of the thicket.
Kester hadheardof people describing their jaws as dropping but had never actually experienced it…until that moment.
“Well, hello lad,” Gommy cackled. “Are ye lost?”
“Dinnae be stupid, auld man,” Giric announced with a toss of his head. “He’s wearing the Oliphant plaid, is he no’? ‘Tis one of the warriors his laird is sending to the Games. He must’ve left afore us and has been waiting.”
Mook waved a hand the size of a side of mutton. “Hello. I’m Mook.”
Weesil shifted forward in his saddle. “I dinnae recognize the lad. Is he alone?”
Since the skinny man never trusted anyone, the rest of the warriors ignored him.
Pudge frowned as he peered closer at the newcomer. “Is Giric right? Yer laird sent ye to tag along with us to the Games? Ye dinnae look like a warrior.”
The newcomer, with cropped auburn curls barely contained by a leather thong, was staring wide-eyed at Kester, likely expecting him to object.
Kester couldn’t, of course, because he couldn’t seem to make his damn voice work.
Finally, the figure shifted in the saddle—there were strange bundles strapped all over, and not a single weapon for protection, the wee dobber—and shook auburn curls at Pudge.
“Nay.” The voice was unnaturally gruff, as if a pretense. “I…I am no’ a warrior. I’ll leave it to the lot of ye to throw shite at each other. I’m a piper.”
“Och, he’s attending the contests!” Gommy burst out. “That makes more sense!”
He?
“I’m hoping ‘tis his instruments strapped to his saddle,” Giric agreed dryly, “and no’ some strange collection of dismembered body parts.”
His?
Pudge clucked his tongue. “Leave it toyeto think of dismembered body parts. The lad’sobviouslycarrying his instruments. That’s a lute,” he said with a nod.
The lad?
With a snicker, Gommy stroked his beard. “Instruments. Sounds like a metaphor.”
“What’s a metty for?” rumbled Mook.
“I dunno,” Weesil hissed. “Whatisit for?”
“Penis!” Gommy cackled at some joke. “That lad’s got an instrument metaphor for his penis!”
His penis?
“Is it food?” Mook reached for the newcomer’s saddle. “Did ye bring food, lad?”
“Enough,”growled Kester.
