Warning: Strong language, non graphic sex scenes and liberal use of British idiom

Ilfayne slung the empty wine skin over the edge of the platform and watched it spiral down. Hopefully it would hit someone, at least that might liven things up a bit. It was Thrimilci, and unfortunately he was stuck with the kyrbodans, a strange race of people with absolutely no sense of fun. People are supposed to get drunk at fertility festivals, sing rude songs around the fire and creep off into the bushes for some slap and tickle. Chance would be a fine thing; finding a young lady prepared to stay within ten feet was difficult enough. The festivities should not include sitting round stone cold sober singing dreary songs about trees. Trees are pretty useless anyway, unless you’re sitting on a platform at the top of one, keeping out of the kyrbodans way.

Ilfayne fished out another skin of wine. Four down, only two left. This was not good. Throwing the empty ones and hoping they would splat on a passing kyrbodan was all the entertainment he had. What was he saying? He was a wizard, if he couldn’t make his own entertainment, who could? A fine plan. Continue reading →

‘Bugger.’ Ilfayne shook the last drop of wine onto his tongue as two drunken revellers stumbled too close, realised their peril and scurried off. He was bored. Not just the normal bored, which would be bad enough, but the extra special version of being bored when everyone else is having a fine old time. Worse, he’d finished all the wine at his table and wasn’t anywhere near drunk enough. There probably wasn’t enough wine in the building for that. Not for a wedding, with everyone being all gooey and sentimental.

The wedding vows had been bad enough, but now it was late enough in the proceedings that the hanky-panky was well under way. He curled his lip in disgust as a couple at the next table giggled and tried to pretend that they weren’t flirting before they not so discreetly made for a room. It was enough to make him feel quite ill. Continue reading →

Ilfayne slid off the horse sideways and his arse sank into the mud. ‘Bugger this horse!’ ‘I don’t think,’ Regin said from high above on his own horse, ‘that the horse was the problem.’ Ilfayne propped himself up on his elbows and made a show of dignity. ‘Are you insinull—insuna – trying to say something? Because if you are, I may just have to turn you into a turnip.’ He waved his one hand around, trying to menace Regin and failing. Of course Regin took quite a lot of intimidating. There was so much of him to do it to.

‘You’re drunk,’ Regin said.

‘Bloody well am not!’

Regin slid from his own horse, reeled to the left, straightened up and bent down to give Ilfayne his hand. He had to hold on to the stirrup to keep from falling. ‘Come on you silly sod, up you get. If you don’t hurry up, the inn’ll be shut by the time we get there. It’s a three hour ride from here, and we’re out of beer and wine.’ ‘No wine!’ An emergency then. Continue reading →