Chapter 7: A Weapon

all characters in this story are over the age of eighteen

***ARAN – Ironshire, Ekistair***

Steel clashed and clanged as Smythe and Aran circled each other in the small basement, each man’s blade seeking the skin of his opponent. Not a single mark marred Aran’s body, but Smythe bore three red stripes on his torso and one on each arm above the elbow.

Aran’s mind was empty, save for the fleeting presence of each moment flowing seamlessly into the next. He was one with his blade, one with the sweat dripping down his chest, one with his muscular mentor, who was relentlessly attacking, trying to force him off balance, but like a boulder before a wild storm, Aran simply allowed the immense force to flow around him, placing sharp counterattacks when moments presented themselves.

Those moments were rare, as Smythe truly was a master swordsman, and had Aran not been focused as an arrow in a drawn bow, he would have been amazed at the fact that Smythe had not scored a hit on him so far today.

The big Paladin was tireless in his constant assaults, his greatsword spinning and flicking like nothing Aran had ever seen. From what he knew of these long, heavy blades, they were meant to be used in a manner that resembled vicious, inelegant chopping, as they were too heavy for finer movements, but Smythe handled his as if it weighed nothing, and Aran was careful to respect his skill.

Suddenly, Aran realised why Smythe was attacking so furiously; he must be unwilling to endure another one of Aran’s assaults, so he was keeping Aran on the back foot! Either that, or it’s what he wanted Aran to think...

Deflecting a particularly sharp thrust, Aran changed to an attacking form and began to press forward. Not in a rush, but in a gradual momentum that would apply slowly increasing pressure to his mentor. Indeed, Smythe reluctantly gave ground until he was back in a defensive form, and that’s where Aran began to push.

Smythe was fast, but Aran was faster, their blades ablur as the younger man overwhelmed the older with strength and speed he had kept hidden until now. With Smythe now putting all his focus behind keeping Aran’s blade at bay, Aran completed his attack, performing a series of complex feints to lower Smythe’s guard. The greatsword went clattering to the stone floor, flicked away by an intricate flourish that Aran had learned from Smythe himself, and the big Paladin froze as Aran’s blade came to rest against his throat.

Aran stepped back quickly; he’d won the match, there was no need to be disrespectful and gloat about it.

“Well done, lad,” Smythe said, his face split by a broad grin. “That was masterful work, there. Now that I know how quick you really are, I’ll be watching for it next time.”

Aran smiled. “Looking forward to it, Master.” He really was beginning to enjoy these sparring sessions, as tough as they were. The sword work in particular was usually the pinnacle of his day.

Smythe grunted in response. “Don’t let it go to your head, boy. You’re good, but if you start imagining you’re the best in the world, sooner or later it will cause you problems.”

Aran nodded respectfully. “Duly noted, Master. Shall we continue?”

Smythe shook his head, his shoulder-length black hair swaying a little where it wasn’t plastered to his head and neck with sweat. “No, we are done sparring, for now. You have proven yourself worthy of carrying a blade, and so now you must forge your own.”

Aran nearly dropped his weapon. “Forge my own blade? But I know nothing of smithing, Master!”

Smythe smiled at that. “Then it’s time you learned, young Aran.”

***KING BERENOR – Dark Elven Realm of Eredor, Palistair.***

“Sire, Lady Shenla has arrived.”

“Send her in, Peldin,” King Berenor commanded in his bass voice, dismissing the guardsman with a flick of his dark finger. Peldin was a good soldier, and had served Berenor well over the past two-hundred years or so. He was a loyal Mor’elda, proud and strong, and not afraid to perform some of the less glamorous tasks that came with serving a king.

“Yes, sire,” Peldin said, inclining his head respectfully before turning heel and striding toward the huge stone doorway that led to the anteroom, where this ‘Lady Shenla’ would be waiting under the watchful eyes of his Nightguard. This woman claimed to have advantageous information regarding the movements of the Tar’elda, sworn enemies of the Dark Elves.

Berenor was no fool, however; anyone claiming to possess such information would be asking for significant payment, that is if they weren’t dealing misinformation on behalf of said Tar’elda.

Berenor adjusted himself on his throne – a marvelous piece made purely of worked silver and adorned with rubies and emeralds – as he watched Peldin go, adopting a relaxed, confident demeanor. He wore not a stitch, as was the custom for Mor’elda when they were in their underground home.

Tall and lithe and graced with handsome features, Berenor knew he presented an imposing figure, especially with his manhood hanging heavily between his legs, which were deliberately open as he sat his throne. It was a symbolic – and primal – display of power, also useful in keeping visitors from the upper world off balance.

Often, up-worlders were not used to such open displays of nudity. Especially Humans, sticklers for propriety that they were. As a male Elf, Berenor’s loins continued to grow throughout his life, and at over four hundred years old, he bore an impressive appendage, several inches long in repose and twice that when hard.

His attendants stood to either side of the throne, one to his left and one to his right. Evalys and Avalys were twin sisters, both of them young and stunningly beautiful, and both properly unclothed; Berenor knew how important appearances were in matters of court, and only chose the most attractive Elves to serve him. Skin as black as moonless night, and hair as white as snow like all true Dark Elves, his prime courtesans were two of the most stunning creatures in his realm. Less than a hundred years old, their bodies were still slender and lithe, with pert breasts, long, slim legs and tight bottoms.

Berenor’s loins twitched as he looked them up and down in turn; he would allow them to service him after this so-called Lady Shenla said what she had to say. He would have let them pleasure him during the audience, but he wanted no distractions at this meeting.

The throne room itself was a vast space with high, arched ceilings supported by fluted stone columns as thick as three Elves. The dais sat at the end of the room, opposite the entrance. The underground city of Eredor was a testament to the skill of Mor’elda craftsmanship.

The heavy, black stone door swung inward as it was pushed open by Peldin, who escorted a cloaked figure through the double row of thick stone pillars that led to the dais. The figure moved confidently, seemingly unhindered by the pitch blackness in which the Dark Elves lived. So, Lady Shenla could see in the dark then? Or was she aided by magic? Her cowl turned in Peldin’s direction every now and then, the tilt suggesting that she was eyeing him up and down.

Berenor’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he noticed that, for some reason, Peldin was developing an erection.

“King Berenor, High Seat of the Elven Underground Realm of Eredor,” Peldin began grandly. “I present to you Lady Shenla.”

Her lack of a title left a telling vacuum at the end of Peldin’s announcement, and Berenor suppressed a smile at the contrast.

Lady Shenla reached the dais and curtsied – though not very deeply – before lowering her hood, revealing to Berenor the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Lustrous black hair framed a perfect face with large, dark eyes and full, sensual, midnight lips. His attendants looked like common wenches compared to this stunning creature!

“Greetings, your Highness,” she drawled in a sultry voice, her tone laden with promise and desire. “I am Lady Shenla. It is a pleasure to be in your presence.” Her tongue caressed the world ‘pleasure,’ sending a tingle up Berenor’s spine and stirring his loins. Despite his usually solid self-control, his dark phallus began to lengthen between his thighs. Shenla glanced dismissively at his courtesans, before fixing her hot gaze back on him.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Shenla,” Berenor returned politely, willing himself not to grow erect so easily. It was difficult, but he managed it. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

She nodded gracefully. “Indeed, sire, but for the conservative ways of the surface-folk. Where I hail from, we embrace our bodies, much the same as your people do.” To demonstrate, she let the cloak slip from her shoulders, the garment pooling on the floor at her feet.

Berenor’s self-control vanished and his cock springing up to full mast as he took in the ravishing rose-skinned goddess before him; all luscious curves and feminine allure. Usually, he favoured slender, willowy women, but this woman was the picture of perfection; lush and fertile with large, round breasts, wide hips and shapely thighs. Berenor’s mind felt clouded by lust as he beheld her, and all thought was reduced to dim background noise.

Shenla’s eyes focused on Berenor’s rigid pole standing up proudly in his lap. She licked her lips seductively. “I see the pleasure is indeed all yours, my King,” she purred, stepping up onto the dais. “We have much to discuss, sire. Would you prefer privacy?”

Berenor nodded dumbly. “Leave us,” he commanded of Peldin and his courtesans without taking his eyes off Shenla. He did not even notice the twins’ pert ebony rumps as they wiggled out of sight, shadowed by the Guard-Captain.

Shenla was within arm’s reach now, and knelt before the throne, placing her hands on his thighs, slowly sliding them up and down. “Mmmm, my King, I did not expect you to be so ... virile!” She purred. Just having her touch him was sending sparks through Berenor’s body. “Maybe you and I can have some fun together, no?”

Berenor nodded again, unable to speak, completely enraptured.

“Before we do, oh mighty King, there’s something I need you to do for me, something only an all powerful ruler like King Berenor can do.”

Berenor found some words, though his tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Anything, my Lady. Name it.”

Shenla giggled in delight. “Excellent! You’ve made me so happy!” She lightly drew a black fingernail down the inside of his thigh and back up again, lightly scraping his heavy balls.

Berenor moaned, already on the brink of spraying his seed all over Shenla’s face.

“My brother, Lord Maloth, is about to proceed taking back the land that is rightfully his,” Shenla explained, continuing to tease him with her fingernails. “For this, he will need many soldiers. He also is of the understanding that you, my big strong King, are seeking to expand your territory.” She bent down and licked the underside of his cockhead with her long, serpentine tongue.

Berenor felt like the top of his head was going to lift off. He had never known pleasure like this, and she had barely touched him! He reached out to caress her face, and she purred, sucking a finger into her luscious mouth, loving it with her tongue. “I am, my Lady,” he murmured, barely coherent.

Shenla released his finger and hefted her heavy tits onto his thighs. “Good, sire. A powerful King needs to conquer, and expand his rule.” She grasped his thick cock, bringing it to nestle between her spectacular breasts, his midnight skin contrasting with her silky rose.

Berenor’s hips began to buck slightly of their own accord, sliding his pole up and down the wonderful tunnel of titflesh. His juice had already started to leak from the tip, and Shenla happily licked it up with her long tongue.

“My brother, Lord Maloth, wishes to strike a bargain, your Highness,” Shenla purred in between licks. “He will not only expand your territory, but he will crown you King of all Palistair, if you in turn provide us aid in our coming conflict. Agree to this, and I shall give myself to you, Berenor. You can have all of me.” She punctuated the sentence by engulfing his angry black cock in her mouth, taking it all the way down into her throat, her nose pressing up against his pelvis.

It was too much. Berenor felt his balls churn, about to explode. At the last second, Shenla squeezed the base of his cock hard, her other hand pulling his balls away from his body, delaying him the climax he so desired. He was breathing hard as he answered. “I agree!” He roared. “I agree to your terms! Now please, do not deny me any longer!”

***SHENLA – Eredor, Palistair***

Shenla smiled wickedly; her task here was done, and now she could enjoy herself. She had not had any cock for long hours – since she’d left Barrog on the outskirts of Eredor – and this so-called King had a nice one. She mounted him right there on the throne, trapping his length between her pussy and his belly and sliding her wet lips up and down the rock-hard pole.

He was moaning, mumbling incoherently, lost in the pleasure she was giving him. Shenla was more than a little shocked at how easily he had succumbed; he had very little willpower, for a King. How did he rule this realm effectively? He must have very dedicated and able advisors, surely, else he would have been supplanted long ago.

Then again, sex and seduction were what she was made for, and she was very good at it. She pushed her breasts into his face as she raised her hips, and in one smooth motion, impaled herself on his thick shaft, all the way down until she could feel his thighs against her ass. A second later, Berenor roared, his black cock exploding inside her hungry pussy, and Shenla quivered as her own climax overtook her.

Her body greedily absorbed his essence, filling her with energy. Gods, she loved it! She never felt so alive as when a man was pumping his seed into her cunt. She would have to be careful, though; Berenor must live to serve his purpose; Maloth would not be pleased if she accidentally fucked him to death.

Shenla had fucked Elves before, and they had more stamina than Humans or Dwarves. She hoped Berenor would last a good long while; she intended to make this last as long as she could. She gave him a moment to recover, then began to bounce in his lap with abandon, her moans of lust echoing through the throne room.

***BERENOR – Eredor, Palistair***

Berenor sat back on his throne in a lust-induced stupor, his body rocking in time with Shenla’s vigorous motions. She was gyrating in his lap, now with her back to him and her luscious, plump ass grinding against his belly. She leaned back against his chest, and he mauled her tits, unable to cover them completely with his big hands. This creature was sex made flesh, taking him to heights of pleasure he had never known! All other women were nothing compared to Shenla!

She had been riding him for a good hour or more, and he had filled her several times, which only seemed to make her thirst for more. Dimly, he wondered where all his stamina was coming from; he had never been able to fuck at this pace, for this long. The line of thought vanished as he felt Shenla’s tight tunnel clench again as she appeared to climaxed for the dozenth time, forcing Berenor over the edge with her, his heavy balls lifting as they emptied what was left of his seed into the rose-skinned goddess.

Just as Berenor began to wonder when his fortitude would fail, Shenla lifted her wonderful rump from his lap, rising up until eventually his long cock popped from her pussy. It waved before him, glistening with her juices, refusing to give in. She turned and smiled at him, unconcerned with his royal juice dripping down her thick thighs. She ran a finger through her wet folds and put it in her mouth, sucking it clean.

“Mmmm, delicious!” She said with a giggle, exaggerating the sucking motion for his benefit.

Berenor’s cock twitched in response to the lewd display.

“It pains me to say, Sire,” she purred as she looked down at him. “But I must take my leave. I will, however, see you again.” She leaned in and locked her mouth over his, giving him a toe-curling kiss while at the same time tugging his shaft a final few times, slapping the dark head against her hanging breast and leaving a sheen of his juice on the smooth red skin. Then, in a flurry, she left the dais, sashaying toward the door, only stopping to pick up her cloak, but not bothering to don it again.

The throne room door swung open as she approached it, opened by that delicious guard that had shown her in. His black eyes locked onto her tits as she sauntered toward him, and his cock lurched to full mast in an instant.

Shenla eyed the Dark Elf up and down. He was quite handsome, really; tall and wiry, with smooth, black skin and a pretty face. He wore nothing except a sword belt and some sort of cloak that showed his station. What had he said when he introduced himself? Guard Captain?

So entranced with her was Peldin that he never looked up to see his King slumped down on the throne, exhausted from Shenla’s attentions. From where they stood, one might think Berenor was dead, though Shenla had left him more than enough vitality to recover from his sexual ordeal.

Berenor’s seed had energised Shenla, and dark magic pulsed strongly in her veins. Stepping up to Peldin, she placed a hand on his chest and wrapped several tendrils of lust around his heart and loins. The Dark Elf inhaled sharply as arousal swept over him like a flood.

Yes; Peldin would do nicely. She would Bind him as soon as she could get him alone. “Go to your King,” Shenla purred in the Elf’s ear. “Tell him that I require you to escort me back to my home, and that you may not return. Tell him that Lady Shenla will return to visit very soon, and will think of him always.”

Peldin nodded dumbly, a vacant look in his dark eyes. “Yes, Lady Shenla,” he breathed.

“Good boy,” Shenla whispered, giving his cock a quick squeeze as a reward. He wasn’t as big as Berenor, but he had potential, and he had a nice, tight ass, which she admired as he hurried back to the dais to pass on her message to the king.

Shenla couldn’t hear what was said between the men from where she was standing, and she didn’t exactly care; Berenor was putty in her hands, now, and there was no chance of him denying her request.

Indeed, Peldin came striding back down the long hall, a broad grin on his face. He bowed elaborately, one hand on the hilt of the long sword he carried at his slim waist. “Guard-Captain Peldin of the Nightguard is at your service, my Lady.”

Shenla returned his grin, hoping hers did not look too predatory. “You will be, Peldin,” she purred. “You will be.”

***ARAN - Ironshire, Ekistair***

Sparks flew as the hammer collided with red-hot steel, bouncing harmlessly off Aran’s thick leather apron, the impact of metal on metal ringing through the smithy time and again as the hammer rose and fell, rose and fell. Aran wiped his brow between swings, yet fresh sweat continued to spring forth with every swing.

The previous three months had been grueling; Master Smythe had pushed him to his physical and mental limits, and beyond. Yesterday – for the first time since beginning his training under Smythe – Aran had bested the big Paladin in swordplay. Afterwards, Smythe had told Aran that his training in Ironshire was almost complete, but he had one final task to undertake, which is why he was now working the forge, smithing his very own sword under the careful supervision of Smythe. This was his fifth attempt, and he dearly hoped it was the last; night had long since fallen, and it had been a very long day.

“Good!” Smythe barked gruffly, his dark eyes glittering in the light of the forge fire. Combine those eyes with that bold nose, and the man resembled some kind of huge bird of prey. “Not too much, now! Remember to keep it hot!”

A few weeks ago, Aran would have growled in frustration at the man’s constant orders, but he had grown used to it. He also knew better than to anger the big weaponsmith, so he did as he was instructed, placing the length of steel back in the coals before pumping the bellows, bringing it back to ideal temperature so he could begin hammering again.

Under Elaina, Aran had always carried a mace, but Smythe had taught him much of the sword recently, and Aran found that he much preferred blades over the heavier, bulkier maces; swords were elegant, more graceful, when wielded properly. This particular piece would be about four feet long, and slightly curved with a single edge. Smythe said that when a Paladin forges a weapon himself, part of him is infused into it, giving the weapon special properties.

Aran continued following Smythe’s guidance, losing himself in the process, until he found himself giving the blade its final quenching, the water hissing fiercely as the steel cooled. He had already crafted the hilt; he’d made it from good hide, long enough for two hands. Smythe had taught Aran both single and two-handed fighting styles, and he preferred the latter over the former. Elaina had, of course, taught him basic combat before he left the Chapel, but it was in the more advanced forms that Smythe had trained him.

Smythe peered over Aran’s shoulder as he drew the blade from the quenching barrel, casting a critical eye over his pupil’s work. “Excellent work, Aran.”

“Thank you, Master.” Aran said, quietly grateful Smythe wasn’t going to make him start again.

The steel now cool, Smythe carefully picked it up and inspected it more closely, while Aran waited with baited breath for his mentor’s response. The mustachioed Paladin grunted as he turned the blade over in his big hands. Finally, he looked at Aran, his broad face impassive. “Fit the hilt, lad,” he said quietly. “Well done.”

Aran nodded, exhaling in relief, unable to hold back a smile. Eagerly taking the blade, he began to fit the boarhide hilt, all the while trying to think of a suitable name for his new sword. He suddenly realised that all the time he’d been training under Master Smythe, he’d never seen the man’s weapon, only the practice weapons they used in training. When he turned to ask about it, though, Smythe was gone.

Making a mental note to ask him later, Aran got back to fitting hilt to blade, all the while thinking up and discarding names. Swift? No. Seeker? No. Dawn? No.

The sound of footsteps behind him brought him back around to see Smythe had returned, carrying a huge sheathed greatsword. “I sensed your question, lad,” he said quietly. The air around them grew completely still as Smythe drew the weapon, the thick five-foot blade gleaming brightly in the light of the forge. Aran couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked as if the sword was drawing the light to itself, glowing a little brighter than ordinary steel.

“This is Lightbringer,” Smythe said, holding blade upright before him. “As Paladins, we must often face darkness. Lightbringer comes to life when creatures of the night are close, and she has taken the heads of many.”

“Lightbringer,” Aran breathed, taking in the marvelous weapon. He wished he could come up with a name for his own sword that sounded as good as this one.

“Each Paladin’s weapon has its own unique power, lad.” Smythe explained. “Something that comes from within its maker. Your blade will reveal its true nature in time, and then you will know what name to give it. I named Lightbringer after she first awoke. I was living in another place, at the time, and a local tribe of goblins had decided to raid my village in the dead of night. Lightbringer and I showed them that that was a bad idea.”

He grew quiet for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes as he remembered. Blinking, he came back to the now, a smile splitting his face. “Congratulations, lad. I’ve taught you all I can. You’re a fast learner, and the vala is strong in you. I firmly believe your future will be a great one.” He bowed formally, his blade held horizontally before him, balanced on upright palms. “I welcome you, Aran Sunblade, to the Order of Aros, as a Paladin. May you serve, love, and fight with all your heart.”

Astounded, Aran picked up his own sword, hilt now secured to blade, and returned Smythe’s bow in the same fashion. “Thank you for your teachings and your guidance, Master.” He realised suddenly that he would be leaving Ironshire, and he felt a touch of sadness at the thought; he had enjoyed training under Smythe. As tough and hard as the man was, his company had not been unenjoyable.

“Rest up for the next day or two,” Smythe said, suddenly much more friendly, jovial even. “Then you will move on. Elaina taught you to walk, and I have taught you to run. Now, you must learn the Truth.”

Aran heard the capital clearly. “The Truth, Master?”

Smythe offered nothing more on the subject. “Come! We have worked hard these last months, which means we have earned a drink, lad!” He sheathed Lightbringer and strode from the forge, into the night. Smiling, Aran followed.

The Iron Arms was pulsing with life as Smythe and Aran entered the tavern. Tables were packed with men and women – mostly Humans, but the odd Dwarf or Elf here and there – dicing or playing cards or simply enjoying a laugh and a mug of ale or glass of wine. On a raised platform at one end a pretty Elf woman played a complex, merry tune on her flute, while her male counterpart deftly worked the strings of his lute. All in all, the tavern had a lively, jovial feel about it.

Smythe took in the atmosphere and turned to Aran, grinning widely. “Come, lad!” He said, clapping Aran on the shoulder with a big hand. “Let’s find a table!”

Aran didn’t see how that was going to happen with the place this full, but Smythe moved through the rows of tables nonetheless, nodding and smiling politely to those who recognised him. Sure enough, as Smythe approached a corner table at the back of the room, set against the wall with two bench seats, a group of four men quickly vacated, all of them very carefully not looking at Smythe.

The big Paladin took the far seat, putting his back against the wall. “Ha!” He barked, his dark eyes following the men who were now hurriedly exiting the tavern while trying to appear casual. “Jame and his lads. They owe me coin for some work I did a while back. Probably hope I’ve forgotten.”

Aran sat opposite his mentor, glancing over his shoulder toward the door. “Why didn’t you ask them for it?”

“Bah,” Smythe said dismissively. “Wasn’t that much coin, lad, and I didn’t want to start a fuss in Brehnda’s place.”

“Fair enough,” Aran murmured, looking around with interest and wondering who Brehnda was. Just then, a pretty Dwarf appeared at their table, her hands on her well-rounded hips. Aran’s mouth fell open as the biggest pair of breasts he’d ever seen hove into view, the massive pale orbs only barely constrained by an overworked bodice with an extremely low neckline, the contents of which seemed ready to spill forth. Her tremendous chest overshadowed even Elaina’s very considerable assets!

“Get your fill, lad,” the Dwarf said with a wink. “I’m used to it, round here, ‘least from those who’ve never seen a Dwarf woman before.”

Smythe cackled a laugh, and Aran felt his face redden. With an effort, he brought his eyes up to her face. There was a smile on her plump lips, and a sparkle in her dark eyes. At just under five feet tall and maybe into her thirtieth year – going off Human years, at least – she was remarkably attractive, and Aran’s vala threatened to reach out, but he used his training to keep it at bay. Raven curls fell about the Dwarf’s bare shoulders – her green silk dress somehow keeping her decent without straps – the tresses shifting as she looked from Aran to Smythe.

“Who’s this fine young colt?” Brehnda asked Smythe, jerking her head toward Aran. “And where have you been hiding him?”

Smythe grinned. “Brehnda, this is Aran. Aran, Brehnda is the owner of this fine establishment.”

Aran extended a hand, which the busty Dwarf took. “Nice to meet you, young Aran,” Brehnda said, eyeing him up and down brazenly. “What brings you to Ironshire?”

“I took him as my apprentice,” Smythe said, answering the question for Aran. “The lad’s good, and he’ll soon be off to set up his own shop elsewhere. I’ve taught him all I can.”

Brehnda gave Smythe a disappointed look. “Shame. Not enough quality men in this town, Henley.” She turned to Aran and whispered, though it was intended for Smythe to hear. “I’ve tried everything I can to convince him to marry me, Aran, and I mean everything, but still the man resists!”

Aran chuckled, and Smythe just shook his head, a small smile on his face as he listened.

Brehnda continued. “I mean, if these are not enough,” she hefted her monumental breasts. “Then I don’t know what else a woman can do!”

“They’d be enough for me, Brehnda,” Aran said, playing along. “I’m surprised you’re having trouble finding a husband, to be honest. You certainly caught my eye.”

“Don’t listen to her, lad,” Smythe broke in. “She’s pulling your leg. The last thing Brehnda wants is a husband, believe me.”

“You talk sweet, for a young one,” Brehnda purred at Aran, touching his face. “Truthfully, lad, I could have a husband tomorrow, if I wished.” She put on an affected sigh, playing an act. “Half the men in this tavern would marry me in a heartbeat, but as I said,” she leaned in close to Aran to whisper in his ear, her lips just barely touching him.