Shadow of the Avatar

Chapter 9 -- Myrmigynes, Melees, and a Dagger Contest

Myrmigynes--I never saw one until I met Beia. Trained to fight, trained to survive...the junglelands sisterhoods are home to some formidable women. Their manners could use some work though...

--Wren

Wren stared up at blonde Beia who stood flanked by her two huge 'sisters'. The door of the tavern lay in splinters behind them. Kicks and punches had turned chunks of the brick jam to gravel. A cold wind blew against Wren's neck. Her skin prickled and her heart sped. The sun felt pale and weak. She saw that blood now covered her tunic; splatter from the man Beia knocked through the door.

A whispering audience gathered at a discrete distance. Curious faces with eyes that never seemed to blink.

Wren's chest ached. Breaths came hard. She swallowed. Her gaze climbed Beia's muscled physique and locked with intense jade-colored eyes. A thought repeated in her head.

Could this be an avatar?

The woman's aura pressed against her like a warm blanket. A tangible presence like that of the black-eyed priest, only this didn't hurt. If Beia was an avatar, what of these other two? Her red-haired sister was a hand taller, and white-haired Damrosil yet bigger.

Remember the mission. Get to the wizard. Find Desiray. Get help to defeat the cult. The words pounded in her head. She felt so weak. Beia had grabbed her before she could react. What did she want? Wren's hand went to the phoenix symbol beneath her tunic.

Beia's stormy face broke into a smile, making her go from ferocious to friendly. "Sorry for that. Drink for your trouble?"

Offending this woman would be stupid. She needed to rest now anyway. Wren nodded, letting Beia pull her into the tavern.

The onlookers in the doorway parted. Wren almost choked on the smoke-filled air. Battered, soot-darkened lanterns dangled from a network of ship's nets spiked to the ceiling. Farm implements, wagon wheels, and other oddments hung on the walls and wooden supports. A banner strung between two columns proclaimed the place 'The Green Dragon'.

A few dozen men and women reseated themselves, buzzing about the fight. Gazes in the room stayed on the jungle-women.

A rotund red-faced barkeep came around the counter ringing his hands. "My doorway, look what you've done." His eyes met Beia's and he cringed. "Milady," he added.

Beia reached into a pouch, pulled out a half dozen platinum Degars, and put them in his hand. "Shut up."

Eyes bulging, he stared at the coins. Bowing to Beia, he retreated into the smoke. Damrosil grinned and clapped Beia on the shoulder. They went to an unoccupied table.

Using a rag from her pouch, Wren made a clean spot for her elbows on the greasy, knife-scarred table top. The myrmigynes followed suit.

Three men who were playing darts, stopped and stared.

The red-haired woman glared at them. "Play!" she growled. "You observed what befell the last lout."

They hastily returned to their game.

Her speech puzzled Wren. The language sounded affected and over-formal with a northlands accent. She must have learned the common language in a Malanian academy where they taught sages, bards, and scholars.

Once seated, Beia eyed Wren. "Bet you're one who likes sweet mead."

She nodded. She'd agree to whatever this woman said.

"Keep!" Beia yelled. "Mug of Blackstar for this one."

The barman acknowledged her. The noise level in the room grew as the excitement died. The cloying smell of kerf and lowlands pipe-weed made Wren dizzy.