Belly of the Beast by Warren Thomas (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📕

The men who had marked her as their own gave up and began looking for other prey.

            “Taliope, you have been thwarted yet again,” he thought, nonchalantly making for the tavern.

            Stepping into the tavern, Nizar was struck by a wave of heat and bright lanterns. The noise was incredible after the relative quiet of the street. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust, taking the opportunity to hang his wet cloak on a peg near the large fireplace. There was a lamb roasting over the fire, but his congested nose kept him from enjoying the familiar aroma.

            The tavern was packed with a rambunctious crowd, mostly off-duty soldiers and city guardsmen. Tavern girls in gaudy jewelry and skimpy dancing silks flirted with the men, trying to lure them upstairs for more lucrative, for them anyway, activities. In all, Nizar estimated there were some sixty women in the tavern, all but a handful were tavern girls.

            “Tschüss!” the black-haired vixen called from atop a table. The traditional Tyrian greeting was answered by a dozen throats. “I am Raven and I have ten crowns saying I can out throw anyone in a game of daggers!”

            Nizar ordered a mug of wine and watched as Raven made good on her boast. Six men and one woman lost before she exhausted her supply of victims. Then she entered a game of dice and lost it all, plus all of what she carried into the tavern. Grumbling about “enchanted dice,” she eventually found her way to the bar next to Nizar.

            “What’ll ya have?” the barkeep asked.

            “Hmmm, let me think. What do I want?” she said, slanting looks both ways to size up the men at the bar. Nizar moved closer, before another could get between himself and her. Seeing him easing up beside her, she looked straight into his eyes and said, “I’m awful thirsty....”

            “Allow me,” Nizar said. “A woman of such obvious breeding surely desires a fine wine to satiate her thirst.”

            Raven’s bright green eyes looked him over with relish. Nizar was taken aback, having never been looked upon with such carnal desire. Scorn, contempt, disgust, was what he was used to seeing in the eyes of women. Even brazen harlots, as Raven so obviously was, rarely gave him a second look.

            “I like you,” she purred, eyes turning mischievous as she offered her hand to be kissed. “My friends call me Raven.”

            Nizar was taken aback. Hand kissing was a disgusting custom of the Tyrian and Jarlander noble classes. The Gods only knew where her hand had been, what she had touched. And now she wanted him to kiss it!

            “I am honored, my lady,” he said, though thinking, The things I endure for the greater glory of my God. “I am Nizar al-Sayyid.”

            He gently took her hand, raising his veil just enough to give it a quick peck. In that same lightning move as before, Raven ripped his veil away again, shamefully exposing his mouth. Her laughter rang out at the look on his face. Face burning in shame, he fought the urge to cover his mouth with a hand. She now owned his veil, and didn’t seem inclined to return it.

            “Look at that, boys! Murder in his eyes!” Raven crowed, clapping her hands in delight. She then surprised him by easing up close, and saying in a husky voice, “You have the most dangerous eyes I’ve ever seen. They scare me like no others.”

            Startled, Nizar fumbled for an answer.

            “I...I don’t mean to scare you, pretty lady,” he stammered. Then regaining control of his wits, “My only desire is to please you.”

            “Oh, you do,” Raven whispered. “I adore men who scare me.”

            “Well, then, maybe I should pull a sword on you,” Nizar joked.

            Her eyes dropped to his hilt, and froze. At first he thought he had made some mistake. Did she recognize the sword? Was she a friend of its former owner, King Aballion of Treversax?

            “A steppe sword,” she said, hand rising to lovingly caress the long black hilt just peeking over her right shoulder. “I have a steppe sword, too.”

            “I’m sure it is a fine blade – ”

            “Ha! It’s better than fine, she’s a Named sword,” she declared, eyes flashing. “Her name is Tasheba.”

            “Well, yes, Tasheba looks like a fine sword,” Nizar said, though not really knowing what would constitute a good sword, but warriors loved to talk about their weapons of choice. His weapons of choice were stealth and cunning. “Personally, I prefer a scimitar. Steppe swords are too light for me in battle, but they are a fine light blade for nights when I don’t expect to fight.”

            The barkeep delivered her wine. While he paid, she sucked down half the glass in one long swallow. The barkeep took note, too, eyes dancing with mercenary delight. Nizar prayed she wasn’t too thirsty.

            “Good wine,” she said. “Better than I had expected.” She made a face, “For some ungodly reason Lelts love sugary sweet wines. Gods, it’s enough to make a girl drink water.”

            Nizar chuckled. He felt the same way. Nothing could beat a good dry wine.

            “So, my swarthy savior, did the Kestsaxians ‘induct’ you into the army, too?” she said, signaling for a refill.

            Nizar carefully kept his smile as he tossed the barkeep another crown copper. Tyrians were infamous for their ability to consume large quantities of strong drink. He prayed he had enough coin.

            “No, I’m a prince of Tamera,” he said, noting the way her eyes brighten at that. “Though they did try to confiscate my mounts, but wisely backed down when I explained the situation to them.”

            “Are you really a Tameran prince?” she said. “I’m a princess, too.”

            He couldn’t tell if she was truthful, or playing him. Her smile could mean a joke.

            “Really?” Nizar said, a smile spreading.

            It was hard not to laugh, since it seemed as if every Tyrian claimed to