One man’s voice caught Maia’s attention amidst the din of the roaring flames and chuckling voices.
“And what do you expect we found, by Cheshu, with the bear scat? A hand. Bitten off and chewed to bits. Naught but the bones were left. Wander these mountains before the snows, and you are asking to become a meal yourself!”
Maia blinked with startled surprise and turned her gaze. The talker was a barrel-chested man, shorter than her, but wide enough to be two people. A thinning thatch of curly copper hair sat atop his balding head, and a bristly beard that was more brown than copper pointed from his chin like a cone. Beside the wide chair in which he slouched, an enormous pale boarhound rested on the floor, its head resting on its front legs as it stared at her with its big eyes.
What had struck Maia so forcefully was the epithet the man had used along with his accent, which was unmistakably Pry-rian—not at all what she had expected to hear in the hinterlands of Dahomey.
“No, no, no—you have to realize it. I have been walking these mountains for years, and you cannot believe how ignorant people are. Especially the wealthy. Does a blizzard care how much coin is in your purse? I once saw a man blasted by lightning as we walked the trails. He was no farther from me than that tun of wine, close enough to raise the hair on my arms. I jest not! By Cheshu, I had a struggle to keep Argus here from feasting on the corpse. I do not quibble if he has a taste for bear meat, but I would rather he not get a taste for one of us!” He patted the dog’s head and then held his own belly while he laughed, joined in chorus by the others gathered around him.
Maia watched him closely, noting how he had become the center of attention in the room by the way he projected his voice. Copper-colored hair was also rare in Dahomey. There was no denying it, the man was Pry-rian. He looked to be a dozen or so years older than her, and the good-natured smile on his face told her he was comfortable in his position. She noticed in her observation that he had two throwing axes and a long knife in his belt and seemed to be quite unfamiliar with starvation.
The tall man approached with a massive tray of bread, nuts, cheese, and some wild berries. “I will cut some meat when it is finished cooking,” the man said. “Are you warming up now, pretty lass?”
Maia nodded and thanked him again. “How much can I pay for the meal?” she asked.
The man waved her off and shook his head. “You are hungry and must eat. Why should coins exchange hands for that? We are simple people who live off the land. What we have, we share.”
The notion startled her even more. Was it a maston village? “That is very kind. Thank you. Who is that man in the chair by the other fire?” she asked him.
The tall man’s grin broadened. “The best tracker and hunter in Dahomey if you ask him. I thought you might be here to find him. He provided the stag roasting on the spit. His name is Jon Tayt. Are you seeking a hunter? Most who travel up to this village seek him.”
“Can you introduce us then?” Maia asked, feeling a prickle of warmth that had little to do with the fire. She knew instinctively that her need had brought them to this quaint hamlet. It was the work of the Medium.
The tall man nodded and approached the man, bending low to whisper in his ear. The hunter’s gaze did not shift or change. He simply nodded and made a motion to shoo the others away. Some cast furtive glances at her and the kishion, but they filed away without argument. Jon Tayt eased up off the chair and walked toward them, his heavy boots thudding on the dirt floor. The boarhound raised its head, its ears going on the alert, but it did not follow its master.
Maia was secretly starving, but she refrained from enjoying the warm bread and nuts as she waited for the hunter to approach. His hazel eyes seemed to size her up, taking in the sight of her torn bodice, the rugged look of the kishion, the hunted expressions on their faces. He grabbed another chair and spun it around and sat in it, resting his meaty arms on the back of the chair.
“Well, you came over the mountains,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. “Ach, you came from the other side. And you survived it. Incredible.” He gave a nod to the kishion. “Wolves? The scars on your hands . . . you ran afoul of a maddened pack. And the scabs on both of your skins. I know the insects that made those. Little buggers burrow into your skin. If you do not burn them out or cut them out, you go mad with disease.” He chuckled with some amusement and shook his head. “Obviously you did not come here wanting me to lead you inside that foul domain. So what brings you here tonight, I must wonder?”
Maia felt a spasm of excitement inside, but she tried to calm it. This was exactly the sort of person they needed to guide them. Still, she would need to be very careful about what she revealed.