“Wands in the goat. You know the rules.”

 

The man was tall and broad chested. Although he was bald on the top of his head, his long brown beard reached down to his stomach. Tasked with maintaining order at the Flying Goat, Afan Upjohn was well known to local students, most of whom got a kick out of referring to him only by his last name.

 

Guinevere, Mair, and Alys were standing outside of the tavern.  It was a two-story, timber framed building with a sharply pitched roof. The trio could hear the sound of music and laughter wafting out from the warm interior to where they stood, now, in the mud.

 

Upjohn gestured towards the goat-shaped gargoyle that protruded from the tavern’s façade. It was carved from limestone and looked positively ancient, although Guinevere was certain the Flying Goat was less than a century old. Its head was crowned by two curved horns that sat above its closed eyes and mouth. It sported a short beard on its chin. Although she had been to the tavern a few times already, this part still made her uncomfortable.

 

“Let’s not keep Upjohn waiting,” said Mair, volunteering to go first. She produced her wand from her robe pockets and held it in front of the stone goat’s mouth, waiting.

 

After a second or two, the sculpture began to shift slightly. Its nostrils flared, almost as if it were sniffing the wand held before it. Its stone eyes fluttered open as if awaking from a long nap. Then its mouth opened and a long limestone tongue stretched out, curled around Mair’s wand, pulled it into its mouth, and swallowed it whole.

 

“Thanks, Mair,” said Upjohn. “Gwen, Alys, come on now.”

 

“Okay, okay,” said Guinevere, presenting her wand to the hungry sculpture. The routine was repeated, and the goat ingested her wand before doing the same with Alys’s.

 

“Have fun, ladies. But not too much,” said Upjohn, winking as he pulled open the wooden door and ushered them in.

 

As Guinevere stepped inside, she was greeted by the warm, savory air of the tavern. The sound of clinking tankards, laughter, and conversation filled the air. And that wasn’t all: Guinevere’s favorite band, the Troubledours, were playing tonight. She smiled instantly when she heard the delicate, airy sound of the flute and the rich, mellow tone of the lute. Derwena was on the rebec, a bowed string instrument, while Ionor beat away at the tabor, a wooden shell with a drumhead made of animal skin. A few couples danced close to where the band played in the far corner of the taproom.

 

“Damn, it’s packed tonight!” Mair yelled over the sound of the music. “Let me know if you see an empty table somewhere!”

 

Guinevere scanned the tavern, but no empty spots revealed themselves. She heard the door behind them open, and turned to see the three boys Mair had screamed at earlier walk in behind them. Alys noticed them too. “Let’s keep moving,” she begged.

 

Guinevere pushed forward, searching desperately for an open space. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a small group towards the back of the tavern get up. Yes, they’re leaving! “Over there!” Guinevere pointed, and Mair quickly broke out into a sprint—or the closest you could get to a sprint in a packed barroom.

 

The students froze when they saw the short redhead running towards them. Guinevere recognized the girls from her Neurokinesis class and groaned in embarrassment. The students exchanged awkward glances between themselves before eventually grabbing all their items and making their way past Mair.

 

“Did you really need to run?” asked Alys. “You almost knocked over, like, three of four tankards along the way.”

 

“I’m just trying to get you away from those dunces,” Mair pointed to the three boys. “Although perhaps Gwen doesn’t want get too far from the Duke.”

 

“The Duke’s son,” Alys corrected.

 

Guinevere blushed. “I didn’t know he was the son of a Duke.”

 

“The son of the Duke of Ysros, as in, the very Duchy we live in. It must be Trystan Martyn.”

 

“He doesn’t keep good company,” Guinevere muttered.

 

“No,” Alys agreed. Guinevere thought she could see a flush of red flash across Alys’s face.

 

The girls watched as the three boys made their way to the bar. Trystan was flanked by the annoying brown-haired boy and the tall, gangly redhead. Although the area in front of the bar was full of students, they parted upon the approach of the three boys. Wide eyes and hushed voices retreated before them.

 

“The other two must be noble too. Or from important families, anyway,” Alys guessed.

 

“Who cares,” Mair groaned. “I need some redgwin. Like, now. Hey, Guinevere, why don’t you go grab us a bottle? I’ll stay here with Alys.”

 

Guinevere realized it was more of a command than a request. She stood up with a sigh and began making her way to the bar.

 

“Duchess Gwen sounds quite nice I think!” she heard Mair shout from behind her.

 

Could she be any louder? Guinevere slid between several closely packed tables before she wound up in the bar area. Her next challenge would be making her way past all the rowdy Druicraeft boys who were aiming to get their own tankards filled. This is not my strong suit.  She looked in all directions trying to find an open spot, but the only one she could find was the space where Trystan and his two friends stood. And she wasn’t about to approach them.

 

But it was too late. In that very moment, Trystan happened to turn around and make eye contact with her. He gave her a polite smile. She smiled back. It was automatic. She tried to looked away, but found her gaze frozen. He looked as if he were contemplating walking up to her, then he seemed to make his decision and began approaching her.

 

Shit! What do I do? But she did nothing, and soon he stood across from her.

 

“I’m Trystan,” he held out his hand.

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Uh, sorry, I’m Guinevere.” Do I curtsy? His hand was still outstretched.

 

“That’s a beautiful name.”

 

“Thank you. Trystan is nice too, I suppose.”

 

“I’ll have to tell my mother you said so.”

 

Guinevere giggled. He withdrew his hand, then, to disguise the awkward movement, he gestured towards the bar. “A drink?”

 

“Sure, I need to get some for my friends as well.”

 

As they began walking, the crowd of Druicraeft boys quickly stepped out of the way. “Yes, about your friends…” Trystan began. He looked uncomfortable. “I wanted to apologize for Bedwyr’s actions earlier. They were unbecoming of a Druicraeft wizard.”

 

“I’d certainly say so.”

 

“I’ve talked to him. He’s quite apologetic.”

 

“I think Bedwyr should apologize to my friend Alys.”

 

Just then, a loud “BAAAAHHHH” burst through the tavern. Guinere felt a swoosh of wind blow past her. She turned just in time to see a black goat pass over Trystan’s head.

 

“Great Galt!” Trystan yelled, ducking. “What is that thing?!”

 

Guinevere burst into laughter. “Is this your first time? You don’t know McHooves?”

 

The black goat swept past Trystan and grabbed a piece of bread that another Druiecraeft student was holding up. The bread secured in its mouth, the goat glided back up to the rafters and out of sight.

 

“I didn’t take the tavern’s name literally,” Trystan muttered, brushing himself off. “McHooves, huh? How silly.”

 

“It is a bit silly, yes, but that’s Swefnwicc for you.”

 

“Yes, yes… anyway, what are you drinking?”

 

“Redgwin. That’ll be three glasses.”

 

“Coming right up.”

 

Guinevere looked back at Mair and Alys, only to find them staring at her and giggling to themselves. Fuck you, she thought. She turned back to Trystan. His blonde hair fell over his forehead and covered his ears. His kind blue eyes were now focused on the bartender, who was pouring the red liquid generously from the bottle. She could tell Trystan’s blood-red robes were of a quality far above the typical student’s robes. And, of course, there was the golden brooch in the shape of a bear.

 

“Oy! OY! Trystan!”

 

Guinevere recognized the voice and recoiled instantly. Bedwyr was stumbling over in their direction.

 

“Oy! Trystan! I’ve gotta take a piss. Oh, hello, have we met?” Bedwyr looked Guinevere up and down.

 

“No, you haven’t,” said Trystan. “Go on out to the alley then.”

 

“Damn, who shat in your stew?” Bedwyr asked, then, bowing towards Guinevere, he turned around and stumbled towards Upjohn’s entrance.

 

“Sorry about that,” Trystan mumbled. “Three glasses of redgwin. Here you go.”

 

“Thank you,” Guinevere smiled. “Are you excited for the Dawns Mabon this weekend?”

 

“Yes, although I must admit I’m surprised Weirhaven is still planning on hosting it, considering everything that’s happened lately.”

 

“Yes, it’s terrible what’s happened to Bedelia,” Guinevere said, taking a sip from her glass. The redgwin felt good on her lips. It was only when she swallowed that she remembered Mair’s original request.

 

“Shit, I was supposed to order a bottle.”

 

“A bottle, you say?” Trystan grinned. “We can make that happen.”

 

 

***

 

 

Bedwyr pushed through the wooden door and came face to face with Upjohn.

 

“You look bigger every time I see you,” Bedwyr slurred. “Maybe it’s just the beard.”

 

“Good to see you too, Mr. Parry. Your wand?”

 

“The goat can chew on it a bit longer. I’m just taking a piss.”

 

Upjohn shrugged, “Pick an alley.”

 

“Thank you. The one around the corner is particularly dark and private. My personal favorite.”

 

“Mhm. Better get to it, then.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bedwyr walked around to the side of the building and turned the corner. This was the alley that the Flying Goat staff moved in and out of, so Bedwyr walked along this side until he turned the corner and found himself in his favorite pissing alley. He’d never encountered anyone else back here. It was practically his own privy.

 

Bedwyr loosened his drawstrings and dropped his trousers. He sniffed the cool night air and looked up at the red Harvest Moon. He wasn’t a big fan of the red light it cast—a little too eerie for him. But he’d never admit it out loud.

 

After he was done relieving himself, he pulled up his trousers. He thought he heard a sound behind him, but brushed it off as the far away sounds of the tavern staff. He began to tie his drawstrings, a task which was made all the more difficult by the two tankards of ale he’d already had tonight.

 

Then he heard the sound again. Behind him. He was about to turn around when a girl’s voice broke the silence.

 

“Stetheros!”

 

Shit! Bedwyr knew the incantation. And so, he was unsurprised when he tried to turn around only to find he couldn’t move an inch.

 

“Very funny, whoever you are!” Bedwyr shouted, trying to sound calm. His eyes were still open, but he was facing the back of an alley with no way to identify his prankster.

 

“Quite funny. Almost as funny as the joke you pulled earlier.” Betrys Lush walked up behind Bedwyr, pulling her hat off her head and freeing her green braids.  She then placed her hat on his head and pulled down, covering his eyes.

 

“Joke? Earlier? I don’t understand.” He was getting nervous now.

 

“Strange, I’d think it’d be pretty memorable,” said Eira, “messing with a girl’s clothes like that.” She stood a few feet back from Betrys. Cadi stood around the corner, keeping watch.

 

What are these wenches talking about? Then it clicked. “The—the blonde giant?”

 

“The blonde giant,” Betrys repeated. “Yes, her.” Then, she reached out and grabbed his trousers by the waist and, in one swift motion, pulled them down to his ankles.

 

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing!”

 

“You’re going to answer some questions for me,” Betrys said, pulling his right arm out of his robes. “First, I need your name.”

 

“I’m not telling you shit!”

 

“Okay, we can do it that way,” Betrys grinned. She pulled her wand out of her pocket and pressed the tip against his right asscheek. “You ever had a wand up your ass?”

 

“You’re fucking crazy!”

 

“Yeah, I’ve gotten that before,” she increased the pressure on her wand.

 

“Okay, okay! Fuck! My name is Bedwyr Parry!”

 

Betrys froze. She cast a quick glance at Eira.

 

“Bedwyr Parry? As in House Parry?”

 

“Yes!” Bedwyr was starting to shiver.

 

“My, my, my,” Betrys said to herself. She quickly removed his left arm from its sleeve and pulled his robes off in their entirety. She tossed the robes to Eira and said, “Check for any dymies he’s got in there. We’ve caught a wealthy one.”

 

Bedwyr now stood frozen in just his linen shirt and Betrys’s hat.

 

She delivered a hard slap across Bedwyr’s ass.

 

Bedwyr yelped. “What the fuck are you doing? I’m answering your questions!”

 

“Sorry, sometimes I can’t help myself.”

 

“Listen, I know who you are. You’re that short redhead girl. I’m… sorry for what I did to your friend. I didn’t mean to.”

 

Betrys raised an eyebrow and looked at Eira. He thinks I’m Mair Ab Owain.

 

“Yes… what you did to Alys. That’s my friend. I don’t take kindly to things like that,” she said, walking around to face him.

 

“I… I didn’t mean to. Wrong spell. I don’t study enough, that’s what my mate always says.”

 

“Sure thing, Bedwyr,” said Betrys said, kneeling down so that she was eye level with his cock. She took her right index finger and curled it upwards, lifting his tip and letting it flop down. “I’ve gotta say, you’re not working with much here.”

 

Fucking bitch. “It’s… it’s cold out.”

 

“Uh huh,” she said, peering around his crotch towards Eira. “Anything good in those pockets… Alys?”

 

“Looks like 20 dymies or so. Are you sure we should take this, Be—”

“Shut up!” Betrys snapped. Then, regaining her composure, “I’m sure that Bedwyr would be happy to part with his dymies, Alys. Consider it an apology?”

 

“Yes, take them! Please, just release your spell and let me go!”

 

“What’s the rush?” Betrys stood up and walked behind him again.

 

“My friends… they’re going to be looking for me soon. Trystan Martyn—know him?”

 

“A Martyn, huh? I had no idea Druicraeft was home to such high society,” Betrys said, sticking her right index finger in her mouth. “The dymies in your dormitory alone must be enough to build a new Grand Hall.”

 

“You want more money? I can get you more money.”

 

“I don’t need money, Bedwyr. That’s not what this is about,” she said, pulling her wet finger out of her mouth.

 

“What’s this about then?”

 

She leaned in close behind him, her mouth an inch from his ear. “Revenge.”

 

With that, she spread his asscheeks with her left hand. She swung her right arm down and plunged her wet finger into his ass.

 

Bedwyr let out of a half scream, half yelp. Betrys pushed her finger in to the last knuckle.

 

“Fuck! I—I’m sorry! Fuck! Stop!”

 

“You’re sorry?” she began pumping her finger in and out of his ass.

 

“Yes—I just—I just thought your blonde friend was—fuck! The most—the most attractive girl I’d ever seen.”

 

This caused Betrys to pause her onslaught. She had been having fun, but now she felt rage bubbling up within her. The most attractive girl he’d ever seen? The giantess?

 

She picked up the pace, pumping in and out. “I want you to remember my name, Parry: Mair Ab Owain. Don’t fuck with my friends again.”

 

“I wont’! I promise!”

 

“Good,” she said, finally pulling her finger out of his hole. She leaned down and wiped her hand on his trousers, which were still around his ankles.

 

Bedwyr was breathing heavily. When I get my hands on this bitch, she’ll regret this. That’s for certain.

 

Betrys grabbed her hat before pulling her wand out her pocket. She pointed it at the back of his head. “Good night, Bedwyr.”

 

“What? Wait!”

 

“Somneron.”

 

He let out a soft moan as his eyes slammed shut and he collapsed to ground. He lay in about an inch of mud, trousers still around his ankles.

 

“Throw his robes onto him.”

 

Eira tossed his robes over his body, although she managed to avoid covering his ass.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” Betrys said, grinning. “Something tells me he’ll be looking for revenge when he wakes up.”