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Birger moved about the tables as quiet and quick as a winter hare among frozen clumps of grass. His ears, too, were as keen as a hare’s, picking up bits of stories and gossip and news as he flitted in and then way from the elbows of the guests as they rested on the table tops. He smiled to himself, wriggling in anticipation of telling Carr the snippets he’d gathered along with the dirty dishes and mugs.
He hadn’t quite understood what the man and woman had said about the creature in Wenda’s story. But Carr was a sharp man, despite the fact the years were battering against him. He’d know how to untangle their words and tell it plain to Birger.
His tray was full; the last platter he’d gathered had been the one from the Halfling. Clean as a whistle, it was, and the basket of buns empty, too. Birger was just heading toward the kitchen when the piercing shriek froze him in his tracks. He turned quickly, the tableware and crockery stacked on his tray clinking loudly against each other.
The Halfling was lying on the floor limp as an old rag. Birger had seen things of this sort before. But mostly it was a local man with too much ale under his belt. He put down his tray and ran to the fellow’s side. ‘Someone get cook and her smelling salts,’ he said, kneeling by Willem. Birger grabbed hold of the Halfling’s arm and shook it energetically as he called loudly.
‘Sir! Sir! Wake up!’
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