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    Mick of Malvern: Seeker for Hire
    Mick of Malvern: Seeker for Hire
    Mick of Malvern: Seeker for Hire
    Ebook50 pages38 minutes

    Mick of Malvern: Seeker for Hire

    By Jason A. Adams

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    About this ebook

    Mick of Malvern lives a quiet life. Mainly due to a lack of clients.

    That all changes when Lady Gwendolyn enters his office and his life.

    An ailing queen. A missing princess. A chance to finally pay his bills.

    Quick wits, a custom crossbow, and ten silvers a day plus expenses.

    Join Mick on a quest to save his favorite person. Himself.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJason A. Adams
    Release dateMay 11, 2018
    Mick of Malvern: Seeker for Hire
    Author

    Jason A. Adams

    Jason A. Adams grew up in various Air Force towns, but Southwest Virginia has always been his homeplace. His military brat childhood exposed him to exotic locales, fascinating people from around the world, and a lifetime curiosity that informs his fiction.Jason is the author of many short stories based in and around the Virginia coalfields he lives in and loves. He currently lives on a forest mountain with assorted beasties, and his beautiful and talented wife, Kari Kilgore, also a writer of many wonderful stories.Find out more at www.jasonadams.info, where you can sign up for information on upcoming releases, and the occasional update from The Brain Squirrels.For all works released by Spiral Publishing, including Kari's many fantastic stories and non-fiction by Frank Kilgore, check out www.spiralpublishing.net.

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      Book preview

      Mick of Malvern - Jason A. Adams

      Chapter 1

      I didn’t used to hate dwarves. Now, I can’t stand the little buggers. I never should have gotten involved with their ilk.

      Sounds bad, but I have my reasons, and they all start with a girl named Gwen.

      It was two weeks after Midsummer Eve when she first walked into my office, and threw me for one hell of a loop.

      I was sitting at the battered old oaken table that serves as my desk. Drinking, as usual. Ever since that damned ogre stuck me in the ass with a flint spear, the wine is the only thing that lets me sleep. Or sit.

      Outside, thunder rolled through a gloomy sky and the air smelled of sorely needed rain. Hell, I’d be glad of any moisture that could knock down the ever-present dust clouds. The streets of Malvern still haven’t been cobbled, even though our old goat of a Lord Mayor keeps promising. Typical nobleman.

      Carts rumbled past, full of farmers heading home after market. People shouted, cracked their whips, stumbled and fell against each other. Most of them would be drunk by now, at least if the day’s trading had gone their way. Ah, humanity at its finest. Non-humans weren’t allowed in town on market days back then.

      Inside, the fruits of my long career surrounded me. Cobwebs, peeling paint, cracked and yellowed plaster. I couldn’t go barefoot for fear of picking up splinters from the unwaxed floor. Gaps in the dust dunes reminded me of furniture gone to the rent man. Furniture I should probably replace. A dump, in other words.

      At the moment, I wasn’t exactly a roaring success, but I was still my own boss. Mick of Malvern, Seeker for Hire. Ten silver pennies a day, plus expenses.

      Damn, I was hungry. But this morning my coin purse forced me to decide between food and wine.

      An easy choice, most days.

      So there I was, feet up on the table and bottle in hand. Ruff undone and doublet open. My jerkin draped over the sideboard. Clean, but washed so many times the fabric was more pink than scarlet. I really needed some new duds, but gold was in short supply. My sword stood in the corner behind me. A plain weapon with no decoration except the stains from my hand on the grip. I never trust people with fancy swords, myself.

      It was well on toward sunset. I’d been working on the accounts, struggling through the columns of numbers. Maybe I could find enough coppers to rehire Lucien, my old scribe. Letting him go had been a mistake, but it was ether him or food.

      And wine. Can’t forget that.

      I’d given up on the sums and was relaxing, drinking my evening medicine, when a shadow crossed the oilskin window in my front door. I couldn’t see who was out there, since the window was something else I’d been putting off replacing, but I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone this time of day.

      I reached under the table where I kept my customized hand crossbow, loaded with one of my special homemade quarrels, the razor-sharp tip honed out of an old steel plowshare and coated with concentrated henbane.

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