Accursed Inn
6th Gysse Aril, 3485Harding âThe Ferretâ, a ginger-haired, rat of a man, was one of the innâs less savory patrons. He made a living by stealing everything that wasnât nailed down, and subsequently took everything that was, and the nails, as well.
When he âaccidentallyâ brushed up against one of the new arrivals, the words, âOops, sorry Maâam,â escaped his mouth even as his hand lifted the strangerâs purse from her belt and tucked it away.
Heâd not gone three steps before a hand clamped down on his shoulder and wheeled him around. Craning his neck, he sized up his would-be victim clad in leathers and fur, bared skin painted with tattoos and woad; long, fiery, unkempt hair cascading around her shoulders. The thief could see the hilt of a broadsword slung across the warriorâs back.
The barbarian grinned savagely. Ferret let out a frightened squeak before her fingers caught him hard under the chin, lifting him clean off his feet, and dumped him into a heap on the stained common room floor.
The woman turned over the unconscious pickpocket with the toe of his boot and retrieved her coin purse from inside the manâs cloak. Jingling it once to check its weight, she returned it to her belt and looked toward the barman, lifting an eyebrow.
The landlord, a large, burly man with a face like a bulldogâs, shrugged and produced a large tankard from behind the bar. âHe was new here, Siv, he didnât know.â
âYa? Well he can consider that a valuable life lesson,â she answered roughly as the barkeeper filled the tankard from one of the mead barrels behind the counter and slid it across the scarred wooden surface.
A silver coin changed hands. âStill tipping well, I see,â the barman noted. âBusiness good?â
Siv nodded. âThe damned Legion makes a good show of strength when it suits them, but they're not above using mercenaries to do their dirty work! Still, suits me just fine. Keep âem coming!â She raised the tankard to her lips and took a swig.
The drinks kept coming, and so did the patrons, filling early afternoon gaps into late midday. No sooner would the landlord set a ceramic mug of ale or mead, or a glass full of scotch and return to his seat beneath the double-headed axe above the bar to resume reading, than a toothy louse seated himself at the counter, gulped down a few drinks and slammed the empties onto the counter along with a handful of coins. There wasnât a lot of gold these days, though the few yellow Cylas heads that cropped up were from the odd sorts, the kind one did not want to run into alone in the middle of the night.
Though the inn had its share of raiders and highwaymen who would try to clean out the bar or steal money and chase away paying customers, the establishment had been unusually busy today. Even a scrawny septuagenarian took up roost on a stool near the unconscious thief, tapping his foot on the fellowâs arm in steady rhythm as he blew into a harmonica.
Everything seemed to be going so well, no one noticed the door creaking open and shut on rusty, iron hinges. That is, until the dog-faced innkeeper looked up from pouring another round and suddenly dropped the stein heâd been holding. The glass made a
clink against the counter top, bounced, and hit the tiles with a loud crack, shattering into pieces.
The barman stumbled backward, crunching broken pieces beneath his shoes, his mouth agape at the entrance. As if by magic, the barflies looked up and saw what he was gawping at.
They splintered off, parting into the woodworks, whilst murmurs of, âLook, itâs Fade!â, and, âThe assassin, hide!â cropped up as they all looked from the dark figure at the door to the lone patron brave, or foolish, enough to stay at the bar.
With a gloved hand resting on a sheathed dagger, the figure scanned the room, iridescent eyes raking over the patrons from right to left, black cowl seeming to shift as to never reveal the obscured features. Each man cowered in the shadows, hoping they were safe from the assassin's deadly blade, but that vacant stare came to a full stop on the woman at the bar. Fingers closed around the hilt, yanked it out with the flick of a wrist and hurled it, blade-first.
Siv calmly drained her tankard and looked to the landlord for another, raising an eyebrow when she found the man cowering behind the bar. Shrugging, she helped herself to a fresh stein and resumed drinking. That was when a knife whizzed past her ear and stuck into the counter next to her
âDrakryvon!â Fadeâs voice carried across the room. âIâve been looking for you.â
The warrior set down the tanker with a thunk, pushed back her stool and got to her feet. Meeting the assassinâs gaze, she unstuck the dagger from the bar-top and bit it in half, letting the halves hit the floor.
The assassinâs multicolored hues did not so much as blink, and in three seconds, Fade, in a swish, swish of fabric, fluidly closed the gap between them, lean hips swaying right through the legs and bringing one knee-high boot down on top of the broken dagger. There were gasps from the crowd as the slimly muscled figure met the mercenary head-on, those eyes never breaking fom hers.
A small mouth behind that mask gave the face an almost feminine quality. âYouâre a tough woman to track, even for someone of your stature.â
Siv glanced toward an window by the door, and briefly wondered if it had been open when she came in earlier. Scooping up the other half of the broken blade, she assassin lifted it to see poison, black as a bruise, dripping onto the floor.
âIf I had a silver piece for every assassin trained in the deadly arts who thought a drop oâ poison would be enough ta put me down, Iâd be a fat, wealthy woman living out her days in some mansion⊠huh?â
She stooped down to pick up her fallen braid of hair that had been shorn off by the dagger. In the Midwest plains she called home, warriors braided their hair after every victory, only ever cutting it when defeated in combat, as a constant reminder not to make the same mistake twice. Her many tiny plaits had never been cut, and to touch or damage a clansmanâs braids was a grave insult.
âIf I needed you dead,â Fade replied, âI would have put an arrow through your heart, and you would fall to the ground before you knew what hit you, but Iâm not here to make enemies. So, sit down, finish your mead, and we can talk business.â
âWell, maybe ye should have thought about that before ye came strutting in here. Ye would need more than an arrow, boy,â she growled, baring sharp white canines. âHad ye been trying tae kill me, ye would have already been cleaved in half, anâ I would now be sitting, drinking a toast out of yer skull. Now, ye want ta talk? Try yer luck, and do it quickly. I donât have all day.â
The assassin rested an elbow on the counter and one foot on the baseboard between the stools, leaving mere inches of space between them. Those eyes were full of raw power, devoid of any emotion.
âFor a hired blade, let alone an Imperial underdog, you certainly leave a lot to luck,â the assassin responded, unblinking. âI assumed you would have grown tired of being used by the empire, instead reveling in the possibility of dying a hero in a blaze of glory to rejoin your brethren in the afterlife.â
âHa!â Siv snorted, and shook her head. She set the tankard back on the counter and folded her arms, glaring at the assassin. âDoesnât sound a bit like me,â she grumbled, looking the hooded figure up and down and glowering. âBut, we donât all kill for the right price, shade. Weâre not mincing Harbingers of Death who would kill a child as soon as a tyrant.â
The barbarians were no swaggering knights, all pomp and codes of honor, but they shared a simple, savage view that the weak were not worth killing.
The assassin splayed a hand across the table, revealing a signet ring worn over a thin glove. The insignia, a Tyir Dark Elf symbol, was a serpent swallowing a rounded moonstone.
The figure by no means towered over the warrior, but a presence was still felt within those unwavering eyes. âHeed not the rumors that the Drenn are slaugh-ter-ers of the innocent, Drakyvon,â the assassin said, taking on a darker tone.
Siv could see pools of color swirling in those eyes.
âThere are murderers all over Ruyn who wouldnât think twice over killing or raping children, but we are not paid for that which with we have been tasked for more than two thousand years, long before Osiric Cylas and his ancestors took the throne from their predecessors, upsetting the fragile balance on which the empire once teetered.
Siv sneered. "Our clans have managed fine fer generations; the petty squabbles over the throne donât concern us. âKeeping the balanceâ, as ye smug assassin types call it, thatâs civilization for ye.â
"Pity, I had you pegged as a woman more honorable than the one before me. Yes, we know who you are, Drakryvon, as your reputation precedes you. The Midwest dragon clans have been all but extinguished, leaving the great Rider with sole survivorship of the responsibility of rallying the savages under one banner."
Folding her arms, Siv turned her head to one side and spat on the floorboards. "Either get to the point, or get out, and leave me in peace."
"I've wasted enough of your time, barbarian," Fade answered smoothly. "I only come as a messenger bearing tidings of an awakening in the far east which may be of some significance to you... The elves have long called him Ka..."
Siv's narrowed both eyes, brows furrowing into a line dividing the bridge of her nose.
"But, if I am not mistaken, the clans of the West refer to Drakrelib, god of the ancient dragonkin of myth..." The assassin took a sly bow and met her eyes once more before rising. "With that, I bid you good night."
Impossible, Siv thought,
Drakrelib's temple is hidden in the hills to the far west. She gave no outward sign she cared or even comprehended the assassin's words, but her eyes followed Fade's exit like a hawk as she muttered, "T'was lovely chatting wit ye. Do let me know next time yer in the neighborhood; we can go fer scones."
The barman resurfaced, shakily, watching the door creak shut and the patrons emerge, counting their blessings or praying to whatever gods they thought had shown them mercy for hanging around a place like this. Pulling out a clean stein, the landlord filled it with ale and sat back down, lifting the drink to his mouth, and regarded the barbarian, unblinking.
âSorry, Siv,â the barman said after setting down the now half-empty stein. âIâve had my share of run-ins with rabble, but I neâer saw so many bar-hoppers drop like flies in a summer drought. One day, I saw that man, woman, heck, Iâm not even sure heâs human, but he sliced the head near clean off a man twice your size, if you can believe it. The raider swung a mace as thick as my skull, and the assassin... just wasnât there no more, but there was a flash of steel, and the figure jumped back as the raiderâs head flopped, still hanging, sinew and all. Those assassins donât come into a place just to talk. Come to think, this is the first time in thirty years one left without spilling more than a drop of blood.â
Listening to the landlord, she had the disconcerting notion she might have just played right into the assassinâs words without even realizing it. Letting her anger rise, she grabbed a handful of the landlordâs grubby shirt, hauling him right onto the bar as if he weighed no more than a child.
âAre ye trying ta impress me, little man?â she snapped, dumping him back in his chair, and turned in stride, heading for the door.
Harding was just beginning to regain consciousness and push himself to his hands and knees as the warrior passed him. The barbarian paused, raised her foot, and brought the heel of his boot down on the thiefâs fingers with a sickening crunch. He screamed and huddled into a ball on the floor clutching his shattered hand to his chest as the Drakryvon plowed straight through the tavern door and slammed it so hard as to leave it hanging half off its hinges as she strode out into the night.
Stunned , the barman just stared, his face turning beet red as the door banged against the rickety, splintered wooden frame, while some of the men in the tavern gave the bawling thief dirty looks.
One man hollered, "Someone shut 'im up!" to which another replied, "Gladly," and silenced him with a punch to the face.
The patrons threw glances all around the room, some speaking in whispered hushes and watching as the innkeeper stood up from his chair and swept some dirty mugs from the bar into a washbasin and hauled it off to the kitchen. When he returned with a damp, stained dish rag and bucket to begin wiping the counter, one of the younger men walked up, placing both hands on the bar and brazenly asked for a refill. Even the old man had picked up his harmonica, but no sooner did he put it to his lips than the barman stopped halfway through cleaning the table and looked up from under those heavy lids.
"You want more, is it?" he asked gruffly.
The young man shook his head. "No, no, if it's going to be a problem, forget it."
"What, you think this stuff comes out of some magic spring or something?"
"Not at all, I just-"
The innkeeper slammed his hand down on the wood, the loud thwap causing the man to flinch.
"You think the Watch gives a damn about what happens to small folk like us? How in Koar's name am I supposed to stay in business, when rabble like you," he jabbed his finger at the man, "keep coming through here and wrecking up the place like you were raised up by dung beetles?"
"Look," the young man threw up his hands disarmingly, "I didn't mean anything by it, I just wanted-"
The barman picked up the barbarian's stein, still partially-filled with mead, and chucked it across the counter at the far wall. The glass sailed overhead and shattered, amber liquid splashing across the floor. Nobody moved a muscle, their eyes following him as he stepped around to the other side of the counter and glared at the nearest patron, the young man who had asked for the refill.
"Get out." The words were plain and simple.
The man looked at him, stupidly.
"Are you dumb? I said: Get. Out."
The man backed toward the busted door and turned to leave, the tapping of his shoes ceasing when he reached the bottom of the steps outside.
The barkeeper eyed the rest of the patrons. "That goes for all of you, too. You heard me, GET OUT!" he bellowed, stomping to the door and thrusting it wide open. "And take the blasted thief with you!"
Slowly, but surely, the patrons began to slide out of chairs and off stools, heading for the exit. One was kind enough to drag the semi-conscious Harding to his feet; another tried to slink out with a full mug, but the barman snatched it right as he was about to take a sip. The ceramic rim clinked against yellowed teeth, and some of the mead sloshed onto the floor as the innkeeper slammed what remained of the door.
Over the next two hours, he washed dishes, scrubbed floors and wiped counters. When he decided he had the place looking presentable, he stopped to admire his handiwork. Surveying the dustless counter, he caught a glimpse of his battle axe. The handle, carved with elvish symbols and beset with three moonstones in a triple crescent, extended into a symmetrical silver blade.
This doorâs going to cost near everything I have. Iâm not about to let those Imperial bastards take this place from me. He went behind the bar to count down the till.
After accounting for back taxes, expenses and supplies, he sighed, shaking his head. Copper, silver... There wasn't anywhere near enough gold. Pocketing the money, he stood up, staring at the labrys for several seconds before he found the courage to grab the step ladder from the kitchen. He reluctantly set the ladder open on the floor and climbed up to the top rung, grasping the labrys with both hands, and lifted it from its wall hooks. A tear welled up in one eye. When he reached the ground, he stopped to wipe it away with the back of his hand.
This is it, my lady. You served me well, but, like any hot-blooded man, I proved unworthy... He kissed the blade gingerly and laid it on the counter.
In the storeroom downstairs, he picked out some boards and a satchel of tools, and strapped the labrys to his back. Minutes and nails later, with the Accursed Inn boarded up and the sign flipped around, he headed south down Old Forest Road, stopping at his house to find a torch and saddle his horse. The hour was late, and it was going to be a long, dark journey.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"It seems the warrior's burden is too great."
The phasing moons, hanging low in a violet sky, cast their spectral light over the hooded form of a woman standing in the road before him.
"My Lady," the innkeeper murmured upon glimpsing the auburn tendrils framing graceful features beneath her cowl. Crumpling to his knees, he pressed his fingers to the dirt and kissed the insteps of her small feet. "Forgive an old man. There is no name in all of Ruyn for the treachery on my hands."
"Is there?" she asked, extending a slender, upturned palm. "Look into me, and you will find a tongue icier than the North Winds still calls your name, Bruno of the Rising Dawn."
Clasping her fingers with his, he dared to gaze up into her penetrating green eyes. He saw love, lost, hopeless, fading away into darkness, cutting him deeper than the sharpest blade, for, in seeing the face he knew he would never forget, he found he could not bleed.
"No," he gasped.
"Yes, right under your nose, fool. How would your precious Anael feel if he knew the salvation of Men was at your fingertips and you let it die at the hands of a mere assassin?"
The innkeeper shook his head. "No, it can't be... Then you're..." From the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of cold steel reflecting in the moonlight, and shuddered.
The woman laughed, a smile playing on her soft lips. "Keen is the mind of a grave man when hindsight brings to light the poison fruits of his mistake."
"He bowed his head, resigned. "Please, end my torment."
The steel edge kissed his throat, and he shut his eyes.
"No," the woman answered simply, pulling her hand away. "You knights were all soft. No wonder Anael had the temple sealed. A true warrior never begs. I have no desire to put you out of your misery, old man."
Afraid to look up, he instinctively winced when she thrust the blade toward him. Palms braced against the ground, he waited for the shock of pain, but heard only the snap of leather before she lifted the weight of his sin from his shoulders.
"The stars may shine, but you... just as He cast me to this dark and desolate place, so too, shall you awaken, by morn, in darkness, and so shall you live, until your days upon this world are utterly spent."
"No, no... kill me please!" he shouted, his voice lost in a whirl of wind, and the woman was gone.
Bruno collapsed.
At last, After all those years of searching, waiting, the Bearer was right at my doorstep. Now, She is dead, and I let the Arabimitore fall into Enemy hands. How could I have been so blind? Burying his face into his arms, he wrung his hands and began to sob.
In the early, predawn light, when he finally ceased convulsing, he heard a faint flutter and glanced up. Three inky black shapes circled above, their feathery wings beating a rhythm against the paling sky. One opened its toothy beak and let out an inhuman screech. Cowering, Bruno could only let out an anguished cry as the creature swooped down toward him to peck out his eyes.