Chapter 1
The trip to Brodgertown took the
lion’s share of a full day, submitting the list of supplies that were needed
for the Inn and ordering the beer that would arrive in six months time took the
rest. She left her cart at the Caster’s
Ale and Milling Supplies and would pick it up on the morrow. By agreement she would spend her night at the
Far Step Lodge singing a few ballads and bawdy songs for Gareth Farstrider’s
crowds in exchange for a good bed, a couple hearty meals and a few coins if the
crowds are good. Since she has been
coming here that has been her arrangement, first she thought she was getting
charity, but now she knows that she is good.
Fifteen years of managing an inn herself many nights performing to bring
in the crowds. Before the inn she spent
a couple of years on the road with a troupe of actors and musicians working her
way up in the ranks as a player. She
would have liked to continue with that life if things had been different. If things had been different. They weren’t though so those days were over,
or were they?
She remembered that a month ago her
old troupe had come through and they played in the town and recognized her even
with her three children. They invited
her to play with them, a solo in a new play that she didn’t know but the piece
was familiar and with little preparation she nailed it and played to cheers
from the troupe and from the locals who now looked on her with new eyes. There have been new local customers at the
inn since the troupe went through. To
join with the Troupe again, but she couldn’t Mora was 11 and Palo and Pater
were 9. She could bring them, there were
other children in the troupe and there would be no end of new children in all
the towns and villages along the way.
No, this was an idle fancy, she had the inn, and they were a month away
in some unknown direction following some plan devised years ago to maximize
audiences and income.
It was a long day’s trip and there
were plenty of time for ruminations of what could be if only. She kept an eye on the road and the other on
her performance a month ago. It was Sir
Pulsiver (the Strongman) who recognised her and Sylvia (the Bearded Lady) who
invited her to join them in the stage again, but it was Alphonso the Ringmaster
whipped up the crowd to get her to join them.
They were playing a version of a play that they mastered back when she
was with them, saying it was an old favourite from years ago called “The Fool;”
it was a simple played for simple people, filled with laughs and harmless fun
poking. They would make fun if the
headman of the village in a kind way, So that there were laughs but also so
they would be welcome back and then they would turn the butt of jokes towards
the Fool who would always be some good-natured priest who spouted platitudes
about good behavior while those same behaviours
were conducted behind him. The
priest was aways not local and the headman always laughed hardest after the
ribbing he had received. It was a
pleasant journey home.
The Green moon Drogath was cresting
the horizon, covering up the White moon Hestium when she started pulling close
to the inn, her inn The House of Cyr Astra.
Drogath’s Eye was upon the world last night and all rustic people would
have stayed in, fearing the evil that would result, but tonight it was one day
off full so no one would fear travelers using its light. There was a smell that prevailed through the
air. It smelled of burnt wood, common
enough smell, but the smell was off like the wood had been green when used in
the fire or if someone was burning teak, a wood so dense that it took a long
time to burn but gave off a horrible odour—one of the reasons why it was used
in house construction. The Inn!
She gathered the reins and flipped
them for the horse to pick up the pace.
As she rounded the bend before her inn.
In the green light of the moon, it looked like nothing was amiss at
first, but as she approached and came along, she could see the profile was
changed. The proud roof had bent down
and inn the middle and the roof had caved inwards there were yet a few lonely
sparks rising from the structure. There
were a couple of lanterns set out at intervals between the river and the inn;
there was one solitary figure trekking back and forth gathering buckets of
water to throw on the Inn. She bound
from her perch and raced across the intervening space calling for Mora. She called for Palo and Pater; she called for
her children. She ran into the inn. The floors were burned and had fallen in many
places into the cellar. The floor above
the main floor had fallen into both. The
wide curving staircase rose in the air but had no destination. The roof was dark and had lost many shingles,
the light of the moon shone though in many places. The smell.
She looked to where her children’s rooms should have been and fell to
her knees.
The sound of water dousing a
glowing ember to one side reminds you there is someone here who might tell you
more. The wooden buckets scrap the floor
to your left and you feel a hand come to rest on your shoulders, it squeezes
you gently before releasing. “they
attacked Bridgetown, over the river. The
light of the fires over there alerted us to something wrong, our family roused
to see if we could be of help when we saw the fire break out in the inn. The boys and I crossed to see if there was
anyone inside, but there was not. The
door was open, and the bar tossed aside.
The windows were broken inwards and there was a person in the ground
dead and on fire. The rooms above were
broken, all signs said they were ransacked.”
He paused. “Later on, word came from Bridgetown, Raiders were taking
children and setting fire to buildings.
They fired the granary in the centre of town to draw people from the
edges. Seven houses at the edge of town
were attacked and the children taken, the parents dead. Three houses inside the town too, but on the
far side. They struck at midnight, with
Drogath’s Red Eye looking down on us.”
He made a warding gesture. “The
priests of Esmella, Auristra and Lastarada, were not helpful, bloody
priests.” Auristra the Goddess of
Prosperity, Lastarada the Goddess of Agriculture sure, both have temples in
Bridgetown, but Esmella the Goddess of Mountains, there are no mountains within
a thousand kilometers of here. Oh, the
play, the priest that was the Fool, was a priest of Esmella. That did not matter because someone had taken
my children. Someone was going to pay.
I thanked Jerem for putting the
fire out in my inn and after I rebuilt, he would drink for free, but after I
had my children back. Jerem apologised
again for my loss and did not tell me what he thought I could or could not do
and left me to grieve. I looked at the
building and walked to the place under where I stored my goods. They would have been in a locked chest bound
with iron under a pile of mementos from years of living. I looked down to the cellar where the box
must surlily have fallen when the attic and the second floor burned. There was a hole there, I dropped down
headless of the dangers and recovered the last possessions I had from my other
life, a magic Rapier, chainmail made by elves, an enchanted rope and my
shield. In my life people knew I
followed Cyr Astra the God of Music, the Inn was known as Cyr Astra’s Lodge to
the locals, but non knew when tragedy entered my life seventeen years ago, I
declared an oath and became His champion.
The shield was metal, a gold leaf harp of a field of red enamel, I took
the cover off and I would not put it on until I knew my children were safe.
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