The Sleeping Inn (2)

"I must admit, I've never eaten wolf before," Koth said, gulping down the last of the stew. He dabbed at his lips with a clean handkerchief.

"How do you like it?" Alend asked. His own bowl sat empty on the counter in front of him.

"It's tough and tastes like a cat pissed itself three times over." The innkeeper made a face. "But better than the radishes we've been having for the past fortnight. If I eat another radish I might go mad."

The two men sat by the counter as the last of the inn's customers trickled drunkenly out into the night. Alend had spent the last few hours salting the meat and stashing it in Koth's cold-room, and the hour after that helping Caurin the tanner carry all the wolf pelts back to his tannery. The pelts would be enough for those in the village who needed them, and the wolf meat would keep for a long while given the ongoing winter—far longer than they'd need to have it for.

Koth poured Alend another mug of ale and slid it across the counter. Alend downed it in a single breath, sighing at the sweet aftertaste on his tongue. He looked forward to heading home. He missed his wife and daughter. They'd probably turned in for the night by now, or at least he hoped they had—he would have a word with Rhea if she let Cinnamin stay up again. Just the thought of being in his own bed under the same roof as them set a flame of longing within his chest, though he couldn't go back just yet. There were still things he had to take care of. Important things.

"Still here?"

Garax the storyteller slid into the seat beside him, gnarled face pulled into a smile. The balding man was one of the oldest in the village and he knew more than enough stories to warrant his title. He picked at a rotten tooth with his little finger and tapped his other arm against the counter. "Come on, Koth. Another round, if you'd please."

The innkeeper scowled. "You've had more than enough to drink, old man. I need to save a few barrels for Founder's Eve."

Garax sighed. "Just water then," he said. He wore a simple long-sleeved shirt with loose fitting pants that smelled of ale. "I'm thirsty, is all."

Koth snatched the mug and filled it at a tap beneath the counter. "Here," he said, thrusting it back. "Take it and be gone."

"That's no way to treat a customer," Garax smirked. "Especially not one who's good for business."

Few things kept men in the inn better than a good story and fine wine. Garax emptied his mug and slammed it down on the counter with a groan.

"Now off with you," Koth said. "Master Alend and I have important matters to discuss."

"I'll say," Garax said. "Matters important enough for a man on his last legs to wait for an entire inn to empty on a Friday night."

"It's fine if you listen in," Alend interrupted. Something about the old storyteller struck him as trustworthy. "The news will spread soon enough. But I'd ask of you to please keep it to yourself, at least until the Mayor decides what to do."

"Certainly," Garax said. "Gods know people would believe me, anyway. The curse that comes with being a storyteller is that they assume every word that comes out of your lips is a story."

Koth opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped. "Well?" he said instead, peering at Alend. "You've got me more strung up than a bride on her wedding night. What's the news? Spit it out, if you would."

Alend glanced around the inn, confirming its emptiness. Then, he leaned in towards the counter.

"I didn't kill those wolves," he said. "The same thing that attacked the Tamelyn farm killed them."

Koth's eyes narrowed. Garax said nothing.

"I don't know if it was the exact same beast," Alend continued. "But it was definitely the same species. The tracks, the way they were killed, they were the same as what we saw up at the farm. It's not bears or anything we know of, that's for sure."

Relicts. He longed to suggest it, but he knew the innkeeper would only shoot him down. He would keep his silence and let the discussion develop naturally.

Koth nodded grimly. "I thought as much. Mayor Walmsley kept insisting it was a bear, but everyone knows he's just saying that so the people don't panic. There haven't been bears coming down from the woods since I was a boy."

"What's your guess then?" Garax asked. "What's your plan, blacksmith?"

Alend looked between the two, and then sighed.

"I don't know," he said. "If worse comes to worse, I might have to track it and find out. We can't have something like that out there going around attacking our farms. If only Nath and Valeesha weren't out; they might have an inkling of what we're dealing with." He needed to talk to them, to learn if they'd seen anything. If they really were up against relicts, they needed more than a simple nursery rhyme to fight.

"Madness." Koth shook his head. "Even with a blade in your hand, you wouldn't come out of it alive. Not in one piece, anyway. You're a fine swordsman and all, but if what you say is true then that thing ripped through an entire pack of wolves like it was nothing. I won't have Rhea and Cinnamin coming up and asking me why I let you kill yourself."

Alend flinched at the mention of his wife and daughter. "Nath came out of it alive," he insisted. "And he's never fought in his life."

"A stroke of luck," Koth snapped. "You should have been here this morning. We thought he wouldn't make it, we did. Could have sworn the White Women were in his room. If it weren't for young Mistress Evaine, they might have taken him. And don't forget, he had his wife to help. Valeesha fights like a woman possessed when her family is on the line."

Alend frowned and knitted his brows. "What do you suggest we do, then? The threat isn't going to go away on its own."

"It's not impossible to kill a relict. In fact, I've done it before."

Both Koth and Alend flinched as if they'd been slapped—Alend more so at the fact that Garax had come to the same conclusion as he; that relicts were behind the attacks. The old man had been listening so quietly they'd almost forgotten he was there. He now leaned in, eyes shining.

"You've killed a relict?" Alend asked, studying the storyteller. He'd known the man for over a decade and had never taken him as the fighting type. Then again, people didn't think much of his son either, and Ein was almost as fine a swordsman as himself.

"Relict? Al'Ashar's eyes and ears, what makes you think they exist?" Koth said at the same time.

Both innkeeper and blacksmith stared at each other. The fireplace flickered as the night grew deeper.

"You believe in them?" Koth finally said. With an unsteady hand, he reached under the counter and brought out a bottle of ale. He popped the lid off and poured himself a mug and then, with some hesitation, poured some for both Alend and Garax as well. Garax nodded his thanks.

Alend stared at his drink for a while before answering. "The signs are all there," he said. "I can't think of what else it could be."

"Gods forbid," Koth said. "Are you out of your mind? I know it's been a long winter and all, but relicts? Really?"

"You said it yourself," Alend snapped. "What else could have done it?"

"Mark my words," Garax said. "What attacked that farm was a relict. Probably one of the elites, to cause that much damage. A Bloodmane, maybe. They've returned, just as the Crow foretold."

"You're out of your mind," Koth said. "The relicts were sealed behind Aedrasil during the Second Age. Locked up."

"But not gone," Garax said. "The Great Winter, the Age to end all Ages. It all lines up. Besides…" The storyteller lifted up one of his sleeves, and instead of a hand, there was only a stump wrapped up in linen bandages. "I know damn well what a relict is capable of. Lost my hand to one of the stragglers left behind from the Second Age. They're as fast as lightning they are, and just as sharp. It's a small miracle the shepherd and his wife survived at all."

Alend frowned. He'd always known the storyteller was missing a hand, but he'd never bothered to ask why.

Koth look uncertainly at the stump. "I don't believe a word of it," he said, shaking his head. "Take your stories outside, old man. Take your ale and get out of here."

"Wait." Alend turned towards the storyteller. "What do you propose we do, then?"

"We could try hunting it," Garax fixed his eyes onto Alend's. They were gold in the firelight. "If a shepherd could fight it, it either wasn't very experienced, or the shepherd was one hell of a lucky bastard. I wouldn't recommend it, though. If there's a single relict roaming the countryside, there'll be a couple more. They follow a chain of command. Trust me, relict elites are nothing to laugh about." He downed the rest of his ale and wiped his mouth on the cuff of his missing hand. "With all that said, I think we should wait."

"Wait?" Koth cried. "Are you mad? Founder's Eve is just around the corner. What if it attacks?"

"We would have an easier time killing it if it were in our territory," Garax replied coolly. "But you know what I really think? I think we should wait until those troupers that Walmsley hired arrive. They'll have news of what's going on in the outside world. Who knows, maybe there's a reason the relicts are here in the Sleeping Twins. Maybe there are relicts roaming the rest of Faengard, too."

He looked at Alend, who turned away.

"I suppose that could work," the blacksmith said. "The other farms aren't quite as far out as the Tamelyns'. We'd be able to reach them in time if anything happened. Besides, there's only one day to go after tonight. The Children of the Wind will be here tomorrow, and we can decide then.

"Koth looked between the two and then shook his head.

"Relicts," he sighed. "I always knew there was something wrong in the head with our storyteller, but you too? I didn't think you were the type to be believing in faerie tales."

"Like I said," Alend muttered. "We're living in difficult times. We can't discount that possibility."

He and Garax slid their mugs back to the innkeeper. Garax stood up, dragging his sleeve over his wrist once more.

"I'll be heading off, then," Garax said. "Rest assured, not a word of tonight will leave these lips. You'll want to discuss with the mayor, I take it."

"I'm not so sure now," Koth said bitterly. "Last I checked, Mayor Walmsley wasn't a child who believed in bedtime stories." He shot a glance at Alend.

"We'll leave that for tomorrow," Alend said. "I'm too tired to think right now. You have a good night, storyteller."

Garax nodded and closed the door of the inn behind him. A cold breath of air rushed into the room.

"I guess I'll be turning in as well," Koth said. "What about you? Rhea and little Cinnamin will be looking for you in the morning, won't they?"

"Let me check up on Ein first."

Koth smiled. "That's right, he hasn't come down at all, has he? Leave a young man and woman alone in a room and it's a guaranteed recipe for trouble."

"I didn't raise my son to go after taken women," Alend snorted. "Least of all under their parents' noses." Some of the tension eased from between them. "Besides, his head is thicker than a mammoth hide. I doubt he'd do anything to her until she stripped him down and tied him up in the bath."

They shared a hearty chuckle before the Koth gathered the mugs in his hands and withdrew into the pantry. Alend rubbed his eyes and made his way back towards the stairs.

As much as he hated to admit, Garax's plan of action was much sounder than his own. He needed information. He needed to know just how much of the storyteller's claims were the truth, and he needed to know if there had been news of relicts in places outside of the Sleeping Twins. What better way to find out than to talk to the Travelling Folk? Troupers were bound to bring with them news of the outside world.

No matter how much he thought however, he couldn't shake the image of the Tamelyn household from his mind. It could have been his own house in tatters like that, with Rhea and Cinnamin lying comatose in bed. He and Ein could have been left in the woods to die, bleeding into the ground like those wolves. The sheep that lay slaughtered in their pen could have easily been the villagers of Felhaven.

He opened the door to the room at the end of the second floor and smiled at what he saw. Ein had dozed off beside Evaine, mouth ajar, a strand of drool creeping down his chin. He reminded Alend of his dear wife, down to refined cheekbones and the jet black hair. In fact, his son had little in common with him, apart from the color of his hair and eyes. Even then, Ein's hair was blacker, and his eyes a more stormy grey compared to the metallic shade of his father's.

Alend walked over to one of the drawers and opened it, pulling out a large woolen blanket. He draped it over the two sleeping figures and left the room with a yawn, making sure the door closed quietly behind him.