The Last Inn on a Long Road

The Last Inn on the Long Road The weary traveler rested in a dark corner of the inn. He’d ventured this far north and west a few times during his travels through the Khanate of Grular, but could not recall the name of the place. The rattle of the shutters beneath the assault of the keening wind and icy rain beat an unsettling staccato rhythm. The whole building seemed to sway a little with every gust. Traveller’s Lament, that’s what this place should be called. No wonder he was the only patron.
A curl of smoke trailed up from his pipe. He’d picked up the habit on the road, in Thormenal maybe?He downed another swig of fholyag, another habit drawn from travel. The brown fermented root drink cut a burning trail down his throat next to the tobacco, easing his mind, despite the harsh night and the sense that something was not quite right.
An old stooped greybeard, more weather-beaten than the inn, limped around behind the bar. The codger puttered with a greasy rag and grimy wooden cups. A knotted mass of wrinkles masked any expression that might grace the wind-scoured face bunched beneath his bald head and single black, bushy eyebrow. A stained burlap apron hung threadbare from his scrawny neck down to his rough goatskin shoes.
Across the room a dim smoldering fireplace gave off an occasional breath of heat. Smooth boulders piled erratically atop each other formed an arch over a sooty black pit, filled with ash nearly to the rim. The flames struggled, fed by too little wood and too much dung. The odor was unpleasant, but brought with it the faint warmth, making it tolerable. The sputtering firelight twitched the room’s shadows in a jerking dance.
A girl huddled on the hearth, wrapped in a ragged cloak, patches sewn over patches beyond count. Only a few dirty brown tufts of fur clung to the lining, and she shivered more than she sat still. Dirt caked the mouse brown hair that hung over uneven features. Greenish snot dribbled from her nose and hung above her lip until wiped onto her crusted sleeve. Red-rimmed eyes sticky with yellow pus peeled openslowly with each blink. He doubted even the most desperate man would approach her for anything more than a drink.
The silence was shattered when the front door slammed open, yielding to rain, wind, and two men. They shut the door, then stomped their muddy boots. From the look of the pair, they’d come down fromthe hills to the west. Both wore thick coats of grey mountain goat skin, suggesting they hailed from Varkraal. Each carried a bow, unstrung due to the weather, and a quiver of arrows. Unadorned andwell- worn hilts of weapons poked out from beneath their furs. Hard dark eyes scanned the room above thick scarves. As they walked to a table near the fireplace, they unwound the wrappings and paused to study him. He nodded politely in return. The men removed their cloaks, revealing that the hilts topped narrow, curved scimitars, and hung them on a row of pegs beside the fireplace. Chairs scraped more grooves in the battered floorboards. One man sat facing him and the door, while the other watched the barman and girl.
One of the strangers spoke Symkish with a western accent. “Girl! Bring us two large hot arraghs quick.”
The sniffling girl shuffled to the bar and snatched two plain, round wooden cups then shuffled backto the fire. She used the edge of her cloak to lift a kettle resting in the coals and pour out two servings of a steaming thick ivory liquid, which she then delivered to the men. They wrapped hands around the cups and inhaled deeply of the rich aroma. Through all of this, they never stopped scanning the room,
The Varkraalan who had ordered the drink spoke to the barman, “We settled our horses in the stable.”
Broken crooked teeth appeared between knotted lips as the old coot grunted understanding. The Varkraalans had two more cups of arragh in the same time as the traveler finished his own drink and placed his cup upside down on the table. He put his feet up on the stool next to him and settled deeper into his furs, for all appearances drifting into a nap. Hushed whispers from the two newcomers hissed between the gusts that continued to barrage the inn.
The door crashed open again as another visitor stepped dripping into the inn. A thick cloak of purewhite bear fur hung on the newcomer’s shoulders. It looked warm, and the wet streamed off of it, puddling onto the floor. The visitor’s boots looked to be made of the same material. Just as with the firsttwo,a heavy scarf concealed all but the man’s eyes. Likewise, he also bore a bow and quiver, but instead of a scimitar, he carried a long speartipped with a wicked-looking wedge-shaped blade.The spear carrier surveyed the room, noted each occupant, then moved to the table of Varkraalans. After a whispered exchange, one of the seated men rose and left the inn. The spear carrier availedhimself of the vacant seat, lowered his spear to the floor, and took a drink from the orphaned cup of steaming arragh. Quiet returned.
This time when the door reopened, three men entered. The first was the man who had left moments before. Behind him came two more goatskin-clad figures. Each bore a bow and quiver like the others. As they swept back their hoods and opened their cloaks, they revealed long knives strapped to their belts. A muddy track had formed at the doorway and a wet trail led over to the visitors’ table: Five armed men drinking heavily of arragh. It looked to be a regular Varkraalan party brewing. More drinks were ordered. The men’s hands never strayed far from their weapons, but the party seemed to remain relaxed.
At some unseen prompt, the spear carrier sat up and spun his index finger through the air. The other four sat their drinks down and moved toward the various doors and stairs of the inn. “Inn keeper,” the spear carrier said, “these men are going to search your establishment. Don’t hinder them.” One of the men grunted.
“Ah. Yes. And bring us food.”
The inn was small, so the search took very little time. The men checked the balcony that hung over the common room and searched the guest rooms. Doors opened and closed. Footsteps rapped on theceiling. Apparently satisfied with what they found, or did not find, they returned to their table, each giving an obvious “all clear” sign. When they’d finished off the meager fare the girl had delivered during the search, the spear carrier instructed one of the original two newcomers to fetch their gear from the horses. The man grabbed his cloak, and left through the front door.
“Girl,” the spear carrier called, “bring more food. Twice as much. And more cups. Bring that kettle overhere and start another one. Throw more logs on that fire, as well.”The girl blinked a dozen sticky blinks as she seemed to struggle to remember all of the man’s commands. A snot bubble ballooned below her nose as she shuffled off in compliance, starting with the woodpile on the other side of the fireplace.
A short time later, the door banged open again, bringing the cold watery wind with it. The first man toenter glided smoothly into the room without a scrape of his boots. A pair of hilts thrust up out of his hoodlesswhite bear cloak’s collar, each within easy overhand reach. Light strides carried him over to the bar, where he slid down its length to stand at the corner. From this position, he would have the entire room in view. Next entered a figure leaning on a staff polished so smooth it reflected the firelight on its deep brownwood. A heavy blue and white fabric cloak covered the figure entirely. Even his hands – for it looked to be a man – were covered in fine blue leather gloves. Only a tuft of blonde beard protruding from the dark hood suggested a real person lurked beneath the clothing. Black boots scuffed the floor as the odd figure stamped off the road filth, muttering. This was definitely no Varkraalan mountaineer.
Next through the door came an avalanche. A massive bulk of a man filled the doorway so completelyeven the weather failed to swirl past. The mountain did not pause, but stomped over to the table to join his band. The man who had been sent to the barn followed last, shutting the door quickly.
The Varkraalan leader pulled his massive white cloak off and threw it to one of the bowmen to hang up. A large and very functional-looking scimitar was strapped to the leader’s back. The weapon’s size alone was frightening, but more terrifying yet was that, given the size of his hands, the warrior clearly wielded it one-handed.
Sweat dripped from the girl’s forehead as she fetched drink and food to replenish the quickly emptied platters and cups. The heat from the stoked fire started to push some of the chill from the room. In her second pass around the table the spear carrier ordered a round of fholyag.
The girl wheezed slightly as she brought new cups, unwell and unused as she undoubtedly was to this level of effort. As she came back around with the kettle to serve the blue cloaked fellow, he put his paring knife over the top to block her pour. She paused and tilted her head in apparent puzzlement. She pointed at the pitcher, then at him. His paring knife clattered to the table as his grip relaxed, his hood falling back as his shoulders slumped. The girl’s finger had grown, extending forward into the blue hood. Her flesh-colored hand faded to metallic grey where it disappeared into the man’s eye. She straightened her arm, punching a blade-like appendage through the back of his skull, sending a gush of pulpy red onto the floor. A moment passed as the Varkraalans registered something amiss. In this moment, the girl withdrew her finger and stepped back. She changed. She straightened. Her hair floated around her head becoming long, thick, writhing grey strands. Her body shifted into its true Gadarl form, and she became an only vaguely female mass of ashen grey rope-like sinews wrapped and twisted around each other. She reached back, readying a swing aimed at the next Varkraalan, her right arm forming a large flail as she moved. The barman completed a chant and straightened up, grinning . No longer stooped or mumbling, the codger’s eyes shone bright with gathered energy. Wisps of shadow danced around his head and hands as he finished his ethereal summoning.
The flames in the fireplace briefly flashed from orange and red to brilliant blue and pitch black. The room blinked into a surreal flickering moonlit hue as a bulky silhouette expanded upright from out of the otherworld’s shadowy flames. A blast of numbing cold washed across the room. The flames in the fireplace returned to red and orange heat. Outlined in the glow was a huge figure made of obsidian and shadow. Its eyes glowed amethyst in a demonic grimace that revealed fearsome dagger-sized fangs. Hulking over the nearest Varkraalan, the enormous man-shaped horror raised a faceted fist. Across the room, wood brown chameleon skin rippled to an ashen blue as a creature emerged from its camouflaged hiding place beside the bar. Quick as a snake, it pounced onto the warped bar top, clawed feet tearing the wood as a twisted tail gripped the rusted bar rail for balance. Four arms swung talon-tipped fingers as the Skethar’s razor-toothed maw snapped forward. The smooth Varkraalan at the corner of the bar flinched and a pair of scimitars appeared in his hands.
The ambush churned toward a climax. The traveler had watched his freeband execute the attack perfectly, and now it was his turn to do his part.
Standing easily, he pulled his morningstar from his pack and drew his spikedrakh from behind his chair. The blade slid gracefully forward, recognizable by the abrupt vicious, backward right angle at its tip So armed, he started toward the massive Varkraalan leader, relishing the chance to get in on the fight. To their credit, the Varkraalans rose, weapons drawn, even in the face of such a fearsome onslaught. Two of the Varkraalan bowmen fell, arrows from the balcony piercing their throats.
Excellent! His Lifetakers had fired from their concealed positions on cue.
With a savage grunt, the Varkraalan spear carrier ripped an arrow from his shoulder and thrashed in anger. He howled and leveled his spear at the Gadarl’s ropy form.
“You call that a weapon?” the traveler called to a Varkraalan bowmen as the helpless man waved a knife at the obsidian Zakerlesh. The creature ignored the knife and smashed the man’s head to a pulp. A scimitar fell from the lifeless fingers of a nearby bowman whose skull had been crushed by the Gadarl’s flail arm.
The traveler launched his opening attack.
The huge Varkraalan leader turned to meet the downward swing of the spikedrakh, recognition blooming his eyes. The giant apparently knew the Grular Kor-Khan by sight. Sparks and squeals grated as the two blades slammed together.
Without hesitation, the Kor-khan swung his morningstar in follow-up to the spikedrakh. The Varkraalan moved like lightning and parried a second time. The initiative only briefly remained his. A twist and a slash from the spikedrakh went awry in the gore-muddled footing and cost him the opportunity to use the morning star.
With a furious bellow, the Varkraalan leader took the advantage. The massive warrior dropped all pretense of defense and swung his scimitar in an all-out attack.
A desperate reflex sent the morningstar to block.
The scimitar’s blow glanced off the morningstar, slammed through his leather armor, and cut deep into his side. His vision blurred, and he staggered in pain.
The Varkraalan reversed his weapon and swung for the throat.
The Kor-khan fought to regain his footing, but was unable to recover completely. The scimitar slashed a crimson line across his neck as he leaned away from the razor sharp edge. He swung the Morningstar back-handed, missing the Varkraalan’s shoulder.
The Varkraalan easily parried a low follow-up cut from the spikedrakh, but tripped over a dead bowman as he sidestepped around the table. Initiative returned to the Kor-khan. He swung his spikedrakh and circled the morningstar behind.
The spikedrakh scraped along the scimitar, parried again. The morningstar swept pass the second parry and smacked solidly into the giant’s knee.
The Varkraalan grunted as he slashed with the scimitar in reply. This time the spikedrakh successfully stopped the attack. The Varkraalan whipped the scimitar around, roaring with strength.
The Kor-khan ducked the powerful swing and countered with both weapons. Overcommited to a block on the morningstar, the Varkraalan momentarily acted as though the spikedrakh had missed. With a shout, the Kor-khan pulled the deadly curved tip of the spikedrakh toward himself, hard. Thereversed edge cut cleanly through the giant’s neck. The head fell backward, followed by the body. The crash of the massive corpse as it slammed to the floor brought the inn back to focus.
The fight was over. The Gadarl stood, a brackish liquid oozing from a gash in her shoulder. The Skethar gnawed on a hunk of dripping reddish brown . . . something, though, one of its four arms hung limp. The Lifetakers maintained their vigilance from the balcony. The Zakerlash had departed in an inky, sulfurous cloud.
The Warlock smiled from behind the bar. “Great Kor-khan, it seems the Varkraalan plan to intercept our freeband worked perfectly. For us.”