Chapter Four: The Sleeping Inn

“One of the most important places one can find in a settlement is the inn.

“Whether it be a place to rest and recover, a place to meet or a place to unwind after a long day of work, the inn serves a purpose to everyone in Faengard.

“It is a place of safety. It is a place where journeys begin.”

—Dagus Adem, The Adventurer’s Guide to the Continent

They reached Felhaven in the middle of the night, winding their way through the shops and houses to where the inn stood beside the village square. The streets were pitch black and empty, the father-son duo guided only by memory and soft firelight filtering from behind windows and doors. The inn was the central news hub of the village; just about everything passed through the ears of Koth the innkeeper. If anyone knew what had happened at the Tamelyn homestead, it would be him.

“Take our things back to the forge,” Alend instructed. “I’ll meet you when I’m done.”

The Thoren family forge was on the other side of town, about a few minutes’ walk down the street. Ein had no intention to do as he was told.

“I’m coming in with you,” he said. He gave his father the most determined stare he could. A muscle twitched in Alend’s cheek.

“Fine,” Alend growled. “But don’t do anything foolish. Let me do all the talking.”

The inn was two storeys tall and stretched the entire length of the square. Every time the wind brushed against it, shutters rattled and sent flakes of snow crumbling from the windowsills. A sign with the name “The Sleeping Twinn” swung on a hinge above the doorway, the once dark lettering faded to obscurity. Noise spilled through the gap beneath the door—loud guffaws of men complaining about work, mugs slamming against the table, the odd belch. Alend pushed the door open with his shoulder and they stepped through.

A blast of warm air hit Ein in the face, laced with the sweet smell of honeymead and the red glow of fire. What little chatter there was faded into nothingness as the regulars swivelled in their seats, eyes coming to rest on the two visitors. Master Koth Kinley stood behind the counter with a mug in one hand, rubbing it clean with a stained dishcloth. Staring across the room at Alend, the two were almost mirror images of each other. Both were broad and hardened, though Alend moreso from his work in the forge, and both had shaggy manes of hair and greying beards. Koth’s was laced with dull red, while Alend still showed patches of black in his.

“Alend,” Koth greeted, and set his mug down on the benchtop. “Ein. Returned from your trip, I see.” His eyes ran across the bulging packs that the two carried. He raised an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve brought back quite the haul.”

“Koth,” Alend dipped his head. “We bring some unsettling news, though that can wait for later. Do you know what happened to—”

“Evaine,” Ein interrupted. “Where is she? Is she safe?”

There was an uneasy murmur as the patrons of the inn spoke amongst themselves. Alend flashed him a warning glance.

“You must have seen it, then.” Koth lowered his gaze. A dark expression took over his face. “The poor Tamelyns…”

“We passed the farm on the way back,” Alend said. “Tell me, what happened?”

“Let’s go upstairs,” Koth said. He looked understandingly at Ein. “They’re all alive, son. I’ll take you up to them.”

Ein eased, but the look on the innkeeper’s face told him there was more to the story.

“Come,” Alend gestured. “Koth, is it alright if we leave our packs here for now?”

“Of course.”

The moment passed and the inn broke into chatter once more. Snippets of conversation floated past Ein; complaints of the weather, crops dying, animals giving birth, more of the usual. Occasionally Ein heard mention of the attack on the Tamelyn homestead, but they’d reached the bottom of the staircase before he could discern anything noteworthy.

Koth took them up the stairs to the guest rooms. Most of them were empty. Not many people passed by the Sleeping Twins, let alone Felhaven. When visitors came, it was usually all at once—whether it be a squad of soldiers returning to the capitol, a group of travellers passing by or the odd peddler taking shelter from the storm. The door at the end of the hallway was closed. The innkeeper knocked softly before opening it.

The first thing Ein saw was Evaine sitting on the floor, her head splayed across one of the beds in the room. Her brunette hair converged into a single braid hanging down to her waist, showing her status as coupled and unavailable for all to see. She jerked upwards at the sound of the door opening and looked around, a sleepy lock falling into her face. Her skin was an unhealthy white, and grey shadows lurked beneath deep, chestnut eyes.

“Evaine,” Ein breathed.

Her eyes brightened and he was about to rush to her side, but he stopped himself. On the bed was a frail body beneath a single woollen blanket. Ein recognized the face of Master Nath Tamelyn, Evaine’s father. He was chalk white, even whiter than his daughter, and his chest barely rose and fell with each breath.

“Evaine is well,” Koth spoke. “But her parents weren’t so lucky. They’ve been like this since morning, clinging on to life by a single strand.”

Ein’s eyes travelled across the room to the other bed, where Evaine’s mother lay. She too was deathly pale, though in much better shape than her husband. Ein smelled stale sweat and dried blood.

“The attack,” Alend said. “Tell me more about it.”

“I wish I could,” Koth sighed. “We don’t know much more than you do. Evaine wasn’t there when it happened. We have no idea what could’ve done it, let alone why. Doesn’t seem to be human hands at least.”

Ein and Alend exchanged a look.

“Are they going to be alright?” Alend asked. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Not at the moment, no.” Koth wrung his hands uneasily. “All we can do is pray the gates of Vallaheim stay shut for them.”

“They’re going to be fine,” Evaine said. Her eyes were hard, her jaw set with determination. “They’ve stabilised. Father’s condition was worse this morning; he’s stopped bleeding since then and he no longer tosses and turns in his sleep.”

Alend nodded and gestured to the innkeeper. “Let’s go back downstairs,” he said. “There are things I wish to discuss with you, and the village council as well. We’ve brought back plenty of meat. I daresay Nath and Valeesha would enjoy a warm bowl of wolf stew when they wake up.” He smiled warmly at Evaine.

“Wolf stew?” Koth raised an eyebrow. “I knew you were a capable man, but hunting wolves?”

“It’s a long story. Come down and I’ll tell you.”

The two men turned to leave. Koth looked over his shoulder at Ein.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink? You and your father look like you’ve walked through the nine circles of Hell themselves.”

Ein glanced at Evaine and shook his head. “I’ll eat later,” he said. “Save me a bowl of stew.”

Koth nodded and followed Alend out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Their footsteps faded along the floorboards and down the stairs outside.

As soon as they were gone, the air of defiance left Evaine and she sagged. Ein approached her and sat down on the floor. Now that he had the chance to look closely, he realized the shadows under her eyes were just as much from worrying as crying.

“Evaine,” he said. “Tell me what exactly happened.”

Evaine sat back and folded her legs beneath her. She pulled her braid to her chest and played with it, twisting and twirling it around her fingers. It came as a shock to see her like this, the brash and tomboyish Evaine reduced to a sullen wreck, and Ein wasn’t quite sure what to think.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Ein,” she murmured. “So glad…” She rubbed her eyes. When she turned to face him, she was trembling.

“What happened?” Ein asked again, and this time she answered.

“They came this morning, shortly after dawn,” she said. “I was at the village buying groceries, and when I came back… when I came back…” She swallowed. “The sheep were all dead, and the gate had been ripped apart. They were dead, Ein, and they were still bleeding… I could see their insides spilling onto the grass, their eyes—”

Ein squeezed her hand, which had begun to shake violently.

“I went up to the house,” she continued. “Everything was…”

“I know,” Ein said. “I saw it all. You don’t have to describe it.” The image of the ransacked house was fresh in his mind. It struck a painful chord within him; the Tamelyn homestead had almost been like a second home.

Evaine nodded. She shifted on her spot so her back was leaning against the bed, still holding his hand. A few moments later, he did the same.

“They were lying on the ground,” she said. “Father was… he was the worst. His leg was broken, crushed beneath one of the shelves. I think he fought off the attacker; he had a scythe in his hand and there was blood on it. Mother must have taken a blow to the head. She was just lying against the wall, unmoving.”

“What happened then?”

“Well I tended to them, of course. I did the best I could, and then I ran back to the village to call for help. The Mayor and a few of the other Masters came and we took them here, to the inn. Father was in a terrible shape at that time. He was talking in his sleep, sweating, bleeding through his bandages. But he’s alive. We worked non-stop with the medicine woman and cleaned his wound, stopped the bleeding. He’s alive, and he’s going to make it.”

“Do you know what he was saying?” Ein asked.

Evaine shook her head and leaned into him. “I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t think I’d remember even if I knew.” She looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes. “What’s happening, Ein? Nothing like this has ever occurred before. We’ve always been safe in Felhaven, in the Sleeping Twins. Not even the wolves or the bears come here. Why now? Is it the winter? The prophecy of the Three-winged Crow? What’s going to happen to us?”

Ein had been about to tell her what he and his father had encountered in the woods, but thought better of it. What she needed was rest. Now that he knew she was safe and that the rest of her family had survived, fatigue was beginning to creep into his eyes.

“Ein,” she started again. “Is Einar… did you find him? I didn’t see his body. Maybe he survived.”

A lump grew in Ein’s throat. Of course she hadn’t seen the hound; its body had been buried underneath two of the sheep. There was no way she would have been able to move them by herself.

“I’m not sure,” he lied. He was careful not to look her in the eye. “Father and I didn’t get enough time to check. We’ll go tomorrow morning and look for him. Maybe he did the smart thing and ran away.”

He knew that wasn’t true, and she probably did too. The wolfhound had been the most loyal of beasts. It would have fought to keep the herd safe, fought for its owners despite the odds. Ein would just have to leave before she did and make sure the hound with his namesake was buried far away from the farm.

“He was getting old,” she continued. “I think… he might have died anyway, maybe in a year or two. Hounds age faster than people, did you know? I think one year for us is seven years for them. That would mean Einar was almost a hundred years old.”

“We don’t know that he’s dead,” Ein repeated. “Come on, Evaine. There’s no use worrying. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll rest well and fill ourselves with some warm wolf stew. Then, when our minds are clear and sharp, we’ll head out to the farm and try to salvage as much as we can. Your mother and father will be up and walking in no time, and then we’ll all go and watch the troupers and the sorcerer’s fireworks come Founder’s Eve. How’s that sound?”

He waited for a reply, but it didn’t come. When he finally looked towards her, her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply, her hair tickling his cheek with each breath. He tried to pull his hand away, but she tightened her grip, preventing him from leaving.

Ein eased himself into a more comfortable position as Evaine continued to sleep, leaning into the crook of his neck for support. He decided to wait for a while longer before heading back to the farm to bury Einar. He’d need a torch. It was approaching midnight, and it would only grow darker from here.

Ein was still busying himself with those thoughts when his eyes closed and he too fell into a deep sleep.

“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 it 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 a couple of new furs 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 keep 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 was looking 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—unless it was a nagging Mistress waiting at home. Garax emptied his mug and slammed it back down on the counter with a burp.

“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. Part of 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 keeps 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 moreso 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 colour 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 woollen blanket. He draped it over the two sleeping figures and left the room with a yawn, making sure the door closed quietly behind him.