The Last Resting Inn

Beathag had survived three sieges, two mutinies, a winter campaign through the Black Mountains, and one memorable evening involving an ogre, a bishop, and a barrel of stolen brandy.

None of those experiences had prepared her for purchasing property.

“You want how much?”

“Forty crowns.”

Beathag stared across the table at the thin man sitting opposite her.

“Forty?”

“That is what I said.”

“For a manor?”

“Yes.”

“With land?”

“Some.”

“How much is some?”

The man considered the question.

“Enough.”

Beathag leaned back in her chair.

She did not like him.

That was not necessarily important. Beathag had spent most of her adult life surrounded by people she did not like. Several of them had been excellent soldiers.

The man was pale, even for a human. His clothes were plain but well made, his black coat buttoned neatly to his throat. His eyes were so light that they were nearly white.

Beathag had seen eyes like that before.

She could not remember where.

The tavern around them was busy. Men and women drank after a long day’s work. Someone laughed loudly near the hearth. Two farmers argued over something that probably mattered considerably less than either of them believed.

Beathag placed both hands on the table.

The table complained.

Most furniture complained when Beathag used it.

She was taller than nearly every human she met and considerably broader across the shoulders. Her rose-colored skin carried enough scars to tell several stories she no longer enjoyed telling. Long black hair fell over the shoulders of her worn leather vest.

A sword hung from her belt.

She had considered leaving it behind this morning.

She had not.

Retirement was still new.

“What is wrong with it?” Beathag asked.

The man’s expression did not change.

“It requires some attention.”

“That means something different when someone is asking forty crowns for a manor.”

“The roof requires repair.”

“How much repair?”

“Some.”

“There is that word again.”

He smiled.

Beathag disliked him slightly more.

She picked up her mug and drank.

She had come to Emberfast looking for an inn.

Not employment.

Not adventure.

Not another damned campaign.

An inn.

The idea had begun during the final months of her last contract. She had been sitting beside a muddy road eating something the quartermaster claimed was stew. Beathag had stared into the pot and decided she had killed enough people to deserve decent soup.

That had been the beginning of her retirement plan.

A small inn somewhere quiet.

A kitchen.

A proper bed.

Good ale.

A fireplace large enough to sit beside without sharing it with thirty wet soldiers.

People would come through the door hungry and leave full.

Nobody would order her to capture a hill.

It seemed reasonable.

Then she discovered what inns cost.

Forty crowns was not reasonable.

Forty crowns was suspicious.

Beathag had learned that suspicious things were usually dangerous.

She had also learned they were occasionally bargains.

“Show me the deed.”

The man reached inside his coat.

Beathag’s hand moved toward her sword.

He noticed.

“Habit?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He slowly withdrew a folded document and placed it on the table.

Beathag opened it.

She could read well enough. Not beautifully and not quickly, but enough to know when someone was trying to cheat her.

The property sat several miles north of Emberfast.

There was a manor.

There was land.

There were outbuildings.

There was even a well.

Beathag looked up.

“Forty crowns?”

“Forty crowns.”

“The well poisoned?”

“No.”

“Graves?”

“Probably.”

“That doesn’t bother me.”

“I suspected it wouldn’t.”

Beathag looked at him.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing important.”

She returned to the deed.

The legal language became increasingly unpleasant as she read farther down the page. There were references to previous owners, town authorities, boundaries, responsibilities, and several paragraphs apparently written by someone who hated clarity.

Beathag pointed at one section.

“What does that mean?”

“That the road is your responsibility.”

“Of course it is.”

She continued reading.

The manor had stood empty for years.

That explained some of the price.

It did not explain forty crowns.

She folded the deed.

“I want to see it.”

“Certainly.”

“Before I pay you.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“It will be necessary to me.”

The pale man regarded her for several seconds.

Then he reached into his coat again.

This time he produced a key.

It was old.

Not merely used. Old.

The iron was blackened and pitted. Its shaft was nearly as long as Beathag’s hand, and the teeth were cut into a strange pattern.

He placed it beside the deed.

Beathag picked it up.

The metal felt warm.

She frowned.

“What does this open?”

“The property.”

“Which door?”

“You will discover that.”

Beathag put the key down.

“I am beginning to understand why nobody has bought your manor.”

“It isn’t my manor.”

“You’re selling it.”

“For someone else.”

“Who?”

He smiled again.

Beathag decided she definitely disliked him.

She reached into the leather pouch at her belt and counted forty crowns onto the table.

The man’s pale eyes followed every coin.

When she finished, he pushed the deed toward her.

“Then it belongs to you.”

Beathag took it.

“If I discover the manor burned down yesterday, I will find you.”

“I believe you would.”

“If there is no manor at all, I will find you.”

“I believe that as well.”

“If this key opens a privy, I will be especially annoyed.”

The man’s smile widened.

“Good fortune, Beathag.”

She stopped.

Her hand rested on the deed.

“I never told you my name.”

Someone stumbled into her chair from behind.

Beathag turned sharply.

A drunken farmer apologized and hurried away.

She looked back.

The chair opposite her was empty.

Beathag stood.

The man was gone.

She looked toward the tavern door.

Closed.

She looked toward the rear passage.

Empty.

Forty crowns were gone from the table.

Beathag stared at the empty chair.

“Wonderful.”

She tucked the deed into her vest and took the iron key.

It was cold now.

Crick was waiting outside.

The goblin sat on a barrel beside the tavern door, eating an apple he had almost certainly not paid for.

Gribble stood beside the mule.

The mule looked unhappy.

Gribble looked worse.

“You bought it?” Crick asked.

“I bought it.”

“An inn?”

“A manor.”

Crick stopped chewing.

“We were looking for an inn.”

“We found a manor.”

“That is not an inn.”

“It will be.”

Gribble scratched his chin.

“Does it have ale?”

“Not yet.”

“A kitchen?”

“Probably.”

“Beds?”

“I assume so.”

Crick looked at Gribble.

Gribble looked at Crick.

Beathag started walking.

“Forty crowns.”

Both goblins hurried after her.

“Forty?” Gribble said.

“Yes.”

“For a manor?”

“Yes.”

Crick frowned. “What is wrong with it?”

“I don’t know.”

The goblins stopped.

Beathag continued for several steps before noticing.

She turned.

“What?”

Crick pointed at her.

“You bought a manor without knowing what is wrong with it?”

“Yes.”

“That does not sound like you.”

“I am retired.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I am trying new things.”

Gribble nodded thoughtfully.

“Recklessness?”

“Optimism.”

“Is that what humans call it?”

“I don’t know. Keep walking.”

They left Emberfast by the northern road.

The town quickly disappeared behind rolling farmland. The road narrowed as they traveled, and the farms became smaller. Fields gave way to patches of woodland.

Beathag liked that.

She had spent too many years sleeping in camps filled with shouting men, frightened horses, bad cooks, and officers who believed every sunrise required a trumpet.

She wanted quiet.

Crick walked beside her.

“What are we going to call it?”

“We don’t own an inn yet.”

“You said we did.”

“I said we own a manor.”

“You said it will be an inn.”

“It will.”

“So it needs a name.”

Beathag kept walking.

Gribble joined them.

“The Bloody Giant.”

“No.”

“The Goblin’s Mug.”

“No.”

“Beathag’s Rest.”

“No.”

Crick brightened.

“The Dead Soldier.”

Beathag looked down at him.

“No.”

They continued along the road.

The afternoon began fading when they found the turn described in the deed.

Calling it a road was generous.

Grass grew through two deep wheel tracks leading into the trees.

The mule stopped.

Beathag pulled the lead.

The mule did not move.

“Smart animal,” Crick said.

“Quiet.”

Beathag pulled again.

The mule reluctantly followed.

Branches scraped their packs as they traveled deeper into the woods. The track climbed gradually before opening onto a broad piece of overgrown land.

Beathag stopped.

The manor stood ahead of them.

Nobody spoke.

It was large.

Very large.

Three stories of dark stone rose behind a courtyard filled with weeds. One chimney leaned slightly. Several windows were broken. Ivy covered most of the western wall. Part of the roof sagged.

A stable stood to one side.

A smaller building had collapsed entirely.

The front doors were still attached.

That was encouraging.

Crick stared.

Gribble stared.

The mule turned around.

Beathag tightened her grip on the lead.

“No.”

The mule tried again.

“No.”

Crick pointed toward the roof.

“That is moving.”

“A branch.”

“There is no tree there.”

Beathag ignored him.

She walked toward the manor.

The front steps groaned beneath her boots.

Gribble looked at Crick.

“Forty crowns.”

“I heard her.”

Beathag pushed against the front door.

Nothing happened.

She pushed harder.

The door opened suddenly.

Beathag nearly fell inside.

Dust covered everything.

The entrance hall was enormous. A broad staircase climbed to the second floor. Torn curtains hung beside tall windows. Furniture sat beneath gray sheets. Leaves had blown across the floor.

Beathag walked farther inside.

Her boots struck solid stone.

She looked toward a doorway.

Dining room.

Another.

Kitchen.

She entered it.

The hearth was enormous.

Beathag smiled.

Crick appeared behind her.

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“You like it.”

Beathag ran a hand along the kitchen table.

It needed work.

Everything needed work.

But she could see it.

Tables filled with travelers.

A fire burning.

Food cooking.

Beds upstairs.

Ale behind a proper bar.

People coming through the doors because they wanted to be here.

Not soldiers.

Not commanders.

Not enemies.

Guests.

Gribble entered.

“The roof leaks.”

“We repair it.”

“The windows are broken.”

“We replace them.”

“The stable is falling apart.”

“We rebuild it.”

Crick folded his arms.

“There might be rats.”

“We charge them rent.”

A loud crash came from upstairs.

All three looked toward the ceiling.

Silence.

Gribble slowly reached for his knife.

Crick pulled his short sword.

Beathag rested a hand on the hilt of hers.

Something moved above them.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Heavy.

They crossed the ceiling.

Beathag walked back into the entrance hall.

“Hello?”

The footsteps stopped.

Crick whispered, “Maybe it doesn’t speak Common.”

Beathag looked at him.

“What?”

“It might be foreign.”

A chair came flying over the upstairs railing.

Beathag moved aside.

The chair smashed against the stone floor.

Nobody spoke.

Crick looked at the broken chair.

Then at Beathag.

“Still optimistic?”

Beathag looked around the ruined manor.

She looked at the broken windows, the dust, the damaged staircase, and finally the chair lying in pieces at her feet.

She removed her sword belt.

Crick raised an eyebrow.

Beathag placed the sword on a table.

Then she rolled up her sleeves.

“We start now.”