Club

Evening had come and passed by the time the grey clouds opened, releasing a sprinkle of rain down onto the small village. Quick on their feet, Cyrus and Berrodin stored the remaining wares, and covered them with a tarp.

 When they finished, they hastened through the village, passing by people scurrying back to their homes. The roar of thunder rumbled off the surrounding mountain range as the clouds darkened overhead. Cyrus covered his head with his tunic, and jumped over a puddle. 

"Are we headed to the tavern now?"

Berrodin walked ahead with a brisk pace. "Yes. We'll get a bit of mead and food to warm our bodies, then rent a room for the night. Hopefully, the storm will pass by morning, before we set off."

"That's a lot of hope," Cyrus said. They reached the tavern, and hurried inside, ducking through the door as the sprinkle grew into a torrent. 

A moment later, a group of men burst through the door, their clothes soaked. Water dripped from their boots as they brushed past Cyrus, muttering apologies on their way to the crackling fireplace. 

Berrodin frowned, and motioned for Cyrus to follow him. "Come on. We'll end up drenched if we stay by the door."

The old man led the way through the tavern, guiding Cyrus to a high counter along the back. The bartender behind it straightened his back as they approached, and slid over with two empty mugs, and a curious gaze. 

"Berrodin! I wondered when you would be back," The man said. He turned to Cyrus, and stretched out his hand. "And I take it you're the young man everyone's been talking about. The name's Morlen. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Cyrus, and likewise," Cyrus said, shaking his hand. The man used a strong grip, and he studied Cyrus with a sharp eye before letting go.

"Tell me. How'd you meet old Berrodin anyway. As far as I know, he doesn't have any family, besides his son."

Cyrus pondered for a moment, then said. "I stumbled across him a few days ago, and agreed to help him in exchange for a ride to Galeden. A fair trade, if I do say so myself."

"Oh?" Morlen's eyes narrowed. "And, pray tell, how did you come to stumble across him? From what I know, he lives away from any of the main roads."

Berrodin cleared his throat. "Enough of your questions, Morlen. We're hungry, and need something to drink too."

He scanned the tavern, then motioned towards a booth beneath a circular green window. "We'll seat ourselves there. In the corner."

"Very well," Morlen said. The smile returned to his face as he filled the two mugs to the brim, and slid them across the counter. "Supper will be chicken stew. I'll have Gaila bring it to you once it's done."

"Thank you," Berrodin said. He guided Cyrus away from the counter, and muttered beneath his breath. "I apologize for that. Morlen is a good man, just a bit wary of outsiders."

"A decent trait to have," Cyrus said. "You never know who you might be talking to."

"A good point," Berrodin said. He slid into the booth, and Cyrus settled on the opposite side. 

Soon, a young woman approached, carrying a platter of steaming bowls, and a basket of rolls and butter. Her long brown hair cascaded over her shoulder as she bowed her head.

"Your food is on the tavern tonight, as an apology for my husband's behavior." She glanced at Cyrus with a small smile. "Withro doesn't often get new visitors, you see."

"It's quite alright," Cyrus said. "Thank you for the meal."

"Of course," The woman bowed her head once more, and then hurried back to the counter. 

"Would you look at that," Berrodin said, stirring his stew. He took a bite, then groaned. "Mhm. Yes, as I thought. A meal is always better when it's free."

Cyrus blew on his soup, then took a bite. The salted chicken and fresh broth warmed his body, chasing away the chill from outside. An array of peas and corn deepened the flavor, and filled his stomach. As he ate, a lute played from across the room, filling the air with a soft melody.

"Looks like fortune favors us tonight," Berrodin said, raising his head. "It's not often that Halbert plays for the tavern."

Across the room, an old man stood beside the fireplace, his wrinkles outlined by the flames. Despite his age, his knotted fingers danced softly between the strings of a rosewood lute, while a low song slipped from his lips. The lyrics spoke of a long begotten time, when the first group of settlers discovered the bountiful lands beneath the mountains, after crossing the burning sands of the Erath desert.

Cyrus struggled to hear over the clatter of forks and knives, and the low mutter of those around him. He scowled and glanced around, yet no one was talking. Frowning, he turned to the window, and scanned the streets outside. A sharp gust blew through the village, shaking the trees and rattling the shutters, but the village itself was empty.

'Tap, tap… tap.'

Cyrus shifted his gaze to the corner of the window, where a small gnarled vine knocked against the glass. As he watched, it sprouted a bud, which grew across the wood, until it reached the center, where it stopped and tapped the glass again.

By now, the whispering mutters spoke with a fevered haste, growing louder and louder. They clamored for his attention, and drowned out everything else. Cyrus grabbed his head, growing overwhelmed by the noise. 

Then, it cut off, returning the tavern to its previous ambiance. Cyrus looked up. The old man was finishing his story, and the villagers clapped and cheered. Berrodin joined them, waving his mug in the air. 

"Quite the storyteller, wouldn't you agree?" Berrodin asked, grabbing a roll. When Cyrus didn't respond, he glanced up and furrowed his brow. "Say, are you alright? You look a bit pale."

"I- I'm fine," Cyrus said. He shook his head, and glanced back outside. The vine was gone, with no evidence that it had ever been there in the first place. Beyond, the village continued peacefully into the night, with not even a dog barking. "It's nothing."

"If you say so," Berrodin said. He grabbed his knife and cut a sliver off the butter. As he took a bite, he groaned. "Mmm. This is good. Cyrus, you should try it. It looks as though you've barely touched your food."

….

As the patter of rain beat against the roof, Cyrus laid in his cot, staring at the thick wooden beams overhead. Hours had passed since they finished supper, and retired to this room, yet he had not slept a wink in that time. Berrodin didn't seem to have the same problem, as his snores shook the walls. 

At one particular loud snort, Cyrus bit his lip, and rolled over. An open window revealed the village two stories below, and the grassy pasture beyond. The yellow reeds swayed in the violent wind, while the cattle all huddled beneath a thick elm tree in the distance. 

A flicker of light drew his attention to the forest line. Three men emerged, fighting against the heavy sheets of rain. The one in the lead carried a lantern, while the other two supported a crude wooden club between the two of them.

Cyrus jumped out of his cot, and ran to the window, but the men disappeared into the stables before he got a decent look. Frowning, he turned his gaze back to the forest, and the high mountains encircling them. A thunderous roar echoed off the hard stones, but the flicker of lightning never appeared.

...

The rain continued into the next morning, dampening Cyrus and Berrodin's mood. As they stepped outside, the old man muttered a curse, and pulled his clothes tighter. Within seconds, their clothes were soaked through, and water dripped from their fingertips.

"Something tells me this is going to be a long day," Berrodin said.

"At least the wind's died down," Cyrus said. "We won't be as cold now."

Berrodin arched his brow. "I suppose you have a point. Come on. Let's grab Starvhost, and get on our way. I know of a decent cave, where we can spend the night, but it's going to take us all day to get there."

Berrodin stepped off the stoop, and Cyrus followed him to the stables. As they approached, they noticed a dense crowd, stationed by the doors. Their hushed whispers and frantic glances sent a whisper down Cyrus's spine. 

From the crowd, a man yelled at the group of boys from yesterday, who were climbing a stack of wood to get a better view. Their eyes widened at the sharp tone in his voice, and they climbed down, and stared at the ground. No one criticized the man for yelling at them.

Berrodin furrowed his brow, and pushed through the crowd. "What's going on here? Why is everyone out in this weather?"

Cyrus slipped through behind him, and stopped at the front of the crowd. Inside, the three men from the night before stood before a table. The knobby club laid on top, as long as a man was tall, and matted with fur and dried blood. 

"Veren? What is that? Why do you have it?"

The oldest of the three men looked up, his dark brown eyes softening. He stepped around the table, and clasped Berrodin's arm.

"Berrodin. It's good to see you again. I apologize for throwing this onto you so soon, but we need your help." Veren motioned towards the club. "We found this in one of the valleys yesterday, along with the tracks of a beast much larger than us. We're not sure what they belong to, but it's clear it's dangerous."

Berrodin examined the club, then turned back to the man. "What is it you need me to do, Veren?"

"We were hoping you could bring this to Galeden, and alert the officials there. Perhaps they could send aid, or hunt the beast down," Veren said. He rubbed the back of his head. "I would take it myself, but I worry for my family."