Evening had come and passed by the time the grey clouds opened, releasing the first few drops onto the 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 distant mountain range as the clouds rolled overhead. Cyrus covered his head with his tunic, and stepped over a forming 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, so we can finish selling the goods."
"I find it hard to believe that will happen," Cyrus said, eyeing the blanket of clouds. They ducked through the tavern's door as the sprinkle grew into a torrent.
Seconds later, a group of men burst through the door, drenched from the rain. Puddles formed beneath 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 soaked 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 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 here. 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 scarred 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. Its roots dug into the sill, splintering the wood as the whispers drowned out the tavern clamor.
Cyrus winced, and covered his ears. It sounded like a waterfall, crashing into his skull. Calling for him, shouting at him to do something, anything.
Then… it stopped, returning the tavern to its previous ambiance. Cyrus looked up. Halbert was finishing his story, ending on a grand note about the founding of Galeden. Around the room, the villagers clapped and cheered, a few even tossing coppers onto the bard's table. 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 over 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, leaving only a crack in the windowsill behind. Beyond, the village continued peacefully into the night, with not even a dog barking. "It's nothing."
"If you say so," Berrodin said. His cheeks grew rosy as he down the last of his mead, then gestured for the barmaid with his empty mug. "Another round over here, Gaila. If you don't mind."
….
As the patter of rain beat against the roof, Cyrus laid in his cot, staring at the thick 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 scowled, 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 strange beast, with thick bristles, and jagged tusks.
Cyrus squinted, but his view was blurred by the rain streaming down the glass. Still, he watched until the men stumbled into the stables, slamming the doors shut behind them. He frowned, and shifted his gaze to the mountains, whose high peaks disappeared into the clouds above.
…
The rain continued into the morning, dampening Cyrus and Berrodin's mood. As they made their way outside, the old man muttered a curse, and wrapped a grey cloak around his shoulders. Cyrus narrowed his eyes, envying the old man as the rain pelted his body.
"Something tells me this is going to be a long day," Berrodin said. He scanned the sky, failing to notice a puddle as he stepped off the stoop. His expression darkened as the water rose to his ankle. "Blasted weather. Can this day get any worse?"
"At least the wind's died down," Cyrus said, fighting back a grin. "We won't be as cold now."
"Think you're clever, do yah?" Berrodin asked. He sighed, and shook his boot. "Come on. Let's go feed Starvhost, then move the stall to a drier spot. We probably won't sell as much today, but anything is better than nothing."
Berrodin took the lead down the street, and Cyrus followed him to the stables. As they approached, they noticed a dense crowd, stationed by the doors. The villagers hushed whispers and frantic glances sent a shiver down Cyrus's spine.
Near the edge, a group of boys climbed a stack of wood, their eyes wide as they craned their necks. When one nearly fell off, a sharp shout rang out from the crowd, harsher than any had been the day before.
The boys went rigid, then slowly climbed down, and stared sheepishly at the ground. No one criticized the man for yelling, not even bothering to glance in his direction.
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 beside the stable doors. Inside, the three men from the night before stood before a table. A grey boar lay on top, its fur bloodied and matted, while black tar dripped from its snout and eyes.
"Verrel? What do you have there? Is that a boar?"
The oldest of the three men looked up, his dark brown eyes softening. "Berrodin. It's good to see you again. Yes, it is. We captured it yesterday, in one of the valleys. It took the three of us to bring it down, and Ferin nearly lost his arm in the process."
Verrel gestured towards the young man on his left, who appeared to be no older than seventeen. A layer of cloth wrapped around his shoulder, stained with blood, and his eyes flickered at the mention of his name.
Berrodin glanced at the boy, then turned back to Verrel. "I see. But why did you bring the beast back here? It's clearly sick."
"I know, but I don't think this is a natural disease," Verrel said. He grabbed a hook off the wall, and tapped the boar's side. It clacked, like stone on stone, causing the villagers to mutter. "Do you hear that? It's unnatural. I fear there's dark magic at play here."
"Halls of Osyras, Verrel. That's even more of a reason to leave it be," Berrodin said. "What good will messing with magic do us?"