The Wayfarer’s Repose

“I was just saying that it has been quiet our whole journey. We’re in Ambrachar now, though.  The ass end of the empire. There’s bound to be trouble,” said Brota.  There was an excited tone to her voice as if she were anticipating a problem.

She was tall, almost burly, and festooned in armor from the helmet upon her head to the mailed boots on her feet. All soaked from the downpour, but otherwise in good condition. Her short cropped, brown hair was matted to her scalp.  

“At least something else to break up the monotony.” She glanced skyward. Big mistake. She blinked profusely as the rain tried to blind her. “This rain hasn’t let up in hours, and nothing but us is out in it.”  She slammed her foot into a puddle that had formed on the road for emphasis as if trying to get back at the rain. 

“No bother, I’m already soaked to the bone.” She remarked sullenly. She gave a breathy, wistful, laugh. “Funny thing, this rain, it has been getting worse by the hour.  You think it could get even worse?” asked Brota.

“I’m dry,” said her companion. His response was as dry as he was.

Xander Fairwright pulled his hood tighter for emphasis. He was at least a foot shorter than Brota and walked beside her with a slight limp. He leaned heavily on a walking stick that was carved with a ravens head. The cloak was enchanted to keep him warm and dry. It was a simple dwoemer, but it took daily maintenance to tend to the symbols. Clean was another story. Mud from the road had caked and discolored the hem of the otherwise blue and gold robe.

“Well, isn’t that…”  said Brota, but she was cut short when she slipped and fell into the ditch alongside the road. She didn’t cry out. She was irritated, embarrassed, and she found it a little comical. Her armor was already drenched and the mud seeping in through the seams made it even heavier.

“Help me up.” She reached out a hand for help. She was laughing.

“I might fall in too,” said Xander. He regarded Brota’s position with disdain.

“Just help me,” said Brota. She continued to laugh.  

The rain was coming down the sheets. Even ten feet from each other they were blurred images through the rainfall. That didn’t stop Brota from watching Xander get tackled by a mottled white blur and disappear. Her laughter stopped and alarm took its place. There was trouble, like she had hoped, and here she was lying in the mud. She clambered from the ditch. The mud, and rain, and heavy armor made it tough. Her gloved fingers dug into the ditch wall until they found purchase. 

 “Brota!” Xander’s voice shot across the road. It was a calm, patient, cry of alarm, not the panicked fright she would have expected. She could see his blurry form disappearing into the undergrowth. She threw her helm into the mud as she trundled across the road. It was water logged and useless anyway. She couldn’t see a damn thing without it. With it she was effectively blind.

 The road, packed earth, had almost come alive with all this rain. Where puddles hadn’t formed the ground was pliable. Her boots sank deep as she trudged across only to find herself on her hands and knees back in a ditch on the opposite side of the road. Only Xander’s left hand remained out of the undergrowth by the time she got there. He called again for help as he reached out to be saved. Brota grabbed at his hand but the rain, mud, and whatever was pulling Xander ripped him from her grip.

He disappeared into the bushes.

Brota stood. The rain washed the mud from her armor. Somewhere on the road her discarded helmet collected mud and rainwater like a bowl.

“Well, shit.” 

 Brota stood before the forest. The undergrowth was thick, it was night, and it was pouring. There was no way to track Xander, or whatever had taken him. Whatever it was, there were more of them. She heard them moving closer in the tree line. Then she heard it all around her; a dozen, or more, of whatever they were.

 The soft, bluish lights of the coach house were visible. She could see them cutting through the torrent. The buildings weren’t far. She silently chided herself. They had almost made it without incident, then she had to go and say it had been quiet. Stupid. In the mud, next to her helm, was Xander’s cane. She picked them both up.

The hooting and whooping sounds drew closer. They were wild, taunting, and unafraid. Brota figured that whatever was causing it, there must be dozens. The forest was alive with their malicious cacophony.

 Brota unlatched her mace and drew her shield before her. She wanted to march into the woods. She wanted to save Xander. She would likely be overwhelmed by whatever was making the whooping noise and left for dead. She imagined a million ways to die in quick succession. Nothing that ended in Xander’s rescue and their survival.

She cursed, the downpour drowning all but the loudest noises, and made her way toward the coach house. 

Maybe there she could find help.

—————————————————————————————- 

Poja Beckett was riding with an elven family. It wasn’t his ideal plan, but it was a sizeable ring. Enough to feed his entire family for a month. He could play the dutiful servant as long as it was for something he cared about. Still, not only were they elves, they were rich elves. Noble Sessainians that oozed opulence. His skin crawled just being around them.

They were moving from Sessainia to here in Ambrachar, the furthest region of the empire. Poja had been hired to protect them and carry their luggage. There was the father, Ferrer, and the mother, Grafa. They were formal, almost rigid, and didn’t speak to him except to give him orders. Grafa, the wife, was clearly in charge.  She would confer with her husband, but it was always her that spoke.

There were also two daughters, Loreena and Telesa. Poja could only guess at their ages. Elves were a long lived people. 

Loreena was inquisitive and friendly. She had long tresses of black hair, unlike her parents who both had extremely curly hair. Her eyes were green like her father’s. She wore golden jewelry and make up and had clearly learned how to use it. It was not clownish like her sister. He liked her despite her garish attire. She spoke to him as if he were more than just the hired help. And she was excitedly inquisitive. She had asked all sorts of questions about Ambrachar and Hemnor, the city that would be their new home.

Telesa was aloof and sour. She was pale skinned for an elf, lighter brown skin instead of the rich earthen color of her other family members. She wore jewels and make-up, but her cosmetics were blacks and purples and were very overdone. It was clear that her mother disapproved of they way she dresses herself. Grafa made comments under her breath the whole ride, but Telesa only seem to be happier and more content the more it annoyed her mother.

Poja had no patience for any of them. Even though he humored Loreena. They were elves from Sessania. There was no forgiveness for what they had done.  Sure, it might not have been these elves, but they had clearly benefited from Sessainian conquests. Their nation had conquered many, including Poja’s, to forge the empire. The Sessanid Empire. Ambrachar had been the last hold out. The original inhabitants, satyrs and pucks, had welcomed refugees for centuries. The refugees, like Poja’s family, had settled in the only city in the region. Hemnor.

Hemnor was old and forgotten when even the satyr arrived. It was a strong city, high walls, and refugees from all over called it home. Then Sessania came to Ambrachar. There wasn’t much resistance. Even Hemnor’s walls were not strong enough to keep Sessania out. They were rural farmers and defeated refugees against an organized, and vast, empire. They accepted their fate, at least on the surface.

He would be their guide through the city and ensure they got to the better part of Hemnor unscathed. Safe transport was what he had been paid for and he needed the rings. The Royal Quarter was where the elves settled after they conquered the region. The slums, where he was from, were unfriendly at best. The two were far apart. The Royal Quarter was spacious and sparse. The slums were cramped and dirty. It wasn’t at all fair.

The carriage luched to a stop. The rain had made for hellish travel along the dirt road.

More than once, Telesa commented on how the civilized parts of the empire had stone roads. She added that it was unseemly to deprive Ambrachar of basic conviences. She even sounded like she cared. Poja said nothing, but wondered who had made the roads, certainly not elves. Her father placatingly responded with how they would work on the roads when they settled in. What was wrong with the road?  It only became treacherous on nights like this. Light rain would not have stopped them. Sure, it was dirt, but it was well travelled and hard packed. Poja couldn’t believe he was feeling defensive over a road.

Stephan, their driver, was the best coachman in all Ambrachar. He was well known in Hemnor, and he was popular among those who could afford him. He had got them to their stop slowly, but safely. Stephen had been all the way to the capital where he picked up these elves. They travelled for weeks before meeting Poja at the edge of Ambrachar. From the coach house it was only two more days to Hemnor.

Poja hopped out into the rain as the carriage came to a stop.  His smaller form found the steps high, but he was lithe and agile. He rounded the carriage and grabbed at the luggage. He gathered up too many in his diminutive arms. They were leather and brass. The leather was dyed black, but a few of the largest were bleached white. All were slick and wet because of the driving rain.

He slipped before he reached the door. His foot found a slick part of the cobblestone path and he went down hard. The luggage sprawled out on the cobblestone and into the puddles and rivulets of rainwater. He sat there cursing his ill fortune as droplets pelted his face.

The elves hurried past him with umbrellas aloft. Grafa, the wife, made a comment under her breath as she hurried inside. They didn’t give him disgusted looks, but they didn’t help him either. This was likely to come out of his pay.

Loreena did stop. She lowered her umbrella and helped Poja to his feet. The rain instanly soaked her dress and made the fabric cling to her body. She didn’t seem to care. She grabbed some of luggage, the rainwater slicking her expensive gown. She glanced at Poja and offered him an encouraging smile.

Poja didn’t expect anything from a young, elven debutant other than derision. Of course, he had met any other elves. They didn’t lower themselves by coming to the slums. His father and brother had always spoken ill of them. They were the reason for everything that was wrong.

“Loreena dear, you’re getting wet!” Her mother’s voice protested from inside.

“Don’t mind her,” said Loreena. Her voice was effervescent as she dismissed her mother. The rain didn’t seem to affect her at all.  She continued with the luggage as her clothes grew more and more soaked and her make-up began to streak across of cheecks.

Poja accepted her kindness and got to his feet with her help.  He grabbed the remaining luggage. Together they headed inside. Poja let Loreena go first.  She had no outdoor attire, though it didn’t seem to bother her. It wasn’t helping anyway. Poja was cold, wet, and now he was muddy.

Poja cocked his head. He was sure he had heard something out in the forest. Calls of some sort. Wild animals in distress probably. He cocked his ear, but all he heard was the driving rain.

He dismissed it with a shrug and headed inside.

—————————————————————————————————————————————— 

Golar Vaduva was the son of Adelaide, the proprietor of the Wayfarer’s Repose. He was tall, at least 7’3”, and lanky even for a satyr. Small horns jutted from a tangled head of hair that was just a darker, almost black, continuation of the bluish-grey fur that covered his body.  His features, unlike those of humans or even elves, had more in common with a deer. He had a broad nose, large ears that jutted out to the side, and horizontal, slit-shaped pupils.

He was working in the stables tonight. They had a carriage coming in and he needed to get it ready. He would tidy up, greet the guests, then manage their carriage. He had cleaned most of the stalls, provided fresh hay, and he had buckets of feed ready. Some horses were particular and their drivers brought carrots, apples, or some other treat, but few refused their feed. The animals had spent hours, sometimes days, on the road pulling carriages. They were tired and hungry and not much for complaint.

He was mucking out the last of the manure when the carriage entered through the main double doors. Driven by four black horses and their rider, a man with short cropped, reddish hair and a long coat – all matted to this skin and wet from the storm that raged outside.

Golar had been listening to the raindrops against the clay shingles of the roof while he did his chores. The droning had a mesmerizing effect. It had been raining for nearly tow days. His family stayed indoors, but he enjoyed it. The rain beaded off his fur until he was drenched. Then he would look like a shaggy, wet, rag. He would shake off the water and his fur would extend like a fuzzy cat. His parents would laugh. His sister would roll her eyes and make a comment, and he would be wet and satisfied.

“I’m Stephan,” said the driver as he dismounted and began unhitching the horses. It wasn’t uncommon for drivers to intoduce themselves. His mother would require the guests to board the driver. Some coach houses had smaller, special rooms, but his mother believed that the driver should recieve all the treatment the guests had treated themselves too. It was at a discount, but the price was often high enough to cause most guests to grumble at what they saw as extortion.

Golar introduced himself as they led the first two horses to stalls. He whispered to the horses as he led them to their stalls. The were on edge about something. Sometimes it was from the unfamiliar environment. Golar wanted to ensure them they they were safe.

“It is really coming down out there,” said Stephan. 

“Yep,” said Golar. He didn’t usually speak with the guests, but small talk wouldn’t hurt, and Stephan had stopped here before.

“Right,” said Stephan. The conversation, short as it was, had run its course. They grabbed the last two horses in silence. The rain pattered again the tiling on the roof. The barn would have been silent if it were not for the loud, droning, rain.

“Odd,” said Golar examining the rafters. His large, tapered ears perked. Golar looked upward.

“What is?” asked Stephan. He followed Golar’s gaze.

“There’s something on the roof.”

“Other than rain? How can you tell?” said Stephen.  

“Well, the rhythm of the rain is different. Hollow at times. Like there are spaces” He had just swung the door closed on the last stall when all four horses began to panic. They whinnied and backed in their stalls. “Something has spooked them. Something is out there,” said Golar as his gaze traced across the rafters above him.

“They don’t spook easy,” said Stephen. He reached out to stroke the nearest one’s mane.

There was a thud against the double doors at the back of the stable house.  Golar rushed it moments before the wind took the left door.  He grabbed both sides and started to pull them shut. The gale winds buffested him. The driving rain stung his eyes. Beyond was a sheet of falling rain and the void of nice. Bluish white light gistened off the raindrops illuminating them with a pale luminescence, but it actually obscured the world beyond the barn.

“Just the storm,” said Golar, he was trying to reassure himself as much as his guest. “The wind is driving the rain sideways.” Moments latter a set of clawed digits grabbed the right door.  Then another.  Three sets grabbed the left. 

Golar froze. He stared at the clawed hands in horror.

It was Stephan that pulled him back in time. White clawed hands reached out of the rain. Both men went spiraling to the hay strewn floor. They looked up at the double doors and the storm and darkness beyond. For the longest moment nothing happened and the two of them watched the rain come down outside. Then shapes appeared in the darkness beyond.

“Move!” Golar shoved Stephan upward, and then scrambled on all fours away from the entranceway.

The two men moved as a tide of white forms broke through the rain and into the stable. The forms ignored the horses who were panicking in their stalls. They crawled on the ground and ceiling. They walked and shambled. The undulated in a great mass of clawed limbs, and jagged maws. So numerous they were that Golar could not tell them apart.

Golar and Stephan ran in the opposite direction for the barn entrance and out into the rain.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————- 

The Wayfarer’s Repose was warm and welcoming. It was an aged, wooden structure filled with warmth, light, and laughter. Loreena had helped bring in the luggage and had instantly been fascinated by the menagerie of people that had taken shelter from the rain. It was quaint. Not like the austere, elegant architecture back home. This was a place you could relax. Talk. Get to know people that had different lives than being a rich, statesman’s daughter.

There was Adelaide, the proprietor, and her daughter Espra who tended the tables. Both were tall, lanky satyrs. They had greyish blue fur, and wore simple dresses stained here and there with ale or blotches of food. They hustled to and fro. Aldelaide, the older female satyr, stopped before the elves and curtsied. She seemed nonplused by her parent’s standoffishness. Elves expected deference which her sister, Telesa, raged against. Sure, they had forged an empire, but her sister always mentioned a cost.

Espra, the daughter, moved from table-to-table balancing drinks in her hands. She was disheveled, but not sloppy. The hard work of the day left no room for preening. Loreena was entranced. She could spend hours on preening. The was hair, make up, warddrob. You had to know the latest fashions. It was all tiring, and the young satyr girl seemed like her opposite in so many ways.

“You are soaked, and covered in mud,” criticized her mother. Her tone was disapproving. Her mother fussed with her soaked attire as if she could will it dry. “Do you have showers here?” asked Grafa, now addressing the matron of the stable house.

“Mother, don’t fuss,” said Loreena. It was drawing too much attention. She needed to find a place to hide, to change. Her actions had left her a drown rat and everyone was staring. If she could just fix everything everyone could could go back to ignoring her.

“You look like a demented clown,” said her sister, Telesa.

“Whatever,” said Loreena. She rolled her eyes and dropped the luggage unceremoniously and looked about the main room. It was a comfortable affair with large, round tables, a long hearth, and a bar, but she needed to find seclusion. This place was too exposed. Too full of people.

Her parents explained their situation to the proprietor. They were doting parents. They were formal and her mother loved to play courtly games, but in private they were more down to earth.

Espra, the younger satyr, had already been sent to draw a bath. She had vanished out a back door on the opposite end of the room at the behest of her mother. A warm bath sounded good. The rain was cold and she was beginning to feel chilled. It took a lot for her people to feel cold, but she was also more sensitive to changes of temperature.

Grafa explained they would, of course, need the nicest accommodation. The proprietress assured them that their nicest rooms had been prepared ahead of time for their arrival. This seemed to appease her mother who for all her kindness, enjoyed the finery of her station.

There was a door behind the counter, and a wall that was lined with colorful liquor bottles. The door, it swung freely, likely led to a kitchen. Next to that was a wide staircase that disappeared upward, and an archway that led to a second, more private, taproom. She could hear muffled voices. Someone was in there. Loreena craned her neck and could see three people, all dwarven men in fine travelling cloaks, sitting at a table near the hearth in the adjacent room. They leaned close together, and one eyed her and made a comment. His friends turned their heads in her direction. Their looks were not welcoming. 

The dwarven people felt betrayed. Before the empire they had alliances with Sessainian, who broke them when the dwarves were at a weak place in their history. The elves of Sessainia annexed them and the dwarves have been bitter ever since. Loreena couldn’t blame them. Not really. Her sister constantly remarked on the injustices levelled at their people and the justification of dwarven rebellion until their mother hushed her and reminded her that violence was never the solution.

Loreena looked away quickly.  It was not polite to stare, but she rarely saw anyone but other elves.  She had never been far from her bedrooms, and salons, and friends before. She had always been surrounded by elves. There were a handful of others. The lizards of Skvolt, human from Jallaspar, even a few of the amphibian folk from Plaque, but they were all servants from conquered peoples. But anyone that mattered looked like her. 

Were any of those elves really her friends? Or with they fairweather leeches just hovering like moths to her families flame. How many had been forced by their parents? Most had mocked her behind her back when they found out, likely from their own parents, that Loreena’s father was being transferred to Ambrachar. The flame died quickly, and her so called friends, dispersed. By the time they left for Ambrachar Loreena was happy to leave.

Ambrachar was a wilderness to the civilized elves of Sessainia. Absorbing it into the empire was more a formality. A finishing up of a collection of nations. Conquering Ambrachar completed their march west to the sea. To be assigned here was more like banishment. Loreena was pleased to go. To be away from the pomp and circumstance of elven society in the capital. Now was a chance to make new friends, meet other peoples. Genuine people who didn’t hide behind fancy clothes, makeup, and wealth.

“Loreena dear, I am told the bath is being readied. Why don’t you head out and I will have fresh clothes brought to you,” said Grafa.  It was an order.

Loreena nodded silently and started for the back door when the front door blew open.

—————————————————————————————————————————————— 

Brota reached the short, stone wall at edge of the coach house. It was made out of cobblestone with a lattice work of wrought iron prongs. It was elaborate for roadside inn.

The place was called the Wayfarer’s Repose.  The sign was a small pond with farm animals delicately painted on it with the name below that. It swung from side to side in the heavy wind, but the light inside was welcoming. The whole series of structures was not what she was expecting. Most waystations were servicable, but this place was homey, comforting, even in the driving rain with wild things hounding you.

A stable sat to the left of the main building, its doors open.  At the other end of the property was a small, house. There were structures out back, but Brota could not make them out with only the soft blue-white glow of the lights. The coach house had a mix of new lighting and a more traditional lamplight. The new lights hummed with power. Mana. She had seen it before, in other places, it was rare in Ambrachar. It gave off a blue white glow and mixed strangly with the more familiar yellow of the lamps.

The entrance was gated, but the gates were open. It would matter. Whatever took Xander could scale this fencing with ease. There was a small plaza in front of the main building with an old oak at its center. The tree’s canopy hung over the plaza like a massive umbrella, but did little in this torrent. It was an ancient, gnarled tree that was nearly as wide as it was tall. The branches were think and contorted at odd angles, the trunk was thicker. It was an ancient sentinel that greeted guests on nice, less tumultuous days.

Brota heard the whooping behind her and rushed for the gates. The road was mostly mud and puddles and had become quite uneven.  She was happy to be standing on flat stone.  She rounded the tree and headed for the door, and turned just in time to catch a gnarled club of bone aimed for her head.  It thudded against her shield ineffectually.

She swung her mace and sent it deep into the side of the creature’s face. It was humanoid. Bone white, and bestial looking. It had a flat nose and jagged teeth.  Several of which hit the mud along with a gout of blood. 

Brota swung again. 

She caught the beast in the chest and sent it reeling.  She was ready for more when Golar and Stephan broadsided her.

“We have to get inside!” exclaimed the tall satyr.  “There are more of those things.”  His voice was deep, even as panicked as he seemed. They all took a quick second to glance down at the strange thing at there feet. It was bipedal and wielded weapons. It even wore clothes of a sort. It’s wore crude leathers festooned with bones. Brota said nothing, but some of the bones might not have been from animals. Her head shot up in alarm and she glared into the night.

“Where?” asked Brota scanning the rain to no avail.

“Not far, the stable. We must get inside!” The satyr pushed past Brota, and he and the red haired human slammed into the door throwing it open.

Brota was the last to enter. Her shield raised, her mace ready, she backed in behind them.

——————————————————————————————————-

“Golar!” His mom cried out in a nervous panic. She rushed over to her son, pushing through the elven family without regard.

“I’m fine, but something is out there.” He forced a smile as she fussed over him. He glanced over to the entrance for emphasis.

“Several somethings,” said Stephan. He slammed the entrance door behind Brota.

“Several somethings,” repeated Golar.

“Your sister is out back.” said Adelaide. She looked to the back door with alarm in her hazel eyes.

“I’ll go get her,” said Golar.  He rested a hand on his mother’s shoulder, then passed her toward the back door.

“Not alone you won’t” said Brota as she stepped forward. “Name is Brota, and as I’m the only one armed and armored, I’m coming with.”

“My thanks Brota, name is Golar” He nodded and continued walking.

“Where is this bath house?” asked Brota as she followed.

“Just outside, not far.”

“Good, I don’t relish being outside with those things.  I… lost somebody already tonight.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Golar. His lips creased into an apologetic smile. He nodded, then continued for the door.

The rain was unrelenting. There was a hooded pathway between the main building and what was the bathhouse. The arbor was thick with heavy wisteria vines in full bloom. The purple, grapelike flowers drooped in masses along the canopy, while the branches – thick and gnarled – wove in and out of the metal work. In a lighter rain, it would have repelled the water. It was dry enough for the ducks, goats, and a few pigs that had taken shelter from the rain.

“You’re all safe.” Golar addressed the animals. It was as much a revelation of discovery as it was an assurance. “Excellent, go inside. You’ll stay there till morning.” He addressed the farm animals as they passed. To Brota’s surprise they obeyed and silently filed through the door where Adelaide stood awaiting their return and watching.

“This is it,” said Golar. He rested his hand on the bathhouse door. It was a modest structure that, unlike the rest of the buildings seemed out of place. It was brick and where the other buildings had an inviting warm feeling, this building was all sharp angles, and cold.

“We get in, get your sister, and get out,” said Brota.

Golar nodded in understanding. This woman was formal, driven. She had clearly studied martial crafts and seemed comfortable in situations like this. Golar couldn’t help looking around for signs of thos creatures, but they had not seemed to make it back here. Yet.

They burst into the bathhouse moments before the creatures attacked.

“Mother!  Close the door!” Golar cried across the way. The pathway seemed like a chasm now. A chasm filled with lava, or crocodiles, or crodiles made out of lava. Whatever, it seemed too dangerous to cross now that those things were out there. A moment later Brota slammed the door to the bathhouse shut and threw her body against it.

“Find your sister!” he heard his mother cry before the world outside vanished.

The creatures beat against the bathhouse door almost forcing it open, but Brota held her ground. Golar marvelled at her strength. She was small, just a human, but she made a great barricade. The door didn’t give as the creature’s thudded and clawed against it. And she had kept her calm. How was she so focused. He looked around quick. It seemed silly that his sister might just be right next to him, but he felt heavy and slow, like he was moving through water. He turned. She had given him a purpose. His sister was somewhere in here. He needed to stop standing around and find her.

They were in the foyer, to the right and left were dressing rooms, straight ahead was an archway that led to the baths. Golar went through the archway. The room was large and covered in tile. Recessed into the floor were four baths. One was being prepared. Candles had been lit, and some aroma wafted into the room. It would have been relaxing if a bunch of wild monsters weren’t trying to beat down the door. A form was bent over near the pool arranging a vase of cut flowers. 

“We have to go,” said Golar to his sister.

“What, why? What is all the rucus about?”asked his sister. She was older than him and was not used to him being assertive. She gave him a questioning look, then craned her long neck to try and look past him.

“There are… things,” said Golar.  He grabbed the umbrella Espra had brought with her and wielded it like a weapon.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————- 

“You find your sister?” asked Brota as she strained to hold the door. She felt his presence, but couldn’t draw her attention from the door. The creatures were trying to force it open. Each heave against it was a contest of will as much as strength. Fortunately, they seemed casual, like they weren’t nervous at all. It made sense, but it was annoying. Brota was not just fighting for her own life, but this brother and sister. She did not have the convenience of feeling casual.

         “I did. I’ll help.” Said Golar.

          “With that?” asked Brota. As he got closer Brota spied him wielding an umbrella like a spear.

          “Yes, why?” asked Golar. He hefted the umbrella defensively.

          “It’s an umbrella.” It might have been obvious, but the door was yielding and she didn’t have time for inexperienced bravery.

          “Yes, I know, but it was all I could find.”

          “Golar, what is… who is she… what is going on?” Espra stood in the archway.

          “Name is Brota ma’am, and we are currently trying to hold this door shut.” Brota grunted.

 Espra nodded and rushed through the archway, passed Golar, and slammed into the door full force beside Brota. She was tall, like most satyr, easily seven feet.  Her body was slight, but taut with a laborer’s muscles. She had light blue grey fur over her whole body, but it turned darker and longer like a horse’s mane toward the crown of her head. Brota was greatful for the relief. Her muscles were screaming from the strain of holding back an army of whatever these things were.

“What do they want?” asked Espra.

         “Probably to eat us, definitely to kill us, right now they want through this door,” said Brota.

         “We have, like, a dozen goats and ducks…” said Espra.

         “And none of them are for massacre,” said Golar. He gave his sister a rude look. “Beside’s they’re in the main taphouse with mother and father.”

         “Good one genius, maybe mother and father can throw them back out and these things will take them!”

         “Espra!” Golar was exasperated.

“This is great and all, siblings arguing, but we are in a little bind here.” said Brota. The door lurched. Espra and her pushed back. “Besides,” she looked back to Golar who seemed as aggrieved for the livestock as for his sister. “The livestock were outside. They would have taken them long before they tried for us, but they didn’t.”

This seemed to assuage Golar a bit.

—————————————————————————————————————————————— 

“Mother, I will stay down here and help fight these things,” said Loreena.

“No, you and your sister will barricade yourselves in the upper rooms. Your father and I will help fend off these creatures,” said Grafa. She took Loreena’s hands and squeezed them tight.  She always did this to quell dissent. Grafa might have loved luxury, fine things, confections, and courtly drama, but she had never been afraid of getting dirty when it was necessary. Loreena grinned. Her mother was fierce when it came to protecting her family. Up until this moment it had only been their reputation, but her mother had taken years of practice defense lessons. Loreena had laughed, but they didn’t seem so comical now.

She nodded and grabbed her sister by the arm.

“What? No! I want to see one of these things,” said Telesa. She tried to protest, tried to pull away, but Loreena grip was firm. She knew her sister would try some shinanigans. She never just obeyed. They were in a tense situation, and listening to her parents was the best option, not just doing whatever. She forced Telesa up the stairs.

“We are going to do as mother asks, and not provide any more stress to any already stressful situation,” said Loreena as she guided her sister.

“Fine,” said Telesa. She sighed resigned. The she jerked her shoulder and gave Loreena an annoyed, almost offended, look. “But let me go. You’re hurting my arm.”

Loreena released her and pointed up the stairs. She followed closely behind in case her sister tried to bolt.

The upper level was quiet. The conflict downstairs was muffled. There was a long hallway with four doors. There’s was the last one on the right. The hall was adorned with rugs and tapestries and two tables held ornate vases with fresh flowers. It was all modest, and homey. In another time Loreena might have found it charming. Satyr architecture was more enclosed, more earthy. Elves didn’t build with wood. They sculpted delicate structures out of stone. The fanciest buildings in Sessainia were marble. This was comfortable and relaxing. Or it would be if a mob of creature’s wasn’t trying to beat down the doors and get in.

“Quit it,” said Telesa as Loreena pushed her forward. Her sister glanced back like her touch was toxic. Loreena rolled her eyes and urged her sister forward.

There was a small nook at the end of the hallway. Two chairs, upholstered in red, and a small table with more fresh flowers in a vase. There was a window too. The curtains were white and drawn. It was still raining. They could hear it beating on the roof louder here. Loreena imagined spending a peaceful day just reading by sunlight as she sat in solitude. Then she heard orders being screamed downstairs that dispelled the fiction.

 “Well, at least these beds look comfortable,” said Loreena as they entered the room.

 “They’re straw,” said Telesa as she bounced on hers. She was not so easily impressed. For all her protests, Telesa liked luxury. She was like their mother in that way. They both loved comfort even if they were different people in public. The beds were rustic. They were non-elven, simple, regional. Everything Telesa criticized the elves for trying to squash. She should have been happy to sleep on straw beds.

She found it restraining. The pomp and circumstance was a play that she desparately tried to avoid. She prefered a day of sports where she had scraped knees and was covered in mud. The rain, her current state, didn’t bother her at all except for the fact that her dress was drying at odd angles. She had to tug at the fabric every so often to loosen it. It wasn’t supposed to get wet.

The room was small. Two beds beneath windows, a small stove for heat, and an armoire.

“Well at least you don’t have to sleep in the carriage tonight,” said Loreena. She was trying to be positive.

“I suppose.” Said Telesa. She pouted and folded her arms defensively.

The two were quiet for a moment. Only the sound of the rain reached them.

“What do you think Hemnor will be like?”  Loreena broke the uncomfortable silence. Now she was trying to distract.

“Well, it’s an old city.  Probably dirty, decidedly not Sessainian,” said Telesa.

“Father says it is the most civilized place in all of Ambrachar.”

“It is probably the ONLY civilized place in Ambrachar,” said Telesa.  “It probably has animals in the streets, dwarves as far as the eye can see, you know how dirty dwarves are.”

“Not really, no. I thought you like dwarves. You’re always going on about them. And besides, father says this will be good for us. For exposure to other peoples.”

“I don’t want exposure… I want a comfortable bed and good food. For starters,” said Telesa. She bounced disapprovingly again on her bed for emphasis.

“Well, mother agrees.”

“That’s an act.” She changed the subject and glared at Loreena. Her eyes narrowed in accusation. “When are you going to stop living in their shadow and doing what they say all the time?”

Loreena didn’t respond.

“What was that?” asked Telesa. She looked up. There was a thudding on the roof that was heavier than the rain.

That was when the window blew in.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————— 

Poja dove at the window, his blades cutting into the white flesh that had shattered the thick glass and pushed open the shutters. He removed two taloned fingers. The fell to the floor inert and lifeless. His blade bit deep into the creature’s flesh sending blood onto his face. He barely felt it, he was still wet, but it was warm. This was what he was made for. There was an exileration to the vioence. He could sit still when he became like those severed fingers. He swung the blades again. They found their marks again. 

The hands, now mutilated and red, retreated from the window.

Poja wasted no time and joined Stephan and Ferrer at the front door. There were dozens, maybe hundreds of the things. Death had never bothered him, but there were things worse than death. Who knew what these creatures wanted. Why they were attacking. And was it just a bad coincidence, or was it fate?

In the other room the three conspiratorial dwarves had left their table and were darting from window to window holding back the creatures. Grafa had joined Adelaide at the back door. The two women held it shut against the onslaught. There was a fight going on in the kitchen. Adelaide had assured them that her husband, Mikhaile, and his assistant could hold their own. Mikhaile, her husband, had served in the Ambracar military. He was no stranger to fighting. Sure, his wife had lied to him and told him the kids were fine, but whatever was transpiring in the next room seemed handled. No white monsters poured through once the fighting died down in the kitchen.

Poja slipped under Stephan and helped brace the door. The beat was almost rhythmic, as if coordinated in time. Poja wondered if these creatures were organized, or haphazard. Something guided them. They tested every door and window to try and get in. Maybe it was just instinct. Maybe they were just doing what animals do and try to find a weakness.

He looked toward the stairs going to the upper floor. These things could climb. The satyr boy, Golar was his name, had described them easily crawling along the barn walls. They could scale the inn with no problem. They could get to the second floor.

“Your daughters are in danger,” said Poja prophetically. Moments later he heard the breaking of glass upstairs. They were coming through the windows.

Ferrer glanced down at him for a moment. Then nodded in understanding. He bolted for the stairs taking two at a time. The elven man was soft and slight. He was more suited to pontificating over some rich cuisine. There was hardly a defined muscle on him. Still, he bounded up the stairs heedlessly.

Poja got the creature’s rhythm and matched it. He pushed when they did. He relaxed when they did. A clawed, bone white hand, then another, slid through the double doors. Poja drew his blades and lunged at them. They would get in, there was no stopping them this way. Stephan was tiring. It was likely they all would tire in time. He sliced as the doors gave way. The first creature in fell at his feet.

“Everyone, stay where you are,” said Poja as warm blood splashed on him. They never talked about how messy violence was. It was alway justified or honorable. Always noble and good. In reality, it was just sticky and fast. One minute you could be struggling, pounding on a door, the next you could be still on the floor.

Stephan drove horses, it was unlikely he knew anything about combat. At least he was a laborer. His skin was kissed by the sun and his hands seemed like they had handled more than fancy glasses. As valiant as it was however, he was clearly unaccustomed to violence and a total stranger to combat.

Poja had grown up on the streets of Hemnor. That, in itself was not unique. Stephan had probably grown up similarly. But Poja had been fighting his whole life. In the pits, on the streets. This was just another fight. He would win or die. Most fights ended with severe wounds, but not this one. He had never had to take care of others before. Not during a fight at least. If he died, it was likely some, if not all of these strangers, would too. There was something comforting about that. At least he wouldn’t be alone. 

He glanced at Stephan. The man was wiry and tanned. He had clearly scene weather and labor, but combat was different. Poja observed the way Stephan looked when the creature fell before them. His eyes wide, his head shaking in disbelief. He had probably never seen a dead people before. The dead creature had bone white flesh, looked humanoid, and had only rudimentary clothing. The bones were humanoid of some sort. It carried a club, also bone, which skittered to Stephan’s feet.

Poja hoped the man would grab it and join him, but he didn’t wait.

There were at least five more filling the foyer. 

Poja leapt into them, blades raised.

————————————————————————————————————————————— 

Brota grimaced as the door buckled.

“We have to make a break for the main house,” said Espra. “Our parents will know what to do.”

“Our parents might be dead,” said Golar. He had rounded the bathhouse and shuttered the few windows the place had.

“Golar!” It was Espra’s turn to be exasperated.

“Is right,” said Brota as she grunted against the creature’s onslaught against the door.  “This place is more defensible than the main building, the windows are few and smaller, and there is only one way in. Plus, it is mostly brick. Yeah, that means only one way out too, but they seem to be swarming everywhere. We have no idea how many are out there and you two don’t know how to wield weapons.” Brota glanced at both them in turn. “That much is obvious.”

Golar still had the umbrella in hand, Espra had grabbed a pair of tongs usually used to move heated stones. They tried to hold them like they were weapons, but not only were they awkward tools not designed for combat, but Golar and Espra knew nothing about battle. They held their weapons at odd angles that would sooner get them killed than wound an assailant. 

“We are going to make it,” said Brota as the creatures pushed against the door again. What she didn’t need right now was panic.

“You don’t know that,” said Golar

“Oh, you’re fun,” said Brota. “True though, I don’t, but we’ll go down fighting.” Shortly after, the hinges came loose. The creatures twisted the heavy wooden door and heaved against it.

“Here they come,” cried Brota. Her tone was more determined than alarmed. She took a defensive stance, prepared for the worst, and idly wondered who would mourn her.

The door fell to the side. Espra moved for it as it tumbled to the floor. 

Golar dropped the umbrella and grabbed a bench and charged the opening. He let out a gutteral scream as he sprinted forward.

Brota stared at the creature that dominated her vision. It loomed over her. It wasn’t particularly large. It was emaciated. It’s tranluscent skin pulled taut against its flesh. It looked vaguely human. It dripped with a gel like mucus that drooled from its mouth and nose and seemed to cover its whole body. It roared at her and grabbed for her with taloned hands. She moved her shield to block, the talons clattered against the metal. Then she swung with a great yell of her own. If this was going to be her end, it was not going to be subtle.

The mace connected with its face with a sickening crunch. She felt her weapon glide a bit. The mucus was slick and denied the weapon puchase. Its roar became a gurgle, and it fell away only to be replaced by another. Again, and again Brota swung her mace, their claws grappled and grabbed, but one after another they died to her swings. Four in all.

Then Golar got to the door and charged with the bench like an awkward lance. The makeshift weapon caught one of the creatures in the stomach and forced it backward into its compatriots.

Brota grabbed Golar before he toppled into the mass of creatures beyond the door. “Woah, my guy, slow down,” said Brota as she forced Golar backward onto the tilework of the foyer. It was brave, but it could have gone poorly. Still, she wasn’t going to tell someone they couldn’t fight for their survival.

Espra brought the whole door up and she and Brota leaned against it again. It was loose from its hinges but still an ample barricade.

“They are not trying to kill us,” said Brota.

“What?” Golar asked. His tone was exasperated.

“They kept trying to drag me out. They backed up when you charged them with the bench. They wanted your momentum to keep you going. Those claws, did you see them? They could gut a man, but they weren’t using their talons,” said Brota.  Her mind drifted. “They dragged away Xander…”

“Who?” asked Golar.

“Xander, the person I was coming here with. They dragged him into the woods. They didn’t kill him right then and there.”

“Okay,” said Golar as he stumbled upward and grabbed his umbrella again.

“When you want someone dead you just kill them. You don’t drag them away and then kill them. They are taking prisoners… what, to sell, to work?” said Brota. Her mind drifted into reason for a moment. The door heaved several times, but she and Espra were ready for them and used it more like a large shield. It was loose, just a large piece of wood, but it kept the creatures at bay. “They’re trying to get into the main house still. I could see the back door past them. It was holding”

“That means mother and father are still alive,” said Golar. The was a touch of hope in his tone. Hope could be a dodgy variable. It could revitalize some, or make them do something foolish.

“Well, it means the opposite door is closed. So, your mother had a chance to close it. So, probably, yes. We’re still safer here, we just need to brace this door ‘cause I can’t do this forever.”

Espra screamed as one of the taloned hands reached around the door and grabbed her.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————— 

Glass from the window sprayed across the bed. Telesa screamed and shielded her eyes as shards bit into her flesh. The windows of the bedrooms were larger, nicer, than those below. This made them ideal for the creatures. Fortunately for those within, only a handful of the creatures had tried the upper floor so far, but it was only a matter of time.

The rain came down out in the darkness making it impossible to see. Loreena squinted into the night as she moved toward her sister. There were no signs of the creatures at first, just the torrential rain falling in sheets, but as Loreena reached out for Telesa, white taloned hands reached out of the darkness. Loreena pulled her sister away only moments before the creature could grab her. Sardonically she thought. Well, here they are Telesa. You wanted to see them. Fun right?

“We have to go back downstairs,” said Loreena.

Telesa was frozen in fear. Her dresses and flesh were torn by the glass. Ribbons of blood were beginning to seep into her fine clothes. The taloned hands, followed by the full form of the creature, dropped on the bed near Telesa like some maleformed ape. It grabbed her by the arm. What ensued was a tug of war between Loreena and the creature using Telesa as the rope.

“’Esa I need you to snap out of this and help,” said Loreena as she tried to pull her sister to safety. She tried to speak calmly. To reach her sister, but it was to no avail. The panic of the moment threatened to overtake her too. “Somebody help me!” She cried out to nobody in particular. Is spirits, or gods, or someone more terrestrail showed up to help she wouldn’t complain.

Her father burst into the room moments later. So too did another creature. All four struggled with Telesa who, for her part, whimpered as she was pulled back and forth. Loreena lost her grip and tumbled backward as Telesa’s dress ripped with a final tear. Her sister disappeared out the window calling her name.

Loreena ran to the window and called out into the darkness. Her words were drowned in the downpour. Her younger sister was her responsibility. Sure, she was a maudlin, unappreciative pain, but the Loreena didn’t want anything to happen to her. Least of all taken by monsters.

 “We have to get downstairs,” her father said as he pulled her from the window.

“But Telesa,’ said Loreena. She struggled in protest. She knew she could do nothing to save her sister. A feeling of helplessness washed over her casting a pall over her emotions and making her feel numb.

“Is gone, and those things will come back to take us if we stay.” Her father pulled her toward the door. He was a realist. They could not fight them. These things were not going to be defeated by etiquette and luxury. He was right.

She knew she should flee with her father. But her sister was just dragged from the bedroom by… what were they? They looked like apes. White, hairless, apes. She slammed the door as they exited and overturned a table in front of it.  Fresh cut flowers and water spilled across the hallway. It wouldn’t stop them, but maybe they would trip. Maybe it would buy them a few seconds more.

Father and daughter headed back down the stairs.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————- 

Poja cut at the creatures with his blades forcing them back. His body was aching and the few blows from the bone clubs that did get through his flurry slammed into him the reckless abandon. These were not trained fighters. It was unlikely they had expected any real resistance at all. Were their numbers supposed to be enough? What did they want? Why were these creatures attacking this place now? All these questions raced through Poja’s mind as he swung his blades toward the creatures.

 Only a scream from Stephan brought him out of his reverie. It was more an alarm. An alert rather than a cry from pain. The carriage driver had stayed back, but the creatures were coming down the stairs now. The elven father and one of the daughters, Loreena, fought them with table legs and dishes. Where had the other daughter, Telesa, gone?  Was she upstairs? Had she been killed?

 Stephen pulled Poja back and slammed the doors shut again. “I’ll try to hold here, you help them.” Stephen thrust his chin toward the elves.

Poja nodded. Stephan was brave, they all were. They had little choice; their lives were on the line. Still, he had seem people freeze in panic during times of duress. They would just surrender and accept fate. Nobody here however and Poja was glad. The dwarves in the other room were fighting at a window keeping some of the creatures at bay. The elven mother, Grafa, held the back door with the mother of the gangly satyr. The woman, Adelaide she had introduced herself as, was crying and calling out her children’s names even as she held the door. Somewhere in the kitchen, beyond the bar counter, were the sounds of fighting. Good, whoever was in there was still alive and still fighting back.

Poja reached the bottom of the staircase. There were three of the creatures, but one lay on the ground unconscious. Shards of broken pottery lay around it. Loreena and Ferrer did what they could to keep the other two from descending further. Their makeshift weapons proved only effectual at keeping the creatures at bay.

Poja changed the scene.

He dispatched the first quickly. He darted past the daughter-father team and drew his blade across it’s throat. It gurgled and thrashed throwing blood everywhere.  Poja leapt at the second. Loreena and Ferrer backed away to give him room. Ferrer didn’t know how to fight, but he clearly knew how to be protective. It would have to be enough. Poja drove the creature back up the stairs with a flurry of swings that broke its club and bit into its flesh.  Then, at the top of the staircase, he drove his blade through the creature’s abdomen.

The upstairs hallway was quiet excepting for the muffled storm outside. Three of the doors were locked. There was pounding at one, but the doors were heavy, and the assault on them was light. The door to the room the girls were going to stay in had been opened. A nightstand had been overturned nearby. The sound of the storm was closer.  A window was smashed open. From the motion in the bedroom, the wind and rain were coming in. It would only be time before the rest of the creatures realized this window was a way in.

“They had come through the window,” said Loreena as she bounded up the steps. She held a table leg in both hands. 

 The table leg turned rudimentary club would hurt and Poja could use all the help he could get. She held it awkwardly, but it was as good as the bones these creatures wielded.  Poja nodded to her.

Her father appeared behind her. Poja almost laughed. These two had never seen combat before today. They were a statesman and his debutant daughter. Still, they were covered in scrapes and bruises and wielding makeshift weapons now, and their family member was dead or missing.

“Is she, Telesa, is she…,” started Poja.

 “They took her, dragged her right out the window.” She explained, then turned to her dad with a pleading look. “ I tried, father I tried,” said Loreena. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Then she is likely still alive. They don’t seem interested in just killing us,” said Poja as he neared the door. The pounding on the door beside him gave him pause, but it was clear they wouldn’t get through. Maybe only some of them could climb?  The lower level was easier obviously.  Those doors weren’t locked.

“Do you have the key for the room?” asked Poja.

“It is in the room, on the bed,” said Loreena.

Poja nodded and shoved the toppled nightstand out of the way and entered.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————- 

Golar stepped backward, looked around, and froze.

The stranger, Brota, and his sister were holding the creatures at bay at the door. There was no room for three. He had shuttered the windows and pulled the curtains. The windows here were too small for the creatures anyway. It was almost peaceful in the bath house. Sure, there was a battle happening five feet away at the door.  Sure, his sister and the stranger were yelling and screaming as they held it secure. But it was quiet in the bathing room just behind him. 

The world had slowed to a crawl. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He was supposed to have fixed the door. He was supposed to have tightened the hinges days ago. His father had asked him for his help. He had shirked his responsibilities then and headed out to the pond to spend time with the ducks. He remembered the sun glistening off the water, the swaying of the treetops in the forest beyond, and of course the ducks. They were a family of mallards. They swam in the water like little boats, turning toward him when he arrived at the pond’s edge. 

“Wait, there are tools in here to fix the door.” He said suddenly snapping out of his reverie. He looked around. They were not in the foyer. He tried to remember where he put the bucket with the nails and hammer. He darted for one of the dressing rooms. He had hidden the tools in there so as not to raise suspicion. They were where he had left them. He grabbed the handle of the bucket and ran toward the door where his sister and the stranger struggled.

“We can fix the door,” said Golar.  “I have nails and a hammer.”

 “You were supposed to fix it nearly a week ago,” said Espra as she fought the weight of the creatures.

  “Fight about it later.  My guy, do your thing,” said the stranger.

 That was when it grabbed Espra. The taloned hand dragged her halfway out. Golar reached for her, as did the stranger, but whatever was on the other side of the door was stronger and more determined. Espra disappeared out the doorway as the heavy door nearly toppled over. Brota caught the falling door and forced the door back into place with a great heave.

“Get this door secure!” Brota struggled to keep the door in place.

“But, Espra, they took her!” Golar protested.

“And they’ll take us too if we let them. She likely isn’t dead. They seem to be trying to keep us alive. Now, this door,” said Brota.

Golar set to hammering nails into the hinges while Brota struggled to hold the door in place. His mind protested. He should be saving her, not sheltering safely here with a stranger. He felt a numbness wash over him. His arms still obeyed, but he began to feel nothing.

“Keep hammering. We can remove the nails if we survive this,” said Brota as the door strengthened. 

Golar hammered in nails at odd angles. At first, he was reluctant, his father had carved this door, but a quick retort from his sister in his mind set him to task. It echoed, then dissolved into her screams. She had just been taken. She wasn’t here to berate him. He had to survive to rescue her. Brota said she was probably still alive. He redoubled his efforts. He used all the nails in the bucket. He didn’t stop hammering for what felt like forever. If he had only done this when he was told this might not have happened. When he was done the heavy door was quite sealed. Golar sat back on his haunches.

“What are they?” He asked. He felt suddenly exhausted. His feeling began to return to him. All he really wanted to do was curl up and sleep until it was over.

 “I’m not sure. You haven’t seen things like this in the forest before?” asked Brota.

 “Well,” started Golar. He felt guilty. Maybe he knew something like this was coming. Still, the forest had been safe. Sure, there were always danger in the woods, but he never imagined pale, ape-like, cannibals. The stranger looked down at him with an expectant glare.

“The wilderness people have mentioned new predators in the woods.”

—————————————————————————————————————————————————-               

 Loreena entered the room after the blood covered dwarf that seemed to be having fun. He had been their guide, now he was covered in blood and smiling. She would have been properly appalled, except she wasn’t. Telesa had been taken, they were under attack by wild, violent, monsters. They were entering a room where anything could happen at any minute. The thought actually exhilirated her a little.

She clambered over the nightstand she had toppled over only minutes ago. It seemed like days. Time had become distorted. Her dress was torn and bloody, but she picked it up anyway to keep it from getting caught. This was not the right attire for this. She glanced to the dwarf. He had travel gear. That was more appropriate. Or a suit of armor. Metal plates, or rings of iron. That woman wore it. Loreena bet she was faring better and definitly wasn’t tripping over fabric.

The room was quiet now. There was glass from the window all over the bed and the floor. The soft glow of the lantern her sister had lit only moments before being taken illuminated the room with dim light. The rain came down in torrents and had soaked the bed her sister was taken from. The curtains blew haphazardly in the strong winds.

 “That’s where they came in,” said Loreena. Of course that was where they entered. The broken glass all over the bed made that obvious and a wave of embarrasement joined everything else. This dwarf must be thinking she was just a naieve elven maiden.

 “The windows up here are larger and fancier,” said Poja. He had leapt on the bed and seemed to retrace the attack.

  “Yes, they are bigger,” said Loreena. She spoke halfheartedly. She was not having as much fun as this dwarf. To his credit, he made no issue of her statement. He took the whole thing deadly serious. Still, he seemed to be more alive, more animated than being trapped in a carriage with a family of elves.

 She started when her father tripped into the room. Her father was brilliant with numbers, brilliant at governing, but clearly shit at defending against would be assailants. He was tall, lithe, and well dressed. Even the recent combat had done little to ruffle his fastidious nature. His clothes were bloodied, but sometime after the battle he had taken a moment to readjust them. 

 “She was taken out this window,” said Loreena. She repeated to her father what she had said only moments ago. It sounded just as stupidly obvious. He was a banker, not an idiot.

 He nodded and observed the scene. Her father had a quiet, serene quality about him that clearly transfered to tumultuous situations. She was thankful for it when she bruised a knee, or her pride, but right now it was just annoying. His daughter had been taken. They were under attack. Did he care at all?

 Loreena forced a weak smile. Her hair was caked to her face, her makeup had run, she could feel it. Her dresses were wet from rain and blood, torn from battle and flight, muddied from carrying in the luggage. Maybe she was having a little fun. Maybe all this felt rebellious. Against the norm. Right. Still, Telesa had been taken, and it was her fault.

 Her father wouldn’t abandon his family.  He was no combatant, but he was no coward either. Ferrer moved around her and headed toward the window where Poja was already looking out. The two men could not be more different. One was a dwarf, small even for his people, with black hair and facial stubble. He was filthy from the weather and battle. He had his blades in hand as he investigated the rainy night – two wickedly curved swords he had wielded with deft accuracy. The other, her father, was none of that.

“They grabbed her and fled?” asked Poja. He did not turn to address her. His attention was the window and the world beyond.

“Yes,” said Loreena. Her response was hollow.

“No fight?”

“I mean, my sister didn’t go willingly, but no real fight… no.  Do you think she is still alive?” Loreena asked. She felt an anger well up in her chest.

“Loreena,” said her father. His tone was soft, more cautious than reprimanding.

“I do,” said Poja. He did not stop staring at the window. “Do you have the key?  We should lock this door and get back downstairs.  Finding your sister, your daughter, means surviving this.” The three exited the room. Poja gaze never left the window until they left. Loreena knew he was ready to fight, maybe eager, if any of the creatures came through. Part of her wanted one to attack. To give her a second chance. Redemption. Or, maybe action. She couldn’t tell. All she knew is that she wanted to hit something.

Nothing appeared however.

Loreena shut and locked the door and they headed down the stairs.

———————————————————————————————————————————————-               

“Wilderness people?” asked Brota. Despite the bedlam that was going on around them she was intruigued. She cocked a brow and awaited an explanation.

 “I can speak with creatures, animals,” said Golar.

Okay, he called them wilderness people. It was unusual, but if he really could speak with animals it was understandable. In her travels she had experienced stranger customs than calling animals wilderness people.

 “Interesting, do they speak back?” asked Brota.

 “No, well except for Old One Ear, they are far too many and their languages far too diverse, but they understand me,” said Golar.

  The bathhouse had grown peaceful. The rhythmic beating on the door was fruitless now that it was secured. Still. Brota sat in front of it watching. He was being serious. It did explain the unusual behavior of the farm animals. They had obeyed him when he spoke. At the time, she had chalked it up to training, but maybe he really could communicate with them on a different level.

 “How long do you think they’ll try to get in?” asked Golar.

  “Not sure. Most the night, but they’ll probably be gone by morning” said Brota.

  “Why do you say that?”

 “The light, it seemed to hurt them.”

 “I hadn’t noticed,” said Golar. His voice was distant. “Name is Golar by the way.”

  “Brota.”  She leaned her mace and shield against the door. Civil discord didn’t require weapons and the door would hold for now. She had learned to take moments when she could. “Before your sister was taken, she swung a lantern at them and they recoiled from it,” said Brota.

He nodded thoughtfully. He probably hadn’t noticed that either. Of course he was scared. This was likely the first combat he had scene, this was his home, that was his sister.

“You really think they just took her? Like, they didn’t kill her?”

“Yes, they are inept at fighting.”  Almost as bad as you, she wanted to say, but didn’t “And they could have torn her arm off with those talons. I think they could have killed all of us by now, but they’re holding back for some reason.”

“That’s a good thing?”

“They took her away intact, same with my friend, they dragged him into the darkness.”

“I’m sorry,” said Golar.

“We will get them back,” said Brota. She set her jaw and stared hard at the door. Xander was her responsibility. Of course, he wouldn’t have seen it that way, but he had no armor, carried no weapons, and had a limp. He was hardly a combatant. Her entire purpose was to guard him. That’s why he asked her along and now he was captured by these things.

The night went on without another incident. Golar fell asleep. The rhythmic druming on the door was almost musical. Almost soothing. There were towels in the changing rooms. Golar had retrieved them and handed some to Brota. The rest he rolled up and used as a support for his head. 

 He seemed almost peaceful. She managed a smile as she glanced at him. He was on his side in a fetal position. He was likely exhausted. Conflict did that to you and this was his first time likely experiencing any kind of trouble. The inn, the animals, the yard, the forest, he had probably had a simple, idyllic life prior to this.

Brota did her best to stay awake lest the door give in. The creatures beat against it, but the assault slowed as dawn came. She dozed. Her head lolled, and then she was asleep. When she awoke, her head was resting on her knees as she sat facing the door. By morning, all was quiet.

“Golar, get up.” She whispered. There was more alarm in her voice than she intended.

The satyr woke with a start.

“Everything is okay. It’s morning, the rain has stopped, and the sun is out. More importantly, it is quiet. I’m going to get the door open.”

“Is it safe?”

“Only one way to find out. Now, grab your hammer at let’s get this door open.”

 ——————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

“Stephan!” Poja raced for the main door as it burst open.

Stephan had tried to hold it, but his strength failed him.

Poja leapt at the creatures as they grabbed the coachman. Loreena and Ferrer joined him. He sliced at the creatures while the daughter and father reached for Stephan,but it was too late. The creatures groped Stephan and dragged him out into the rain. Loreena and Ferrer grabbed for his outstretched hand. Poja slammed into the mass sending three reeling. Their blood ran freely as his blades cut into them. Still, there must have been a dozen or more. Poja swung furiously as the creatures grabbed at Stephan.

“Poja!” Stephan disappeared into the mass of white bodies.

Poja was prepared to wade in after him. He was “the help”, like Poja. Just a coachman in a land that had been mostly safe. There had been no reason for Stephan to learn how to fight. The elves, for all their downsides, had kept them safe. There had not even been bandits roaming the roads let alone packs of monsters. Stephan drove a carriage, he transported people. He likely just wanted a civil life of service. Hauling people seemed enough, and now he was being dragged away by insane cannibals.

Poja felt the hand on his shoulder. It stopped him from advancing. It made sense. There was nothing he could do but join Stephan if he rushed out the door. Still, watching Stephan vanish in the sea of cackling, growling, laughing monsters offended him. Made him feel indignant.

“We have to sure up the doors,” said Loreena. “Wherever they’re taking the captives doesn’t matter right now, and going out there will just get you killed.” She was out of breath, exhausted, but she spoke evenly and calmly. It was clearly taking her focus and will and if some rich, elven girl could remain rational, so could he.

Poja relented and let them pull him back and close the doors.

“We need you in here and alive,” said Loreena.

He nodded and helped them brace the door.

“He’ll be okay, they both will,” said Loreena. “You said it yourself; they’re not harming us here. Maybe they’re selling the prisoners. Maybe to the Rota Sukans?”

“Maybe,” said Poja. “You both have these doors? I’m going to check on everyone.” He had left Stephan here alone. “I’ll be right back.”

Loreena nodded.

Poja started with Grafa and Adelaide first. “You both have that?”  Poja nodded to the back door. Adelaide was crying, but Grafa nodded stoically. The two mothers couldn’t be more different, but Grafa had still rested a hand on Adelaide’s should for support. Poja moved on.

“You three okay in here?” Poja asked as he entered the quieter, nicer, taproom. The three men had braced the windows and had funneled the creatures to one.  There they had gathered and fought anything that tried to reach through. They had weapons, makeshift ones, these men were not combatants either. One had a long knife, likely from his dinner. The second brandished a club that was clearly one of the chair legs. The third wielded a lantern.

They were dwarven people, like he was, but even though dwarves were shorter than humans, they were still taller than Poja. He was short for a dwarf, which made him comically short to must humans. Pucks were a diminutive people who mostly kept to themselves. Poja was their height and it irritated him to be mistaken for one. Pucks were devious, nimble, and sly. They liked to be unseen. They preferred it. It was useful, but mostly Poja found it annoying.

“We’re fine,” responded the one with the knife. 

“Quite right,” affirmed the one with the lantern.

Poja nodded and left them to defend the windows.

He headed for the kitchen door. It swung freely and Poja pushed it open easily. The sounds of battle in here had died down. Poja scanned the kitchen. The place was in disarray. There were pots on the ground that had ejected their boiling contents. Utensils, plates, and cups thrown all around. At some point there was a fire that got out of hand. The back wall was scorched to the ceiling. The windows here were high and small and there was no door to the outside.

Poja saw the lone occupant pushing a barrel onto a cellar door.

“You Mikhaile?” asked Poja.

“Help me with this,” said Mikhaile. He was dragging a large barrel across the floor.

He was a satyr. He was tall and lanky like the younger male satyr, but he was clearly no stranger to hard work. He was muscular and his amber colored eyes were hardened. His hair was under a rag on his head and he wore a stained apron and thick, woven gloves.

Poja wasted no time with other questions. He darted across the room and helped with the barrel.

“Those things took Marcus, I tried, we fought hard.” He seemed annoyed, angry, and ashamed.

“They took him into the cellar?” asked Poja.

“They tried to take me too. They tried to come up. I couldn’t save him.”

 They were on their third barrel. Poja noticed that Mikhail was not deeply hurt. He observed the older satyr as they worked. There were the signs of old wounds. A groan, a limp, the way he dragged the barrels, but nothing recently.

“It is a theme tonight. They’re not killing the people they’ve taken. Not right away anyway. Maybe they’re selling them, or eating them… something. This is the first time something like this has happened?”

Mikhaile managed a nod. He had not taken his eyes from the cellar door even though it was now quite secure.

“Well, it’s safe in here,” said Poja. “I am going to go out and make sure the front door is secure.”

“They dragged him into the darkness. I could hear him calling to me.”

“Right, well, it seems quiet now.  I’m going to go check on everyone.”

“He’s a good kid. Good cook.”

“Right,” said Poja and he headed back into the main room.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————- 

Loreena grunted as the creatures pushed against the doors. They were relentless and her body was failing.

Her father leaned against the door opposite her. His body was as soft as his voice. He wasn’t made for toil. He was far more fit to count money than holding doors against hordes of monsters. Yet here he was. He never complained when it came to his family. He was struggling, but his will kept him standing. Loreena couldn’t have been prouder. She had played sports at the gymnasium. She volunteered with her mother and sister at the soup kitchens. She took on extra work trying to help those down on their luck. She was in pain and she had at least done a few physical things.

The creatures incessant pounded against the door abated as the night went on.

She thought about Stephan. The fear in his eyes as his hand slipped from hers and he disappeared in a sea of bone white creatures. She thought of Telesa. The look of pleading as the creatures dragged her through the window and out into the darkness. They must be so afraid. Afraid and alone and wondering if someone would come for them or if their fate was to be at the whim of the creatures.

“I’ll relieve you.” It was Poja. The small dwarf had appeared behind her and gave her a start.

“Dad, you go.” She glanced over at her father while addressing him. “Check on mom, tell her what’s happened to Telesa.”

Ferrer nodded, Loreena could not tell if exhaustion or sense had prevailed. Perhaps both. He traded places with the dwarf who, though nearly half his height, was stronger and more capable in combat. Ferrer rested his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and offered a smile.

“Go,” she said. She tried to sound reassuring. “I’ll be fine. Poja knows how to fight.”

Ferrer looked from her to the dwarf and nodded. He strode across the room to the back door and his wife.

“I’ve never seen combat before,” said Loreena when Ferrer was out of earshot. It felt like a confession to be embarassed about. Her mother had given her lessons, but practicing wasn’t the same.

“That was obvious,” said Poja. There was no judgement in his voice.

“What gave it away? The makeup and dress?” asked Loreena. “The general incompetence?” She let a short laugh escape. She knew how to wield sarcasm.

“Those, and your hesitation. Don’t misunderstand, you’re doing great.”

“Do you think we will survive?” asked Loreena.

“I do. They are trying to knock the door down much less.” Poja was trying to be positive.

“Thanks to you probably.” Loreena smiled down at him. “You hurt some.”

“I did, and they were not expecting that. They recoiled when I attacked them. I don’t think they were expecting resistance.”

“I wish I knew how to fight.  I think I’ll take lessons once we reach Hemnor. I mean, I’ve already had some. My mother is actually capable with a blade. I think she’s even seen real battle.”

Poja snorted.

“What?” said Loreena. She was feeling a little defensive. 

“Lessons. Yeah, you do that,” said Poja.

The creatures assaulted the door again and the two grew quiet. The rest of the evening carried on much the same. The creatures tried less and less to get in. They switched places throughout the night. Her father watched the cellar door, her mother and the satyr woman traded looking over the back door, the three dwarves took breaks in between defending the windows. 

The male satyr, Mikhaile braced the doors with refuse. Where he couldn’t find junk he made it. He was clearly as handy with tools as he was in the kitchen.  He stopped upstairs and assured them the doors were holding tight.

Loreena fell asleep against the door at some point. 

She awoke to her mother’s voice. The hard tone, the impatience. “They are gone.  It is dawn. Get off the floor.”