The end of the line.

A tale from The Wyvern Inn.

Chapter one

The magistrate dropped the coin pouch into Valmir’s hands with a satisfying clink. Valmir looked down at the bag. The monster was dead, but the money felt dirty as he held it. “Thank you for your services,” the Magistrate said quietly. Valmir, unable to say anything honest or meaningful, nodded in silence, attached the pouch to his belt and turned back to face the direction of the stables. 

The sun, already high in the sky, could not eliminate all of the shadows that hung over the citadel that morning. While he hadn’t expected crowds, applause and flowers thrown in the path of his horse, something did not sit right. Doors of buildings were no longer closed and bolted but as he glanced into shadowed doorways and stable doors, inside was an eerie stillness. He guessed that strangers sat in the cool shadows of houses, shops and taverns, watching him from within, unless they were all dead, of course.

At that moment, the bell at the top of the tower clanged once and only once. He turned to look back at the courthouse to see empty, white steps devoid of even the hungriest pigeon. The magistrate had gone back inside. Water still poured from the fountain in the centre of the town square, sloshing and spitting spray on the light summer wind. He welcomed the coolness on his tired, blood-stained face. He would find an inn and bathe to his heart’s content. He would ask for oils and salts and perfume. He had the money for it, after all. He would pay a squire to polish his axe, if he could find one. 

On his way through winding streets paved with white marble, he caught sight of an old woman hobbling towards him. She hunched over like a haystack covered in black wool. A gnarled hand protruded, presenting him with lilies. White lilies. She held them out for him. “How much?” he asked. She shook her head vehemently, placed them in his hand and shuffled back inside the shadows, closing the door slowly– peering across the edge of it all the while. 

As he walked, the only sound that penetrated the hush of the citadel was the sound of gentle grunts and kicks from the horses in the stable. He sighed with relief. Animals were often a source of reassurance and comfort after the worst days, Valmir thought. He sniffed the scent of hay and manure coming from the stud farm and thought of the next journey. 

His black and white mare, Fen, was waiting for him when he got to the stable. She rubbed her face over the stable door and neighed when he greeted her. “Time to go, girl,” he said, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder as he unbolted her door. He saddled her up and without a moment’s hesitation, bolted out through the open gates of the citadel. 

Whatever new darkness hung over Isametra, he did not want to hang around and live it. He rode west into the fields and warm sunshine. 

Twenty miles west of the citadel, he ordered a groom to take care of Fen while he stopped at The Wyvern Inn for a room, a bath and a meal. 

“You look like you’ve seen too much for one day.” Harf, the innkeep observed. He had a large, bristling moustache and a perfectly round belly that was no stranger to the best ales in Wissland. Valmir liked Harf. He stayed at The Wyvern often. The Wyvern was mostly frequented by humans in the time that Valmir had known of it. Occasionally, a travelling goblin merchant or elf might stay but other races visiting or living in the west mostly kept themselves to themselves. 

“I think I killed someone important,” he said gravely. 

“‘Ave you just come from Isametra?” Harf asked as he passed Valmir a mug of red ale. 

“The very same.” 

“Oh. I suppose you ‘eard the legend?” 

“I did but… I didn’t think it was true until that magistrate…” he thought for a moment. “If I killed–” he looked across the room and lowered his voice. “If I killed the lost prince of Isametra, I’ve given that magistrate the run of the castle.” 

“I suppose ‘e was in charge all along though… what with the king dyin’ an’ all.” 

“It was sad, Harf. The monster wanted to die.” Valmir reflected. “Usually, they are rabid, senseless things or undead. This guy was sad. I felt bad killing him.” 

“Don’t feel too bad.” Harf said sympathetically. “‘E was cursed for an eternity and stalked the streets at night like a ghoul. I heard he ate babies. He could ‘ave turned out to ‘ave been a cruel king. Maybe you’ve done ‘em a favour.” 

“We’ll never know, I suppose.” Valmir drank his ale solemnly. He turned around and identified a table in the shadowed corner of the inn. “I’ll have some stew over there, please.” He pointed. Harf put his cloth down and nodded, retreating into the kitchen with large, thumping steps. 

Valmir collapsed into the wooden chair at his chosen table. From his satchel, he pulled out the bunch of white lilies that the old woman had given him. He laid them on the table and spared a thought for the prince who would never be king. 

“You know,” Harf said quietly, placing a bread bowl of beef stew on the table, “Rose is available tonight,” he winked. 

“Is she now?” Valmir raised an eyebrow and thought of the bath. “You think I need cheering up?” he smirked. 

“I’ll let her know.” Harf bowed, showcasing his horseshoe hairline. He almost skipped back to the front desk to book another traveller in, keys jangling from his belt. Valmir, never turning his back on a room, ate his stew pensively and observed how small the hooded traveller was. He had never seen dwarves in the West, so he couldn’t be sure if he was looking at one at that moment. He then realised that there were many races half his size that he had never seen in the west. The traveller picked up their bag and disappeared up the candle lit staircase with hardly a word. 

Later, Harf’s wife, Inga, had provided Valmir with two bottles of bath salts and one bottle of oil. “We ‘aven’t any perfume, sir,” she announced apologetically. “The lady Rose will bring some, ‘am sure.” she smiled, presenting him with her tombstone teeth. Inga was a gravely thin woman, with straw hair and a bony but alert and friendly face. When she stood beside Harf, Valmir felt that at any moment, Harf would pick her up and start sweeping the floor with her. 

“It’s no problem, Inga. Thank you.” She blushed as he smiled at her as she bowed and silently left the room, closing the door with a click. The maids had already filled his bath beside the low fire. As the western towns were so exposed by flatlands, nights still felt cold despite the summer weather they were blessed with during the day. He tested the water with his hand. It had cooled down enough for him to get in. He stripped off, putting his dirty clothes on the bed. He wanted to be clean before Rose arrived. He had deliberately chosen not to lock the door, as the idea of her helping him with his bath appealed to him. 

He waited. 

After what felt like an eternity, there was a little knock on the door. “Come in,” he said, trying not to sound too eager. He hung the back of his head over the edge of the tin bath with his eyes closed. He heard her tiptoe into the room and close the door behind her. “I wondered if you could help me get clean,” he said with a grin. On opening his eyes, his stomach lurched. It was not Rose who stood by the door but the small traveller he had observed earlier in the day. They removed their hood. 

“You’re a bit young, aren’t you?” Valmir said to the young girl, horrified. “What kind of joke is this?” 

The girl looked at him with wide eyes. She clasped a jewel that hung from a cord around her neck and stared at him, open mouthed. 

He sank lower into the bath and cupped his manhood so she couldn’t see him in all his nakedness. “Bloody hell. Er, look away while I grab a towel.” 

She did as she was told with a gasp and immediately turned to face the door, covering her eyes with her hands for extra measure. “The hell is all this about?” He climbed out with a resounding splash. The tsunami of bathwater swept along the floor and drenched the inside of his boots. “Bugger,” he said, rushing to grab a towel. He wrapped it around his middle, his shoulder length hair dripping across his back. 

“I’m sorry… I…” she began “I’m Jessalyn.” 

“Yes, and you’re like, twelve. What the hell are you doing in my room?” He gestured wildly. 

“Please, I have a truth stone.” 

“What?” 

“Can I turn around now?” she asked nervously. 

“Yes.”

She turned to face him, slowly removing her hands from her eyes. Her wide, green eyes looked straight at him and he thought he could see something in them. Her small, round face reminded him of someone he once knew. The girl removed the stone from her neck and held it up. 

“I am your daughter,” she said. The aquamarine stone glowed brightly, illuminating her young face in the gloom. 

“Good gods…” he murmured. “That is a truth stone.”

“I am your daughter,” she said again, looking at him searchingly. 

“You can get them for ten-a-penny down at the market but only the real ones glow green,” he said, leaning on a bed post. His knees were buckling underneath him. He sat down on the bed and looked at the floor. “Truth stone,” he said quietly to himself. 

“Did you hear me?” 

There was another knock on the door. It opened slowly. “I heard someone needs help with his bath.” It was the seductive voice of Rose, the prostitute. She was smiling cheekily as she entered the room, wearing the tiniest of lace undergarments. She carried a bottle of wine with her. Valmir jumped up, clasping his towel still. 

“Oh, gods,” he said with a tightening throat, looking at the girl and then to Rose. “Rose, this is no longer a good time.” He said, raising the hand that wasn’t occupied with the task of preserving his dignity. 

Rose looked disappointed. Her large bosom sank and she pouted. She had not noticed the girl behind the door. 

“Oh, that’s such a shame,” she whined. “I was really looking forward to having you again.” She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe I can change your mind–” 

“No–”

“Maybe” she smiled. “Maybe that’s the game.” She approached him slowly.

“No, Rose. We can’t do this now,” he backed away into the bedpost, raising his hand. 

“Oh you don’t mean that. It would be such a shame.” With her free hand, she started untying the ribbons that held her undergarments together. He tried not to look. 

“It is a shame. I agree, but er…” Valmir was still holding his towel around his waist but managed to nod in the direction of the door. Rose, noticing the girl for the first time, jumped with a screech, dropping the bottle with an almighty crash. 

“Rose,” Valmir said. “This is Jessalyn. She’s my daughter.”