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.  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. 

“No bother, I’m already soaked to the bone.  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. He walked beside her with a slight limp, and leaned heavily on a walking stick that was carved with a ravens head. The cloak was enchanted to keep him warm and dry.  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.

                “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.  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.  She could see his blurry form disappearing into the undergrowth.  She threw her helm into the mud as she trundled across the road. 

                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.

                “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.

                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. They were moving from Sessania to here in Ambrachar, the furthest region of the empire.  Poja had been hired to protect them and carry their luggage. There was that 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 thier 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. She spoke to him as if he were more than just the hired help.  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.

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 benefitted. 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. The Royal Quarter was where the elves settled after they conquered the region. The slums, where he was from, were unfriendly at best.

For now, they were stopping.  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. 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 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.

  He slipped before he reached the door.  The luggage sprawled out on the cobblestone and into the puddles and rivulets of rainwater.

The elves hurried past him with umbrellas aloft.  Grafa, the wife, made a comment under her breath as she hurried inside. This was likely to come out of his pay.

Loreena stopped to help.  She lowered her umbrella and helped Poja to his feet.  She grabbed some of luggage, the rainwater slicking her expensive gown.

“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 the clothes grew more and more soaked, and her make-up began to run.

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.

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 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-gret fur that covered his body.   

He was working in the stables tonight.  They had a carriage coming in and he needed to get it ready. He was digging 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.

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.

“I’m Stephan,” said the driver as he dismounted and began unhitching the horses.

“Golar,” said Golar.  He introduced himself as they led the first two horses to stalls.

“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.

“Right,” said Stephan.  The conversation had run its course. They grabbed the last two horses in silence. The rain pattered again the tiling on the roof.

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

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

“There’s something on the roof.”

“How can you tell?” said Stephen.  

“Well, the rhythm of the rain is different. Hollow at times.” 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. They were trained to respond to everything with a kind of apathy.

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.

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

Golar froze.

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 for the carriage 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.

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. 

Espra 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.

“You are soaked, and covered in mud,” said 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, Adelaide.

“Mother, don’t fuss,” said Loreena.

“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.

Her parents explained their situation to the proprietor.

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.

Grafa explained they would, of course, need the nicest accommodation. Adelaide, the proprietress, assured them that their nicest rooms had been prepared ahead of time for their arrival. This seemed to appease her mother.

There was a door behind the counter, and a wall was lined with colorful liquor bottles.  The door likely led to a kitchen.  Beyond that was a wide staircase that disappeared upward, and an archway that led to a second, more private, taproom.

Loreena could see three people, all dwarven men in fine travelling cloaks, sitting at a table near the hearth in that 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. 

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. 

Were any of them really her friends? 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. 

Ambrachar was a wilderness to the civilized elves of Sessainia.  Absorbing it into the empire was more a formality. 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. 

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.

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.

All around the structures was a waist high wall of cobblestone topped with wrought iron fencing.  The entrance was gated, but the gates were open. 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.

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. That was 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.

“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, and backed in behind them.

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

“Golar!” cried Adelaide.  She rushed over to her son, pushing through the elven family.

“I’m fine, but something is out there.”

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

“Several somethings,” repeated Golar. Golar stood still while his mother inspected him.

“Your sister is out back.  In the bathhouse.” 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 still coming down.  There was a hooded pathway between the main building and what was the bathhouse.  The arbor along the pathway 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.

Ducks, goats, and a few pigs had taken shelter from the rain here.

“You’re all safe.  Excellent, go inside.  You’ll stay there till morning,” said Golar.  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.

“This is it,” said Golar.  He rested his hand on the bathhouse door.

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

Golar nodded in understanding.

They burst into the bathhouse moments before the creatures attacked.

“Mother!  Close the door!” Golar cried across the way. A moment later Brota slammed the door to the bathhouse shut and threw her body against it.

“Find your sister!” hollered back Adelaide.  She shut the main house door.

The creatures beat against the bathhouse door almost forcing it open, but Brota held her ground.

This was 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 

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

“What, why? What is all the recus about?” asked his sister. She was older than him and was not used to him being assertive.

“We are under attack, by 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.

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

                “With that?” asked Brota. 

                “Yes, why?” asked Golar. He hefted the umbrella like a spear.

                “It’s an umbrella.”

                “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.”

       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.

                “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. 

      Loreena simply 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 grabbed her and forced her 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.  “But let me go.  You’re hurting my arm.”

      Loreena released her, but forced her up the stairs first.

      The upper level was quiet.  There was a long hallway with four doors.  They were the last one on the right.  The hall was adorned with rugs and tapestries and two tables held ornate vases with fresh flowers. 

      “Quit it,” said Telesa as Loreena pushed her 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.

      “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.

      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.  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.”

“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. 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. He swung the blades again.  They found their marks again.  The hands, now mutilated and red, retreated from the window.

Poja wasted no time.  He joined Stephan and Ferrer at the front door. Other patrons joined the fray.

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 had served in the Ambracar military.  He was no stranger to fighting. No white monsters poured through once the fighting died down in the kitchen, so it was assumed all was fine.

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.

He looked toward the stairs going to the upper floor.

“Your daughters are in danger,” said Poja.  He heard the breaking of glass.

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, but where his family was concerned, he seemed brave.

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.

Stephan drove horses, it was unlikely he knew anything about combat.

Poja had grown up on the streets of Hemnor.  He 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. 

He glanced at Stephan.  The man was wiry, 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 were wide, his head was shaking.  He had never seen a dead thing before. The dead creature had bone white flesh, looked humanoid, and had only rudimentary clothing.  Bones and furs mismatched.  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.  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.  That much is obvious.”

Golar still had the umbrella in hand, Espra had grabbed a pair of tongs usually used to move heated stones. 

“We are going to make it,” said Brota as the creatures pushed against the door again.

“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 on the door.  The creatures twisted the heavy wooden door and heaved against it.

“Here they come,” cried Brota.  Her tone was more determined than alarmed. 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.

Brota stared at the creature that dominated her vision.

It roared at her and grabbed for her with taloned hands.  She moved her shield to block and then swung with a great yell.

The mace connected with its face with a sickening crunch.  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.

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. 

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?”

“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.  “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. 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.

“Well, 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.

The rain came down out in the darkness.  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.  Idly she thought. Well, here they are Telesa.  Fun right?

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

Telesa was frozen in fear.  Her dresses, and flesh, were torn by the glass. The taloned hands, followed by the full form of the creature, dropped on the bed near Telesa.  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.  “Somebody help me!” She cried out to nobody in particular.

      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. Her sister disappeared out the window calling her name.

       Loreena ran to the window and called out into the darkness and rain.  Her words were drowned in the downpour. Her father pulled her back inside.

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

       “But Telesa,’ said Loreena. She struggled in protest.

       “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.  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 there 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. 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.”

         Poja nodded.  Stephan was brave, they all were.  They had no choice; their lives were on the line.  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.  He 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.  They were brave, for elves.

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

           “They took her, dragged her right out the window.  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 the door. 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 fix the door.  He was supposed to tighten 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. The stranger forced the door back into place.

           “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 the stranger.

  Golar set to hammering nails into the hinges while Brota struggled to hold the door in place.

           “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 ecgoed in his mind. It dissolved into her scream. 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. When he was done the heavy door was quite sealed. Golar sat back on his haunches.

           “What are they?” He asked.

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

           “Well,” started Golar.  The stranger looked down at him.  “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 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.

           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.

           “The windows up here are larger and fancier,” said Poja.  He had leapt on the bed and seemed to retrace the attack. Poja would have been sarcastic, of course the broken out window was where the creature’s attacked from, but the girl had just lost her sister.

          “Yes, they are bigger,” said Loreena. She spoke halfheartedly.  She was not having fun like this dwarf.

           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.

           He nodded.

           Loreena smiled.  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 with Poja. Maybe she was having a little fun. 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.  Her father 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, but 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.  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.

They did not.

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

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

           “Wilderness people?” asked Brota.

           “I can speak with creatures, animals,” said Golar. He called them wilderness people. He forgot that was not what they were usually called.

           “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.

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

           “Not sure.  Most the night,” 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.  “Before your sister was taken, she swung a lantern at them and they recoiled from it,” said Brota. 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?”

           “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.”

           “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. It was clearly weighing on her.

            “We will get them back,” said Brota.  She set her jaw and stared hard at the door.

            The night went on without another incident. Golar fell asleep.  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. 

           Brota did her best to stay awake lest the door give in.  The creatures beat against the door, but the assault slowed as dawn came. She had fallen asleep. Her hand resting on her knees as she sat facing the door. By morning, all was quiet.

                “Golar, get up.”

                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.  He drove a carriage, he transported people. Poja felt the hand on his shoulder.  It stopped him from advancing.

“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 forced herlself to speak as evenly and calmly as she could.

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.”

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. 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.

“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 were 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.  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 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.

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.”

      “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.  This confirmed it.

        “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. 

Her father leaned against the door opposite her. He was tall, lean, and soft spoken even when he reprimanded his daughters.  He was soft in body too.  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.

Loreena imagined it was hard for him, holding the door.  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. The creatures incessant pounded against the door became less 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.

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

“Dad, you go.  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 the back door and his wife.

“I’ve never seen combat before,” said Loreena when Ferrer was out of earshot.

“That was obvious,” said Poja.

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

“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 wish I knew how to fight.  I think I’ll take lessons once we reach Hemnor.”

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.”