Lightning flared in the distance, followed closely by a crack of thunder that echoed off the hills in the distance. Dark thunderheads were rolling steadily towards them, and the smell of rain wafted on the breeze. The storm was all but here.

  Up ahead, Dean could see four men in armor standing before the gate, their watch cloaks whipping in the winds. Their visors were lowered and they watched him approach with the kind of wariness he’d usually only associate with wartime.

  “That’s close enough, friend,” said the lead man, thrusting out a hand at Dean when he was about fifteen feet from the gate. Dean could sense a tenseness in the essence signatures of the men, and judging by their ready stances, it seemed they were expecting trouble.

  “Friend?” Dean’s eyes slid up towards the small wooden scaffolding behind the gate, where the gleam of a ready crossbow bolt could be clearly seen. “I’m not from these parts, but I can’t imagine it’s customary to point armored piercing bolts at friends.”

  The lead watchman twitched, and Dean was gratified to see the surprise in his eyes.

  “How did…” he started, but then his eyes came to rest on the iron badge clasped to the shoulder of Dean’s cloak.

  He straightened, lowering his hand from where it had been resting on the haft of his axe.

  “You’re an Adventurer,” he observed, lifting a hand to raise his visor. The man was middle-aged, though the bags under his eyes and lines of worry that creased his face gave him a weary appearance. He drew in a breath and turned towards the scaffolding.

  “Stand down, Corporal,” he said. “This man isn’t a threat. You’ll have to forgive us, there are hard times Adventuerer…?” The man cocked his head, and Dean gestured to himself.

  “Dean. And this is Tasha. We were hoping to find lodging here before the storm broke. If there’s room, that is.”

  Dean glanced pointedly through the gate at the empty streets beyond and could have sworn he saw the Watchman’s cheeks flush with embarrassment.

  “Yes, of course. I apologize for our.. unorthodox greeting. The crossings have always been a welcoming place to travelers and southern tourists alike. Though, as you can certainly imagine, we’ve had significantly less of both this year. If you don’t mind, I believe it would put my men's minds at ease if we could see a record of your guild registration. It’s not that we doubt you, but..”

  He exchanged a glance with one of his men and held up his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “We’ve had our share of trouble over the past few months with strangers.”

  That was interesting. There was a hint of doubt in the man, even now, and that made Dean curious. As far as he knew, an Adventuerer badge was usually all that was required to declare one's status as a ranker when traveling. Requesting someone's registration was usually a formality only required when signing for larger jobs, or entering the presence of royalty.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a registration,” he said. “I’m an independent Adventuerer and so am unaffiliated. At least for now.”

  The man’s brows rose, and the shadow of suspicion entered his eyes.

  “Then forgive me, but I cannot-“

  Before Dean could think up something to smooth things over, Tasha had stepped forward.

  “Sorry, Sergeant, we failed to properly introduce ourselves. I am Tasha of Dutton, Ivan’s daughter. He owns the Inn at the crossroads. You might know him?”

  One of the other men grunted in recognition, and the lead guard glanced at him.

  “And what brings you to travel to the river crossing, Ms. Tasha? It seems an odd time to travel, especially with the unrest that’s been stirring in the south. These roads are no place for a young traveler on their own.”

  “I’d be inclined to agree,” said Tasha elegantly, sliding her arm through his. “Which is why my father hired Dean here to look after me. See, we’re on our way to Bridgeport to meet with my sister. She’s terribly ill, you see, and I worried that if I waited to see her that I might not,” Tasha’s voice caught, and she turned her head away, pressing it into Dean’s arm. The theatrics surprised him, but he managed to keep his face blank, and she let out a dramatic sniffle.

  “I’m sorry-“ she said, her voice sounding like she was on the verge of tears. “You must think me foolish. I know going to see her now is a risk, but to wait… to risk never seeing her again.”

  The watchman looked positively alarmed at this sudden emotional turn. He glanced helplessly at Dean, who only stared back at him, his expression a mask.

  “There, there now,” said the man, stepping forward and producing a handkerchief from the upper pocket of his cloak. “I beg your pardon Miss, it was not my intention to pry. You and your hired man are welcome here at the River Crossing, of course.”

  Tasha let out another fake sniffle, raising the handkerchief to her nose and blowing loudly. Only Dean seemed to notice that there were no tears streaking her face.

  “T-thank you sir,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I apologize for my disposition. These are, as you say, hard times.”

  “Of course, not to worry. There is a small travelers' inn near the water that should have a room for you.”

  He and the other men stood aside, and Tasha made a show of blowing her nose once more as they moved forward. Lightning struck in the distance, illuminating the amused gleam in Tasha’s eyes as the gate faded from sight. Dean cocked his head at her.

  “Should I be concerned at how good you are at lying?”

  Tasha snorted, folding the dry handkerchief into a square and tucking it into the pocket of her traveling pants.

  “I’m the daughter of a once-famous mercenary. Tell me, what exactly did you expect? Besides, there isn’t much need to lie only… exaggerate the details.”

  “You could have just told them the truth,” Dean pointed out. Tasha raised a brow.

  “Yeah, because that would have sounded less suspicious. I’m traveling the Bridgeport to find my missing sister, who might not be missing, and I’m accompanied by this shady, unregistered Adventurer, but not to worry, we don’t have any foul play in mind.”

  Dean cracked a smile.

  “Unregistered? You make me sound like a breeding hound of dubious origin.”

  “Aren’t you? Ah, look, there it is!”

  She was spared Dean’s snide response as they rounded the corner of the town, where a long, squat building came into view. It was two stories, with wooden shingles and a couple of hitching posts out front containing horses. The sign over the door swung in the breeze, but Dean saw the Adventurer’s mark branded on the wood beneath the words “Travelers Inn.”

  “Well, come on,” said Tasha, tucking her hands beneath her armpits against the biting storm breeze as she waited for him. Dean had paused, his eyes fixed on the two horses on the pitching post that now huddled beneath the overhang. He turned away, and Tasha caught the look on his face.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “No, it’s nothing,” he lied, reaching past her to grip the iron handle of the door. “Let’s get out of this wind, shall we?”

  The interior of the inn was as quiet as one might have expected from an establishment getting so little traffic. The front room was completely empty, and when Dean turned, it was to see a surprised-looking woman holding what looked to be an open book in her hand.

  “More travelers?” she said, snapping the book shut and setting it down with a thump. “And here I’d thought that current times are killing the inn business. You’re the third pair I’ve had this evening you know.”

  She glanced them up and down, her hawklike smile widening when she saw the badge on Dean’s chest.

  “Ah, an Adventuerer. And what can I do for you?

  “We’d like two rooms,” he said, reaching in his inventory to pull out his purse. “Just for tonight. We’ll be taking the ferry out come morning, at least, if the weather permits.”

  “Oh aye,” said the woman, nodding gravely. “Southern weather can be quite temperamental. Though, if you’re looking to cross in the morning, you’ll have to talk to Old Harold. Most days he operates the ferry sun up and sun down. But after a squall the size of this one, it may be in operational for a while. At least until the water levels calm. It can be days. Even weeks, if the flooding is bad enough.”

  “Weeks?” Tasha bit her lip, worry in her eyes. “But that’s… what if we can’t afford to wait that long to cross the river? Surely he must make exceptions.

  The woman gave Tasha a sympathetic look that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Not to worry, child, not to worry. Our Inn understands the need of it’s customers. We’d be happy to accommodate you for a few extra nights for half price should the need arise. But I wouldn’t fret, these things usually pass within a day or two.”

  Tasha’s shoulders relaxed, and she smiled.

  “Thanks awfully kind of you.”

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Kind, yes,” said the woman, distractedly as she reached behind her desk. She pulled out a sheaf of parchment with some neatly scribbled figures in rows, which she slid across the table.

  “It’s a half silver for a night, and a full silver for three,” she said, tapping her manicured nail on each column. “Of course, if you want the travelers package, you get an included bed and breakfast for all three days, which comes out too-“

  “One night is fine,” Dean interrupted her. The woman paused, her eyes flicking up to his.

  “Well now, don’t be so hasty Mr. Adventuerer,” she said, the fake smile spreading across her face. “If this package doesn’t interest you then perhaps you would find one of the others more suitable.”

  “No thanks,” said Dean calmly. “You said half a silver for the night, right? And I assume that includes dinner?”

  A shadow of irritation flickered across the woman’s face but it was gone so quickly Dean had almost missed it.

  “Of course,” she said, quickly sweeping the piece of parchment into the drawer and shutting it with a bang. “I believe we have some roast sandwiches that I can have the kitchens heat. You said two rooms, is that correct Mr…?”

  “Thompson. And yes that would be appreciated.” Dean counted out the coppers and slide them across the counter. “Please have the food brought to our rooms once heated.”

  The woman recorded his name and room number in a small ledger and Dean tilted his head, trying to read the other names. When she caught him looking she frowned, tearing off a small paper receipt before snapping the ledger shut.

  “Here you are Mr. Thompson,” she said cooly. “We hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Dean thanked her, sliding the paper and accompanying door keys into the pocket of his trousers before heading to the staircase in the corner. Tasha followed after him, practically jogging to keep up.

  “Want to tell me what that was about?” she asked, lowering her voice so that it didn’t carry through the building.

  “Not particularly.”

  Dean glanced at the room number on the receipt, and scanned the doors until he found what he was looking for. Tasha folded her arms as he slid the key into the lock, turning it with a click.

  “Well, I’m not often one to judge but don’t you think that was a little bit.. you know… rude?”

  Dean pushed the door open, standing aside to let her in. The room itself was small an unadorned, with a bed and single table and stool in the corner. A small lantern sat on the window sill, flickering with a low burning flame. Dean shut the door behind them and turned to face her.

  “The Innkeeper was lying,” he said. “I recognize a common street grift when I see one. Mind you, this wasn’t anything serious.”

  He crossed the room, crouching as he examined the lantern. Tasha followed him.

  “A grift? What do you mean?”

  Dean turned the old gear on the side of the lantern, releasing more wick and grunting with satisfaction as the flame brightened, filling the room with more steady light.

  “I mean that her whole spiel about the ferry not running for days is likely a lie.”

  Tasha’s brows descended in confusion and she tucked a strand of dark hair behind one ear.

  “But the storm,” she started. Dean smiled as he stood.

  “Oh the danger of the storm is real. In the gale that’s coming the winds will be too high and the water too rough for us to cross safely. But southern storms come in hard and fast, and it should be gone come morning. The river water levels being higher might be a concern if there wasn’t a coastal outlet twelve miles due south that flowed downhill. Believe me there isn’t much danger of flooding here. For that to be a problem the storm would have to last for many days, maybe even a week.”

  Tasha seemed to process this for a moment, subconsciously chewing on the nail of her thumb. Then she let out a sound, closing her eyes and rolling her head back.

  “So he’s in on it,” she said. “Old Harold. He makes excuses why he can’t operate the ferry, travelers are forced to stay an extra night or two at the inn, and they both get a cut.”

  “Precisely.”

  “You’re right, that is a clever grift. It’s not serious enough that it could be called theft or foul play and yet it’s…”

  “Sleazy.” Dean finished, brushing off his hands. “You’re right. And it’s fine, you can open the door. It’s just the kitchen staff.”

  Tasha frowned.

  “What?”

  Dean nodded to the door. “The knock.”

  “There was no kn-“

  A knock came at the door a moment later and Tasha jumped. Dean, who’d sensed the kitchen staffer long before she’d reached the door, chuckled under his breath. Tasha shot him a look before opening it. A few plates were handed over, and Dean’s stomach growled at the smell of fresh bred and roasted meat. After the staffer had gone Tasha closed the door again, spinning to face him.

  “That’s kind of eerie you know,” she said suppressing a smile. “How you seem to be able to pinpoint people based on their, well. Their life force for lack of a better word.”

  Dean shrugged.

  “It may be creepy but it’s a skill that keeps most Adventuerer’s alive. Knowing where something dangerous us before it tries to kill you is a useful talent.”

  They sat and ate, Tasha cross legged on the bed and Dean on the stool with the plate across his lap. The food was hot and good and Dean was disappointed when he finished the last bite of his sandwich. In the distance Dean could hear the beginning patter of rain. Afternoon was turning to night, and if he wanted to do what he’d been planning then his window was growing short.

  “We should get some sleep,” he said, grabbing his sword from where he’d laid it against the bed. Tasha was leaning back on her pillows but he caught her watching him, a strange expression on her face.

  “What?” he asked. Tasha’s ears went crimson.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I was only… I was just thinking. I appreciate you coming, you know. You didn’t have too.”

  Dean shrugged.

  “Your father paid me too. And besides, I was planning to travel to Bridgeport myself for work.”

  Tasha’s face fell slightly, and Dean felt a twinge of regret as the girl looked down. In the lantern light, she shape of her face and divets of her cheekbones were acutely highlighted. Dean did his best not to stare.

  “You’re welcome,” he said after a moment. Tasha glanced up at him and a smile tugged at her lips.

  “So, you do have a kind streak.”

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  Dean made to turn but Tasha caught his arm. She surprised him by turning his wrist over, and examining it in the lantern light. Dean’s glove usually covered the skin beneath the bracer but he’d removed them to eat. Instead, his bare skin was visible through the armor straps and Tasha ran her thumb along it.

  “This is an unusual scar,” she said softly. “How did you get it.” Dean froze, realizing that the strange brand she was observing had been the one that Bast had burned into him. A signal of their pact.

  “An unfortunate accident,” said Dean. “Product of having been an idiot in my youth. You wouldn’t believe how many bones I broke even if I told you.”

  “Boys,” said Tasha, her voice tinged with amusement. “You really can’t help yourselves.”

  Her eyes flicked to his and something passed between them. Tasha tilted her head, letting her dark hair slide from her shoulder as she lowered her mouth to Dean’s scar. Her lips were warm against his skin as she pressed them to his arm. She held his gaze, allowing the kiss to linger for a moment before she smiled softly, releasing him.

  “There,” she said, waving a hand at him. “Mother’s kissed it and made it better. Consider your old wound healed.”

  “Incredible. You really should consider opening your own medical wing.”

  “Now that would be a grift worth remembering.”

  Dean was still smiling when he shut the door of the adjoining room. He closed his eyes pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. He couldn’t afford any distractions, at least, that’s what he told himself. His mission needed to be his focus. His only focus.

  And yet the memory of Tasha’s light eyes, the way her lips had felt on his skin…

  Dean shook his head like a dog, trying to rid himself of the memory.

  No distractions he told himself, rolling his shoulders as he re-strapped his sword to his back. No flings. You have one purpose and one purpose only, Dean. Revenge.

  And yet…. And yet his anatomy seemed either unwilling or unable to comply.

  “Damn it all,” he whispered as he stood by the window. He folded his arms, glaring into the stormy night as he waited for his body to relax. Outside the storm began to howl, whipping up wind in a frenzy that reminded him of storms he’d seen on the road. He’d spent many nights out in weather like this, some more dire than others. But at least here he was protected against the elements by a wooden structure rather than a flimsy tent. Or at least… he would have been.

  Dean waited until he could hear the soft breaths of Tasha between the crashes of thunder and was sure she was asleep. Then he uncrossed his arms, rolling his neck as he turned for the door.

  “You can be dry, or you can be safe,” was something Ripley always used to say when the weather turned sour on campaign. “Rain isn’t an excuse not to check your perimeter.”

  And that, Dean decided, was exactly what he was going to do.

  He made sure that the door was locked before striding to the window and lifting it. Wind blew in, spraying him with a bit of cold rain. Dean grimaced for a moment, wishing he could let it be. But whatever he’d sensed earlier was worth investigating, and he knew he couldn’t afford not to double check. She he ducked through the window lowering himself before dropping to the ground twelve feet below. His boots landed soundlessly, and Dean pulled up his hood as he made for the edge of town. He could sense the watchmen before he saw their bobbing torches. Many were huddled under overhangs or perched in doorways as they surveyed the empty streets.

  Dean was glad of the heavy downpour as he made his way from building to building. Between the rain screen and his cloak he knew he was difficult to make out so long as he stayed in the shadows. It took him only minutes to make his way through the city and over the short wall entirely unnoticed by the watch.

  Maybe I should have been a rogue

  He mused as he slipped into the trees.

  That would be a shame though. All that swordsmanship gone to waste.

  Rain beat down relentlessly, soaking through his cloak and running down his neck to soak the tunic beneath his armor. He sighed with regret, knowing it would take him hours by the fire to dry his clothes. But some things a man simply couldn’t leave to chance.

  It took him half an hour to make his way back to the bend in the road. The tracks that the horses had left were faint now, half washed away by the deluge. Dean traced the hoof prints until he found the area that he’d exited the trail to refill his canteen.

  It wouldn’t be far now. As he moved he spread his senses, searching for anything unusual. He felt a few small animals hunkered down against the storm, but nothing that set off any alarm bells for him. It was awfully quiet in the forest, but he supposed that was to be expected in the downpour. Dean made his way down the gentle slope until he found the stream once more.

  Rainwater had caused the once tiny brook to swell, turning into a small ditch as it flowed out and down towards the direction of the gorge. Dean followed it, careful to watch his boot placement as he went. He was soaked through now, and the cold was beginning to numb the skin beneath his armor. When he reached the edge of the gorge, he halted, peering down to the bottom.

  In the darkness, he could see the silhouette of the dear carcass lying dead and broken against the rocks. Not unusual in and of itself. In nature, animals often meet unfortunate fates. What had troubled him wasn’t the sight of the dead animal, but the familiar scent that accompanied it. It was faint, but Dean caught it again as he turned his head.

  That sickly sweet smell of rot and… something more. He sighed, sending up a puff of water from his face as he resigned himself to the inevitable.

  You just can’t leave it alone, can you?

  It took him a few minutes to make his way to the bottom. The rocks were wet and slick, and he had to move carefully down the slope to avoid falling to his death. Essence healing worked well for speeding up recovery from minor cuts and bruises, but it would do nothing to heal a broken neck. When he reached the bottom, Dean pulled the light crystal from his inventory, giving it a shake before holding it up.

  The soft, white glow illuminated the ravine around him. By his boots, the corpse of the dear was clearly visible, its neck twisted at an odd angle. It had not been a clean fall; that much was clear by the bloody scrapes along its side.

  “You were running from something,” Dean said into the open air. “A predator? A monster?”

  Either way, it looked like a natural death. Dean pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes, massaging at the suggestion of a headache that was beginning there. Perhaps he had overreacted. Judging by the creature's wounds, it had likely fled some type of predator and attempted to jump the gorge, only to fail in the end.

  Nature was a beast, and he, fool that he was, had gotten soaked just to confirm it. Dean made to rise, brushing the water from his face with a hand. That’s when he caught it. It was slight, hard to notice in the light of the crystal itself. But as he tilted his head, it became more apparent.

  The dear corpse was lying on its side, but its body was at an odd angle. Lifted slightly under the shoulder as if something were propping it up. Something…

  Dean shifted his boot beneath the creature and pushed, rolling it over on its other side. And then he stared.

  “Fuck,” he said as his eyes landed on the arrow. It wasn’t the kind he was used to seeing. A goose-fletched arrow made from pale ash or spruce. These… these were black tipped arrows. The kind made with crow feathers. There was only one monster that Dean knew of that used such arrows.

  Goblins.