The heat of the day was already raising the temperature in the tavern, bringing out a mix of unpleasant smells. The sour smell of old ale and vomit were mingled with what had to be spoiled meat. Jon reminded himself to get rid of the roast that was still in the kitchen. He probably shouldn’t have served it last night but ox roast was dear and he was loath to throw it away. No one had complained about the stew. It wasn’t as if his customers were terribly picky or interested in the quality of his food, not anymore. As long as his ale was cheap (and not too watery), the place would be packed. He kicked sawdust over something that he preferred not to look closely at, exposing a section of the once nice hardwood underneath.

Sighing to himself, he looked around. Jarry was passed out in the corner as usual. He’d wake in the late afternoon and would help Jon get ready for the evening crowd. He was normally good for a few hours of hauling the kegs in and garbage out. Then he’d start drinking. Jarry wasn’t a bad drunk, just quiet and withdrawn. Jon was fine with it, he got what he needed and the man didn’t cause trouble.

Once in a while if things got out of hand at the bar, he’d seen Jarry intervene with a scowl on his face. A few deft strikes usually took care of whatever the trouble was. Jon guessed he’d been some sort of guard or soldier in his past. When he first showed up a few years back, Jon had asked him about where he’d come from, but Jarry had just turned away without answering. In fact, he barely spoke at all. It was unsettling but the main thing that was disturbing about Jarry was his eyes. His irises were bleached white as if all the color had been bled away. At first, Jon had thought perhaps he was blind, but Jarry saw just fine. Jarry did his best to keep his head and eyes down most of the time. Otherwise he got stares and questions.

Jon looked around the bar he’d own for the past ten years and sighed. He’d had big dreams when he’d scraped the money together after two decades of toiling at the mill. He’d changed the name from Kyell’s Crossing to its current name of The Endless Flagon. Every day at the mill he’d considered names, one after another. He’d always believed a tavern must have a good name,and the Endless Flagon made a promise to its clientele.

The first year had been tough but rewarding. He put in long hours refinishing and polishing the interior of the bar, making sure the tables didn’t wobble, the chairs were comfortable, putting up the large mirror (which had cost him dearly) above the bar. He spent his days meeting with brewers, vintners, butchers, merchants from all over the region. He sampled beers, ales, wines, breads, cheeses, and cuts of meat that would melt in your mouth. By serving the finest he could afford, Jon was sure that it would bring people through the door and change the reputation the Crossing had acquired. And it had worked…at first.

Then work had dried up in Yemm. Blight had taken most of the farms around the town and then the mill closed. Koras the blacksmith moved on to Port Gweren looking for more work. Other local merchants followed suit and Yemm became a skeleton of its former self. With the loss of work, his suppliers disappeared and his clientele became rougher and rougher. The fine brews first became mediocre then slipped to barely palatable. His prices fell and his dreams slipped away.

Since the Breaking, bad luck seemed more common than good and few places were prosperous. The Free Knights had kept the trade routes clear from bandits and the like. Since the Free Knights were no longer, the trade routes were nearly impassable. A few of the local barons had attempted to put a stop to the rampant marauding but each sortie seemed to have fate stacked against it. Lord Vareth’s Home Guard had much of its force wiped away in freak mud slides as they crossed the hills surrounding the Fardeep Woods. A band of Tyrani sellswords hired by Baron Gerr were slaughtered wholesale by a much larger than expected force of bandits – the victims of betrayal by some of the bands own scouts.

Nothing seemed right with the world anymore. He remembered the last time he’d seen a band of the Free Knights. He’d been a teenager, hauling bags of grain into the mill when they’d rode through town, armor flashing in the sun. There had been 6 of them, and the sight of them made him stand a bit taller. Thinking back on that memory made his heart heavy. For a time it’d seemed like things would be okay without them but it was like working outside in the late afternoon. The light which seemed so bright at first slipped away and soon it was hard to see in the dusk. It seemed like he’d been squinting in the growing darkness for some time.

He hoped Jarry woke soon, there were two barrels of ale that needed to come in, the old sawdust should be swept out and a fresh layer laid down before the evening customers arrived. Maybe he could away with another night on the roast if he spiced it right. Jon turned away from his broken dreams and headed for the kitchen.

He was back in the tower, the stifling darkness surrounding him. He labored to catch his breath. Whispers from the darkness cut through him like blades.

“Destroyer…”

“Unclean…”

“It’s your fault…”

Jarrell struggled to stand but the armor that encased him made it hard to move. He scrabbled for grip on the altar that should be just in front of him as the voices decried him. The blackness inside him was still there, still running through his veins, making every bone feel like it was full of ground glass.

“I didn’t know! It’s not my fault…” he cried into the dark. “It’s not fair!”

The whispers turned to cruel laughter and he began to scream.

Jarrell jerked awake, his head pounding, tears running down his face. The same dream, every night for the last twenty years. At first, he’d tried every potion and elixir he’d been able to find to no avail. Drink seemed to curb the worst of it, so that he could at least get a few hours of passed out sleep before it began again.

The inside of the Endless Flagon where he’d called home for the past few years was deserted. He could hear Jon moving about in the kitchen, probably doctoring the spoiled meat he’d been serving for entirely too long. The bar had once been a nice place but like the rest of the Myrsinia it was past its prime. Too many long drunken nights, too many fights, too hard to keep up with the maintenance. Jon’s prized mirror was spotted and dusty, but he could still see himself in it – a once strong man, whose middle was too thick and his nose gone red from years of drinking himself to sleep. And those cursed eyes. He turned away from the mirror. Jarrell couldn’t bear to look at himself.

“Jarry, you up?” Jon called from the kitchen. “If you are, there are two fresh kegs of ale that need to come in, and the floor needs a new coating of sawdust. Yusef got sick in the corner last night.”

Jarry grunted in return and went out the front door into the blazing heat of the sun. The brightness made him wince and he pulled his cowl up over his head. Ever since that day, he could barely stand the light of the sun. He didn’t notice the man standing outside the Flagon until he spoke.

“You there – is the tavern open?” The man was dressed in black from head to toe, and also wore a hood that covered most of his face. His accent was strange and unknown to Jarrell. A curved sword and a wicked looking hooked knife hung from his belt, and traveling gear was strapped next to an inky black horse, who looked the type to try to bite.

Jarrell kept his eyes down and shook his head. “Don’t open until dusk,” he said brusquely. He got an uneasy feeling from this stranger. Perhaps he’d keep moving along.

“No matter, I will wait. Take my horse to the stables and see her fed and watered. Our road has been long and midnight waits for no man.” The black-clad man settled himself on a bench Jon kept out front and began to sharpen the hooked knife.

An odd expression, Jarrell thought to himself. There was something he didn’t like about the way it sounded. It gave him an odd feeling, something from long ago. Shivering a bit, he grabbed the reins of the stranger’s mount and lead him around the back of the Flagon to the barely used stables. Perhaps it was time to move on.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7