Act 1: The Inn.
It was already late evening. Jangar, the owner of the "The Swift Goat" inn, looked out the window. Rain lashed the windows, and dark clouds covered the sky. It had been raining for several hours now, so the gravel road leading to Asghar itself had turned into one vast puddle, impossible to cross without sinking your feet to your ankles in mud. It was along this road that the "Swift Goat" was located. A cobblestone walkway led to the entrance to the inn. Admittedly, it wasn't very long and laid rather carelessly, even clumsily, but "it's always better than a pile of slime at the door," as the innkeeper used to say.
"Oh, it looks like I'll make a little more money than usual today!" Jangar said to himself, looking around and smiling. Indeed, many guests had gathered today, thanks to the downpour that had made travel impossible.
The room was bustling, with voices of conversation drifting from everywhere, and occasional bursts of laughter mingling with the clatter of beer mugs on the sturdy oak tables and the cheerful crackle of the fire in the fireplace. Opposite the entrance stood a small, two-foot-high wooden stage, on which Garaal, a laughing old man and tavern regular, played a lively melody on his lyre. The entire inn was illuminated by thick candles placed on every table, as well as a large oil lamp hanging in the center of the ceiling. The inn enjoyed a good reputation among travelers – for a small price, they could always find decent food and shelter here.
Not even an hour had passed when a slightly stooped man entered. Amidst the din in the room, no one, except Jangar, paid any attention to the newcomer.
As usual, the inquisitive innkeeper began to eye the stranger. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who, Jangar gathered, had fought in more than one battle. He was dressed in a long, damp cloak, the hood pulled up over his head. A leather bag, from which a large book protruded, was slung over his shoulder. This piqued the innkeeper's curiosity, and with a friendly smile, he invited the stranger to a table near the fireplace. "
Welcome, traveler, to the humble abode of my inn! I see you are very weary! Please warm yourself by the fire, while I bring you some hot food and something to drink."
"Thank you, worthy young man," said the stranger, pulling back his hood and sitting on the wooden bench in front of the fireplace. Only now could Jangar take a closer look at the mysterious traveler. He had dark hair reaching to his shoulders and was already quite old, but in his black eyes one could easily see joy and a zest for life, as well as great peace and wisdom. The innkeeper took an immediate liking to him. He quickly brought a large mug of ale and a delicious-looking roast boar. As the traveler began to eat, Jangar sat down on a stool nearby and began to say,
"The weather's perfect, isn't it? And your gracious lord, if I may ask, is he going to the tournament in Lusiana?" Oh, please forgive me, I didn't introduce myself! The innkeeper quickly jumped up and with a smile offered his hand to the old man. "They call me Jangar, I've been working in this inn for twelve summers, of which I am, by the way, the happy owner!" "
I'm glad to meet you, young man!" said the traveler, returning the smile. "I, on the other hand, am called Shandal, a former warrior of the King's Guard who, due to old age, gave up fighting and devoted himself to his second love – writing. Now I wander the world, being everywhere where something interesting happens. I describe all important events in this book." The speaker slammed his hand on the leather bundle containing the chronicle. At these words, Jangar was greatly astonished.
"And that's news!" Various knights and famous adventurers came to the "Swift Goat," but the chronicler... well, it gives me all the more pleasure to welcome such an eminent guest to my
inn. Hearing this, Shandal filled with pride, but tried not to show it. Leaning his elbows on the table, he said,
"Er, it's really no big deal. But, noble host, I have a favor to ask of you. Will you rent me, a weary traveler, some lodging? I don't need luxury; a small, dry corner will suffice.
" "Of course! I'll go see if there's a room left on the first floor; there are comfortable beds, and through the windows you can see the white towers of Lusiana..." Jangar jumped up quickly and was about to disappear behind the linen screen covering the entrance to the living quarters when Shandal spoke again:
"Innkeeper! I almost forgot." He pulled a small pouch of money from his coat and tossed it to the surprised Jangar. The leather pouch made a soft clatter as it fell into the innkeeper's hands. "A week in advance." The old man forestalled the question. After a moment, Jangar stepped behind the canopy with a smile, weighing the pouch in his hands. Shandal, meanwhile, set down the empty roast bowl and quickly surveyed the others gathered in the inn. Then he took a long swig of beer, stretched his legs toward the fireplace, and lit his pipe. The first clouds of smoke rose up from the ceiling. The old man closed his eyes as if pondering something intensely. He raised his head and looked out through the matte window. The rain had stopped, and the sun emerged from behind the clouds.
* * * * *
Zarrif slowed and surveyed the surroundings. The road wound between old oak trees, but it was wide enough for two carriages to pass. A few furlongs away, a small but swift and clear stream flowed. The air was filled with the delicate scent of flowers and the pleasant aroma of rain-soaked earth. A profound silence reigned, broken only by the gentle murmur of the water. The rider reined in and stopped. For a good three hours, he had been riding at breakneck speed, his horse bordering on exhaustion, so now Zarrif, with a smooth movement, dismounted and led him to the spring. The animal pricked up its ears gratefully and eagerly began to drink. Meanwhile, Zarrif removed his soaked cloak and sat down on a large granite stone half-submerged in grass and flowers. For a moment, he strained his senses, listening for the sound of hooves, but then he calmed down. He had certainly lost his pursuers the moment he entered the forest. It was undeniable that the storm had also helped; the rain had washed away all hoofprints from the hard forest track. By the way, who would have thought that these scrawny peasants would so eagerly pursue a thief robbing their oppressor? Well, that's their business anyway—" Zarrif interrupted his thoughts and unbuckled his loot from his belt. "In the leather pouch were four large gold bars, worth roughly 5,000 Imperial Denari. The ore came from Sir Tezuka's mine and was part of the Empire's tax. When Zarrif single-handedly looted the shipment from the mine, Tezuka became so furious that he sent a forty-man pursuit party (which, thankfully, consisted of the aforementioned peasants and miners).
With a smile on his face, the looter stood up and walked over to the stream. He greedily drank a few sips of water. It was cold and refreshing. He removed his shirt and examined his right arm—it was covered in half-dried blood. He washed the wound with water—a stroke of luck, in that the men pursuing him were unskilled with crossbows, and the bolt barely grazed him. Zarrif cursed viciously and began to bandage the wound with a torn-off piece of his shirt. Now all he had to do was visit the guild, and he could enjoy the money he had earned through great toil
.
"My lord, the innkeeper requests a generous meal!" The young boy stood at the threshold of the room Shandal had rented. The old man nodded with a friendly smile, indicating that yes, he would be down to the main hall shortly. The boy smiled shyly and disappeared behind the door. Meanwhile, the chronicler slowly rose from the bed, where he had slept yesterday fully clothed, without even removing his shoes. He washed himself with water brought by
a servant and dressed in his now dry clothes.
A moment later, he was downstairs. Jangar stood by the beer barrel, pouring the golden beverage into the mug of one of the inn's morning guests. As soon as he spotted Shandal, he approached him, wiping his wet hands on his breeches.
"Good morning! How was your night? Were those children in the next room making any noise?" They're such a frisky bunch that they can fly around until dawn... really, it's crazy with them... -
"Oh, no, nowhere! I've had a very good rest, and honestly, I didn't see any children - I was so exhausted yesterday!" Seeing Jangar's embarrassment, the chronicler smiled, revealing his milky-white, if slightly crooked, teeth. Suddenly, his expression changed to deadly serious.
"Lord, as I was saying, I'm in Louisiana to add a few chapters to my book. Is there anywhere in this town worth visiting? I'd love to hear some legends and history, and as we know, it's hard to find someone who knows ancient history, even from a few generations ago..."
- "Right," Jangar admitted sadly, then took a long swig from the mug on the table. "Beer?" he blurted out after a moment, this time with more optimism. "What
?... Oh, no, thank you. So, how - do you know anyone like that?" Some storytellers, or perhaps sages from nearby, must have frequented the tavern. Shandal persisted, despite the innkeeper's obvious reluctance.
"No... Probably not. Perhaps I'll remember something after all, you know, the noble lord, my head isn't what it used to be..." Jangar replied, emphasizing the last sentence with particular significance.
Shandal quickly realized that this wouldn't accomplish anything. The innkeeper, though seemingly unimaginative, knew what he was doing. Well, stronger arguments were needed. "
Perhaps something to clear my mind?" the old man said, handing Jangar a handful of imperial thalers. It worked. The fat beer drinker, feeling a few coins richer, immediately became eager to chat.
"All sorts of people show up at the 'Swift Goat' every now and then, pretending to know all the truths in the world. Sometimes, speakers of what they claim is great fame come here. Most often, however, it turns out they're just second-rate storytellers, who come to tell tales for a pint... Such sons of bitches...! But I don't chase them away, because what's the point? Soon, the locals will gather, and they'll guzzle so much beer that I have to keep running for barrels." "Er, profit, I mean, they assure you," he clarified, seeing the bored look Shandal gave him. "
But to the point. If you, distinguished sir, are curious about history and legends, I advise you to go to the Temple of Graha. They're knowledgeable
in all sorts of arcana, they know thousands of stories, and they can even tell stories like that! You can't outsmart someone like that!" I will gladly help you, gentlemen, as soon as you make even a modest donation to the temple of the Great Grah—the Most Holy One!—here Jangar raised his eyes theatrically, intended to give the appearance of religiosity, but the effect was truly comical.
Shandal hurried out of the tavern.
* * * * *
end of part one
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