The Arkanist

Chapter Two: Woodhearth

Chapter Two: Woodhearth

 The road to Woodhearth was not supposed to be long—a two days ride given the best possible weather, three at the most. For Hale, it had taken ten.

            By the time he reached the low granite wall, having limped a good majority of the journey, he collapsed. His legs crumbled beneath his weight and he felt the world thrust up into his core. He lay there, panting, breathing in the dry ash as it settled over his figure. He would have stayed in that position all night had the guard not arrived.

            It was just beginning to darken when Hale felt the slight nudge at his ribs. When he didn’t budge, he was kicked, hard, straight in the stomach, breath being nocked from his lungs. Hale gasped upon the ground as the guard, a tall man in his own right, told him off. In little time, (less time than he would have liked) Hale had rose to his feet and scrounged up his meager possessions, and started to the inn, just down the cobble road.

            It was a small building, nothing special, with oak walls and a thatched roof, stairs leading up to an oiled, beech door. At the threshold, a plate of iron stood, smoothed across the doorstep and large plums of smoke rose from the stone chimney, invisible against the darkening skies. Warm red lantern-light pooled by the entrance, running down the steps onto the cobbled walk, a welcome sign to one so weary as Hale. A good warm bed would serve him well, and he knew it as well as anybody.

            Inside, the taproom was lit by a small hearth, fed by long thick logs, and thin waxen candles, which hung upon iron scones along the walls. Short wood tables and chairs dotted the floor, mostly vacant, save for a cloaked man in the corner and an old vagabond by the door who smiled at Hale with wooden teeth. Hale strained a smile back.

            To the left stood the bar, all of mahogany, and richly polished. Behind the counter a panoply of bottles and plates and mugs were stacked in random assortment. Bottles of wine and mead and ale from almost every corner of the known world, Hale found. He even thought he even spotted one from the far south, of Zi-Ti, but then again, his eyes had gone weary and blurry from eating stale bread and drinking river-water for the past ten days.

            There was also a women sitting hunched over a mug of what appeared to be Elbish Ale, back faced to the door. At least it smelled like Elbish, to Hale. In truth, it could have been anything.

            Hale limped toward the bar in an effort to find out if he could buy a room with what little coin he possessed. His odds were not looking good.

            He took a seat and glanced over to the woman. Her hair was sandy and her eyes were closed shut. He didn’t know if she was sleeping. Before he could ask her anything, a man appeared from behind a door, young, with auburn hair snipped short and wet blue eyes. He held a cloth in his hand and began to labor over the wood, slowly, thoughtfully.

            “Can I help you?” the innkeeper inquired as he scrubbed, looking down. “What would you like: drink, food, or room?”

            “All three,” Hale said. “If I can spare the coin.”

            “How much do you have?” the innkeeper asked, putting the cloth aside as he looked into Hale’s grey, tired eyes.

            Hale staggered before replying. The man had a strange look about him, an old look, a wild look. He didn’t see many with it, or at least not anymore. “A poor man’s fortune.” Hale grinned, slightly bashful. “Maybe four royals at best. Five if I’m lucky?” He wasn’t feeling very lucky.