outside seemed to be looking off to the north. Melann and Whitlock followed along and did the same. In the north, flashes of lightning tore up the dark sky. Soon, the thunderthat the lightning brought with it would be heard even over the noises of the crowd, Melann observed, and rain would pour down, bringing a quick end to the festivities. The approaching storm had the appearance of an invading army bent on destruction.
Melann’s attention drew toward the crowd around her. “A storm,” someone cried. “But that never happens!” another declared. “A storm on Midsummer’s Eve!” “… a terrible sign.” “A bad omen!” “… poor portents for the future …”
Melann herself knew their words rang true. The gods usually blessed Midsummer with a clear night in which all could celebrate until dawn, or so she’d been taught. A storm—a terrible storm such as this—was said to presage terrible events. Something horrible threatened this city and beyond. Her flesh grew cold.
A chilling, harsh wind blew in from the north, causing the torchlight to flicker, and tugged at the party clothes of the dancers and celebrants.
Whitlock looked at her and said, “We’re going to need shelter.”
“We’ve no choice, then,” she replied, her mind more focused on the ominous, thundering harbinger roaring down from the north than on her brother’s statement of the obvious.
“You’re right,” Whitlock said. She knew he hated not having a choice.
* * * * *
The grain house sat just where Ferd said it would. The door bore a wooden sign with a crude scrawl on it: Northrip. Gray, bare boards made up the building, and there was a single window. Through the rain, which had started just a few minutes beforethey found the building, they could see dim light slipping through spaces between some of the boards.
Melann pointed at the light and whispered, “Perhaps Ferd offered the grain house to some other traveler needing shelter.” Whitlock’s hand went to his sword hilt.
The door opened easily. Melann paused, speaking the words of a minor blessing. Whitlock stepped forward, his ready hand still clutching his sheathed sword’s hilt. He continually adjusted his grip, nervous but ready to draw it if he must. Dust covered the bare floor inside, and Whitlock’s boots stirred up small clouds as he entered. A closed door on the far wall probably led into the grain bin. A rust-encrusted pitchfork hung on an equally rusty nail next to the door. The light they had seen evidently came from within the grain bin.
“Who’s there?” a rough voice called from beyond the door.
Whitlock shot a glance at Melann. She spoke, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. “Ferd Northrip gave us his permission to stay the night here.”
“Wha—” the voice began, then the speaker paused. “Oh,
Ferd
sent you.” Sudden sounds coming from beyond followed these last words.
The door opened and out stepped a man. He was at least six feet tall with a great girth. Hairy bare arms hung at his sides, his roughly woven clothes marking him as a man of little means. His broad face suggested more beast than man. His upturned nose showed too much nostril, and his eyes were small, like dark animal holes. He glared at the pair, looking each up and down.
“My name is Melann, and this is my brother Whitlock.”
The man just grunted, looking at them as though taking inventory.
Whitlock said, “And who are you, sir?”
He grunted again. “Name’s Orrag Grinmash,” he said with a voice coarser than his clothing. He rubbed his unshaven face with a massive hand.
Whitlock’s mind held little doubt that Orrag was some sort of thief or brigand. In fact, he thought, “Ferd” was probably his accomplice. Now Orrag prepared to attack them while they slept and take their belongings. The whole scheme was a well-rehearsed plot. Generosity indeed! Whitlock would show him that he wasn’t so easily tricked and robbed. He knew that a
Melann’s attention drew toward the crowd around her. “A storm,” someone cried. “But that never happens!” another declared. “A storm on Midsummer’s Eve!” “… a terrible sign.” “A bad omen!” “… poor portents for the future …”
Melann herself knew their words rang true. The gods usually blessed Midsummer with a clear night in which all could celebrate until dawn, or so she’d been taught. A storm—a terrible storm such as this—was said to presage terrible events. Something horrible threatened this city and beyond. Her flesh grew cold.
A chilling, harsh wind blew in from the north, causing the torchlight to flicker, and tugged at the party clothes of the dancers and celebrants.
Whitlock looked at her and said, “We’re going to need shelter.”
“We’ve no choice, then,” she replied, her mind more focused on the ominous, thundering harbinger roaring down from the north than on her brother’s statement of the obvious.
“You’re right,” Whitlock said. She knew he hated not having a choice.
* * * * *
The grain house sat just where Ferd said it would. The door bore a wooden sign with a crude scrawl on it: Northrip. Gray, bare boards made up the building, and there was a single window. Through the rain, which had started just a few minutes beforethey found the building, they could see dim light slipping through spaces between some of the boards.
Melann pointed at the light and whispered, “Perhaps Ferd offered the grain house to some other traveler needing shelter.” Whitlock’s hand went to his sword hilt.
The door opened easily. Melann paused, speaking the words of a minor blessing. Whitlock stepped forward, his ready hand still clutching his sheathed sword’s hilt. He continually adjusted his grip, nervous but ready to draw it if he must. Dust covered the bare floor inside, and Whitlock’s boots stirred up small clouds as he entered. A closed door on the far wall probably led into the grain bin. A rust-encrusted pitchfork hung on an equally rusty nail next to the door. The light they had seen evidently came from within the grain bin.
“Who’s there?” a rough voice called from beyond the door.
Whitlock shot a glance at Melann. She spoke, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. “Ferd Northrip gave us his permission to stay the night here.”
“Wha—” the voice began, then the speaker paused. “Oh,
Ferd
sent you.” Sudden sounds coming from beyond followed these last words.
The door opened and out stepped a man. He was at least six feet tall with a great girth. Hairy bare arms hung at his sides, his roughly woven clothes marking him as a man of little means. His broad face suggested more beast than man. His upturned nose showed too much nostril, and his eyes were small, like dark animal holes. He glared at the pair, looking each up and down.
“My name is Melann, and this is my brother Whitlock.”
The man just grunted, looking at them as though taking inventory.
Whitlock said, “And who are you, sir?”
He grunted again. “Name’s Orrag Grinmash,” he said with a voice coarser than his clothing. He rubbed his unshaven face with a massive hand.
Whitlock’s mind held little doubt that Orrag was some sort of thief or brigand. In fact, he thought, “Ferd” was probably his accomplice. Now Orrag prepared to attack them while they slept and take their belongings. The whole scheme was a well-rehearsed plot. Generosity indeed! Whitlock would show him that he wasn’t so easily tricked and robbed. He knew that a
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