by Samuel Marshall

You wipe a hand across your forehead, scattering the raindrops that clung stubbornly to your eyelashes. Lightning chooses this moment to strike, illuminating only a churned-up mess of mud in the hollow between two hills. You think the path lies directly ahead, in much the same way that you think it’s only a little further to the next village, think you haven’t lost your way. Thunder booms overhead, laughter at your delusions.

The hilltop lies ahead, minor goal in your journey, but still a bitter struggle to reach. You trudge forward against gusts of wind that hurl a wall of rain at your sodden form, slipping and sliding in the treacherous mud that was once some kind of path and is now well on its way to becoming a stream.

You reach the summit, one small victory, and stare ahead into what, you might as well admit to yourself, is now the darkness of night. In the next valley, there’s something – you rub once more at your eyes, thinking there must be a mistake. No: a light, straining thinly to reach you through torrents of rain. At this distance you can’t be certain, but it looks like a lantern, the type – your optimism suggests – that might hang outside an inn to welcome travellers. Shadows around it even suggest such a building, but that really might be your own imagination; the light itself is no mirage.

The hill drops steeply away, so steeply as to cast doubt on whether this route is the trail you had aimed for, or merely an animal track. But by now you no longer care; you press onwards. The angle of descent means you have to half-run much of the way, and more than once you lose your balance, slithering haphazardly for several seconds of panic before you regain undignified control by landing squarely on your bottom. It’s dangerous: if you were to break a leg, nobody would come to find you in this storm. But you’re chilled to the bone, you’ve had more than enough of this weather, and there is prospect of shelter. You can’t bring yourself to make a cautious, step-by-step descent.

In a short while you reach more level ground and a better path, which is wider and easier to negotiate in the scant light. It takes you directly toward the building, which gradually resolves itself through the jagged curtain of rain: the closer you get, the more it looks like an inn. Eventually, you’re near enough to see a sign-board swinging outside, its creak just barely audible over the howl of wind and the hiss of rain, and so there is no doubt.

‘The Traveller’s Rest,’ you mutter to yourself. Rain dribbles irritatingly into your mouth, so you close it again. A rather generic name, perhaps; you’ve probably seen several inns called the same. The sign is uninspired, too, featuring a – presumably – weary traveller, seated at a table. Somehow the picture feels a little odd, but you can’t put your finger on the reason. Whatever: it’s an inn, and it had damn well better be open.

Another pace, and you’re beneath the open porch. The small wooden roof doesn’t keep out much rain, but it protects the sole lantern that swings back and forth in the weather. You knock forcefully on the door, announcing your presence, then fumble for the latch. But before you can open it, the door is pulled inwards.

A gruff voice announces, ‘Hurry in, stranger. You’re soaked, but let’s not let any more rain inside than we have to.’ You stumble inside, still slightly off-balance after reaching down for the latch, and only then, as the shock of warm air hits you, look up.

It’s a minotaur.

You gape, mind momentarily inactive after the sudden change of temperature. Over seven feet tall. A bull’s head. Horns. Definitely a minotaur.

‘Hand me your cloak,’ the minotaur suggests, deep-voiced. ‘And any weapons. No weapons allowed here, but you’ll get them back when you leave.’

Weapons. You were just getting around to that thought, but not in quite the same way. Still… this minotaur, rather than demonstrating his contempt for your inferior race, and indeed, rather than smashing your skull with a giant axe, appears to be acting like an inn’s doorman. Maybe that’s just what he is.

You play along, because truth be told you haven’t much chance in combat against a minotaur, weapons or no weapons. Once you’ve divested yourself of equipment and the sodden, dripping cloak, he nods. ‘You’ll be wanting a bath, what with all that mud? There’s one ready.’

For a second you consider protesting – it’ll add an extra cost and you should economise – but after today’s journey, a bath is hardly a wasteful luxury. The fearsome doorkeeper directs you to a small side-room and leaves you to alone to disrobe and clamber into the steaming copper tub.

The bath is bliss, removing the grime and cleansing the scratches of a hard day’s travel. You relax in the sensation, listening to the faint, reassuring noise of conversation and occasional bursts of muffled music. The sounds promise an interesting evening, more than merely a respite from travel.

All too soon, the water has cooled to the point where you feel you should get out. You tread gingerly, leaving a little trail of water, across the wooden floor to the fireplace. A towel hangs over the back of a chair in front of the flames and you take grateful hold, rubbing yourself dry with its warmth. Then you dress in the spare clothing from your pack, stuffing the damp travel clothes into their place.

You venture out into the entryway once more, to be faced with the minotaur – you’d almost forgotten. But, again, he seems unthreatening, and stores your pack in the cloakroom when you ask. ‘Main room’s in there,’ he offers afterward, with a jerk of his huge thumb.

The gesture leads you to a pair of large, oaken doors, solid and well-polished; you push one of them and it swings smoothly inwards, releasing a rush of sound from within. The main room is busy, packed with a wide variety of people, and most of them talking while they sip at a drink. Beside humans, there are several dwarves and elves, and you even spot another minotaur. In the shadows away from the fire… well, you can’t see much, but whatever is there looks to be even stranger. You would be frightened of it, of this peculiar mixture of races, but everybody seems to be having a good time, so you decide to go with the flow.

Allowing the door to close behind, you make your way to a vacant place at one of the tables, near the fire. You lower yourself onto the bench and begin to relax a little more, taking in the atmosphere.

Off to one side, a patchwork-clad kender juggles deftly, tossing a changing selection of assorted items into the air: empty tankards, dinner plates, a stolen purse and – bizarrely – somebody’s sock. He’s far enough away that you don’t yet fear for your own possessions.

The room is strangely shaped, with a sloping ceiling at one end, and nooks and crannies aplenty. In one of these shadowed corners, a solitary elf sits cross-legged, arms round a small harp that occupies his lap. He’s playing softly, the instrument’s glittering tones forming a subtle backdrop to the conversation. You don’t recognise the tune; it seems to be a repetitive sequence, gradually changing as time goes on. The minstrel’s eyes are closed; he seems near to trance. His music too is a touch hypnotic, but it sparkles and shifts enough that it doesn’t drain energy from the listener.

Evidently your entry was noticed; a busy-looking barmaid, one of a few around the place, finally hurries to your table.

‘What would ye be liking, sir…?’

‘A meal, please, whatever you have. And an ale.’

She nods and scurries back around the large wooden counter, momentarily ducking her head through a back door to relay your request to the kitchen. A few moments later, she’s back with your ale. You thank her and take a long draught – it’s good stuff.

Looking around again, you continue to wonder at the mixture here. It’s a range of people that you wouldn’t expect, not in these troubled times. Of all races, no less! There’s even a gnome at one table, fiddling with some tiny device that looks to be an ‘improved’ salt-cellar.

You realise, too, what confused you about the sign outside: it was the clothes. The namesake traveller’s clothes seemed strange, perhaps a little old-fashioned; a neckline that was shaped differently to the normal pattern you would expect, folded-back cuffs that you don’t recall seeing except on formal wear. But it’s not just the sign. Many of the patrons are also dressed just a little strangely, wearing clothes that seem just a little too outlandish or too plain.

Perhaps this place is a crossroads for travellers from far and wide, you reason. But you can’t think where they’d be going to, or coming from. You’re surprised that an inn even exists, out here in the hinterlands; you wouldn’t have been here yourself if you’d planned your route properly, since you were aiming for a town that turned out to be some miles too far distant.

Your meal arrives; a large wooden bowl of thick stew, together with a decent chunk of bread. ‘Thanks,’ you tell the barmaid. ‘By the by, I’m planning to stay here the night. Is there a common room for sleeping…? I’m a little short of coin, so whatever is cheapest…’

She nods. ‘We’ll have space for ye. But don’t be worrying yourself about money, here.’

You raise an eyebrow.

‘All’s free for those like yourself,’ she smiles, ‘on but one condition.’

‘A condition…?’

‘Aye. When it’s time, ye must tell your story.’

‘My story…?’ you echo, again. The barmaid must think you a halfwit, since you’re repeating everything she says. But you’re having some trouble understanding.

She nods, grinning at your confusion. ‘Ye must have a story, or ye wouldn’t have found us. Anyway, I’ve work to be doing.’

The barmaid bustles off, leaving you somewhat less the wiser. You eat your stew, which turns out to be a good wholesome meal, much-needed after the rigours of today.

Maybe you were mistaken for some kind of bard, you speculate. But you notice, on glancing around at the others nearby, that some of them look similarly confused.

As you mop up the last of the stew with a hunk of bread, you notice that the dwarf sitting opposite has just finished his own meal. You engage him in conversation, but it proves fruitless; though you exchange names, it seems there must be some problem with his understanding of the language, since he claims to be heading for Sanction and you know you’re not that lost. He seems similarly doubtful about your own plans.

Looking away, you watch as the kender finally progresses to juggling with the innkeeper’s pet cat (a feat which, though moderately successful, results in innumerable squeals and several scratches that will probably need treatment). Shortly afterwards, he is encouraged to desist, and – wonder of wonders – actually sits still on a chair.

You don’t expect that to last, but everybody else seems to be quietening down too. The elf stills his harp-strings; somebody takes a second salt-cellar away from the gnome before he can ‘improve’ it (the first one exploded some time ago in a messy shower of crystals); and the room settles to a low murmur.

A pair of barmaids drag a low wooden platform from the kitchen, shoving it into position just in front of the bar. It’s a central location that everybody should be able to see, and is presumably where – if you understood the barmaid at all – the storytellers will stand.

One more preparation is carried out; the middle-aged man you take to be the innkeeper reaches up with a long pole-hook and opens some kind of window in the sloping part of the ceiling. You realise that this must be part of the actual roof. Sure enough, the wide gap reveals stars and a moon, though no sign of the storm you were in earlier. Maybe it blew over.

You also don’t feel any of the cold draught you would expect to circulate from such a large window… strange. And there’s something wrong about the view… You shiver, wondering what this place is. Certainly no ordinary inn.

But the company of people seems warm and unworried, despite the bizarre mixture of races, so you feel a little relaxed, as the first person – the elven harpist, it appears – is called to tell his tale.

He climbs the step, stands on the platform, and begins. You listen, intrigued; his story is strange, set either in the deep past or some place you have no knowledge of, but he speaks of it as if he had been there when the events happened.

The next speaker is a human, and clearly no bard, but he still has something to say and he does so clearly. The lands of which he speaks seem more familiar, but are still subtly strange in ways you wouldn’t expect.

When he finishes, you notice a flicker in the corner of your eye, and look up to the overhead window – to see the stars shift. It is as though they are moving in place for the next speaker, and you finally realise with shock that in fact they are, or the inn is, and that this is a place of all times or of none.

Storytellers give their best, while stars and moons shuffle and fade to keep up, for a good few hours. Half the audience seems unfazed, but the rest gapes with wonderment as they realise the truth, and it is this half that are called to tell their tales.

Eventually, it is your turn. You stand on the platform, glance upward to see the sky shift into its familiar pattern, and pause for breath. Of course, the barmaid was right: you do have a story to impart. And, since even the very skies have moved for that purpose, you’re duty-bound to make it your best tale yet.

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