by Cyn Bagley
Hilda's Inn for Retired Mercenaries
Published by Cyn Bagley at Amazon.com
Copyright © 2015 by Cyn Bagley
Amazon.com Kindle Edition, License Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Image Credit
ID 51939066 © Jozef Klopacka | Dreamstime.com
Dedication
To my late-husband, Otto, I love you forever.
1947-2014
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Titles
Excerpt
Hilda's Inn for Retired Heroes
Chapter One
Delhaven, port city
Hilda Brant
Just before the sun pinked the sky and before the birds began their dawn choruses. Hilda Ann Brant crept down the rickety stairs, trying not to wake her customers lying on the thrushes in the main room before the embers of a dying fire.
She wore a pair of old breeches, and carefully tip-toed around the lice covered snoring bodies. She kicked the soles of Danny's feet to awaken him. He was leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. His job was to keep the fire going through the night so that the customers were toasty in the morning.
Danny opened his eyes, jerked to his feet, and slipped outside to bring in a load of wood. Later in the day he would split the wood with a small hand ax. With a swing, the ax would hit the wood, and then he would bang it against a hard stump until the small hand ax split through the wood. For hours he would split wood for the fireplace for the next night. Danny was an orphan, one of the bastard sons of her companion who died in her arms. It was Danny's father's death that gave her the added incentive to buy her retirement plan.
Soon the cook would be in the kitchen preparing the bread to be served with stew. The warm smell would gently wake the snoring customers.
When she bought the Inn from the previous owner, he had been extremely proud of his hundred year endless stew. He took a small pot of the stew so that he could keep it for the next generation. Good riddance. But, the stew was nourishing. She kept the cook because folks from miles around would come to the Inn to sample it. It was only good business.
In the courtyard, Hilda bent down and stretched until her fingers touched the ground. Then she stretched her heels, legs, and then arms. After the stretch she run a fast pace through the courtyard gate and onto the road that led to the main village. A few years ago she would have done this run carrying her sword, leather jerkin, various knives and other paraphernalia. She had gotten used to running every day as a mercenary. It was always good to know that you could run away in a bad situation even when your body aged.
The younger generation had heard all the war stories and ballads. When they went to war, heck when she went to war the first time, she wasn't prepared for the stench, the adrenaline, the running, the hitting, and then the sheer tiredness, wondering if you would survive and then wishing you hadn't.
When it was over, you didn't feel euphoria, just resignation that the next day you would have to do it all over again. The images would never leave your mind and heart. After a while you could become inured to it. Some of the mercenaries wanted that rush, that feeling of power. When they weren't at war, they would get into a few bar fights to let off steam. Hilda knew they were addicted to war and making war. Without Danny's father as a friend and mentor, she would have also fallen into that category.
A half mile into her run, she slowed to a jog. The dirt gave under her weight. She took a deep breath and felt the cool air spread through her lungs. She blew it out and grinned.
The dawn spread pink and orange fingers across the horizon. She could see the castle above the walled city as it turned the same colors, and then eventually back to gray. It was time to go back. She took another breath of air, turned, and walked back to the Inn.
Her lungs felt tight in her chest and she felt slightly dizzy. She could feel her body aging. Not too long ago she could run all day and only feel tired when she saw her cot. Nowadays when she ran she felt aches and pains. Someday, sooner than she wanted to admit, she would have to give up running. For now she enjoyed the feeling of her expanded lungs and the ache in her muscles.
When she reached the Inn's courtyard, she could already hear the cook's shrill voice. The men who slept on the main floor were out in the small courtyard, lighting their first rolled cigarettes for the day. The sounds of morning mumbled and grumbled around her. Some of these men she had known from her mercenary days. Some of these men were way-travelers going to who knows where. Some were hunters.
Hilda walked into the side building that housed the kitchen. It was never a good thing when you could hear the cook from the courtyard.
This little tableau of domestic chaos froze as Hilda came through the door. The cook had a huge rolling pin in her hand and was about to bludgeon one of the drudges. The drudge was another one of Hilda's charity cases. She had been a camp-follower with the mental capacity of a young girl. She had brought the drudge with her because it was just too easy to abuse this girl-child.
"What's going on here?" Hilda said in a cold voice.
"She, she, she," each time the cook said "she" her voice became shriller and her face reddened. Hilda stared her down until the cook looked at the floor. About that time the cook composed herself and said softly. "The bread is ruined."
Hilda looked at the drudge who was staring out the door. "Go help Danny," she told the drudge. The drudge skipped out the door.
"I don't care what she does," Hilda said "you don't hit her."
The cook's lips tightened, but she still said yes, madam. Hilda knew that tone of voice. She had used it on many a moron officer in her mercenary days.
Hilda looked at the bread dough. It was flat and thick. She sighed. She didn't have the money to use more flour; they would have to salvage this lot.
"Camp biscuits, it is."
The cook and Hilda rolled, cut in round circles, and practically threw the biscuits into the oven. It would have to do. The men waiting for breakfast would be grumbling soon if they didn't get their stew, bread, and ale. Always something to worry about.
The Alehouse hadn't delivered the morning ales. She always bought from the alewives in the village outside the city. It was better ale and better priced than the stuff you bought off the merchants.
Plus the alewives would send business her way.
The serving wench was already serving drinks when she went into the main room. The thrush had been swept, the tables set out, and the men were drinking the thin ale. It wasn't more than thirty minutes when the first bowls of stew and biscuits were brought out to the waiting men. Some sighed in satisfaction. "Haven't seen anything this good, since my last forced march."
Others would snort, but kept eating. Another disaster diverted.
When Hilda dreamed of owning her own tavern, she had never realized the work involved in keeping her business solvent. It had looked easy when she watched her own parents. In fact the work had seemed so easy and predictable that she had left as soon as she was able to travel. But now after following armies, and killing strange beasts, oh yea, and adventures that young men yearned for, it was time to start the second phase of her life. She wished it was easier though.
Yea, she snorted. A life of ease, comfort, and bludgeoning cooks.
Another shriek. What now. Hilda raced to the kitchen. "It's burned. It's scorched." The cook was yelling and stomping and screaming and throwing dishes that Hilda could not afford to lose at the walls. She grabbed the cook and brought her down the floor. .
"What's going on?"
"The soup," she sobbed as Hilda held her down and sat on her. "It is totally ruined... burned... desecrated." At the last word, her voice went into a high note that hurt Hilda's ears.
Hilda could smell the cauldron in the corner heating up. It was supposed to only simmer. The pot began to curl and flake off in the outside of the pot. As she looked into the flames that licked and ate at the cast-iron, trying to scorch the soup, she could make out a creature in the middle of the flames. Its tongue flicked out. Hilda hustled the cook out of the kitchen, ran for her new metal pail, it was not something she could afford, but this was an emergency. She grabbed a shovel and scooped the coal with high flames into the pail, hoping that she could get the creature into the pail.
The creature, a salamander, laughed and cavorted in the flames. "Play, play?" It hopped up and down as the flames licked her arm and hand. She raced outside before the flames could taste the wooden table.
"Now Sassy," she said. "You shouldn't tease the cook that way."
The salamander bounced in glee. "Play, play?" Hilda didn't have time for this, but she shoveled the salamander and coals into a metal bucket and transported it to an enclosed wood-burning stove in the stables.
Fortunately, Sassy liked the stove. Sassy was the other reason why she wasn't training new recruits as mercenaries. The occult clung to her. Some people are sensitive to the smell and feel of magic. Those that couldn't still felt a vibration that made them uncomfortable.
Even though Hilda used domestic magic, It still made other mercenaries uncomfortable. She didn't mind that her fire elemental scared the cook, except the cook would slap and pinch the drudge for the rest of the day.
The salamander hadn't burned the soup, although it could have. Hilda had learned that fire couldn't hurt her after the disaster of Shalinmajar. It still gave her shivers, when she thought of that day. It was one of the reasons that mages were feared.
In Shalinmajar, the mages burst fire from their hands, torching unsuspecting soldiers. The screams, the ashes, and the smell of burnt meat followed Hilda in her nightmares. Sassy had saved her that day. She had made a protective wall of fire around Hilda and her squad.
When one of the mages came tried to breach there wall, Hilda lunged, killing him with one blow threw the heart.
Sassy followed Hilda back to camp and had been with Hilda ever since. It was another bit of strangeness that clung to her.
So, putting away the memories, Hilda played and stroked the fire spirit. She shaped fire flies for the spirit to catch. Soon she was making trees and glittery flowers in the fire. Sassy flicked her tongue. Colors of orange, yellow, and black floated around her. When Sassy started to close her eyes and settled into the fire for nap, Hilda left to calm the cook. People still needed to be fed, and horses still needed to be watered.
The day had only started.
Black Forest north of Delhaven
Michael Ordson
The dark forest rustled and hooted around him as Michael Ordson rode through it, looking for the main road to a small walled port city past the Swayback Mountains. In his dreams he was told that he needed to reach his sister's inn.
Young men went on adventures. Not him though, he wanted to finish his schooling and become a king's mage. But, when he ignored the dream, and walked to class, a minutes inattention, he was back in his small room and was packing. He tried again. This time he ended up at the stables with a small pack on his back.
He knew then that someone had put a geas on him. He must complete the task or each time he would be farther down the trail. He had heard stories, myths really of mages, starving to death, feet worn to the bone, because they had fought a geas. He walked back to his room, checked his bag to make sure he would have enough supplies for the journey, bought food stuffs, and then went back to the stable. The university would loan a horse for need. He supposed that with a geas he had a terrible need. It was like a rope around his neck, with a jerk here and a jerk there.
The clip clop of the horse on the trail settled his nerves and a little of the anger. If he ever found out who had wrapped this geas around him, he would throttle the bastard.
He allowed himself a little self-pity. His plans were in disarray and he had worked years for it. If he didn't finish his final testing, it would take another five years before he could claim the title of royal mage.
The geas jerked him onward through the small forest. If he could dispel this geas, he could stay home in his nice warm bed with a nice warm fire. His life had been fine. His plans had progressed on schedule. His sisters would be pleased. Now, here, he was in the middle of this godforsaken forest.
Michael pulled the reigns of his horse until the horse stopped. They had already been on the trail for hours and the riding was monotonous. Still, he was sure that he had ridden by that stone and that tree just fifteen minutes earlier. He was a city boy. Every tree and bush looked the same as every other bush. He sighed. He shook the reins, clicked his tongue and they were traveling again.
The one thing about adventures and even about forests is that you didn't always know where you were or where you were going. As far as he knew he could be at the edge of the Styx waiting for the boatman to appear. He checked his pocket for coins and sighed in relief when he realized that he was not dead, and he wasn't waiting for Charon.
He needed to find a way out of this forest. He was getting far too fanciful with only the owls and horse for company. Sometimes, you just needed to stop where you were. He climbed off the horse, hobbled it, and pulled off the camping gear tied on the back of the horse. He set protection wards, brushed the horse and checked its hooves, then rested. A little nap would clear his head.
His eyelids slid down as the horse tore clumps of grass. Soon Michael was asleep, snoring lightly. Around his wards gray figures gathered. They tried to touch him, but the wards kept them out of the small circle where Michael slept. Michael shivered, but didn't wake. The horse snorted, and then went back to eating grass.
Fog fingers hit the ward barriers and bounced back. Finally the gray figures quit trying to reach Michael. They stood around the circle, staring with hungry red eyes until the morning sun slid through the trees. Then they dissipated into the mist.
Michael stretched and rubbed his eyes. Yes, everything did look better in the morning. He packed his gear on the horse. Instead of riding he led the horse down the path through the forest until he reached a meadow. The red-eyes glared and sparked as he left the forest. If they could not get him this time, then maybe next time. The journey had only started.
He had plenty of time.
Chapter Two
Delhaven, port city
Hilda Brant
When Hilda walked into the kitchen after tending Sass
y, the cook was chopping vegetables and the drudge was hunched as she swept the kitchen's stone floor with a bristled broom. The customers who had slept in the main room of the pub area had already rolled up the thrushes and rags. The main room floor was swept to the stones and the tables were laid out for the morning crowd.
Some of the men were seated on stone benches in the courtyard stuffing their pipes with tobacco. Some had already lit their pipes. They puffed, held the smoke in their lungs, and exhaled the smoke slowly. Some of these blew smoke rings. Only magicians could make animals with smoke, but the smokers tried. They taunted each other about the failed efforts. Still the men, many of them disabled from the wars, were happier than they had been in months.
Many of these men came back without an arm or leg, or without eyes and ears, which made them useless to their families. It was slightly better than death. Those that came back unmarked also had problems of a different nature, usually mental. War touched everyone.
Hilda had worked, fought, and even played with many of these men for years. When she was retired with a little money, they came with her. Sometimes her group of men would scare away potential customers. But they paid their way their pension. Plus there was any trouble, they provided security. She gave them someplace to eat, sleep, and heal.
Rob blew a smoke ring towards her face, she brushed it away.
"A copper for your thoughts," he looked at her seriously.
She smiled. "Not worth that much."
Rob was one of her successes. She had found him on the battleground, heavily bleeding from a severed arm. She wrapped it in bandages stripped from her clothes, used a stone to press the wound until the bleeding stopped. She dragged him to the nearest medical mage. He lived. But from that day, he followed her. She hired him to tend the horses. She would find his wages in her room sometimes. Rob was proud, but he was her man.
He had a quiet voice. When the horses were riled from rough handling, he could gentle them with a soft "there, there." The horses would quit stomping their feet and listen to his voice. She wondered if he had some latent magic.
