Hilda's Inn for Retired Heroes

by Cyn Bagley

  That a time loop would be in a forest far away from civilization made Michael nervous. It was effective. In fact, he knew he had lost at least one day probably two to this loop. It was hard to tell. Sometimes when you were traveling on foot, time could get fuzzy.

  He knew he could break the spell. It was not hard. You just needed to know that it was actually happening to you. Also it helped if nothing dangerous was involved with the loop because you had to have a lot of faith that you were going to break the spell. If you failed, then the loop could rebound its energies on you, which was how it killed mages.

  In school he had seen someone caught in a time loop. It looked as if they were walking in the same spot and doing the same actions over and over. Michael supposed that he and the horse had looked like they were marching in one spot. Considering how sore his legs and thighs were, it had been a long march. It would probably be a good idea to take a rest and then break the loop in the morning.

  As he thought about waiting until morning to break the spell, the shimmering edges of the spell became more solid. This spell was slightly different. He didn't remember the other time loop, turning solid. His heart started to beat a little faster and a little louder. H would have to break the spell now or he might caught in this spell until the two of them died from lack of food or water. Even now he could see the time look solidify so that he and the horse couldn't get to the brook.

  He sat down in the middle of the path with his hand on the horse's reins. The horse snorted against his neck and then quieted. He closed his eyes and mentally reached for the boundaries of the illusion. It felt slippery against his mind as if this piece of magic was made especially for him. It meant only one thing. He had carried the spell with him.

  He got up with his eyes closed, and then fumbled with the buckles of the pack on the horse. He searched blindly in the pack, feeling for something that didn't feel right. At the bottom of the pack there was a small stone. It stung his hand. Michael pulled it from the pack and opened his eyes.

  It was small, white, and extremely innocuous. He threw it in the bushes saying quasso, quasso, quasso. The stone began to shake. Little pieces broke off until it exploded. Michael ducked when one piece went for his head.

  As the stone broke, he found himself back in the first forest. It didn't seem coincidental that the very forest that he felt so glad to leave was the place he found himself. Instead of stopping under the trees, he decided that they needed to leave now.

  The horse apparently agreed because when Michael mounted him, the horse was eager to move. Michael settled in the saddle as the horse began a trot.

  In two hours they were out of the forest with a small field in front of them. A small farmhouse was in the distance. It wasn't too far away so he slowed the horse to a walk.

  The fields around the house were neglected, and some bare spots were where a garden would have been. It hadn't been plowed for a year or two. The trees looked a little scraggly, and as he rode closer he could see paint peeling off the wood of the house. Even the front stoop was falling down and hadn't been repaired. It gave a feel of neglect and despair in the growing gloom of dusk.

  He didn't bother to call to the house. It was obvious no one had been there for a long time. But in the back was a barn. He dismounted, and led the horse into a stall. It had been a working barn, and there was a small bag of oats hanging from a nail. Thankfully, the mice and rats had been unable to get to it. Michael didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He poured some of the oats in his hand and fed it to the horse.

  The horse's soft lips pushed against his hand until all the oats were gone. He pushed against Michael, looking for more treats. "No boy," said Michael. "You'll get some in the morning." He hung the bag of oats back on the nail.

  He unsaddled and unloaded the horse, and then brushed his coat to a fine sheen. When he was done, the horse took a deep drink of water, and closed his eyes. It was still light enough, so Michael went to the house to see what he could scrounge.

  The door was slightly opened. As he walked in the smell of dust and mold overwhelmed his sense of smell. For a moment he could smell every mouse that had lodged in the house, every rat who had scavenged in the kitchen. It was extremely dark so he flicked his fingers and a small light floated over his hand.

  The slight glow illuminated a wooden table and chairs; a huge fireplace was at the end of the room. The table had plates and cups carefully set. And the dust had settled on everything.

  In the corner was a ladder. He held his light up to see what was at the end of the ladder. He could barely see a space where a small adult or young child could sleep. In many of the country farmhouses, the children usually slept in the attic, while the adults had the benefit of sleeping next to the fire. There were probably only rats up there. But this abandoned farmhouse piqued his curiosity. It looked like from this one room that they had not meant to disappear. Something or someone took this thriving community.

  In the quiet he heard a small exhalation. He stopped and listened. Could there be someone alive up there? A ladder against the wall and above it was a small hole. Was someone up there? It looked like there was a small room in the eaves under the roof. He climbed up the ladder. If someone was up there they would see him first.

  Instead of poking his head up to possibly get stomped on, he said, "Hello, is someone up there?" He heard a scuttling sound and then a black head peeked at him.

  "Who are you," said the little creature.

  "Michael," he said. "Why are you up there?"

  The little creature jumped into his arms. Whoosh. Michael almost lost his hold on the ladder. He held the little creature to his chest as he climbed back down. The child felt like it was only a few bones. When he looked closer he could see it was a little boy. The poor thing had not eaten for awhile. His face was sharpened from hunger and Michael could feel the boy's ribs under his shirt.

  "How old are you? What's your name? What happened to your family?"

  The little boy cuddled up against his chest.

  "How did you survive?" Obviously the boy hadn't been on the main floor because if he had been there would have been footprints in the dust.

  The boy pointed at the attic, and refused to say anything. Michael set him on a chair with a "don't move" admonition. He then went back up the ladder. It was probably a lucky thing for the boy that he had come just then. The food that had been up in the attic was all gone. There had also been water stored up there. Now it smelled of urine, feces, and rats. The boy would have starved soon if he hadn't come down the ladder.

  Whatever had taken the rest of the family had not surprised them. They were preparing for a siege of the kind you only read about in stories. But, even with their preparations, they had not been able to change their fate. They did try to save the child.

  He clambered back down. Some of the stains he could see on the floors and cabinets were not dirt. No they looked like dark stains that were once blood.

  A premonition caused a shiver down his back, letting him know that magic was involved. He spread his sixth sense and swept through the house, trying to see what had happened to the family. But the spiritual emanations had been wiped clean. So his suspicions were correct. Magic was involved, likely a black mage.

  The black mage hadn't wanted anyone to know what had happened to this corner of the realm. There were only a few people who could have felt the badness in the house and he was one of them.

  The boy whimpered. Michael still had a small amount of food in his packs although he had hoped to get a good hot meal. He picked up the boy and carried him to the stable. It would be safer there, not because it was defensible, but because they could run if they had to. He could smell the blackness in the land, in the trees, and in the farmhouse. The family had been used from soul to bone, leaving nothing but a void. The only reason that the boy was still there was because he was too young and probably too small to be a magical source. It was likely that the family had some gifts. Since they were farmers, they probably
had green magic. Green magic, or the gift of growing green things, was not always recognized by common folk as magic.

  But mages could sniff out people like that. Some mages marked the families that carried small amounts of magic for gaining more power. Although Michael was a mage, he didn't do black magic. Not the magic that killed the soul as well as the body. Eating that kind of power was the blackest mark one could have on one's soul. It made Michael shiver.

  The house, the boy, and the stable were beginning to feel like a trap. He had spent too much energy breaking from the last trap. He needed to rest and recuperate. The horse would warn him. The boy – well, he had to see what dangers the boy would bring.

  He carried the boy in his arms out to the stable. He built a small campfire outside the stable, and then cooked a small stew from the leftovers in his pack. By the time the stew was ready, his stomach was growling and the boy was smacking his lips.

  When Michael handed him a bowl, the boy tried to drink the stew like water. Michael stopped him. "A spoonful at a time," he said. "Eat it slowly. You eat it too fast and the stew will be on the ground and not inside you."

  Still Michael had to slap the boy's hand when he tried to inhale the food. After half a bowl, the child's tummy was extended. Michael took the bowl away and wrapped him in the blanket. He watched the night descend, and then lay near the boy and pulled him against his chest to warm him.

  The horse blew out and shook his head, before settling down for the night.

  Chapter Four

  Black Forest north of Delhaven

  Michael Ordson

  By late morning Michael's growing troop was ready to start the next part of their journey. Michael had pulled out his scissors to cut the little boy's hair. He ignored the boy's keening, which upset the horse enough that he began to neigh and kick the stall.

  "Don't upset the horse," Michael said calmly. "I am going to cut your hair so you can see."

  The little boy settled down and Michael was able to cut bangs. And then the boy smiled; he had a beautiful cherubic face with dimples. "You'll be a heart-breaker when you grow up," Michael said as he smiled back. The smile melted a little of the frozenness around Michael's heart.

  After cutting the rest of the little boy's hair to his shoulders, he showed the boy how to pick up every strand, every bit of the boy's essence. They even went to the attic. With a solemn face and great intensity, the boy cleaned every piece of hair and skin he could find. No black magic user could find him, if none of his essence was there. Afterward they built a fire and burnt the hair and skin. The burning hair lingered in Michael's nose. It had to be done. It was the only way he could protect the boy from the magic that had killed his family.

  Then they started their journey. The boy sat high in the saddle looking around. When Michael had asked which direction his family usually went to the market, the boy had pointed south. They went that direction.

  At one time it had been a nice dirt road. People had traveled this way many times. If Michael listened he could hear the voices and sometimes laughter echoes from the road and surroundings. Once, this area had been a good place.

  Now the birds didn't sing. The smaller rodents rustled in the grass and occasionally they would see a squirrel, but the larger animals had not been here in ages. No deer, no wolves, no large cats graced these lands. Even the smells were of something that had rotted, leaving the smell of death behind.

  Michael led the horse. It wouldn't hurt the horse to go at a slower pace after the magic of yesterday. Also, he used his senses to check for time loops. He was not ready to be caught in another mage trap.

  It was late in the afternoon when they walked into a small village complete with a tavern, small store, church, and a few houses. A man with a pitchfork stopped him before he made the square. "Halt," he said. Then he looked at the boy. "He's got Davi!" he shouted.

  Suddenly the doors of the village opened and the people poured out into the square calling Davi's name. "Where is your family, boy?" the man asked. He kept the pitchfork level to Michael's chest. Davi started to cry.

  "What did you do to his family," the man snarled. If Michael didn't talk quickly the sharpened tines would be thrust into his chest.

  "Sir," Michael said politely "I had nothing to do with his family's demise. I found this boy in a farmhouse, hidden in the attic. There was no one else there. It is a wonder that this boy didn't starve."

  The man dropped the tines to the ground and leaned against the pitchfork. If needed it would take just a small movement and the tines would threaten Michael again. Instead of reacting by force or magic, Michael stayed calm. It was obvious that the villagers had been terrorized. They were aggressive instead of happy to fleece the new stranger. Michael stood quietly, not wanting to upset the townsfolk even more.

  "Stop," said the boy. He swept his hair behind his ears. "He saved me." The boy, now Davi, slid from the horse. He pushed at the man's legs. "Stop," he said again. "He is my friend."

  "Where's your family, boy" the man stepped back.

  For a minute the boy looked like he had grown a few inches from that morning. Michael shook his head to clear his thoughts.

  "Mr. Grant," Davi said respectfully. "They were taken in the night. When I woke they were gone and I was too scared to come down. He helped me. He fed me."

  The villagers swarmed around Mr. Grant and Davi. They left a large space around Michael. Some of the women pulled Davi to their chests and cried. Michael saw no children running through the streets, no children coming out of the homes and business. It was so unusual that Michael almost asked about the children. But something in the atmosphere and the glare from Mr. Grant made him careful of his words.

  "You can leave now," Mr. Grant said, the butt of the pitchfork set firmly in the dirt.

  "Mr. Grant," Michael said. "I need food to carry with me. And some hay for my horse. Letting me go just before dusk, well, that's unfriendly."

  Mr. Grant frowned. "We do have an outbuilding that you and the horse can share. We have little food to spare, but we can give you some bread and ale. You'll have to scavenge after you leave here."

  Mr. Grant led him to a small building that had been used as a stable in the recent past. There was enough hay for the horse to eat and it wasn't moldy. Michael smiled when he saw the horse sigh after he pulled off the saddle and packs.

  As Michael settled in he heard a commotion outside. "Mister, mister." The voice went up and up into a scream. Michael ran out of the outbuilding and followed the scream. Davi was being held by one of the women. She was trying to take him to her home. "He'd have a good family," she pleaded, trying to pull Davi to her cottage.

  "What's wrong?" he asked Davi.

  "They been touched," he said. "They been touched." His fear was unmistakable.

  Michael gently pried Davi from the woman's hands and then led Davi went to the outbuilding and the horse. The horse lipped the boy's hair. The boy pulled his little stick arms around the horse's neck and cried.

  Touched by what. He had only left Davi with the villagers for a moment. It had been strange that there were no children. The geas on him pulsed and then stopped. The geas had been driving him through the forest and even while he was in Davi's home. He felt uneasy that the geas was in no hurry to leave here.

  In a few moments, after he had settled the horse and Davi, the villagers brought stew and ale. The two women looked longingly at Davi, but Davi held onto the horse and refused to look at them. Davi's fear told Michael that this place was every bit as dangerous as the forest.

  Chapter Five

  Black Forest north of Delhaven

  Michael Ordson

  After the kidnapping incident, Davi stayed near the horse. Although the horse was older and hadn't been a war horse, it would keep the tainted villagers away from the boy. The boy clung to the horse as if he feared the grasping hands of the villagers.

  There was a wrongness in this village. As he ate, he couldn't hear the high pitch screams of childre
n at play. The stew had a slight bitter taste. He looked out from the stable and saw a gray cloud had settled over the houses and properties. It was ashy and left a foul taste on his tongue. If he had known what his senses were now telling him, he would have gone around the village even though he and Davi needed food and rest. He could feel the taint in the air and in the earth. This is what had been killing the trees.

  Michael left Davi in the stable with the horse and passed the place where Mr. Grant had stopped him. It became clear as he walked into the center of the village that the villagers had lost pride for themselves and for their homes. A woman squatted in the middle of the street and crapped. Her gown was stained with excrement and dirt. He could smell the mix of ashy taint and feces wafting from her. The entire road was filled with every imaginable filth-- feces, rotted food, and rotting flesh. He tried not to step in any of it filth, but it was almost impossible to stay clean. Most of it was fresh. In a few days travelers would bypass this village because the smell would tell them it was a dead town.

  From the evidence in front of his eyes, the villagers had been tainted less than two or three days. He tried to step in clean areas, but the poop and piss had piled up around the houses and paths. Even the animals that would normally live around human settlements such as dogs, cats, mice and rats were all gone. It was unsettling.

  He could see evidence that this little village had been prosperous. The houses were painted and a few had glass windows. It had probably been a way-station with money coming to the village from travelers.

  After walking around the village for about twenty minutes, trying to understand why the place had gotten so filthy and decrepit, he stopped in front of the Inn. There were no lights, no people, and no movement of any kind. It was dark and still. He slipped through the slightly ajar door. The smell was worse than anything he had ever smelled. It was a combination of sulfur, sweet, sour, and feces. Even though it was light outside, it was as dark as night in the public room. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could see movements, scuttling, bouncing, and the walls moving.