The Crown was burning. Rathi crouched in the snow, swaddled in the folds of an oversized coat he’d stolen before fleeing into the night, watching the building burn. The woman-bandit had spoken true: he would not soon forget this night.
There must have been some two dozen bandits between the ones that had stepped inside and those who had remained without. Even if those of the inn had been brave enough to mount a defense, to try and fight back, they still would have been outnumbered and outclassed. The pack of them had descended on the inn like locusts, turning out the pockets of everyone present and raiding the spirits and foodstuffs from the kitchen.
Perhaps, if the innkeeper had not mistakenly thought the warknight would roust the intruders, the bandits would have left after doing no more than that. They were out for gold, even for the fun of frightening a common room full of pudgy-bellied merchants, but to actually kill did not serve the greed of such ilk. Such was the law among wise, clever thieves: fleece the sheep for their wool and leave them alive so you can do so more than once.
Wisdom, it seemed, did not always stave off malicious revenge.
So now the inn was ablaze, surrounding by the laughing silhouettes of the brigands as they watched those who had trusted in its shelter flee into the night, jeering and mocking them as they ran. Even the innkeeper himself was run off, though perhaps he would return when the bandits had departed and see what he could salvage of his old livelihood. Meanwhile Rathi, ever unnoticed, had escaped through the back kitchen door. He thought one or two might still have spotted him, but one little boy was far below the notice of such thugs.
Though he had been sheltered at the Crown long enough to feel a sense of loyalty to the inn and its keeper, in truth it had more been morbid curiosity that froze Rathi in place, watching the bandits as they loaded their horses with their stolen loot. Certainly he knew regret and despair when the torches appeared, no doubt lit at the fireplace from which the old qaron had been chased, to be tossed onto the roof and back through the windows. Rathi did not relish knowing he was without a home once more, and though he could hardly comprehend the suddenness with which he had lost this one, he still dreaded the fact that the worst of winter was yet to come. Somehow he’d just have to make his way along the Tradesmen’s Road, alone, and hope he could make his way to a city before a blizzard came along and buried him.
When he’d first come to the Gilded Crown, down from the north, Rathi had stolen rides on the backs of wagons. With the golden summer weather all around and no shortage of berries or mushrooms to be had for those who knew where to forage, the journey had rather been an adventure. Now all he had was his stolen coat, an apple in one pocket, a half-loaf of bread in the other, his own two feet and the oversized (also stolen) boots upon them, and the knowledge that he now had to race against the arrival of the worst weather that winter had to offer.
Although he knew the next city to the south only by name — Mare’s Crossing — Rathi decided heading that way was his best bet. Maybe he’d be able to outrun the snows if he went south. At least he wouldn’t be running into them, as he was quite sure he would be doing if he went north. So, south it was. With a pang of sorrow and loss, and a curse for the heartless warknight who might have stopped it all, Rathi turned his back on the blazing inn and followed his firelight-lengthened shadow into the night. All he could do otherwise was to hope Mare’s Crossing wasn’t too far away…
Though the orange glow of what had been the Gilded Crown remained a light on the horizon behind him for miles, otherwise only the silver light of the stars dappled Rathi’s way. Along this stretch of its great path, the Tradesmen’s Road was but an earthen trail cutting through low hills and scattered copses of trees. Too far from any bastion of civilization to be maintained by the hands of men, Rathi’s only guides in following it were the deep-worn ruts of thousands of wagon-wheels and the prints in the snow of those who had already fled the inn ahead of him.
What the boy would have given for a horse or a pony of his own! The boots he wore kept his toes dry, at least, but they were meant for a grown man and were overly heavy on his little feet, exacerbating the task of trudging through the mud-churned slush on the road. Having little other choice, he continued on, and on, and on.
As he was starting to wonder what he was going to do about finding a place to sleep and stay warm for the night — wondering if maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to take to the road — he spotted the distinctive flicker of a campfire in the distance, off in one of the groves of trees the Tradesmen’s Road wound past. With a hopeful whoop, Rathi gathered himself for one last push and focused hard on its encouraging yellow glow. He stayed on the road as long as he could, stepping his heavy boots into the deeper drifts beside the dirt path only when he had no other choice but to do so.
He didn’t know what he was thinking, leaving the road and shuffling into the deeper snow towards a stranger’s fire, but he was only a young boy, after all, and children were not known for their wisdom, especially not when they were desperate. No doubt he had at last caught up with someone else escaped from the ravaged inn, someone just as lost and bewildered as he was, who couldn’t possibly turn him away from the comfort of their fire! Whoever they were, it hadn’t been long since they had diverted from the road, themselves, for Rathi was able to wade along in the footsteps they had left in the snow behind them, cutting a trail that was easier for a boy as small as Rathi to follow instead of pushing his own way through the snow.
But when Rathi at last drew near enough to the trees to make out the face of the lone figure beside the fire, he stumbled to a bewildered halt. It was, of all people, the warknight — who had spotted Rathi in turn, his head turned towards the approaching child.
Rathi froze in place. This Jerek Aers had handed the Gilded Crown to those marauding rogues. Even if one warknight wasn’t enough to deal with twenty-some bandits, he hadn’t even tried! He was the last person on all of Liune that Rathi wanted to share a fire with!
But despite his sudden surge of anger and indignation, that fire was all too alluring and the road seemed very far behind him now. His boots were heavy, his coat was heavy… and he just didn’t want to have to keep going tonight!
It was the warknight that looked away first, turning his attention back to something spitted over the fire. He did not wave, call out, or otherwise acknowledge Rathi in any form. Next Rathi noticed the gleam of the firelight dancing up and down the length of the warknight’s demon-sword, which had been thrust into the ground beside the fire like a post or a pole. And then, too, there was the little shape of the imp. Rathi couldn’t make out its face yet, but he saw it turn its head and leap to its feet with apparent excitement.
Finally, simply too tired and too cold to go back to the road, Rathi picked up his feet again and continued his approach.
“Boss! Boss!” The imp’s voice carried eagerly across the night air. “Look!”
The warknight, who had already looked, did not do so again. The imp, however, did not seem to be discouraged. It scampered to the edge of the circle where the firelight was brightest and the snow had been melted away, jumping up and down and waving its hands about as if Rathi needed any more help spotting it.
The warmth of the fire was like a balm when the boy finally stepped close enough to feel it, but he stopped at the fringes of its embrace, glaring at the warknight beside the fire. Though the imp scampered about like a puppy, yipping amazement and welcome, Jerek’s attentions never left the game-bird he was turning on a spit over the flames. The scent of the cooking meat, which Rathi’s frozen nose noticed at last, was decidedly tantalizing.
“Wow, Boss, wow!” the imp was squealing, oblivious to the way Rathi glared at the man and was ignored in turn. “It’s him! From the inn! Why you think he’s all the way here, Boss? Hey! Why you all the way here?”
The imp’s warm little hands suddenly grabbed one of Rathi’s own, startling him into looking down at the tiny creature. The grin on the bodhi’s face stretched practically from ear to oversized ear. “You wants come with us?” The imp looked eagerly over its shoulder. “Boss, can he come with us?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you little gnat,” snorted the sword, as the warknight remained silent. “Though I cannot imagine what in the Realms brought this stunted little waif all the way out here, I am not curious and do not care — nor, obviously, does my lord. So just send him on his way again so we-”
“They burned down the Crown!” Rathi exclaimed, finally finding his voice.
Jerek continued turning the spit. The sword blinked inscrutably. Only the imp gasped, its grip tightening on Rathi’s fingers.
“You could’ve stopped them, but you didn’t,” Rathi went on, “And they burned it down! It’s your fault!”
“Oh, Boss!” Holding tight to Rathi’s hand, the imp looked back at its master. “Boss!” It looked up at Rathi, its eyes wide and horrified. “All the bandits? Why? Why’d they do that?”
“Because of him!” Rathi spat, jabbing a finger at the warknight with his free hand. “Because he didn’t stop them after the innkeeper said he would!”
“Well that will teach the grizzled old fool not to make false claims, then, won’t it?” snorted the sword, eye rolling. “Though I admit I am disappointed my lord choose not to slaughter the lot of them and could have used a bit of excitement, short-lived though it might have been, your old master had no business assuming we were there to look out for him, boy — and if he couldn’t protect his own establishment, well then, its loss is his own fault. Now then, off with you, before I make that acquaintance with your insides after all.”
“Oh, Boss, but now he’s got no-place to go!” moaned the imp, its grip tightening even further. “He’s Grig’s friend, can’t we keeps him?”
The warknight still didn’t lift his head. He only regarded his meal, turning it round and round, making sure it cooked evenly.
“Your friend?” The sword scoffed, voice dripping with scorn. “He picked up a nut you dropped and now he’s your friend? I should have known your loyalties could be so easily purchased, imp. Was dear Nydatar aware of that fact before she first summoned you?”
The imp bristled all over, wings flaring to their full spread. The creature released Rathi’s hand and seemed about to leap upon the sword once more, as it had done back in the Crown — but suddenly the warknight jerked his free hand up in a sharp gesture, slicing the air in a single motion.
Something about the way the sword’s eye twitched in response left Rathi certain the weapon had flinched.
“…Excuse me, my lord. I do forget myself at times,” the sword murmured. Its eyes glanced at the man briefly, then returned their gaze to Rathi. It was not just the metal of its construction that made the stare a cold one.
The boy stared at the warknight, thinking perhaps now the man would acknowledge him, but Jerek only lowered his hand and returned to his cooking.
“It’s your fault,” Rathi growled lowly, somewhere between furious and desperate. “They burned down the Crown because of you.”
The imp looked up at him, settling its little wings, then turned soulful eyes upon its master. “Can’t we keeps him, Boss? Maybe… maybe for old time’s sake?”
At last the warknight turned his head, but it was to look at the imp and not Rathi. The bodhi ducked its head shyly.
“Maybe?” it asked again.
After a moment, again the man’s attention returned to his roasting game-bird. He lifted his hand again, this time pointing at the ground where the imp had previously been sitting. Rathi didn’t know what the gesture meant until the imp tugged on his hand again, pulling him closer to the fire.
It was impossible to leave the heat of the flames now that he had stood near them for so long and started to thaw. Encouraged by the tiny bodhi, Rathi finally sat down near the fire, where the earth was dry and layered with fallen pine needles from the thick branches of the trees spread overhead. It was no toasty hearth-bed, but it was better than trying to find a warm place to huddle out in the snow… even if the company was questionable.