Torly?

Quintus squinted at the map, then at the tiny town—a mere scattering of low buildings, a cluster of unmanned stands, and a few lit torches to chase away the darkness. And at the centre of it all, sat a small Cathedral. He scowled. Of course, the Divine City had one of its stooges here. Though he couldn’t imagine what they stood to gain from such a tiny town.

So much for sleeping in a warm bed. Maybe there was a cave or overhang he could hole up in until morning. He sighed and turned to head away from town. And that was when he caught a whiff of pot-pourri on the breeze. He smiled. He’d spoken too soon.

Quintus shouldered his cross and descended the incline to the gate below.

The lone guard manning it narrowed his eyes, hands drifting to the sword at his hip. His simple leather vest and shin guards were cracked and peeling. A netherbone could run him through with ease. “Who goes there?”

Quintus raised both his hands to show he had no weapons. “Just a weary traveller looking for a place to lay my head. I mean you or your little homestead no harm.” Unlike those creatures lurking in the woods, he added in his head.

The guard eyed him up and down. “You don’t look like you’re from this region.”

“Well, that’s because I’m not. I left the desert after it was overrun by netherborne. So where does one beg a room around here?” he asked before the guard could berate him further. He wanted to get settled in before the show.

The guard flicked his head toward the gate. “There’s a tavern not far from here, the Rusted Crow. They offer rooms for real cheap.”

Quintus smiled. “Thank you, my good man.” He moved to enter the town, but the guard stepped in his way.

“One word of trouble out of you, and you’ll be answering to me, personally.” He accentuated his point by pulling his sword from its sheath just enough for Quintus to see the glint of twilight on the blade.

“Sure buddy.” Quintus patted him on the shoulder and continued on his way. The buildings had looked much smaller from atop the hill and the road had some variegation to it, hidden beneath the foot-worn dirt. It seemed sweeping the streets was out of this place’s budget. The cluster of little stands he’d seen from the hill seemed to be a makeshift market of sorts—abandoned at this hour. The Rusted Crow sat opposite them, noise drifting from within its stone walls.

Quintus stepped inside and into a thin cloud of smoke mixed with the breath of alcoholics and whatever oddities this place served. Men and women sat around the tables shooting dice, playing cards or carousing while wait staff flitted around with platters of food and drink. Most of the patrons clustered in the far corner, around a man in white and gold regalia sitting with his feet up on the table and a tankard aloft in one hand.

So there was the local priest. Quintus didn’t recall men of the cloth partaking in strong drink as it addled their ability to fight off the netherborne. Which made this situation even more interesting. He weaved his way around the low wooden tables to the bar at the back. Bottles of alcohol lined the shelves behind it filled with alcohol nigh as clear as pure water, some dark as cherry wood and everything in between. His favourite kind of rainbow.

The barkeep, a buxom young woman of no more than twenty years, sidled up to him and leaned on the bar. “What can I get for you, stranger?”

Quintus put on a charming smile and fished a few coins from his pocket. This was his chance to get some information. “Surprise me.”

She swiped the coins into her apron and flounced off to make his drink. Meanwhile, he turned his ear to the Priest who had the patrons wrapped up in a riveting tale.

“Those netherborne in Husford were something else,” he was saying. “One broke through the gates late at night, bigger than this tavern.” He took a swig from his tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Had to take that thing down on my own, almost lost my arm too.”

Quintus snorted and rolled his eyes. He’d never seen a lone Priest beat a netherborne bigger than a horse. He hoped the one lurking outside the town was big enough to rip the tavern’s roof off with one hand.

The barkeep returned with his drink, a tankard filled with bubbly ale carrying the slightest hint of fermented fruit. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Actually, I was wondering, who’s that guy over there?” He flicked his head towards the Priest.

She looked to the corner of the room, and her lips flattened into a thin slit. “That would be Malachi, the local Priest. Divine City sent him down last year after the old man retired.”

“Ah.” Quintus nodded. “He seems popular amongst the locals though.” He took a sip of his ale and peered at her over the rim of his tankard. “But you don’t seem too fond of him.”

The barkeep sighed. “Hard to be fond of someone who doesn’t pay their tab. I would’ve gone out of business already if it wasn’t for my regulars. For a priest, that guy drinks like a damn fish.”

Quintus almost cried. He may have a warm bed tonight after all. “How about I make you a deal? I get him to pay his tab and you put me up in a room for the night.”

She snort-laughed. “If you can get one coin out of that guy, I’ll put you up for a week.”

“Hey Lailah!” the Priest called. “I’m running a little dry over here.”

She scowled again. “Let me know if you need anything else.” And she flounced off once again.

Quintus hid his smile behind his tankard. And here he thought wandering around this region would bore him to death. He closed his eyes for a moment and tuned out the ruckus of the patrons, the click of the dice, the laughing, the yelling, the lies, and listened to the town beyond the wall.

There, he heard the scamper of small animal as they retreated away from the town, the flapping of bird wings. And over it all, a low, sinister growl.