The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance

Chapter 1

Ainsworth Gladsly assumed the moment he finally spotted the Misnich Inn would be a magnificent one—a moment worthy of the four-week torment of a journey he had undertaken to find it.

He had pictured himself standing atop a cresting hill, the fresh breeze laced with wondrous isolation stirring his impeccable hair and rippling his fine, forest-green cloak as the white stone of the inn gleamed before him.

At this point, his imagination told him, he would feel overcome with satisfaction that he was on the correct path—literally, yes, but also the one that would lead his research career to new heights.

In a flash of clarity, the kind of brilliance that often struck him at his desk in his beloved Skarrow Library, he would no longer doubt Heritage Master Lyria’s decision to send him to this isolated, wretched corner of the kingdom.

He would also no longer pine for the kinds of projects he preferred: thorough research conducted in city archives or scouring for treasures in the attics of grand homes whose heritages lingered forgotten until Ainsworth’s expertise liberated them from confinement.

Yes, when he spotted the inn, all would be well in his troubled heart.

Unlike most of Ainsworth’s theories, this one did not turn out as planned.

For one thing, the atrocious and unpredictable weather he experienced as he neared the foot of Mount Vengeance—home to the Misnich Inn, according to his great-grandfather—was an unwelcome surprise.

He was not usually so thoughtless in his assertions, but his initial reluctance to partake in this study had clouded his judgment more than the mist that obscured the view in front of him.

His cloak, never needing to protect him from more than the drizzle that found its way through the towering spires of Hinslyth city, seemed to drag the rest of him and his attire down with its sodden weight.

Water seeped through, into his shirt, his breeches, and worst of all his silk stockings.

They were his last pair, which he had saved for the final stretch of the journey, along with his sharpest trousers and gold-buckled suspenders.

He had intended to be the picture of a sophisticated scholar upon his arrival—the savior of Misnich Inn; someone to finally record and tell the story of its existence and its guests. And my, how well dressed, to boot!

But he was far from the image of scholarly sophistication as he approached his destination.

Utterly bedraggled, he suspected he would be mistaken for some wandering, weak adventurer instead.

This was exactly why he preferred not to embark upon fieldwork beyond the major cities.

When he had spent his boyhood dreaming of academic prestige and scholarly elegance, it certainly did not involve the current quantity of mud splattered all over him.

He narrowed his eyes against the relentless lashing of the rain.

It had been hours since he set out that morning—he had expected to arrive by now.

The weather was far too foul to bring out his map, however, and it showed little sign of easing up.

Once again he turned to look behind him, hoping to spot actual adventurers seeking the last haven of comfort the Misnich Inn would offer to those journeying on to Mount Vengeance.

He began to fret, yet again, that the inn did not actually exist, and that all the hardship of the past few weeks would be for nothing.

All he had to go on was a letter and a hand-drawn map from his great-grandfather that mentioned the inn some fifty years ago, and the reassurances from folk in the local region that, yes, adventurers did still pass through seeking the Misnich Inn’s respite before they took on the dark magical beasts of the mountain or sought the dragon’s hoard rumored to linger atop it.

So why had Ainsworth not encountered any adventurers heading this way?

The Misnich Inn, if it was truly down the hill in front of Ainsworth, was perhaps the most elusive stopping point for travelers in existence.

As he started his trudging descent, water seeping from the saturated earth to fill his boots, he thought: Surely an inn such as this, existing to exclusively host heroes and hardy adventuring groups, would do more to distinguish itself than relying on vague, word-of-mouth rumors?

What sort of inn didn’t even put up a sign pointing you in the right direction?

The sort that did not want to be visited, the inquisitive part of Ainsworth wondered.

Or one that did not exist at all.

Oh please, let that not be the case!

With each step he took down the hill, he bemoaned Heritage Master Lyria’s decision to send him here.

As an adult, Ainsworth barely traveled outside Hinslyth if he could help it.

When research demanded it, he had done so comfortably, employing a plush carriage led by horses and a capable driver to traverse the Wildroads that connected the populous settlements of the Kingdom of Saltquart.

There had been no such comforts to be found on this trip.

When it became apparent as he got closer to the border of the kingdom—and subsequently to Mount Vengeance—that no one but the hardiest of adventurers came this far, and that comfortable passage could not be easily booked within the budget of his research grant, Ainsworth had initially considered turning back.

For how could he, an esteemed research fellow of the Skarrow Library, be expected to traverse over mountains, across forests, and through backwater villages on foot? It simply was unfathomable!

But despite the indignity of the journey—despite the fact he should, by rights, be back in Hinslyth pursing the project of his dreams instead—he knew he could not turn back.

Lyria would not have it. She had been insistent that this project could produce the kind of career-defining research that would see him propelled to the top of his field.

Plus, what would Enach think if Ainsworth came back a failure?

And so he had carried on.

Ainsworth now cursed under his breath as he almost lost his footing on the treacherous, slippery hill that, according to the map, was his final stretch of the journey.

He held on tight to that thought until his feet finally met what felt like a purposefully crafted path, and his heart leapt when, after a quick scurry along the first mercifully flat surface he had encountered in a week, the Misnich Inn seemed to appear as if from nowhere.

The rational side of him knew it was because the wind had picked up just as the rain died down, lifting some of the mist obscuring his vision, but he could not rid himself of the notion that the inn had appeared to him just as he wished to truly find it.

Relief that it actually existed, that he had a warm place to rest his head that night, almost sent him to his knees.

He was already filthy, soaking, and loath to add yet more stains to his attire, so he held himself together and took another step forward instead.

And maybe there was at least some glory in the moment as his attention fixed on the large wooden door slotted into white stone at the end of the path.

High, arched windows with gilded frames were peppered along each wall of the two-story building, and the golden light seeping from them was almost enough to warm him from the inside out, even as the rain-slicked slate roof served as a reminder of his sodden condition.

He picked up the pace in his eagerness to gain shelter, stumbling a few times in his enthusiasm. Meaning there was nothing magnificent about the way Ainsworth arrived at the Misnich Inn.

Nor was there anything magnificent about the stern-faced guard standing, arms folded, in front of it.

Ainsworth straightened as he faced the final hurdle between the past grueling four weeks and what would hopefully be a roaring fireplace and a sip or two of fine wine.

The guard was a head shorter than him, and despite the dreadful conditions, she stood as dry and untouched by the rain as though she had basked in sunshine all day.

He watched as droplets hit a small barrier just above the surface of her skin before evaporating.

A sharp silver-gray bob cut off just below her pointed ears, which were similar to his own.

Her eyes briefly flitted above Ainsworth’s head, likely taking in his antlers.

They were rather striking—but the guard didn’t look very impressed.

“Good day, ma’am! Do not we owe thanks to the Matron for this fine weather we are having?” Ainsworth declared with a quick, conspiratorial wink. Such humor was safe, he thought, for surely even the devout could not find fault in tasking their deity for the weather!

But the guard’s expression remained stony. Her face seemed much too young to suit her grayish hair, Ainsworth thought, and her eyes were sharply blue, apparent even in the dim, fading light of the day. She offered no reply.

“Erm…” Ainsworth cleared his throat. “My name is Ainsworth Gladsly, and I seek a room for the night. May I enter?” He resisted the urge to point to the water droplets falling steadily from his antlers.

No response.

“I— Does your position here imply that the rooms are fully occupied?”

Again, silence.

“Is it gold you require?” He rummaged under the damp fabric of his cloak to retrieve his coin pouch. His thumb brushed the golden charm of a snowdrop attached to its drawstring. “How much for entry?”

Finally, she raised a silver brow and spoke. “I do not want coin.”

Ainsworth, exasperated, stuffed his coin pouch back into his pocket. “Then what do you want? Please, it is cold and I am soaked. We don’t all have the ability to cast such a practical spell, you know!”

The guard jerked her head, indicating the space behind him. “Looks like you can cast something, at least.”