wasn't old enough to develop a strict segregation of classes. Melann enjoyed that about the place. Whitlock didn't seem to notice.
The two dismounted and tied their horses to a post a few buildings away from the tavern-as close as they could get. Whitlock pushed his way into the crowd, but Melann slipped through the teeming throng faster than he. He grabbed her arm and held it as they moved. They stuck together as they threaded their way through the wilderness of people.
Inside the tavern, the crowd thickened. The two finally procured some wine as well as a bit of roast pork and vegetables. The meal's flavor almost matched its exorbitant price. While they ate, after actually managing to find a table just then vacated, Melann attempted to ask the barmaid about lodging for the night. The woman just shrugged and moved on, obviously more concerned with serving drinks than chitchat that didn't help her earn her keep.
Whitlock rolled his eyes and motioned to the door. 'We'd be better off on the road, I'm afraid.'
Melann sighed. She knew he was right, but at the same time, she regretted that duty so consumed her life that they couldn't stop for just one night and take part in this celebration. Instead, it presented them only with another obstacle in their quest.
'Pardon me,' a man said, seating himself gingerly on the only empty chair at the small table, 'but I couldn't help but overhear that you are in need of lodging.' He was tall, with a high forehead and wide cheekbones. His voice carried a slightly annoying nasal quality, accentuated by the fact that he had tell almost shout to be overheard in the din. He ran his hand through his thinning black hair and continued, 'I know of a place where you can sleep tonight I if you're not too picky.'
Whitlock's glare in this newcomer's directions seemed to carry with it all the suspicion and distaste he could muster, which Melann realized was considerable. The man tried not to notice but did anyway. He cleared his throat.
Melann replied, 'Where?' Whitlock turned his glare to his sister.
'Well,' the man said, turning to Melann, 'just outside of town there's an old granary. It's not much a rooming house, but I can assure you there's room there, plenty of hay and what not to sleep on, and it away from the noise a bit-if that's what you're after. I own the building but no longer use it. You’ll find it to the south of the main road, just on the other side of the stockyards. The door bears the name Northrip.'
Whitlock shook his head. 'Thank you anyway, sir, but…'
'Maybe we should look at the place,' Melann said to Whitlock. Unfortunately, to be heard, she had to speak loud enough that the stranger heard her as well.
'Yes, by all means, if you wish it. I'm not even going to ask for payment. I just thought someone should benefit from it. It's Midsummer festival, after all.'
'You're very generous, sir,' Melann said. 'Could I ask your name?'
'Oh. Ah, my name is Ferd. Ferd… Northrip.' He smiled broadly.
'Well then, Ferd, I shall thank Our Mother tonight in my prayers for bringing us to such a generous man.'
He smiled nervously as he glanced down at Melann's amulet bearing Chauntea's symbol. 'Well, I should be going,' he said as he rose from the table. 'You don't actually trust him, do you?' Whitlock demanded as Ferd disappeared into the crowd.
'Well, we've little reason to trust or distrust him, but I suppose we could just make our camp out-side of town as we have been, at least for tonight.' She sighed.
'I'm glad to hear that,' Whitlock said, and Melann realized he didn't notice her exasperation.
When they finally left the Flagon Held High the singing had stopped, but that didn't reduce the overall commotion. The dark night was riven by innumerable torches throughout the city, almost resembling daylight. Most of the people outside seemed to be looking off to the north. Melann and Whitlock followed along and did the same. In the north, flashes of lightning tore up the dark sky. Soon, the thunder that the lightning brought with it would be heard even over the noises of the crowd, Melann observed, and rain would pour down, bringing a quick end to the festivities. The approaching storm had the appearance of an invading army bent on destruction. Melann's attention drew toward the crowd around her. 'A storm,' someone cried. 'But that never happens!' another declared. 'A storm on Midsummer's Eve!' '… a terrible sign.' 'A bad omen!' '… poor portents for the future…'
Melann herself knew their words rang true. The gods usually blessed Midsummer with a clear night in which all could celebrate until dawn, or so she'd been taught. A storm-a terrible storm such as this-was said to presage terrible events. Something horrible threatened this city and beyond. Her flesh grew cold.
A chilling, harsh wind blew in from the north, causing the torchlight to flicker, and tugged at the party clothes of the dancers and celebrants.
Whitlock looked at her and said, 'We're going to need shelter.'
'We've no choice, then,' she replied, her mind more focused on the ominous, thundering harbinger roaring down from the north than on her brother's statement of the obvious.
''You're right,' Whitlock said. She knew he hated not having a choice.
The grain house sat just where Ferd said it would. The door bore a wooden sign with a crude scrawl on it: Northrip. Gray, bare boards made up the building, and there was a single window. Through the rain, which had started just a few minutes before they found the building, they could see dim light slipping through spaces between some of the boards. Melann pointed at the light and whispered, 'Perhaps Ferd offered the grain house to some other traveler needing shelter.' Whitlock's hand went to his sword hilt.
The door opened easily. Melann paused, speaking the words of a minor blessing. Whitlock stepped forward, his ready hand still clutching his sheathed sword's hilt. He continually adjusted his grip, nervous but ready to draw it if he must. Dust covered the bare floor inside, and Whitlock's boots stirred up small clouds as he entered. A closed door on the far wall probably led into the grain bin. A rust-encrusted pitchfork hung on an equally rusty nail next to the door. The light they had seen evidently came from within the grain bin.
'Who's there?' a rough voice called from beyond the door.
Whitlock shot a glance at Melann. She spoke, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. 'Ferd Northrip gave us his permission to stay the night here.'
'Wha-' the voice began, then the speaker paused. 'Oh, Ferd sent you.' Sudden sounds coming from beyond followed these last words.
The door opened and out stepped a man. He was at least six feet tall with a great girth. Hairy bare arms hung at his sides, his roughly woven clothes marking him as a man of little means. His broad face suggested more beast than man. His upturned nose showed too much nostril, and his eyes were small, like dark animal holes. He glared at the pair, looking each up and down.
'My name is Melann, and this is my brother Whitlock.'
The man just grunted, looking at them as though taking inventory.
Whitlock said, 'And who are you, sir?' He grunted again. 'Name's Orrag Grinmash,' he said with a voice coarser than his clothing. He rubbed his unshaven face with a massive hand.
Whitlock's mind held little doubt that Orrag was some sort of thief or brigand. In fact, he thought, 'Ferd' was probably his accomplice. Now Orrag prepared to attack them while they slept and take their belongings. The whole scheme was a well-rehearsed plot. Generosity indeed! Whitlock would show him that he wasn't so easily tricked and robbed. He knew that a circumspect eye is a Dalesman's greatest asset. 'Orrag, Our Mother Chauntea has brought us here to this shelter. She is a great provider and takes care of her servants well,' Melann said.
From outside, a howling cry grew in intensity, then whistled all around them. The light flickered in the wind, from which this old building offered only meager shelter. A steady drumming began against the roof and walls.
Orrag seemed a little surprised by her words. 'Hmm. Yes, I suppose so.'
Orrag stepped into the small room with Melann and Whitlock. He smelled of alcohol and old sweat. Whitlock looked carefully on the large man for weapons but couldn't see any obvious signs.
'So, here for the festival?' Orrag asked casually, moving around the other two, as if making for the door.
'No, actually,' Melann answered. Orrag stopped and seemed surprised. 'No?' 'No. We're just passing through,' Whitlock stated flatly, turning slowly to follow Orrag, watching his every move. Something about the way he walked, and the scars on his hairy arms and face told Whitlock that combat and strife had traveled Orrag's way
