The Wandering Inn_Volume 1

by Pirateaba

  “Pretty.”

  I say it to no one. Unfortunately, someone responds.

  As lovely as a whirlpool. Do you think it’s a spell? It might be. Anger the wrong person and you’ll be sucked into the ground in the center, there. Right by the man selling daggers with the stall.

  Why do I think like this? I sigh, take my mind off the idea of magical traps, and loiter with the rest of my group in the absent-minded sort of way crowds do when they’re waiting for someone to tell them what to do next.

  “Oh, look. Beggars!”

  A soft cry comes up from one of the other girls. I look and see Cynthia pointing with dismay at a girl with a bowl sitting around the edge of the plaza. She’s young. Can’t be more then eight, perhaps. The attention of my group is drawn instantly to her, and her situation.

  “We should give her something.”

  “Why? Look, she’s probably fed—”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “Yeah, but if you give her money, what about everyone else? Look how many there are.”

  “But she’s—”

  “Tom, toss me a coin, would you?”

  Richard settles the matter before it can turn into another argument. He raises a hand as he walks over to the girl, who looks up hopefully. I sigh and dig around in a pouch at my waist.

  There’s a good twenty feet of distance between me and Richard, and it’s growing each time he takes a step. Still, that doesn’t matter.

  I have a Skill.

  You’ve got lots of skills, Tommy boy. You just don’t use them.

  Ignore that. I have a good Skill. Not like the—others. The ones I received that night.

  Oh, happy memories.

  [Lesser Insanity]. [Horrific Laughter]. [Devil’s Luck]. [Greater Pain Tolerance]. And…[Weapon Proficiency: Knives]. Those are the skills I received on the day when I went crazy. When I had a breakdown and slaughtered a group of Demon soldiers.

  Correction: when you acted heroically. That’s why you leveled, right? You were a hero! Sorry, I mean, [Hero]!

  Ignore it. Ignore…since then I’ve leveled up four more times. I learned a few cool skills. The first is [Unerring Throw], which allows me to hit any target I aim at, so long as what I’m aiming at doesn’t dodge or block, or if the throw’s physically impossible for me.

  Cue me tossing the silver coin to Richard, over the heads of everyone else. He catches it in one gauntleted hand and offers it to the kid. He kneels down with her and Cynthia and a few others go over. I stand back, counting up the coins we have now.

  Some gold, some silver…one less. Not a lot; not if we’re buying all the gear everyone wants. But why don’t I think that’ll stop Cynthia from demanding more coins for every child beggar we have? I sigh.

  You don’t really care.

  I don’t. It’s true. But it is my job to manage the coin. I guess I can be okay with handing it out whenever anyone asks. Because that’s my job in this group. Some people are leaders, like Richard and Emily, others have opinions like Eddy who knows a lot about games, and others…why do I feel like this is the student council and I’m back in High School? Maybe because I have a position very similar to that here.

  Treasurer. Actually, I’m more like a glorified purse. I keep the money Richard and the others are given, and give it out only when everyone votes we use it. Or when Richard says. I also help make sure everyone gets food for the night, manage our supplies of potions and so on…it’s not an important job. I do it because I won’t fight. I refuse to fight.

  I had enough of it after the night when Wilen died.

  Squashy, squashy. Troll goes stompy. And little Tom goes crazy.

  For a second I debate stabbing myself. Right in the eye, or the side. Would that make the voice go away?

  Try it and find out! One stab and everyone’ll believe there’s a voice in your head! Why not?

  I hate you so much. Hate me. I know you’re not real.

  “…Tom! Tom! Get out of the way!”

  A voice calls out. I look up, and realize someone’s right on top of me. A scaly, orange face, glinting chainmail, a spear grasped by a claw-like hand—a lizard-guy is bearing down on top of me! Scratch that, a lot of lizard guys, marching in tight formation!

  He’s about to walk into me. I twist out of the way, gracefully for a guy my size. One step, and the huge lizard man misses me by a fraction of a millimeter. His buddies march past as well as I step away.

  That’s the second skill I learned. [Flawless Dodge]. It only works when I’m ready for what’s coming at me, and I can’t do it every time. But I feel pretty spry whenever it works.

  “Company, halt! Stop running over civilians, you thick-scaled idiots!”

  A voice shouts, and the lizard people stop instantly. They turn like a single unit, and I see another one striding towards me. She has black scales, a narked expression on her face, and a plumed helmet. Clearly an officer.

  Or an enthusiastic cosplayer.

  “Sorry about that. This lot is trained to walk over anyone in the way, nevermind that we’re guests here. In a Human city.”

  She addresses me and her soldiers with a glare probably meant for them. Then she turns as Richard strides over. She glances at me, and then nods at him. Yeah, that’s a fair assessment. He is wearing armor and he looks in charge.

  “Are you the group known as the, uh…‘Americans’? Sorry we’re late.”

  She pronounces the word oddly. Richard nods, extends a hand to shake. It’s odd being called Americans, especially since America’s a big place. Two continents, rather than one country. But hell, I guess America means the United States, not anywhere else.

  Makes sense.

  And I mean, what else were we supposed to call ourselves when we were asked who we were? Anyways, Richard is used to the awkwardness.

  “Yes Ma’am. We’re the Americans. And you are?”

  She grasps his hand firmly. I note her claws, although Richard is wearing a gauntlet. She’s a lizard! A giant lizard person! With a tail! And she’s clearly a she. There’s just something about her size, voice, and physique that tells me definitely that she’s female while the soldier who nearly ran into me is male. She’s humanoid enough in that respect.

  “Cirille Bitterclaw, at your service. I’m the sorry [Commander] of this lot.”

  “Richard Davenport, Ma’am. A pleasure.”

  Cirille blinks a bit at being called ‘Ma’am’. It’s customary to call people ‘Miss’ or ‘Mister’ in this world unless they have a formal title, but Richard just can’t get over calling people Sir or Ma’am no matter how many times he’s corrected.

  “You’re our escort today?”

  Emily comes over, Cirille nods briskly and indicates a large road her and the other lizards just walked down.

  “That’s right, Miss. We’re your honorary guard. We’ll be walking you about two miles to the palace.”

  “What? All of you?”

  The lizard woman smiles wryly.

  “That’s right. We’re dressed up for a little celebration, as you can see. There will be flowers, cheering—even if no one says who you are. There’s people in this city who’ll cheer a rolling barrel if it has an escort.”

  I snort quietly. So much for our heroic return. What did Emily expect? We got kicked out of here the first time we arrived.

  When we first came to Rhir, when we came to this world, we were welcomed with celebrations by the King himself and all the court. We were feasted, given parades…until they realized we weren’t actual heroes, but lost kids who couldn’t swing a sword properly. Then they shipped us out to die.

  They brought us back because some of us proved we could fight.

  And some of us slaughtered a bunch of Demons. Let’s not forget that.

  …But I guess they’re not rolling out the red carpet for us this time, unless these lizards are meant to be more important than Rhir’s soldiers? Nah.

  Cirille says pretty much the same thing to Richard as her so
ldiers line up on either side of us, looking bored and disinterested.

  “Us? We’re not locals, Miss. We’re one of the foreign companies sent here on duty to assist the Blighted King. Sometimes that means escorting people around. Every day. Not the bigwigs, though. Us being here means you’re important enough for an escort, but not enough for a full parade. They’d give you an escort of their own [Knights] and so on if you were. We get stuck marching for the lesser dignitaries and officials. Shall we?”

  Richard nods. Our group forms up more or less in a line, and I see Cynthia and some of the others staring nervously at the lizard soldiers on either side. Oh no. My stomach clenches. This better not be like the incident with the Selphid soldier.

  Aaah! Zombie! Burn the unholy thing! Don’t let it touch me! And then there was Emily washing her hands after shaking the soldier’s hand in plain view. Good times. Who says racism is dead? Or is it speciesism?

  Richard must be thinking the same thing. He coughs and addresses Cirille before she gives the order to march.

  “Pardon me for bringing this up, Ma’am, but we’ve never actually met someone from your…species before. Are you a, uh, liz—”

  The entire group of soldiers seems to freeze for a second. Cirille cuts Richard off before he can continue.

  “We’re Drakes, sir. Drakes. Different from Lizardfolk. Very different. If you haven’t seen any of those b—those other soldiers from Baleros, I imagine it’s an easy mistake to make. But we’re different.”

  He nods, gingerly.

  “My apologies, Miss Cirille.”

  “Taken. Let’s move out, you lot! Slowly!”

  And so we do. I linger near Richard, letting him do the talking as we march down out of the plaza and down one of the big roads leading to the palace ahead. Sure enough, there are people waving and cheering as we go by. I’m more interested in the conversation, though.

  “That’s right. I was assigned to Rhir with my company. We got the short straw, depending on how you look at it. All the other parts of our army were assigned to the front or to patrol various spots, but they needed someone to look shiny and didn’t want to waste their own soldiers on the job.”

  “Oh? Is that normal?”

  “Pretty much. Every nation has to send an army to support Rhir. If it were all-out war, I’d be under the command of an actual [General] and there would be at least two Drake armies here. But it’s not, so our lot gets to patrol and go claw-to-claw with those Demon bastards on the front for fun. It’s part of the old treaties, you know.”

  Richard nods. He knows, and I do too. Rhir is at war. It has been for thousands of years, apparently. Right now the Blighted King, the sole ruler of the continent, is battling the Demon King, who is the leader of…the continent. But of Demons and monsters, so apparently he’s not acknowledged as an actual king.

  Bit weird, that. Why call him a king, then?

  Anyways, the Demons and monsters that come from the corrupted part of the continent are so dangerous that four walls were built to hold them back, and there’s almost always fighting somewhere or other. The Blighted Kingdom gets aid from the rest of the world to hold the Demons back, apparently in the form of soldiers as well.

  I eye Cirille. She’s a Drake? Does that mean she’s related to Dragons as opposed to…well, whatever a Lizardperson is related to? Unlike the rest of her soldiers, her armor is open at the back to let two vestigial wings out. They’re folded up neatly and rather small. She notices me looking and smiles. Toothily.

  “Oldblood. Don’t mind the wings; they’re for show. I can’t get off the ground, but apparently that means I’m special enough to get chosen for a year’s service in this hellhole.”

  “Oh. Uh. I’m Tom.”

  “Pleased. I don’t get to talk to the people I’m marching with that often. Usually they’re too important. You a warrior?”

  “Nope. Not me. I—no.”

  She blinks at me.

  “Alright, then.”

  Smooth, Tom. Nice going. The one person who thinks you’re not crazy and you tip her off in five seconds. Is that a Skill, too?

  I hate the voice in my head.

  Talking to voices, Tom. First sign of madness.

  But I’m not insane. I’m not. The voice is…a voice. A figment of my imagination. Nothing more.

  Only an insane person would have to tell himself he’s sane.

  “Or a really sane person would say that. Because only sane people check to make sure they’re not insane.”

  “What did you say, Tom?”

  Ahead of me, Emily stops waving, looking slightly—I stop muttering under my breath and try to smile at her. Not hugely, not creepily wide or anything else like that. A small, slight smile.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  Aha. Look at her face. She doesn’t think that’s normal!

  Everyone talks to themselves. Introverts probably do it more than extroverts, and Emily’s definitely the latter. But everyone does do it. That doesn’t make me any crazier for acknowledging that.

  So you say. Keep telling yourself that.

  Shut up, me.

  Time to explain again. Hi, I’m Tom.

  You did that already.

  Shut up, shut up! I’m Tom. And I’m not insane. I can’t be. I just…it’s not a voice in my head. Or rather, it’s just another part of me. That’s the trick, you see? I have to understand that. If I don’t, I’m schizophrenic, or paranoid.

  Or insane.

  But the voice is me. It’s a bad joke, as if I’m playing devil’s advocate with everything I do. It’s overthinking things, putting words to an imaginary personality. But there’s only me in here.

  Keep telling yourself that. Did I say that already?

  Isn’t it fun? I sigh and slap myself, which makes one of the Drake [Soldiers] walking with me eye me oddly. I ignore him.

  If it’s not a voice in my head, then what? I think about that every day. If it’s not a voice…

  It started the day after the others found me surrounded by Demon corpses, drenched in blood, laughing my head off and nearly dying of blood loss. I swore I’d never be a [Clown] again, never fight. Not when I saw and remembered what I’d done. I let the crazy out. I went insane. And it’s been my choice to not do it again. Because it is me that did all those terrible things, that slaughtered those soldiers. Not anyone else.

  Not a monster, you mean.

  Exactly. It’s me. Not anything else. And because I know that, I won’t go crazy.

  Unless you already are. Keep telling yourself I’m just a voice, Tom. But we both know the truth. You’re crazy. And the smile you show everyone else, the little act? It’s wearing thin, day after day. You lost it the day Wilen died. And all your ‘friends’ are waiting for the day you snap again.

  Including me.

  —-

  I don’t see much of the city during the march. I’m busy humming loudly in my head. But I do catch up with Cirille as she tells Richard about some of the capital’s highlights.

  “If you’ve got time, head down towards the port area. That’s where most of us foreigners hang out off-duty. The Baleros and Chandrar companies are already headed towards the Fourth Wall, and I don’t envy them, but the Terandrians still have a detachment hanging about.”

  “Terandrians?”

  “Humans like you. Sorry, I assumed—are you from Baleros or Chandrar, then?”

  “No, we’re from further away than that.”

  “Really? Where, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I don’t get to hear how Richard talks his way out of this one. I hear a shout as we pass through another set of gates, from up ahead. Cirille, Richard, and I step forwards quickly and see Cynthia running backwards, face white and pale.

  “A Demon!”

  Richard and I instantly freeze. My heart begins to pound. A Demon? Here? In the city? It can’t be. But Richard’s hand is already on his sword and my own demon begins whispering in my head. Yet it’s Cirille who
doesn’t panic. She grips Richard before he can draw his blade.

  “Hold up. I think I know what the problem is.”

  She leads quickly past the suddenly wary Drakes, and we pass by a stretch of…what I can only call displays of enemy prisoners. There are cages, small, cramped, and hung from massive chains or put on platforms for passersby to stare at. And they hold something to remind the people living in the city who to hate.

  Demons.

  They have horns, dark skin which is purple in many cases, but their appearances can be as mutated and different depending on which Demon it is. Some might pass for Human…if you ignore a third eye or extra limb. But they are Demons, sworn to kill all the people of Rhir.

  And one is sitting in an iron cage ahead of us. He’s the only one; the other cages are empty, although I can see bloodstains dried in several. Not many Demons get captured alive, apparently. And this one’s just sitting there, a good distance away from our procession. Only Cynthia would freak out that much over seeing one, but then, no one in our group is happy to see them.

  They slaughtered us. Over two thirds of our groups died in one night when we were sent to the front lines. Even seeing one now makes me afraid. But he is behind bars.

  “It’s just one Demon, Cynthia. Don’t scream.”

  Richard admonishes Cynthia, who’s gone into hysterics. Behind us, one of the Drakes mutters something uncomplimentary about Humans. Cirille shuts him up. I keep staring.

  This Demon has bright yellow eyes, two curved horns like a ram, and fur. Normal, human feet, though, which is odd. Four toes, four fingers. He’s…weird.

  “Stay back. That’s one of the captives they just brought in. A Fearless.”

  Cirille orders her soldiers and the rest of us on, but she stays, eying the Demon in the cage. I look at her. Some of the crowd that was cheering our passing has broken away and is jeering and shouting at him. They look angry. Some have rocks.

  “What’s a Fearless? Why is he here?”

  The Drake shrugs.

  “Search me. It’s one of the things you Humans do. Sorry, I mean, the people of the Blighted Kingdom do. They like reminding themselves what the enemy looks like, I guess. Drakes, we just kill our enemies. But it’s worth memorizing these guys. Know what a Fearless is?”