Shadowguard

Twentieth of Falltide, Year 1413 AGC

The moment Everna opened her eyes, she knew something was wrong. She could feel it looming over her like a darkened cloud, dense and suffocating. It was more than a twist in her gut, and more still than a niggling at the base of her spine. It came from within her chest, an inexplicable sense of uncertainty that hounded her with relentless persistence. Tonight would be one of those nights she wished she'd stayed in bed.

Bleary-eyed and still caught in the throes of slumber, Everna lifted her head enough to peer out the window. The splendor of dusk decked the sky with vibrant hues of orange and red as the sun drifted towards the horizon. Gray clouds, the lingering remnants of the afternoon's storm, which had brought with it a blast of frigid air unusual for the season, loomed in the distance. With a curse, she let her head fall against her pillow once more and burrowed deeper in her blankets.

She didn't want to work tonight, not that she felt inclined to work any other night.

From the sun’s position she suspected it was a quarter to six in the evening. She had five minutes, and no longer, to decide. If she coughed loudly enough when her parents came to retrieve her, they might let her skip her shift; it worked well enough during her schooling. Or, she could shelve her reluctance, and haul herself from the blessed warmth of her bed and prepare for the evening.

As any sensible woman of twenty-three would do, she closed her eyes and pulled the covers over her head.

It lasted for but a moment. Just as the welcoming embrace of sleep found her once more, several loud knocks rose at her door.

"Everna?" her mother called, knocking again. "What are you doing? Your shift starts in five minutes and your father and I can't leave until you come downstairs!"

"Son of a bitch," she groaned.

She'd forgotten that, for some inconceivable reason, her parents waited until sundown to leave for the neighboring town of Trenbrook. Her Aunt Ettie was to be married at noon tomorrow. It would be her fifth wedding in three years.

Her mother knocked once more, just for good measure, and Everna sighed. "I overslept! I'll be down in a moment!"

Though this part of the kingdom rarely experienced a true winter, her skin prickled beneath the icy air drifting through her window. She hurried to the wardrobe in the far corner of the room, discarding her nightgown along the way, and dressed quickly. Once her dress and apron were in place, she twisted her hair into a simple but messy bun and pulled on her boots. Snatching her cloak from the hook beside the door, she flung it over her shoulder and eyed the sword hanging above her vanity.

It was a gift from her father, one forged and enchanted by the town's only dwarf and resident metalsmith. He meant for her to carry it for self-defense, and while she did, she hadn't removed it from the sheath since the day he'd given it to her for anything more than a routine polish. The blade was sharp, ridiculously so; she dropped it once while looking at the edge, and it cleaved through a floorboard as if it were warm butter. She shuddered to think what it would do to her if she weren't careful.

Deciding there were safer alternatives in the taproom — the shortsword her father kept beneath the bar would do just as well — she turned away from the sword and hurried down the stairs.

Halfway down, the first signs of a busy night drifted up from the taproom. The boisterous laughter and discordant singing grew louder with each step she descended. Next came the stench of stale alcohol and smoke, and when she stepped from the small alcove beside the bar, she found the tavern filled.

Everna sighed. It would be her luck that there was a full house on the night her parents left the tavern to her.

There wasn't an open seat to be had, every table and barstool occupied. A small group of men — old classmates of hers that now tended the wheat fields south of town — stood by the fire burning in the hearth. Another cluster of men, older and crammed into the farthest corner, traded cards and tossed coins into the ever-growing pile before them. Waitresses hurried between the tables, their crowded trays balancing precariously in their hands.

Despite the noise and the stench, the main room exuded an air of coziness found only in a small-town tavern. The torches burning within the brackets bolted to the wall, accompanied by the candles in the wooden chandeliers, bathed the taproom in a dim, golden glow. Oddities and curios her parents had collected over the years sat atop the shelves or tacked to the walls, leaving space for little else. A slew of bounty posters calling for the deaths of the goblins and orcs that lurked in the southern plains, and the capture of loose criminals, cluttered the board hung near the door.

Most impressive, perhaps, was the mantle piece: a massive dragon skull that, though a much smaller imitation, bore an uncanny resemblance to the real one.

"There you are," her father called from the bar. He set a pair of bottles on the shelf behind the counter and wiped his hands on his thighs. "I wondered if you were unwell. It's not like you to be late for your shift."

Ronan Dragonslayer was not the sort of man one expected to find behind the bar of a tavern. At well over six feet tall, nearly two hundred pounds of pure muscle, and covered in more scars than skin, he looked as if he belonged with the nearest group of adventurers. He'd been one, long before Everna and her brother found their way into the world, and he’d been renowned among the people of the region and revered by the kingdom. The late King Keeland, whom he briefly served, erected a monument in the capital to commemorate his party's deeds. She visited it once, and it was through the plaques and displays that she learned the details of most of his exploits.

Though she'd grown up with the stories of her parents' adventures, they were vague, as many were far too gruesome or painful to recount. Everna only knew of the deed that earned him his name; it was his greatest, and perhaps most costly, accomplishment. The bards told tales of a great battle, of how he emerged victorious and unscathed, but her parents' account was vastly different.

The wounds he received from that battle were so devastating they left him physically impaired and unable to continue his adventuring. He managed well enough during the occasional hunt, and his injuries had not stopped him from staying in shape, but his days of venturing across the Wildlands fighting terrible beasts of legend and story book monsters had long passed. Time had not been so kind to him, either. These days, he could hardly lift his old battleaxe.

Owning a tavern, however, meant he saw more action than most would assume. There was always a brawl to break up or a troublesome adventurer in need of a sound thrashing, and the Guard sometimes asked for his aid in dealing with the more dangerous matters beyond the town’s borders.

"It's cold. You know how much I hate the cold," Everna said. She stepped through the swinging door, grabbed a rag from the clean pile beneath the bar, and set to work drying the set of ceramic mugs beside the washbasin. "I also hate working nights."

She didn't dare tell him about the ominous wriggling in her gut. He'd make her go with them, and she'd rather throw herself into a horde of goblins than deal with Aunt Ettie. That woman could turn a priest into an axe murderer.

"And I'm not fond of having you work at night," her father admitted. "I'd stay, but with all the bandit activity around Trenbrook, I can't bear to send your mother alone."

"Mom can handle herself," she reminded him. "Besides, she and Aunt Ettie don't get on well. Mom would never forgive you for leaving her to deal with your sister alone."

Her father, as stubborn as he was overbearing, scoffed. "Your mother's older than she cares to admit, and you're too young to be handling a bar. You're right. They don't get on well. Maybe we shouldn't go."

Everna heaved a sigh. "I'm not a child anymore, Dad. I can handle it. It's not like I haven't been on my own before."

"The tavern is more dangerous than the academy."

"But not as dangerous as the capital. I'll be fine," Everna assured him. "There's no less than a hundred weapons scattered about the house, and I know my way around a sword. If I can't handle it, I'll call the Guard."

After a moment of silent debate, his shoulders slumped. "Just stay behind the counter and you should be fine. Hopefully." He paused, then added, "Maybe you should come with us. It won't hurt to close the tavern for the week or someone else could—"

"Your confidence in me is flattering," she snorted.

"Oh, stop worrying, Ronan. She's twenty-three," her mother said as she set her bags, which were bulging at the seams, on the counter. "If she can handle a courtroom full of people screaming, she can handle these fools."

"No one screams in a courtroom, Mom. The Guard would escort them out after the Arbiters deliver the penalty for contempt of court. You read too many novels."

"Bad ones at that," her father chuckled. He leaned down and kissed the crown of her mother's head, then turned to Everna and said, "Be careful, keep the place in one piece, and absolutely no boys, you hear?"

Everna rolled her eyes. "I guess it's ladies' night all week, then. Banor won't be happy."

Her mother snorted and waved him off. "Don't listen to him. It's high time you started looking for a husband. I want grandchildren someday and I'm not getting any younger."

"Evelina, she's only twenty-three!"

"Exactly," her mother scolded, jabbing her finger into his chest. "I have a couple of friends with sons who—"

"Would you look at the time? Best hurry, otherwise you'll miss the coach!" Everna said, a fake smile plastered on her face as she shoved her mother's bags into her arms. "Tell Aunt Ettie I said hello!"

Despite her attempt to push them out the door faster, it was only after several more instructions on what not to do while they were gone, and another short-lived argument about her marital status, that they finally said their goodbyes and disappeared into the street. The moment the door closed behind them, Everna leaned against the bar and sighed. She loved her parents to death, but, as they were wont to do, they picked one of the busiest nights to embarrass her. She could already feel more than one pair of eyes lingering on her, as if her mother's declaration, or perhaps her unwillingness, was an unspoken challenge.

Damn them.

The spring and summer months offered little excitement, as most patrons were tired workers looking for a quick drink before they returned home for the evening. Fall and winter brought a staggering increase in business, and with it, complications. Everna dreaded to think what would come later in the night when the drinks set in and the drunken revelry reached its peak. She hoped no one started a brawl; though she insisted she could handle it, she'd rather deal with Aunt Ettie than with Captain Windmore and the Guard.