As Malcolm and Sven wove their way through the narrow, crooked streets of Bullhaven, the full effects of the army’s presence in the town became apparent. The streets were lined with makeshift cots and tents, as well as countless racks of bows and spears.

After an hour of searching, they arrived at the town Inn. It was a large wooden building near the edge of Bullhaven. Rising three stories above the street, it cast an imposing shadow upon the surrounding area. A few balconies jutted out from the plain wooden walls. Flecks of red paint still clung to wood in places, but most of the siding was worn bare. Smoke puffed out of a brick chimney, floating away on the light wind.

From the bottom of the second story, a large rectangular sign hung above the street, squeaking in the light wind. THE SQUEAKY FLOORBOARD, it proudly proclaimed. The black lettering was worn from years of weathering, but the text was still legible.

Approaching the door, Malcolm carefully pulled it and entered, Sven following close behind. A blast of warm air greeted them as they entered the square common room of the Inn. The bare timber walls had been carved with thousands of names, until they were covered in grooves and ridges. Torches smoldered in the middle of each wall, dimly illuminating the room.

A stairwell was cut into the far right corner, the steps warped from years of use. A single torch flickered in the entrance, lighting up the first few stairs.

A large fire smoldered within a hearth set into the far left side of the room, the air heavy with the heat of the flames. An older woman sat beside the fireplace on a stool, carefully turning a roasting pig. The fire sputtered as grease dripped from the meat.

Empty tables and chairs filled the majority of the room. The only occupants of the room were a group of soldiers, who were busy cracking jokes and banging on the table. Malcolm could see many empty flagons on the table, as well as an equal number full of ale.

As the door clicked closed, the fire-tender looked up from her work. A small squat woman, her wrinkled face was framed by short grey hair and large round spectacles. She wore a light pink dress, which had gathered in folds at the base of the chair. Atop the dress was a white apron stained brown with grease. Various cooking utensils protruded from a front pocket, clattering as the woman stood up.

“Greetings!” The cook shouted. She shuffled over to Malcolm and Sven, looking them up and down. Sven kept his head low, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before!” She stretched out her calloused hand. “The name’s Agathee! What brings you to The Squeaky Floorboard?”

“Do you have any rooms for rent?” Malcolm replied, shaking Agathee’s hand. “We don’t need much, just a place to spend our nights for a week.”

“Of course!” the old woman exclaimed, adjusting her glasses. “We wouldn’t be much of an Inn if we didn’t!” She peered at Sven, studying him intently. “What’s with the little one? They shy or something?”

“My brother is rather ill…” Malcolm muttered. Sven awkwardly shuffled in place, fake coughing.

“What a poor little soul!” Agathee said, holding her hand to her chest. “It just breaks my heart to see a sweet little boy in such a state!”

“Thank you ma’am!” Sven squeaked out, his voice raised to a shrill pitch. He coughed again, covering his mouth with a sleeve. An awkward silence filled the air around them.

“Well!” the cook said, slapping her apron with calloused hands. “You said you needed a room?” Nodding, Malcolm reached into a pocket and pulled out a few copper coins, which he spread out on his palm.

“What can we get with these?” he asked. Agathee carefully counted the coins, rolling them between her fingers.

“This all?” she asked skeptically, peering at Malcolm over her glasses. Cheeks flush with embarrassment, he dug around in his pockets for a moment, then nodded.

“I’m afraid so,” he muttered. “If that’s not enough…” Agathee cut him off, scooping up the coins. She counted them again, and then passed two back to Malcolm.

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“Don’t you worry!” she said, pocketing the coins. “I can put you up in the back room, just as long as you don’t mind the trekking up some stairs.” She reached into a pocket in the apron and pulled out a rusty iron key. “Your room is at the top of the steps.” Smiling, she reached over and patted Sven on the head, rustling his cloak. “Get better soon young lad!”

Sven grunted and Malcolm could see the point of a dagger emerge from within the cloak. Nudging Sven towards the stairs, Malcolm waved farewell to the cook.

They wove their way through the empty tables and chairs. As they passed by the soldier’s table, one of the men grabbed Sven’s wrist, twisting the Toe Goblin’s arm upwards. His companions laughed as Sven writhed, trying desperately to pull his arm free. One of the other soldiers grabbed Malcolm, holding his hands tight.

“No hoods!” the soldier barked. Grinning, he reached out to pull Sven’s covering off. As his fingers closed around the cloth, the blur of a wooden spoon cracked down on his knuckles. Brandishing her cooking utensil high, Agathee stepped in front of Sven, gently pushing the Goblin aside.

“How DARE you!” she roared at the soldier, face red with anger. “That! Is! A! Sick! Child!” She punctuated each word by whacking the soldier’s hand, leaving swollen welts. His companions staggered to their feet, attempting to draw their weapons. “OUT!” Agathee shouted, smacking one of the other soldiers.

Malcolm and Sven watched with surprise as she swiftly herded the group out of the door, the sharp crack of the ladle filling the room every few seconds. As the last man staggered out, she locked the door and returned to the table.

“Well!” she exclaimed, tucking the spoon into a pouch. “I don’t think they’ll be back soon!”

“Thank you!” Sven squeaked, pulling his hood back down.

“Don’t mention it!” Agathee replied, scooping up the empty glasses. “It was about time someone taught those rascals a lesson.” She staggered off, arms full.

Grabbing the torch in the doorway, Malcolm led Sven up the steep stairs. Creaking under their weight, the boards were worn, and Malcolm could see where a few had been replaced recently. A thin layer of dust coated the steps, flying up in plumes as it was disturbed.

Half way up the stairs was a large landing with four doors. A burnt out torch clung to the wall beside them.

Where is everybody? Malcolm wondered, starting up the next set of stairs. They were covered in a quarter inch of dust. Malcolm and Sven covered their noses as it billowed around them, clinging to their clothing.

At the top of the stairs was a door, created of long boards crudely fastened together with twisted nails. A rusted latch stuck out of the lumber, the keyhole filled with dust. Unlocking the door with a click, Malcolm and Sven peered into their new room. As the door opened, the reeking stench of mold and old hay wafted out.

Small and cramped, the room seemed like a prison. Two straw mattresses lay stacked in a corner, along with a few broken chairs.

The only light came from an entrance cut into the far wall, leading onto a small balcony. The sprawling town stretched out below, encircled by the newly constructed wall. Peering out, Malcolm watched a group of soldiers sparring in the camp. Every so often, the clang of their swords would ring out over Bullhaven.

“Well this be lookin’ pleasant,” Sven sneered, joining Malcolm on the balcony.

After surveying the room, Malcolm and Sven got to work cleaning it up. Sven used his knife to scrape some of the mold off the walls, while Malcolm unstacked the mattresses and fluffed them out. The various noises of the city died down as the sun set. The merchants ceased their endless shouting, no carts clattered on the streets, and people returned home for the night.

Once the room was returned to a habitable space, Sven split his remaining moss wafers with Malcolm. They could not risk spending their meager money on food, at least, not until Malcolm had found work. I’ll check out the market tomorrow, he thought, crunching the moss between his teeth. Merchants always needed workers to load and unload goods, or run errands.

Malcolm’s stomach growled with displeasure as he finished off the last of the wafers. Lying back on his mattress, he longingly remembered the roasting hog from the common room, its succulent meat dripping with grease.

Across the room Sven sharpened his dagger, the light swish of steel son stone filling the air. The oily whetstone gleamed in the dim light as he ran the blade down its length.

Satisfied with his work, Sven curled up for the night, using his wadded up hood as a pillow. The straw mattresses were lumpy and hard, but still far better than sleeping on the ground. Cool winds blew through the room, cutting through Malcolm and Sven’s thin tunics.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Sven shot up in panic. Breathing heavy, he lay back down, trying to calm himself, unsure about what had awoken him.

For a few minutes, he did his best to relax on the hard straw, silently listening to Malcolm’s snores. The human’s body was just faintly visible in the dim moon light that streamed in from the balcony. A gust of wind blew through the room, causing him to sniffle and roll over.

Just as Sven began to drift back to sleep, he heard it again, faintly audible. His heart dropped as he recognized the noise:

A weak grinding sound like two stones rubbing together, accompanied by a low, steady, rumble.