If you asked Thorn if he preferred war or innkeeping, he would always answer war. During his thirty years as a soldier in the Royal Enhanced Legion the man had seen the worst humanity had to offer. Or so he thought. Each day behind the bar of the Smiling Fox made him reconsider his stance on the perils of wartime. He had been in the swamplands of Arckaz, surrounded by the Wormfolk and their lightning magic. First off the boat during the invasion of Saint-Memnon. Spent five years nearly freezing to death in the tunnels under Steelhold. Still a better time than he was having now, stuck in retirement between drunk farmers and haughty merchants, complaining about the food. Ain’t nothing wrong with my mushroom stew. Assholes. He scratched his long gray hair and purveyed his personal hell as dusk fell over the small town of Belrun. A rowdy group of local idiots was playing the Queen’s Hands, a card game that seemed to have nothing to do with actual cards. Instead, they were shouting at each other. They hadn't touched the bloody cards in the last half hour. In a corner sat a bunch of sour-looking traders from The Heart, no doubt whining about the quality of their rooms. A young bard plucked on his lute and attempted to play some ballad about the war. While his screechy voice filled the room with false heroics of battle, Thorn remembered his days at the Guild. He had liked the war, yes. But what came next had fulfilled him even more. His time as a mercenary had been the greatest joy of his life. Five years of travelling and killing. Oh, what a good old time. The memory made his stump itch, a distant reminder of his time as an Enhanced. In his dreams he could feel it sometimes: his arm of vines and thorns, once the thing that made him a living weapon, an Enhanced warrior not to be trifled with. The dream always ended at the Living City. The priests of Hylor, the blade of light and the seemingly eternal pain would be bound to his mind until his dying days. One could argue Thorn had reached his dying days. The Smiling Fox had all the trappings of an afterlife, a punishment fit for a veteran killer such as him.

He threw a glance outside. A snowstorm kept his patrons inside. Its cold strangle meant no one would go home early today. Fuck. ‘Hey, Stumpy, another round!’ yelled one of the drunk card players. A short vision of vines strangling the fool sprung into his mind but the veteran just nodded and went to refill their cups. While he filled the last one, he saw something move outside. Probably some street dog searching for a warm hiding place. Or, Gods forbid, more guests. Was that a horse he saw? ‘Damn it, Stumpy! Don’t you know the difference between my pint and my pants?’ He looked down at the man whose cup he was filling. He had been so distracted he had poured beer all over the man’s legs. Thorn mumbled some excuses and refilled his cup. Then he turned his attention outside. It was difficult to see through the heavy snowfall but he was right: a Brown draft horse slowly made its way through the muddy streets of Belrun. It was headed towards the inn. Probably some carriage that crashed against a tree out in the woods. It’s madness to travel in this weather. As the horse drew closer, he saw that it wasn’t alone. On its back lay a small girl. She had blond curly hair and carried a backpack and a wooden shield. Is she dead? He ran outside, towards the horse. The poor animal looked tired as hell. The girl looked worse. Her skin was bright red, a victim of the biting cold. She seemed to be breathing but Thorn knew it wouldn’t be too long before the weather got to her. He carried the child from her horse and took her inside. The card players were too engaged with their beers and the merchants didn’t even bother glancing at him. He laid the girl before the fire and made her a warm cup of tea. It was the most interesting thing that had ever happened in the Smiling Fox.

As the girl came to, night had fallen over Belrun. Luckily, the storm had stopped sooner than expected. The merchants had left for their quarters and the regular patrons had gone home. The girl looked confused for a few moments. Then she muttered a few words. ‘Beans?’ Thorn shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I’ve only got cheese and bread for dinner.’ She went to the window. ‘No, I mean my horse, Beans.’ Thorn smiled, a rare occasion since he bought the inn. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I put him in the stables. Got him a blanket, some fresh hay and a bucket of water. Beans is quite alright.’ The girl seemed visibly relieved. ‘Thank you.’ She turned around to face him. ‘I’m Keyna. What’s your name?’ ‘Thorn.’ Her smile wavered and she started crying. Thorn had seen enough war to recognize people who couldn’t deal with what happened to them. Soldiers of course, but also civilians. Fucked up shit happened to everyone and only a small minority could shrug it off and go on with their life. This girl clearly belonged to the majority. While she cried, she tried to say something but he couldn’t understand what exactly. After a while it became clear. ‘I want my mother. I want my mother back.’ She started kicking chairs and screamed her throat hoarse. ‘What happened?’ She looked at him. In her eyes, he recognized the same pain he felt back in the Living City. All hope is lost, nothing matters, no way to reverse what happened. Complete desperation. He didn’t need to hear her say it but she did it anyway. ‘They killed my mother.’ He came closer. ‘Who?’ Her face changed from sadness to hate. ‘I will kill them all.’ Not an answer to his question, but he didn’t care. Thorn hugged the little girl. ‘Oh I know you will. But let’s get you some warm clothes first.’

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He hadn’t really asked it but as the days went by, Keyna started helping him in the inn. The subject of her mother’s death had silently crept into the background. Her presence made the place much better. She established friendships with his clients, helped him finally clean the attic and sang songs with the young bard. She even improved his mushroom stew. It was rapidly becoming his clients’ favourite dish. I liked my recipe better. Fools. It would be easy to think she had put her mother’s death behind her but Thorn was no fool. The girl cried herself to sleep every night. Her cheery attitude was but a shield, protecting herself from her inner rage. He refrained from talking to her about the topic. He had never been a father and didn’t have any experience with kids. How to deal with this? The answer came at the beginning of spring. The snow and the cold had left Belrun and as color returned to the woods nearby the town, so did the travellers. Thorn was glad to have Keyna help him out. Every day new guests arrived and every day the girl talked to them and made them feel welcome. It reminded Thorn of a simple but essential kind of friendliness he hadn’t experienced in a long time. On an evening, right after another buzzy day, she approached him while he was cleaning the counter. She carried the wooden shield with her that Thorn had seen when he arrived. It was a thing of beauty: round and wooden, as simple as shields get, but with an intricate pattern of lines, triangles and circles on its surfaces, like some kind of asymmetric puzzle. ‘They say you were a soldier once.’ She stared at his stump. ‘Aye, that’s true.’ Seemed kind of useless to lie about it. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘I want you to teach me.’ He put aside the pint he had been cleaning and looked straight at her. He could see the determination in her eyes. ‘What do you want me to teach you?’ She lifted the shield. ‘I want you to show me how to fight. I want to kill the murderers of my mother.’ Thorn scratched at his stump. ‘I’m useless, girl. I was a soldier, yes, but now I’m just an old innkeeper with one arm.’ She nodded her head. ‘Narrock said you were a special soldier, a mutant. Is that right?’ That damned bard. How does he even know? I’m gonna have to talk to him one of these days. ‘It’s true.’ She smiled. ‘So? Can you teach me how to fight?’ Something in his mind kept him from answering her question. Was it the pain? The memories? The atrocities he’d done in the name of the king? The sense of belonging and the happiness he felt when he killed? Maybe some of it, maybe all of it. But above all else, there hung a sense of coming dread above him. Thorn felt once he’d say yes, there wouldn’t be any turning back. But then again, who was he to deny this girl her vengeance?

‘Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll teach you how to fight.’

‘Thank you so much!’ She gave him a big hug.

In the end, Thorn would be right. His answer would change the course of many lives. Sadly he would never be able to experience the consequences of his decision.