Chapter Eight – Old Troll Tavern

Tara didn’t think she had ever slept so well in her life. There were four beds to a room at the Old Troll Tavern where she and her companions were staying, straw-stuffed pallets on wooden frames. The blankets were rough animal skins, deer and possibly bear. The smell was noticeable but actually not unpleasant.

Despite the crude accommodations, Tara fell asleep as soon as her head hit the scratchy pillow. She barely even heard Elita’s whistling snores warring with Horon’s slumbering growls. Her dreams were empty and relaxing, and the warmth from the nearby fire was wonderful.

When she woke the next morning, her perspective was slightly different. The fire had burned low and her nose was cold. Even worse, the adventures of the day before had caught up with her, and every muscle in her body felt raw. Tara groaned as she straightened, her neck, back, and legs protesting.

“Ah, you’re up!” Elita’s cheerful voice eased some of Tara’s discomfort. Horon and Wenrik’s pallets were both empty. The gnome stood at the foot of Tara’s bed, a bundle of clothes in her arms.

“I didn’t think you’d want to continue wearing those old rags,” the gnome said, her small face wrinkled in a smile. “Here. I got this tunic and trousers off of a merchant who wanted to sell them to me for far more than they were worth. Don't worry, I set him straight. I’m worried they won’t fit you, though—I’m not used to shopping for persons your size.”

“Thank you,” said Tara, and she meant it. “You really didn’t have to. I could have bought clothes—”

“I refuse to let the ‘Hero of Allerion’ leave this room looking like she was shipwrecked,” said Elita with a humorous wink. “Just you do as I say. I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

"At least let me pay you," said Tara, looking under her pillow for her share of the loot from the slave ship.

"You don't repay friends for favors," replied the gnome. "And that reminds me. You need a better place than your pillow and pockets to keep your valuables."

As soon as the gnome left, Tara reached for the clothes. They were simple but well-made, the tunic loose at the sleeves, allowing for easy movement. The trouser legs were wide, but they fit perfectly at the waist, and the suede leather material could have doubled for light armor.

When Tara saw boots at the foot of the bed as well, she almost cried. Gingerly, she unwrapped her aching feet. Cloth was better than nothing, but the thought of wearing actual shoes again was wonderful. The boots the gnome had chosen were tall and sturdy, reaching just below her knees.

Tara went to the mirror at one end of the room. She almost laughed when she saw herself. Her hair was dirty and tangled, and her face was discolored with grime. She didn’t think she had ever looked better.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmured, staring at herself with twinkling eyes. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“You better get used to it.” Horon’s deadpan voice made her spin around. “We're waiting for you. Elita won’t be satisfied until we’ve left all traces of that slaver’s ship far behind us. Come and enjoy breakfast while you can.”

Red with embarrassment, Tara followed the Fenman into the tavern’s common hall. While the fires had burned low in the sleeping quarters, the pit in the main hall burned as brightly as it had the night before. The tavern was lined with narrow wooden tables and benches, enough to accommodate the entire crew of a passing ship.

A young Fenwoman was waiting on the tables. She had braided hair and sharp, intelligent eyes, and she watched Tara with interest as she joined the rest of the companions at their table.

“Elita, Horon, and Wenrik I've seen a few times. But I don't recognize you, traveler. Are you new to the Gray Shore?”

“Yes,” said Tara. “How’s your mother? Is Berga around?”

“You know my mother?” said the woman curiously, placing a tankard of water in front of her.

Tara realized she might have overstepped herself. Horon was concentrating on the bread he had been served, eating steadily, but Elita was looking curiously between them and Wenrik was obviously listening as well.

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“Um…we might have met once before,” she saw awkwardly. “I doubt Berga remembers me.”

“I remember almost everyone!”

Tara wished she could disappear into the floor at the hearty call. She looked up and saw the ruddy-faced old woman approaching them.

“What’s this, Gerda? Any trouble?”

“No trouble, mama,” the young woman reassured her. “This stranger says she knows you, that’s all. Maybe one of your battle comrades?”

The old woman squinted, peering into Tara’s face. “Hmm. I think I’d remember a face like yours. Was it in the Giant's Pit? That was a fight to remember! But no, you’re young, and that was long ago.”

Despite her awkwardness, Tara felt a greater pleasure at the chance to meet the old tavern owner in person. In the game, Berga was a stalwart and straightforward figure, and Tara had always looked forward to their interactions. Nothing was exactly the same in person as it had been in the game environment, true. But Tara had to admit that seeing this characters as actual flesh-and-blood people was an experience she would never forget.

She could have lived without the discomforts, the vivid cruelty and harshness of the slaver's ship. But moments like this made it worth it.

“We just passed each other in the street one time,” Tara reassured the old woman. “This tavern is yours, isn’t it? Me and my companions just arrived in Regan. So far, I think this is my favorite place to be.”

Old Berga drew herself up proudly. “That’s right,” she said. “Me and my husband, Maker rest him, established this place in our younger years. Those were rough but good times. Still…” Her voice trailed wistfully. “Ah, never mind. I know how much Horon appreciates silence. I don’t want to trouble you and your friends with an old woman’s troubles.”

“No trouble,” said Tara immediately. “What is it? Your husband’s battle horn?”

Berga’s mouth opened and closed. Tara realized too late that once again, she had overstepped herself.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” said the old woman hastily. “I’d better tend the rest of my guests.”

With sinking disappointment, Tara watched Berga hurry away. She took the bread that Wenrik passed to her, but her appetite was gone.

“You need to learn to guard your words,” said the Borzerk warrior. “We’ve come to know that there’s more to you than a simple adventurer. Others may learn in time. But you shouldn’t spring it on them.”

“I wasn’t springing it on anyone,” snapped Tara, chewing her bread.

Elita clucked her tongue. “Just think how you would feel if a total stranger seemed to know more about your life than you remembered telling. Now I wonder what you know of us,” mused the gnome. “Do you know all our past, present, and future?”

“No,” said Tara honestly. She really didn’t remember every character or plot thread. “A lot of this is new to me, too.” She frowned, making a face a she tried the water. “Everything seems so different in person. The water is awful!”

Horon’s laugh was short. “That we can agree on.”

“What are your plans?” asked Elita curiously, watching Tara eat.

Tara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She missed the convenience and cleanliness of napkins.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I know that I messed up with my introduction—but I do remember Berga, and what she needs. I think I’ll follow up on her side quest like I did the first time I went through here. I’ll bring back her husband’s battle horn. Maybe that will make up for my bad manners.”

“You’re just going to walk off into the unknown and find someone’s missing battle horn? A horn that was probably lost years ago?” asked Elita incredulously.

A slow grin spread across Wenrik's wolfish face. “I like you more and more, Tara MacQueen,” he said. “I imagine you know exactly where to look for this battle horn.”

“Yes,” said Tara. “It’s in a cave about a day’s march east of here. If I remember right, the cave is called Wanderer’s Bane.”

“Wanderer’s Bane?” Horon set his tankard down with a thud. “They say that cave is haunted. No one who enters that cursed place survives. What, by the talons of the red-eyed eagles, would Berga’s husband be doing there?”

“Tara knows what’s in that cave and how to survive it," said Wenrik with an unquestioning confidence that warmed Tara to hear.

“I don’t care,” replied the Fenman furiously. “She’s going to get us all killed. She knows this place, but you’ve got to admit—no matter how many times she’s been here through some dizzy vision, she has no more experience surviving than a babe in her mother’s arms.”

“You forget,” said Wenrik, “that without her we couldn’t have defeated Ikor.”

“I’m not forgetting anything!” said the Fenman furiously. He shook his head in defeat. “I’m getting older, that’s all. And I don’t like caves.”

Tara leaned towards them. “I promise, you’ll be alright,” she said. “I do know what’s waiting in that cave. Restless spirits, and the shade of a murderous wizard. But there’s more. The slaves you helped today—as much as you hate the hardship, I know you wouldn’t take back what you’ve been through to set them free. Wouldn’t you do the same for Berga’s husband?”

The Fenman stared at her. “You don’t mean that it’s not just his battle horn that’s trapped in that cave—but him, too?”

“Yes,” said Tara. “That’s exactly what I mean. And others like him. The ones who were never seen again after entering that evil cave.”

Horon was briefly silent. He glanced at Elita. “What do you think?” he asked gruffly. “Are you with us?”

The gnome shrugged her small shoulders. “Of course,” she said. “Tara is unusual, but I like her. Anyway, I’d like to see if she is right about this cave.”

“She’ll get us all killed,” growled the Fenman.

“No one’s asking you to come,” said Wenrik in his terse, sideways fashion.

Tara saw in Horon’s glare that there was no way they were leaving the Fenman behind. She could have whooped when silver letters materialized above them, spelling:

QUEST BEGUN: WANDERER'S BANE