The wind howled outside, rattling the window panes of the old inn. A diminutive boy looked up from his sweeping worriedly. The wind was only getting stronger, and he feared it might shatter a pane. That would really throw a spanner into their preparations. He glanced at the wiry dark haired man who was hunched over the bar, inspecting the already gleaming oak bar top with a meticulous eye. His movements were slow and deliberate as he polished a blemish only his discerning eye could see. The boy shrugged and returned to his duties. If the landlord wasn’t concerned about the wind, why should he be?
The boy mopped his brow and sighed. The entire tavern was spotless, from the bar itself, to the tables and chairs. Even the bottles sitting on the very top shelf, high behind the bar did not have so much as a smudge upon them. These bottles carried exotic names such as Julius’ Estate 721, Fencora Vineyards 731, and Farringdon’s Plantations 744. He had been shocked to learn that each of these three bottles was worth hundreds of gold coins, more than enough to buy half the town, and certainly too good for the rough mining crowd that frequented the place.
This whole tavern was too good for the town, or so the boy thought. Why Winston Weaver had built it in such a remote place high in the mountains of Hulva was anyone’s guess, but after some initial suspicion, the locals had welcomed this clearly wealthy man who hailed from the Carthun heartland as one of their own, helped by his generously portioned drinks and very reasonable prices.
The boy glanced at the clock. Ten to six. “The punters will be here soon, Mister Weaver,” he said, “Perhaps we should get the fire going.”
The man behind the bar straightened himself. He was a fastidious man who was apt to be lost in his own world. He looked up at the bar and adjusted his already immaculate black waistcoat. “Quite right, Louis,” His voice was soft and taciturn, as he moved to inspect his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The boy didn’t know why the landlord was wasting his time. Every hair on his head would be exactly where it was meant to be, as would every thread on the clothes he was wearing.
Once he was satisfied with his appearance, he snapped his fingers, and a fire sprang into life in the large hearth, slowly warming the frigid room. A person who could wield magic was a rare thing. A man, even rarer. His boss had been evasive on the topic whenever asked but was happy to perform minor parlour tricks upon request when the mood struck him.
“Why don’t you go check on the stew, Louis?” Winston ventured.
The boy made a face. “Are we really going to serve that?” He paused for effect before adding, “To paying customers?”
Winston leaned on the bar and bored his eyes into Louis. “Haven’t you tried it?”
“Tried it?” Louis echoed, “Of course I haven’t.”
The older man blinked. “Well, I think you should. How can you sell it to our guests if you haven’t even tried it for yourself?”
Louis gave him a dubious look. “Do I have to?”
Winston stood upright and tugged on his waistcoat again. “No,” he conceded at length, “Not if you don’t want to. Just take it off the fire, please.”
“At once, Mr Weaver,” Louis said, trying not to let his relief show. He picked his broom up and hurried to the back where the kitchen was before his boss changed his mind.
“Thank you, Louis,” Winston called absently as he set about polishing an already gleaming glass.
He had worked for Mr Weaver as an apprentice at the Happily Ever After Inn for almost six months now. It was hard work, but the landlord was a fair boss who paid well enough. He got food and lodging provided to boot. Why he would set up such a business out in the middle of nowhere was anyone’s guess, but one thing was for certain, it wasn’t for the money. As far as he could tell, the man was practically running a charity at the prices he was charging.
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As he entered the kitchen, Louis’ mouth couldn’t help but water as the smell of cooking meat hit his nostrils. Lunch was but a distant memory by now, and his stomach began to rumble, but then he remembered what was in the massive cauldron that was hanging over the cooking fire. Wolf stew, and lots of it. Mr Weaver had paid a shockingly generous price to Franklin, the local hunter, who had brought the carcass in that very morning.
Louis eyed the cauldron that was large enough for him to bathe in with distaste, and if it wasn’t a hit with the guests, it would be up to Mister Weaver and himself to finish it. In a nearby pot, the potato dumplings were bubbling away nicely. He poked them with a fork and saw that they were done. He shuddered as he extinguished the cooking fire. He and the boss would have to work extra hard to sell the stew tonight. He then set about checking that all the wooden serving bowls and spoons were laid out, all the while hoping that he wouldn’t be the one that had to tell tonight’s guests what was on the menu. He could already picture their reactions when they found out.
The bell on top of the door tinkled, announcing the arrival of that evening’s first guest, and Louis rushed out into the main room.
“Good evening, Robert,” he heard Winston say.
A huge man, made to look even larger by the voluminous quantities of furs he was wearing to protect him from the elements stood in the foyer.
“Good evening, Winston, Louis,” he replied jovially, “It’s nippy out today.”
“So I’ve gathered,” Winston allowed.
“Looks like I’m the first today, eh?” Roger said with a boisterous laugh.
“Nicholas will be beside himself,” Winston said agreeably.
He waited patiently for the huge square headed miner to shake the snow and ice from his furs before hanging them up on the first peg. He then shook the ice from his boots before exchanging them for a pair of house slippers. That had been an innovation that had scandalized the town when Winston arrived. There had been a lot of grumbling, but Winston had been polite, but firm in insisting that they be used, and now it was like second nature to his patrons.
“What’s on tap today, Winston?” Robert asked as he walked over to the bar.
“I have Greg’s Winter Crisp,” the landlord replied. “And a new arrival that is quite the rage in Estos. Bitter, with a hint of sweetness and an apple floral scent.”
Roger gave Louis a knowing grin before shaking his head in mock sadness. “That fancy pants ale sounds mighty tempting, but old Greg won’t let me hear the end of it if he sees me drinking it.”
“He should be here any minute now,” Winston agreed.
“A pint of Winter Crisp, please.”
“Very good.”
Winston pulled the amber drink with an expert hand, giving just the right amount of suds and filling the glass well past the pint line under Robert’s approving eye. When he was done, he slid the glass over to Robert, who downed it in one go.
“Ahhhh,” he gasped contentedly as he carefully set the glass back on its coaster, “That hit the spot.”
“Would you care for another?” Winston ventured.
Robert eyed the landlord and broke into a lopsided grin. “I’m tempted, but later. I’d best pace myself tonight.”
“As you say, sir.” Winston replied obligingly.
Without needing prompting, Louis took the glass back to the kitchen and washed it with soap before rinsing it with boiling hot water. When he was done, he brought it out to the bar where he immediately set to work drying it with a clean white towel. By now, more guests had entered. They chatted with Winston and one another around the bar, which was at the heart of the room that was arranged so that those who were seated at the tables could chat easily with those at the bar.
Louis and Winston worked like a well-oiled machine. Winston served the guests and made small talk, while Louis worked tirelessly in the background, making sure glasses were stocked and that a new barrel of ale was ready to be tapped when necessary. He looked over his shoulder at the clock as he brought a load of clean glasses from the kitchen. It was almost seven. Dinner time. Like clockwork, Terrance Iron’s deep voice rose over the din.
“I think it’s time for our host to share a story with us!” he declared. There were cheers of approval, and all attention went to Winston, who finished pouring Calvin Danson, the huge North Man’s drink before spreading his hands out across the counter.
“Oh, you don’t want me to interrupt your lovely evening,” he began, beginning the interminable dance that took place in the room every night.
“Story! Story! Story!” the guests chanted.
“Alright,” Winston relented to loud cheers, “Is there any story you fine gentlemen want to hear?”
“How about the one with the dragon?” Louis asked hopefully.
“No, we’ve heard that a hundred times!” Robert bellowed to cheers of approval.
Louis tried to hide his disappointment. Winston’s story about the hero’s encounter with a dragon was the stuff of legend in the town but he had never heard it. It had been overtold well before he arrived, but it didn’t prevent people from talking about it, and he’d only caught snippets of it here and there, which only left him wanting to hear the whole tale. It also didn’t help that Winston was the best storyteller he’d ever heard.
“I think I have just the story,” Winston announced as he broke into a smile, “I call it ‘The Hungry Night’.”