Remnant Of Flame

"There weren't always dragons in the Valley." The old man said, carefully placing his now empty mug on the counter before him. He blinked at the watching tavern keeper with wet red rimmed eyes and shook his head. "Once, when I was but a lad and the old king still lived, the valley was home to the Aelfin. And, if you traveled there, they'd grant your fondest wish."

Across the room, there was a raucous laugh and a man's voice called out, "Shut it with that blather, Rolfe. You been told more than once." There was laughter from the man's friends. The tavern was mostly empty, except for the men at the table and Rolfe at the counter. The tavern keeper and his young helper stayed out of the way, for the most part, not wanting to get drawn in by any kind of argument between the clientelle.

The old man, Rolfe, didn't respond to the speaker. Instead, he thumped the counter with an arthritic knuckle and met the tavern keeper's bored gaze. "Another one, Lars." At the knowing look the man gave him, Rolfe thumbed the side of his nose and said, "I know I shouldn't, but the walk home is long and I'm not as young as I once was."

Taking the empty mug, Lars went about refilling it. He looked up as the batwing doors swung inward and a stranger stepped into the tavern. The noise from the table in the back stopped dead and old Rolfe turned on his seat to stare with bleary eyes.

The figure was clad from head to toe in the familiar armor of the royal guard, though the guard was long since disbanded. After the deaths of the old king and all his line, the guard had been disgraced. Only a fool would still wear such armor where folk could see.

But, if this one were a fool, none here would dare speak it. He was a bear of a man. Standing well over six feet and thick through the chest, with arms and legs like tree trunks. His wild tangle of beard was a red so dark it was almost black and the eyes that twinkled at the watching group of drunkards were bright blue.

The stranger stood inside the doorway for a moment, taking in the room, before turning and opening the door for the retinue that followed closely behind. There were three more with him. Two were dressed in similar armor. A man and woman. Though neither were as large as the first, both looked equally dangerous.

They followed close behind a young woman dressed in simple woolen garments. She was no warrior, this one, but she did carry a heavy knife on her belt and stared at the tavern with the wary gaze of one who was used to danger. She looked around the room before noting the tavern keeper behind his counter.

The big man glanced at her and said, "I'll handle this." His voice was a rich baritone, fit for bellowing orders across a battlefield. Side-eyeing the table in the back and the watching customers, he crossed the room and perched an elbow on the countertop. Appearing to ignore Rolfe completely, he directed his words at the tavern keeper. "You have rooms, yes?" The smile he directed at the other man was filled with biggest whitest teeth Rolfe had ever seen.

The tavern keeper, Lars, was a taciturn man with a blotchy complexion and stringy yellow hair. He dipped his head in a nod.

The big man let forth with a belly laugh that never touched his icy blue eyes and pulled a heavy purse from under his heavy cloak. Dropping it on the counter, he said, "Your two best."

Lars eyed the bag for a moment, unable to hide the sudden spark of greed in that gaze, then raised his head and bellowed at the lanky youth sitting with the drinking mill workers. "Get off your duff, Billy, and see these fine folk to their rooms. And see that their animals are taken care of." He was no fool. If folk such as these were afoot, he'd kiss a goat! No, with a purse like that, they'd be on horseback. Or perhaps in a carriage. But his runners hadn't warned him of an approaching stagecoach. And they all knew missing something as important as that would've ended their gainful employment right quick.

Billy hopped up and dashed to do as he was bid, but the big man forestalled him with a raised hand. "Nay, young Billy, just a moment. Our horses are already seen to. Just the rooms, for the nonce. You can show the lass to the best of the two, for she is dusty and tired out from the road."

He didn't see the hot look the young 'lass' shot his way at hearing his words. If he had, he might've changed his tone somewhat. But, instead, he went on, saying, "She has a tender nature and the sun makes her faint dead away at the slightest provocation."

One of the other guards must've sucked saliva into their windpipe, because they suddenly choked and had a long coughing fit.

The woman glared at the bearded man but remained silent.

When he saw that she'd not say anything back, the big man gave the barest of nods before saying, "I, myself, am not tired in the least. Thirsty, yes, but I've got hours left in me." He smacked his lips and narrowed an eye at the men watching from the other side of the room. He made sure his voice would carry as he said, "Do they still play cards in this part of the world, or did the dragons take that from you as well as your backbone when they set up shop in yon valley?"

The men at the other table said nothing in response to the man's mocking words. They'd gone uncharacteristically silent.

Rolfe had lowered his face onto his mug and was trying to be as small as he knew how to be while keeping his back to the large loud madman.

But it didn't work.

A powerful hand fell onto the old lush's shoulder and squeezed painfully as the voice said, "Why, bless my weary eyes, if it's not my old friend, Rolfe." There was a playful note to the man's voice as he said it, but there was no mistaking the steel at its core. He went on. "I thought I knew you at first glance, but to find Rolfe Idlehand sitting his leisure this close to the Valley of Flame is passing strange, indeed."

Rolfe winced as the hand on his shoulder gave another painful squeeze. He squinted as he turned and stared into the eyes of a man he'd believed long dead. He had to clear his throat before he could say, "Er.. my lord, I think you must be mistaken. My name do be Rolfe, as you must've heard before you entered. But I don't know you. Not in the least. I'm just old Rolfe. And everybody knows that old Rolfe don't know anybody."

"I don't think that's true at all." The big man, whose true name Rolfe knew not, spoke in a hoary tone. He bared his horrible white teeth and locked his gaze onto Rolfe's. Rolfe didn't know the stranger's name or where he hailed from, but he knew those icy blue eyes.

Once, Rolfe had known a man with that gaze. A brave bold bastard called Bart of the Red Hand. But that was many years past and that fellow would've been older than Rolfe now was, if he still lived. But that man had died in front of Rolfe, killed by one of the very dragons that now lived in the valley below. "I don't know you, mister." Rolfe said, his voice a terrified whisper.

"Oh, that's definitely not true." The big man said, leaning closer. "I think you know many people. And many things. Such as the trail that leads down into yonder valley. And I think you're going to tell me all about them."