The Bogatyr & the Cursed Inn

The gypsy started plucking at his violin, a few plucks at a time before transitioning to playing a melody with his bow. As he did so another gypsy joined in with the sitar, seamlessly blending both instruments with masterful talent. Sprightly girls began to dance around the campfire, to the delight of old fat merchants who made their trade on the roads south of the Holy City of Kost.

The trade route was in one of the safest regions in the kingdom of Korovia. Knights from the Holy City patrolled the roads, keeping the peace and ridding the region of bandits and monsters. There were towns and cities further to the south, mostly populated by Habbels, where the wee halflings who were often no more than the size of three foot tall toddlers plied their knowledge of farming and animals, and were suitably peace-loving.

The merchant caravans and gypsies were camped at a fork in the road. Next to their campsite were old crumbling stone ruins that marked the site of an inn which had been burnt to the ground centuries ago by dragonfire and never rebuilt. Some claimed it was haunted by the ghosts of those the dragon had slain, which is why the inn was never rebuilt. No one wanted to stay in a haunted inn.

Off to the east side of the camp was a lone Bogatyr, a sort of title-less knight who dabbled in magic. Tall and strong he was, a warrior without a doubt, and huddled under his furs to conserve the warmth from his tiny fire. He could have added more firewood, but he was loath to do so.

He kept one hand on his sword hilt, his eyes on the ruins of the old inn. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of something in the snow covered ruins. Something translucent that shone with a dim white light.

He stood and paced slowly towards the ruins, right hand on his sword hilt as he approached. His horse nickered loudly as he passed out of the firelight and beneath the shadow of a dead elm tree.

Most of the inn was gone, but the parts of it made of stone still stood. He passed through the charred remains of what must have once been a grand foyer and into the great hall beyond, its recesses shrouded in snowdrifts.

He drew his sword and held it aloft like a torch. "Ilumina!" As he spoke the last syllable of magic the sword gave off a white glow, akin to the moonlight of the silver moon Metrequia. The light penetrated the darkness and upon a tall burnt throne at the far end of the hall the ghostly apparition of a young woman, cloaked in fine clothes, shifted her gaze and regarded him.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice sounding distant and yet pleasant. "Are you some kind of ghost?"

The Bogatyr nearly laughed. "No, I only see one ghost here, and that is you. Why do you still haunt this place, fair spirit?"

She did laugh at this. "Me? I am no ghost. I live here. This is my family's inn, as it has been for centuries. But you must be a ghost, for why else would you be transparent?"

The Bogatyr blinked. "You think I am a ghost? Is that truly what you see?"

She nodded.

"And what else do you see?" he asked, waving his sword at their ruined surroundings.

"My home," she said proudly - defiantly. "The grandest inn on the southern highway," she boasted.

"I see a burnt wreck of an inn. This place burnt down centuries ago, destroyed by a dragon, so the legends say," said the Bogatyr.

She frowned. "There are no dragons here, spirit, just you. A demented ghost who cannot see with his own eyes. Where did you come from?" She stood and went to the western wall, a ghostly translucent torch appearing in her hand from where an iron sconce still clung to the stone wall.

She turned towards him, holding the torch like it was a club. "Leave here spirit, you are not wanted in my home!" she declared.

The Bogatyr snorted. "I don't take orders from ghosts," he answered, holding his sword at the ready. "If I best you, will you finally see the light and move on to the afterlife?"

"I should say the same about you, spirit. What makes you so certain that you are not the ghost in this fight?"

The Bogatyr smiled gently. "As surely as I know that there are gypsies and merchants camped outside who dare not go near the burnt inn, for they say it is haunted. You say this inn is your family's, and has been for centuries? Yet this inn has been empty for centuries, a burnt ruin forevermore. You must be the spirit in this because I am in your future and your spirit is from centuries past."

"Nonsense!" she shouted, swinging her torch at him.

He dared not let any part of her, or her ghostly torch, touch his flesh. He parried her torch easily and deflected it to the side.

She swung again and again he deflected, driving her to the side. She bumped into something and a ghostly cask came into existence and rolled across the floor, spilling a bright translucent liquid across the floor where the stonework was cracked and charred.

"Begone foul spirit!" she shouted. She backed off a few steps and charged at him, seeking to strike him with her torch with an overhand swing. She slipped in the ghostly oil and fell, her torch falling into the liquid.

Bright white flames engulfed the young woman, ghostly and without any heat. She screamed and tried to roll to smother the flames, but only made it worse as she covered herself with the burning liquid.

To the Bogatyr's eyes, she must have rolled in lamp oil and was now burning from head to toe. He backed away from her, uncertain of what to do. Whatever supernatural fire this was, he didn't want any of it burning him. He didn't know what it might do.

The fire spread quickly, burning and illuminating parts of a building that no longer stood and scorching the stonework of the ruins that remained. He couldn't stay and fled the building, seeking refuge near the dead elm tree outside.

Supernatural flames spread through the structure that was no longer there, illuminating the night sky and the grey clouds above. The merchants and gypsies ceased their music, some backing away in superstitious fear and others drawing near with an insatiable curiousity.

The Bogatyr knew now what was happening. He was witnessing the past. Twas no dragon that destroyed this fine inn. Twas a common fire, and somehow, through some fluke of time and destiny, he had been the catalyst for the fire. Perhaps he had even been destined to do this.

He sheathed his sword as he walked back to his camp, turning his back on the fire that shone through a rift in time. He dared not go near it. Ghosts he could handle, but a fire from centuries past might pull him backwards in time... Thinking about the time paradoxes that might occur, the very idea, hurt to contemplate and he didn't relish the headache.

He kicked snow onto his campfire and untied his horse from the nearby elm tree. He mounted the gelding and turned it towards the south. If he made good time he could reach a Hab village south of here where an inn he knew of served tall pints of creamy golden ale.

He needed a drink. Perhaps then he could put this memory behind him.

The End.