There was a decent sized town on the route Ren and his men took toward Ith. Avoiding the Crimson Highway was a risk. As corrupt of an organization as it was, the Highwaymen did offer a reliable security along their road. Bandits roamed the wildlands, but Ren and his men found safety in Olston.
The village appeared to be a mining town, at first glance, but Ren noticed an entire district of some two thousand people that had been freshly built far from the mine. Refugee housing, he assumed, when he saw the ragtag inhabitants there. They had arrived from the wrong side of town and walked through the northern gate after going around. Compared to Vagren, it was no gate at all, just an opening in the palisades, patrolled by a couple of guards.
“Where’s a good place to stay?” Ren asked one such pedestrian as he walked.
The man stood up and stared at Ren, but said nothing. Woodro waved his hand in the man’s face as they passed and shrugged. “He’s blind, maybe?” he asked, but the man stammered and flushed in irritation.
They passed a patrolling guard, a man with a stiff, straight arm but a veteran’s set jaw. Asar spoke up before Ren decided to. “Are there any inns here?”
“Look for the Old Granite Inn,” the guard replied. “Head down here, through the market. Then go left, downhill. It’s just in front of the old mine.”
“Thanks,” Ren said, turning around but continuing forward, to take a few steps backwards as the guard continued past the group of warriors. He nearly tripped over an old woman when he spun right away around. He got an exceptionally dirty look, but kept walking with as much of a friendly air as he could manage. Some small towns didn’t like armed guests wandering their streets.
His men walked silently. They had a long way to go before they reached Ith. Travelling over the hills was slow work for the group of smugglers turned sell-swords. They were tired and eager for a good rest.
The innkeeper of the Old Granite Inn was an awkwardly tall man. “Welcome,” he said. “I’m Ogivar, and I’ve run this tavern all my life. Can I get you and your men a serving of our evening stew?”
“It’d be appreciated,” Ren said. “We’ve never travelled this way before. Are the newer houses to the northeast for refugees?”
“You don’t look like refugees,” Ogivar said.
“We’re not,” Ren replied.
Ogivar shrugged. “They’re for whomever would like to escape to Olston, apparently. I’ve been serving more unfamiliar faces than familiar ones, for about a year now.”
Ren blinked in surprise, before going to find where Woodro and the others had found seats. This land was in constant flux. He remembered Sheld, for a moment, his lost home. Perhaps all the world was changing, but perhaps that was just his new perspective. Most people lived and died within a span of miles of their home, but Renado had seen islands and countries aplenty. He spooned stew into his mouth in silence that evening, and let his men enjoy their own banter. He felt adrift, like a boat with torn sails. Perhaps reaching Ith and getting some focus would help.