The Inn of Four Gables
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  tegerio

Prompt: grimace


Bundled up against the northerly wind and the brisk chill it brought with it, those villagers out and about their business as the sun came up over the eastern mountains gaped at the apparition that entered their settlement. Women gathered their small children to them, while men tensed and eyed the newcomer warily.

The bear didn’t see them and didn’t care if they gawked or hid or ran from him. He was Ragnar the Bloody, more than half a legend among the mountain folk. The seven-foot-tall brown bear, scars showing on a brawny arm that rested a huge double-bladed axe casually on his shoulder, was dressed in a motley collection of furs and leather.

There were legends, tales told around hearth fires at night to frighten children, about where he got those furs.

Ragnar had a deep and almost pensive frown on his face as he trudged up the village’s main street toward a three-story edifice that rivaled the town hall and the tall spire of the stave church. The building had a steeply pitched roof to shed rain, snow and ice, with gables facing the four compass points. The inn was named after the four tall gables and was usually open at this time of day for wayfarers and villagers needing a bit to eat or a mug of beer before starting the day. There were some rooms upstairs with only a slight chance of fleas and lice.

The inn was closed today for a special occasion and a very select clientele.

The hulking bear walked up to the front door of the inn and struck it several times with a fist that, legend said, could break stone. A pause, and he punched the stout oak door again.

The sound of heavy footsteps drummed against creaking floorboards, approaching the door, and a small spy-door opened to reveal the scarred visage of Hrothgar Ironpaw. The wolf had a deep frown on his face, and wolf and bear glared at each other. Ragnar gave a soft grunt, barely an exhalation through his nose.

Hrothgar bared one tooth in a half-smirk before opening the door. He closed it behind Ragnar as the bear stamped into the inn, the wolf following him at two arm’s lengths distance.

Inside, the inn was warm and dimly lit from the big hearth fire, smelling of unwashed male musk, smoke and the clean cedar shavings strewn on the floor. A table bore a variety of well-used weapons, and Ragnar deposited his axe and a short-bladed sword he used as a dagger on the table before moving toward the central fire and the other furs gathered around.

Mattei the Ferocious, Angry Heoroth, Theorgrim the Mad, Ilya One-horned . . . Hrothgar sat down on a bench and nodded toward an empty place beside him, and Ragnar settled onto the bench. It creaked under their combined weight. For a while there was silence as the huge barbarians frowned or glowered or smirked at each other before their ears perked when a door by the kitchen opened.

A stocky, matronly vixen wearing a dark brown woolen dress, embroidered white linen blouse and a leather apron entered. “I thought I heard the door – oh!” she said, dropping a slight curtsy to the new arrival. “Greetings, Ragnar the Bloody.”

The bear’s frown deepened. He placed huge paws on his knees and grumbled, “Greetings. My name is Ragnar, and I am constipated.”

The others’ expressions didn’t change as they nodded, several offering greetings of their own.

“So, we are all here,” the vixen said. “I will warm up the mineral oil for the clyster.”


end