Thatch crackled and hissed. A branch snapped overhead, loud as a crack of thunder echoing through the trees. Leaves and pine rustled, wood crashed into wood, and Tomasz threw his body forward as the overhang collapsed.
His temple struck the timber frame. A cold, heavy weight crashed down on his legs, pinning Tomasz with his body half stretched across the threshold.
However long he lay there, he did not know. Only that the cold crept in. A slow burrowing in his bones freezing him down to the marrow.
Boots crunched over ice and snow, and a long shadow fell over the open door.
Tomasz craned his neck, relieved to find he could, and without pain. A tall, massive figure in black furs and riding leather loomed beyond the threshold. A thick, snow-dusted cowl covered their head, and though their face was masked in shadow, the weight of their gaze was inevitable. Final. And fixed on Tomasz.
“Bad night to be on the road,” he said.
The figure did not move.
“If you are seeking a room, we have them, although…” Tomasz worked his legs. Again, no pain. A blessing, despite the weight of snow, thatch, and fallen beams. He grunted, attempting to work himself free while the figure watched in silence. “I appear to be stuck.”
The traveler shifted. Though he could not see their face or eyes, Tomasz felt their gaze drop to the detritus pinning him.
“Salted.” The word rasped from the traveler, carried to Tomasz’s ears on the back of the wind more than it was spoken.
“Of course.” Tomasz pressed his palms flat against the ground, working one leg, the other, and gaining a centimeter. “We practice the old ways, especially on nights like these.”
The traveler made a sound like steel over stone, and backed away.
Panic fluttered in Tomasz’s chest. He wriggled, gaining another centimeter before the effort left him gasping for breath. He collapsed flat against the ground, craning his neck to keep the traveler in sight.
“Any help,” he panted, “should you be willing, would be appreciated.”
Oddly, the traveler fluttered a hand at Tomasz and the inn. A helpless gesture at odds with his bulk and the aura of his presence.
Because the traveler was male, of that Tomasz was sure. It was in his size and stance. In the two guttural, grinding sounds he had made.
“Please,” Tomasz said quietly. “Come inside and take my hands. If you pull, I think I can work free.”
The traveler made that odd sound again. He raised his head to the fallen overhang, the broken branches above. In the movement, two steel gray eyes flashed beneath his snow-dustedcowl, the shadows retreating enough to reveal the high bridge of his nose and the scarf covering the lower half of his face.
Those eyes, cold as the winter night, harder than iron, landed on Tomasz. “Alright.”
He worked his way over the snow and timber, hesitating whenever he thought the pile might shift. Wood groaned and ice popped beneath him, and with a quick intake of breath, he jumped over Tomasz’s head and landed on soft feet within the tavern.
Turning slowly, he took in the room, lingering his gaze on the fire in the hearth and the bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. His shoulders dropped, some sort of strain or stress leaving him, and he tugged the scarf low.
He crouched, face dropping into view. A dark beard clung to his jaw, and frost lined the skin beneath his eyes, the gray sheen making them gleam in the firelight.
“Hands.” He held out his arms. Worn leather gloves, the palms and fingers creased from gripping reins or rod, stretched over large palms. Tomasz held out his arms, and the traveler took hold, his grip strong and steady. A manacle around his wrists as inevitable as his haunting gaze.
Tomasz swallowed a sudden rise of fright, locking his gaze with the traveler and nodding. Digging his toes into the ground, he pushed forward as the traveler pulled. Wood shifted, snow and thatch crackled and snapped. Tomasz gained an inch, another, and with a final, hard tug, he left the fallen pile behind.
The traveler dropped his hands and straightened, crossing his arms over his chest as Tomasz rose.
“Thank you.” He dusted himself off. “I do not know how long I would have been stuck there if you had not come along.”
“They would have come for you, eventually,” the traveler answered. “When the storms eased and the skies cleared. If only to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” Tomasz cocked his head.
“Goodnight.” He tugged his scarf up over his chin, aiming for the door.
“A gorza!” Tomasz blurted, too loud in the quiet room. “Please, let me pour you a drink for your troubles.” Before the traveler could turn down the offer, Tomasz darted behind the bar. His hands, cold and clumsy, dropped a cup. Fumbled a bottle. He cursed under his breath, grabbed a clean cup, and set it down hard.