Razim noticed eyes peeking through the gatehouse window as he and Sidregar passed through the unbarred outer gates and into the trough, the space between the lofty inner and outer walls of the royal city. In the trough, merchants, travelers, and beggars could camp the night free from harassment by thieves and other harm, before entering the inner gates in the morning. But this night the trough was bare of tents and of all but the most destitute-looking persons. Razim led his brother to the inner gate and noted that they were lined with iron spikes. Strangely, there were no guardsmen on duty, none that he could see anyway. He peeked through the slats of wood.

The gate swung open with a high wail. Razim swapped curious looks with Sidregar. They paced into the city, scanning the streets for an open inn. The streets were empty. The hour was late indeed, but unless the populace was exceptionally well-behaved, Razim would have expected some patrolling guardsmen, a drunk or two staggering through an alley, trying to find a warm place to spend the night. The city seemed abandoned, like much of the country surrounding it, yet they had heard no news of any trouble as they approached this kingdom.

“Why didn’t they lock the gates?” Razim asked.

Sidregar sighed, his breath misting before his face. He tightened the wool scarf around his neck.

“Because the danger is already inside.” He pointed to a sign on the side of the Dropwing Inn, below the board that proclaimed the inn full.

Razim leaned to his right to read it. “Beware of Ogre.”