Chapter 221: The Journey: The Mayor Escaped
Shouts echoed faintly in the distance as Lara neared the inn, mingling with the panicked whinnies of horses and the rustle of boots on gravel. A prickling sense of urgency crept up her spine. As she crossed into the inn’s perimeter, her brothers finally appeared, stumbling from the doorway, both hunched over and clutching their stomachs like men pierced by invisible daggers.
"Sis, is Sandoz alright?" Bener asked. "He seemed to be still in shock."
"Damn it! My stomach hurts again." He ran in the direction of the outhouse.
Lara’s eyes narrowed. Only then did she notice the growing line at the back of the inn — guests and soldiers alike queued up impatiently outside the outhouse, one of them banging on the wooden door and shouting at the unfortunate soul trapped inside to hurry it up.
Grimacing, she looked down at the boy in her arms, who looked pale and half-conscious, and carried him back to their room. He groaned softly in her arms, his skin clammy.
Once inside, Lara reached into her travel pack and pulled out a tightly bound pouch of herbs, their scent sharp and earthy. Without wasting a second, she descended to the ground floor and made her way into the inn’s kitchen. To her mild surprise, the place was bustling — several other travelers had already gathered, their faces drawn, each clutching an empty cup, begging for hot water.
Minutes later, Lara emerged with the kettle cradled in her arms, steam rising in lazy curls, and five ceramic cups clinking softly against each other on a tray. She returned to her brothers’ room and wordlessly began pouring out doses of her herbal remedy, the bitter scent of the concoction filling the space.
"Brother, there must be something wrong with the food. Why are many of us having a sick stomach?" Gideon grumbled as he took a cup of the medicinal herb. The water was hot but not scalding hot. It warmed his stomach and comforted him.
"Do you really need to ask that?" Bener, who had come back after relieving himself, snapped, eyes sunken and voice taut with frustration. His tone was harsher than usual — the sting of illness scraping away what little patience he had left. His hands trembled as he held the cup. "It’s the damn food."