Serial: Beaks Bloody Part 1 (2026)
The Roost Coaching Inn spanned most of the bridge at a point where the Winter River divided two large expanses of forest in the Northern Territory.
The traveller climbed down from the coach and watched the horses drag the dilapidated heap beyond the screen of trees before hauling his own heavy carcass to the inn's oddly uninviting doorway.
He tried the handle, which was stiff and refused to turn.
'You can't get in that way.'
The traveller started at the voice, which he initially thought had come from behind him...but there was nobody there.
He peered both ways along the bridge before glancing over the sides and, finally, up at the rickety roof of the building.
A man of indeterminate age and an equally forgettable appearance was leaning out of an attic window. He was smiling sardonically.
'What's that?' The traveller shouted, cupping one hand to his ear. 'Didn't quite catch it.'
'You can't get in that way,' the man repeated, pointing downwards. 'It's not a door.'
The traveller frowned. 'What? This?'
'Yes.'
'This door?'
'YES! It's not a door: it just looks like one.'
The traveller nodded, feeling foolish but understandably defensive.
'It is a door,' he said.
'What's that?'
'I said IT IS A DOOR.'
'Agreed. It's definitely a door...it's just not the way in. There's nothing behind it from this side. You get on the far bank, walk over the edge of the river.'
The traveller stepped back, appraised the artificial entrance and shook his head.
'Dumbest thing I ever saw,' he muttered, but could make no further conversation as the attic window was quickly slammed shut.
'The name's Drake,' he finished, redundantly.
Sighing, he reclaimed the backpack he'd dropped on the bridge and followed the man's directions to the inn's deceptively well-hidden entrance.
The Roost was exactly as it had been described by the countless travellers who passed through Moortown on their way to the merchant markets: oak beams, a roaring fireplace, a floor covered in giant bearskin rugs and walls draped in various other animal hides.
Two men turned as Drake entered, both broad and bearded with a weathered look that spoke of long journeys and fierce battles. The only noticeable difference between the pair was their outfits: one wore the garb of a roaming mercenary while the other sported the decorated fatigues of the Northern Soldiery.
'Elijah Reynolds,' said the latter, offering Drake a nod so brief he almost missed it entirely. 'Former Captain, Moortown Outriders.' He raised a small glass of whiskey. 'Three days sober.'
Drake nodded. 'See that's working for you,' he said, dropping his pack beside the bar and proffering a mock salute. 'Billy Drake: pleasure's all mine, but I favour a cider, so I'll do your cause no great service.' He turned back to the bar and frowned. 'Speaking of service...?'
Nobody moved.
Billy's smile solidified as he peered into the gloomier corners of the inn, noticing two different corridors that bled from the building's deceptively large saloon.
'There's nobody here,' Captain Reynolds said, correctly interpreting the traveller's searching glance as the result of an increasingly urgent thirst. 'We've been serving ourselves.'
Billy tried the absurdity of this statement on for size and found it a little tight around the waist. His hand, therefore, reached instinctively for the hilt of his pistol.
'Before you make a hasty move that changes the dynamic of this here situation,' said the captain's companion, straightening a little in the chair but otherwise noticeably unruffled. 'I would invite you to check the coins on the counter, which - should you decide to total them - would, I feel certain, furnish you with a grand sum just large enough to cover the purchase of the drinks you will see on the tabletop before us. Doing so may well relieve you of the burden of your own suspicions.'
Billy didn't move his hand. 'My suspicions being....'
'... that Cap'n Reynolds and myself are a couple of swarthy footpads who, having descended on this isolated hostelry in the dead of night, have now tied up the poor landlord...'
'....or worse.....'
'... or worse... and are now enjoying both the free hospitality and what's left of the liquor inventory. I'm Hinch, by the way. Charmed, I'm sure.'
Billy nodded. 'It had crossed my mind, Mr Hinch. I was of the fancy that I may have walked into a trap and become prey to a nefarious gang...'
'A nefarious gang of two?'
'Doubtful.' Billy shrugged. 'Very doubtful, as I myself was admitted to this building on the advice of a third man whom I do not see among you.'
Hinch smiled and shrugged.
'No doubt you speak of Eustace, who has made it his business to barricade himself in one of the upstairs rooms. It's a complicated business in its own right and one that would prove difficult to explain in a few words. Nevertheless, the fascinating gentleman to whom you refer arrived with our good selves early this morning, when we found the inn entirely abandoned. A cursory search of the premises soon revealed no bodies, living or dead and a host of empty rooms, attic to cellar. It was like they all got up and walked out in the middle of the night.'
Billy let out a deep breath that almost became a whistle. 'Any belongings?'
'Plenty, though you yourself do not have the appearance of a looter...'
'I'm not.'
'Didn't think so. In any case, your question was indeed on the money and indicates that the abandonment took place either last night or during the early hours of the morning: several of the larger candles are still burning.'
Billy removed his palm from the pistol and moved around the side of the bar to retrieve a drink. While doing so, he kept one eye firmly on the duo at the table and tensed every muscle in preparation for a third-party ambush.
On the contrary, he retrieved a narrow bottle of very strong cider from behind the bar without incident.
'Attic to cellar,' he repeated, uncorking the bottle and taking a generous swig.
'Attic to cellar,' Hinch reiterated.
'How early did you arrive?'
'Early enough for what might be considered a late breakfast.'
'Curious.'
'Curious indeed.'
Billy enjoyed a second gulp of the cider and allowed the liquid to make its mark on him. 'Mind if I take a quick look?' he said suddenly, moving around the bar with a grim determination and heading for the eastern corridor.
'Knock yourself out,' said Reynolds, with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'You'll find the cellar in that direction and the corridor leading to the upstairs over yonder.'
Billy nodded and went walkabout. His first foray revealed a large basement room filled with barrels and wine bottles, some full but most empty. There was a good deal of broken furniture in the cellar, but nothing that gave any indication of a recent struggle. The upper floors of the inn offered a different sort of revelation, and Billy found an entire landing full of rooms that looked fully occupied aside from the fact that the guests themselves were missing. The last door was inaccessible and had been barricaded shut, presumably by the elusive Eustace, who now failed to respond to any attempt at communication: odd behaviour for a man who had leaned out of a window to guide him to the inn's concealed entrance.
Billy was about to return to the ground floor when he noticed a door standing ajar at the far end of the landing. He'd managed to miss it on his way up the stairs, presumably because it was decorated with a finished wooden veneer that resembled the surrounding walls. There was a staircase behind it.
Placing a hand on the door and pulling it towards him, Billy immediately became aware of a musty smell and saw that the attic stairs were incredibly narrow and, if anything, tapered to an even thinner gap at the top.
'You fellows searched the attic,' he shouted over the bannister. 'I'm assuming there's nothing of interest up there?'
The face of Captain Reynolds appeared at the foot of the stairs.
'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' he replied.
