I can't believe I got away with this. Stealing from a Prince! Either I'm good at this or these hardy folk have lost their sheen.
My boots were covered in shit and God-knows-what. I trudged through the deep moat, deeper than I remember, holding the parcel aloft my head with two steady hands. The smell didn't much bother me. Nothing could blunt the high I was feeling.
But it wasn't over yet. After I climbed out the moat, I looked behind me at the looming castle, then ahead at the familiar, and not so familiar, houses and shops. Dim lights glowed from within a few, but only the stars and moons lit the trodden path ahead.
I stepped as quickly and quietly as I could past one, two houses and made it by the side of the tavern's shed. The drunken cheers had hushed, having made way for the loudest damned snoring I've heard in my life. I opened a door that I was so, so grateful didn't creak and stepped into the shed.
Sorry for barging in.
And I did feel sorry. I didn't like the idea of someone implicating good ole Milo in my misdeed. He gave me too many cold drinks and hot meals for me to do that to him. Although, would I? Maybe I oughta trample good folks under my shitstained boots if it meant finishing this whole ordeal.
No, no, I need to focus.
I shifted the stack of oatsacks and reached between them to grab my riding boots. It'd be a pain to walk miles in those things, but I hadn't anything else. I was glad I at least had those. Then I snagged my travel bag from behind the sacks and shifted the sacks back into place. I checked inside my bag. Everything was there. I took out the waterskin and affixed it to my belt. I draped my cloak around my neck, over my scarf. Then, I carefully placed my misdeed's yield veiled in cloth into my bag, then slung the bag across my shoulder.
I had to keep moving. Out of the shed, into the woods. I knew this path, same one from back then. Down the slope past more houses, walk through the gateway into the council house's yard, out the yard and down more past the haunted rubble (or what once was; it's now a stout, proud boarding house with a valley-style roof, its length nearly as long as the tourney grounds), up the wall on the spot where the guards were too lazy to patrol because of the sharp, defensible incline that only took a hop and roll to descend, then finally down the bendy road to the mill. Then onto the bridge over the creek and into the wilds.
I stopped, turned, and entered the woods. I tried to ignore the noises all around. Quickly, I slipped off my old harness boots, dropping them to the ground, and donned my riding boots. My riding boots were newer, but still had seen better days. My harness boots, on the other hand, were worse for wear than they'd ever been. Even through countless battles, these things held up. But they'd be recognized as a holy knight's attire by any knight or dame worth their wheat. It pained me as I gazed at that part of my old kit, a thing that I perhaps trusted more than I had ever trusted my brothers and sisters.
Rest in peace.
Unsheathing my longknife, I tore the boots to shreds. I threw the scraps of the lower halves and the top brims as far as I could. If someone walked by smelling shit, then they may investigate. The top halves without their brims I just kept where it piled. It wouldn't be recognized as anything other than once-fine scraps of leather.
I doffed and re-donned my cloak in proper fashion, letting it drape down to my ankles behind me, unfixing and affixing the brooch to form a hood. I also removed my scarf from my face and wrapped it around my neck and shoulders, then swung the hood up over my hair.
It was cold. I'd felt so exhilarated and hot from nervousness and excitement that I hadn't even noticed the cold.
Not even winter, and it's so damn cold.
I'd forgotten that this place was like that. The mountains are nothing like the valleys from whence I came. I had to keep walking and work up a sweat. At least I've what I came here for. I'll stay warm yet.
I walked from milestone to milestone.
These are new.
I hadn't noticed them before. Well, I hadn't noticed a lot, really. So much has changed since I've last been in this country that it feels almost like a different place entirely. Sure, the roads are still dirt and the houses are still cramped, but there are milestones and valley-style boarding houses and so many other things that feel too... well, too Filipian. I understand, though. I've been in my fatherland for longer than I'd like. The houses are magnificent and the farms are wide. The roads are paved and a highway stretches from palace to sea, an extension and imitation of the imperial highways in the heartlands. Rare is the wilds and lurking monsters.
But everything comes at a price. On some forgotten trails and paths may stand an old crucifix with nails still studding the arms and base, its occupant a pile of bones upon the ground. Or nowhere to be seen, bony footprints leading off into the valleys' sparse wilds or some abandoned mineshaft or bear den. Hopefully buried or burned upon pyre, but even the resplendent Grand Principality is not immune to devils and witchcraft. At least the new Filip tore down the more prominent reminders of his father's cruelty. At least he's a good king, even if he's called a Grand Prince.
The wilds crowed and growled. I held close my pendant. It gave me goosebumps of disgust and a feeling of nausea, but what else were I to do? It may very well have been the only thing between me and becoming the next meal of a pack of dwarf-griffins or a bachelor elk-giant. So, I gripped it. And I kept walking.
After what felt like the longest two-or-so hours of my life, I had finally made it about a mile from a leaguespost. Despite mimicking the valleys, Lukash hadn't the manpower to garrison every checkpoint. But this one was manned, of course, since it was the first on the highway from the Prince's resident fief. Lights blazed from atop stout stone-and-timber walls. Perhaps I'm too overtly paranoid, but far ballsier villains have been vanquished from far lesser arrogance.
I bypassed the post entirely and trundled through the woods' undergrowth. I went perpendicular from the road for twenty steps, twenty steps too much for me. I clutched the damn pendant harder. I felt sick. I muttered a quick prayer and made a bull's sign with my other hand. I may no longer be a paladin-apparent but damn it all if old habits don't die hard. Maybe the prayer and sign no longer work because of my perfidy. Maybe it never worked in the first place. But it calms me, so I make it anyways.
Now I started walking as parallel to the road as possible for me. I could still barely see the flickering lights of the leaguespost from far away. I followed its guiding light at an angle, continuing with as much of a low profile and quietness as I could practice.
I made it closer. I heard nothing from the post, but I saw one guard atop its surprisingly sturdy-looking walls. The post was small, the walls covering an area about as wide as a peasant house. The roof of a dwelling poked above the walls. No doubt the loft was the poor guards' sleeping space while provisions were stored on the ground floor. Wisps of smoke rose from behind the walls, from the open space between the dwelling and the gateway, probably the remnants of the day's fire, built like a simple campfire on the march of a war campaign. If I had to guess, the dwelling could give three, maybe four people rest if they cramped it. Yet, only one mans the wall. So perhaps they have a bit of room up there, using cots instead of mats to sleep, which looks like the loft could fit two of. So I'd guess there's three or four guards in total. Two for the day, and one or two for the night. Chores would have to be done by one during the day while the other kept watch, and one to watch during the night with a possible other one to chore away in the dark.
It's an outstanding affair, all things considered. The most piss-poor country in the land managing to staff a regular leaguespost, even if it's two leagues from the town and as small as the dwelling of a damn serf. It has no room and likely no provisions for weary travelers, but a warm fire is always welcome. All-in-all, I think the new Prince Luke is doing well for himself and his people.
And I stole his family heirloom.
I suppose this is God's way of saying, Tough luck, to the fortunate. Or rather, my revolting master's way of saying it. And it's my lips that will mutter it for Him. I don't think I want this. I do know I need this.
Comrades, friends, and all those feelings I thought I felt. I've done away with them, just as they'd done away with me. Why dwell on a past that forgot me? Sure, it gave me a respite from my purpose, but now that purpose is calling. I must continue whether I want to or not.
I had already gone past the leaguespost. By a mile, I think. So, I returned to the road, swigged a gulp of water from my waterskin, and continued my journey.
One, two, three, then four more leaguesposts. The fifth from the city was garrisoned, same as the first. For the leaguesposts near the Prince's town, there are three empty ones in-between each garrisoned one. So, after bypassing the fifth post and continuing for two more, I finally stopped. The sun greeted my arrival, slowly poking through the heavens, its first warm rays filling a sliver of the sky with comforting orange.
Rest. Rest at last.
The door-acting-as-a-gate didn't budge. It's built to withstand a giant's punch, so that's unsurprising. However, the drawbar would be undone and the only thing keeping it shut was a flimsy lock.
I was never the one to deal with locks, traps, or tricky things. I'll admit that I respect Florian's conduct now than I did before. Stealth and sneaking is hard work. Something I'm not, and don't think I'll ever be, good at. Perhaps I was too hard on the fellow. Maybe Andy was right?
Andy...
God above, not Andy. I shouldn't think about Andy. Nothing good comes of it.
I shook my head and peered into the lock. Yep, simple thing. I clutched the pendant’s chain, its burning heat reminding me of my oath, the small links croaking like a ship’s hull, almost too heavy for me to lift. I whispered a reassurance.
”Shhh, I won’t drop you…”
It slipped over and off my neck and head with ease now. I then held it facing the lock. I murmured... words? I murmured things. The lock clicked and popped, granting me access to shelter from the cold night breeze. I pulled the chain over my head and its lonely heaviness returned, its links burning and burying into the flesh of my neck. I winced. But only winced. I’d gotten used to the worst of it by now.
I shut the door behind me and heaved down the large wooden drawbar. Now the door could definitely hold against a giant attack.
The yard was bare of anything but mulchy dirt, fertilized from yesteryear's autumnal fallen leaves and whatever twigs found their way past the walls. The walls themselves were in good condition; no rot on the wood tops. The dwelling's door was closed, but it, too, looked fine as can be. There was a bird's nest atop its roof. Nobody has been here in a long time. For maintenance once maybe one or two years ago?
Here's the kicker: my nausea waned somewhat, the pendant around my neck losing the slight bit of warmth to it. I could really begin to feel the cold, colder even than when I was unsheltered from the wind. Upon inspection of the stones building the foundation of the walls, there were inscriptions. Inlays of scripture.
Holy magic?
Simple holy magic, that is. Just some scripture and symbols relating to the passing of time and the rotting and rusting of ancient empires. An infantile blessing meant to do away with maintaining this place's structure whatsoever.
Ah, so that's why no one comes here.
The lazy bastards brought clergy all the way out here just to lessen maintenance on their abandoned projects? Heavens, the closest clergy is the Archvicar. I can't even imagine the mighty bastard doing such menial work these days! I chuckled. I really chuckled. I was loud. Now, this is the mountainfolk I've always known. It felt good to know that some things never change. That despite all this newness around me, all the valley-styles and milestones and leaguesposts, the mountainfolk are and always will be stubborn as mules and lazy as cats.
Well, let's get to work.
The dwelling had no lock. I entered and rummaged around. A tiny table with an even tinier stool. No barrels or pottery. Sure enough, they'd had firewood stocked in here, stacked in two small, neat piles. No cooking pot, though I've my travel bag with me, so no worries. It's no pot, but my trusty tin cup will help fill me with warmth.
I laid out my belongings on the table's surface and on the floorboards, keeping only the parcel in my bag. My longknife in its sheath, my tin cup with its fancy handle, my paper, spellseal wax, and charcoal pen, my firestarter and bundle of kindling, my two meals wrapped in parchment, my small biscuits wrapped in butcher paper, my tiny pot of honey capped with cork, my waterskin almost full to the brim if not for one absent volume-equal-to-one-gulp, my leather pouch filled with debarked hazel twigs and nice-smelling herbs, my bandage roll wrapped in burlap to keep it clean, my thick cloth pouch full of salt, and my coinpurse only half-full of jingling moneys.
I grabbed some firewood and hauled it into the yard. Then, I took my knife, my cup, one meal, two biscuits, the honey, my waterskin, and the firestarter with some kindling outside, as well. Starting a small fire in the middle of the yard, my eyes aided by the slowly-rising sun, I unwrapped the meal's parchment. Loose, ground grains, dried berries and plum slices, a chunk of cheese, and salted, smoked ham. I placed the biscuits onto the parchment as well (wouldn't want to eat dirt). I uncorked my waterskin and poured a little water into my cup. Then I took a handful of the grains and dashed that into the cup, stirring it up by gently shaking it in a circle. Repeat until full. With a decent fire going, I placed the cup atop the burning log-cuts.
Time to settle in.
I slipped off one glove and unsheathed my longknife with the other hand, cutting slices from the ham and cube-like shapes out of the cheese. I uncorked the honey and dabbed a tiny bit onto the two biscuits. Then I placed the plum slices upon the biscuits and chowed down like a ravenous rabbit upon celery.
The honey was an excellent touch. Oh, it was worth its price. Combined with the plums, it was the sweetness I'd needed to calm my anxiety from the night's misdeeds. The biscuits didn't even worsen the experience with their dense rye-and-oats crunch.
Maybe heaven does exist. And it's right here in my mouth.
I finished the stuff too soon! I still had some berries and the rest of the honey, but the berries weren't as sweet and that honey was too expensive to spend on just one meal. Oh, lament!
Well, before moving on I gave the cup a little stir with my knife. Then, I did indeed move on and stuff my face with cheese cube-like shapes and ham slices. I suppose I was hungrier than I'd thought.
Salty! The cheese helped but, gosh, the ham was very, very salty. You would think I'd be used to these types of provisions by now, huh? After years of war where most days we had only foraged roots and leaves, stolen grains, milk, and slaughtered pigs, and the very, very occasional sack of whatever-they-had-on-hand from the supply lines to fill our bellies, a soldier like me really ought've gained a tolerance for appetite, eh?
Nope. Not one bit. Sure, sure, I understand the salt's needed. Wouldn't want to eat maggots or mold. But a fellow can dream of fresh stuff, can't he?
I took a few gulps from my waterskin. It felt light. It was getting low.
I took a look at the cup. The grains were swollen and the water was starting to pop. Using my gloved hand, I wrapped a bit of my cloak around my hand and grabbed the cup off of the fire, onto the dirt ground. I'd give it some time to cool.
I wanted to save the few berries left for last, and I'd already quenched my thirst. So, as the gruel cooled, my mind wandered...
This is bad.
"This is bad," I voiced my concern.
"This is bad," Andric repeated my concern.
Florian lay on the cold stone floor with blood slowly oozing out into a puddle at his head. A piece of the culprit lay not far. Another piece there, and another here. The legs are by Stepan.
"Oi! Ye two get to hackin' and stop yappin'!" Stepan's rough voice booming out at us is accompanied by the ring of his longsword and the thud of the legs dropping fresh on the floor.
Andy looks to me. God, I can't read him at all. But he's smiling. I think it's a mischievous grin?
I'm smiling back at him. I don't know what it means, but I do know that when he smiles, I want to smile, too.
I wipe the blood from my visor and flip it down again. This'll be a long day.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. Stop thinking.
They're backing off now. Andric's a canvas of red with a bit of his vibrant blue cuirass poking through the new paint. Stepan is... well, as he usually is. A laughing maniac with red on every inch of his body and dripping from his bent sword. He's used his fists as weapons more than his unfortunate blade, his fingers as red as blood sausage links.
I'm also bloody. My warhammer weighs light in my hand, looking just as gruesome as Stepan's sword and Andric's armor. Just as gruesome as... Florian's head.
Anger? I think it's anger. Fury. Rage! Crosses upon my face. The visor and bevor hides it. I lunge forward and yell out gibberish.
The bloke in front of me flinches and brings his shield in front of him, but I'm not swinging at him. His pal is watching Stepan, so I feint my hammer away from the shielded bastard and bring my other hand holding my buckler straight to the other poor sod's exposed face.
A sick crunch and squelch followed by the tenth-or-so thud onto the floor.
Stepan and Andric swing in, too.
The other piss poor peasants are backing off.
Florian. Florian's head!
I swing around, sheathing my warhammer into its belt-sheath with practiced ease. Lala is sitting beside Florian, his head in her lap as she chants those ancient words and writes scripture upon his helm and breastplate.
I kneel beside them and provide a simple prayer. No magic, just hope.
Lala finishes her scribing and looks up at me with a small smile. Should I smile back? No, not in this situation; it's too solemn.
Florian groans. His head shifts.
Okay, I smile. Also a small smile, towards Lala. I reach out my hand and pat her on the shoulder, the one with an intact pauldron. The opposite pauldron swings from its bottom ties, exposing Lala’s roughspun tunic underneath. A bloody imprint of my hand stains the spot where I touched her good pauldron.
She looks like she appreciates the affirmation, bloody pauldron or not.
I look back at the boys. Still having their fun, it seems, despite the sods backing up and backing up until their backs press up against their pals' shields behind them. Fear is etched on their faces. Typical.
I turn back and put my hand behind Florian's head, the other at his legs. I'm offering to carry him. I think the sitting paladin gets the message.
Lala nods her head, readying to stand. I lift up Florian as if I'm carrying the Grand Princess herself. He looks so... fragile. I mean, I know he's the dinkiest out of all of us, but... he's hurt. His bleeding seems to have stopped and he's barely waking, but he's hurt. He's groaning here and there, squeaking and whimpering as I rise to my feet. He's hurt. I'm worried.
Lala wipes my visor again for me. I needed it. She smiles her small smile before turning to the postern gate. She eyes it and shrugs her shoulders.
One, two, three kicks.
"Stepan!" she shouts. The brute doesn't hear her.
"Oi, fuckface!" I shout for her, in Stepan's manner.
"Huh? Shut yer trap!" He's spun around and frowns at me. It's funny! It suits him.
"A frown suits you." I smile wide this time. I think it's genuine.
"Oi, now! I'll—" He's cut off by Lala.
"Kick!" she says, pointing to the metal door.
He nods a curt nod, down-up. Walking over, he gives one, two kicks.
The third does it. The grated door swings open with a clang.
"Why didn't you do that earlier?" I ask him.
"Huh? Didn't think o' it." He's straight to the point about it. Stepan's surely not one to dwell on his lack of foresight, no matter how much the rest of us dwell on it for him.
"Out!" Lala yells.
I look back. The peasants have properly backed up, practically climbing over their backend brothers with a fervor I've seen only in dogs chasing thrown objects. Andy turns to us.
"About time!" he celebrates.
We dash out the narrow gateway. I have to lift Florian's head a bit to get him to squeeze through the passage, but we make it. He's kinda heavy, though.
"Stepan, would you please?" I lift Florian up and outstretch my arms.
Stepan takes the hint. He's pretty good at that, despite his usual... demeanor.
He deftly and gently takes Florian out of my arms and into his own. He’s so careful. I guess Stepan’s not too bad. At least, with his friends.
Friends. We're all friends, aren't we?
We keep running down the hill. Lala still has the lockbox latched around her waist with a rope. She's fast. She's overtaking everyone. Stepan's a little slower, but still so fast. And Andric is fast too. They're all too fast.
I'm not fast. I'm slow. My breath has become ragged. The day's sneaking and running and fighting and running has caught up to me. I stumble.
The clanging of my armor catches Andy's attention first.
"Keep going!" he says to the others. Then he comes to me.
Pain.
A loud crack like thunder rings in my ears. I snap my head to my left, where I think I heard it from. No, I'm disoriented. My head is spinning. But there's someone there. No, there's someones there. They're all holding wood-and-metal weapons. The new things. Small cannons. Small cannoneers.
Arquebusiers.
One has fired his shot at my leg. The pain is sharp, too sharp. I daren't look at it. I can already feel the mangled flesh and splintered bone as I shift my weight away from it and onto my other leg.
One of his fellows shouts something. The others take aim. I cry out, looking for Andy and the others.
They're all gone.
They left me.
My blood rushed in my ears. My heart pounded in my chest. My hands tingled. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see.
I'm crying? Am I breathing?
Yes, I was breathing. I was breathing too much. My breaths were irregular, in-out-in-out-out-in-out-in-in-in-out-out. Fast. Too fast. My mouth was dry. My nose was clogging with snot. My eyes were blurry from the tears.
I was making a noise. It felt like I was being choked. My head felt like a wound. I chirped, squeaked, groaned. Like Florian when his head nearly caved in.
Florian.
Lala.
Stepan.
...
Andy.
No no no no no no no.
I couldn't think. Why did I let it wander? Nothing good comes from letting my mind wander. I was stupid. I had a good getaway and let it get to my head. Let my head wander. Stupid.
My cheeks and whatever's behind my nose and eyes felt hot. Noise started to dull, like I was underwater or behind walls. The crows and growls of the wilds became rushing of water. I was shivering. Not from the cold.
Why would I do that? Why would I think about them? Why would I... why would they? Why would they leave me? Why would they abandon me? Why would they act like my friends and I act like their friend and they fought with me and I fought with them and they ate with me and I ate with them and they prayed with me and I prayed with them and they laughed with me and I laughed with them and they loved me and I loved them and they LEFT me—18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFN9qCBQanu
The cold water coated my face. Drip-drip-drip. Sizzling onto the fiery wood.
Smoke. I smelled smoke. And steamy oats, barley, and rye.
I saw the bright fire. It looked intense, but it... it felt right.
I saw blood. Across my palm. The edge of my longknife's blade was coated in a thin layer of red. Red like...
No.
Red like blood. That's it. Not red like that day. Not red like a cuirass or a brute. Not red like a handprint or a head or… no. Not red like... not red like that other day. The day I was really alone. Alone for good. That day. That incident.
I'm fine. I can breathe. I can see. I can smell. I can feel.
That was it. Feel the pain in my hand. The empty waterskin in my other. The cold on my face. Shivering from the cold. And only the cold.
I'm okay.
The gruel was cool by then. Nah, too cold. Damn.
Well... thanks for the meal.
I clasped my hands together and muttered an incoherent nothing.
I brought the cup to my mouth and spooned out the thickened gruel with a finger. It wasn't bad. Could've used some honey.
No, no, I should save it...
...
Fuck it.
Honey it is.
I let a small stream of honey into the cup. I also added the rest of the grains. And the berries.
I wiped off my knife with the bottom of my hosiery. It wasn't much blood to stain the legging. More was spilling from my palm, though.
I stirred the cup with my knife.
I put the cup on the fire.
I waited.
Not too long.
No wandering.
I grabbed the cup with my gloved hand. I brought it to my mouth. It wasn't too hot. I tilted the cup and almost drank the gruel.
It's not bad. Tasty, even. Nice and sweet.
I tapped the bottom of the cup as I tilted the last of the gruel into my gullet.
It's good.
I set the cup down.
God, I'm knackered...
My eyes felt droopy and my body weak. I lazily snagged the cup, parchment, honey, knife and its sheath, firestarter, and lonely glove, one-by-one, smearing blood onto the cup, firestarter, and honey jar in my ungloved hand. I shambled to the dwelling. Inside, I set everything on the table. I couldn't be bothered to clean the cup or refill the skin or cap the jar or brush my teeth or wash my blooded palm. I could at least be bothered to unwrap my bandages and tighten a length of the roll around the cut, snipping it with my knife as I grabbed the longknife’s handle swung it in a reckless arc, and resheathed it all in one motion. Well, reckless be damned, my hand was bandaged and I suffered no more injury. I set down the knife in its sheath and the bandages, now not bothering to wrap the roll with the burlap again.
I climbed up the ladder. No cots. Oh well.
I took off my scarf and furled it up. Using it as a pillow, I bundled myself in my cloak, shifting into a fetal position to better fit myself into it entirely. My body was barely protected from the cold boards underneath me by my cloak and clothes as I lay with my head on the bunched-up scarf.
I was so tired.
My eyes felt heavy.
My eyes shut.
I drifted asleep.
I hoped my dreams wouldn't become like my daydreams.
I hoped wrong.
Lukash: Lu as in bLUEberry, ka as in CAlm, sh as in caSH.
Milo: Mi and in MEEt, lo as in aLOne.
Filip: Fil as in fulFILL, ip as in tulIP.
Major inspiration: Fallen Hero: Rebirth and Fallen Hero: Retribution. The premise and setup is practically the same, but I hope to add my own spin to the "fallen hero" trope.
Minor inspirations: Roadwarden and The Witcher.
ns 15.158.61.48da2
