Young Writers Society

While winter still gripped the north in its icy fist, the snow had already begun to melt in the central regions of Aeste Mercia; however, this was of little importance to the hooded figure that was sneaking into the menacing city of Lasomnien, the capital of the Rŏdragons. The figure was that of a man, in his mid-thirties by the looks of him, yet he moved with the stealth and grace of a cat on hunt. He was well acquainted with the dark alleys and narrow streets of the ever bustling, overpopulated residential district of the outer-city, and navigated them easily. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of sewage flooding the streets. Most of the houses seemed derelict, but there were at least a few which looked like their owners cared for them.

The man passed various beggars, peasants and shopkeepers, only occasionally bowing his head in greeting before moving on. He passed courtesans and smugglers, though he ignored their sly calls. Several times, he was forced to venture out into the open of a marketplace or an avenue. There, merchants were selling goods from all across Mercia: spices from the Great Desert to the southwest, jewellery from the Za-yin lowlands to the south and golden artefacts from the Gòlfoxes to the southeast. Once again, though, the man paid this no heed, as his mind was set on another, more urgent matter.

He reached his destination a few hours past midday: The Aròdragon Inn. It was a three-storey building just off the main street with a small clearing on the east side which led to the stables behind it. The roof was tiled orange and the window frames were painted to match. People were shuffling in and out of the inn and the man could hear music and laughter coming from inside.

He stealthily moved around the building to the back entrance. The man had been at the in two nights before, and his horse, Moonstruck, was still where he had left him. As the man entered, he removed the hood to reveal a short, fawn-coloured bush of hair and blue eyes as bright as the summer sky. His face had a few scars where he had been wounded in battles long past.

The noise engulfed him as he entered the environment of jollity and humour. He went to the counter and sat on a high stool, turning to watch a couple of brawny, drunk men arm-wrestle. A knock on the counter made him turn around to face a rather plump man with balding auburn hair and emerald green eyes. A pint of ale and a plate with bread and pork had been placed before him.

‘Greetings, Raymont,’ the plump bartender said, patting the man on the back so hard, it made him cough. ‘I thought you would be coming back sometime or the other. It was very careless of you to simply leave your horse here.’

Raymont swallowed the piece of bread he had been eating before replying, ‘I wouldn’t forget Moonstruck – never. Knowing he would be taken care of, I left him here; I knew I would have to return anyway.’

‘It is time, then?’

‘Yes. Umm, I saw several horses out back. Are all of your rooms occupied, or do you still have one spare?’

‘Of course I do! Or at least, I will; there’s this man who just needs to come pick up his horse. He’s only paid for yesterday.’ The bartender looked over Raymont’s shoulder to where a young woman in her early-twenties was serving ale to some customers. ‘Abbie, prepare the room of that scholar for Raymont here.’

After Raymont watched the woman called Abbie replace the serving plate and go up the stairs, something made him turn around.

A couple of guards had walked in. Three of them wore chainmail and the bright red tunic of the normal patrol guards, and carried a halberd. Their leader, a tall, brutish man, carried a helm under his arm and had a longsword hanging from his belt. The man scanned the faces of all those in the inn, which had suddenly become ominously quiet. The captain’s gaze rested on Raymont before he approached the counter and sat next to him.

‘A pint of your special brew, Ricard,’ the captain ordered.

Raymont noticed that a large scar marked the captain’s face and continued across a glossy eye. He would have preferred it if the captain had worn an eye patch, but he quickly put those thoughts aside as he noted the three guards taking up position by the front and back doors.

‘Well, Captain Jonathan,’ Ricard said, placing his hands on the counter and looking the captain in the eye, ‘I haven’t seen you in the lower district ever since you gained command over one of the army’s battalions.’

‘Which means “Captain” is no longer correct,’ Major Jonathan said. ‘Anyway, I’ve been busy, but I’m not here to chit-chat. I’m here on important business.’

As he said this, the guards surrounded Raymont and Jonathan turned to face him.

‘I have heard many things of this fellow here,’ he said, ‘and none of them are good.’

With his peripheral vision, Raymont saw people hurrying out of the inn and the guards pointing their halberds at him.

‘I am supposed to bring you in,’ Jonathan said, ‘but my precise orders were to bring your body.’

Ricard grabbed the major’s arm and said, ‘I will not have you shed blood in my inn!’

‘Very well. Guards, escort our friend here out back.’

The guards nudged Raymont out the back door before surrounding him again. Jonathan came out, put on his helm and drew his sword.

‘Now, don’t resist and we won’t make you suffer.’

Raymont put his hand on his waist, feeling his concealed sword there. He also had a crossbow on his back, already loaded with a bolt. He was astounded that the guards hadn’t noticed the bulge in his cloak yet. Raymont weighed his options before smiling at Jonathan.

‘I don’t think so.’

Before the guards could respond, Raymont already had his crossbow out and shot the first guard just above his eyes. He threw the weapon down and, as he turned, drew his sword and swung it towards the closest guard’s left arm, feeling the resistance as his blade scraped bone. The other guard finally responded by lunging with his halberd, narrowly missing Raymont’s thigh. Raymont evaded another of the halberdier’s attacks and thrust at his side, sending a fountain of blood spewing into the air as he punctured an artery. The man fell to his knees and Raymont ended his misery by beheading him in one clean motion.

Jonathan had stood still during the battle, watching as Raymont sliced open the last guard’s chest.

‘I applaud your skill,’ he said. ‘Defeating three soldiers from my personal troop is quite an achievement, but you can no longer expect any mercy from me. On guard!’

He lunged at Raymont, who barely had the time to parry the blow, but was sent staggering a few feet back by the sheer force of the impact. Jonathan came at him again, swiping low. Raymont parried once more, but after nearly another minute, he was exhausted by the major’s relentless assault.

Jonathan kicked him over and chopped at Raymont’s head. Raymont held his sword up to parry, but suddenly, instead of the usual sound of clashing metal, he heard the sound of a blade breaking. To his horror, it was his own. Jonathan howled in triumph and prepared his final blow, holding his blade high above his head. The only thing Raymont could do was close his eyes and pray.

But the blow never came.

He opened his eyes and saw the major standing wide-eyed with a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. Standing in the doorway behind him was Ricard, holding the weapon from which the bolt was fired. He approached Jonathan and wrenched the longsword from his hands. The major had gone down on his knees, still wide-eyed and shocked by the sudden development. Ricard raised the blade to his neck.

‘Why?’ Jonathan asked in a wavering voice.

‘Because I look out for my friends,’ Ricard said, and before the major could reply, he hacked at his neck.

Ricard turned to Raymont and helped him onto his feet. ‘Help me carry these bodies into the stables. I don’t want the city guard crashing through the doors and burning my inn.’

‘I have been compromised, Ricard,’ Raymont said, lifting one of the bodies onto his shoulder.

‘Then we must make sure they don’t catch you. I’ll summon the rest for a meeting tonight.’