The Bronze Box (chapter 1)

I opened my eyes and tried to sit up, but a jolt of pain seared through my head.  When it passed, I looked around.  The first thing I noticed was the cool breeze on my skin.  it was the harvest season, just after spring, and the breeze felt unusually warm as it caressed the weeds and the grass.  I looked down.  oh. I thought, well that explains it.  my body, which would ordinarily be clothed by thick layers of wool or fur, not to mention a heavy coat of chainmail, was at the moment girded only by a thin loincloth where my legs met my waist.  other than that, I was covered only by bruises and scrapes, and my naked skin momentarily sent a shiver through my body before the sun rewarmed me.  What am I doing here?  

As my eyes drifted across the grassy hills, they rested on the broken remains of a horse drawn wagon, surrounded by clusters of shattered pots, crates, and boxes.  Oh no.  My legs still sore, I hobbled over to the carcass of the vehicle.  Its reins and harnesses were empty, the horses having either fled or been stolen, and it lay glumly on its side, pressed against the dirt.  I searched for anything of value, primarily for things that belonged to me, and found nothing.  I focused hard to try and recall what had happened.

I was definitely traveling with this wagon, but what did this, and where is everything?  My recent memory was jumbled and foggy.  As I attempted to determine when my last memory was, all I could think about was a grilled lamb I had eaten about a week ago.  Every other memory was foggy and difficult to place in relation to the present.  I ran my fingers through my hair.  On the way through, they brushed against my scalp and sent a shock of pain through me as if a hot iron had been pressed down where my fingers touched.  Okay, I decided as I writhed in agony on the ground, That rules out hangover.  Picking up a shard of broken pottery that smelled as if it had once carried alfalfa, I examined my blurry, concave reflexion.  Although difficult to make out,  it appeared as if my blond hair, as well as my forehead, was stained with red.  I gave recollection another try, but only received a throbbing in my head as a result.

As I began to walk away from the wreckage, A lump of clothing caught my sight.  my heart leapt, and I began to jog over to it.  it was not until I was within several yards of it however, that the realization struck me.  The pile was a body.  Having grown up in Neigengrad, I was no stranger to death, but the sight of a corpse still made my stomach turn over.  Steeling myself, I ambled closer and turned it over.  the face still wore the tortured expression of a man not affected by pain, but by the knowledge that his opponent had scored a fatal blow.  His dull eyes screamed of bitter hopelessness.  The hairs on my bare skin stood on end.

The sullenness of the discovery was only amplified at the realization that I had briefly known this man.  He had been the driver of the wagon.  It was he whom I had hired to transport me and some cargo to Selingrad.  Judging by the lack of desert scenery, I figured we didn’t make it far.  What was I transporting?  What was my job?

A glint in the dirt down the road behind the wagon caught my attention.  on the way over to it, I recognized it as my own weapon, the hand axe given to me on my twentieth birthday almost one year ago.  One of its blades was stuck firmly in the dirt, the other protruding brightly like the top half of a carrot.  Its hide wrapped handle hovered parallel to the ground, about an inch above the dirt.  I grasped it tightly, and wrenched it from the land.  With the palm of my hand, I scraped the soil from the axehead until the polished iron glimmered dully in the sun.  After strapping it to my bare back, I looked around.  Now where is my shield?  

Surveying the recent tracks of the wagon, I noticed a round piece of twisted metal about halfway to the cart.  Further examination proved that it was my shield, or rather, what was left of it.  As I picked it up, its weight and feel brought back the memory of the previous night.

It had been my first job since leaving home, and I was meant to escort fresh fruits and vegetables to Selingrad, along with another older and more experienced guard from Feringrad, and the driver.  After traveling for about two days, we were ambushed by a group of highwaymen.  As we stopped to feed the horses, they jumped from the darkness and onto the wagon.  I couldn’t see their faces, but I could definitely make out the massive club that one carried, and pulled out my axe and shield.  As the other escort engaged the rest of the bandit party, I rushed to attack the man with the club.  Sidestepping my attack, he swung his weapon viciously at my face.  I leaned back and instinctively held out the first thing I could to block, which happened to be my axe.  Not phased at all by the axe, the man’s club continued its trajectory and tore the weapon from my hand, causing it to disappear into the darkness behind us.  at the realization that my only method of attack left was with my shield, I jumped from the wagon and started to fall back, my heart racing furiously.  To my dismay the man pursued me mercilessly, and with both hands heavily brought down his club on my only remaining defense, twisting the metal and shattering the wood.  As I turned to run, the last thing I remember was something colliding with my head, and the sickening crack that sounded before I hit the ground.

My heart sank.  Everything I had was gone.  A cursory check revealed no fruits and vegetables left in the wagon, save a half eaten apple.  The other escort was nowhere to be found and had undoubtedly fled.  The driver was dead.  I clasped my throbbing head in my arms and wondered if it would have been better had the bandit killed me, instead of merely despoiling me of my clothes, money and cargo.  Now I had nowhere to go, nothing to eat, and as a result of my failure to protect the cargo, no job.  I dropped to my knees, feeling the grass tickling my legs, and the cool soil depressing beneath my weight.  Why couldn’t it have just been a hangover?

It didn’t take me long to collect myself.  I recalled the driver mentioning that we were only a half hour from the nearest town, which would probably be only be a couple hours on foot.  Lifting the dead man’s shoes for comfort and his jacket for decency, I continued down the road.  I wouldn’t be able to get another job with people thinking of me as more of a barbarian than they already did.  The axe and the blond hair didn’t help.

I did have some qualms about wearing the raiments of a corpse, but necessity outweighed squeamishness.  “It doesn’t matter what you feel,” my mother used to say, “It only matters what you have to do.  Nature doesn’t care what you feel, and neither do most people.”  Her words might have seemed harsh to someone raised in somewhere comfortable, like Feringrad or Collingrad, but I was raised in the southern mountains, and my mother’s hardline attitude had made me and my brothers strong, and in Neigengrad, strength meant the difference between life or death.

The town I had been told about had been further than I expected, but after what felt like an eternity, I finally stumbled upon its wooden gates.  The young gateman raised his bow and nocked an arrow.

“State your name and your business in Metier.”

I grinned at his sloppy display of marksmanship.  I could tell just by how he held the bow that he was an amateur.  I almost criticized his technique, but given his having a weapon aimed at my head (albeit one he probably couldn’t hit me with) and the fact that he held the key to the only town in miles, I simply answered, “My name’s Resch, and I’m here looking for a courier or escort job.”  

The man gave me a quick once over with his eyes and started to turn away.  “We don’t need any more couriers.”

I scoffed.  “Hey!”  I shouted impetuously.  he turned his head.  “Open this damn gate or I will personally climb up there and beat you to death with my bare hands.”

He gulped and widened his eyes as if not sure whether I was joking or not.

“Or this axe,” I added, tapping the weapon on my back.  He paused for a second, and then responded, his voice quivering with uncertainty.  “I’m the best marksman in Metier.  You can’t talk to me like that, I’ll shoot you!”

I couldn’t help but laugh.  “The best marksman in Metier?  Maybe the hair tipped you off freind, but I’m from Neigengrad.  Most of the little girls in my village could shoot better than you., ‘the best in Metier’ isn’t really a prestigious title, and it certainly doesn’t threaten me.”

After a brief hesitation, he sighed and unlatched the gate.

“Enjoy your stay freind.”

Metier was a busy town.  As its name suggested, it was a centre for trade and commerce, and smelled of horse droppings and western spices.  The streets were filled with caravans and travelers, bustling through to sell wares, get supplies, or simply stay at one of the town’s many inns.  The buildings were rustic and entirely wooden.  Even the windows were devoid of glass, and walking through, it became apparent that the town was never set up as a permanent residence, but as an overgrown outpost for travelers to resupply at.  This tended to be good for someone low on funds, like myself, as a greater number of merchants meant more competition, so lower prices, and also more jobs to choose from.  I didn’t want to get stuck with delivering some rare foul smelling manure halfway across Archia.

On my way to the bar, several roadside merchants advertised their merchandise to me, but most noticed that I wore barely anything under my long coat, and rightly assumed I was broke.  At the door to the bar I stopped and examined the sign.  The Boire, it read, An establishment for relaxing, chartering expeditions, and dealing business.  

That sounds about right, I thought, entering spiritedly.  The joyous chaos of haggling filled the air, only just barely drowning out the clinking of glasses and the singing of drunks and bards.  I walked up to the bartender and ordered a pale northern ale.

“You got six silver?”

“Put it on my tab, my employer will pay for it.”

He looked at my sloppy attire incredulously.  “What employer?”

The question stymied me for a moment.  “I’m... I’m in between jobs at the moment, but-”

“Sorry but I can’t let vagrants just wander in here and order whatever they want.  Get some money or a patron and come back.”

I sighed.  To get some ale, I would need a job, and for a job I would need collateral.  This
was going to call for some desperate measures.  walking up behind the nearest bard, I shouted a request for the loudest song I knew, “Jiraia the Barbarian”.  The bard happily obliged, and commenced the lute melody with vigor.  As tales of the Barbarian Wars flooded the room, and a chorus of drunks joined in, each alternating to cover verses another forgot, I eyed the coin purse of a nearby man.  In the chaos of the dancing and singing, I stumbled towards him, doing my best impression of a drunken stupor.  When I reached him, I pretended to trip, and hugged the man brusquely, delicately grasping at his purse.  Sufficiently inebriated, he hugged back as if I were his brother, and then continued dancing as if nothing had happened.  As he pulled away, my hand clasped firmly around his purse, and snapped the string tying it to his belt.  Wasting no time, I identified the nearest blue flag I could find and dashed over to it.  The blue flags that people put in their drinks to signify a job offer seemed to be a tradition all across Archia, as this was the third time I had seen them used.  Not wasting any time to count the silver, I set the coin purse down on the table and announced my business.

“I’m looking for an escort or a courier job, this is my collateral.”

The man, whose hair and complexion indicated he was the son of a Forester and someone from Feringrad, smiled grimly.  “That’s lucky, because I have a very specific and important task for someone like you.”

“I’m listening,”  I replied, nervously glancing over my shoulder to make sure the man I had robbed was still drunkenly dancing.

The employer mirrored my expression and looked suspiciously to his left and right before producing a small metal box from his coat.  It was coated in bronze and engraved with carvings of lizards and wildcats.  He set it down on the table with what appeared to be a sense of awed respect.  I moved to open it.

“No!”  He demanded urgently, “It must not be opened.  The latch is designed in such a way that the box changes shape when opened, so the person receiving it knows it has been tampered with.  Your job if you accept it will be to transport it to the town of Marasia and give it to a man named Drisceau.  If it gets to him without being opened he will pay you a sum total of two thousand silver.”

The man’s expression was dead serious, as if the box’s delivery was a matter of life or death.  With a price of two thousand silver just for its transport, I wouldn’t be surprised.  Most people hiring for a job would have started with an offer much lower than that, and for a moment I just tried to process what he was telling me.

“I’m sorry, you said two thousand?”

The man nodded.  “Is that acceptable?”

For a split second, I considered haggling him higher, but to risk losing an offer like that would be unbearable.  “I’ll need supplies for the journey.”

“Done.”

“And one more thing...”

“Yes?”