by Alex Aguilar
“Long story,” John said.
Robyn refused to let go and held onto her brother’s arm as they took slow steps towards the cottage. The only thing John could think of in that moment was how pleasant it would feel to rest his head against something soft and comfortable; after all that had happened in such a short span of time, he felt as if he could sleep for days.
Before he could even sit, however, there was a pending matter he needed to discuss.
A pressure began to build in his chest, well aware that neither his mother nor his sister would accept the information lightly, or at all for that matter.
“Mum? Robyn?” said the farmer. “I’m afraid we need to talk…”
* * *
“That’ll be 5 coppers for a pound of pork,” said a woman with an untidy braid and a petite black mole between her nose and upper lip.
“I-I’m afraid I’ve only got 4 coppers, miss,” replied a nervous young man, well aware that his sweaty hands were only holding 3. “Please, I assure you Mister Nottley will have the coin to pay you by the end of the week.”
“I said it’s 5 coppers, boy. Either pay up or step aside for the next customer.”
Young Cedric turned back, noticing he was the only one anywhere near the woman’s meat stand. “What next customer?” he asked, and the woman shot him a grimace.
Nearby, a crowd was beginning to gather to hear the morning sermon of the maddening entity that was Baryn Lawe, apothecary and self-proclaimed courier of the gods. In reality, Cedric thought, the man was a mere beggar that had discovered a clever way to score easy coins from naïve and susceptible civilians of the royal city.
“All right,” Cedric said to the woman. “I’ll just take a half-pound of pork and a dozen eggs.”
As he handed her the 3 coppers, the woman shot him another stare of annoyance and hissed, as if to scare the young man away. Cedric found his way to the inn where Mister Nottley was being lodged, several streets away from the ashen remains of his tavern.
“What the bloody hell’s this?” asked Nottley. “This is not what I asked for, boy.”
“Seems the price of pork has gone up, sir,” Cedric said nervously, hoping his guardian wouldn’t notice the drops of sweat gathering on his forehead.
“Tell me boy, what use are you to me if you can’t haggle your way into a deal with some dumb old wench?”
“She wasn’t old, sir,” Cedric cleared his throat. “Or dumb. She had a ledger in her lap.”
Nottley gave him a groan of disgust. “Listen here,” he said bitterly. “You have ‘til the end o’ the day to come up with some coin. Or your arse is sleeping outside with the horses. You understand?”
Cedric had no answer. He turned his gaze down at the floor, as if using his shaggy brown hair to cover up his shame. He was a timid and juvenile young man with a mask of confidence he wore merely to impress his guardian. And the smug tavern keeper felt more pity for the boy than actual affection; finding himself with a newly orphaned child over a decade past had seemed to him more as an opportunity for free labor. And so the child was to grow up the shadow of the man Mister Nottley wanted him to be.
“I asked you a question, boy. Do… you… understand?”
“I-I…” Cedric stammered, until he was interrupted by the sudden sound of trumpets announcing an important presence in Merchants’ Square. It sent an instant relief into Cedric’s chest, as Nottley leapt from his seat and rushed out of the inn, gawking about aimlessly.
Outside, peasants began to assemble at the palace gates. Some were rushing out of their homes, expecting to hear news about the princess. And young Cedric, curious as he was, climbed onto the fountain at the center of the square for a better look.
Viktor Crowley and Jossiah Biggs were standing at the gates, next to a nervous guard whose name nobody ever bothered to ask for. The guard had the trumpet in his hand and he appeared out of sorts, though his sweaty state seemed to be ever-present.
“What’re you waiting for, old man?!” Jossiah asked in a loud whisper.
“Oh… R-Right,” the guard said, and then cleared his throat so as to raise his voice to a shout. “Attention, citizens of Val Havyn!” he announced. “It is my honor to present to you his majesty’s knights of the court… Sir Viktor Crowley & Sir Jossiah Biggs…”
Upon hearing the title, Viktor’s chest began to pound. There were eyes and ears everywhere, he knew. And though he had the support of Lady Brunylda Clark, he knew his time was running short and he had not a single second to waste before the king heard word of the commotion on Merchants’ Square that dawn. Nearly every pair of eyes in the city was either gathered at the gates or watching from their window.
Baryn Lawe was in the midst of his sermon, talking of the day the gods would send destruction upon Val Havyn for the sins of its people and how those that were loyal to them would be spared. He scowled as his audience dispersed and lost interest in him, their attention stolen by the golden knight. Several children had also climbed onto the fountain at the center of the square, next to Cedric, watching attentively over the sea of heads that blocked their view from below. There was an empty space near the top of the fountain, where a young orphan named Thomlin would sit during such instances. And some of the children whispered among themselves, wondering where the boy was.
As Viktor stepped forward, the muttering died down. He had everyone’s attention, and it was clear that the man was tired and worn out.
“Hope you know what you’re doing, old boy,” Jossiah whispered, giving his friend a tap in the shoulder. And then Viktor took a deep breath and began.
“Greetings, citizens of Val Havyn,” he said. “I stand before you today… to disclose the unfortunate tragedy that has befallen upon our beloved kingdom. The rumors that most of you have heard by now are true… Princess Magdalena of Vallenghard has indeed been taken.”
The crowds began to mumble among themselves. Viktor allowed it for a few moments. But when those mumbles grew into a loud cluster of chattering, Jossiah Biggs stepped in front of Viktor and shouted, “Silence! Your knight commander is speaking!”
The voices diminished. Viktor Crowley stood firmly in place, as any man of his class would, waiting patiently until the silence overtook the square again.
“Our princess has been taken to foreign lands,” he continued. “Our king… has been forced to take drastic measures in order to ensure not only the protection of our city, but that of our entire kingdom. If we allow for this foreign threat to continue, we will lose all that we have worked hard to achieve. Thus, we must be rid of this threat without question or delay. If it is the last thing I make certain, ladies and gentlemen, it is that those responsible for this attack will answer for their wrongdoings!”
The silence was broken once again, though this time the crowds chanted and cheered together in applause. Viktor Crowley raised both of his arms, asking the masses to remain attentive for a few moments longer.
“There is, however, another matter at hand,” he said. “If we are to succeed and ensure the protection of her majesty Princess Magdalena, we must take every precaution necessary… A squadron of men will be sent on a voyage heading west… A squadron, which I will personally command and lead through the Woodlands… and beyond to the western coast of Halghard.”
At that very moment, brows were lowered and smiles turned into grimaces.
And the eerie silence was perceived all throughout the city.
Not many citizens of Val Havyn had ventured into the forbidden grounds of the Woodlands, and most of the ones that did were never heard from again. The only humans among the creatures within said grounds were raiders, assassins, or merchants willing to risk their lives in order to save themselves a couple of weeks of travel. And then, of course, there were the witches.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot ask you to risk your lives and fight for your king,” Viktor said. “But I can ask that you fight for your kingdom… For your home… If you are willing, please step forth now. Furthermore,
you will be granted an incentive for your services. 5,000 yuhn will be paid in silver to any man willing to join Val Havyn’s squadron and partake in this venture. 5,000 yuhn along with meals and lodging to travel with us through the Woodlands, beyond to the western coast, sail to this foreign land, and retrieve her majesty from the enemy’s hands. Ladies and gentlemen, the power now rests in your hands. Who, among you, will stand with me?”
The moment dragged on for what seemed like hours. Eyes in the crowds turned towards each other in wonder, watchful of any person that moved closer to the gates, though of course no one had the nerve to.
After about a minute, Jossiah moved closer to Viktor and mumbled, “This is rather embarrassing.”
“Give them a moment, old friend,” Viktor said with a confident tone.
It was then that there was a sudden movement within the herd of peasants. Two men pressed through the crowds, one with long blonde hair slicked back and a chin beard that looked stiff like dry grass. The other wore a wool cap, covering his short blonde hair, and he had brown fuzz running down the side of his jaws.
“We’ll go,” said Martyn Davenport, handing his leather rucksack to his brother Wyll, who struggled to hold on to his loose cap as he squeezed through the crowd. “We’ve been in the Woodlands before. We can manage.”
“State your names,” Jossiah Biggs said, a pen and brown parchment at hand.
“Martyn and Wyll Davenport of Falkbury.”
The mumbles in the crowds had returned, some challenging others to step forth, while others praised the brothers for their bravery.
“I volunteer as well,” said another voice, this one deep and hardened.
“Name?”
“Thaddeus Rexx,” the man answered as he approached the gates, towering next to the Davenport brothers, his size and stature daunting as was usual. Viktor knew he recognized the man from somewhere, though in that moment his mind was blank.
“Thank you, Mister Rexx,” Jossiah said, adding the man’s name to the inscription on the parchment. “Anyone else?”
Among the crowds, a pair of innocent eyes watched as no one else would dare step forward. The naïve young man’s teeth were grinding against each other as his jaw quivered, unsure of what he feared most… the voyage itself or the reactions of the surrounding citizens, should he decide to step forth.
Don’t say a word, he said to himself. Let someone else go…
But the young man could fight it no longer.
He was tired of living under the wing of a man that had as much respect for him as he did the tavern dog. He knew that an opportunity as grand as this would surely never come again, at least not in his lifetime. And so, with every bit of courage he could possibly muster, he lifted his head, shut his eyes, and spoke aloud, “I’d like to volunteer.”
It may have been minimal, but to young Cedric it seemed as if the whole world had shifted its attention towards him. He took slow steps towards the palace gates. People made way for him as he brushed past known and unknown faces in the herd.
The hand of a stunned Mister Nottley gripped Cedric’s elbow as the boy walked by, the man’s eyes asking the boy, what do you think you’re doing?
“It’s all right,” Cedric said, easing his arm free of his guardian’s grip.
Jossiah’s hand trembled as he held the quill and parchment in his hands, unsure if he could go through with it all. “He can’t be serious,” he whispered in Viktor’s ear.
“He looks strong enough,” Viktor whispered back hesitantly, as if also trying to convince himself.
“Strong?!” Jossiah scoffed. “The boy couldn’t fight off a beggar, let alone a raider or an orc.”
“Then he can serve as a squire,” Viktor whispered, turning his attention back towards Cedric. “State your name, young man,” he asked out loud, fearing for the boy’s safety as he gazed upon his young inexperienced eyes.
“Cedric,” he said. “I am… M-Mister Jasper Nottley’s ward.”
Jossiah shot Viktor a look, as if asking for his final approval. The golden knight returned a nod and Jossiah wrote down the singular name on the parchment.
Cedric’s mother, a tavern server, had died when he was a boy of seven and Mister Nottley never spoke of her house name again. And so the boy grew up a nameless orphan, save for the one name that everyone called him: Cedric.
“I offer my services to my kingdom free of payment,” Cedric continued, baffling the crowds even further. “All I ask in return, sir, is for the repair of my guardian’s establishments…”
Mister Nottley felt a heavy knot in his throat.
Something came over the old man. Something like compassion.
Though his young ward couldn’t bear to look anywhere but down, his old weary eyes were fixated on him. And guilt began to crawl into his conscience, absorbing the definitive proof of the young man’s loyalty to him, far greater than he had ever given him credit for.
“Consider it done, son,” Viktor said with a nod.
Cedric stood among the lineup of recruited citizens. Thaddeus Rexx placed his heavy hand on the young man’s shoulder and gave him a mild shake, as if praising his courage. Meanwhile, however, Cedric’s eyes widened as he silently asked himself, what the hell did I just do?
“Anyone else?” Jossiah Biggs asked. There was a brief silence, as the crowds turned to one another, awaiting the next brave soul.
And it was at that very moment that something bizarrely unexpected happened, something that caught the attention of every single pair of eyes in Merchants’ Square.
A sudden roar of flames shot upwards from the ground into the sky, bringing about a wave of heat all around.
The crowds backed away, cowering in fear.
And there, in front of the fountain, were two dark figures standing alongside one another.
Two very familiar faces, upon which Viktor Crowley stared in awe.
And a memorable suave voice suddenly asked, “Miss me, mate?”
* * *
It had all happened unexpectedly.
Dawn had arrived far too quickly and more than a few citizens of Val Havyn had begun their morning routines by the time the thief and the witch were out of the palace dungeons and slipping through every quiet path they could find.
It was the largest city in Vallenghard, and it didn’t help that the palace dungeons were dozens of blocks away from the city gates. Sneaking around the precincts of the palace alone had taken them the better part of an hour, particularly after having avoided twelve pacing guards, seven drunkenly obnoxious peasants, and about sixteen merchants setting their stands before dawn.
By the time they reached the square, the crowds had grown exponentially.
The sudden sound of the trumpets had alerted them both, and by the time the herd of peasants had gathered, the path that would lead the two of them out of the royal city was entirely blocked. There was no other way but through Merchants’ Square, and now it was swarming with civilians and members of the royal guard.
“We’re finished,” Syrena said worriedly, her bright orange eyes scanning the crowds from the corner of an empty narrow alleyway.
“Will you relax, love? This is how I make my living,” Hudson said, as he brushed his long black hair out of his face and replaced his beloved black hat with a knitted merchant’s cap.
“What’re you doing?”
“Fitting in,” he said with a wink.
The thief then flipped his black coat inside out. The lining on the inside was sewn with grey cloth, giving it the appearance of a tattered wool coat. From up close, however, one could see that the perceived coat had no pockets at all, but black fiber sewn in the shape of pockets. Hudson then wrapped and tied a dark blue cloth around his neck as he held between his fingers a pair of black fingerless gloves.
“Where’d you get all this?” the witch asked.
“Remember that foul-smelling mule of a man yelling at a poor one-legged merchant, claiming his winesack had less wine than the previous day?”<
br />
“You didn’t kill him, did you…?”
“Goodness, no. What kind of man do you think I am? I simply stole his rucksack.”
“Great… And how will I get out of the city? Or is this the end of our partnership, then? Because if so, I don’t thin-”
“I’m not leaving you,” Hudson interrupted as he slipped his hands into the gloves. “Are you joking? You’re bloody magnificent! I’d have to be daft to part ways with you.”
She smirked.
The thief then attached a thread of black fuzz between his nose and upper lip. His attempt at a disguised mustached merchant made the witch chuckle, but the thief’s confidence seemed to go unchanged, which gave her hope.
“I understand your fear, darling,” he said. “You’re a witch. Untrusting of humans, and therefore keeping a distance from them all your life. I, on the other hand, am a sly street rat that has lived among humans all of my life. Believe me, I know just how stupidly unaware they all are. I can walk right past them unnoticed whenever I so please. I can be a guard, a beggar, a minister, a merchant transporting a witch prisoner for ransom…”
Upon his last remark, the witch grinned again, her faith in the thief growing.
“Now, let’s leave this damned city,” he said, adjusting his coat as comfortably as he could as the blue scarf around his neck started to itch. Then he tied the witch’s hands with a piece of rope he pulled from a carpenter’s window along the way.
When they reached the open space of Merchants’ Square, the witch tried her best to not look anyone in the eye. The thief’s head, on the other hand, was held up high, not a hint of anxiety in his expression.
He was an expert in disguise, but Syrena’s face had been publicly exposed far too recently to go unnoticed. She saw a pair of eyes in the crowd noticing her. Then another.
And then Hudson came to a sudden halt, and Syrena stopped at his side nervously. They were nearly away from the crowds; she could practically see the city gates in the distance. And yet Hudson couldn’t help but stop and listen to the commotion.