“Stop there, vagrant!” one bellowed.
The prince turned and grasped the door with both hands, slamming it shut. From the wall, he pulled a hanging torch from its bracket, forcing it down into the handle and shifting it until it stayed. The door began to rattle, filling the air with a great din, and the prince leapt lightly down through an archway and into the outer courtyard.
There, a sea of spectators had gathered around a central walkway, all watching as the retinue made its way past. The sunlight reflected off of the silks and gold, blinding the prince as he searched for a path through the throngs. When he found none, he resolved to stride along the edge of the crowd, peering over shoulders and heads for a way through.
Damn… fools, let me through… I am the prince!
He stopped suddenly, faltering in his stride, as he turned to see a sentinel ahead of him at the end of the courtyard, his visor lowered and his cloak trailing like a great tail as he strode lazily about. In his hands was a spear, and at his belt was a blade, long as his arm, clicking against his greaves as he moved. The prince turned back to face the crowd. He no longer sprinted, but strolled forward, searching again for a way through.
Gods, show me…
He stopped once more as he saw his opening, barely large enough to fit through. After glancing again at the sentinel, he approached, and saw a clear path to the walkway, only two rows of spectators between it and himself.
I can not fit…
His sister was approaching, her retinue surrounding her.
The guard will see me.
He reached for his dagger, and began to draw it slowly from its sheath. It grated against the leather quietly, and he felt its vibration in his fingers. He planned his throw, watching the retinue for gaps between the guardsmen, then shifted, so that his side faced the opening in the crowd. The grating stopped as the tip of the blade left the sheath, coming free. Against his palm, there was cold, in his fingers, a chill, and his heart was beating rapidly.
Closer.
He could hear the clicking of the sentinel’s armor, the clapping of his boots on the cobbles.
Move… move, you witch, faster.
The retinue stopped. He returned the dagger to its sheath and straightened himself, just as he felt the gust of air of the passing guardsman crossing behind him, only inches from his back.
You doxy, you witch! Burn in the Depths!
He stood on his toes to see what had halted the retinue, and saw a face that he recognized in the crowds, smiling at his sister.
Why did you stop her now? Curse you.
From: The Plight of Steel – Chapter 1
by Tony Del Degan
Copyright © 2019 Tony Del Degan, All Rights Reserved.
