“Move it!” The bulky guard growled, shoving Arthur forward.
He stumbled and nearly fell before tumbling headlong into the dungeon beneath the Red Keep.
Barely catching his balance, he raised his head, but immediately heard mocking laughter.
“Make yourself comfortable…
Snow,” the guard added with obvious contempt.
Then he demonstratively spat toward the bars, leaving a green, sticky glob hanging from one of the iron rods.
Ignoring the sight, he turned and, muttering something about “not having enough cells to search for a barefoot beggar,” went back down the corridor.
“Damn,” Arthur whispered, slowly surveying his new “abode.”
The stone cell was damp, cold, and poorly lit by a smoking torch in the corridor.
The smell of rot, dirt, and mustiness hung in the air, and rats scratched in the corners.
But the most unpleasant thing was inside the cell.
In the shadows, a tall man with an impressive build studied the boy with interest.
His face bore a fresh black eye, and his battered knuckles hinted at his love for brawling.
Above the man’s head, translucent lines flickered: Name: Maren.
Occupation: Longshoreman.
Level:
A little further in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat a thin, bearded man with an attentive gaze.
One of his sleeves was tied in a knot, his wrist ending in a stump.
The inscriptions read that he was a thief named “Stumpy.”
And in the farthest corner, where the stench of filth was strongest, a swarthy, muscular man with long, tangled hair leaned against the stone wall.
He was nearly naked, and his entire body was covered in bruises.
Oddly, his hands were bound in heavy manacles.
He looked at Arthur with a strange, unreadable gaze, then turned away toward the wall.
The swarthy man’s head, curled against the wall, faintly glowed with strange symbols in the semi-darkness.
Arthur stared at them, not understanding the language, but feeling that danger emanated from the stranger.
Although the tall man looming before him inspired more immediate unease.
He knew the type.
Men who drank away their wages in taverns, perpetually drunk and eager for a fight.
It was best to avoid such people.
Those who dared to ask for a spare coin from the port dwellers could expect nothing but a kick.
Not like the sailors on ships that docked in the harbor, who brought with them men not averse to spending an extra coin.
Drunken sailors told all sorts of stories, sang songs, and sometimes treated the neighborhood children to leftover food.
“Hey, kid,” a low voice rumbled, heavy as a stone rolling down a slope.
The longshoreman looked at the boy from under furrowed brows, as if studying him.
“Getting bored of the fresh air?”
Arthur didn’t answer, instinctively backing toward the iron bars.
This man, with his massive shoulders and crooked grin, seemed exactly the type to look for an excuse to throw a punch.
The boy always gave such men a wide berth.
But here there was nowhere to run.
“Don’t scare the boy, Maren,” the previously silent old man interjected, waving his intact hand at Arthur in a friendly manner, as if they were meeting in the town square.
“Don’t be afraid, he only looks scary.
What’s your name?
They call me Luka.”
“Arthur,” the boy said cautiously, casting wary glances at the hulking man who continued to grin.
Strange, the inscriptions called him “Stumpy.” Not that he trusted them…
“Don’t shake so much, I won’t hurt you,” the tall man grunted and, getting up, headed toward Arthur.
His massive figure seemed to fill the entire cell.
He extended a calloused palm.
“I’m Maren.
Well, now we’re acquainted.
Sit down here.”
Before Arthur could answer, he felt a strong hand grab his shoulder, and he was seated on the crumpled straw.
Maren slapped him on the back so hard that the boy’s breath caught.
“They put me here for fighting,” Maren began, as if telling another tall tale.
“Seems the cloak didn’t like me giving him a black eye.
And what about you?”
“For a loaf of bread,” Arthur answered, sniffling.
The cold bath and then the wandering in the caves hadn’t passed without a trace.
The boy felt a fever coming on.
“For a loaf of bread?” Luka raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“No one ends up here for a loaf of bread.
A fine, lashes, maybe a couple of days, but not the cellar.”
“The baker said I stole his purse,” the boy added quietly.
“And you didn’t steal it?” The old man squinted, appraising Arthur.
“I’m not a thief!” The words burst out, and Arthur was embarrassed by his own outburst.
“I stole the bread.
The first time in my life.
Because I was hungry.
That’s all.”
“No one’s accusing you,” Luka said reassuringly.
“I can see you’re not a cutpurse, honestly speaking.
But why would the baker slander you?”
“That’s what the guard asked too,” Arthur muttered, frowning.
“He promised to sort it out.”
“Ha, they’ll sort it out, sure,” Maren snorted.
“Sorry, kid, but it looks like…” He stopped short, catching the old man’s eye.
“Anyway, maybe it’ll all work out.”
Arthur didn’t answer.
His gaze fell on the swarthy man, who now lay motionless, curled into a ball.
“And who’s that?” the boy asked, nodding at the stranger.
“That’s a Dothraki,” Maren said with obvious disgust.
“Stay away from him.
They’re taking him to be executed tomorrow.
Good riddance, the horse-fucking bastard.”
Arthur remembered the rest of the conversation vaguely.
The guard who caught him hadn’t lied: after some time, the jailer brought food.
After eating, exhausted by the day’s events, Arthur drifted off to sleep on his pile of straw.
He didn’t even feel Maren move him to a softer spot, adding some of his own bedding.
He only had to sit behind bars for a couple of days out of the allotted week.
He had already paid his fine.
But the boy was unlucky.
Losing a hand at such an age…
Maren could well imagine what that meant.
Looking at Luka, the orphanage boy’s future seemed all too vivid.
But the night had new trials in store for the boy.
Cold metal touched his skin.
Arthur woke up, his eyes snapping open in terror.
The stench of sweat and stale filth hit his nostrils, and a rough, calloused hand clamped over his mouth, stifling any cry.
The Dothraki’s other hand, hairy and coarse, was trying to pull down the boy’s thin trousers, but the chain between the manacles hindered his movements.
The attacker paid little attention to Arthur’s desperate attempts to escape.
His strength and weight were twice that of the boy’s resistance.
Easily immobilizing his prey, he turned Arthur onto his stomach, continuing to pull at his clothes.
It was like a nightmare, too horrible to be real.
But the cold metal, the weight of the Dothraki’s body, and his heavy breathing suggested otherwise.
“Don’t struggle…
it won’t…
hurt,” the man growled, leaning close to the boy’s ear.
The horrific proximity of his breath made Arthur freeze for a moment.
And that moment proved decisive.
In horror, Arthur realized this was really happening.
No one was coming to help.
No one would save him.
Despair and survival instinct flared up inside him like a bonfire.
In that moment, Arthur understood: this was real.
Despair and terror filled him, turning into rage.
He lunged, slamming his head back with all his might.
A dull pain shot through his skull, but he felt the attacker’s nose crunch under the impact.
The Dothraki hissed in pain and dealt him a heavy blow to the back of the head.
Arthur’s head swam, the world blurring before his eyes.
“It will…
hurt more,” the man hissed through his teeth, tearing off his bandage.
But suddenly, as if providence itself intervened, Arthur’s fingers, which had been uselessly scrabbling in the straw, felt something cold and faceted.
It seemed to slide into his hand on its own.
With a desperate cry, he jerked his hand up and, blindly, stabbed the stone into the attacker’s face.
The blow landed on his temple.
The man jerked, his grip loosened, and his head began to shake, as if seized by convulsions.
Arthur didn’t wait.
Sensing freedom, he twisted, ended up on top of the Dothraki, and began furiously beating him over the head with the stone.
Raging, panicked fury consumed him.
The stone landed on the Dothraki’s head with a dull thud.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The man tried to shield himself, but each blow broke through his defense, turning his face into a bloody pulp.
Blood splattered onto the boy’s hands, his shirt, the filthy straw, the wall.
Arthur didn’t waste time.
He rolled to the side, freeing himself from under the man’s weight, and raised the stone again.
Strange symbols and numbers flickered before his eyes once more…
Vaguely, he heard someone cry out behind him.
It was Maren.
The burly man roughly pulled the boy away from the mutilated body.
“Damn!
What’s going on here?” he barked.
The boy was breathing heavily, his hands shaking, his face splattered with blood.
The stone he had been holding fell from his weakened fingers and clattered onto the stone floor.
Luka, pulling himself up on his good arm, hurried over to them, anxiously surveying the scene.
His gaze fell on the motionless body of the Dothraki, whose face had become a bloody mask, and then on Arthur.
“Holy Mother…” he whispered, making the sign of the Seven.
“Boy, are you alright?”
Arthur nodded, though his whole body was trembling and tears welled in his eyes.
“He…
he wanted…” the boy choked on the words, pointing at the dead Dothraki.
Luka frowned, exchanging a glance with Maren.
The longshoreman cursed silently, walked over to the body, and, without much ceremony, kicked it to check if the attacker was still alive.
But he only rolled limply from the blow.
His head lolled uselessly across the stone floor.
“Well, shit,” Maren muttered.
“This bastard wanted to rape you, didn’t he?”
Arthur nodded convulsively, covering his face with trembling hands.
Luka stepped closer and, kneeling down, gently put his arm around the boy’s shoulders.
“Easy, kid.
It’s over,” he said softly, trying to calm Arthur.
“You did what you had to.
It’s not your fault.”
“But…
I killed him,” Arthur sobbed, his gaze empty and hunted.
“It was self-defense,” Luka said seriously.
“No one will blame you for defending your life.”
Maren sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck.
“So…
what now?” he asked, looking at the old man.
“The body’s not going anywhere.
In the morning, the guards will see it.” New chapters come out on g.com first.
Luka thought for a moment, then said quietly:
“We’ll tell them how it was.
This bastard was going to…” He paused, not finishing, but his grim look said enough.
“And the boy defended himself.
That’s the truth.
Let them decide what to do with it.”
Maren grunted.
“They’d sooner believe the baker’s an honest man than us filthy rabble.
But we’ll try…”
Arthur stared silently at the Dothraki’s body, as if not hearing their conversation.
Everything inside him clenched with fear, but there was also a strange, new determination.
He had survived this night and the previous one.
Despite everything, he had survived.
Humphrey Waters, position: Lieutenant of the Watch.
Level
After delivering the boy, the “non-thief,” to the castle guard, Humphrey headed to the square where the baker was supposed to be.
The only way he could help the boy now was to request a separate cell for him.
A night in a common cell with hardened criminals was not what he wanted for an orphan.
Determined to get to the bottom of the situation, he set off for the square, but the baker was nowhere to be found.
His stall was empty, and where the man lived was unknown.
After asking around, Humphrey learned that he lived right by the city wall.
He already cursed his desire to help the boy, as venturing there alone after dark was not particularly safe for a guard.
But the remnants of honor and decency, mixed with genuine curiosity, compelled the lieutenant to go there and speak with the baker again.
His two subordinates gritted their teeth at their commander’s foolishness, which was depriving them of their well-deserved rest.
“They caught the thief, put him in a cell, what more do they need…” the tall young man trailing behind the lieutenant muttered quietly to his partner, who had first chased the boy but failed to catch him.
The boy was just too fast.
“Don’t even mention it,” Godwin agreed.
“As if no one’s waiting for him at home…”
“Something wrong?” Humphrey turned, casting a stern glance at his subordinates.
Godwin and Dake were recruits with just over a year of service.
Waters, while trying to treat everyone fairly, did not tolerate disobedience to his orders.
He knew perfectly well about the minor transgressions of each man in his squad, and while he sometimes turned a blind eye to certain “supplemental income,” he otherwise kept his subordinates on a short leash.
“No, nothing,” both young men said, avoiding his gaze.
They knew exactly where they could openly argue and where it was better to remain silent.
“It’s just that it’s evening, and…”
“We’re almost there,” the lieutenant grunted, understanding the thoughts in his men’s heads.
“We’ll talk to the baker and you can be free…
probably.”
“Guard, open up!” Humphrey pounded on the flimsy door without ceremony, following an old habit by placing his hand on his sword hilt and stepping to the side.
Over the years, he had seen all sorts of things.
He still remembered how, during a routine patrol, his former partner Greg, neglecting the unwritten rules, had taken an arrow in the gut the moment the door opened.
Now, of course, nothing of the sort happened.
After all, this wasn’t a smuggler’s den, but the home of an ordinary baker.
“It’s you?” The man who opened the door was agitated.
Either because the guards had come to his house, or for some other reason.
“What, did you find the thief?”
“Yes,” Humphrey replied.
“But I have a couple more questions.
The boy claims he didn’t steal a purse, just a loaf of bread…”
“Of course he’d say that!” The fat man reddened.
“They’re all little liars…
Damn spawn…
All my money was in there!!”
“And how much money was there?” Godwin, standing behind Humphrey, smirked.
“Enough!” the man said angrily.
“Easy there…” Godwin began, but fell silent under the lieutenant’s stern gaze.
“So you actually saw this boy steal your purse?” Humphrey wondered.
“Yes, the little bastard cut it from my belt when I was distracted,” the man said, a little too confidently.
“I see…” the lieutenant drawled.
For some reason, he didn’t believe the fat man a bit.
Reading people was probably the most important skill for a city watchman.
“What did he look like?”
“Who?
The boy?” The baker pondered.
“Just an ordinary boy, black hair…”
“The purse,” Humphrey decided to be a little cunning.
“Any special marks, embroidery?”
“Leather, ties, an ordinary purse,” the baker muttered.
“We are poor people, sir.
The most ordinary wallet.
What will I feed my family with now?”
He began to wring his hands dramatically, which only confirmed the man’s suspicions.
“I see,” Humphrey reached into his bosom.
“Although the thief denied his guilt.
We found your purse on him.”
He pulled out the most ordinary leather purse, jingling with coins.
“Is it yours?”
“Ahem…
Yes, of course!” The baker’s eyes flashed with greed, and his hand was already reaching for the money.
“It’s mine!
Thank you, sir…”
“I see,” Humphrey said, pulling his hand back.
Everything was clear to him now.
Then, turning to the two cloaks, he said: “Arrest him.”