‘Just magnificent. ’ The patriarch of the court of Dispodel boomed. ‘How people in my country work as efficiently as ants.’
He was a pleasantly fat man, with a childish, chubby face that grew into a face of impossible optimism, an idealism that could not be bought with even all the riches that he owned.
‘It is such a view that it makes me want to tend to the fields late into the night with no supper or lunch in between. Singing songs I don’t know the name of yet, until I grow so weak the words turn into a whisper. ’
He didn’t have a smile, rather, a solemn expression as though he had understood the gravity of what he had said.
‘I heard a servant claim that the lady of twilight that descends on the field has such a chilling influence that it pierces even the bulky yak hide the lords use.’ He paused. ‘Quite an expression for a peasant. Ophelia had him whipped for claiming the coming night had any sway over his lord, but I wonder…’
He trailed off, his eyes had a slight glimmer.
‘I wonder what it’d be like to throw myself onto the cart of a messenger carriage delivering packages to some far-off continent, living on the barest rations with a pack on my back, weighing me down, hunching my spine, my fate to never come back to my home country.’
Beside him on the parapet, a needle-thin man with a weary face and a distinctive scar that extended across his forehead looked up at the sky.
It was a rainy day. He was in armour. He was going to be drenched.
‘You know Sir Dotchus’ The needle-thin man grimaced; he hated being called that name. ‘I wonder if there will come a day when the people will no longer need a lord like me’ .
Dotchus looked at the ‘Lord’ Cavellar, the only man in this country who could ask such a question and not be punished for it.
‘I’ll be out of a job then, your majesty,’ he said formally.
Lord Cavellar arranged his thin, caped frock which had flown over in the wind. He was not an adopter of the European cuffed tradition, preferring more simple clothes.
‘The people will always need a sword, to keep themselves in line with each other.’ He sighed ‘Sir Dotchus, don’t more people need you than a crown to tell them what to do and how to act?’
Sir Dotchus would not respond. He was weary of trouble. He was drenched. It was raining. He was tired.
A clatter was heard from the stairwell, as a servant stumbled up carrying an umbrella and an urgent expression.
‘Your majesty, your majesty, a message from the lady Tictys!’ the servant gasped.
Cavellar’s face brightened immediately ‘Quick, quick, place it down in my study.’ He took a cursory glance at Dotchus who had let out an involuntary sigh ‘and fetch me and my knight a change of clothes!’.
—
“5 talents! 5 talents a piece of bread! What a con,” Beretus grumbled as he walked into the pub. “I’ve been grabbing hoo-haa and whatsits for Glamis at his beck and call all morning and he holds out his hand and asks for 5 silver talents a piece.”
The man he was speaking to was unusually tall, sitting a head above everyone else. He was wrapped in a strange, faded hide of an unknown animal and had an unnaturally smooth face that broke out into dimples when he smiled (Which he was doing).
“I’ll be damned the day I pay a day’s worth for a bite Lathion, I’ll tell you that much. Damn that bastard Glamis and his crookery, I’ll have him tied up in the square-”
“Beretus. Would ya like a beer.” a heavily accented barkeep boomed.
“’Fraid I dont have anything to pay for it” Berutus sighed “I’ve been buck-dry since I finally paid off my debts to the innkeeper for the night we had on the solstice.” he ended with a toothy grin reminiscing.
“It’ll be on me then,” the tall man spoke for the first time.
“They’ve been paying you well up in the nursery, have they?” Beretus laughed.
“Ooh, has the lady been showing her preference to our laddie Lathion?’ the barkeep added.
The nursery is what they called the castle in which his majesty Lord Cavellar resides. The townsfolk consider him hopelessly naive, though it is also this innocent nature that made him so well-liked by the few that did know him well enough.
“The master lady of the nursery? No, she’s a miserable wench.” Lathion shook his head, “had me whipped 10 times across the back for calling the night cold.”
The barkeep and Beretus cackled, as they did, the doors of the pub burst open again. Three men, all in an odd mix of garments, silk, fur, cotton and mismatched armour pieces, entered.
“Is a lad by the name of Lathion Hinderprest located in this here building.” A man with a particularly crooked long nose croaked.
“What’s he to yer?” The barkeep replied, after taking a glance at Lathion.
A crossbow shot from one of the three men – a short elvish-looking man – snapped its way towards the barkeep, caught one of the beer glasses and shattered.
A sudden hush fell over the pub as everyone looked at the source of the noise, then just as abruptly broke into a cacophony of shouting and attempted to attack the three men.
Lathion put his hand on the sword hilt, Beretus ducked under his stool, and the barkeep retreated to the back entrance.
“All we want is Lathion”, the last of the third men who hadn’t spoken yet, with an unusually high, strained voice, squeaked. “All of you are just collateral if you fight us.”
Lathion slashed his sword into one of the chairs to stop the shouting. The chair broke into two even halves and slid onto the ground with a thud.
“I will deal with them” he endorsed loudly, the crowd once again quietened.
“I said I will deal with these men, now leave this pub.” There was a rush towards the back exit once he said this, Beretus for his part remained behind the stool.
“What a hero trying to fight a 3 vs 1.” the crooked nose man scoffed “I’m sure you know why we’re here for you?”
Lathion was tense, he had no idea what they were talking about. He also had no idea what he was even doing. He had sworn not to take up a sword again after his last duel, and the hilt felt uncomfortable and uneven in his hands as though he had lost all those years of practice and was once again picking it up for the first time.
He dropped his sword and instead threw a chair at the squeaky man. He would avoid using his sword if he could.
A satisfying ‘plonk’ proved he had hit the target, and the squeaky man fell unconscious.
A crossbow bolt embedded itself a hair’s width away from Lathion’s hand into the lounge. Another followed up on the stool Beretus was hiding under before he could react.
“Give up. You’re outnumbered. And Derunis here is pretty crude with a knife.” The crooked-nose man grinned at the mention of his name.
Lathion picked up the stool that Beretus was behind and ran with it towards the doorway. Two more bolts reverberated right against the stool, and the man named Derunis sprinted towards him.
Before he had an opportunity to slash Lathion’s legs, Lathion jumped threw the stool onto Derunis’s head and tackled the elvish-looking bloke to the ground.
By some miracle, that had been the trick, now all he had to deal with was a short crossbow man at point-blank range. Before he could throw a punch, however, a knife cleaved its way through to Lathion’s back. A red trickle of blood started seeping out of where it hit.
Lathion’s vision flashed into black for a bit, then he got a grip on himself. He heard a scuffle behind him, maybe Beretus or the returning barkeep would keep the crooked nose man handled.
He threw a punch, the short elvish man dodged and it hit hard plywood. “What do you want with me?”.
The short man glared “It was you who prevented us from accomplishing a very important task.” He tried to reload his crossbow, but Lathion brushed it out of his hands.
Lathion hoped no one had gotten hurt, he was bleeding. If someone didn’t come soon, this could mean death.
“I’m just a servant.” He exclaimed.
The short man sniggered. “As if we believe that. Sir Lathion, knight of the court of his majesty Cavellar,” he mocked, “as if we believe that it was anything but purposeful, you chose to hide away with us peasants.”
Lathion looked stone-faced. He didn’t hesitate to throw another punch.
“We know that it was you who prevented us from replacing the Lord of Dispodel.”
To be continued.
Writer – Haran Thirumeni
Editor – Alvia Farooqui
Artist – Rufina Chan
–June 2025–
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