Already, the caravan had taken twice as long as the merchant originally predicted. The journey had been plagued by many delays. For five days, everyone had been forced to hole up in the small town of Linden, impatiently waiting out a violent thunderstorm that had swept over the land. Even after they were able to take to the roads again, the carts’ wheels were in constant danger of being sucked into the mud and delaying them further. And while in the gentle hills of Hanstrun, bandits had ridden down upon them, forcing the group to halt and defend against the greedy attackers. Finally, with their goal nearly within sight, a last blow had been dealt to the road wearied travelers. A great wooden bridge spanning a wide and treacherous river had been damaged, as irony would have it, by the same storm that had delayed them in the town of Linden. Precious time had been lost as the caravan backtracked downstream until they could find another safe crossing.
Matrim heaved a sigh and raised a hand to rub at his forehead. His jade eyes flew open as a hand forcefully slapped him on the shoulder.
“Cheer up!” A fellow hired guard grinned down at his shorter colleague. The larger man sported a bandage that wrapped around his head, covering his left eye, while one arm was draped loosely in a sling. Trophies from his battle against the bandits. “We’ll be rid o’ these ‘ere sheep afore the day’s through, I promise ye.” ‘Sheep’ was a term that most hired guards used when talking about the caravans, while the guards considered themselves the ‘herdsmen’ of the ‘flock’.
“Aye, that we will, Borse” agreed Matrim. He fell in step with the older man as they plodded along beside the train of mules. Borse walked with a nonchalant swagger to his step and an exaggerated swing of his arms. At his hip, a sword hung with an ease that came after years of battle. The dark tan of his skin was tattooed by a myriad of scars, each had their own tale and, depending on which night you heard him tell it, the stories changed often.
At the beginning of their journey, Borse and Matrim had been quick to team up together. They had both recognized an affinity for each other. Matrim was serious and easygoing; taking things into consideration before deciding upon an action. While, on the other hand, Borse was boisterous and more brash to jump into a situation that might not bode well. They had enjoyed many a campfire together on this seemingly never-ending trip. They’d even gone so far as to spar with each other when they’d had the chance. Although, Matrim suspected Borse had set up more than one wager on the outcome of their little ‘sparring matches’ with others in the group.
“Now that’s the sight my sore eyes ‘ave been looking forward to!” crowed Borse. Brought out of his musings, Matrim glanced ahead to see what had brought the exclamation from his friend. Beyond the top of a low, grassy rise, the turret of a castle materialized. The farther they walked around the small hill, a peaceful scene unfolded. Leading up to the walls of the great city, farmlands spread out to either side, dotting the horizon. A large stone wall surrounded the city making it an impressive sight. Above the wall, the wooden slats of houses and other various buildings could be seen. Over all of this, presided the castle. The sheer size and beauty of it struck Matrim to the core and sent small shivers down his spine, no matter how many times he had gazed upon this sight before. Tearing his gaze from the many turrets and spiraling towers, he glanced to the road leading up to the city itself and saw with some dismay that it was congested with travelers. A small groan escaped from his lips; thoughts of his tankard of ale fleeing away from his grasp.
“There’s no helping it,” Borse said, guessing at the source of his companion’s frustration. “The gods be punishin’ us for some’at we done. All we can do now is buck up and grit our teeth while we wait to clear th’ gates.”
Finding no solace in his friend's words, Matrim slumped his shoulders and nodded his weary head. “Fancy a spar then?” he asked, hoisting his spear in question.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o
Later that evening, Borse and Matrim were finally free of their restraints. They had left the caravan far behind them as soon as they had passed beneath the archway of the gate leading into the city. Together, the two colleagues prowled the crowded streets of the city. As of yet, none of the taverns they had entered showed much appeal to either of the hired guards. With the increase in the number of travelers to the city, the local taverns and inns had filled fast. Many of the buildings the two had entered were full to the rafters with patrons and bustling with loud talk.
At long last, Borse spotted a wooden sign that swung from an iron rod hanging above a heavy door. He nudged his companion, and they entered the dim ally leading to the out-of- the-way tavern. Matrim glanced up at the faded picture scrawled into the aged wood. 'The Scalded Cat, eh?' A rare grin slipped onto his face. 'Sounds like it promises a good time.'