These Old Bones

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The rain engulfed them, soaking their clothing. Seeping in, almost penetrating skin. Chilling them to their bones, yet no-one moved as they awaited the proclamation. Many of them were men. Big men, well armed. The hunger for sanctioned violence almost hanging in the air. Some women, too. All of them believing they could take on entire armies and walk from the battlefields unharmed, glorious vanquishers of evil.

They were all going to die.

Brorzjav looked down at his boots. Old, well worn boots sinking into the mud. He considered lifting his feet to remove himself from the mire but couldn't muster the will. The heavy bag, the strap digging into his shoulders, crept further and further down his back as his hands, slick from the rain and pained through his brittle joints, failed to keep a strong enough hold. Giving in, he swung the bag from his shoulder, dropping it into the mud in front of those old worn boots.

Everything was soaked, from his long, scraggly greying hair and beard, to his mismatched collection of clothes and armour, collected on the long journey his life had taken. His old, grey cloak dragged on his shoulders. Water dripped from the nose, broken so many times, he no longer recalled its original shape. He tried wiping his face, but his hands, and the fingerless gloves covering them, were too wet, themselves, to make any difference.

The town's mayor poked his head out of the door of the tavern, grimacing. Brorzjav saw him. A small man. Not in stature, but in demeanour. He refused to leave the tavern until someone covered his head with an oiled sheet and, together, the mayor and his lackey jogged and jumped and skipped towards the the market dais. He coughed, once, twice, to gain everyone's attention.

"I know you all came here to hear of the bounty for the murderer, Seevan Garr. The Regent, herself, has placed a bounty of twenty Talons for the man or, heh, woman that brings him to justice. Dead or alive." The mayor nudged the lackey as a raindrop bounced from his perfect shoes. "Who will take the bounty?"

"I!" Shouted one man, almost six-and-a-half feet tall. Long blonde hair falling, wet and lacklustre against his shoulders. "I'll bring him back in several pieces! One for each Talon."

"Nay! I will catch him with nary a hair on his head disturbed." A stocky woman stepped forward, elbowing the blonde man in the gut. "I'll strip him naked and kick his arse from his hideout to here."

Many of the crowd laughed and the woman bowed low, flinging out her arms in theatrical fashion. She winked at the tall blonde man and he grabbed his crotch and thrust out his tongue. The woman pretended to yawn and turned her back on him.

"I'll do it for a warm bed and beer for a night." Brorzjav raised his hand and the mayor squinted through the rain towards him.

"This is a young man's game, old one." The stocky women yelled a protest. "A young man or woman's game. Go home, old one. Find your children, sit by a warm fire. Rest that old weary head."

Again the crowd laughed, turning towards Brorzjav, looking down their noses at him. He'd been hunting bounties since before any of them had been shot into their mother's guts. Fought wars none of them had even heard of. Bled for countries they would never see. Killed more men and women and beasts than meals they would ever eat. He was not too old!

He was too old. He could feel the age in the arthritic joints of his legs, the incessant rain causing them to throb. He could feel it in his hands struggling to keep a grip on a strap causing his belongings to wallow in the mud along with his feet. More than anything, he could feel it in his mind. He could feel the eternal sigh waiting for its chance to emerge from his dilapidated old lungs.

"You, blond one, and you, girl, come speak in the tavern and I'll give tell you both all the details." The mayor pointed at the tall, blonde man and the theatrical woman. "The rest of you, away. The next town over has a bounty for a pack of wolves stealing chickens."