Dreisterne

CHAPTER 25

The trio woke late the next morning, sunlight already spilling through the wooden shutters of their inn room. The previous night's fatigue had melted away, replaced by the comfortable laziness that came after sleeping on real beds for once. Even if they're stuffed with hay.

Nathan stretched, groaning contentedly. "We overslept," he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Keith was already halfway through tying his boots, grinning. "Frankly, I didn't expect to wake up until the day after tomorrow, but I feel brand new already."

Harald sat upright and reached out for his hat on the side table, only to remember that he had no hats for a while now. His disappointment was palpable in his sigh, recollecting himself before he said, "Such is the wonder of a soft bed on your back for one rainy night. Come, meine Freunde. It's time we get acquainted with Londinium."

After a brief meal, and with directions from the innkeeper still fresh in their minds, the three stepped onto the bustling main street that carved its way through Londinium from the south gate to the looming Iron Castle that speared the skyline. The morning crowd pressed close, a living tide of bodies; wagon wheels groaned over uneven cobblestones, and leather harnesses creaked with every jolt. The air carried a dense medley of scents: warm, yeasty bread cooling on open racks, horse sweat steaming in the chill, and the sharp, metallic tang of blacksmith forges, hot enough that it prickled the inside of the nose.

The freelancer's guild hall rose among the shops and taverns like a fortress of its own—timber beams thick as a man's torso, stone buttresses soot-smudged from decades of torch smoke, and broad banners snapping overhead with the sigil of crossed blades and a balanced scale. Even before the trio reached the doors, the sounds washed over them: the clang of armour plates knocking together, the thud of scabbards against boots, and a rolling thunder of voices spilling into the street like heat from an oven.

Inside, the chaos had shape, resembling something near discipline. The crowd pressed shoulder to shoulder, a tide that smelled of leather oil, travel dust, and old sweat. Greenhorns clutched their papers like lifelines, while grizzled veterans leaned on spears and greatswords with the lazy familiarity of old drinking buddies. The counters rattled under constant assault as clerks hunched behind them, quills scratching furiously, inkpots clattering, seals thumping into hot wax with sharp, confident taps. Names were shouted over the din, weaving through the jangle of coin pouches and the scrape of chairs as freelancers jostled and argued over contracts.

Near the job board, another frenzy churned. Freelancers shoved in tight knots, snatching parchments the moment they were posted. Within seconds, fresh contracts replaced the ones torn away, each sealed with a different noble crest glinting under the lamplight.

Keith whistled low. "Would ya look at that, mates? Looks like half the bloody kingdom's jostling for coin today."

"Business thrives," Nathan muttered, eyeing the crush. "Which means if we want anything decent, we'd better move fast."

They pressed toward the enormous job board dominating one wall. Sheets of parchment covered every inch, stamped with the wax seals of noble houses depicting icons of falcons, lions, stags, roses, and stranger heraldry besides.

Harald skimmed the listings, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. "Hmm... combat escorts, siege reinforcement, monster suppression, und... ach, look at this one from the Taliesin estates."

Keith leaned in. "Blimey, that payout! You could buy a manor with that!"

"Or die before spending a single coin," Nathan said dryly, tapping a line with one finger. "They want ten white-plumed griffon pelts, unspoiled. We'd have better odds winning at a dice game."