The Lord of Misrule

Prologue

Author's Note:

I decided to add a prologue chapter to beef up the context at the start of the story. This is the first and only chapter that is written in the first-person. I hope you enjoy!

Prologue

I crouched against the tile, keeping my body still and my gaze fixated on the city below. A lazy gust of wind billowed around the hemline of my cloak, revealing simple trousers that tapered off at the ankles and feet saddled in leather woven sandals. Beneath me, a river of people swirled through the narrow streets of the town, spilling past merchant stalls and slipping in between pushy street hawkers. The quiet, rumbling thrum of conversation filled the hot summer day.

I rose to my full height, stepping over the curved, ceramic tiles that peppered the rooftops of the buildings cramped inside the town walls. I moved quickly, with grace, floating over the tiles and leaping towards the next building with practiced ease. I landed with a soft thud and felt my sandals scuffing against the grainy surface before I caught my balance.

Slate tiles, I thought to myself. Surely it means the Abbey. Leave it to the clergy to be rich enough to afford slate!

I scoffed, tugging my hood lower, then scampered onto the edge of the building to get into a better lookout position. My gaze fell on a small procession that was pushing themselves through the cramped street. A large man carried a box tucked under his arm, boasting flamboyant blue and green robes that shimmered in the sunlight. He was flanked on either side by two mountains of muscle. They plodded alongside him with permanent glares etched on their faces.

The guards wore light chain-mail armor and leather belts with long-swords strapped to the hip. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. It was always better for me when those pigeon-livered cads burdened themselves with armor.

I jumped at an angle onto another rooftop, moving swiftly to the edge and perching myself there like a hawk. The procession turned into an alleyway that cut across to the town square, squeezing them for room and forcing them to move in single file. The pudgy man ambled along, the box wedged firmly between his armpit, sandwiched by his lackeys and oblivious to the danger above him. I tensed, assessing the walk-speed of the trio carefully, silently thanking the forces above that the pudgy frame of the owner forced the guards to walk slower than they usually would.

With a deep breath, and supreme timing, I jumped, crashing down onto the chest of the rear-guard and immediately going into a bruising forward roll. I felt the air rush out of the his chest and his body go limp.

In a single, fluid motion, I burst out of the forward roll with my right leg, burying my foot into the flabby gut of the owner. He squealed like a pig, doubling over and tumbling backwards with all the grace of a dung beetle, the box flung from his grip. I snatched the box out of the air, silently admiring my cat-like reflexes, then swiveled on my heel and darted in the other direction.

I heard yells of protest behind me. The paunchy man was writhing about on the floor in agony. He lay sprawled on the ground in a heap and formed a considerable obstacle. The remaining guard was able to leap over him, then accelerated into a sprint, yelling obscenities at me that would make even jaded housewives do a double-take.

I had always relied on being surefooted and my agility to get me out of bad situations. This time was no exception. I bobbed and weaved through the crowd, cutting into connecting alleyways and letting instinct guide my path. I glanced back to see the goon bumbling through the crowd, bowling over errand-boys and cook-hands like they were made of paper. He wasn't quick enough though, and I soon lost myself in the myriad alleyways snaking through the town.

"Bullocks!" He spat on the ground in disgust, then turned and doubled back on his tracks. The long-sword at his hip swung wildly, clattering against his chain-mail armor like a metallic drum.

I slalomed through the pedestrian traffic, occasionally earning myself outrage and obscene gestures whenever I bumped somebody. I rounded a bend and made for the town gates, slowing my pace into a purposed stride when I merged onto the main thoroughfare.

A throng of people streamed in and out of the open gates, farmers with carts laden with barley and peddlers with a sackful of trinkets slung over their shoulder. The town guards wouldn't be conducting a thorough search of each visitor at this time of day. They were lazily eying the crowd, looking out for anybody suspicious.

Suspicious; sort of like a cloaked, hooded figure walking stiffly and not making any eye-contact....

I gave myself a reassuring smile, then pulled the hood off my head and sauntered up to the gates. I was about to start whistling a tune to ease my tension, then thought better of it, reminding myself to be casual and ordinary. It was always the ordinary ones that were never noticed. I slipped in between a few idlers huddling at one side of the gate and ducked behind an armourer haggling with one of the guards about his customs charge.

The town gates led out to a cobblestone track that quickly transitioned into a dirt walkway, with open countryside to one side and coarse bush and forest on the other. While both the mercenary and his master would be busy accosting anyone unfortunate enough to be wearing a cloak inside the town, I would be cashing in on my latest heist within the depths of the forest.

It was like stealing shoes from a cripple.

When it was safe, I produced the box out of my cloak and glanced it over, noting that it was sturdy and secured by two interlocking iron bolts. I would need to pry it open with a makeshift lever, but it was nothing I couldn't handle.

Before I could devise a plan, something snapped me out of my scrutiny. It was the unmistakable sound of shoes pounding on the packed dirt, freezing me for a moment, and causing the hair on my arm to stand on end. Then, to my horror, I heard a shout from behind me.

"Hey! Thief! Come back here, you rogue!"