Sword of Destiny

His bolt-hole was his sanctuary. It wasn’t much, but it was his place. He was king here, for what that was worth. He shifted into a more comfortable position, moving his head onto the plumpest part of the old rag that served as a pillow. He pulled the tarp over himself and wrinkled his nose, hoping to hide the stench. But no, it didn’t work. He squirmed against the smell and wriggled around until he was looking out of his slum-palace. There was the faintest blur of daylight in the sky.

Bugger it. It was time to get up.

He hauled himself onto his knees and discarded the near rigid tarp. He kneaded the sleep-ache from his shoulders and licked his lips, his stomach obediently rumbling. Then again, his stomach was usually rumbling. Such was the life of a street-rat. Fortunately, he’d had a windfall last night. He wouldn’t go hungry today. That foolish baker should really look after his wares better.

He unpacked the invaluable loaf from its paper packaging and marvelled at it. It was an olive-mottled bread, with a salted crust and herbs baked in. He had mauled half of it last night, but it was singing to him now, luring him in. He would devour the rest this morning, and it would energise him for the rest of the day. Maybe longer.

He crawled out of his bolt-hole and stretched into the barely-light. Probably best to move now, while the town was still asleep. He could eat on the move. It wasn’t like he had cutlery.

“There he is. Get him!”

He turned, his wild hair swinging and snapping with the action. There he was – the baker. Bloody Brother, but he was persistent.

He gave a shrug of the shoulders and smiled at the man. The baker looked bedraggled where he’d been searching all night, but the tradesman looked at the bread now in his hand, half eaten, and growled. This was unlikely to end well. There were few options, so he smiled again, turned on his heels, and ran. Ran like a bastard.

He had spent his years on the streets avoiding the Wings like the plague, and there was a very good reason for that. If he was part of the ‘Lost’ – the plague of the streets of Triosec – then the Wings were the antidote. And they were not a kind remedy. They punished disease with an iron fist.

The one advantage he had was that he was familiar with the darker parts of town where his pursuers were probably not. He could dart in and out of the small places, moving like a rat through the city, and that was exactly what he did. He shot down the road, his bare feet slapping the ground and echoing from the high walls of the buildings. He looked over his shoulder, at the baker, but that man was less keen on the chase. Instead, he was moving towards the bolt-hole. His slum-palace. Everything he owned was there. It was not a lot, but his meagre possessions were there, and they were now at the baker’s mercy.

“Shit.”

Three sharp turns later, expertly executed so that the pursuing Wings scampered wide of the mark, he was bearing down on his home once more. Home. This hole was his home. Then again, he supposed that it wasn’t any longer. He’d have to find a new squat.

The baker’s arse was the only thing he could see of the man. The bastard was digging in his bolt-hole, but nothing had been hauled out just yet. Ha! That was a result. Not being an idiot, he had hidden his meagre sack of ownership pretty damned well, and it appeared he had bested the baker. He sprinted harder and a plan flourished. Not such a terrible outcome after all.

The baker wiggled his arse, burrowing deeper into the hole. It was funny to watch and he happily honed in on it. Four conveniently placed crates offered the path, and he sprinted for them. There was a hollow sound when his feet impacted the crates, and the arse wriggled more urgently. But it was too late. With an expert series of steps, he landed succinctly onto that same posterior, and from that vantage, he swept his sack of worth from its hiding place, and then abandoned his home. A deft hop back to the muddy road and he sprinted down the street. His bare feet slapped against the cobbles and the baker finally stumbled out of his indignity. The man screamed, but it was too late. He was already gone. That tubby git would not pick up the chase.

Unfortunately, where the baker was convenient, the Wings were resourceful, and their numbers slowly snared him in a trap.

“Just like a bloody rat,” he mused. The sky hit the first golden hues of the early morning and he was surrounded. Surrounded before breakfast. The bread was still in his pocket.

The Wings approached, five of them in total. They were big, but that wasn’t saying much when he was a scrawny little vagabond. All he wanted was a life of peace in his squalor, but oh no. He couldn’t even eat his breakfast in peace.

“Are you coming easily?” Wing One licked his lips, gripping a deadly sword.

But of course, that was a stupid question. He backed away, keeping his distance, but that tactic would not last forever. The side-alley ended in a wall, and there was nowhere to go. Trapped. And bullied by the Wings. Bullied. He licked his own lips, his heart racing.

The moment had a distinct familiarity to it. Something from his past. When he placed his measly bag of possessions at the side of the muddy street, it formed in his mind’s eye. Beef stood before him, along with the Farmyard Friends. Same problem, different time. Just a shame that his opponent was much tougher on this occasion.

“I didn’t do nuff’in.” It didn’t hurt to sound ineloquent. It was expected of the Lost.

“You stole some bread, Son. Do you know what the punishment for that is?” Proportionate, no doubt. “You will have your hand chopped from your wrist.” Of course. Entirely out of proportion.

Did the bastard smile then? Yes, he did. The guard continued forward, followed by his buddies, and this was it. They were armed with fine looking blades – he should know – and lots of armour. He was armed with the remnants of a loaf.

And some old socks. Perhaps he could knock them unconscious with the smell? They’d kept him from sleeping, that was for sure.

Unfortunately, the anger didn’t come. He balled his fists and dredged the injustice of it all, seeking that frothy state that worked so well for him. Nothing. He gulped and put a hand on his pocket, the bread within. Stolen bread. And there was the problem. He was in the wrong, so what right did he have to resistance? He dropped his arms and his shoulders slumped. Defeated. There was no way out.

And then the baker arrived. Thank the Father he did!

The bastard baker cried for his head, and the bile rose. This really was a foul human-being. Chasing a young desolate through the night for restitution of a single loaf – it was pathetic. The man’s wealth was bloating his belly, and yet he – the poorest of the Lost – was to lose a hand. One loaf. One loaf! It was a crime that the issue had even got this far.

He screamed, and it came. The bubbling intensity. The Wings paused for a moment, but then continued on. The baker was sneering from his place down the street. Git.

He sprinted and shouldered the first guard in the gut, just slipping beneath the swipe of a sword by the tiniest of margins. So lucky. The man was caught off guard and he flailed to the ground, waving his sword in his throes. It was practically a gift, so he nicked the weapon with a thief’s expert hands. Now he was armed.

He swept the weapon at the second guard with an almighty scream, but it was controlled. The bubbling anger focussed his path, and success came his way. The second guard pulled up his gauntleted arm, but he still stumbled to the muddy floor. Useless.

The other three guards were better prepared, and the fight was poised. How he held his own against three Wings he would never know, but somehow there was always a gap that he could exploit. And despite not using his talents much these days, he still trained perpetually. He could not break the three men, no way, but he didn’t need to – he just needed to survive until the opening arrived. And it always arrived. Right on time.

The baker was raging at the periphery, and the path was forged. He leapt at the foul man and got steel up against the neck. Then he clamped the baker’s head in the crook of his arm and used the bastard as a shield. He pressed the steel into the flesh of the man’s cheek, and blood leaked down the face. Then he laboured his breathing, and put his lips to the man’s ear, licking it just a little bit.

“Just a loaf of bread, and now you’re going to die.”

Of course, the baker didn’t die. The last thing he needed was to be a wanted murderer too. However, he was pretty sure the man pissed himself, and that was funny. When the sword left the man’s neck, the baker cried for justice, screaming and pointing. The Wings had little option but to take up the chase once more, but by then, he was free. And he had his bag. The Wings would pursue him, but he would go to his sanctuary. They would never think to look there. After all, who would search for a vagrant in the library of all places?