Being the messenger

There is a series of books in my brain that I call “Project Mistfall”, which I hope to one day write. For now, while I work on another novel, they live in snippets like these, where I play with the characterisation and world building, slowly testing the waters of my ideas.

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If there is one thing in this world Loric is good at, it’s words.

“Gentlemen,” he fawns, backing slowly across the room. There is a chair somewhere behind him, he knows. It should be between him and the window. “If you have a complaint about my services, I’m sure we could work things out amicably.”

The three bruisers in the doorway, having just forcefully busted the lock of his inn room, grin and crack their knuckles as they advance with threateningly slow steps.

“It wasn’t us who complained,” the leader says, showing off his lack of teeth. “Nor was it someone who used your services. But, see, there are politics you gotta be aware of when travelling these lands. Alliances to note, and feuds to avoid. And when some hopped up messenger arrives in town, carrying the mark of the neighbouring lord, some people take notice.”

“Ah.” Loric’s knee brushes wood, and he adjusts his steps. Only another yard or so to the window. “And I suppose the local lord did not appreciate that mark?”

“Exactly. See, ye do have some smarts. So, here’s your options. Hand over the lord’s letter quick-like, and we’ll leave you be. Or don’t, and we’ll take it by force. Your choice.”

Loric’s foot nudges his pack; he pretends to stumble, and kicks it backwards with his heel.

“Now, I don’t think that’s much of a choice,” he says. “A messenger’s worth is decided by their reputation, and that reputation is built on trust and secrecy. If it became known I handed over a letter, what good would that do me? None. But if I were to let you beat me — and mangle my hands, as I’m sure you’ve been ordered to do — that would be equally ruinous. Surely men such as yourselves can understand my dilemma.”

The bruisers chuckle, all three now halfway across the room. They look like wolves stalking a lamb, the menace in their gazes longing for an outlet. Loric knows their type, and knows how to play this game; letting them stalk, letting their adrenaline rise and their focus narrow, and letting them believe themselves the bigger prey. Because they are, but that does not guarantee their win.

“Understand, sure. Care? No. We have our orders. So, choose, little messenger. Or we’ll choose for you.”

Loric’s heels hit his pack again; he hunches over, cowering, and his spine brushes the windowsill.

“Well,” he murmurs, as if truly thinking it over. “If you’ll take the letter either way, I suppose…”

The leader’s grin widens. “If you hand it over, we’ll let you go unharmed. Promise.”

“Well. In that case…”

The shutter flies open with nary a push; he had ensured so last night. His pack he hefts with the other hand, mourning the few items he has left scattered around the room, and throws himself over the sill just as realisation dawns in the bruisers’ eyes.

He falls past the first floor, startling a patron drinking by the window, and lands on his feet with a crunch and a swirl of wind. He stumbles, scrambles, and rights himself, then bolts for the stable.

Above him, the bruisers yell from the window, a stampede of footsteps starting as they race for the stairs. Loric can’t help but grin. It’s terrifying, playing this game. But the exhilaration makes it worth it; the beat in his ears, the heat in his veins, and the fear dogging his thoughts. Nothing else makes him feel as alive.

Now he just needs to stay alive.