The Past is Never Dead

Chapter Three

He runs, heavy armour weighing his shoulders down. His legs burn, screaming at him to stop and rest, but he continues on. His breaths and pounding steps fill the otherwise empty corridor, crescendoing off the bare stone walls. The slash along his side certainly doesn't make his condition better, shooting pain across the side of his body with each movement. He grips a small, green jewel in his hand. The leather of his glove keeps it from sliding out of his iron grip as he barrels through the hall.

He doesn't dare look back, it's not what Sergeant taught him to do. He nearly chuckles to himself, if not for the gravity of the situation, by imagining Sergeant's pursed lips and furrowed brows. The good-naturedness of the moment wears off as soon as it came when he realises his steps faltering. He can't seem to get his legs moving as fast as they should, so he pushes himself toward the end of the underground corridor.

Stairs soon come into his vision, and as his foot gets caught on the first step, he has no choice but to collapse against the steps. His heart beats erratically in his chest, strong enough that he can feel it in his teeth. His breaths are deep and hard, burning his throat with each intake of air. He pushes himself up as sweat courses down his body, the tunic underneath his armour sticking to the clammy skin.

He all but stumbles up the stairs, still gripping the jewel in his fist. He takes a large step onto the floor and bursts through the heavy iron door, sun blinding his eyes. His leg muscles spasm underneath him, giving out and causing him to fall to his knees. He breathes heavily still, gripping the blades of grass.

Macsen eyes the sparse army camps around Tyddwien. The bases are walled off, securing the soldiers from prying eyes. Kelric trots cautiously behind Macsen, watching for any signs of panic. He seems to feel Kelric's attention on him, as he peels his eyes away from the camps to look at the elf. He grips his reins a little tighter before frantically glancing away.

Their horses' hooves soon meet cobblestone as they head down a district with quaint law firms and lecture halls. The town doesn't seem too busy, even for the evening. A sequestered inn soon falls into view, surprisingly nice despite the small town.

A kind young man offers to take their horses, pointing in the direction of a livery yard about a furlong away. He explains that pay for the horses' housing will be due at their leave and that they will receive proper care. They thank him, dismissing his attention and entering the tavern.

"Welcome," The innkeeper behind the bar says, eyes sceptical but voice soft. He cleans an ornate glass, setting it aside as the party nears the bar, "Travellers, I assume?"

Nods and noncommittal hums affirm his suspicion. He's dressed like the usual innkeeper, but a wooden pendant hangs around his neck. It doesn't take much thinking to realise it's in homage to Carafon. It's a surprisingly detailed osprey, wings displayed, the symbol is thought to bring protection. While the god is very often feared, the respect is absolute.

"What may I get you folks?" He asks, leaning onto the wooden surface of the bar, "Ale? Wine?"

"A few glasses of each," Macsen says, eyes following the cracks in the wood. The innkeeper gets straight to work, setting wooden mugs of ale and glasses of wine in front of the group. They each grab their respective drinks, Kissos sighing quietly as he takes a sip of ale.

"That poster outside, the one for Gavin Awtet," Macsen says, tracing a finger along the rim of his mug, "Do you know anything about him?"

The innkeeper looks up in thought, "Not much, but he did come through town on the twentieth last month, on Dydd Hunan." Macsen nods and Kelric scrawls into a journal, his glass close by.