Knifer
05-29-14, 12:46 AM
The hour was ungodly early when he was roused from his slump on the rough stone floor. The criminal hung limp, forcing the jailers to drag him up and out of his cell.
"Sorry pal," he snickered, "ya mum rode me too hard last night. Legs are shit today." One of the guards, walking behind with a spear aimed at the prisoner's spine, gave a quick and none-too-gentle rap on the ribs with the butt end of his weapon. Coughing, the prisoner thanked him good-naturedly. His toes left traces of blood and dirt as they scraped along the floor.
A dull crimson wound was the only sign of sunrise when the prisoner was unceremoniously thrown into a small wagon caged with iron bars. The door closed with a loud clang. The soldier responsible for the din was immediately chastised in a hissing whisper. Some man, some cripplingly thin man, was standing nearby and anxiously wringing his hands. The criminal cackled.
"'fraid the good folk won't like me bein' gone when they wake?" he called loudly. "Mebbe they want a piece?" The magistrate hissed another warning, shaking a finger at the chained criminal and some of the guards. A spearpoint jabbed his way, and the criminal agreeably silenced himself. There was a light sound of whip touching hide, and the horses drawing the cart started at a steady walk. The criminal only took his glinting eyes off the nervous magistrate when there was no more magistrate to be seen.
The ride through town was silent, few of the 'good folk' being awake at this hour. The criminal stifled a yawn, then curled himself into a ball on the rough plank floor of the wagon, and quickly returned to his interrupted slumbering. He woke again when the wagon stopped, but he did not stir this time, waiting to see if he was to be moved again.
Took out in the sand and stabbed, most like, he mused. Nobody came to open his cage, however, and his manacles were untouched. He heard fragments of conversation between the guards and somebody else.
"... to the southern gate... a contact with rest of your payment... relieve you of guard..." Going north, then. The capitol, most likely.
Won't that be a lark.
He was alive, and would be for some time if he was smart. That was useful knowledge. He was going back to a city where anybody worth mentioning wanted him dead. That was also useful knowledge. Lastly, he was going back in chains, unarmed, with no plan, no help, and nowhere to hide.
The criminal relaxed, preparing to sleep again, and his teeth glistened in a savage grin.
Well, that just makes things more fun.
The world faded, and the criminal drifted to sleep.
~
He woke again to glare at the blinding lamp hanging in the pale sky overhead. He jabbed a parched tongue between cracked lips, spurning the sun for waking him. He was sore from the unrelenting wooden floor and the occasional jarring impact when the wagon hit a bump, but these pains were no more or less intolerable than the stone floor that had been given him back pain for the past few weeks. Of more import was his desperate thirst. Even greater than that was his need, oddly, to piss. The food they'd been giving him wasn't inspiring enough to make the criminal give a shit for it.
He rolled from his his side to his back and stretched. Joints and vertebrae popped, and he groaned. The rough wood would probably leave splinters in his flesh, but that didn't concern him. He reached up and seized one of the cage bars that was just out of his reach, feeling the delightful pull in his muscles. Groaning again, the criminal luxuriantly pulled himself upright. The cage was short enough that a taller man might've felt cramped. He pushed hands through the cage and grasped at the sun, pointing a menacing squint skyward. The air was dry and tasted of disturbed grit. No sounds except the jingle of tack, the creak of wheels, and a mumble of conversation between the men heading up the column – indeed it was a column, a handful of horsemen and footmen keeping a steady pace and surrounding the wagon.
All this just for me, smirked the criminal. Makes a girl feel special.
He stretched once more and then stepped to the back of the wagon and hung his weight against the cage door. It rattled. A glance hidden beneath hooded eyes told him that the deadbolt was secured with a heavy padlock. Problematic, but not impossible. With the chains heavy on his wrists, the criminal reached to his tattered trousers and pushed them down. He sighed relievedly, closing his eyes as the stream began to flow out through the grate and directly in front of one of the riders following behind the wagon.
After a moment, still pissing, the criminal opened one eye and regarded the rider. An unremarkable youth with a sour and slightly shocked look on his face.
“'oy mate,” he called in a grinning tone, “you the greenhorn 'ere? Y'know my name?”
"Sorry pal," he snickered, "ya mum rode me too hard last night. Legs are shit today." One of the guards, walking behind with a spear aimed at the prisoner's spine, gave a quick and none-too-gentle rap on the ribs with the butt end of his weapon. Coughing, the prisoner thanked him good-naturedly. His toes left traces of blood and dirt as they scraped along the floor.
A dull crimson wound was the only sign of sunrise when the prisoner was unceremoniously thrown into a small wagon caged with iron bars. The door closed with a loud clang. The soldier responsible for the din was immediately chastised in a hissing whisper. Some man, some cripplingly thin man, was standing nearby and anxiously wringing his hands. The criminal cackled.
"'fraid the good folk won't like me bein' gone when they wake?" he called loudly. "Mebbe they want a piece?" The magistrate hissed another warning, shaking a finger at the chained criminal and some of the guards. A spearpoint jabbed his way, and the criminal agreeably silenced himself. There was a light sound of whip touching hide, and the horses drawing the cart started at a steady walk. The criminal only took his glinting eyes off the nervous magistrate when there was no more magistrate to be seen.
The ride through town was silent, few of the 'good folk' being awake at this hour. The criminal stifled a yawn, then curled himself into a ball on the rough plank floor of the wagon, and quickly returned to his interrupted slumbering. He woke again when the wagon stopped, but he did not stir this time, waiting to see if he was to be moved again.
Took out in the sand and stabbed, most like, he mused. Nobody came to open his cage, however, and his manacles were untouched. He heard fragments of conversation between the guards and somebody else.
"... to the southern gate... a contact with rest of your payment... relieve you of guard..." Going north, then. The capitol, most likely.
Won't that be a lark.
He was alive, and would be for some time if he was smart. That was useful knowledge. He was going back to a city where anybody worth mentioning wanted him dead. That was also useful knowledge. Lastly, he was going back in chains, unarmed, with no plan, no help, and nowhere to hide.
The criminal relaxed, preparing to sleep again, and his teeth glistened in a savage grin.
Well, that just makes things more fun.
The world faded, and the criminal drifted to sleep.
~
He woke again to glare at the blinding lamp hanging in the pale sky overhead. He jabbed a parched tongue between cracked lips, spurning the sun for waking him. He was sore from the unrelenting wooden floor and the occasional jarring impact when the wagon hit a bump, but these pains were no more or less intolerable than the stone floor that had been given him back pain for the past few weeks. Of more import was his desperate thirst. Even greater than that was his need, oddly, to piss. The food they'd been giving him wasn't inspiring enough to make the criminal give a shit for it.
He rolled from his his side to his back and stretched. Joints and vertebrae popped, and he groaned. The rough wood would probably leave splinters in his flesh, but that didn't concern him. He reached up and seized one of the cage bars that was just out of his reach, feeling the delightful pull in his muscles. Groaning again, the criminal luxuriantly pulled himself upright. The cage was short enough that a taller man might've felt cramped. He pushed hands through the cage and grasped at the sun, pointing a menacing squint skyward. The air was dry and tasted of disturbed grit. No sounds except the jingle of tack, the creak of wheels, and a mumble of conversation between the men heading up the column – indeed it was a column, a handful of horsemen and footmen keeping a steady pace and surrounding the wagon.
All this just for me, smirked the criminal. Makes a girl feel special.
He stretched once more and then stepped to the back of the wagon and hung his weight against the cage door. It rattled. A glance hidden beneath hooded eyes told him that the deadbolt was secured with a heavy padlock. Problematic, but not impossible. With the chains heavy on his wrists, the criminal reached to his tattered trousers and pushed them down. He sighed relievedly, closing his eyes as the stream began to flow out through the grate and directly in front of one of the riders following behind the wagon.
After a moment, still pissing, the criminal opened one eye and regarded the rider. An unremarkable youth with a sour and slightly shocked look on his face.
“'oy mate,” he called in a grinning tone, “you the greenhorn 'ere? Y'know my name?”