Chapter 9 Market Mishap
MARKET MISHAP
Hazel trod down the dusty earthen path, thinking over everything she and Pa had discussed.
It wasn’t right for someone like him—someone who would give everything just to help another—to be in this situation.
But maybe Zeke and Pa and everyone else were right.
Maybe she was making something out of nothing, as she so often did.
The marketplace was bursting at the seams with townsfolk.
More than any Hazel had seen gathered in one place for as long as she could remember, and soon it was clear why.
A man stood upon a rickety pyramid of stacked wooden crates, dressed in obnoxious, frilly garb, announcing something and waving his hands dramatically.
As she drew closer, Hazel understood what she was witnessing.
A herald from Ravenhold had arrived to relay a message. A message, she guessed, was likely the same one they’d found nailed to the sign board outside of the inn.
As folks were murmuring and shifting nervously, she was sure the consensus was the same.
She was quickly reminded they were not, however, upset over the timing in relation to the Solstice.
It was not in their nature to care about such things, especially since most, if not all, magic practitioners had moved on.
The herald wrapped up his speech with the usual call and response as dictated by the High Priests of the Wind. “We can do all of this because of the gods who make it so. The Anemoi provide all we need.”
“And the Winds guide us,” most of the gathered crowd chanted back. Hazel never returned the call when it was delivered. She wasn’t sure what she believed in, and how could she return the call with words she didn’t believe to be true?
According to what she’d been told, Aeos was a much happier, more prosperous kingdom when people celebrated the gods equally.
When no one dictated which gods to worship.
But when the rest of the Elemental gods disappeared, everything and everyone suffered.
Hazel heard plenty of stories growing up; the landscape of their small part of the kingdom slowly died off, starved of magic and the gods who sustained life. The rest of the kingdom followed.
Famine led to disease among the animals, many succumbing to illness.
As they were unfit to eat, farmers had to dispose of them in the only way they could: by burning them.
Greasy, black smoke choked the sky for days on end, leaving nothing but bits of charred bone behind.
It was something she was thankful she hadn’t witnessed firsthand.
Hazel’s attention was snared by the scent of smoked meats drifting over on the breeze.
It was a wonder anyone could still enjoy the delicacy of meat, seeing as nothing had improved in her lifetime for the townspeople or the animals.
In fact, they had less food and water each year.
More famine, more thirst, more disease…and the High King sat in his castle worrying over whom or what his subjects prayed to.
What an obtuse prick, she thought. How can someone so detached from his people rule over them, and for so long?
After refocusing on the market around her, she spotted a trio of men on horseback who had entered the north end and were making their way down the main aisle.
Dressed as a living nightmare, the lead rider carried two daggers at his hip and wore a suit of boiled leather armor, dyed black.
He wore no helm, his coal black hair pulled halfway into a bun on the back of his head, the rest spilling over his shoulders in curly, obsidian waves.
The other men, his comrades, were clearly of the kingsguard—the Raven Blade—donning the King’s black raven sigil on their tabards, with full sets of dragonforged black iron armor.
Hazel hadn’t the slightest idea who the man in front was, but clearly, he held enough importance to warrant a guard.
Yet enough skill to wear light armor. Hazel rolled her eyes at their audacity to ride into a meager marketplace on horseback when no one else did so.
They carried themselves with such arrogance and inflated self-importance—turning their noses up as they passed the townspeople—that Hazel snorted.
Turning her back on them, she leaned over a vegetable vendor’s table she’d been coming to for years, garnering his attention.
“Say, Mick,” she started, “Any idea who those men on horseback are?”
Mick shook his head. “No, lass, but they’re from the castle, no doubt.
An’ more will be crawling all over the place shortly, sure enough.
Not good for business, that much I know.
They make folks nervous, me included.” He whispered the last part, shuddering slightly as he glanced in their direction.
His eyes darkened as though their presence had taken him somewhere existing only in memory, but then Mick steeled himself, returning to the present.
He scratched the back of his head. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you around, then. ”
Hazel smiled and wandered off, pushing the King’s men to the back of her mind.
A group of small, ragged children were playing a game with sticks and stones alongside the major thoroughfare, their laughter bringing a smile to her face. One child, an especially dirty, underfed youngster, started chasing the others around. They squealed and giggled, dashing about.
But then they darted across the road—right in front of the trio of mounted goons from the capitol. The small boy who’d been chasing them brought up the rear of the pack and he would not make it across.
Oh, gods. Oh, gods!
“Look out!” Hazel shouted, sprinting in their direction. Whether he hadn’t heard her or just didn’t care, the dark and broody stranger in the lead paid no mind to the child who was nearly underfoot. The boy was going to be crushed. But she was almost there. Just a little further…
Damning the consequences, Hazel dove to her knees, throwing her body between horse and boy. The movement was enough to startle the beast, causing it to balk and rear. As it did so, the beast struck her with a forelimb and sent her sprawling, knocking the wind straight out of her.
Fucking Hel! Hazel couldn’t breathe, and she coughed, attempting to catch her breath. Not dead, but that is going to leave a pretty bruise.
The rider collected his horse and urged it on as though nothing of consequence had happened. One of the giant beast’s hooves crushed a turnip.
“Hey!” Hazel shouted between coughs. “What the fuck is your problem?”
He ignored her and kept his horse walking. One guard sneered at her and the boy sitting beside her in shock. “Mind your tongue, girl, or you might have to show us what else it can do besides screech.” He laughed at his own humor before spitting at her. “Peasant scum.”
Hazel’s face reddened as she watched them walk away. No one stepped forward to do anything. No one said a word. A combination of anger and embarrassment rose in her chest until she could no longer contain it—she exploded.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? Who died and made you King, you self-important son of a bitch? Yeah, I’m talking to you, you pig-faced bastard!
” She wasn’t even sure where the words came from.
Hazel had never spoken to someone with such vitriol, and the words tasted sour, the verbal equivalent of bile on her tongue.
Who did she think she was talking to this man in such a way?
Her words hit their mark as the man in black atop the thick-bodied, black-as-night warhorse turned his steed abruptly and walked in her direction.
He moved slowly and with purpose. The little boy had abandoned her, the only remaining sign of him being the dust he’d kicked up in his escape.
Hazel wished nothing more than to become invisible, to spare herself from whatever fate she’d just earned.
The man walked his horse up next to her, dismounting wordlessly.
Hazel, you stupid fool. This is how you die.
He sized her up, his near-glowing, somehow not-of-this-world amber eyes so piercing she was left feeling stripped bare.
She had no choice but to avert her gaze.
It was too much. She stared at the dirt road as though it had become the most interesting thing in all Aeos.
Then she heard the telltale song of sword against scabbard as he unsheathed the blade.
Oh, gods, I really am going to die. Fucking Hel…
She supposed it wasn’t a dishonorable way to die, protecting a child.
Throwing insults at the King’s men. It made for a good story, at least. Would anyone care to tell it the way it had happened, though?
Probably not. Hazel closed her eyes, wishing she was anywhere else as the locket heated against her skin.
She wanted to reach for it but didn’t dare move.
Sharp steel squished into something soft as though piercing flesh.
Then, the tip of the sword was at her throat.
The man applied the slightest amount of pressure upward—not enough to break skin, but enough to direct.
Hazel had no choice but to tilt her head up and look the stranger in the eyes again.
In his off-hand, he held one of the turnips she’d bought earlier, split down one side where he’d stabbed it.
“You dropped this,” he said, tossing it to her where she still kneeled in the road.
He kept the sword at her throat for good measure.
“Was there something else you wanted to say? I thought maybe you’d want to say it to my face instead of my horse’s ass. ”
She was about to shake her head no, but thought better of it, not wanting to risk beheading herself out of further stupidity. “No,” she muttered. But gods, his gaze was distracting. Hypnotizing, even.
“Good girl,” he growled, removing his sword from her neck, but keeping her frozen in place with his gaze.
He sheathed it and mounted his horse again.
Without sparing her so much as a parting glance, the man rejoined his comrades.
Though she was too far away to hear them speaking, all three of them had a hearty laugh, presumably at her expense.
Once she was certain she could breathe again, she did so, letting out something between a gasp and a sob.
Dragging her hands down her face in exasperation, Hazel surveyed her damaged goods.
What a waste. And yet, she found herself more concerned with the man on the onyx steed.
His unnatural amber eyes burned into her memory.