Alter subconsciously tightened his grip on the stock of his rifle as the carriage hit the deep, sludge-like mud at the edge of this unexpected canvas purgatory. It was the reaction of the downtrodden people that had worried him the most during the approach, but upon arriving it was the smell that placed him in a stranglehold. His body convulsed as he reacted to this sudden assault on his senses, his nose burned as his stomach lurched and churned. His one free hand shot up towards his face, trying its best to block any orifice exposed to the reeking wall of festering sewage. Ominous, sickening pools of stagnant and off-coloured water sat smugly in the tracks and divots of the road. The driver sitting next to him reacted in a more controlled manner, although his displeasure was still plain.
“Don’t open your mouth” The man advised through gritted teeth, barely cracking his lips open. “Or you’ll be tasting this midden heap with every mouthful of food for the next week. Breathe through your nose, slow and shallow, it won’t be so bad once we make it through the gate.”
Alter tried his best to follow the driver’s tutelage and eventually began to adjust as his brain started ignoring his sense of smell. His eyes roved the scene in a bid to keep himself occupied, examining the uneasy residents with desperate curiosity. Initially, Alter anticipated a variety of people. However, as he looked across the field of tents he realised a couple of skews in the age demographics. First, a significant percentage of the individuals were young adults, primarily male. If these were refugees fleeing conflict then surely the number of young men would be lower. Second, the noticeable lack of the elderly which fed into his previous observation. If there was in fact no conflict and this was the result of some natural disaster then why were there no people of retirement age? There were children present, sitting outside tents or charging between them in small groups, however Alter could see no teenagers. Men and young families, minus a couple of outliers. Curious. Although he would readily admit to reading too much into it if challenged.
Their pace had slowed as the horses slogged their way through the earthen soup. As predicted, a number of curious faces began to congregate at the side of the road. Alter worried that they would quickly find their path blocked and he’d have to start fielding some awkward questions as to his identity and the contents of the carriage. Fortunately, no one appeared to have the confidence to place themselves ahead of them. A number of callouts and timid questions were thrown their way but these were concerning the possibility of food and whether there was any news from other settlements. Now able to get a closer look as he played the gruff guard, Alter could see that while their living conditions were squalid, they did not appear to be starving. Sure enough, as they progressed onward an open clearing with a ragged collection of long wooden tables and benches was serving as a canteen of sorts. It was heartening to see that they were being provided for, even if the meals were meagre.
The gateway had attracted a small crowd, their attention focussed on the six guards who stood defensively in front of the closed iron portcullis. These armoured individuals wore similar fare to the guards in Crestvigil, but the metal of their gear was darker. Starker and utilitarian, more ‘active military’ than ‘fantasy watchmen’. Sashes of blue fabric were wrapped across their torsos, the same shade and hue of Oliver’s cloak. The men noticed the carriages approaching and a pair of them muscled their way through the crowd, signalling the driver to come to a halt. The first guard stopped short of the horses and planted his hooked polearm in the ground, glaring up at Alter and the driver through the slots in his helmet. His compatriot continued his advance and sidled up to the carriage door. He raised a gauntleted fist to wrap on the wooden frame but the door was opened from the inside before he could make contact. An arm belonging to Oliver quickly slipped out of the door and held out what looked like a small metallic sigil. The guard appeared taken aback by this display and his demeanour changed from languid indifference to panicked professionalism. With a sharp, crisp clank he snapped to attention, pounding the raised fist into his breastplate with a short bow. His partner too dropped his aggressive facade and awkwardly followed suit, seemingly unsure as to what was happening but not wanting to get in trouble for lack of decorum. A quick string of quiet words were exchanged out of Alter’s earshot and the guard turned and looked upward at the wall, lifting his polearm and waving it in a circular motion. A few seconds later there was a rumble and a clatter as the portcullis began to rise, the guards quickly retreating to their fellows in order to prevent some of the more determined commoners from attempting to slip past their cordon. The crowd parted reluctantly as the carriages shuddered back into motion, suspicious, venomous eyes leered at them as they moved through. The question of why Oliver was happy to travel in such plain transportation had popped into Alter’s head multiple times over the previous days and now he had his answer. They would’ve been mobbed had they shown up in a carriage of similar gaudiness to what Victor Auserre had arrived with, and not, Alter suspected, in the friendly way.
Finally they were through and Alter’s respiratory system was spared the rigours of inhaling filth. For now, the interior of Jestriff matched its outward face as near featureless stone buildings crowded the many streets that branched off the semi-circular area of the inner gate.
“This is the poorer part of the city.” The driver explained as if sensing Alter’s train of thought. “It gets prettier once you're further in. More lively, too. The rabble outside has got those living near the walls nervous.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Why are there so many people out there?” Alter asked, taken aback by the driver’s sudden desire for conversation.
“Don’t know, not my job.” The man shrugged. “I don’t live here. Plague maybe? I hear things are pretty nasty down south.” He offered before shrinking back into his seat, signalling an end to friendly communication.
Alter frowned as he pondered the implication of what the man had said. Could those people be escaping some sort of epidemic? It could go some way as to explaining the lack of older people if they were the ones to suffer the worst symptoms. However, Alter couldn’t help but doubt this possible explanation. Society wasn’t much more advanced than thirteen hundreds Europe but if there was a plague afoot then surely some disease screening would be in place. Also, the fact that Oliver had made no mention of such a thing caused him to conclude that pestilence was not the cause.
True to the driver’s prediction, life began to appear as they set off down the widest road. There wasn’t the same sunny hustle and bustle of Crestvigil but the clamour of locals talking and traders hawking certainly helped ease the growing apprehension that their arrival would be somehow unwelcome. Ten minutes of street appreciation later they arrived in a large square with an intricate mosaic floor too large and details to be understood at ground level. The carriages pulled up to a large four storey building adorned with the Masserlind coat of arms.
“Jestriff City Administration. Your stop.” The driver announced with all the fanfare of a scheduled roadworks announcement.
“Much obliged.” Alter responded as he clambered down.
The door again opened suddenly, Oliver disembarked with a spring in his step and deep breath of much fresher air. He was closely followed by the more subdued and nauseated forms of Riptide and Boozehound who shifted the backpacks out of the cabin. A few moments later the second carriage disgorged its occupants in turn and the men gathered around their lordly employer as the carriages rattled away.
“Right. This is the City Hall, I need to go in there and find out what's been happening while I’ve been away. We also need to get you registered as a force under Masserlind’s employ. There will probably be a bit of a rush of desperate clerks when they realise I’ve returned. Try not to get separated, and please try to prevent me from drowning in paperwork.” He winked and turned towards the door, his demeanour shifting to a ruler’s confidence as the entrance was opened from the inside at his approach.
Oliver swept through and immediately began calling out names and instructions. From around the large reception area of the hall a half dozen bespectacled staff members surged into life at the young lord’s order. A fine set of dark wooden double doors were flung open at the far end of the room and a wiry haired, monocle wearing, business suit inhabiting force of bureaucratic nature charged towards Oliver with a frightening burst of acceleration.
“Thank the Four that you have returned, Master Oliver! There is so much to do!” It shouted as it bore down on them.
“Calm down, Howard. It’s good to see you too.” Oliver began, holding out an arm in an attempt to settle the onrushing man.
“Yes, yes.” Howard cut him off. “Come with me to the main office at once, let’s not waste time.” He grabbed the outstretched arm with both hands and immediately began pulling Oliver back towards the doors he had just blown through.
Alter shared amused glances with the rest of the squad as OIiver was manhandled from the room, his eyes looking back to them pleadingly as a formation of officials closed ranks and scurried after them.
“The price of power.” Pavejack snickered.
“Poor bloke, I hope he survives.” Whim grinned.
“Didn’t he literally just tell us not to get separated.” Riptide chastised despite smiling wider than the pair of them combined.
The men jogged after the departing procession into a warren of tile-floored hallways not unlike the Marshal’s residence. Oliver was whisked up two flights of stairs as Howard briefed him on the issues, comings and goings at a speed that would make most aircraft jealous. Another ornate set of doors were mercilessly cast aside revealing a spacious office complete with enough comfortable furniture to sit a hundred people. Oliver was parked behind a snooker table sized desk and the prophesied paperwork began to flow like floodwater. The squad found themselves lurking in one of the quieter, more out of the way corners as they waited for some type of instructions to be given. After what seemed like an hour, Oliver was finally able to explain who they were and what they needed to do. Howard looked across the room at them and with a flick of his wrist a junior clerk was summoned to deal with them.
The younger man shepherded them through a small door off to one side which led into a small antechamber with a solitary table before disappearing. A couple of silent minutes later he reappeared and placed a number of neatly organised forms, a quill and a small pot of ink on the table. Alter, having been identified as the leader, was instructed to fill in the forms and sign the contract. The clerk disappeared again and they were left to their own devices. Alter began reading through the forms and felt his teeth begin to clench.
“Boys.” He began, tapping one of the pages where names and other personal details would become immortalised in ink. “It’s time to make a decision. Who are we?”