For the first time in days, the dark grey clouds gave way to a blue sky, with the sun shining high above Morlock. Despite the sunshine, the narrow streets were still dark and dingy. A man grunted an apology as he jostled through the crowd, his elbow striking Clara on the side of the head. For a brief moment, she paused, seeing stars, before the crowd carried her forward again.
No one paid any attention to the small girl covered in dirt and sweat among the crowd. They just assumed she was another one of the homeless people roaming the streets. In reality, they weren’t entirely wrong. Her home in the village overlooking Arcadia was long gone now.
Thoughts of her mother crossed her mind. They often had on the lonely days as she had walked west. At night, she thought about her more, wondering what had happened to her little village. Had someone found the body and buried it? She didn’t want to think about the alternative.
She had lost count of the days she had spent walking the muddy road west as it continued to rain. At least she hadn’t been short of water, recalling all the times she had been forced to kneel at the side of the road, drinking from the deep puddles. Food had been the biggest problem for the first few days. It seemed as though no one wanted to settle anywhere near Arcadia. Slowly, she had begun to find the occasional village and huge expanses of farm land around them.
With nothing but her necklace, the emerald-encrusted knife, and the clothes she wore, Clara had scavenged for scraps of food that had been thrown out by the villagers. She hadn’t been in the village for long when someone approached her. They hadn’t even been able to ask who she was before she took off. From then on, she vowed to be more careful and, for good measure, used the knife to shorten her hair.
By day, she walked from one village to the next as long as the light would allow. Under the cover of darkness, she would sneak around the village looking for scraps, or, on her lucky days, she would find a farm and hold up in the furthest barn from the house. In the middle of the night, she would sneak out in search of a chicken or some of the vegetables that had been coming into season.
Before the farmers had even gotten out of bed, she would be long gone, whatever she had managed to scavenge tucked into a small brown hessian bag she had found discarded at the side of the road. Most of them would never even notice that one of their chickens or some of their crop had been taken. None of them would ever know who had taken them if they did realise something was missing.
There had been one time, though, just south of Ordica, when, in the dead of night, a farmer opened the door to let out a dog. The dog had smelt her presence instantly and begun barking as she hid behind the hedge, which separated the house from a field of potatoes. Fortunately, it had been on a lead, and she had been able to flee, leaving a hand-dug hole behind before the farmer had come to investigate.
As she reached the end of the street, the crowd thinned out. Crowded streets disappeared to each side, but she wasn’t interested in either of them. She watched the line of people meandering towards the sandstone tower that stood close to the edge of the cliff.
In front of the tower stood half a dozen guards in red uniforms. The majority of them were doing nothing, merely watching as another waved people past, barely sparing them a glance. From the side of the tower hung a sign that read, ‘The Narrow Road’.
‘Come on, keep moving,’ an old woman snapped from behind her, pushing past Clara to join the back of the line.
Not wanting to draw any more attention to herself, Clara hurried to join the back of the line, keeping her head bowed. There was no way that anyone should recognise her, but she didn’t want to take any undue risks.
As she got closer to the tower, the land began to narrow, the steep cliffs closing in on each side. Far below, she could see the deep blue sea shimmering. She shuffled forward a couple more feet as she watched a pair of small wooden boats sail towards the cliff, appearing on the other side a few moments later.
When Clara looked up, she realised that she had quickly made her way towards the front of the line. Waving through the old woman who had pushed in front of her, the guard beckoned her forward. Expecting to be waved through, she continued to walk forward until an arm across her chest stopped her.
‘What’s this?’ The man asked, pulling on the emerald-encrusted handle of the knife. It slid from her belt, glinting in the sun as he examined it.
‘Hey, that’s mine,’ Clara protested as she tried to grab it from him. He pulled his hand away, holding the knife out of her reach.
‘Where did you, a homeless girl, get this?’ he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
‘My mother gave it to me,’ Clara said quickly. The knife might not have belonged to her mother, but her statement wasn’t entirely a lie. Her mother had been the one who had told her to take it.
‘And where is your mother, girl?’
This time, she hesitated slightly. ‘She’s dead.’
‘How convenient! the guard muttered as he turned the knife around, holding the handle out to her. ‘You’ll have to see one of the other guards. They’ll have to process that before you’ll be granted permission to cross into The Kingdom of Oria.’
‘Fine,’ she growled, grabbing the knife from his hand before he could change his mind.
Walking away slowly, she waited until the guard was busy with the next person before veering away from the group of guards and heading back towards the city. Muttering darkly to herself, Clara eyed the people in the line venomously. She was sure they'd all get through just fine. How was she supposed to get to Oria now? She doubted the guards would all pack up and disappear when it got dark, like the farmers had.
She wondered if she could ask someone if there was another way to get to Oria. Amongst the lightly clothed crowd, she spotted a man walking intently towards her. He was wearing a thick, dirty white cloak, which struck her as unusual. Despite the recent grey days, it was still sweltering.
A few feet ahead of her, she noticed a narrow alleyway. In a crowd of people who seemed to be moving aimlessly, the man with purpose made her feel uncomfortable. Her mother had warned her that the people who had attacked their village might return. She hadn’t thought they would have been able to follow her this far; she certainly hadn’t seen anyone tailing her as she had headed south.
Clara slipped into the alleyway. If possible, it was even darker than the narrow street she had just left. That was good; it would be easier for her to disappear if she needed to. Keeping her head down, she glanced back over her shoulder as discreetly as she could. The man appeared at the entrance, pausing for a moment before he entered.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Letting out an involuntary squeak through fear, she hurried forward, hoping that she would be able to put some distance between herself and the man. If she could get far enough ahead of him, the twists and turns in the alleyway might let her slip away into one of the other streets unnoticed.
Her hopes of escape didn’t last long, though. With one final twist in the alleyway, she found a high stone wall blocking her path. She was trapped now. Turning frantically, she looked for another means of escape. All that the alleyway provided her with was a pair of metal bins that stank to the heavens and a dark alcove.
Clara’s fingers twitched towards the handle of the knife as she considered her options. At the sound of footsteps in the distance, she made her choice. Diving into the alcove, she pressed her back against the wall as she drew the knife silently. She had only been forced to draw it a handful of times since she had taken it. All those times had been when she had managed to steal a chicken. This was different, though.
Busy contemplating her previous uses of the knife, Clara almost missed the man walking past her hiding place. In the face of the empty alleyway, he stopped a couple of feet in front of her.
As quietly as she could, she slipped out of the alcove. Sweeping up behind him silently, she grabbed him by the back of his cloak, holding the knife to his throat. ‘Who are you?’ she hissed.
‘Are you going to kill me?’ he asked.
‘Answer me!’
‘I am The Prophet of Oria,’ he said calmly.
What of Oria?’ she demanded.
‘Prophet,’ he repeated. ‘It means that I can see visions of the future and record them for others.’
‘I know what a prophet is,’ Clara snapped, pressing the blade to his throat a little tighter. ‘Why were you following me?’
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he replied. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said as she pressed the knife against his throat harder.
‘How do I know you’re not lying? You might kill me the second I lower my knife,’ she said.
‘If I wanted to kill you, which I don’t, I could have done so a dozen times since you entered this alleyway,’ The Prophet of Oria said. ‘Put the knife down, Clara. You aren’t a killer.’
‘How do you know my name?’ she demanded, refusing to lower the knife. ‘You don’t know anything about me; I might be a killer for all you know.’
‘You’re not a killer,’ he said, his hand appearing on the one that held the knife to his throat. Slowly, he moved it away from his skin. ‘I’ve seen you; you are a part of something far greater than you could ever imagine.’
‘Why should I trust you?’ she asked.
‘You shouldn’t,’ he admitted. ‘But the way I see it, you need a way to get to Oria without crossing the border. I just so happen to be heading there myself. You don’t have to trust me, but we both know you have no other way of getting to Oria.’
As much as she hated to admit it, Clara knew that he was right. ‘Fine. The second you try anything, though, I’ll slit your throat,’ she said, pulling the knife away from him and slipping it into her belt once more.
‘I would expect nothing less. The Prophet of Oria said ‘Come on, you look like you could do with a decent meal.’
‘I thought you were taking me to Oria,’ she said, her hand moving towards the knife again.
‘We will have to wait until after dark for my plan to work,’ he replied, beckoning for her to follow him. Reluctantly, she did.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘There is a pub just around the corner; they make a good meat pie, and the wine isn’t too bad either,’ he said. ‘You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?’
Clara hesitated. She had never had wine before; it wasn’t something that had made it to their village on many occasions. As for being old enough to drink it, she didn’t even know you had to be a certain age.
‘Never mind,’ The Prophet of Oria said. ‘You look like you’ve been through hell. It might do you good.’
With The Prophet of Oria at her side, it was much easier to move through the crowds as they joined the main street again. No one so much as batted an eyelid at their sudden appearance. ‘Where exactly is this place?’ she asked.
‘You ask far too many questions. In here,’ The Prophet of Oria grunted, pushing her through a narrow wooden door.
The small room was so dark that it took her eyes a moment to adjust, even from the dingy streets outside. A handful of people sat around the small wooden tables; none of them even looked up from their dirty glasses.
‘Two pies and a flask of wine,’ he muttered to the elderly, bearded man behind the bar.
Moving forward, the man held up two dirty glasses. The Prophet of Oria nodded. ‘Four silvers,’ he grunted, placing the glasses heavily on the bar as he reached for a tall, thin silver flask from the shelf behind him. ‘Two meat pies, Martha!’ he called over his shoulder.
‘There’s no need to shout, Reg!’ Martha shouted from somewhere out of sight.
‘Stupid old bat,’ Reg muttered to himself. ‘I talk normally and she can’t hear me; I shout so that she can, and suddenly I’m in trouble.’
Tossing the four silvers onto the bar, The Prophet of Oria grabbed the flask of wine in one hand and the glasses in the other. ‘Come on,’ he said quietly as Reg continued to mutter to himself. Taking the table in the darkest possible corner, The Prophet of Oria sat down and began pouring the wine. ‘Sit down before you start drawing attention to us.’
Clara looked around the room. Reg had disappeared from behind the bar, and none of the other people in the room had even looked up from their glasses yet. She doubted that any of them even knew they had entered. Slowly, she sat down in the chair opposite him.
‘So, what’s the plan then?’ she asked.
‘Gods, you spent a few weeks on your own, and now you don’t shut up,’ he said, pushing one of the dirty glasses filled with a pale liquid towards her. ‘I’m just glad I didn’t travel all the way from Arcadia with you.’
‘How do you know where I travelled from?’
‘Prophet, remember?’ he said with a wink, tapping the side of his head.
‘Right. Does that mean you can see everything that’s going to happen then?’ she said.
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘That would be far too tedious. Besides, prophecies don’t tend to care when or where you take a crap.’
‘What can you see then?’
‘Just the important things, normally,’ he replied. ‘Or things that will take place in my immediate surroundings.’
‘Like what?’
‘You see those two men by the bar over there?’ He said it quietly, nodding in their direction as he topped up his glass from the flask. ‘The one’s arguing.’
As discreetly as she could, Clara glanced over her shoulder. A man in a red uniform stood sideways on the bar, arguing with a man who looked like he might be homeless. Clara recognised the man in the uniform as the one who had turned her away at the border.
‘He was the one who turned me away at the border,’ she muttered, ducking her head in case he decided to look in the direction of their dark corner.
‘Don’t worry. He won’t bother us,’ The Prophet of Oria whispered. ‘In a minute, he’ll get into a fight with the homeless man. The pub owner will throw them both out.’
‘You saw all of that in a prophecy?’ Clara asked, trying to wrap her head around the way it worked.
‘No, I can see it now. Here,’ he replied.
Reaching across the table, he took her hand. For a moment, there was nothing, and then, as if someone had lowered a veil over her face, she watched as the homeless man straightened up, drunkenly swinging a fist at the guard. In a flash, the guard threw him to the ground, dropping to his knees as he began to punch him.
Beyond the vision of the homeless man being beaten, Clara could see The Prophet of Oria watching her intently. Just as Reg came charging around the side of the bar, the veil disappeared. The Prophet of Oria let go of her hand as two plates landed on the table between them. ‘Enjoy! Reg grunted before walking away.
‘Is it like that all the time?’ she asked. How could he walk around with a veil showing the future in front of him all the time? She could barely see his face while she had been sitting there; surely he would walk into things all the time.
‘I have some control over it,’ he admitted. ‘It took a long time to learn how, but I got there. Now I only see important things or the things I want to see.’
‘How did you learn?’
‘Not now,’ he said as he rolled up the sleeves of his cloak to reveal heavily scarred arms. Clara stared at them, just about to ask what had happened, when he continued. ‘Not now. Eat.’
Sighing, Clara picked up her knife and fork and cut into the steaming meat pie in front of her. Even if she had to wait a little longer to get to Oria, at least she could have a decent meal for once.