Jonah's Tale

He was early, but that didn’t really matter. Jonah knew the city well, and strode the broad cobbled streets with confidence. Footpads may be lurking in dark doorways, but they were of no concern to him: they would always find easier prey.

Despite being only average height, anyone could see he was broad and strong. The hobnailed military boots he wore betrayed his life as a soldier, and the criss-crossed scars on his face showed he was a veteran; certainly enough to make any would-be attacker think again. He smiled as he thought back over his recent change of fortune. No more soldier’s life for him.

He’d spent his soldier’s pay as it had come and had nothing left to show for twenty years in the army except his strength of arm, skill with a sword, and the little respect that military service earned him with the common people. It had been enough to secure the odd tankard of ale and a well-meaning pat on the back, even a meal from time to time in exchange for campaign tales by the fireside on a cold winter evening, but three weeks ago, after completing his service, it had secured him work as a bodyguard for the son of a minor noble. He was an annoying, smug, snivelling little milk-drinker, but after just a few days following him around as he went about mocking decent working men and chortling with his limp little friends, an argument between his father and another of the Patrician families meant he’d been forced to earn his pay; three armed men had been sent to kill him. Jonah was tempted to let them have him; couldn’t help thinking that dying painfully would be the best thing for the obnoxious little shit, but after a moment’s hesitation, adherence to duty and sense of military pride stirred him to action. The first of the attackers, seemed to be their leader, was knocked unconscious with powerful punch to the face, the second died quickly with Jonah’s short sword jammed into the man’s chest. The third, on seeing how swiftly and easily the first two had been dispatched, had the good sense to run away quickly, watched by a cowering, crying degenerate hiding in a doorway who didn’t deserve to be saved. He’d actually soiled himself. Jonah sneered at the memory in disgust.

“ Ten men he had killed in the latest version of the tale. A mighty deed that would have been! ”

In truth, there hadn’t been a real fighter among them, but they’d all carried fancy duelling swords, the finest of which belonged to the unconscious man (he had later had the good sense to die under torture) and hadn't escaped Jonah’s attention. One of them, he wasn’t sure which, had caught him in the left arm though, and he’d needed the attention of a surgeon and a couple of weeks rest. Still, he received a handsome bonus, and his reputation amongst the wealthier folk of the Patrician district was assured by the city's gossipmongers who embellished the story at every turn. Ten men he had killed in the latest version of the tale. A mighty deed that would have been! But ten attackers armed with swords would have made short work of any man, and whilst he didn’t take the trouble to correct the tale, he didn’t let it go to his head either. It meant he no longer needed to be an armed nanny to a boy he’d rather have beaten senseless and every major family vied for his service, in part for the promise of the rock solid protection a man such this could provide, in part due to the increase in stature they would receive by having a man now famed throughout the city in their employ. This is how he now came to work for Lord Bergun. His arm was not yet completely healed, but it was close, and anyway, he’d fought with worse injuries. Besides, all he had to do was look, listen, keep his wits about him.

He’d bought himself some new clothes with his bonus. Gentleman’s clothes. The kind of clothes he’d always envied when he’d seen nobles strutting about, but never imagined he himself would own. Perhaps they weren’t quite so ostentatious. No feathers, silks, or other dandified foolishness. A soft white shirt now caressed his skin in place of the thick rough spun tunic worn under chain mail, and over that a simple but well-made leather jerkin of the type favoured by duellists; it would offer some protection from light weapons of the kind one was more likely to be faced with in a city encounter. Tight fitting doeskin trousers kept him warm, but he hadn’t quite become accustomed to them yet. The fine sword liberated from the leader of the attackers hung from his waist; this was no common soldier’s blade. It was longer, slender and had a very slight curve to it. A gentleman’s sword. He was immensely proud of it, and the ornate tooled leather scabbard that housed it. His fingers played gently over the hilt unconsciously as he thought of it. Yes, very proud. He’d also bought a pair of light doeskin shoes, soft as butter, and perfect for moving quietly. They were warm too, ready for the approaching winter, but they still felt strange to him and he didn’t really feel he could walk in them yet without stumbling occasionally, so today he’d worn the hobnailed boots he'd become accustomed to through decades of military service. They appeared somewhat incongruous with his fine new garb, but he kept them clean and in good condition. ‘Look after your boots, and they’ll look after you’, an adage drilled into him during training all those years ago, and it was right, too. So he’d cared for his boots, like he had all his kit, and never had trouble with chafing, blisters and foot rot as some of his fellows had on campaign; never suffered the misery of a forced march on painful, bleeding feet. Just now, he appreciated the familiar comfort they provided.

Of course, they could be a bit noisy on cobbled streets, but the fog stifled the sound sufficiently. Besides, who would ever imagine that a spy would be marching about in hobnailed boots? He congratulated himself on his clever disguise as he trod a circuitous path to his destination. He had time to kill after all, and he could be sure he wasn’t being followed.

“ Although his fame meant his name was on everyone’s lips, nobody really recognised him ”

He didn’t need a disguise as such. Although his fame meant his name was on everyone’s lips, nobody really recognised him, and the graffiti that had appeared on the walls of the town celebrating his great deed made it clear he was a giant of a man who wore the skin of a lion. Nonsense of course. Still, he needed simply to blend in with the general public going about their daily business, and he was satisfied that he did.

Wait… wait, this is the spot. His thoughts returned to the present. The armourers guild was behind this wall. He could linger here a while and when the coast was clear, climb the wall and look over, see what he could see. His instructions were not very specific. Lord Bergun believed some plot was afoot in the armourers guild, one that could upset the delicate balance of power in the city, so he was simply to see if he could find out anything about it. He wasn’t quite sure how to go about this, so this was the best plan he’d come up with.

There was nobody else on the path. Despite his warm new clothes he was starting to feel the cold, so he wrapped his arms about him and stamped his feet, watching the patterns in the fog swirl about him. He’d felt the cold many times when marching for the Empire, but couldn’t ever remember being struck by the beauty of something as simple as eddies in the mist. Perhaps he was getting soft; he had a soft bed in his new quarters, sumptuous meals to replace the simple meat and barley stew rations of a soldier, and now his fancy new clothes. He shrugged off the thought as quickly as it came. Bollocks to that! He’d never be soft; tough as they come, him.

He decided to climb up and take a look; some activity would surely help to warm him up. The wall was made of rough stone that afforded plenty of handholds and was only ten feet tall. He scaled it easily despite a twinge of pain from his wounded arm.

“ He smiled to himself. He was well-suited to being a spy. This was easy work. ”

A group of men sat around a large table in the gardens. He couldn’t see them clearly, nor could he hear what they were saying, he could only tell they were arguing. This might be important. Curse this fog. He tried to lean over the wall a little more, adjusting his weight, and his foot slipped, scraping loudly on the stones of the wall. This sound seemed to carry. Heads turned in his direction, but he’d ducked back out from view before anyone saw him. He dropped to the ground with a thud, and leaned his right shoulder against the wall nonchalantly, fumbled in his pockets for his pipe. If anyone was so disturbed by the sound he’d made to investigate further, they’d just see an ordinary fellow taking a break. Hastily leaving the scene might only draw more attention to him. He smiled to himself. He was well-suited to being a spy. This was easy work.

Just then, an arm whipped around his neck and his head snapped up and back suddenly, against his will. He was taken entirely by surprise – where was this coming from? He tried to pull away but the grip was like iron. He dropped his pipe, not yet lit, and went for his sword, but the new gentleman’s sword at his waist was slung differently to the short sword he was accustomed to, and cost him precious moments as he fumbled for it. The long knife of his assailant was so sharp he barely felt it as it pushed down above his left collar bone, sliding easily through his chest and into his heart. Hot, red blood erupted as the knife was withdrawn; he’d seen such wounds before, invariably fatal, but couldn’t quite believe this was happening to him. Pain suddenly flooded through him. He tried to cry out, but he realised his mouth was clamped shut. His legs trembled and started to give way, as he thrashed about ineffectually, all his military training and experience forgotten, counting for nothing. He was dying.

His body was allowed to ease to the ground, his mouth still clamped shut. A face appeared above his. Eyes anyway. They looked into his, seemingly searching for something. The rest of the face was hidden beneath swathes of grey cloth. Another hand came up and his head was twisted sharply, violently, and he heard a sickening crack as his neck was broken. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t make a noise. Couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even close his eyes, but his vision was dimming nonetheless. He saw slender legs wrapped in the same grey cloth stalking away from him, and then they disappeared. He heard nothing, and marvelled at the impossible stealth of his attacker.

“I should have worn my new shoes”, he lamented as he died silently.