Simon swung open the window, taking a deep breath of the chilled morning air. Raindrops dripped quietly from the red leaves of the few willows dotted around the front of the tavern. Leaning against the windowsill, he took in the sound of the waking world around him, from the merchants setting up their stalls across the main street, to the chirps and whistles of the morning thrushes.
The smell of freshly baked bread drifted from the bakeries, settling softly over the street like a warm blanket. A thin mist clung to the cobblestones, curling around the boots and wagon wheels as the street slowly came to life.
At the foot of his bed stood muddy boots, still dirty from last night's journey. Sighing, he wondered if he should get a new pair. A dirty overcoat hung by the door; its previous blue colour lost after years of wear, the insignia faded and barely recognizable.
Just a few minutes of cleaning later, they were wearable. Just about. Strapping on his longsword and some leather armour, he packed everything into his backpack and headed out.
Downstairs, the bar stood mostly empty, only the owner's son behind the counter. He was a young lad, perhaps about eighteen, with a strong build. His blue eyes reminded Simon of the ocean crystals--rare gems of the west.
"Is there anything to eat? Something with meat?"
"There is some stew from last night, if you don't mind waiting a bit, I could warm it up for you. Do you want anything to drink along with it?"
"Just some water would be great, thank you."
Sitting down, Simon took out his diary. The leather cover was worn and the pages were faded from age.
A new diary as well.
Flipping through, he was reminded of the tens of years he'd spent in the army -- his friends, his old worries, everything that had shaped his tired life. Reaching the last entry, his smile shrunk.
'Discharged today. Orders from the High Marshal: live a fulfilling life.'
A fulfilling life. It was a statement that had confused him ever since he'd heard it. He followed orders his whole life, and now… there was nobody to give them.
The soft clank of the ceramic plates drew him back to reality. The stew arrived steaming, rich with the scent of slow-cooked meat and wild herbs.
"My thanks."
The lad smiled and returned to the counter. Some time had passed, and visitors were beginning to arrive. It was unusual for him. He used to wish for single moments of rest, but now he had all the time in the world, and he didn't know what to do with it.
Finishing the last spoonful, Simon pushed the bowl to the side and rose with a quiet stretch. He slipped on his cloak, nodded a farewell to the lad, placed some coppers onto the table, and stepped out into the morning street.
The street had fully awakened by the time he reached the merchant's market. The mist still lingered, but the lanterns were being snuffed out one by one as the sun rose over the rooftops. Children raced each other near the well, splashing through puddles left from last night's rain.
The market buzzed with life. Vendors shouting prices, travelers bargaining, the smell of spices thick in the damp air.
An old cobbler called out to him.
"Hey there, fancy a new pair of boots? They are the best there are, made in the capital!"
Simon glanced at the assortment of shining leather boots laid out on the table. The polished leather gleamed in the sunlight. At first glance, they looked good, but he had already tried enough boots in his time to tell these would fall apart within the first few months of wear. The stitching was poor, and the sole thin.
Shaking his head, he waved a goodbye to the merchant and continued along. As he walked, the sound of hammers hitting anvils reminded him of something. Pulling away from the market, he reached the smithy.
In front of it, an old blacksmith was toiling over what looked like a dagger in the making. His black beard was showing grey hair, but the massive build told Simon he wasn't anywhere close to retirement.
"Looking for anything specific?"
A younger smith had come out onto the plaza, a hammer in hand.
"Some good boots. Comfortable ones, that will last me some years."
"Come inside, take a look around."
Having a browse through the offerings, he spotted good pair. The shins were armoured, steel plates covering the length of the boot to the toes. The sole was reinforced with more iron, probably meant against spikes, and the inside was lined with short fur.
"How much for these?"
"Those are good ones. Quite popular with mercenaries," replied the smith as he walked toward the counter. "Twelve silvers."
"Would 10 be okay?"
"If you buy a dagger for 5 silvers to go along, I'll give both for a total of fifteen."
Glancing at the daggers, Simon noticed something interesting. The blade was shorter than usual, and the entire thing was heavy. Almost as heavy as a short sword.
What's something like this doing here?
He recognized it quickly. It was a piercing blade, used in close braws between armored knights who hadn't yet awakened mana.
Simon set the dagger down beside the boots.
"Fifteen it is," he said, retrieving the silvers from his pouch and setting them down beside the items.
The smith nodded, producing a scabbard for the blade.
"Swapping the boots now?"
Simon let out a small chuckle.
"Can't be walking around in these all day, can I?"
Walking along the road, he started hearing raised voices in the distance, coming from what seemed like a bar. A loud crash outside drew his attention, and he picked up his pace toward the source. There, outside a tavern, stood a red-faced drunk, holding a short-sword. Facing him was a elderly man dressed in robes, his hand on the hilt of a curved blade.
Sighing, he pushed toward them. The shouting continued from the drunk man, his words slurred. As more people came out of the bar, the confused elder also drew his blade as well, taking a stance.
"What happened inside?"
"The foreigner challenged the mercenary after bumping into Ralphs table."
Simon sighed, rubbing his forehead.
It's too early for this, he thought.
"Sheath your blades. They didn't mean to challenge you. The gesture is an apology where they are from."
"And who are you?! They ruined my food! Fuck off before I send you on your way to heaven!"
"They were apologising," this time, Simon's tone was more firm, his lack of sleep showing through his annoyance.
The commotion was starting to gather a small crowd. Out of the bar rushed an older mercenary, hand on hilt and a worried look on his face.
"Please forgive my drunk friend here," he said, sighing and relaxing. "Put your blade back, Ralph. that's an order."
Gritting his teeth, the drunk sheathed his blade, mumbled something about fairness and went back into the bar. The older mercenary glared at the foreigners, this distaste for them showing in his eyes.
"If you are going to visit, at least learn how not to get yourself killed."
Turning, he also returned into the bar. The elder bowed in their direction, a more sincere form of apology.
"We apologise for our ignorance of your customs. It won't happen again."
"What are you doing here? The ports are along the southern route."
"We are not traders, Sir."
Simon raised his eyebrows, surprised.
"Are you lost?"
"We lost our map on the way and came to ask for directions."
The faster they are gone, the less problems there will be.
Simon took out a map from his bag, unrolled it and spread it across the table. Pointing to a town, he traced his finger along a road. Speaking in rough eastern, he started explaining the route toward another city by the sea.
"We are here. If you exit using the southern gate, you can head along the main road until you reach a village. Rest there for the night and then head along the east road. You should reach the port city by noon tomorrow that way."
The elder listened carefully as he jotted down the instructions on some paper. Once Simon finished, he handed him a wooden tag.
"Many thanks for your help. It is greatly appreciated. If you ever visit the east, the house of Sillia will return the favour."
Sitting down to swap his boots, Simon watched them as they departed.
The east, huh? A land of swords and politics.
A smile crept along his face. Most of the easterners he met were good fighters, and always talked about fulfilment. Perhaps he had found a way to cleanse his worries.
A journey to the east it is.
END OF CHAPTER 1