Sieged

Chapter One

My stomach growls as I limp down the dark and empty street, the echoes of my old and tattered boots hitting the cobblestones no match for the sound of my hunger. 

A spoonful of soured cabbage and a sliver of salted beef as tough as my leather mail armor for dinner. How pitiful. Our rations are getting smaller and smaller with every passing month, the theft sure to quicken the decrease. 

Bastards. 

I have enough to deal with. 

Suddenly, my cravings, my ravenous pangs twist violently into a shearing pain and I wince in agony. 

Fucking leg. 

I fumble through my pocket and pull out a bottle, my hands shaking to get it uncorked. But it's futile. There's not a single drop of elixir left. 

Gods be damned. 

More than anything I want to let out my frustration, to yell, to cry as if I was on the battlefield, to smash the bottle with all my might against the earth, but a light soon floods around my black coat, casting my long-haired shadow onto a carriage wheel left to rot on its side. 

Gazing over my shoulder, I see a candle fluttering behind a window, its flame as meagre as its wick. But still. And for a second, I hear the soft murmurs of giggling children in their beds. 

With what this city has been through, with what they've been through, I commend them for still finding the muster to laugh. I wonder what the future will hold for them. I'm hopeful but I know the reality. 

I shuffle towards the light. And when I reach the thatched hovel, I rap quietly on its front door. 

A young woman in a ratty nightgown too big for her answers shortly. 

'Sheriff Harg,' she says, her mouth quivering in dread, 'is anything wrong? Has there been an attack? Did something happen to my husband? Please say no. I beg you, please say no. He is all I have left.' 

Apart from him being a soldier, I don't know who her husband is. I don't know who she is. Although, I've probably walked past her countless times on duty. I've probably even greeted and bowed to her. 

'There has been no attack,' I reply. 'We would have heard.' 

Relief washes over the woman's pale face. She wipes away a tear. 

I continue, 'I came knocking to tell you that I can see your light from the street. If you're going to use candles at night, or anything that produces a flame, you must close your shutters. You don't want to give the enemy a target. Not only will you put your life at risk but others too.' 

'I'm so sorry,' the young woman breaths, mortified. 'I was certain I closed all the shutters before I lit the candle-which I rarely do, for it is the only one I have left. I always do. You must believe me. Am I in trouble?' 

I'm not going to throw her in jail. I would never for such a mistake. But even if I was a cruel sheriff and did lock her away, word would surely reach her husband and he'd not be too pleased.  We don't need any more wicks leading to our destruction to burst into flame, even if it is just a single star amongst the countless in the night's sky. 

'Just don't do it again,' I say with an unemotional smile and a curt nod. 

The young woman opens her mouth to respond when her stomach grumbles before fizzling out with a whistle. 

'My pardons,' she says, the dim candlelight showing her flush. 

'No need for apologies,' I reply, 'Everyone's stomach is doing that nowadays.' I then bow. 'I bid you goodnight.'