Site hosted by Angelfire.com: Build your free website today!
Pyrowhere




Moonlit Misfortunes



Written by Aithne Veradine


“Raised on these damn streets,” Marcil hissed, hoisting himself up onto the roof of the tavern with a grunt. “Make a damn living.” He slowly climbed onto the roof, his hands locked firmly onto the edge of the wall, his feet just barely touching the sill of the window below. “Steal from the damn merchants. That’s all I damn well get to do.”

He finished his rant in a heavy sigh, his muscles straining to pull himself onto the roof. It wasn’t but a second later that he was sitting on the roof itself, his hands propping him up lazily, a disgruntled look on his face. The moon shone brightly down upon him, basking him in a heavenly glow. If the moonlight had any idea however of whom it was indeed letting its light down upon, it would have hid itself behind a cloud immediately. But how was the moonlight supposed to know that this boy below, no older than twenty, was a thief, an enemy to the crown? How was it supposed to know that the innocence of the boy had long ago been lost on the streets? How was it supposed to know…?

Marcil yawned, glancing up at the sky. Stars speckled the canvas above, lanterns of the heavens. Pale mist floated over the city, wisps of clouds passing over the moon slowly in the night breeze. It was past midnight, but from down below, Marcil could still hear the hoots and calls of those within the building, the Dragon’s Whisper tavern.

“Might as well get this over with,” he breathed heavily, his shoulders heaving forward in a sigh. He didn’t feel like stealing tonight. Of course, the young thief had to admit that it was a good hobby; it fit him perfectly. There was a twinge of danger, a pinch of mayhem, and a dash of stealth in every night. He particularly enjoyed it.

But not tonight. Tonight all Marcil wanted to do was go to his room at the inn on the other side of town, relax with a girl or two, and spend one night—just one night!—without breaking into someone’s house or room or shop.

“Like I ever get what I want,” he grumbled, crawling on his hands and knees across the roof. To the west, through the very corner of his eye, he could see the king’s castle in the distance. Torches were lit throughout the entire city, illuminating the buildings and giving Marcil just the right amount of light to see but not be seen himself. It was turning out to be a perfect robbery, but still, all Marcil wanted to do was to return home.

He reached the edge of the roof and peeked down, green eyes lighting up with the intensity of the theft. He might not exactly want to be looting this night, be he was going to make the best of it. Why not feel a bit of excitement?

Just think of what I’m stealing, he thought as he slowly lowered himself into the room below. His feet carefully and silently met the sill of the window, and with a practiced caution, he climbed into the room, ignoring the fatal fall that he knew would meet him if he slipped.

He brought his right foot down first, stepping into the room, shaking his head as he did so. How stupid could this person be? he thought, amused by the open window. Didn’t the man in this room know that thieves roamed the city streets at night?

Marcil mentally shrugged, taking his first step into the room and looked around. There was very little light, only the starlight gently basking the room. A bed was in the corner of the room, covers astray and dark shadows mingling with down pillows. A small table was placed in the center of the room, its top bare except for one lone piece of parchment.

The thief grinned in the night. He had found what he wanted! Certain of his actions, he took another step forward, heading towards the table in silent but steady steps. It took him five steps to reach the table, and before he knew it, he was reaching out, his hand extended towards the paper, his evening’s prize….

But just as Marcil had let his fingers brush against the smooth paper, black ink detailing a map to distant lands, he froze, his senses telling him that something was wrong. He glanced around carefully, breathing in through his nose. There was something wrong….

A flash of silver to his left was the only warning Marcil received! Still, it was not enough. A dagger, serrated and deadly, poised itself at Marcil’s exposed neck. Marcil remained perfectly still, not daring to move an inch.

“And what do you think you are doing?” a voice asked smartly—and Marcil’s eyes flew wide. The voice was feminine! Knowing that he was in no position to actually turn his head and look at the woman that had him such a state, Marcil swallowed hard, his hand gradually drifting down to his side, gradually drifting down to the sword that hung in waiting.

“Well, you see,” he stammered, letting his body give out a nervous shudder. “I—I—heard this noise, ma’am. I work in the tavern. My pa—”

“Lose the theatrics, please,” she snapped, pressing the dagger a bit closer to his throat. “Are you a thief?”

“Aye,” Marcil replied, losing the stutter and facade quickly. “And you? I thought this was the room of the merchant Isaln?”

She snorted, loosening her hold on the dagger a bit but keeping it where it was. She wanted no surprises from the thief, not when she had the advantage. But if this was who she thought it was…. Still, she had to be certain.

“Get your information right next time,” she griped, her tone causing Marcil to think that she was almost annoyed with his false information. He raised an eyebrow in the dark although she could not see.

“My information is wrong then? You are not Isaln?” He pretended to be some common thief on the street—but the woman only laughed, not believing a word that came from Marcil’s mouth.

“I’m Kera,” she responded lightly, “his granddaughter.”

“Ah,” Marcil said as if he had finally caught on to his mistake, “my apologies. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be going on my way then. I am sorry for disturbing you.” He tried to take a step away, but Kera only pressed the dagger firmly against his skin.

“Your choice,” Marcil replied with an almost guilty sigh. He spun on his heel, dropping low to the ground and surprising Kera completely. Marcil jumped back as he rose, drawing his sword from its sheath smoothly in the action. A long blade gleamed in the room, sparkling in some meager light that only the heavens could provide.

Kera smirked, hardly impressed or bothered by the turn of events. In fact, she only stood there for a moment, waiting for Marcil to finish his turn. When he was standing a bit away, his sword ready to attack, she began moving closer to the table. She still had no sword drawn, but Marcil saw that she had a blade hanging at her hip, its sheath plain and undecorated.

Dark hair hung to her shoulders, falling in curls that Marcil had a childish urge to tug at. She was dressed a mere nightdress, thin and short so that Marcil had to hold back a grin from breaking across his face. He wasn’t worried about the situation now. He trusted his abilities enough to say that he was in no danger—a minor threat, granted, but danger? Never.

“You came for the map?” she asked simply. “You want it?”

Marcil did not know what to say. A hint of confusion came across his face for just an instant, disappearing as quickly as it had come. This was the last thing he had expected for her to say—what was this girl playing at?

He narrowed his eyes at her. “That map leads to a king’s treasure, the Gem of the maiden Lareen. Of course I want the damn map.”

“Planning to go after the Gem?” she questioned roughly, taking a step towards Marcil. Her sword was still in its sheath, but Marcil was beginning to doubt the fact that he had every advantage. She had surprised him once—no, twice, already. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

“Not unless the gods came down themselves and made me,” he swore fervently. “I’m a thief. Not an adventurer. Now, might I leave now?”

Kera smiled mysteriously. “You don’t give yourself the credit you deserve, Marcil,” she told him. “You could handle the journey.”

“You know of me?” he asked her, flashing her a cocky grin. His green eyes gleamed as he looked her over. Kera snorted in disgust.

“I’ve heard your name before,” Kera replied shortly, setting Marcil back in his place. “My grandfather is sick. He told me to bring this map to this inn. He said that the two of you had always been adversaries.”

Marcil shrugged, conceding to the point. It was true. He had stolen from Isaln many times in his day, and in return, Isaln had set the palace guards on his tail. It had become almost like a game for the two of them—but Marcil knew that this map was no game. This map could bring him riches beyond what he had ever before known. This map….

“He said that you would come for it,” Kera went on. “He’s dying, Marcil.”

The young boy’s face fell. Never had he once considered himself the merchant’s friend, but the loss of a worthy opponent made his heart heavy in his chest. His sword dropped a little, his defense lowering. Still, Kera did not attack him.

“He wants you to have it,” Kera said finally, reaching for the map and moving her hand to hold it out, ready for Marcil to take.

Marcil looked at it. “I don’t want it,” he heard himself saying. What was this?! Was he honestly giving his chance of riches away? Just like that?! “Sell it for yourself. Or go on the damn road to find the Gem.”

“My grandfather wanted you to have it though,” Kera told him. “Not to sell, idiot. He wanted you to have the Gem.”

Marcil’s sober mood faded instantly. “Not thanks,” he said hotly, his sorrow over the news of Isaln quickly turning to anger. “I think I can pass on that.”

Kera was still persistent. “It was his last wish, Marcil.” The thief moved towards the window, but the brilliant blue eyes of Kera held him in his place. The bore into him, seeking any morals and compassion that Marcil had thought he had long ago lost. Feelings of honor and sympathy resurfaced, and Marcil found himself reaching for the map.

Angrily, he clutched it in his hand.

“Careful,” Kera snipped, “it’s valuable.”

“Tell your grandfather he had better die happy,” Marcil grumbled, storming off to the window. Kera shrugged.

“I won’t get the chance to do that, I think,” she admitted, looking at the floor.

Marcil was busy climbing out of the window, but he said through gritted teeth, “And why is that?”

“I’m not returning home,” Kera informed him. Marcil continued to climb out of the window.

Marcil exhaled heavily. “Took a liking to the city, have we, O Annoying Granddaughter of Isaln?” he questioned smartly.

Kera passed him a sour look. “No, I am coming with you.”

Halfway out of the window, Marcil’s eyes flew wide. Kera shrugged innocently, but she jumped back startled, as Marcil tumbled down, falling towards the ground….

Kera rushed to the window, her head poking out in a breathless anxiety. She hadn’t meant to scare him like this…. And how he was dead? Her eyes scanned the ground, but no body was to be seen. Slowly, her eyes ran up the side of the wall, finally coming to rest upon a lithe figure, fingers clutching the sill of a lower window.

Kera stifled a chuckle. The months ahead are going to be interesting, she thought in amusement. Even from her perch in her room, so high above him, Kera could see the thief boiling in rage. She smiled in the dark.

“Nice catch!” she called down merrily. Marcil struggled to look up, securing his grip on the windowsill.

“Damn you, Kera!” he shouted up to, his face flushed from the fall. Oh, he grumbled, curses running through his mind. Oh, were the next few months going to be interesting…!