The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 5 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 6: Unseen.
The southwest road from Colkeeth wound like a lazy serpent through the valley, dust rising in golden clouds beneath Myrtle’s hooves. Nekira had been riding since dawn; the day’s heat now slipped away as the sun began its slow descent behind the dark hills. The sky burned with streaks of crimson and violet, and the air tasted faintly of woodsmoke.
Far ahead, a thin plume rose from beyond a copse of bare elms. Nekira guided Myrtle closer, the mare snorting softly as she caught the scent. A man was bent over his fields—patches of late barley, half choked by weeds. His shirt hung in tatters, and his hat was little more than straw and hope.
From the saddle, Nekira raised his voice.
“Excuse me, kind sir! Might I ask the name of the village up ahead?”
The farmer straightened slowly, squinting against the dying light.
“Newton, sir,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “A mile or so yet.”
Nekira nodded his thanks. With a light touch of his heels, Myrtle moved on, hooves thudding softly on the road’s uneven stones. The wind picked up—cool now, whispering through the hedgerows like a warning. As he rode, Nekira reached for his staff, tracing the carvings that spiralled up its shaft. His lips moved in the ancient tongue, syllables rolling like distant thunder.
The wood shimmered faintly beneath his palm—its fibers tightening, the grain hardening until it gleamed faintly under the fading sun. Strong. Sturdy. Unbreakable.
Santaya and Kristolia padded close behind as Nekira entered Newton. The village was small, its narrow streets lit by the flicker of lanterns and the orange glow from hearths behind shuttered windows. A few townsfolk paused to stare—some curious, others wary of the wolves that walked obediently at his side.
Nekira guided Myrtle to a halt before a creaking sign that swayed gently in the evening breeze: The Horse Inn. The smell of hay and roasted meat drifted from within. Beside the inn stood a modest stable, half-lit by a single lantern.
A lanky teenager hurried out, brushing straw from his sleeves.
“Evening, sir. I can take your horse, see she’s fed and watered—two silvers. Wolves too, if you like, but no animals allowed inside.”
Santaya gave a low rumble of displeasure, Kristolia’s ears twitching in agreement.
Nekira chuckled softly, crouching to scratch them both behind the ears. “Sorry, girls. Rules are rules.” He straightened, addressing the boy.
“Two gold pieces to see they’re well cared for, and another to fetch two fresh rabbits from the market. My companions prefer their meals warm and quick.”
The lad’s eyes went wide. “Three gold? Aye, sir, of course!”
He took the coins with a grin, leading Myrtle into the stable and giving the wolves a respectful berth. Nekira watched as he tethered the horse securely, then darted off toward the market, gold clinking in his pocket and a spring in his step.
Drawing his cloak tighter, Nekira pulled the hood low over his face. The hum of voices drifted from within the inn—laughter, the scrape of mugs, the muted strains of a lute. He stepped through the door, leaving the chill and the stares of the street behind him.
The warmth and noise swallowed him whole.
No one took much notice of him as he stepped inside, save for the woman behind the bar. The air was thick with the smell of ale, woodsmoke, and wet cloaks hung too near the fire. Conversation rolled like the tide—loud, then soft, then loud again.
“Name’s Serenity,” the barmaid said without looking up from the mugs she was polishing. “What’ll it be?”
Nekira glanced about. No menu, no chalkboard, just tired faces and half-empty tankards. “Beer, and whatever food you have to offer, please.”
Serenity’s head lifted. Her eyes, sharp and amber in the lamplight, darted toward a few of the louder patrons near the hearth. “Oh! Someone with manners! Hear that, you blasted lot?” she called, and a wave of laughter and good-natured jeers followed. She smoothed her apron, straightened her shoulders. “Our finest honey mead and a large bowl of chicken stew with a fresh loaf—two silvers.”
Nekira tapped his fingers on the counter, weighing her words. “Honey mead, two bowls of stew, and one loaf of bread. One gold and five silver, ma’am.”
Serenity blinked, the faintest trace of surprise softening her face. “Yes, sir. You’ve got yourself a deal. Find a seat—I’ll bring it over.”
He handed her the coins and gave a curt nod before turning toward the far end of the room. The corner table sat half in shadow, untouched. Perfect. He slid into the chair, leaned back, and rested his staff against the wall beside him. Crossing his ankles beneath the table, he let his gaze wander the room—faces, gestures, voices. The rough laughter of merchants. The slurred singing of a man already deep in his cups. The muttered tones of travellers whispering about something that had them glancing toward the windows, uneasy.
Nekira said nothing. He just listened.
The warmth of the inn might have softened most travellers, but his senses stayed sharp. Somewhere among the laughter and the clatter of mugs, he could almost hear the first hint of trouble stirring.
Serenity returned with a tray balanced expertly on one hand. Steam curled from the bowls as she set them down, the scent of chicken, herbs, and fresh bread rising warmly through the air. The honey mead caught the light like liquid amber.
Nekira straightened, the hood still shadowing his face. “Thank you, Serenity,” he said, his voice low but steady.
She offered a polite smile and a nod before turning back to her bar, apron swaying as she moved through the haze of laughter and smoke.
Nekira took a slow sip of the mead—sweet, with a bite beneath it—and listened.
At first it was just a thread of sound in the general murmur, but soon the words took shape. Knebworth. The name cut through the noise like a blade.
“…burnt to the ground, they say…”
“…Thomaz stood in his chariot, smiling, like he were a god come down…”
“…grey fire, not normal fire—Rubian’s work, that was…”
The voices dropped lower, fearful now, as if the very walls might carry their words to unwelcome ears.
Nekira’s hand tightened around his cup. He stared into the golden swirl of his drink, the flickering firelight turning it blood-red at the edges.
Nekira stayed silent, the hood still low over his face. The hum of voices continued, rising and falling like a tired sea.
At one table near the hearth, a farmer lifted his mug, speaking louder than he meant to.
“My brother… my brother was in Knebworth. Burned with the rest of ’em.”
The men around him fell quiet for a heartbeat, then solemnly raised their tankards.
“To your brother,” one said.
“To all of them,” another added.
The clatter of mugs rang out like a muted funeral bell. Nekira’s gaze didn’t waver, though his grip on the cup tightened.
Moments later, the door swung open with a hard gust of cold air.
A small group of the king’s soldiers stepped inside—four, maybe five. Their armour clinked faintly as they entered, mud caked on their boots, eyes sharp and mean. The warmth of the room drained away in an instant. Conversations stopped mid-word. Even the lute player faltered.
One soldier strode up to the bar, his face flushed from drink or arrogance.
“Woman,” he barked, “beer and food. Now, bitch.”
Serenity froze for a second, drawing in a slow breath through her nose. Then, steady as a stone, she replied, “There are no women here—only people. And there’s plenty of beer and food, if you’d like it.”
A second soldier let out a coarse laugh. “You’re a woman—you’ll do!” he jeered, to the amusement of a few of his comrades.
Before the laughter could grow, a taller man in the back stepped forward, the edge of command in his tone.
“That’s enough. Beer and food will do fine.”
The other soldiers fell quiet. Serenity nodded once, saying nothing more. She turned toward the kitchen, her hands trembling only slightly as she reached for a clean tankard.
The soldiers found a table near the center of the room, their armour scraping against the wood. The sound was too loud in the heavy silence.
From his corner, Nekira watched, motionless. Shadows hid his eyes, but his jaw had set hard as stone.
The patrons of the Horse Inn sat in uneasy silence. No one dared speak above a whisper.
One of the soldiers kicked his chair back and barked at the lute player, “Play us a tune—something jaunty!”
The musician’s hands trembled as he obeyed, the melody thin and uneven. The soldiers roared with laughter, shouting over the music, boasting without care who heard them.
“…pathetic little worms, they were,” one said, loud enough for half the room to hear. “Running, crying for mercy—Knebworth deserved the fire.”
A tankard slammed against a table. The drunk farmer from earlier lurched to his feet, face red and wet-eyed.
“My brother was not pathetic!” he shouted.
The soldiers laughed, cruel and sharp.
“Sit down, old man, before we give you the same mercy we gave your brother,” one sneered, resting a hand on his sword.
Before anyone could move, Serenity stepped forward from behind the bar, her voice cutting through the noise like a whip.
“There will be no fighting, no threats, and no blood spilled in my inn,” she said, hands firm on her hips. “If that’s your plan, take it elsewhere.”
For a moment, no one breathed. Then, one by one, the soldiers’ laughter died out. The leader gave a low grunt. “Fine,” he muttered. “We’re just eating.”
The lute resumed, softer now. The air was thick with tension. Nekira smiled faintly beneath his hood, admiring Serenity’s courage. He drank his honey mead, slow and deliberate, and tore a piece of bread from the loaf, dipping it into the stew as if the world weren’t on the verge of violence.
The door opened again. A young woman entered, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her hair was light brown, her dress simple but clean, her movements full of purpose.
“Mark Anthony! You show your face right now!” she called, her voice bright with anger.
A farmer near the lute player raised his head. “What’s wrong, my love?” he asked, already on his feet.
Before she could reach him, one of the soldiers grabbed her by the waist and hauled her into his lap.
“Well, what have we here?” he jeered, grinning at his companions. “A beauty come to warm us up!”
Mark Anthony’s tankard slammed down, ale splashing over the table.
“Let my wife go—now!”
The woman twisted, then struck the soldier across the face with the back of her hand. The sound cracked through the room.
He winced, more from surprise than pain, and released her. She stumbled free, running straight into her husband’s arms.
Nekira straightened in his chair, his fingers curling around the carved staff beside him.
The soldier rose, red-faced and trembling with fury, and pointed at her. “Striking a soldier of the King is treason! Punishable by death!”
The room froze. The lute stopped. Even the fire seemed to quiet.
Nekira rose slowly from his corner, his cloak whispering around his boots. The soldier’s threat—“Punishable by death”—hung thick in the air.
He caught the eye of the lute player, who sat frozen, fingers hovering above the strings. Nekira lifted one gloved hand and made a small, encouraging gesture.
The man hesitated, then struck a nervous chord.
Nekira began to limp forward, his staff tapping the floorboards in uneven rhythm—tap… tap-tap… tap.
At first, his voice was low and steady, almost playful.
“A soldier bold, with armour bright,
Cried doom to all who ran from fight—
But tripped upon his heavy pride,
And landed flat on his royal hide.”
A ripple of laughter broke the tension. The lute player blinked, then began to play faster, following Nekira’s rhythm.
Nekira exaggerated his limp, spinning the staff lazily in one hand. “Pardon the leg,” he said lightly. “Bad since Colkeeth—worse when pride’s in the air.”
He circled closer to the soldiers, his tone still friendly but edged with mirth.
“Now five brave lads from Newton’s keep,
Came swaggering in—too drunk for sleep.
They drank, they bragged, they puffed their chests,
But lost their wits—and all the rest!”
The room erupted in laughter. A few of the soldiers chuckled uncertainly, until one frowned and half-rose from his seat. Nekira “stumbled” at just the right moment, his staff catching the man’s leg and sending him thudding back into his chair.
“Forgive me!” Nekira said, bowing low. “This old stick has a mind of its own.”
The laughter grew louder. Even Serenity, behind the bar, pressed her lips together to hide a smile.
The soldiers’ amusement soured quickly. They shifted in their seats, eyes narrowing. Nekira turned in a slow circle, voice rising, his rhymes now striking harder—like hammer blows wrapped in honeyed words.
“Five fine knights from Newton’s gate,
Too grand to walk, too drunk to wait.
They boasted loud, they drank their fill,
Till courage fled—and left the bill!”
The music quickened. Nekira’s limp became a deliberate dance, half comic, half taunting. His staff tapped the beat, his voice threading through laughter like a knife.
“They burned a town, they called it war,
But fear’s the only flag they bore.
They swing their swords and puff their chests,
But quail when faced with men, not pests.”
Gasps replaced laughter. The crowd’s mirth curdled into stunned silence. Nekira’s hood hid his face, but his words burned clear.
“So drink, brave lads, to smoke and flame,
To glory bought with naught but shame.
When songs are sung of what you’ve done—
No mothers smile. No heroes come.”
The lute struck one final, trembling note—and then stopped.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The soldiers sat frozen, red-faced and trembling between rage and fear. Around them, the townsfolk stared, wide-eyed, breathless.
Nekira planted his staff firmly on the floorboards. His voice was calm, steady, utterly composed.
“A fine night for music,” he said softly. “And better still—for peace.”
The only sound that followed was the crackle of the fire and the faint whine of wind against the shutters.
For a long, tense heartbeat, the room held its breath. Then one of the soldiers—the same who had been humiliated by Nekira’s earlier antics—slammed his chair back and half-drew his blade, eyes blazing.
“You mock the King’s men, old fool?” he snarled.
The taller, more authoritative soldier stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Enough, Lorn! Sit down, now.”
Nekira leaned forward just slightly, the faintest tilt of his head mocking, cloak brushing the floor. His voice was low, teasing, deliberate.
“Awe… the big brave soldier wants to play with his stabby-wabby.”
A ripple of shocked laughter spread across the inn. Nekira’s tone sharpened, bolder this time, cutting through the tension like a blade itself:
“I’d wager his pea-sized maggot between his legs just used up the last brain cell he had to spare.”
The crowd erupted, some stifling laughter, some wide-eyed in disbelief. Even Serenity pressed her hands to her mouth, trying not to smile.
Nekira turned toward her, bowing lightly.
“Serenity, I apologise in advance for what is most likely about to happen.”
The soldier lunged, sword swinging. Nekira moved with fluid precision, stepping aside, cloak flowing, staff spinning into his hands.
With a swift, controlled motion, he struck the soldier’s wrist with the thick end of the staff, forcing the sword away. Then he swept the other end across the man’s torso, unbalancing him.
The staff pressed at the soldier’s neck, leveraging his weight, and Nekira pivoted, slamming the man face-first into the nearest table with a dull crash. Mugs toppled, bread bowls skidded across the floor, and the lute player froze, instrument forgotten.
Nekira leaned lightly on his staff once again. His voice was calm, teasing almost like before:
“Best keep that blade sheathed, friend. You’re far less dangerous when your feet are on the floor.”
The inn fell silent, tension hanging heavy. The authoritative soldier stepped forward, hand raised, clearly trying to contain his men—but all eyes now knew Nekira was no ordinary traveller.
The authoritative soldier’s hands rose helplessly as his men erupted in chaos. Lorn, dazed from his earlier collision with the table, scrambled to his feet. Two others lunged blindly, swords swinging. The inn had become a storm of clanging steel, falling mugs, and startled cries—but Nekira was calm, his cloak swirling around him like smoke.
He twirled his staff in his hands, letting it catch the lamplight as he sidestepped the first soldier’s wild swing. With a subtle twist, he guided the man’s momentum into the wooden post behind him, which groaned and tipped slightly under the impact. The soldier spun, tripping over a chair, and fell with a thud.
Another soldier aimed for Nekira’s side. Nekira blocked with the thick end of his staff, then tapped the staff against the man’s wrist, twisting sharply. The soldier’s own swing sent him sprawling backward into the overturned table, knocking him out cold with the edge of the wood.
“Ah, careful there, friends!” Nekira said, voice light, almost musical, as he danced forward. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourselves while trying to impress me!”
The soldiers advanced again, more cautiously this time, but still in disarray. Nekira moved with fluid precision, pivoting, spinning, and sliding his staff to parry every wild strike. Each motion used their own force against them: a push here, a tap there, until one by one, they stumbled into walls, chairs, and tables, unconscious before they even realised what had happened.
The authoritative officer finally pushed through the chaos, shoving knocked-over tables aside. “Enough!” he barked, his voice sharp and strained. “Stand down, now!”
He stumbled toward the bar, trying to regain control of the situation—but Serenity had been watching all along. Calm and deliberate, she grabbed a heavy mug from the counter. As the officer neared, she swung it with perfect timing, catching him squarely on the side of the face.
The officer crumpled, out cold, a dull thump echoing in the now-silent inn. Serenity straightened, hands on her hips. Her voice was smooth, almost amused:
“The sound of your voice annoys me.”
Nekira turned, a slow smile spreading beneath his hood. With a dramatic flourish, he lowered himself into a flamboyant bow.
“Well played, milady.”
Serenity laughed, the tension breaking like a wave, and returned the gesture with a perfectly extravagant curtsy.
The inn’s patrons stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, some hiding smiles, some openly laughing. Even the lute player dared a tentative chord, playing a quiet, triumphant melody.
Nekira straightened, staff resting lightly on his shoulder, eyes sweeping the room. Calm returned, but the story of this night—and his flair—would linger in Newton for a long time.
Nekira stepped carefully over the sprawled soldiers, staff in hand, moving toward the bar. His movements were slow and deliberate.
“Apologies for the mess, Serenity,” he said quietly, voice calm, “and for the trouble caused.”
Mark Anthony and his wife approached, gratitude plain on their faces. “Thank you,” Mark Anthony said, bowing slightly. “We wouldn’t have managed without you.”
Nekira inclined his head politely. “It was my pleasure,” he replied.
Serenity smiled, watching the couple walk away. “Don’t be silly! Although… you are a strange one,” she said with a chuckle. “That’s the most fun I’ve had in ages!”
Slapping her hands onto the bar, she raised her voice, carrying it across the room:
“Sling those soldiers outside, tidy this mess, and t’next round’ll be on t’house!”
The patrons erupted in cheers, jumping to their feet. Laughter and applause filled the inn.
Nekira chuckled softly, a wry smile visible beneath the shadow of his hood. “Well, that’s one way to handle it.”
Serenity leaned forward, pride glinting in her eyes. “You’re not the only one with wits around here, you know.”
From inside his cloak, Nekira produced a small sack of gold coins. He placed it on the bar. “Ten gold coins,” he said lightly. “A thank you… and an apology. And the next round.”
Serenity felt the weight of the coins and nodded. “They’ll ask for a name,” she said, voice low but firm. “And a name I should give—it’s an unwritten rule of respect.”
Nekira lifted the hood of his cloak just enough for her to see his face. A faint smile curved his lips. “My name is simply… No-Name.”
He pulled the hood back over his head and turned toward the door.
As he passed through the threshold, Serenity’s voice rang out loud and clear:
“And a round paid for by our friend, No-Name!”
A few of the patrons shouted confused questions, then slowly, voices rising in unison:
“To No-Name!”
Nekira slipped quietly around the side of the building toward the stables. Santi and Kristi bounded toward him, ears perked, eyes wide with concern.
“I’m okay, girls,” he whispered, kneeling to wrap his arms around them both. Their fur was warm and reassuring against his cloak.
The stable hand stepped forward, bowing slightly. “They got a bit restless, sir, when they heard the commotion. But they stayed, none the less.”
Nekira nodded thoughtfully. “If I’d called their names, there’d have been no stopping them. I’ve earned their respect… as they have mine.”
The wolves barked softly in agreement, nudging his hands for more attention.
He straightened, his voice calm and decisive. “Saddle Myrtle for me, please. It’s time I leave.”
The boy nodded eagerly and set about his task, moving with practised efficiency.
A few minutes later, Nekira settled into Myrtle’s saddle. He leaned down, handing the boy one last gold coin with a quiet nod of thanks.
The reins in hand, he urged Myrtle into a slow trot, the mare’s hooves clattering against the cobblestones. Santi and Kristi flanked him, moving like shadows at his side—loyal, ever-present, silent protectors.
The village of Newton shrank behind him as the road stretched ahead, winding into the darkening horizon. Somewhere beyond, Knebworth waited in whispers and smoke.
Chapter 6: Unseen.
The southwest road from Colkeeth wound like a lazy serpent through the valley, dust rising in golden clouds beneath Myrtle’s hooves. Nekira had been riding since dawn; the day’s heat now slipped away as the sun began its slow descent behind the dark hills. The sky burned with streaks of crimson and violet, and the air tasted faintly of woodsmoke.
Far ahead, a thin plume rose from beyond a copse of bare elms. Nekira guided Myrtle closer, the mare snorting softly as she caught the scent. A man was bent over his fields—patches of late barley, half choked by weeds. His shirt hung in tatters, and his hat was little more than straw and hope.
From the saddle, Nekira raised his voice.
“Excuse me, kind sir! Might I ask the name of the village up ahead?”
The farmer straightened slowly, squinting against the dying light.
“Newton, sir,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “A mile or so yet.”
Nekira nodded his thanks. With a light touch of his heels, Myrtle moved on, hooves thudding softly on the road’s uneven stones. The wind picked up—cool now, whispering through the hedgerows like a warning. As he rode, Nekira reached for his staff, tracing the carvings that spiralled up its shaft. His lips moved in the ancient tongue, syllables rolling like distant thunder.
The wood shimmered faintly beneath his palm—its fibers tightening, the grain hardening until it gleamed faintly under the fading sun. Strong. Sturdy. Unbreakable.
Santaya and Kristolia padded close behind as Nekira entered Newton. The village was small, its narrow streets lit by the flicker of lanterns and the orange glow from hearths behind shuttered windows. A few townsfolk paused to stare—some curious, others wary of the wolves that walked obediently at his side.
Nekira guided Myrtle to a halt before a creaking sign that swayed gently in the evening breeze: The Horse Inn. The smell of hay and roasted meat drifted from within. Beside the inn stood a modest stable, half-lit by a single lantern.
A lanky teenager hurried out, brushing straw from his sleeves.
“Evening, sir. I can take your horse, see she’s fed and watered—two silvers. Wolves too, if you like, but no animals allowed inside.”
Santaya gave a low rumble of displeasure, Kristolia’s ears twitching in agreement.
Nekira chuckled softly, crouching to scratch them both behind the ears. “Sorry, girls. Rules are rules.” He straightened, addressing the boy.
“Two gold pieces to see they’re well cared for, and another to fetch two fresh rabbits from the market. My companions prefer their meals warm and quick.”
The lad’s eyes went wide. “Three gold? Aye, sir, of course!”
He took the coins with a grin, leading Myrtle into the stable and giving the wolves a respectful berth. Nekira watched as he tethered the horse securely, then darted off toward the market, gold clinking in his pocket and a spring in his step.
Drawing his cloak tighter, Nekira pulled the hood low over his face. The hum of voices drifted from within the inn—laughter, the scrape of mugs, the muted strains of a lute. He stepped through the door, leaving the chill and the stares of the street behind him.
The warmth and noise swallowed him whole.
No one took much notice of him as he stepped inside, save for the woman behind the bar. The air was thick with the smell of ale, woodsmoke, and wet cloaks hung too near the fire. Conversation rolled like the tide—loud, then soft, then loud again.
“Name’s Serenity,” the barmaid said without looking up from the mugs she was polishing. “What’ll it be?”
Nekira glanced about. No menu, no chalkboard, just tired faces and half-empty tankards. “Beer, and whatever food you have to offer, please.”
Serenity’s head lifted. Her eyes, sharp and amber in the lamplight, darted toward a few of the louder patrons near the hearth. “Oh! Someone with manners! Hear that, you blasted lot?” she called, and a wave of laughter and good-natured jeers followed. She smoothed her apron, straightened her shoulders. “Our finest honey mead and a large bowl of chicken stew with a fresh loaf—two silvers.”
Nekira tapped his fingers on the counter, weighing her words. “Honey mead, two bowls of stew, and one loaf of bread. One gold and five silver, ma’am.”
Serenity blinked, the faintest trace of surprise softening her face. “Yes, sir. You’ve got yourself a deal. Find a seat—I’ll bring it over.”
He handed her the coins and gave a curt nod before turning toward the far end of the room. The corner table sat half in shadow, untouched. Perfect. He slid into the chair, leaned back, and rested his staff against the wall beside him. Crossing his ankles beneath the table, he let his gaze wander the room—faces, gestures, voices. The rough laughter of merchants. The slurred singing of a man already deep in his cups. The muttered tones of travellers whispering about something that had them glancing toward the windows, uneasy.
Nekira said nothing. He just listened.
The warmth of the inn might have softened most travellers, but his senses stayed sharp. Somewhere among the laughter and the clatter of mugs, he could almost hear the first hint of trouble stirring.
Serenity returned with a tray balanced expertly on one hand. Steam curled from the bowls as she set them down, the scent of chicken, herbs, and fresh bread rising warmly through the air. The honey mead caught the light like liquid amber.
Nekira straightened, the hood still shadowing his face. “Thank you, Serenity,” he said, his voice low but steady.
She offered a polite smile and a nod before turning back to her bar, apron swaying as she moved through the haze of laughter and smoke.
Nekira took a slow sip of the mead—sweet, with a bite beneath it—and listened.
At first it was just a thread of sound in the general murmur, but soon the words took shape. Knebworth. The name cut through the noise like a blade.
“…burnt to the ground, they say…”
“…Thomaz stood in his chariot, smiling, like he were a god come down…”
“…grey fire, not normal fire—Rubian’s work, that was…”
The voices dropped lower, fearful now, as if the very walls might carry their words to unwelcome ears.
Nekira’s hand tightened around his cup. He stared into the golden swirl of his drink, the flickering firelight turning it blood-red at the edges.
Nekira stayed silent, the hood still low over his face. The hum of voices continued, rising and falling like a tired sea.
At one table near the hearth, a farmer lifted his mug, speaking louder than he meant to.
“My brother… my brother was in Knebworth. Burned with the rest of ’em.”
The men around him fell quiet for a heartbeat, then solemnly raised their tankards.
“To your brother,” one said.
“To all of them,” another added.
The clatter of mugs rang out like a muted funeral bell. Nekira’s gaze didn’t waver, though his grip on the cup tightened.
Moments later, the door swung open with a hard gust of cold air.
A small group of the king’s soldiers stepped inside—four, maybe five. Their armour clinked faintly as they entered, mud caked on their boots, eyes sharp and mean. The warmth of the room drained away in an instant. Conversations stopped mid-word. Even the lute player faltered.
One soldier strode up to the bar, his face flushed from drink or arrogance.
“Woman,” he barked, “beer and food. Now, bitch.”
Serenity froze for a second, drawing in a slow breath through her nose. Then, steady as a stone, she replied, “There are no women here—only people. And there’s plenty of beer and food, if you’d like it.”
A second soldier let out a coarse laugh. “You’re a woman—you’ll do!” he jeered, to the amusement of a few of his comrades.
Before the laughter could grow, a taller man in the back stepped forward, the edge of command in his tone.
“That’s enough. Beer and food will do fine.”
The other soldiers fell quiet. Serenity nodded once, saying nothing more. She turned toward the kitchen, her hands trembling only slightly as she reached for a clean tankard.
The soldiers found a table near the center of the room, their armour scraping against the wood. The sound was too loud in the heavy silence.
From his corner, Nekira watched, motionless. Shadows hid his eyes, but his jaw had set hard as stone.
The patrons of the Horse Inn sat in uneasy silence. No one dared speak above a whisper.
One of the soldiers kicked his chair back and barked at the lute player, “Play us a tune—something jaunty!”
The musician’s hands trembled as he obeyed, the melody thin and uneven. The soldiers roared with laughter, shouting over the music, boasting without care who heard them.
“…pathetic little worms, they were,” one said, loud enough for half the room to hear. “Running, crying for mercy—Knebworth deserved the fire.”
A tankard slammed against a table. The drunk farmer from earlier lurched to his feet, face red and wet-eyed.
“My brother was not pathetic!” he shouted.
The soldiers laughed, cruel and sharp.
“Sit down, old man, before we give you the same mercy we gave your brother,” one sneered, resting a hand on his sword.
Before anyone could move, Serenity stepped forward from behind the bar, her voice cutting through the noise like a whip.
“There will be no fighting, no threats, and no blood spilled in my inn,” she said, hands firm on her hips. “If that’s your plan, take it elsewhere.”
For a moment, no one breathed. Then, one by one, the soldiers’ laughter died out. The leader gave a low grunt. “Fine,” he muttered. “We’re just eating.”
The lute resumed, softer now. The air was thick with tension. Nekira smiled faintly beneath his hood, admiring Serenity’s courage. He drank his honey mead, slow and deliberate, and tore a piece of bread from the loaf, dipping it into the stew as if the world weren’t on the verge of violence.
The door opened again. A young woman entered, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her hair was light brown, her dress simple but clean, her movements full of purpose.
“Mark Anthony! You show your face right now!” she called, her voice bright with anger.
A farmer near the lute player raised his head. “What’s wrong, my love?” he asked, already on his feet.
Before she could reach him, one of the soldiers grabbed her by the waist and hauled her into his lap.
“Well, what have we here?” he jeered, grinning at his companions. “A beauty come to warm us up!”
Mark Anthony’s tankard slammed down, ale splashing over the table.
“Let my wife go—now!”
The woman twisted, then struck the soldier across the face with the back of her hand. The sound cracked through the room.
He winced, more from surprise than pain, and released her. She stumbled free, running straight into her husband’s arms.
Nekira straightened in his chair, his fingers curling around the carved staff beside him.
The soldier rose, red-faced and trembling with fury, and pointed at her. “Striking a soldier of the King is treason! Punishable by death!”
The room froze. The lute stopped. Even the fire seemed to quiet.
Nekira rose slowly from his corner, his cloak whispering around his boots. The soldier’s threat—“Punishable by death”—hung thick in the air.
He caught the eye of the lute player, who sat frozen, fingers hovering above the strings. Nekira lifted one gloved hand and made a small, encouraging gesture.
The man hesitated, then struck a nervous chord.
Nekira began to limp forward, his staff tapping the floorboards in uneven rhythm—tap… tap-tap… tap.
At first, his voice was low and steady, almost playful.
“A soldier bold, with armour bright,
Cried doom to all who ran from fight—
But tripped upon his heavy pride,
And landed flat on his royal hide.”
A ripple of laughter broke the tension. The lute player blinked, then began to play faster, following Nekira’s rhythm.
Nekira exaggerated his limp, spinning the staff lazily in one hand. “Pardon the leg,” he said lightly. “Bad since Colkeeth—worse when pride’s in the air.”
He circled closer to the soldiers, his tone still friendly but edged with mirth.
“Now five brave lads from Newton’s keep,
Came swaggering in—too drunk for sleep.
They drank, they bragged, they puffed their chests,
But lost their wits—and all the rest!”
The room erupted in laughter. A few of the soldiers chuckled uncertainly, until one frowned and half-rose from his seat. Nekira “stumbled” at just the right moment, his staff catching the man’s leg and sending him thudding back into his chair.
“Forgive me!” Nekira said, bowing low. “This old stick has a mind of its own.”
The laughter grew louder. Even Serenity, behind the bar, pressed her lips together to hide a smile.
The soldiers’ amusement soured quickly. They shifted in their seats, eyes narrowing. Nekira turned in a slow circle, voice rising, his rhymes now striking harder—like hammer blows wrapped in honeyed words.
“Five fine knights from Newton’s gate,
Too grand to walk, too drunk to wait.
They boasted loud, they drank their fill,
Till courage fled—and left the bill!”
The music quickened. Nekira’s limp became a deliberate dance, half comic, half taunting. His staff tapped the beat, his voice threading through laughter like a knife.
“They burned a town, they called it war,
But fear’s the only flag they bore.
They swing their swords and puff their chests,
But quail when faced with men, not pests.”
Gasps replaced laughter. The crowd’s mirth curdled into stunned silence. Nekira’s hood hid his face, but his words burned clear.
“So drink, brave lads, to smoke and flame,
To glory bought with naught but shame.
When songs are sung of what you’ve done—
No mothers smile. No heroes come.”
The lute struck one final, trembling note—and then stopped.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The soldiers sat frozen, red-faced and trembling between rage and fear. Around them, the townsfolk stared, wide-eyed, breathless.
Nekira planted his staff firmly on the floorboards. His voice was calm, steady, utterly composed.
“A fine night for music,” he said softly. “And better still—for peace.”
The only sound that followed was the crackle of the fire and the faint whine of wind against the shutters.
For a long, tense heartbeat, the room held its breath. Then one of the soldiers—the same who had been humiliated by Nekira’s earlier antics—slammed his chair back and half-drew his blade, eyes blazing.
“You mock the King’s men, old fool?” he snarled.
The taller, more authoritative soldier stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Enough, Lorn! Sit down, now.”
Nekira leaned forward just slightly, the faintest tilt of his head mocking, cloak brushing the floor. His voice was low, teasing, deliberate.
“Awe… the big brave soldier wants to play with his stabby-wabby.”
A ripple of shocked laughter spread across the inn. Nekira’s tone sharpened, bolder this time, cutting through the tension like a blade itself:
“I’d wager his pea-sized maggot between his legs just used up the last brain cell he had to spare.”
The crowd erupted, some stifling laughter, some wide-eyed in disbelief. Even Serenity pressed her hands to her mouth, trying not to smile.
Nekira turned toward her, bowing lightly.
“Serenity, I apologise in advance for what is most likely about to happen.”
The soldier lunged, sword swinging. Nekira moved with fluid precision, stepping aside, cloak flowing, staff spinning into his hands.
With a swift, controlled motion, he struck the soldier’s wrist with the thick end of the staff, forcing the sword away. Then he swept the other end across the man’s torso, unbalancing him.
The staff pressed at the soldier’s neck, leveraging his weight, and Nekira pivoted, slamming the man face-first into the nearest table with a dull crash. Mugs toppled, bread bowls skidded across the floor, and the lute player froze, instrument forgotten.
Nekira leaned lightly on his staff once again. His voice was calm, teasing almost like before:
“Best keep that blade sheathed, friend. You’re far less dangerous when your feet are on the floor.”
The inn fell silent, tension hanging heavy. The authoritative soldier stepped forward, hand raised, clearly trying to contain his men—but all eyes now knew Nekira was no ordinary traveller.
The authoritative soldier’s hands rose helplessly as his men erupted in chaos. Lorn, dazed from his earlier collision with the table, scrambled to his feet. Two others lunged blindly, swords swinging. The inn had become a storm of clanging steel, falling mugs, and startled cries—but Nekira was calm, his cloak swirling around him like smoke.
He twirled his staff in his hands, letting it catch the lamplight as he sidestepped the first soldier’s wild swing. With a subtle twist, he guided the man’s momentum into the wooden post behind him, which groaned and tipped slightly under the impact. The soldier spun, tripping over a chair, and fell with a thud.
Another soldier aimed for Nekira’s side. Nekira blocked with the thick end of his staff, then tapped the staff against the man’s wrist, twisting sharply. The soldier’s own swing sent him sprawling backward into the overturned table, knocking him out cold with the edge of the wood.
“Ah, careful there, friends!” Nekira said, voice light, almost musical, as he danced forward. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourselves while trying to impress me!”
The soldiers advanced again, more cautiously this time, but still in disarray. Nekira moved with fluid precision, pivoting, spinning, and sliding his staff to parry every wild strike. Each motion used their own force against them: a push here, a tap there, until one by one, they stumbled into walls, chairs, and tables, unconscious before they even realised what had happened.
The authoritative officer finally pushed through the chaos, shoving knocked-over tables aside. “Enough!” he barked, his voice sharp and strained. “Stand down, now!”
He stumbled toward the bar, trying to regain control of the situation—but Serenity had been watching all along. Calm and deliberate, she grabbed a heavy mug from the counter. As the officer neared, she swung it with perfect timing, catching him squarely on the side of the face.
The officer crumpled, out cold, a dull thump echoing in the now-silent inn. Serenity straightened, hands on her hips. Her voice was smooth, almost amused:
“The sound of your voice annoys me.”
Nekira turned, a slow smile spreading beneath his hood. With a dramatic flourish, he lowered himself into a flamboyant bow.
“Well played, milady.”
Serenity laughed, the tension breaking like a wave, and returned the gesture with a perfectly extravagant curtsy.
The inn’s patrons stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, some hiding smiles, some openly laughing. Even the lute player dared a tentative chord, playing a quiet, triumphant melody.
Nekira straightened, staff resting lightly on his shoulder, eyes sweeping the room. Calm returned, but the story of this night—and his flair—would linger in Newton for a long time.
Nekira stepped carefully over the sprawled soldiers, staff in hand, moving toward the bar. His movements were slow and deliberate.
“Apologies for the mess, Serenity,” he said quietly, voice calm, “and for the trouble caused.”
Mark Anthony and his wife approached, gratitude plain on their faces. “Thank you,” Mark Anthony said, bowing slightly. “We wouldn’t have managed without you.”
Nekira inclined his head politely. “It was my pleasure,” he replied.
Serenity smiled, watching the couple walk away. “Don’t be silly! Although… you are a strange one,” she said with a chuckle. “That’s the most fun I’ve had in ages!”
Slapping her hands onto the bar, she raised her voice, carrying it across the room:
“Sling those soldiers outside, tidy this mess, and t’next round’ll be on t’house!”
The patrons erupted in cheers, jumping to their feet. Laughter and applause filled the inn.
Nekira chuckled softly, a wry smile visible beneath the shadow of his hood. “Well, that’s one way to handle it.”
Serenity leaned forward, pride glinting in her eyes. “You’re not the only one with wits around here, you know.”
From inside his cloak, Nekira produced a small sack of gold coins. He placed it on the bar. “Ten gold coins,” he said lightly. “A thank you… and an apology. And the next round.”
Serenity felt the weight of the coins and nodded. “They’ll ask for a name,” she said, voice low but firm. “And a name I should give—it’s an unwritten rule of respect.”
Nekira lifted the hood of his cloak just enough for her to see his face. A faint smile curved his lips. “My name is simply… No-Name.”
He pulled the hood back over his head and turned toward the door.
As he passed through the threshold, Serenity’s voice rang out loud and clear:
“And a round paid for by our friend, No-Name!”
A few of the patrons shouted confused questions, then slowly, voices rising in unison:
“To No-Name!”
Nekira slipped quietly around the side of the building toward the stables. Santi and Kristi bounded toward him, ears perked, eyes wide with concern.
“I’m okay, girls,” he whispered, kneeling to wrap his arms around them both. Their fur was warm and reassuring against his cloak.
The stable hand stepped forward, bowing slightly. “They got a bit restless, sir, when they heard the commotion. But they stayed, none the less.”
Nekira nodded thoughtfully. “If I’d called their names, there’d have been no stopping them. I’ve earned their respect… as they have mine.”
The wolves barked softly in agreement, nudging his hands for more attention.
He straightened, his voice calm and decisive. “Saddle Myrtle for me, please. It’s time I leave.”
The boy nodded eagerly and set about his task, moving with practised efficiency.
A few minutes later, Nekira settled into Myrtle’s saddle. He leaned down, handing the boy one last gold coin with a quiet nod of thanks.
The reins in hand, he urged Myrtle into a slow trot, the mare’s hooves clattering against the cobblestones. Santi and Kristi flanked him, moving like shadows at his side—loyal, ever-present, silent protectors.
The village of Newton shrank behind him as the road stretched ahead, winding into the darkening horizon. Somewhere beyond, Knebworth waited in whispers and smoke.