Dalshire; evening, in the snow

As the sun set, gleaming redly between the sparse rooftops of Dalshire, grey clouds gathered and meshed, suffocating the crimson rays and hastening the onset of twilight. A few minutes later the first flakes of ashy-white snow began to fall and a light breeze sprang up from the north. The beggars that had gathered, rather forlornly, in the middle of Market Square, stood up one by one, carefully ignoring one another, and shambled or limped away, seeking shelter and warmth where they might find it. When the snow began to settle and mound only one beggar was left: wrapped in a colourfully striped blanket that was smeared here and there with crumbling brown dirt she was mumbling to herself and tugging absently at her greasy, rat-tailed hair as though trying to reset a wig on her head. At the edge of Market Square a lamp-lighter clutching a long pole hurried from one filigreed black-iron lamp-post to the next, the pole hooking open the little glass chamber atop each pole and dipping inside to light the wick there before tapping the glass shut again. Two of the lamps failed to stay lit but the lamp-lighter, huddling against the breeze as though it were much stronger, hastened on, uncaring of the darkness between pools of yellowish light.

Another figure appeared, walking stiffly. They seemed to see the lamp-lighter and let out a cry, maybe a call or a greeting, but the lamp-lighter never turned his head nor slowed his tread and soon vanished from sight. The beggar, whose feet were starting to numb with the cold, looked up without interest and watched until it became apparent that the figure had seen her and was now walking in her direction.

“You’re in the wrong place,” she said, her voice quiet but carrying well on the frosty, ice-enhanced air. “You should leave now.”

The figure didn’t stop its jerky gait, as though it had only learned to walk the day before, but it did raise its head slightly. The beggar thought that they might be male, and noted that the shoulders were broad and looked muscular.

“My name is Melrose,” said the figure in a voice that was deep and gravelly. The beggar felt a sense of unease stir within her, like butterflies in her stomach. “I’m looking for Dalshire.”

“You’ve found it,” said the beggar. “Well done. You can leave again now.”

“So I’m not in the wrong place,” said Melrose. “Why do you keep telling me to leave?”

“It’s for your own good,” said the beggar. She shifted uncomfortably, disturbed by something more than the increasing cold, and rubbed her ankles. She had to fight down an urge to get up and run away. When she looked up again Melrose had closed the distance between them and was now illuminated by a lamp. His face was passably handsome but scarred on the right side in several places, the oldest and whitest of the scars just missing his eye. His hair was blond and straight, dampened by the falling snow, and fell down his neck to somewhere behind his back. He was wearing a leather cuirass that was covered in blood that was too wet and too dark not to be fresh, and his arms and legs, all wrapped in leather strips, looked to be bloodied too. There was an iron smell in the air and something that reminded her of the slaughterhouse.

“I’ll decide what’s good for me,” said Melrose. He took another step forward and she realised that he’d been leaning on a sword to help him walk. He brought it forwards, planting the point on the snowy ground, and the blade was luminous in Melrose’s shadow.

“They won’t give you a room for the night,” said the beggar, gesturing at Dalshire. “They won’t offer you food, even for money. They won’t open their doors if they see that sword. You’re in the wrong place.”

“Have I asked for any of those things?”

The beggar thought about that for a moment. She’d been doing all the talking so far, she realised.

“Just warning you, friend,” she said, getting her feet under her, just in case running away turned out to the prudent option. The sword looked nasty, but the man looked injured; she thought her chances were worth taking.

“Hah. I don’t care for friends,” said Melrose. “The bookkeeping isn’t worth it.”

“Huh?”

“Is this Dalshire?”

He had to repeat the question before she started listening again, and then she nodded. “There’s nothing here for you,” she said, feeling like she was repeating herself.

“Let’s let the gods decide that,” said Melrose quietly.

“They make their own gods here,” said the beggar without thinking. As she heard her words hang on the icy air momentarily she clapped her hand over her mouth and jerked upright, throwing a small cloud of dusty snow around her.

“Now that sounds more interesting,” said Melrose, and for the first time he smiled. “Why don’t you tell me more about that?”

The beggar sprinted off and Melrose watched her go. Her blanket streamed behind her, clutched under one arm, like a strange flag, and she jinked from side to side as though worried that he was going to throw something at her. When she had vanished from sight he looked down, confirming that her footprints were clearly visible in the thin crust of the snow, and slowly shook his head.

“Thoughtless,” he said, probably to himself. He turned, wincing slightly as scabs over recent wounds were pulled taut, and lifted the sword. It had been described as a miracle of engineering by its makers, and despite its size and length making it look like it needed two hands to wield, it was light enough that he could wield it with one and even fence with it. The edge was dulled though and nicked in places and the leather wrapping on the hilt was worn and torn.

“Show me,” he said, addressing the sword, and a moment later he felt the sword pull on his arm, lifting it horizontal and then tugging it to his left. He let himself be turned, his feet squeaking on the new snow, until the sword stopped pulling and his arm dropped to his side.

“…” he said, looking up at the sky and realising that without the sun he couldn’t tell what direction he was facing. “This way,” he said, though it didn’t feel as convincing as naming the compass points.

The snow was unmarred as he walked through Dalshire, which was more a collection of houses than a village. Each house seemed to have been set up independently of the others and where three or four houses formed an impromptu street it felt like it had happened by accident. There were wells on almost every property rather than a single communal well, wooden fences and stone walls that just ended abruptly, presumably at the point where land ceased being claimed and became community property again. The houses were one, two or three storeys with little architectural consistency and the quality of their construction was as variable. Melrose struggled on, pain slowly building in his wounds as the chill of the night seeped into his bones. For a moment he wished that he was back in Tal Xlitif with its wide, straight streets and thoughtfully designed neighbourhoods and then he pushed that thought aside with vehemence and stared ahead through the swirling snow that was now getting heavier. When a two-storey stone building set in the middle of a grassy field with a low dry-stone wall around three sides of it finally came into view he stopped and looked it over carefully, counting the number of windows and checking the colour of the doors — one at either end of the property — and even estimating the distance between the nearest door and the dry-stone walls. When he was certain that he had the right place he strode across the grass, leaving dark footprints where the snow was crushed away, and knocked on the red door.

As the beggar had predicted, there was no answer. Melrose knocked again, to be polite, and then went to take a slab of stone from the dry-stone wall. He wiped it free of snow and hefted it thoughtfully, considering the windows. All were dark as though the house were empty. He selected a window to the side of the red door and got a grip on the stone as though it were a discus.

“Put that down!”

The red door had opened silently and a man was standing in the doorway holding a flask in one hand and a battered small wooden shield in the other. He was wearing a woollen dressing gown and seemed a very improbable warrior.

“Rufus,” said Melrose, lowering the stone to his side. “You’re still here.”

“Where else would I be, idiot man-child?” said Rufus. His eyes were unfocused and unseeing, but after a moment he shook his head as though trying to get water out of his ears. “Say something else, I think I might recognise you.”

“It’s Melrose,” said Melrose. He set the stone back on the wall. “You’re blind?”

“No, I just don’t like looking at things unless I choose to. Of course I’m blind, you cretin! Melrose…, that name rings a — oh dear Gods, no. You’ve brought that damnable sword back, haven’t you?”