Chapter One – The Price of Bread

  (Two Years Later)

  Ember crouched low in the shaded ruins of the Waymaker’s Rest, his body obscured within the gloom. Thick, rickety beams of scabbed timber stretched above him resembling a grasping hand, clawing at the dull grey clouds. The old wooden sign dangled from a rusty link, blistered beyond recognition, creaking softly in the light breeze, its sound a lonely whisper in the stillness of the forgotten inn. The acrid scent of burnt wood and wet ash lingered in the air, thick between the crumbling stone walls.

  He swept long, scraggly raven hair from his auburn eyes, but the matted strands fell back almost instantly, refusing to be manipulated. His gaze narrowed as he examined the usual activity within the dreary market yard. A patchwork of frayed cloths draped over the market stalls, their once-vibrant colours dulled by time. Rusted carts stood abandoned beside rib-thin horses, their hooves tapping against the cobbles. Voices hummed low, clashing with the slow, rhythmic clatter of cartwheels against the uneven cobbles.

  His stomach twisted with a dull ache, a constant, gnawing reminder of his most urgent need—food. Hunger, a primal pain, persistent and unforgiving, and it sharpened his focus on the market’s offerings. But despite biting hunger, two long years on the streets of Ruinstead had taught Ember patience. One hasty move could earn him a heavy beating, or worse, cost him his life, a lesson well learned.

  He subconsciously reached for his left forearm, his fingers brushing the swollen lump beneath his tattered tunic, the touch sending a familiar numbing sensation through his fingers. A painful reminder. He shuddered involuntarily, the memory of bone snapping still vivid in his mind, the lingering pain—stubborn, unforgiving and ever present.

  Beside him, Toby squatted, bouncing on his heels with restless energy, his bright eyes scanning the market eagerly anticipating an opportunity—his moment to pounce. His freckled face, and wild bright ginger hair which stuck out in every direction, seemed to glow with natural energy.

  “Fruit merchant’s chat’n wit’ that lass. His back’s turned, good an proper. Why’re we waitin’, Embi?” Toby asked impatiently, a thick Frintish accent rushing out in a torrent of words. His wide brown eyes gleaming waiting for a response, reminding Ember of a puppy eager for attention.

  Ember smiled faintly, as he recalled how it had taken him nearly a year to untangle Toby’s thick Frintish accent, even though they spoke the same common tongue. Almost another year to fully decipher the whirlwind speed of his words. But he understood Toby intimately now—not just through his words, but his rhythm, his tone, and even by the way he moved.

  Finding Ember starved, Toby had saved his life and had stuck by him through everything. Half beaten, clinging to life in a gutter less than a week after the King’s army had marched in Ruinstead that night under the veil of fog.

  The memory burned in his mind’s eye, as vivid as the night it was seared into his memory. The clattering of blades. Screams. Flames illuminating the nights sky as his home burned. Fern’s desperate advice still echoing in his mind. He still remembered how time had frozen around them an odd and surreal stillness in the middle of an otherwise violent night. “Hide by the oak that dances over a forgotten pool,” Fern had said. But he had never found the pool. Not that it mattered. They never made it. A single tear welled beneath his auburn eye, tracing a slow path down his cheek.

  It took Ember a long moment to realise he had been caught by the cold grip of memory. Shaking his head, he forced himself to cast away the lingering thoughts, focusing on the fruit stall and the wiry merchant behind it. The merchant’s thin frame and sun weathered skin made him resemble a weathered prune and he wore a faded outfit that had once been fashionable, wrapped at the waist with a cracked, peeling leather belt, and topped with a large, ostentatious purple hat that looked too grand for the market.

  He was about to murmur in agreement to Toby’s observation when a sharp rattle, followed by the glint of metal caught his eye—shifting behind the array of market stools, their movement swift and purposeful, barely noticeable against the bustle of the square. Then they stopped and Ember’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Look Toby!” Ember whispered urgently, raising a hand to point out a patrol of soldiers. “They were heading back to the barracks, but they stopped, why did they stop?” Ember looked between the barracks which loomed over the market square with a suffocating presence, and the stationary soldiers dispersing throughout the crowd. “One mistake. One shout, and we’ll have a score of `the King’s soldiers on us…” Ember hissed his voice was low, full of urgency, his eyes locked on the soldiers as they patrolled through the square. Metal clanking in militaristic unison. Their emerald banners held high in defiance—a warning, not a decoration.

  “We’re too fast for them, Embi! Never gonna catch us, not in all that clunkin’ armour!” Toby replied his grin stretched wide, mischief dancing in his eyes, impossible to ignore.

  “You’re crazy, Toby! Let’s just wait…”

  But it was too late. Toby slipped out from behind the crumpling wall that obscured them and melted into the fray, dodging and weaving his way toward the fruit stool with the grace of a hunting cat.

  Gritting his teeth, he thought about how Toby’s instincts nearly always got them both into trouble, but he couldn’t just leave him. Cursing Toby under his breath, Ember leaned towards the opening, took a hesitant glance in both directions, and then stepped out in pursuit.

  His heart raced as his eyes scanned the crowed, darting from one person to the next, searching for any sign of armoured soldiers. A knot of anxiety, heavy in his stomach, seemed to weigh him down as he shadowed Toby, getting him closer and closer to the fruit stall. The flash of red hair an easy marker in the crowd, like a thread leading him forwards. Toby never knew when to stop. He always thought he was too fast, too clever. But Ember knew better. One day, he’d push too far.

  Ember caught up to him, and they fell into step side by side with their heads down, blending into the crowd careful not to attract attention. “What are you thinking?” Ember hissed quietly, barely audible. “The King’s soldiers’ won’t just give us a good throttling like the town guard… they’ll hang, no trial. That’s if they don’t just kill us. We wouldn’t stand a chance. Let’s go back? Please!”

  The desperate tone in Ember’s voice only seemed to stoke the fire in Toby eyes. He grinned, shaking his head, and pushed forward, faster now. “Such a fussa’ Embi.” Toby muttered, a hint of frustration evident in his voice. “He’s not gonna notice, I said. He’s too busy chattin’ to that lass. What’s he gonna’ have eyes at the back of his head? We’ll long gone before he looks about our way.”

  At that moment, Toby grabbed Ember by the arm and pulled him into a narrow gap between two market stools, bringing them face to face. Feeling a bit cramped, Toby shook his shoulders with brotherly frustration, his voice sharp, his eyes flicking to Ember, full, with pleading intensity “Look, Embi! Are you hungry or not? We need food, I can’t wait any longer”

  Lost for words, Ember nodded glumly, his gaze dropping to the straw-ridden cobblestone beneath as he faced the cold hard truth, he was hungry—he couldn’t deny it. Just then, his stomach emitted a long, pitiful grumble, as if to reinforce Toby’s plea. Ember flushed and nodded still refusing to look Toby in the eyes.

  Seeing the reluctant nod as a sign of agreement, to continue with the plan, Toby swung his arm around Embers back in a playful yet determined gesture. With a triumphant smile, he pulled them both forward to peer around the green-and-white striped market stool, eyes surveying the fruit stall for the next move. “Look, you go first, there’ll be less risk for you that way,” Toby suggested, his voice low but persistent. He gave Ember a light push out into the throng.

  Ember hesitantly shuffled towards the market stall, his eyes burning a hole on the back of the merchant, looking at every movement for any sign he might turn around. His pulse quickened and he felt his heart hammering in his chest. But despite his fears, the merchant and the lady seemed oblivious to everything around them, their eyes locked, akin to two long-lost lovers.

  As he edged closer, Ember’s eyes shifted to the food. The produce, once fresh, now looked sad and neglected, the severity of the merchant’s misfortune evident- scarred by the war in the south. Dark spots littered the fruit, and flies buzzed around withered apples and mottled bananas, bruised beyond use. Shrivelled pears and sun-kissed strawberries sat in dirty baskets, showing signs early rot. Even with his gut twisting in pain, the fruit hardly appealed to him. The sight of it so neglected and diseased. Rotting. Bruised. It was food—but barely.

  Fighting the urge to vomit, he stood there, torn between his desire for food and the fear of getting caught. In the end, hunger won out over reason. He pocketed the best-looking apple he could see and hovered over another, thinking better of it, he turned and walked away, his heart threatening to rip free of his chest.

  There was no scream. No hand reached out to clasp around his wrist, no cry for the law.

  For a moment, Ember couldn’t believe it. I’ve gotten away with it, he cheered within himself.

  Relief washed over him. His mouth salivating involuntarily at the thought of food as he checked the apple again. It had been too easy, he thought his eyes flicking between the fruit merchant and the soldiers, checking the market again. His nerves were still wound tight as he turned toward the narrow gap between two stalls. The cramped space seemed to close around him more than before, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he fought back the urge to vomit, yet again.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “See? Told ya! Easy as takin’ a nap, Embi.” Toby said distracting him, a broad grin spreading across his freckled face, a twinkle in his mud-brown eyes.

  This excited him, Ember realised. He couldn’t believe he was excited! It felt wrong they had spent so long running, hiding and surviving, to get a rush from stealing an apple.

  “Your turn,” Ember muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, a flicker of unease in his voice at Toby’s brashness. This had the potential to go drastically wrong, he thought, removing the apple from his tunic and taking a quick nervous bite. The taste was powdery, and the pungent sharp tang of fermented fruit lingered on his tongue. It was far from fresh, but it was also far better than nothing and he would take it as a small victory nether the less.

  If Toby thought little of him for such a poor effort he didn’t show it. He nodded and turned, stepping out into the market. At that moment the smell of hot fresh bread wafted across the market street and Ember felt his stomach clench. Then he watched in horror as Toby veered slightly, heading in a different direction.

  The realisation hit him like a tonne weight. He was heading towards the bread stall. It was reckless, dangerous. “Toby, no!“ Ember shouted in a muted voice, barely audible against the busy crowd as he resisted the urge to draw too much attention and ruin everything

  But his friend didn’t stop. Ember’s helplessness clawing at him as he watched Toby move closer and closer to danger. By the time he made it to the bread stool, Ember’s heart was thumping wildly, threatening to break free from his chest. With the guile of a seasoned thief Toby walked up to the fresh breads and pocketed one casually, as easily as plucking a grape from the vine.

  Ember held his breath. Again, there was no scream.

  The beady-eyed, stern-faced merchant behind the stall hadn’t noticed, his gaze fixed elsewhere in the distance. The world seemed to slow as Ember watched him, every second stretching out looking for any sign he was going to look down and notice the bread missing. He was in the process of taking another bite out of his apple, his tense form slowly relaxing, drooling at the thought of tasting fresh bread. It had been so long, he thought, but his relief was short-lived.

  Toby was circling back like a vulture, returning to its prey to pick again, reaching out for another loaf. Toby was fast. Too eager. Ember had spent years learning patience, caution—the things that kept you alive on Ruinstead’s streets. But Toby? He saw hunger, and he lunged. His pink hand was inches from a second loaf when wiry fingers clamped around his wrist with a vice like grip, the offending knuckles displaying white bone from the sudden force.

  “Got you! You little shit!” the bread merchant screeched with an ear-splitting roar loud enough to cut through the markets monotony and wake it from its slumber. “Call the guard!” he continued, “I’ve caught a thief!” Ember watched the market around Toby erupt, a wave of chaos and shouts filling the air leaving him feeling utterly helpless.

  Other merchants screamed in protest behind their stools, waving their hands in frantic gestures, their voices rising adding to the chorus of cries for the town guard. Nearby patrons flocked around them, drawn in by the disturbance, like a moth to a flame, eager for a glimpse of the drama unfolding. The metallic clang of drawn swords from startled soldiers rang out, cutting through the air causing a wave of panic. In response, the crowd dispersed in a flurry, rushing in all directions as the situation escalated.

  Toby seized the moment, hurling the second loaf of bread straight into the smirking merchants face. The soft bread tearing on impact as Toby twisted free in one swift motion.

  “Get back here…”

  “Run Embi!” Toby screamed, his voice frantic, cutting off the merchant’s protest as he shoved towards him.

  Panic gripped Ember’s chest as two soldiers, strapped in pristine leather armour, came thundering around the corner of a nearby stall, their heavy boots pounding with every bounding stride. Scouts, Ember realised, evidently faster than their armoured companions, whose heavy armour Ember could hear clanking in the distance as they struggled to keep up.

  He didn’t think. He ran.

  The market blurred—colour, movement, chaos. Shouts tangled with the pounding of boots, each step closing in. Too close. Too fast. The frantic cries all melted into the background. Hands reached out to grab him with hooked grasps. He dodged and weaved between them narrowly avoiding clutching fingers as they missing him by mere inches.

  That’s when he felt it. The soft yet gut-wrenching hiss of an arrow as it skimmed—past, its lethal promise a hair’s breadth from his ear.

  Ember froze. Confused. Where had that arrow come from? His head snapped around.

  A scout lay sprawled on the market yard floor, an arrow’s fletching protruding from his chest, lifeless eyes fixed on the heavens. The other scout stood motionless, staring in shock at his fallen comrade, dumfounded—just as a second arrow found its mark.

  This time, Ember heard the hiss clearly. He spun back, eyes tracing the rooftops.

  There, perched atop the shingled rooftops, stood two figures, tall and menacing. Blackened brigandines clung to their frames, crimson waist wraps fluttering in the breeze. Matching kerchiefs obscured their faces, but Ember knew them. The Ruinstead Resistance. The last dregs of the Skree army that once fortified this town.

  The shorter of the two lifted a clenched fist. A signal.

  Like a floodgate bursting, men poured from all directions, each one marked with crimson. They swarmed past Ember and slamming into the soldiers, and chaos erupted. Fast and brutal.

  Crimson clashed with emerald. The metallic shriek of steel. The wet crunch of blades biting flesh. Howls of rage and pain. Blood pooling on the cobbles. Marketgoers scattered, shrieking, stalls splintering under tossed bodies.

  Toby.

  Where is he?

  Ember’s head pivoted, scanning the manic flurry of carnage. Arrows whistled. Crossbow bolts clanged. He searched desperately for a flash of red hair amid the mayhem.

  He must have gotten away. The thought struck him with unexpected relief. It was better than imagining the alternative.

  He turned to face the alley.

  The two dark-clad soldiers on the rooftops were gone.

  The alley ahead a distant refuge from the chaos.

  He ran.

  Ducking. Weaving. Shadows lunging at him—sharp, lethal blurs.

  And still, he ran.

  Into the mouth, rising through the alley, light from a junction flooded in, splitting the shade.

  A larger shadow loomed—sudden, brutal.

  The force sent him flying, slamming into the unforgiving stone with a bone-crunching impact. Ember felt a sickening crack ringing in his ears and pain exploded in his side. He struggled to breath, clutching his chest as pain radiated through his body.

  I’m broken, he thought with a sickening realisation, the taste of copper in his mouth. He tried to stand and agonising pain radiating down his side as blood-tainted spittle drooled out of his mouth and collected on the floor. He tried to take a step further into the alley, but his legs gave way beneath him, and he stubbled, disorientated, clinging to the wall for support. His body screamed for a minute of rest, a minute he didn’t have.

  He straightened himself with an agonising struggle. Slowly, he turned and saw, as if under murky water, the blurry outline of a towering figure blocking his way. Ember’s eyes focused revealing a heavily armoured soldier, encased in a pristine bluish-grey plate, the colour of weathered lead. The royal symbol, gilded and gleaming, was emblazoned on his chest piece. A nightmare he could never seem to escape.

  A Juggernaut! Ember exclaimed in horror, inwardly, the mental shout echoing in his mind. Horror flooding his emotions as the full weight of the situation hit him. One of the King’s war titans, a living wall of metal and menace, his shadow swallowing the alley whole. The towering soldier’s shoulders rose and fell with the rhythm of his laboured breathing. It reminded Ember of a bull ready to charge and he pictured a body, a wall of muscle covered steel. With a mighty growl he pointed at Embers chest and spoke with a slow guttural drawl, “You with the resistance, huh? Thought you was real clever, trickin’ us like that.”

  Uncertain if it was a statement or a question, Embler rasped, “What… no,” before sucking in a breath, “No!”

  Guilty by association the Juggernaut said nothing more. Then, with a simple, fluid motion, he stepped forward and grasped Ember by the throat, lifting him off the floor with no visible effort, as if he were weightless. He felt his feet thrash helplessly, his head swelling with the pressure, and his vision began to blur at the edges. The waft of hot breath became suffocating as the man snarled, tightening his grip and increasing the pressure on his neck.

  He felt the cartilage in his neck, pressure mounting—then crack.

  I’m going to die. The thought terrified him, so raw and absolute. He screamed inwardly, terror gripping him as warm urine ran down the side of his legs. Emotions cascaded through him, darkness sucked him in. Humiliation. Helplessness.

  Just as he was about to drift into a peaceful, painless sleep, a flash of motion darted across Ember’s darkened vision. Something struck the armoured man with a hard metallic clunk, throwing him off balance, just enough to release his grip around his throat.

  Obviously confused or surprised that somebody would dare attack him the Juggernaut looked around as Ember hit the ground hard. He gasped—a sharp, jagged breath, desperate for air. His swollen throat made each breath like drinking fire. He managed to raise his head to see Toby standing defiantly, confident as ever, a fist-size rock gripped tightly in his hand, facing off the armoured giant.

  “Run, Embi!” Toby’s voice was sharp, commanding. Without hesitation, he pivoted and shoved Ember hard in the chest, desperately forcing him away. “I’ll lead it another way—run!” he repeated, his voice louder now, thick with raw emotion.

  Ember’s mind screamed at him to stay, to fight, to drag Toby with him. But his body was broken, his mind shattered, the words tangled in his throat. “Come… with me…” he beckoned weakly.

  But in Toby’s eyes, determination burned with fiery unshakable intent. He wasn’t coming.

  Still hesitating, Ember staggered forward, but Toby shoved him again. “Go Embi! Goddam you!” Fear and anger laced his words as he whirled, hurling a rock off the Juggernaut’s thick plating with a ringing clang. Then, skirting around its reach, he bolted towards the market yard.

  The armoured beast forgot all about Ember. It turned, giving chase.

  For a breathless moment, Ember thought Toby would make it, he was too fast, too clever for the armoured monstrosity. But then, two soldiers clad in emerald stepped into the alley’s mouth, their weapons slick with blood, their eyes hungry akin to a pair of wolves on the hunt.

  Ember’s heart plummeted.

  Toby stopped short, snarling like a rabid animal caught in a snare—just as the Juggernaut’s metal-clad arms coiled around him from behind, like a snake crushing its prey.

  Ember saw fresh tears flowing down Toby’s face as the Juggernaut turned, dragging him backwards to face Ember.

  “Go!” The last word ripped from Toby’s throat. Desperate. Raw.

  Ember’s body lurched—but his legs refused to move. His heart twisted. Then, with no other choice, he ran.

  “I know your face now, ya little runt,” the Juggernaut bellowed, his voice a thunderous echo.

  “After him, ya lazy louts!”

  The world blurred. Ember ran. Through the pain, through the emotion. His breath came in ragged gasps, each pounding step an agony, the only relief the adrenaline searing through his veins.

  He wouldn’t let Toby’s sacrifice be in vain, he screamed silently a mental shout of anguish as he wedged himself through a familiar narrow gap, to tight for his pursuers. He sprinted through the church orchid, then hobbled through the streets. Turn after turn. Step after step. Each one agony.

  And then out the gates.

  Once more, the lonely forest swallowed him, its endless arms wrapped around Ruinstead. A dark sheltering embrace.

  His legs burned, each step heavier and heavier as he pushed through the trees, but he couldn’t stop. Not yet. Toby was caught or dead either way he was alone, again. The crushing realisation pressed on him, making every movement, every thought a struggle. He had to keep going a moment’s hesitation could cost him his life.

  The day was closing, the night getting colder and darker as he hobbled through the forest, the towering trees whispering, casting shadows that followed him. In the silence the ponding of his struggling heart seemed to mingle with the echoes of his past. First his mother. Now Toby. How many more people would he have to lose, would he ever be safe?

  The thoughts of his past hurt. But that didn’t stop him.

  He ran.

  Away from the town, away from the screams, away from Toby.

  But no matter how far he ran, Toby’s final words chased him.