The beautiful grey horse trotted in the sleepy town within Rhilopia. The sun was arching dreamily over the buildings.
The rider atop the polished brown western saddle tugged the braided reins, slowing the mare to a walk. The Arabian's bridle and saddle blanket were both a lovely shade of bright red.
The people of the town had never seen a jauntier horse than that 16.1 hands mare. Up until she pranced on their cobblestoned streets, the favorite horse had been a colt born white who'd darkened to palomino but kept his beautiful blue eyes and long lashes.
People were heading to work at the hour. A baker wearing an apron who lived on the upper portion of his bakery was taking his terrier out on a black leash. A dry cleaner lady in a suit was beating out a sheet before they opened. Someone selling plants in an outdoor shop buffed and deheaded them before work. A seamstress that wore a dress that resembled a long coat added thread to a needle as she dashed to work in high heels. Almost stabbing her finger in the process.
They all stopped what they were doing to eye the fine horse.
At the center of the mare's forehead, erected on the bridle, was King Leopold's crest of a bright blue moon with a yellow ring dotted by purple stars.
The dog strained his leash. For a terrier, this one didn't yap much, but he wagged his tail incessantly and raced to his source of excitement when overdosed by enthusiasm.
The man atop the horse tipped his hat at the baker. "Good morning, sir."
"Morning," the bemused baker answered.
"That's a fine dog you've got there."
"Do you have pups at the castle?"
"We have a few dogs but mostly cats and kittens. Where there's cats fed and healthy, you'll not find mice."
"True, that. Luckily, we've got enough stray cats lurking in the alleys around our shops, so I'm not forced to keep one of those beasts. There's nothing that ruins a decent morning like going to a bakery for a muffin, taking a bite of it, and finding a live mouse inside."
"Oh, certainly not," agreed the polite messenger. "I've never been to a bakery, but I imagine." Taking both sides of the reins in one hand, he scratched the sunburned (from the past three days) back of his neck. "Could you point me in the direction of the mercenaries?"
The baker nodded and patted the horse's muzzle. "What a splendid mare…" Then he pointed down the street. "There is a cottage on the left side of the road, after all the shops end. On this street. A mercenary lives there."
"A cottage?" repeated the messenger dubiously. "A mercenary?"
"He lost all his riches after his last job but none of his weapons. You know mercenaries." The baker shrugged. "They like to live like lords."
The messenger didn't disagree. He clucked at the mare, who went clippity-clop on the cobblestones.
There had been no mercenaries here last time the palace called them forth. Samuel Warlord had moved here from a richer land.
The small town's occupants watched the horse and rider with interest as they carried eggs in baskets, clutched bags full of spools of thread, or strolled the streets while licking ice cream cones.
The messenger heard several people cry out, "What a handsome horse!" A child dropped her small orange ball; it rolled almost under the lovely grey equine.
The kind messenger stopped the mare abruptly, picked up the ball, and handed it to the girl on the palm of his hand. "Here you go."
On his way without haste, the messenger went. He ended up stopping for a loaf of bread near the end of his journey, for the aroma was so strong it made his mouth water. He hadn't eaten since last night; his stomach was dangerously hungry.
Then he was at the cottage, biting his bread while knocking on the door.
The shirtless man who answered had shoulder-length dark blonde hair and a hue matching albeit curly beard that dangled almost to his collarbone. His eyebrows were bushy, blue eyes hard. He wore no shoes.
Muscles plunged through his tattooed arms. What the messenger could see on his face were lots of scars and a miniature hawk above his right eyebrow.
"Yes, sir?" demanded the mercenary sourly.
"I have traveled from the palace to bring you a letter. May I come in?"
The mercenary beckoned at a large chair facing his fireplace. The messenger strode to the chair, noticing an open book lying on the table beside it and in front of a lamp. He was surprised. The other mercenaries he'd visited didn't have any books. His eyes flicked to a bookshelf along a wall. It wasn't flooding with novels, but there were at least thirty-five, judging by the messenger's sweeping glance.
"Oh, you have The Fire Eater's Apprentice? Did you enjoy the plot twist?"
Grumpily, the mercenary grouched, "I saw it coming."
The messenger rolled his eyes. "You did not."
"Fine. I didn't read it. Where's my mail?"
The messenger offered it to him between his fore- and middle fingers.
After snatching it out of his hand, the mercenary slit the envelope open with his thumb nail.
As he read the letter, his tongue swished every which way. He read noisily, though he said no words. He was unaware of what he was doing. The messenger found it eerily pleasant. It gave him the feeling of being in a pub with noisy talkers.
As he finished reading, the mercenary lifted his eyebrows at the messenger. "Who's the traitor?"
The messenger's blood ran cold. "Eh?"
"No princess, even a foolish one, would trade half her kingdom's riches for a man's life." The mercenary waved the letter under his guest's nose. "This is forgery."
Snatching the letter, the messenger's face went pale as a ghost as his eyes slithered across the page. "Holy…" He stood off the couch, exited the cottage, and returned minutes later with the rest of the envelopes. He made a fire in the fireplace then tossed them in.
"I take it the other mercenaries didn't read in front of you."
"That would be correct."
The mercenary offered his guest a teal cup containing ale. The messenger drank it like a shot.
"When you get your strength back, you'd best go home and tell that princess of ours to watch her back."
