“Halt!” the guard barked as Ištván galloped toward the gate. “Gate’s closed. No one gets in at this hour. Be on your way, stranger.”
Ištván jerked the reins in and forced his steed into a stumbling halt. The horse snorted in protest, his nostrils breathing steam into the freezing cold air.
“My sincerest apologies for the late hour, but I’m afraid I must get in,” he called out. His voice was cracking from the cold and strain, but it didn’t matter, for he only expected it to play into his hands. “It’s my poor son, see? He’s burning with fever. I fear he won’t last till morning without help.”
He’d rather have skipped the theatrics, but where truth laid bare rarely opened gates for men like him, a sob story usually did the trick.
As though to study him and his character, the guard raised his lantern. “Bah. You take me for a spring chicken?” he spat, eyeing him as a butcher would a piece of rotten meat. “Clad in black, carrying no torch, and riding like the Devil himself is on your heels. Smells like trouble to me. I’d wager a whole groschen you’re no more than a common brigand. Doubt the boy’s even yours.”
Ištván threw back his cloak with the most unnecessary, yet dashing flourish, and revealed Erik’s limp form still cradled in his arms. “Please, my good Sir,” he said, his voice trembling with anguish that was only half practiced and half all too real. “He’s only thirteen—”
Was he, though? Only then it occurred to Ištván that he’d never bothered to ask.
“—and his mother died last winter, may God grant peace to her soul,” he went on, glancing down at Erik. “I’ve nothing left but him.”
The guard glared at him. “You’re telling me that’s your son, huh?”
“He’s my damned blood, who else’s?” Ištván said, though not without feigning just enough offence to make it convincing. “What man in his right mind would ride through a snowstorm to beg for another’s brat? Please, Sir. I’m asking for no coin, only to be let in and guided to the right door.”
Much to Ištván’s relief, the guard’s suspicion seemed to be fading. His gaze only lingered on Erik for a moment longer, and then he finally let out the resigned grunt Ištván had been waiting for and stepped aside.
“Have it your way, then,” the guard mumbled. “Whoever he’s supposed to be and whatever hellhole you’ve dragged him out from, I won’t have his death on my conscience. Third house past the well. Look for red shutters. That’s Pavel’s place. If anything can be done to help the boy, he’s your man.”
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
