Prydwyn's Dinner

Prydwyn felt the breeze made by the steel cleaver as it sank into the wooden cart, inches from her fingertips. She jerked her arm back and jumped but did not release the halved chunk of meat that the blade left to her thieving hand.

“Thief!” The merchant pointed to Prydwyn with his cleaver and bellowed again, “Stop thief!”

People in the crowded market turned toward the scene. The thief spied two city guardsmen approaching with their hands drifting toward their steel. The constabulary would not likely see fit to let her enjoy her stolen prize behind iron bars. Dinner was not going well.

Prydwyn turned and darted into the crowd. She expected her small frame to aid in losing the guards and the rotund merchant at that. He would have to circumnavigate the cart to join the chase. Her optimism proved unbefitting.

The crowd behind her parted at the command of the guardsmen. The merchant followed close behind. The throng before her, though effective in concealing her, proved more hindrance than help as she tried to push through.

“Hold there, boy,” called one guard. Her short cropped hair and grime covered features often brought about confusion regarding her femininity.

Prydwyn risked a glance behind. Her blood ran cold at the site of him, less than a meter away. His bright, blue uniform and glinting sword, now drawn from its scabbard, were an ominous sight against the backdrop of drab peasantry behind. The sight renewed her panic.

Young and lean for lack of indulgence, Prydwyn possessed spryness that the guards and certainly the rotund merchant did not. She took to scurrying under carts and even a horse at one anxious moment to evade her pursuers. The little thief was opening the gap as she leapt atop tables covered in all manner of wares. She turned her head to send her pursuers an arrogant smirk, confident that she, once again, would escape the market with her pilfered dinner.

In an instant the image of the distant guards spun from sight as her foot lost purchase on top of a slime covered fish. She slid nearly a meter before sailing off the tabletop to land hard and flat on her back. The impact drove the air from her lungs, air that seemed unwilling to return. Her meaty prize was lost, trampled under the feet of customers and merchants.

Prydwyn struggled to her feet laboring to breathe and unable to cease an odd wheezing she had never before heard herself make. Now near the market’s edge, she limped out of the crowd and down an alley between the decaying wooden structures that made up most of the shanty town. If she could just find her way to the forest’s edge she would be safe.

That horrible wheezing escaped her lips in lieu of the deep breaths she so needed. Her ribs hurt and her right leg was less than obedient. Still, she pressed on. The woods loomed dark— showing between the last row of buildings and the orange of the setting sun. Hope rekindled.

“Halt there!” called a guard.

“You little thief!” Somehow the merchant and his fat belly had kept up with the fitter guards. Perhaps greed drove him just as desperation drove the little thief. She hobbled past the last of the buildings. Once across the stream she would be mere paces from the succor of the woods. A wooden bridge spanned the creek, wide enough for two horses or a single wagon. To her disadvantage the bridge presently held no traffic. A pair of horses or a wide cart might have made fine cover for her escape should she find such luck. But luck, like her dinner, was long lost.

Prydwyn chose the direct path straight through the water, knowing that the flat earth and steady wooden beams of the bridge would do nothing for her and everything to aid her pursuers. Freedom— she could feel it. Her bones tingled with the anxious thrill of nearing the edge, nearing the cover of the forest. She refused to look back, imagining the merchant’s cleaver slicing toward her back. Her skin warmed and her muscles burned as she pushed her body beyond that which she thought it could give.

Her first step sank into the water and part way into the mud beneath. Her second step was not so sure. It clipped the edge of a stone and bent her ankle in in unnatural way. She would not forget the piercing, hot pain that made her stumble, but as for her fall into the water— it seems to happen in an instant. In her next lucid moment the quicker of two guardsmen grasped her arm while the other held the merchant at bay.

“Give her to me. I’ll see justice done,” said the merchant, face red with anger. Beads of perspiration poured from every inch of his exposed skin. The man was the ugliest Prydwyn had ever seen in his soiled vest. It might have once been the color of ivory but now more resembled the mottled brown of his tattered slacks. His face looked like that of a pig with his upturned snout and close set eyes. He breathed through his mouth like a dog. Whether it was from the chase or simply one of his many repulsive characteristics, Prydwyn did not know.

“Stand back, good man. We have her now. We will see justice served.” The blue of the guards’ uniforms seemed even more striking from so near. “On your feet, thief,” ordered the guard. Prydwyn was on her back, covered in mud and water. She was barely able to lift herself up on her elbows.

“I— I’m hurt sir.”

“I think you’re lying. Stand.” The guard pulled her to her feet by her upper arm and she cried out.”

“My ankle, sir! It hurts, please!” The commotion was enough to distract the other guard allowing the merchant his moment. He broke free and charged toward Prydwyn. She felt the sharp force of the back of his hand on her muddy cheek. Her head twisted aside and white light closed in around her vision until it seemed she was looking through a tiny circle. She fell into the water again and the white melted to black.

“Hold him this time, you fool!” Prydwyn heard the guard’s admonishment through her ringing ears while her vision came back to the sight of him standing over her.

“Get up girl. You have no one to blame but yourself.” The guard turned so that he could watch his captive and the merchant at the same time. The second guard stood with one hand against the merchant’s chest and the other holding his sword high and ready to bring down hilt should he need to subdue the man.

“Why are you protecting a thief? Do my taxes not pay your salaries? You work for me!”

“No good sir, they work for me,” boomed a bass-baritone voice. The heads of the participants and those who stopped to watch the scene pivoted toward the wooden bridge. Lying flat on her back and half submerged, the sight of the noble figure atop a white charger seemed so utterly dramatic to Prydwyn that she nearly laughed out loud. It seemed there was no limit to how complicated her dinner might become?

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