The Struggle

It was a peaceful medieval town.

Actually, it was a larger village, but it had developed a certain amount of wealth.

At least for a few.

The rest made a living from what came by, or in some cases, passed by. Those who waited for what came by were prostitutes of all ages and shapes, thieves, and robbers. Sometimes these three professions were found in one person.

It was peaceful if you didn't dig too deep or leave the main roads.

At night, no one would guarantee anyone's safety, much less their life. It was a common sight to see the city guards removing the cold body of a traveler or thief from the streets in the morning. The wealthier citizens didn't care; as I said, it was nothing unusual.

The houses were made of wood, clay and straw. Some richer ones had been built of stone, but that was the exception to the rule.

The streets, at least the main street, were paved with cobblestones, which allowed one to travel in a sort of clean way.

You just had to avoid the numerous remains of the countless animals. There was no tannery in town to collect the excrement, so it often stank to high heaven.

In the small alleys, the mud added to the dirt that turned to dust in the dry summer months. When it rained, it turned into disgusting, sticky mud. Then the smell was disgusting if you weren't used to it.

It stank like all cities at that time. The larger the settlement, the worse the stench.

All the houses had thatched roofs, which increased the risk of fire. Nightly patrols were supposed to make sure that no fires broke out and that all lights were extinguished. They were supposed to do that anyway. A few coins in the right hands and no one saw anything.

Strangers were strongly advised not to travel at night, but unlike other settlements of this size, the small town would not close its gates at night, for it was the only place to reach within a hundred miles.

The half-asleep and bored guards would simply direct the traveler to the nearest tavern, which offered a bed and a stable for the rider and horse.

Sometimes rider and horse shared the same accommodations. It always depended on the amount of space and money available, or the ability to handle a sword and magic.

Yes, it was the time of magic, dragons, and warriors.

Some called it the glorious golden age; others called it the time of the damned. It was both if you asked a neutral person. Children were left to die on the streets, while the rich fed their pets the finest delicacies.

Some tried to help each other, but if you ended up on the streets, you would usually lived and died there unnoticed by anyone.

Unless you were caught stealing.

The usual punishment would be the loss of a hand, with or without prior torture, depending on the mood of the magistrate.

And the importance of the person you were caught stealing from. Sometimes you were tortured in some way, just because.

No, it wasn't an easy life if you were poor.

On a night in early spring, when it was just warm enough to keep from freezing, a young mage entered the town.

His steps were slow and slightly sluggish; it was easy to see that he was tired.

But it was also easy to see that he was quite tall and well built for a mage. Most people associate the word mage with either an old, wrinkled man hunched over books or a seductive sorceress.

He was neither.

Instead, he was young, tall, and well-built, just tired and dirty from his long wanderings. He walked through the gate, got the usual directions to the tavern, and moved on.

Greedy eyes followed the stranger; the streets were empty, almost deserted, and every sound carried and echoed slightly. The mage planned to reach a certain tavern to rest for a few days; he could afford it.

All eyes that followed the mage recognized him as such, and shoulders were shrugged. So stomachs would growl a little longer. Nobody in their right mind or completely desperate would mess with a mage.

But desperation made you do stupid things, sometimes even forced you to do them. So the bright, almost unnatural green eyes of a slender figure followed the mage.

Noiselessly, the owner of the green eyes rose from his hiding place and followed the weary footsteps of the mage. The advantage was clearly on the thief's side; he knew the area, and the surprise would help him as well.

The thief had no intention of fighting the mage; that would be suicide.

But he would jump the mage, cut off the small pouch, and run with it. Because running was something the one looked clearly too tired for.

The mage turned around the corner of the main street, and the mugger sprinted up.

Leaping at the surprised mage, jumping at the man's back, bringing a sharp blade to the mage's throat, and hissing at him to stay still... it all happened in the blink of an eye.

The mage's surprised gasp fueled the muggers hope for a hit and run.

He quickly grabbed the pouch from his belt and gasped in surprise as the mage suddenly grabbed his knife arm with both hands and threw him over his shoulder!

Landing hard on his back, the mugger spun like a cat to his feet and tried to run away. But the mage was already upon him, ripping off the mugger's hood. A flash of red hair was seen before the mugger kicked backwards, hitting and hurting the mage in a rather private area.

All of this happened in just a few seconds. No one noticed, and even if they had, no one would have helped. Not the mage, not the mugger.

Cussing and cursing, the mage fell to the ground, grunting in pain, and the mugger ran like a cat with its tail on fire.

All the mage saw was a redhead fleeing with his pouch. A new moan, one of inner pain, escaped the mage.

He had to get that pouch back; it contained a precious amulet. He couldn't afford to lose it, so he staggered to his feet and followed the already gone robber.

The thief had turned a corner and cursed himself, facing a rival gang.

No one would dare try their luck with the mage. The thief was something different; he wouldn't turn the others into worms or anything else.

"Oh, bloody great…"

A glance over his shoulder told the thief that the way back had been cut off by the appearance of the fuming mage.

The thief was in a dilemma; there was no way forward and no way back.

He quickly kneeled down, grabbed two hands full of stinking mud, and threw it at the approaching gang, a bunch of losers.

The mud-throwing attack caused some irritation, and the robber spun around to face the mage again, running as fast as he could toward the man.

The plan was simple. Desperate, but simple.

The mage would need time to cast a spell. And the thief would just have to get to the corner before the mage did. The thought of losing your hand or your life makes you run like hell.

In this case, it was on the thief's heels, but he made it around the corner.

Just before the mage threw a fireball.

Cursing, the robber raced down the narrow ally; it was only big enough for one person to pass through. Two would have to walk behind each other.

Unfortunately, one of the rival gang had the same thought as the mugger and ran around the other side of the house, appearing in the gap as the mugger had made it halfway.

And behind the mugger, the fuming mage turned into the alley.

The thief grimaced and threw himself to the ground as the evil crackle of another fireball was heard behind him. It went over his head and hit the other one instead, killing him in seconds.

The mugger turned pale under his hood and swallowed hard. He had seen the other's panicked face as he realized his sudden and painful death.

Though there was no time to regret or mourn. The pilferer knew the mage needed a few seconds to repeat this, and that was the only time he had.

He leaped up, his crude dagger drawn, and raced at the mage, racing against time for his life.

Just as he was about to attack the mage with all his might, he heard the first word of the spell, and without thinking twice, he slashed at the mage with the dagger.

It hit something; he couldn't say what, but the mage went down. The thief jumped over him and ran into the previously blocked alley.

At the end of the narrow alley lay the smoking, but surprisingly not burning body of the thief. It would stay there.

With the pouch in his tunic, whose contents hopefully were worth the death of two children, the robber darted away, past the body of the kid. He just wanted to get away from here.

Again, the mage followed and called upon another spell. The mugger saw the saving gap in between the houses seconds away.

Three, two…

Just as he was about to turn the corner, something hit him, catapulting him out of the alley and into the gap, making his head feel like it was about to burst, and he screamed in pain.

The mugger rolled to the ground; his slender form lay lifeless for a moment. But then he got up, on all fours at first, crawled away, struggled back to his feet, and turned a corner into the absolute blackness of some shadows.

He had made it.

Maybe.