Defining Moments - Chapter 12
A day late again. Sorry about that.
Well, this is the last chapter that I’ve already finished. Not sure when the next one will be finished, but I’ll try and keep to Tuesdays for releasing any future chapters (which I know will annoy me if I finish one on a Wednesday, but I will put my foot down on this).
Well, enjoy!
Raktuber, Year 169, Fifth Age
MacSeumas – aged no one’s business
“Move yer feet!” MacSeumas called across the Varrock training ground. He glared at the recruits before him, but was not resentful to them. He knew they weren’t to blame for his predicament. “Grip the hilt firmly, and keep the pointy end away from ye!”
It had been a month since the ordeal at the River Salve, and Edward MacSeumas had come back to a hero’s welcome and a promotion. That had sounded quite fancy to the man, right up until he was told what he’d been promoted to: drill sergeant. He was to be taken off the streets to teach boys how to wipe their noses and hold a sword.
Some promotion.
“Keep yer sword up, before someone takes ye head off!”
It had been fun traipsing around Morytania with the lad, Thomas Leye, and the priest, Alistair Fletcher. They’d worked cohesively together without issue, never getting in each other’s way and setting up opponents for another to take the finishing blow. In almost thirty years as a guard, he’d never been that connected with any of his partners.
The work itself had also been interesting. Cures for vampyrism, fighting wyrds, even working with the legendary Icyene Queen, Saradomin bless him. Seeing the deplorable state of Meiyerditch had brought some perspective to his work in Misthalin, where the worst he’d had to deal with had been looters and bandits after the Siege of Falador. He still remembered one sod that had managed to reach Edgeville before being stopped, though the man’s loot was never recovered.
His side ached at the thought of that one, so he pushed it away.
“Yer supposed to be attacking something, not tickling it! Harder!”
Despite the perils they'd faced, MacSeumas found himself sorely missing the duo's company. With Thom remaining in Morytania to help ease the transition of leadership and Fletcher returning to Edgeville, he found himself obligated by oath to return and serve his King, and it quickly felt more like a punishment than reward.
“Yer got a shield for a reason! Use the bloody thing!” he yelled at a particular recruit who was lagging behind his peers. When the boy stood there, staring at him in confusion, MacSeumas covered his face with his hands and muttered quietly to himself. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“Live long enough to consider retiring?” a voice offered cheekily.
The sergeant spun on the impudent voice, far too young to be giving him such an answer, and found himself staring at Thomas Leye. The adventurer was clean of grime and wearing fresh clothes, the ones from Morytania probably unsalvageable and burned. The bandages had been removed from the lad’s head and MacSeumas could see the full extent of his injuries. Three long gashes ran down the left side of his face and his eye was scarred and milky.
And he was smiling, smugly at that.
“Thought I’d find you on the streets, rather than up here,” Thom noted conversationally.
“After much consideration from the king, it was decided that my years of service and my work beyond the call of duty in Morytania would make me the most experienced guard in all of Varrock, and I should pass my Skills onto the next generation of guards,” he recited. When Thom raised an eyebrow sceptically, he huffed in agitation. “Someone decided I’d been a guard long enough and I had play wet-nurse to these lads who don’t even know the right end of a sword.”
“Well it can’t be-”
“Stop dancing around and hit him!” he yelled at a recruit, interrupting Thom. He turned back to the lad who was staring at the recruits. “Sorry, ye were saying?”
“Never mind,” Thom shook his head before turning back to the sergeant. “Want to get out of here?”
“I’m training these lads ‘til sundown… if they last that long,” he shrugged. “After that, I can meet up with ye for a pint in the Blue Moon, if yer still here, of course. I know adventurers like yerself don’t often stay in one place for too long.”
“No, I didn’t mean going for pint, although I’m up for that later. I meant quitting this sorry excuse for a promotion and joining me on the road,” the lad clarified. He shrugged when MacSeumas frowned at him in confusion. “Spending so long with Myreque has me used to teamwork, so I was thinking of building a company to tour Gielinor with. We worked well together, and you seem pretty fed up here. So, did you want to come with me? I could do with someone like you watching my left for me.”
MacSeumas turned back the recruits and was silent for a moment, thinking his options through. He was miserable training the recruits, and missed the action of the streets and Morytania. But, did that mean that he wanted to quit the guards and go gallivanting around the continent with a man he’d only known for a few days?
His thoughts came to a halt when one of the recruits screamed and collapsed to the ground. Sparing a glance to Thom, he ran to the fallen lad, who already had a group of his peers crowding around him. As the crowd parted for their drill sergeant, MacSeumas rolled the lad over to face him, who stilled immediately, and patted him down for injuries.
Nothing. Not a scratch.
Confused, he turned to the lad’s opponent. The recruit flinched under his gaze but stepped forward. The idiot hadn’t even sheathed his weapon, he noticed.
“I-I think I swung too high, sir,” the recruit stammered. “He raised his shield but I hit it too hard and it hit him in the helmet.”
MacSeumas stared dumbfounded between the two recruits for a moment before shoving the fallen lad off him and standing up. Without a word, he walked through the gathered crowd and back to where Thom was still standing, clearly interested in the events but not wanting to interfere.
“I’ll meet ye in the Blue Moon in a half hour,” MacSeumas stated, aware that he was all but ordering the young adventurer. He looked towards the Palace and carried on walking. “I’ve got to talk to Captain Rovin about my resignation.”
---***---
It was over an hour later when MacSeumas walked into the Inn, wearing his steel plate armour and a duffle bag, containing all his possessions, over his shoulder. He paused at the door, skimming his eyes over everyone in the room, and for a moment felt very unsure of himself.
He knew he was a half hour late arriving. Had Thom decided that he wasn’t coming and moved on? Did adventurers really hate staying in one place that much?
A sudden wave of a hand from a corner table drew his attention and he walked over to join Thom. He noticed that this table was marginally quieter than the others, which would make drawing up the contract easier. He was pleased to realise that a mug of the Blue Moon’s finest ale was sitting there, untouched, waiting for him…
And the young lad had a half-drunk pint of fruit juice.
“That was a long half hour,” Thom mentioned casually as he took a swig of juice. He returned the glass to its beer mat and unrolled a piece of parchment that had been set on the table. “I took the opportunity to write up a draft contract, I hope you don’t mind.”
MacSeumas stared blankly at the parchment for a moment before sitting beside the mug of ale and reaching out for the parchment. He took a large mouthful of the lukewarm beer and began reading the contract. He immediately noticed the scruffiness of the letters, the basic letter forms that would have shamed a priest, but were impressive to see from a random adventurer. And, while the sentences were simple and easy to read, he didn’t complain: his reading ability was only a little better than the contract and had always needed a scribe for his reports.
He finally turned his attention to the contract’s details. It promised an equal share of loot and bounty, all funeral rites to be assured in accordance to the signee’s beliefs, and their earthly belongings and final earnings to be given to a stated next of kin. It was a simple contract, but he couldn’t see any issue with it.
“Is there a contract length?” he asked, helping himself to more beer. When Thom frowned in confusion, he shrugged. “In the guard, ye weren’t allowed to quit until after five years.”
“What a stupid idea,” the lad stated with a snort. He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. If you want out, you just have to scratch your name out.”
“Well, it looks fine to me, lad,” MacSeumas nodded approvingly.
“The penmanship doesn’t bother you?” Thom asked curiously. “It’s been a few years since I practiced.”
“Lad, you can write,” MacSeumas noted flatly. “That means you far exceed my abilities. The best I can do is write me mark. Which I’m about to do, by the way. Pass me that quill there.”
Thom stared at him for a moment, clearly not expecting him to agree to the contract so quickly. Then, with a stunned smile, he passed the quill and ink over and tilted his head in curiosity as the ex-guard wrote his name. When the parchment was returned, he took his time to read the name as the ink dried, and he frowned in confusion.
“Mac-sew-mas?” Thom read aloud, he frown deepening as he turned to MacSeumas, who chuckled in response.
“It’s Mac-hay-muss, lad; the S is silent,” he explained, still chuckling as he finished off his pint. He sighed contentedly as he lowered his mug and waved to the barman. “Can I get ye a real pint, lad?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Then, I’ll drink it for ye.”
