Shorts

Silas Wells, Warden of Grenlep

Silas Wells pulled his jacket tighter around himself and wished for the thousandth time that he could be anywhere else but there. Thankfully the waters were quiet, but the little rowboat he rode in bobbed this way and that anyway. He couldn't imagine the journey in a storm.

The dark sky hung like a theatre curtain signalling the end of an act and making the evening even more foreboding. A thick layer of fog was the only thing that stopped it from mixing with the water completely. The small latern that hung from the end of the boat didn't do much more than cast shadows in the water.

"Six dublers, that'll be then." The old gap-toothed boatman spoke for the first time in an hour, causing Silas to jump.

"Oh yes, of course." Six dublers might as well be thievery, but it was much better than the alternative of going overboard. Silas struggled to count out his change whilst keeping perfectly still as hollow sounds knocked against the bottom of the boat. He pushed his glasses back to the top of his nose.

"Ah, just keep the whole lot," he grumbled, handing over the pouch to the boatman. If he was truly the new warden of Grenlep Keep then he wouldn't be needing the remains of his savings anyway.

Shadows cast over the old man's face as he grinned for the weight of the moneybag. "Much obliged."

The boat ground against the sandy shore. Silas couldn't get out fast enough, his leather boots sloshed through the water. It took great restraint for him to not embrace the ground.

"Taking your pack?"

"Oh." The pack came hurling from the boat. "Thank you."

The boatman muttered something under his breath that Silas couldn't quite hear. If he could have heard it, it would have sounded a lot like "Not gunna last a single day."

Silas guessed it to be something in the way of a so long, farewell (he wouldn't have been very wrong about that) and so began to take his leave up the beach to where he could see flickering torches.

The old boatman called out behind him "A piece of advice, dragons like it when you rub their stomachs."

Silas Wells had never heard anything of the sort but he called a "Thank you" back anyway. He hardly knew the first thing about dragons so he could hardly dismiss advice on them.

The darkness obscured most of Grenlep Keep but it didn't take much light to realize that it was incredibly large. Torches lined the walls and the battlements, showing shadows of soldiers patrolling them. All of a sudden Silas felt his throat tighten considerably and he wondered if the boatman was still close enough to hear if he went back to the beach and called out. Unfortunately he had not a single drep to his name. Even if the boatman took him back, he'd be completely destitute on the other side.

The three storey thick wooden doors of the keep stood imposingly shut. Silas knocked.

A head appeared from above the wall. "Can't you see it's outside visiting hours? Go away." The head vanished again as quickly as it came.

Silas frowned then knocked again.

"What?" The head reappeared.

Silas attempted to clear his throat before answering. "I was told to come here upon the greatest urgency. My Uncle just passed away, you see, he's the Warden here. Or was, until last week. His will called for me." His voice strained as he shouted the words.

The head vanished and was replaced with the sounds of all sorts of lever-pullings and inner cogs and mechanics that eased one of the doors open. When Silas just stood there on the outside the head appeared again, this time on the other side of the door.