Trafal has Fallen

Trafal has fallen. Not two days ago the cries proclaimed the decree, late one evening. The next day had seen a flurry as all who could left Trafal.

“Or, at least, all of those who chose to,” Mardin muttered.

He stood on the guardhouse balcony, observing the debris remaining from nobles’ and well-to-do’s exodus. Along with the rest of Trafel’s guard. Only Mardin remained.

Him and Trafel’s desperate. Those who’d clung to the shadows before.

Two strolled toward the guardhouse, clinging to shadows no more. They paused below, peering at Mardin. One hooked his thumb over his belt.

Mardin nodded, and, as if a barrier had broken, the men entered below. Turning, he headed in himself.

This guardhouse held much of the city’s treasures, secured in deep vaults. Trasure no one had come to retrieve. When the first desperate had approached, he’d thought they’d raid that. Mardin wouldn’t have blamed them. Why shouldn’t they help themselves? They’d been abandoned. Left to face Valgan’s army, marching on the once prosperous city.

But they hadn’t.

Mardin tromped heavily down the stairs. Trafal has fallen. The words echoed in his mind.

Emerging from the guardhouse, Mardin stepped into the sun and men filled court. They hadn’t come for treasures to buy passage with. If there’d been anyone left to buy passage from.

No, they’d come for the weapons.

Mardin folded his arms and appraised those present. Trafal had not fallen. Not while any still defended her.

“We’ve work to do,” Mardin announced.