Escape from Versailles Jeremy Ullman (Year 8)
blade in a swift motion. The steel flicked across his aggressor’s face, leaving behind a thin cut over one eye. The man screamed and staggered back, hands flying to his face. The whole tavern was silent for a moment, apart from the man’s whimpers as he crawled back to his seat. Then everyone exploded. Shouts rang out, fights starting within seconds. These people were drunk, angry in a failing country, and looking for someone to punch. The noise was incredible, and Henri had to duck down behind the bar to avoid a flying mug. All was chaos, every man swinging wildly. Then the door crashed open. A team of guards burst in with swords drawn. They immediately spotted Henri, and ran for him. Switching tactics, he ran off, past the chaos. He opened the pantry door and sprinted through, slam- ming and latching it shut behind him. But it wouldn’t hold for long. He looked around wildly for another exit, before feeling a hand clamp on to his wrist. He turned, suddenly scared. But it was only a serving-girl. ‘This way,’ she whispered, leading him through another door. They ran out into the street. All was quiet. ‘Why are you helping me?’ Henri asked, as they ran. ‘You’re the first decent chance I’ve got at an adventure!’ she said back. ‘Being a maid is boring!’ ‘I can’t let you come with me, in good faith,’ he panted. Whatever she was about to reply was lost, as they heard the door they’d left through swing open behind them. ‘Quick: down here!’ the girl said. They turned and sprint- ed down an alleyway, before stopping abruptly. It was a dead end. They turned. Hearing the sound of running feet just around the corner Henri readied another spell – a back-up – in case the other hadn’t worked. The guards turned the corner, and he let it loose. The spell flew through the air, only to be deflected by the lead guard’s spear-point. He hadn’t realised they would have spell-resistant spears! The men advanced, forcing them
city would be on the lookout for him. Even though the sys- tem of the old guard had collapsed with the revolt of the commoners, there was still an organisation of sorts – and many formidable casters. There could even be sorcerers on his tail! With this chastening thought, he stopped running and walked nonchalantly towards a tavern. He leant on the doorframe momentarily, before stepping inside. Henri was immediately hit by the bright lights. Out on the streets, the moon had provided the only illumination, but in here a chandelier lit up every corner of the room. Far worse was the noise, and the smell. He felt as if he was being assaulted as he stumbled over to the bar. Reaching it he leaned on it with his elbows. ‘I’ll have a mug of ale, please,’ he half-shouted, trying to make himself heard over the noise. The bartender turned and pulled out a wooden mug, slamming it on the bar under the tap. He then filled it with what looked like the most realistic urine that Henri had ever seen before shoving it across to him. Henri almost gagged at the smell. ‘Four coppers,’ said the man in a gruff voice. Henri gave him the money and took a swig. Instantly, he regretted it. Not only did it look and smell like urine; it tasted like it too. Surreptitiously, he spat it back into the mug and replaced it on the counter. This place might be a drinking hole, but the guards wouldn’t search here. Hopefully. Henri allowed himself to relax, sighing, and sagging onto the counter a little. As he did so, his tunic shifted, uncov- ering his hastily hidden scabbard. He quickly moved it back but the man to his left – a sturdily-built hulk covered in scars – had already spotted it. ‘Hey, wait a minute!’ Henri heard the man’s deep voice, and prepared for a fight. ‘That’s the scabbard of a King’s Coward!’ The man turned to him. He wasn’t swinging yet, but he was clearly about to. Henri’s hand slowly shifted to the hilt of his sabre. He knew the man was drunk – it was obvious from his red face and loud voice – but he was still clearly strong. ‘You’re – you think you’re better than us?’ The man didn’t give Henri a chance to reply, before throwing a punch. Henri vaulted onto the counter to avoid it, drawing his
I t was a quiet night at the gates of Versailles’ richest quarter. Two guards stood by those gates, one lean- ing on his spear: a gross misuse of the spell-resistant polearm that was given only to the elite guards. But then, this guard didn’t know that: he had been a lowly mer- chant until he had seized his chance in the upheaval of the Revolution. He couldn’t even cast, unlike his colleague, who had been a guard before. And, although he was more used to guarding the gates from outside than inside, he was determined to do his job. None of the undeserving aristocracy would get out of this gate. No, sir. A blade – the blade of a fighting sabre – glinted in the shadows. Within his alcove in the wall, Henri tried to breathe quickly. He carefully drew his sabre, as he planned which guard to make for. Which one was the threat? He made his choice, and threw his carefully prepared spell past the guards. It had taken him days, but he had never been a talented spellcaster. The spell (if all went as planned) wouldn’t make a noise as it flew through the air, and would be invisible. And when it hit the ground, it would make a loud bang, and a flash. As he nervously made the casting gesture, one guard yawned. Henri jumped so hard he almost messed up the fingerplay involved, but he managed it, and the spell worked like a charm. Which, of course, it was. As the flash went off, he lunged at his chosen guard. Correctly, he had guessed that the veteran was the threat. Henri stabbed at his wrist, and didn’t wait to see the scarlet blood flowing. He sprinted past the guard’s fallen spear, and out into the city. ‘Hey, you: come back!’ shouted the other guard, slow to react. Henri ignored him and continued into the dark streets. The guards didn’t worry him now – neither of them could cast, one of them having the look of a child and the other nursing a wounded wrist. He turned a sharp corner; there were still guards patrolling the city, but very few. It was the teams of vigilantes on the streets which caused him much more concern. His tabard was far too obvious, so he’d already ditched it. But the scabbard and hilt of his sabre were clearly of the royal guard, and he needed a different weapon. Those guards wouldn’t stay put for long, and once they’d raised the alarm the whole
back against the wall. They were trapped. ◎
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THE ALLEYNIAN 711
CREATIVE WRITING
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