Drake Ascendant

Nerius Azwix darted through the streets, searching for a place to hide. To catch his breath. He cut down a narrow alley, dodging a cart filled with grain, and spooked the horse harnessed to it. The animal reared, wide eyes staring in fright, front legs pedaling the air. The cart teetered, shifting the mountain of golden grain in its bed. The crash behind him sent the grain cascading into a roadblock, slowing the pursuit of the king’s men.
He ducked beneath the awning over the back entrance to the Rusty Peg Pub and yanked the door handle—locked! His grimy hand clasped the amulet hanging at his sweaty neck as he placed the other hand on the door. “Recludam.” The scraping of the bolt on the other side flooded him with relief. For once, the hit-or-miss magic of the amulet worked. The hinges creaked as he pushed into the murky backroom. He shut the door and slipped into the shadows behind the ale barrels stacked to the right side of the room. The sound of boots pounding the cobblestones passed by in the street. The tension in his shoulders eased. He’d lost them.
He let out a sigh of relief, but it caught in his throat at the clack of booted footfalls on the boardwalk. The person stopped outside the door. It creaked open, leaking sunlight across the dirty floorboards. Nerius held his breath; his lungs burned from the long run. Why didn’t I lock the door! He peeked between the casks, ignoring the sweat dripping into his beard. Booted feet stepped to the center of the room. The jangle of chainmail left no doubt it was one of the soldiers. Why does there always have to be a hero?
Nerius cursed his lack of magical skills one more time. All of this trouble for a small bag of pilfered coin? The pompous nob he took it from would never miss it. An invisibility spell would be quite helpful to get me out of this trouble! He grabbed the tarnished amulet in his fist and whispered, “Invisibilia.”
The hum of an unsheathed sword raised the hair on the back of his neck. The man at the center of the room clutched a sword at the ready. Nerius held his hand in front of his face and stared at his dirty fingernails. The spell hadn’t worked. He ripped the useless amulet from his neck and threw it over the barrels. It clattered to the floor on the opposite side of the room. He peered between the ale drums and waited. The soldier stepped into view as he investigated the noise. Nerius shoved his full weight against the stacked casks. They toppled and crashed, knocking the soldier to the floor. Nerius grabbed the sword from the man’s hand and sliced his throat before he regained his wits.
With the bloodied blade dripping in his hand, he swung the door to the street open and hurried to hide behind the supplies piled on the other side of the room. The barkeep rushed into the small storeroom from the barroom and froze when he saw the dead soldier. Nerius knew the man. Everyone called him Skunk because of his body odor. He often bought stolen goods from Nerius, but could he be trusted not to turn him in? No. Not only was a reward offered on the wanted posters plastered around the village, but now, with this dead soldier, the price on his head just went up. Officials didn’t know his name, so they dubbed him the Red Knave because of his red hair, and Nerius embraced the name. Azwix was the surname given to every abandoned child, and he hated the reminder that he wasn’t wanted, even at birth.