The steel gates stood high. Perhaps too high, as high as two watchtowers stacked together and spanning almost as long as a manor. A great a waste of steel, Brandon thought.
Beneath the gates carved two smaller gates. One for people, the other, larger than the first, for caravans of people. Even at night, they kept on piling up. Hauls of smuggled slaves and sold young girls, moaning, groaning, and crying for help, yet to be trained in the arts of pleasing this city. From one wagon, Brandon glanced a short, bald man whose eyes had already lost its shimmer. Broken. Like all the rest.
The eyes snapped open, staring straight into Brandon, his face reflecting on the man's eyes as an Arcon's orb would conjure an image from afar. He frowned and shook his head as he approached the guardsmen of the gates. One of them halting Brandon's steps with an outstretched hand.
"Aye, sir," the guard greeted him. "What's yer business here?"
No cheap business hiring these guards for the city, all well-armed with full plate armor and steel spears. Well-trained as well. They moved like how soldiers of war moved, crisp and discipline. There was no getting out here without passing these guys.
"I got a pass," Brandon said, handing a small piece of steel cut into a rectangle. Carved in the middle, the insignia of the city. A red eye.
"Ye sure tis' a legitimate pass?" The guard asked.
Brandon nodded. "Only the finest blacksmiths of this city can carve that," he said, grinning.
The guard snorted.
"Aye, fine. Get in there now." The guard pointed his thumb behind and said, "And no Damning blacksmith is finest in 'er. That eye's the worst scribble I ever see."
"Thank you," Brandon said, walking past the gates. Clever of them to make smaller gates below. They'd need a hundred overgrown-men before opening a gate this tall. But no, what made this place special was the walls adorned beside the gates. Walls of the same height and a full circle of them, as large as a kingdom.
And people call this a city?
Five hours. It would take that long before climbing to reach the top of the wall. He knew. Brandon did it once and served not one of his most pleasant memory.
Passing the first road and into the conclaves of the city, he sifted the vile hell this city reeked off of. All too familiar, Brandon thought as he prodded the street ahead. Lamplights and candles started lighting his way as each of the tavern whores invited him to choose their place.
"The best of Medranei right here," one of them said.
"Best? Come here! You haven't seen anything yet," said another.
Brandon ignored them, continuing his stride ahead, then a turn, and another, passing the same faces of women dressed in nothing but naked flesh, saved for the silk covering their chest and waist. He bumped into a man, accompanied by what looked like teenage boys. The man then tapped his shoulders twice, whispering his pardon before moving on their separate ways. Brandon blinked before continuing his way to the Carrion Pigs inn.
The grin of the man before still struck him odd as he went inside his favorite inn.