Free Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale by PJ Hetherhouse

foreboding, impenetrable – encircles the whole city and the bridge tower is built into it. Unimaginatively named for the bridge that extends outward from it, this tower is the only route by which a boy destined for the mainland can pass without getting wet. It is something I have not done before today.
    The tower stands above a gateway in the wall. This gateway is the bridge to the mainland and there is a steady stream of traffic coming in both directions. A variety of animals, none of which look particularly happy, pull a variety of carts in either direction. A few men, the poorest, have dogs pulling their carts, whilst others have goats, cattle or horses. Everything about this place seems to overwhelm: the stench, the shouting, the rattling, the constant flux of movement. It is all rather too much for a boy like me.
    A single knight makes his way through the crowd on horseback, his gleaming steel armour standing out in stark contrast to the drabness of those around him. I recognise him by his heraldry, a green flag with a white feather, as ‘The White Falcon’. His very presence causes upheaval amongst the crowd. His footmen have a full time job trying to redirect the various beggars and street vendors making their way towards him whilst urchins also follow behind, part star struck, part hoping for some small piece of fortune.
    But no one is heading to the actual entrance of the tower, tucked off to the right hand side of the gateway. It would seem that the approach to the tower is kept clear for official visitors only. It stands guarded by two men in the dark iron armour of the Arberth guard. As I approach, I can tell by their poor posture alone that these guards are little more than low-level thugs, certainly nothing to aspire to.
    It only takes me one look at the guard on the left to realise that, even before I have approached, he already hates me. Etched onto his face is the scornful look worn by all guards when they see a peasant approaching.
    “What do you want, you piece of shit?”
    “I’m here to meet with Lady Vesta.”
    “What would the virgin want with a piece of shit like you?”
    “I’ve heard the virgin likes ‘em young,” his colleague interjects. They both snort seedily. I remain silent.
    “I said ‘What would the virgin want with a piece of shit like you?’”
    “I don’t see that that’s any of your business.”
    “Oi oi… He’s a bit of a feisty one,” the first one chuckles.  “Didn’t your father teach you how to speak to your betters?”
    “Yes he did. Not that I think that’s pertinent to this conversation.”
    “Ooh! Pert-ti-nent..” he replies, stretching the unfamiliar word out across his primitive vocal chords. “Looks like this peasant thinks he’s better than what he is. You ain’t coming in,” he snaps. His control over this one solitary doorframe has obviously sent him mad with power.
    This refusal puts me in a strange situation. I am attending the bridge tower at the behest of Lady Vesta, the king’s advisor. I am most certainly not attending because I want to and, in fact, the last thing I actually want is to be admitted entry. But nonetheless, it is not the place of this gormless simpleton, with his red drinker’s face, to decide my fate.  
    “I’ll not ask you again,” I say, remaining in the doorway. “I’ve attended as required but I shan’t be begging some drunken thug to allow me any further.” 
    At this insult, the guard on the left unfurls his club and moves toward me as if to beat me. I nonchalantly sidestep two or three clumsy swings before his friend from the other side of the door comes to join in. I do not attempt to fight them but simply duck and weave through their wallops, each of which is so slow and cumbersome that I would sincerely worry for them if anyone with any actual malicious intent was trying to gain entry.
    The more that they swing and miss, the angrier they get and the louder they shout for assistance. As