Gables and Garrotes

Chapter 2: Why Dark Trousers are Best

“What kind of pit is this, Armand,” the grey cloaked man hissed, “I swear to Ao, I think I see...things swimming in my beer!”

The man was standing at a corner table in a dingy, cramped tavern in the slums of Chernsburg – the County seat. What the sign outside once said is anyone's guess - a crude carving of what might have once been a crown is all that remains. The only thing that serves to inform outsiders of its purpose is the sharp, acrid stench of sour beer. The inside of the tavern is gloom itself. The dirty, grease-filmed windows let in hardly any light, and the smell is almost unbearable. The place is nearly empty; only three men are inside this afternoon. One is the barkeep, a fat, balding man with a seemingly permanent expression of disgust. Given the conditions, perhaps this is not surprising. The other two men, however, are cut of a different cloth.

Armand is the shorter of the two, and he is leaned back in his chair, hobnailed boots up on the table. His face is weatherworn, his eyes calculating. His clothes are of simple make, tending toward browns and darker colors. A battered scabbard hangs from his belt, with a well-worn hilt near his hand. All in all, he doesn't stand out from the scenery.

His companion is a different story. Clearly someone with at least pretensions to if not a actual resident of the Central District, his well-polished boots do their best to gleam in the fitful light shining in the windows of the tavern. Tailored white pantaloons peek out above his boots, while a grey cloak covers most of his body, and a deep cowl hides his face. It might be possible to make yourself more noticeable, but it would be difficult without resorting to drummers and circus performers to escort you around town.

Armand raised an eyebrow. “Just means it's healthy, your grace.” So saying, he took a swig from his mug, chewed for a moment, and grinned at his companion. “Honestly, it's worth it just to watch you twitch. I'm wondering if you've got the stomach for whats to come, if a little local wildlife is all it takes to put you in such a mood.”

“You bastard, don't you worry about me. I'll do what needs to be done. The question is, will you be able to deliver on what you promised our...benefactor? He's the reason I'm here, after all.”

“Benefactor... is that what a would-be traitor is called when he's at home with his feet up?” Armand gave a low chuckle. “Don't you worry chummy, our boss will get the results he needs. My lads and I are solid, just so long as the pay keeps up as promised.”

Grey Cloak tossed a small purse on the table. “Money is not a problem. But the 'boss' needs to know when your 'lads' will be able to start work.”

Armand hefted the purse, grunted, and stowed it away in a knapsack by his seat. “Well, most of us'll be at the camp by month's end at the latest. Once we've got our supplies sorted out, we can start work. Should start to see results well before the planting festival. That is, as long as this gent you're paying us to deal with is as soft as you say.”

“Don't you worry about that. Belleme is a jumped up scribe, not a warrior. Your boys can handle a scribe, can't they?”

Quick as a flash, Armand was out of his seat. He buried a dagger in the table, grabbed Grey Cloak by the throat and held another dagger under his chin. His cloak fell back during the struggle, revealing a man mostly gone to grey, with a well-trimmed beard and pure terror showing in his eyes.

“Nobody. I mean nobody, talks about my lads like that. You want to keep your fucking tongue where it is, Peregrinous, you watch what it says. You got me?”

Peregrinous gave a whimper. Between that, and the rapidly growing dark stain across the front of the gentleman's pantaloons, Armand felt that he had made his point.

“Good. Now, you say this old friend of yours is just a scribe. Well enough. But Gram's no idiot. You don't send a scribe out into the wilderness to build a settlement all by his lonesome. Don't you worry though, my chicken,” said Armand, patting Peregrinous on the cheek, “we'll sort him out.”

Armand recovered his dagger from the tabletop, sketched a mocking bow to Grey Cloak, and left the tavern. Peregrinous sank down onto his stool slowly, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. A low, rumbling laugh came from behind the bar.

"Well, if isn't Baron Peregrinous hisself. If I'd known we had the peerage coming in, I'd 'uve brung out the silver, m'lord!" The fat barkeep gave another guffaw, clearly pleased with his own cutting wit. Peregrinous' eyes narrowed, and he reached into a pocket inside his cloak.

"Silver, you say? Terrible metal, really. So soft, hardly keeps an edge at all. I prefer...steel."

Peregrinous pointed his arm at the barkeep, a strange looking tube held in his fist. The barkeep's eyes widened, and he started to lurch toward cover. A loud crack echoed across the room, and a gout of blood sprayed across the already grimy wall. A small metal dart had buried itself half into the skull of the barkeep, and he fell to the floor, gasping and jerking spasmodically.

The Baron stood, putting the tube back into his cloak with a wince. The spring was damned powerful, and his wrist had been bent back quite badly by the recoil. Clearly something to address in the next design. He took a lantern down from the wall, and stood over the barkeep, whose struggles had begun to slow.

"Frankly, landlord, I'm doing this pit a favor."

So saying, he flung the lantern down onto the floor, where the flames began to greedily spread into the stained wooden kegs and walls. Peregrinous pulled his cowl back over his head, and strode out into the deepening twilight.

Chapter 3: The Gall of Some People

Several days after his embarrassing foray into entry-proof housing, Trug was hard at work copying over several blueprints for his father. His fingers were stained black with ink, and several smudges crisscrossed his nose and forehead. He straightened from his drafting table with a groan, and went outside for a breath of fresh air.

The clearing work was still in full swing. Most of the trees had been felled, limbed, and dragged into a massive pile near the river. The workmen were busy looping long sections of chains around the many stumps spread across the site, hitching them to teams of horses and slowly but surely pulling them from the ground like rotten teeth. Smoke smudged the sky from several bonfires where the brush and stumps were thrown.

A massive structure was being built below a particularly swift section of the river – the foundation of the new township's sawmill. Once complete, the massive stack of tree trunks would be run through the mill and used to build the rest of the town. In the meantime, a steady train of wagons from the North kept the crews supplied with all the lumber and supplies they needed.

Trug walked over to the mill site, where his father was overseeing the construction from a large canvas tent. William was deep in conversation with two of the supervisors, leaning over a table covered in plans, lists and tools.

“The lumber shouldn't be a problem,” William said, pointing a page covered in calculations, “we have three caravans arriving daily. Stone looks to be in good shape as well, the quarry on the East side of town is meeting quota with no problems.”

One of the men gave a nod of satisfaction. He was short, stocky man with fiery red hair and heavily callused hands. “Aye, sir. The pilings in the river should be done by next week, and we'll be ready to start on the dam when you are.”

“Good, Johan, thank you. How about you, Pierre? Any issues getting the framing done?”

Pierre shrugged. “We're limited by materials, really. As long as the wagons get here, we should be fine.”

“Excellent. Just so you're both aware, I have a letter here from our engineers back in Chernsburg.” William rooted amongst the papers for a moment, then pulled out a sheet of parchment with a large wax seal at the bottom. “Here we are. Barring any further delays, we should have the sawblade and mechanisms for the mill on the way by month's end. So we should be well ahead of schedule.”

William looked up and saw Trug waiting patiently outside of the tent. “That will be all, gentlemen, thank you for the updates. Keep up the good work.” Johan and Pierre gathered up their papers, and headed back out to their crews.

“Well son, how goes the copying trade?”

“Very well, sir. 10 copies each of the cottage plans are drying, and I've gotten a good start on the tavern and warehouse plans as well. But I've hit a bit of a snag, sir. Our ink supply is almost finished.”

William squinted at Trug. “Hardly surprising, it looks as though you poured most of it on your face. But if you were trying for the noble savage look, you'll need more piercings to really pull it off.” He paused, and a knowing glint came into his eye. “Wait a moment... I know what you're up to here, my boy.”

Trug frowned in confusion. “What? I really am almost out of ink, what do you mean, 'up to'?”

“Uh huh, sure. Out of ink means a trip to the apothecary. What was Ronald's eldest's name again? The one you were staring at like a stunned trison the last time we were in town for supplies? Bonnie?”

“Oh, you mean Rhonny!” The un-inked portions of Trug's face started to turn decidedly red. “I mean, I think that's her name.”

“That seems right, yes. At least, that's what I saw carved into a tree over by our campsite. Inside a heart. But I'm sure that was probably one of the workers, right?”

Trug remained remarkably silent.

William gave his son a knowing grin. “Well, it sounds as though you're ahead of the workload anyway, so why not. Take some coin from the lockbox and go get us another case of ink. But do try to be back before dark.”

Trug gave William a grateful smile and sped off to their campsite, light of step and humming a tune.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, at a hamlet a short distance upriver from the Belleme worksite, Trug arrived outside of a small cottage. A wooden sign hung over the door, showing a mortar and pestle – a common sigil for those in the apothecary trade. He had made some effort to clean himself up, donning a (mostly) clean tunic, and having run his fingers through his hair (the overall effect was somewhat akin to a porcupine after a rainstorm). He took in a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and entered the shop.

The shop was clean and simple. Light from a pair of small windows behind the counter spilled across the shop, illuminating several shelves lined with bottles of various shapes and colors. Bushel baskets sat in a row along the left-hand wall, each holding a different sort of herb or root. A few small tapestries and bolts of cloth hung from the right wall – samples of the shopkeeper's wife's handiwork for sale.

The shopkeep himself, Ronald Curwen, stood behind the counter. When Trug entered the shop, Ronald was pouring a powdery substance from a small mortar into a row of glass bottles. He looked up with a smile and set aside the bowl.

“Ah, young master Belleme, isn't it? To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Good morning Mr. Curwen,” said Trug with a slight bow, “I'm here on behalf of my father.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a small wooden case which held several empty phials. “I was hoping to get some ink.”

Ronald looked at a shelf to his left and frowned. “Hm. I hate to turn away a customer, Trug, but it appears that my supply of ink is a bit barren at the moment. I think I have most of the reagents to produce more, but...” He tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully. “Actually... I tell a lie. I used the last of my oak gall last week. Perhaps we could help each other?”

“How so, sir?”

“Well, I need more oak gall, and you need ink. If you were willing to head out and collect some for me, I could make your ink today, and at half-price to boot.”

“A tempting offer sir, but I'm not much of an herbalist. I doubt I would recognize oak gall, let alone know how to harvest it properly.”

Ronald tipped Trug a wink, and turned to yell through the curtained doorway behind him. “Rhonorix! A word, please!”

“Just a moment,” called a clear voice, “I'm just finishing this tincture.”

At the sound of that voice, Trug's mouth went dry as sand, and he suddenly wished he had taken the time to put on a nicer tunic and actually wash his hair. His palms began to sweat, and he was positive he saw a gleam of unholy glee in the eyes of Rhonny's father. The bastard.

A moment later a young woman pushed through the curtain into the shop. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail, held in place with a hank of twine. She was wearing a loose white blouse, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her fingers were stained with a greenish-brown fluid, and she was wiping them on a rag as she walked in. Her green eyes lit up with surprise as she saw Trug standing in front of the counter, his hands clutching his pack as though he expected thieves to snatch it at any second.

“Oh, Trug. What brings you here?”

“Rhonny, you are as beautiful as the stars at night, clever as the finest engineers in the Kingdom, and I pledge my undying love to you,” was what Trug imagined himself saying. What actually came out was a strangled "Urk..."

“What?”

Trug gave serious consideration to running off and joining a monastic order, and rallied with a heartfelt "Nnnur..."

Rhonny raised an eyebrow and turned to her father. “Is he sick?”

“No, dear, I think the road dust has just gotten to the poor lad.” Yes, no doubt about it, Trug saw nigh demonic hilarity in Ronald's smile. “He's here for ink, and has offered to gather some much-needed oak gall. But he needs someone with some woodscraft to accompany him – I was hoping you would be willing.”

“Of course, father. Just let me get my things.” With one more puzzled glance at the dumbfounded Trug, she went back into the rear of the shop.

Ronald placed a pair of leather mugs on the counter and filled them from a wineskin. “Here, Master Belleme, you look a bit parched.”

Trug took the mug gratefully, and after a few mouthfuls of the watered wine he was feeling much more himself. “Thank you, Mr. Curwen. I don't know what came over me there.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised how many young men your age have the same malady, lad.” Ronald took a drink from his own mug. “Ahhh, yes. Might have had the same malady myself years and years ago. I'm sure you'll survive it, most do.”

A serious look came over the apothecary's face. “Now, as a father, I would be remiss not to caution you. My daughter knows these woods, and she knows how to take care of herself. Try to take any liberties, and you'll be unlucky to make it back here in one piece. I say unlucky, because then you'd have to deal with me. Clear?”

Trug nodded earnestly. “Completely, sir.”

“Good. I trust you, and I have a lot of respect for what your family is doing for the Count. Now, like I said, my daughter knows these woods. They're more or less safe these days, but you mind what Rhonny tells you to do.”

“Aye, otherwise you'll likely wind up in a daemon's belly before noon.” Rhonny emerged back into the shop, with a leather satchel slung across her body, a quiver at her waist and a bow across her back. “We all set?”

Trug snorted. “Daemons this close to Chernsburg? We'd be as likely to catch a kraken in the river!”

“Ah, found your voice again, did you?” asked Rhonny with a smirk. “Good, you can tell me all about the new township as we go.” So saying, Rhonny pushed past Trug and left the shop.

Trug looked to Ronald, who shrugged. “She's not one to stand on ceremony, Master Belleme. Best hurry if you don't want to get left in the woods by yourself.”

Trug left the shop at a dead run, hastily pulling the door shut after him. Ronald smiled to himself and took another pull from his mug. “Young love never ceases to amuse.”

Constructive Criticism - to be taken with a grain of salt. Or sugar, your preference. Not intending to be harsh, and heck it gives you a bump. :)

I feel the beginning of Chapter Two, the long description describing the forest, the town and then the tavern, is a bit too much of an infodump. The reader starts to turn off part way through, especially since we're still so early in.

If it were me, I'd start with: “What kind of pit is this, Armand,” the grey cloaked man hissed, “I swear to Ao, I think I see...things swimming in my beer!”... which is a nice attention grabber and then try to fit the descriptions - of the speakers and the tavern - as the chapter progresses. It should be made clear where they are in this chapter - in the city slums - but some of the descriptions of the city and its surorunds could be held over until later ones.

Keep on writing!

Much appreciated, I'll take another look at that chapter and do some revisions. Thanks for the feedback!

Chapter 4: The Hound and the Hare

Trug caught up with Rhonny a short way down the road leading out of the hamlet. He tried to slow down and make it look casual, but the amused look she gave him as he approached made it clear that he'd failed miserably. They turned off the road a short while later, onto a small dirt track that led into a dense copse of woods. Conversation started awkwardly at first, with Rhonny inquiring about Trug's father, the new settlement, his apprenticeship and other such things. Trug slowly recovered from his initial embarrassment and warmed to the topics at hand.

“So, Rhonny, be honest. What sort of beasts have you run into in these woods?”

“Oh, all sorts. Slavering owls, rabid squirrels...”

Trug rolled his eyes. “Sounds horrifying. So why are you looking around as though you expect a horde of angry werewolves to leap out at us?”

Rhonny shrugged as her eyes continued to rove among the dappled shadows and tree trunks. “Habit, I suppose. My father taught me a quick motto when I used to go out gathering with him – 'Confident, cocky, lazy, dead'. Made sense to me.” She pointed ahead, where the lighter grey of ash trunks began to give way to the darker, gnarled trunks of oak. “There's our spot.”

As they approached the nearest oak, Rhonny reached up to the leaves and snapped off one which had a large, swollen lump on the bottom. “Easy as that. Wasps lay their eggs in the leaves, and the tree swells up around it.” She pulled a smaller pouch from her satchel and tossed it to Trug. “Let's spread out. Get that filled up and we should be set for oak gall for a while.”

It was quick work, and Trug and Rhonny had filled their pouches with the green pods in no time at all. “Not too bad,” said Rhonny with a grudging nod, “for a scribe.” Trug puffed up indignantly. “Hey now, I'm not just a -"

A loud, coughing growl cut through the silence of the forest like a knife, and a black and grey blur sped across the grove toward Trug. He barely had time to register a pair of enormous ears and a mouthful of needle-sharp fangs before the beast slammed into his chest and bore him toward the ground.

Trug heard Rhonny scream and was distantly aware of her unslinging her bow and drawing an arrow from her quiver. Time had slowed to a bare crawl, and he was having far too much time to examine the creature that was about to tear his throat out.

The beast was a canis rabbit, often called a cane. They were comparable in size to a wolf, but with the long, strong hind legs of a hare. A coarse mane rose up from its shoulders to the top of its narrow head, where it was bracketed by a pair of long, hare-like ears. It was a predator, and its long fangs were well adapted to tearing into the larger herbivores it preferred as prey.

Trug had time to get an arm across his throat just before the cane's muzzle could press in under his chin. There was a quick, wrenching sensation and he could no longer feel his hand. That could not possibly be a good sign, he thought, as the cane shook its head from side to side. Above the cane's snarls, he faintly heard Rhonny shouting at him.

“Trug! You need to get it to back off or I can't take a good shot! Twist its ear!”

With a surge of adrenaline fueled strength, Trug shoved his arm up into the jaws of the cane, forcing its head up just far enough for him to be able to reach across with his free hand and grab one of its long, sensitive ears. He gave it a sharp wrench, and the cane's snarls changed to a yelp of pain. Its hind legs kicked it forward and away from Trug, adding a new dimension of pain to Trug's world as its claws dug into his legs.

Snap, thunk! A feathered shaft sprang from Rhonny's bow and took the cane in the throat, the barbed head erupting from the back of its neck in a spray of bright, arterial blood. She lithely stepped to one side as the cane crashed to the ground where she had been standing, growling and snapping weakly at the arrow buried in its flesh. Rhonny nocked another arrow and fired it after taking a bare second to aim – burying it up to the fletchings in the cane's chest. The cane's struggles ceased almost instantly, and Rhonny ran over to where Trug lay on the ground with a growing pool of crimson seeping out from under his arm.

'Shit, shit, shit,” Rhonny muttered, as she dropped her bow and started to tear strips of cloth from the hem of her dress. Trug tried to sit up, but Rhonny shoved him in the chest, hard. “Stay down, you idiot. Your arm is leaking like a sieve, don't make it worse by moving around before I can get the bleeding stopped.” She finished making a pad of cloth from several larger strips and pressed it against the puncture wounds on Trug's forearm. She then began wrapping the arm tightly with longer strips of cloth. “I don't think it got any arteries or you would have passed out by now. Can you move your fingers?”

Trug tried to move his fingers and was rewarded with a faint twitch... along with a pulse of agony that felt like someone was stabbing red-hot needles into his forearm. He gasped and his vision narrowed down to a small tunnel.

“Dammit, stay with me, Trug. The movement is a good sign, but I can't carry you back to town myself. You need to stay awake. And we need to move fast.” Her eyes continued to rove the treeline as her hands finished binding the crude bandage to Trug's arm. “I've never seen a cane this close in to town before, but where there is one, there is probably at least one more. Take a minute to get your wits back, and then we have to go. How does your arm feel?”

“Hnnh... Hurts... but not as bad. I... I think I'm okay to walk.”

Rhonny rose to her feet, retrieving her bow and nocking another arrow. She held a hand out to Trug, and helped him to his feet. Trug hissed in a breath through his teeth as his wounded arm shifted, but he nodded when Rhonny raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Let's go. Try to keep your arm cradled in close to your chest, I don't have time or materials to make a good sling. I'd rather not go back to town with no dress at all.” Trug quickly looked away from her much higher hemline, but not quickly enough. Rhonny snorted quietly. “Now come on, if you're healthy enough to blush like that, you're healthy enough to walk.”

The two left the oak grove, Rhonny watching their surroundings as Trug grimly clutched his torn arm to his chest and plodded along after. Neither of them noticed the two sets of eyes that watched them go from deeper within the grove – two sets of very human eyes. Nor did they see the quick glint of sunlight from the point of an arrow, or hear the creak of a bow as it was slowly drawn back.

Chapter 5: Thick as Thieves

“No.” Armand reached out and put a hand on the shoulder of the man kneeling next to him in the hunting blind. “Frontier kids getting mauled by a cane is one thing. Frontier kids found with arrows in them is another. We let 'em go, Jared.” Jared released the tension on his bow and returned the arrow to the quiver on his hip with smooth, practiced motions. Outside the blind, the two brats disappeared around a turn in the trail and were gone.

“Well fuck me sideways if those two ain't the luckiest little shits in Elyria.” Jared spat on the ground as he rose to glare at the cane's corpse across the clearing. “We ain't got trained canes to spare on piddly shit like this, Armand.”

Armand shrugged and started across the clearing. “Tempting offer, Jared, but you ain't pretty enough for me to fuck you sideways, front ways, any ways. Give it a few more weeks in the woods here and ask me again.” He stood over the cane's corpse, fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword. “This wasn't piddly shit, though. You know who the boy was?” Jared shook his head. “That little brat was Belleme's only kid. If he'd of died out here to a cane, might've made what we have to do to the father just that much easier. Grieving man makes mistakes.” Armand's face twisted in anger, and he drive a hard kick to the cane's ribs. “Hope that little bastard's arm rots off. Come on, help me get this thing back to camp. Don't want the local yokels comin' out here and getting a better look at the corpse.”

The two men managed to drag the stiff body of the cane back across to their hunting blind, where they had left a small wagon. The cane's rigor made it impossible to stuff it back into the cage on the wagon, so they bound it on top with a few cords, and started to pull it back along a faint path further into the forest.

After two hours - sweaty, tired and irritable, they began to hear the barking coughs of several canes on the wind. “Home sweet home, Jared,” said Armand, waving an arm broadly in front of him. “Ain't the life of a brigand grand?” Jared scowled at the sight before him and made no comment.

The camp was a ring of wooden palisades, well-hidden with leaves and branches. It was situated at the top of a low hill, where it commanded a good view of the surrounding forests. As the they passed within the walls, Armand nodded to the two men on guard, barely visible in their woodland-colored cloaks. Inside the camp, a row of 5 tents were pitched along one side; 4 larger tents with crude bunks for the dozen or so bandits who called this place home, and Armand's smaller, personal tent. The other side of the camp was a training ground, with archery butts and pells arrayed in rows. The men training paused at seeing the dead cane being wheeled into camp, but quickly turned back to their targets after seeing the simmering anger on Armand's face. In the middle of the camp was a large, fenced area, and the rank, musty odor of canes poured out from it like a fog.

Nine of the beasts were held inside the cage. Most were sleeping, or at least appearing to. One was awake and pacing back and forth in agitation, occasionally lifting its head to the sky and giving a mournful cry. Bones were scattered across the ground, stripped bare of meat and cracked open for the marrow inside. Canes were nothing if not thorough. A whip hung on a post outside the enclosure, and all of the beasts inside showed scars evidencing its frequent application, as did the corpse tied down to the wagon.

“What d'you want to do with this?” Jared asked, prodding the dead cane. Armand pointed across the camp to where a firepit and several trestle tables stood. “Take it to Cookie, lads could use a bit of extra meat with supper tonight.” Jared nodded, and pushed the cart over toward the waiting cookfire. Armand gazed at the remaining nine canes for a moment, then strode off to his tent. “Matthias! A word, now.”

A man in his middle years broke away from training at one of the pells and jogged across the camp, catching up to Armand as the bandit leader ducked inside of his tent. “What happened out there, boss?” Armand pressed his lips together tightly as he yanked his gloves off and tossed them onto his makeshift desk. “Nothing that concerns you, Matt. What's the status of the other camps?” Matt's face screwed up for a moment in thought – thinking wasn't Matt's strong suit. “Northern camp sent a runner over this morning, they got four canes trained up and four more nearly trained. West camp ain't so good, they're havin' trouble finding any canes 'tall. Too rocky for 'em. So far they've got two, and they ain't trained up yet.”

Armand collapsed into a camp chair. “Fuck. Alright. Send word to the North camp, have them send over two of their trained canes to West. And have some of the lads go out tomorrow and snare another couple for here, we need replacements.” He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. “How about the new fish, they ready to spill any blood aside from their own yet?” Matthias made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Weeeell... we've got so most of 'em knows which end of the sword to hold onto. And a couple of 'em show some promise. But it's slow goin', boss.”

“They've got one week to get there, Matthias. Seven bloody days, and we're due to start fuckin' killing. If they ain't ready by then, I'm going to be very displeased. And you're the one I'm going to take it up with. Got that?” Matthias gave a nervous salute. “No worries, boss. I'll handle it.”

“Good. Get out.” Matt ducked quickly out of the tent, bawling orders at the new recruits as he strode back across to the training grounds. Armand stared at the roof of his tent for a moment more, then let out a sigh and pulled a sheaf of papers over to him and began to read. Arranging the overthrow of a Count was no easy task, and there was no rest for the wicked.

Nice cliffhanger on Chapter 4.

I also like how Trug is not omnicompetent or a figure in a position of power, but seemingly rather ordinary.

Thanks!

I've always found stories with believable, normal characters to be far more interesting than stories with a bunch of Thews McLargehuge types.

Chapter 6: Fever & Flame

Although Trug knew the hamlet was less than a mile distant, it felt like a thousand leagues. His arm felt like it was on fire, or covered in swarm of stinging wasps. Actually... on reflection, it felt like it was covered in a swarm of stinging wasps that were on fire. The bandage had soaked through, and Rhonny did not care for how pale his skin was getting. She tried to keep him talking, but all she got were grunts, nods and some mumbled nonsense in reply.

After several thousand years in agony, Trug looked up and saw the outskirts of the village. A black tunnel was contracting and expanding around it, but the good news was that he could no longer feel the pain of his arm – he felt like he was floating light as a feather. He saw Rhonny in front of him, her mouth moving, but he couldn't hear what she was saying over the ringing in his ears. He gave her his best attempt at a smile, and then the darkness swallowed him whole.

He drifted through black seas – for how long he couldn't be sure. Images emerged from the darkness from time to time, some likely real, some not. Things like Rhonny's father leaning over him and making him drink a cup of gods knew what sort of concoction were probably real. The winged horse which spoke to him about why the hammered dulcimer was better than a harpsichord, probably not. And always the teeth, lunging out of the darkness to tear out his throat. He always awoke just before the jaws closed, screaming for his mother, his father, anyone to save him. But there was always a cool hand on his forehead, and a gentle voice soothing him back to sleep. And finally, the fever broke.

Trug awoke to sunlight streaming in through the slats of a shuttered window. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten, and his stomach practically roared at him in hunger. He didn't recognize the small room, but he could hear voices through the door – two male and one female. He tossed back the bedcover and attempted to hop out of bed, only to stumble and fall down on the floor as his knees gave out. And just to make his day that much better, as the latch on the door rattled and it began to open, he realized that he was stark naked.

Rhonny stood in the doorway with a bundle of clothes and a faint smirk on her face. “Well, rise and shine, Trug. Glad to see you're back in the land of the living, I can finally get my bed back.” She tossed the clothes at him and turned to go. “And honestly, you don't need to curl up like a pillbug. I've got two younger brothers, you don't have anything I haven't seen before. Come on out once you've dressed, your father is here and we've got breakfast ready.” At the mention of breakfast, Trug's stomach vetoed his knees (which were clearly just being lazy) and got him up and dressed in no time.

In the next room, William, Rhonny and Ronald sat at the family dinner table. William immediately leapt up and dragged Trug into a crushing hug, being careful not to bump his son's wounded arm. Trug returned the hug, albeit with just one arm. “Son... when Ron sent the news down to the camp I got here as soon as I could. For a minute there we were sure we'd lose you.” He eased up on his embrace and held Trug out at arms length, eyes glinting with tears barely held in check. “Don't you ever scare me like that again. And your mother! Gods, she was ready to leave the city and come down here by herself.” “I'm so sorry, father,” Trug replied hoarsely, “I didn't mean to scare you all like that. I should have been better prepared.” William shook his head. “No, son, don't apologize. You can't plan for everything. I'm just glad Rhonny was there with you.” He bowed his head to Rhonny, who coughed and looked down at the table, clearly embarrassed. “Don't mention it, sir, I'm just sorry I wasn't able to kill the beast sooner.” She gestured at the steaming tureen of porridge on the table. “Best get some food in your belly, Trug, before it gets cold.”

Trug ate three helpings, and the conversation at the table revolved around a retelling of the cane attack, mostly from Rhonny with a few additions from Trug. “Have there been any more attacks while I've been asleep?” Ronald shook his head. “Damnedest thing, really. We expected to find a pack, or at least a mate in the area. But even the corpse was gone when a party went out to the oaks to take a look. Best we can figure is some other scavenger took it away, but nobody saw any tracks. Strange business, all around.”

Following breakfast, Trug and William made ready to head back down to the site. Trug thanked both Ronald and Rhonny profusely, and William pressed a purse into Ron's hands despite his vehement protests. “Ron, take it. It's the least I can do for you saving my son's life, and I know you need the coin. No arguments.” Trug clambered into the back of his father's wagon, and the steady rumble of the wheels along the road soon put him to sleep.

That night, back at the work camp, Trug was tucking into a hearty meal of charred venison and potatoes. His stomach was no longer in open revolt, but it still felt as though most of his midsection was hollow. In between bites, he asked his father how work on the town was proceeding. “As far as I can tell, we're still staying on schedule. You were out for the better part of a week, but Johan and Pierre are the best foremen in the County. They kept things going fine while I was upriver.” He turned over a page with one hand while spearing a slab of venison with the other. “Hngh... Well this is interesting. You remember your Uncle Edward from back in Chernsburg?” Trug nodded. “Of course, everyone knows Uncle Edward. Why?” William drummed his fingers on the tabletop as he continued to read. “It would appear that he's making a rare foray out into the countryside to oversee the installation of his new flywheel design at the mill. He should be here tomorrow, if I'm reading this letter right,” said William, with a wry shake of his head. “Baron Peregrinous, good old Uncle Edward himself. Never thought the city mouse would ever go somewhere without a good tailor or barber within a five minute walk. I -”

Sudden shouts from outside brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. William ran to the door and threw it open, and Trug could see his father's silhouette framed in lurid, dancing orange light.

“Fire, fire at the mill!” Branson's baritone shout cut through the night. “Get up you whoresons, FIIIIIRE!”

Chapter 7: An Arrow in the Dark

“Stay here and get the papers stowed!” William pointed at the rolls of parchment spread around on the tables. “If this blaze spreads, we need to salvage what we can! If I'm not back before you're done, head to the road north of the settlement, don't stay in here!” Trug gave a quick nod and scurried back into the shelter. William ran toward the sound of Branson's voice, still booming out commands across the frantic worksite.

“Stephen, get that bucket chain started! Eddard you worthless sod, I know widows and orphans that could dig that firebreak faster than you!” He saw William running across the site and gave him a quick salute. “Sir, I've got the crews working as best we can, but that fire is burning like a bastard.” William gave a grim nod and surveyed the mill. The river side was fully engulfed, and the timbers on the near side were starting to smolder. His gaze fell on something lying under a fallen beam in the middle of the construction and his eyes hardened. “Any notion of what started this mess?” Branson shrugged. “No sir, site was buttoned up for the night. No lanterns, no workers, no nothin'.” William cursed under his breath. “Call the men back and get them armed, now.” Branson's eyebrows rose and he looked out at the mill. “Call them back? But sir, the mill –“ “Fuck the mill, Branson! There's a body in there, and unless my eyesight has completely gone to shit, he's got an arrow in his back! To arms!”

William ran back to his quarters, slamming the door back on its flimsy hinges. Trug spun around in alarm, and saw William grabbing his sword belt from a peg on the wall, buckling it on quickly. “Trug, I need you to get on a horse and get up to Chernsburg as fast as you can.” Trug slammed the trunk he was packing closed. “Now? But sir, we only just –“ William tossed a cloak at Trug, and headed back to look out the door. “No time, son, you just need to go. For all I know there's a full raiding party out there right now, and I need the Count's help. You're the only one I can spare.” Trug pulled on the cloak and headed for the door, his face pale. William held out another sword belt, and Trug belted it on awkwardly, favoring his wounded arm. “Good thing that cane got your left arm, you can still swing a blade if you need to. Now go on, get out of here.” Trug swallowed nervously, nodded, and turned toward the crude stables next to the house. “Be safe, father. I'll return as soon as I can.” “Ride safely, son. Night is no time for a ride on these roads, but I don't think we have a choice.”

Trug led a horse from the stable and saddled it while William stood watch. The rest of the crew had returned to working on a firebreak, but they were all armed with axes, mallets and bows – laborers' and hunters' tools, but no less deadly for it. The fire and shouting had the poor beast close to panic, but Trug was able to mount and point it more or less toward the north. As he turned to speak to William, a sudden commotion broke out in the camp, the men shouting and pointing at something off to the south. Then the wind brought a sound that chilled Trug to the marrow – the low, coughing barks of canes. A pack, from the sound. William gave a shout and slapped his hand on the horse's flank. “Go!”

The horse sprang away, completely out of Trug's control. He could only bend low over the steed's neck and hold on for dear life. He turned his head to see what was happening in camp before a turn in the road blocked his sight, and wished he hadn't.

A pack of canis rabbits had charged into the men working on the firebreak, and the fight did not appear to be going well for the workers. He saw at least two men that had been dragged from their fellows and were being savaged by the loping beasts. One cane was dead, felled by a lucky shot from one of the workers before it could close. But the rest of the men were locked in close combat with the canes, and blood was flowing freely on both sides. But horrible as that sight was, what followed was unimaginably worse.

As Trug sped off, William had started to run back to the fight. Trug saw his father's silhouette against the flames suddenly jerk, as though he had been struck a blow. He wavered, and seemed to regain his bearings. But then, with a wet thud that Trug imagined he could hear over the din of battle, William was spun around with sickening force as another arrow found its mark in his shoulder, dropping him to the ground. Trug's cry of anguish rose to the night, and was answered by the savage baying of the canes.

Chapter 8: With Friends Like These...

“Funny, this. Looks a lot like that tavern in Chernsburg, only with less character.” Baron Peregrinous looked around the bandit camp with a faint moue of distaste. “Honestly, with the coin we've been paying you, I would have expected better accommodations.”

Armand gave a hearty laugh and clapped Peregrinous on the shoulder, staggering the taller man. “Accommodations? My word, I didn't know we were going to have to put out the best linens. I'd best tell the lads to jump to it, toot sweet.” He whistled and gave hand signal to one of his men, who nodded and ran off with a broad smirk on his face. “Not to worry, your soon to be Honorship. We'll have you set up prop'ly. Least we can do for a man what brings us such fine garments,” said Armand, adjusting the belt over his gold and red surcoat. “It's not every day we can get the likes of these. Well, least not without all sort of holes, blood and shit on 'em.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Yes, and it cost a pretty penny to get that shipment diverted here from Bardorbis' storehouses. I trust you left at least some of my dear friend's workers alive to see your men wearing those colors,” he said, glancing at a group of bandits dividing up a meager pile of former worker's belongings.

“No worries there, my chicken. Few of 'em outlived our furry little brutes, one big bastard and a few of his mates. Last we saw, they were hightailing it back up the road after that little brat on the horse. We sent a few arrows along to help speed 'em on their journey, but they looked lively enough.” The pair rounded the corner of a block of tents. “Ah, your Magnificence,” Armand said with a mocking bow and a sweep of his arm, “your quarters await.”

“What the bloody hell is THAT?” Edward cried, taking an involuntary step back. The cage which once housed the camp's cane pack had seen better days. Not only bones, but scraps of half eaten, rotting flesh and mounds of droppings were scattered liberally around the enclosure. The man Armand had sent off earlier was standing by the open cage door, making a passably good attempt at standing to attention; as long as one ignored the muffled snorts and giggles.

“Overwhelmed by luxury, no doubt.” Armand nodded. “In you go, your Lordship, can't take time to stand on ceremony now, not when the guest of honor is set to arrive any minute.”

“What guest of – ooof!” A sharp shove from Armand sent Edward stumbling into the cage, and Armand's lackey fastened the gate behind him. “Aye, a fitting house for a man of your stature!” said Armand, laughing uproariously. Edward's face twisted in anger, and he reached into his coat. Armand's laughter ceased, but a hard smile remained. He drew a dagger from his belt and flipped it lightly, catching it by the blade. “Not entirely without a spine, eh? C'mon then, Baron, let's see what's what.”

“Enough,” a rough voice spoke from the darkness behind Armand. “I don't have much time, and I certainly don't intend to spend it watching you two fight like boys at an orphanage.” A short man stepped forward into the light, flanked by two grim-looking guards. His hair was mostly gone to grey, cropped close to his head in military fashion. His eyes were a bright, piercing blue, and roved around his surroundings constantly. His men appeared no less alert, and despite the lack of uniforms they moved as though they were professional men at arms. Armand and Edward looked startled, but quickly bowed their heads toward the gentleman.

Armand recovered first. “Sorry your Lordship, just meant to have a bit of fun, got carried away.”

The man grunted, and turned to face Peregrinous. Edward stepped forward and grasped the bars of the cage door. “Duke Ralen. My apologies for anything untoward, your Grace. Now, if this jape of yours is finished, Armand,” he said, with a glance at the doorkeeper, “perhaps your man here would let me out of this vermin infested pit?”

The Duke shook his head. “The cage is no jape, Ed. Change in plans. Armand can explain, I've got to be in Chernsburg in the morning for treaty negotiations. I was just here to make sure everything went smoothly with first phase. The boys here left your payment in your tent, Armand, nice piece of work out there.”

“Always a pleasure, your Grace,” said Armand with a slight bow.

“Ed, your payment will be waiting for you when you get back to Chernsburg. I'll see you and your companion there, assuming you can survive the night. Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Companion? Who...?” But the Duke and his bodyguards had already walked away. Edward looked toward Armand, more confused than ever. “Okay, out with it. What the hell was he talking about? What plan? What companion?”

Armand grinned broadly, clearly enjoying the situation. “Oh, you poor little dove. Nobody told you? You and your old friend are prisoners of war, now. That fat fuck Bardorbis' men attacked your wagon train last night, just before they sacked that pathetic little settlement out there in the woods.”

Edward gave an impatient huff. “Yes, yes, and I barely escaped with my life. I know all of that; I'm the one who gave you the sodding uniforms. What does that have to do with this damned CAGE? And what friend?”

“Oh, yeah, about the escaping bit. That's what's changed. His Grace doesn't think that Count Gram would have believed that a little mouse like you would have survived an attack by real soldiers and made it out unscathed.” Armand sucked at his teeth for a moment, looking pensive. “Reckon I might have been the one what made that partic'lar assessment, come to think of it. Anyway. A Baron can fetch a pretty ransom, if he's taken alive. So that's where the cage comes in, sunshine. You're to be held here until such a time comes where you can come up with a cunning little plan and escape. As to your friend... ah. Here he comes now.”

Two more of Armand's thugs came toward the cage, bearing the semiconscious form of a third man between them. The man's shirt was gone, and his shoulder and chest were swathed in dirty bandages. The cage door was opened, and the man was flung inside like a sack of potatoes.

“Good bit of marksmanship there, if I do say so myself. Jared's got a knack. Dear old William won't be running a footrace anytime soon, but he won't be bleeding out, neither.”

“He's alive...?” Edward knelt down beside the feverish body of William Belleme and checked the bandages. Armand was right, the wounds were ugly but not life threatening. “Why? The whole idea was to get rid of him and his settlement, get Gram to send to Duke Lanoue for military aid...”

Armand smiled and tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, but Ralen's a cunning old fox. Losing the settlement alone will send that old codger back in Chernsburg into fits. Killing Belleme doesn't gain us much. Alive, he's a trusted witness who saw Bardorbis' men kill his people, burn his town. And if we need him dead later on...” Armand shrugged. “That's what friends like you are for.”

Armand tossed a dagger down into the dirt just outside of the bars of the cage. “Chirugeon reckons he'll be awake by tomorrow morning, afternoon at the latest. Tomorrow night the lads and I move on to the camps up north. There'll be a skeleton crew left here to guard you while we make the shift.” He kicked the dagger into the cage. “Lads won't know you're supposed to escape, makes it more believable for Belleme that way. Make it look convincing, eh, chicken?”

With a final wink, Armand turns and walks away. Baron Peregrinous scowls and feels the weight of his spring-powered dart thrower (clever names are not Edward's strong suit) inside his coat. Memories of darkness, blood, dead barkeeps and flames fill his mind. Soon, Armand... soon.

Chapter 9: An Ally You Can Count On

The ride back north was a blur – all Trug could see was an endless repetition of his father's death. The stumble, the fall. Tears blinded his eyes, his throat was raw from screaming. His mount was no warhorse, but the sounds of battle and the scent of fire had driven the poor beast mad with terror. Looking back, Trug could see the ruddy glow of the fires at the camp flickering against the black, billowing clouds of smoke which boiled up into the sky.

An unknown time later, his horse finally gave into exhaustion and slowed to a walk. Trug lifted his head, and blearily took in his surroundings. Although the hour was getting late, a gibbous moon helped pick out the walls of Chernsburg rising ahead. The city had been built atop a rise, and the slopes leading up to it were covered in the rude huts and shacks of the local workers. While violent crime was kept to a minimum by the City Watch, the slums were not a good place to dawdle after dark – particularly for a boy who looked as threatening as a wet dishrag. Trug spurred his mount through at a trot, getting a few sidelong glances from the local denizens as he passed.

As he rode up to the gates, Trug saw two of the guards in a very animated discussion. “...forest fire, mayhaps?” said the taller of the two, looking off to the south. “If that's the new township, his Lordship is going to be fuckin' livid. Glad Jory was on runner duty tonight, you couldn't pay me enough to wake up the Count when –“ The guard's companion nudged him with an elbow as he caught sight of Trug riding up the path. “Halt, lad. Who goes there?”

“Sergeant, I must see Count Gram!” Trug's voice came out in a harsh, grating rasp. “The mill is b-burning, the workers are being attacked, a-and... my... my father...”

“Your father?” The guard stepped closer, peering up into Trug's face. “Wait, I know you, you're Bellême's son. Where is your father, lad?” Trug couldn't speak, tears and rage had choked him as surely as a garrote. He could only shake his head. “Dead? Dammit... Let's get you to the Count, lad. Come on, get down, that horse of yours is about done in from the looks of him.”

Trug wordlessly dropped down to the ground, feeling as though he had been hollowed out inside. He followed the guardsman through the postern gate, where a pair of destriers had been tied to the hitching post. The guard helped Trug up onto one of the stallions, mounted behind him, and sent it off along the road to the Central District at a gallop.

Chernsburg was set out in a hub, with gates at each point of the compass. Directly inside the walls, the wood and plaster shops and homes of the city's vendors and workers lined the streets. The citizenry here were clearly better off than those in the slums, but the houses and tenements were by no means grand – most had seen better days, and even the largest of the houses were cheek and jowl with their neighbors.

The charger went across Horn Way, a large street which wound around the entire city. This street marked the beginning of the Central District, where the craftsmen, merchants, and lesser nobility called home. The streets here were brightly lit with torches, and the crimson and black liveried City Watch were a regular sight as they went around on patrol. The homes here were of far better construction, with tended hedges and the occasional piece of sculpture to set them off from their neighbors. Trug saw several of his father's projects, including many of the gabled roofs which had made him his fortune.

The Count's manor stood at the center of the city. It was a two story red brick structure, surrounded by a low stone wall. Even at this late hour, the manor blazed with light – clearly the Count was already awake. Two watchmen waved them through the gates, and the sergeant pulled his horse to a halt in front of the iron-studded front door of the house.

The massive portal was pulled open as they approached, and a man wearing the City Watch uniform stood in the entryway. The man looked to be in his fifties, with a large scar down the right side of his face. A gold braid hung over his left shoulder, and his arms and armor looked well-worn. “Torvald, what news?”

The sergeant banged his fist to his chest in salute. “Captain, this is the Bellême boy. Just arrived at the gates, said he was at the township when it was attacked. Asked to see the Count, sir.”

The man grunted, and stood to the side to allow them in. “Best make it quick, boy. Gram's not in the best of moods right now, but he'll want to hear what you've got to say. Follow me.”

Trug took in the scenery as he passed through a short hall toward a stairway. What he could see was gorgeous – well-fitted floors of sanded cherry wood, almost gleaming in the lamplight. Plaster on the walls, hung with a variety of tapestries and paintings. Laquered wood furnishings and silver-backed wall sconces polished until they shone. Clearly, the Count did not skimp on his comforts.

At the top of the stairs, the Captain stopped before a heavy oaken door and gave Trug one last warning look. “Best behavior now, young master Bellême.” He knocked once, and opened the door into the Count's study.

Count Gram had clearly not been out of bed for long. His white hair was tousled and sticking up every which way, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was standing behind his desk, reading a scattering of reports. A pewter mug rested on the side of the desk, next to a silver wine decanter. His gaze rose as the trio entered the room, and he did not look pleased.

“What is it now, Dumorne? I already have someone reenacting the plague wars on my land, and now you're dragging in waifs and orphans?”

Trug's fist clenched at 'orphans', and he started to draw in breath for an angry retort. The sergeant's hand came down on his shoulder and gave a warning squeeze – this was not the time nor place for a boy's temper to get the better of him. The Captain cleared his throat and gestured at Trug. “This is Bellême's son, my lord. He's just come in from the camp with news about the situation.”

Gram's eyes softened slightly. “Ah, William's son. Forgive me, lad, it has been an awful night and I forgot my manners. What news have you?”

As quickly as he could, Trug related the attack on the work site. The Count's expression alternated between concern and anger as the tale progressed, and he collapsed back into his chair as the story came to an end. He rubbed at his temples with his fingertips, his eyes closed. “Captain Dumorne. Assemble a patrol and ride south,” said the Count, his tone cold. “Find any survivors, and find me who did this.” Gram raised his head and glared at the Captain. “If it is more than just a few bandits, do not engage them. You're the Watch, not the Duke's army. Understood?” The captain banged out a salute and nodded. “Yes, my lord. On my way.”

As the Captain left, the Count turned and beckoned at his page. “Bring another cup, boy.” Gram took the decanter and poured refilled both cups, offering one to Trug. “It's a hard thing, losing your father. Nothing that I, nor anyone else can say will make it hurt any less.” He drained his mug, and Trug followed suit. The un-watered wine burned like fire, but Trug almost welcomed the pain. “I do know what you're going through, though. I lost my own father when I wasn't much older than you. And while it may not take away from the pain,” Gram said, leaning over to refill Trug's cup, “it may give you a certain satisfaction to know that this County will not rest until the sons of whores that did this are all swinging from the gallows in the town square. Your father was a good man, one I counted as a friend.”

Trug tipped back the second cup, more slowly this time. The thought of whoever was responsible hanging by the neck, face blackening, legs kicking for purchase they would never find... Trug felt the warmth from the wine spreading out into the rest of his body; felt the slow rage that had been buried underneath his grief begin to rise. “I want to help find them, my lord. I want to put that rope around their necks myself.”

Gram smiled wryly, and took the cup back from Trug's side of the desk. “I fear you're not used to strong wine yet, young Master Bellême. I respect your fervor, but I would be doing you a disservice if I sent you out – “

Trug slammed a fist on the desk, and rose to his feet in tipsy indignation. “Disservice?! Sir, my father is dead and you – “

“Enough!” The Count stared up at Trug, his eyes once again hard as flints. “I respected your father, and I respect your family. But mind...your...bearing, boy.”

Trug swallowed, feeling a cold sweat break out on his forehead. Suddenly his knees felt unsteady, and the pain and exhaustion from the past week came crashing back in. He stumbled back into his chair and bowed his head meekly. “My lord, I forgot myself. Please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive, Trug. As I said before, I know what you're going through.” Gram beckoned his page, and whispered a few words in the boy's ear. The page scurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. “I honestly would have been more offended if you hadn't wanted to seek your vengeance, my boy. Hold on to that anger, keep it until you need it. Once this is over, we'll see about getting you some proper military service where you can put that to good use, along with the brains your father and mother gave you.” The door opened to readmit the page, who have Gram a quick nod. “Well, that was quick. Speaking of your mother, I believe she's here to take you back home.”

His mother! Trug felt the wine in his stomach trying to make a break for freedom. He had completely forgotten about her in the mad dash to escape the camp, and the chaos that had ensued on his arrival in Chernsburg. How was he supposed to tell her that William had been shot down in the woods like a common dog?

Emily Bellême swept past the page into the room, and dragged Trug into a rib-breaking embrace. She was a tall woman, slender with dark brown hair put up in a braid that reached down almost to her waist. She was wearing a simple blue dress and working shoes, likely thrown on in her rush out to the carriage. She grabbed Trug by the shoulders and held him away at arms length, quickly looking him up and down.

“Oh, my dear boy, just look at the state of you! Bloodied, beaten, but ALIVE. Praise Ao for that.” She raised her head to look at Gram and made a brief curtsy. “My lord, thank you for sending for me,” she said with a smile, “although it was hardly necessary. I was already at your door when your page nearly bowled me over. I couldn't help but see the fires, you understand.”

Gram stepped around the desk and took Emily's hand, bowing slightly. “Of course, Emily, of course. My apologies for the delay, but I only just learned of the extent of the situation from your fine son here a short while ago.” He sighed deeply. “I am afraid we must prepare for the worst. William may not have survived.”

Emily gave a most unladylike snort. “Bill, dead? I'll believe it when I see the body, sir. Not a moment sooner. You know him better than that, Gram.” Emily put her arm around Trug's slumped shoulders and guided him toward the door. “Let's get you home.” Trug was vaguely aware of walking out of the Count's manor and into his family's carriage, then fatigue overcame him and he knew no more.

Don't think lack of comments correlates to lack of interest. I've been enjoying your story immensely, and a few days ago nearly asked when we could expect the next installment.

If this is truly your "first stab at writing fiction" as you say, you're very gifted. I'm guessing by your diction, and the quality of your writing that you've done a lot of reading.

Of course, this story could use a little more editing. If possible, I'd recommend finding someone who is good at that sort of thing to help you polish up sentence structures and keep the flow. But that holds true for any writing.

Anyway, looking forward to this story's continuation...

Torque,

That's great to hear, I appreciate the feedback! And thank you very much for the praise, I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

This is genuinely my first attempt at writing fiction, but I am fairly well-read, yes. That said, I completely agree on the editor front. I'm hoping I can shanghai my wife into it - she is an actual editor/tech writer by trade, but she hates fiction. :)

I'm in the midst of moving nearly halfway around the world, so my writing has slowed down a bit while I handle some logistical nightmares. But I will definitely be continuing to add to the story as I'm able.

Thanks again!

Chapter 10: Put Up Your Dukes

The first tinges of dawn were streaking the horizon as Count Gram put down his quill with a muttered curse. He dribbled a bit of sealing wax on the last parchment and marked it with his ring. With a grunt, he reclined back into his chair, and gestured to his page. Despite the late (or was it early?) hour, the little bastard still looked hale and chipper. The energy of youth be damned, Gram thought sourly, as the page collected the last letter and added it to the small pile already in his satchel.

The letters were addressed to various community leaders in Chernsburg. With slight variations, the letters all told the same story: the new settlement had been attacked, the scoundrels were still at large, and the Watch was on full alert. Any information or sightings should be reported to the Watch immediately. Gram was sure he would get no end of false alarms – neighborhood grudges coming out as people looked to earn a few silvers by turning in so-and-so down the lane who stole our cat umpteen years ago, and so on. But when the next attack came (and Gram had no doubt that there would be another attack), the Count wanted all the forewarning he could get.

A ray of sunlight stabbed in through the window, murdering any hope Gram had held of getting any sleep before starting the rest of the day. The sounds of the city waking up began to filter in; the rumble of farm carts coming in from the countryside, the cries of the watchmen as the day watch came on duty to relieve the night watch, and the clatter and curses of merchants as they opened up their stalls for another day of commerce. The savory smell of bacon began to filter up the stairs from the kitchens below – Mrs. Whemple had begun to prepare the Count's breakfast.

Gram pulled himself wearily to his feet and made his way to his washbasin, where he splashed cold water on his face and tried to make himself look presentable. “Of all the bloody days to have bandits burn down my outpost,” he muttered darkly to himself as he tried to pull a wooden comb through his bed-tousled hair. “Bad enough to have to smile for that bastard Ralen, damn his Ashford blood.”

Duke Ralen was the military mind behind the armies of An Loch; the neighboring Kingdom to the west of Kairos. House Ralen was a distant relation to the old (and largely extinct) House Ashford. Around a century ago, the Ashfords had ruled over most of the surrounding lands, and they were known for their cruelty and greed. Following the famed plague wars some generations ago, the foundations for the present-day Kingdom of Ashland were built on the smoldering ruins of the Ashfords. Those few branches of the family which remained fled to An Loch, and bore their grudges to this day.

While An Loch and Ashland were never formally in a state of war, clashes at the border were not uncommon. Years of saber rattling and demands from An Loch were met by patient diplomacy, along with an iron determination to not give an inch, militarily. This approach finally bore fruit a month ago, when the An Loch ambassador announced that the King wanted to bury the hatchet – the conflict was too costly, and peace would be beneficial to both parties. Details were hashed out between the diplomats, and Chernsburg was selected as the site where the new treaty would be signed.

Delegations would be arriving throughout the day. An Loch was to be represented by Duke Ralen, while Duke Vitale was on his way from Honnleath. Both parties would be arriving with a small retinue of retainers, soldiers and various hangers-on; a handful of which were assuredly going to be spies. While the number of men at arms was to be kept to a minimum, Gram had no doubt that it would only take one drunken idiot to say the wrong thing in the wrong company, and his city would devolve into a brawl. And now that half of the Watch was out in the woods chasing bandits, the Count was glumly certain that such a brawl was not a mere possibility – it was a promise.

After breakfast, Gram felt marginally more human. On returning to his study, he was greeted by a young man in a spotless city watch uniform – his back ramrod straight as he came to attention, with his helm held under his left arm. His fist banged loudly against his breastplate in salute, and Gram winced as his fading headache stabbed icy daggers into his brain once again. He waved the young man to a seat as he moved behind his desk.

“Lieutenant Jaquel, have a seat, no need to stand on ceremony here.” Another salute, another grimace from the Count, and the young watchman took his seat. “I've called you here to act in Captain Dumorne's absence. I presume there isn't any word from him or his patrol yet?”

Jaquel shook his head. “No, sir, not a word. I shouldn't expect to hear much until dusk, sir.”

“Of course, why should anything be fucking easy today,” Gram snarled, causing the poor lieutenant's eyes to widen. “Hell with it. Since the captain is away, you get the unenviable task of sorting out the guests for this bloody festival today. I know you've been at all the meetings, but I'm going to go over this one more time. I don't need anything else going tits up today, is that clear?” Jaquel nodded earnestly, fussing with the crest on his helmet nervously as he listened to the Count recap the strategy for the peace treaty meeting.

The idea was fairly simple, with Gram reasoning that the more complicated the plan, the more likely it would be that mistakes would be made. Both Dukes would be staying at the Manor as guests of honor. Although Ralen and Vitale were both military men, Gram trusted them not to try to stab each other at the dinner table. Their men were a different story – bad blood between both sides ran deep, peace treaty be damned. The Vitales would be quartered at a guesthouse owned by a local magistrate in the northeastern quarter of the city. The An Loch contingent would be staying at a similar home in the southwestern quarter. The Watch would be out in force, largely covering the intervening streets and byways. They were to see to it that never the twain shall meet, and keep both factions contained in their respective quarters as politely as possible.

Gram had Jaquel repeat the arrangements back to him twice before he was satisfied. The lieutenant was sent on his way with strict instructions to report to the Count immediately if any violence broke out, or if any arrests were made. With one last salute (and resulting wince), the guardsman took his leave.

The Count stood at his window and gazed off to the south. The fires were out, but faint wisps of smoke and steam still rose off in the distance. Gram was certain that Dumorne would find some trace of the wretches responsible – the man was an excellent officer and a fearsome fighter. And yet, Gram could not shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come... and soon.