Gables and Garrotes

Chapter 11: Bloody Scribes

Baron Peregrinous was ready to kill someone. The sun was sinking steadily into the West; a blood-red disc behind the haze of smoke still hanging in the sky. Bandits wearing the blue and red of Duke Bardorbis’ regiments scurried to and fro, loading wagons with equipment and supplies for the journey north. Most of the tents had been struck, and all that remained behind were a few of the more permanent structures - the palisade walls, a few of the practice pells, and the cage.

Edward had managed to clear a small portion of the cage, tossing bones and other refuse aside to make room for William’s makeshift sickbed. He had folded up his cloak as a pillow, and covered his old ‘friend’ with a ragged blanket which a sneering guard had provided for them to share, along with several lewd suggestions as to how two prancing little nobles could best share sleeping arrangements. Peregrinous marked the guard as the first to die, once things quieted down a bit.

Bellême had regained consciousness late in the morning, just as the chirurgeon had predicted. William was in a considerable amount of pain, but his wits were sharp enough, once the initial confusion and pain had passed. After suppressing an initial urge to just cut the man's throat and be done with it, Edward gritted his teeth – he still had a role to play, and he'd be damned if that little shit Armand got the last laugh.

“Bad business, Bill. Drink up, and chew some of this to help with the pain,” Edward said, passing William a water skin and some strips of willow bark. “You're lucky to be alive – hell, we both are.”

William managed to lever himself up to a sitting position and guzzled the water thirstily. “Ed? What in the seven hells is going on?” he asked, looking around the camp incredulously. “...the fuck? Are those men –“

“Duke Bardorbis' own, I believe, yes. Can't mistake those flashy surcoats for anything else, can you?” Edward thumped a fist against one of the cage bars, lightly. “Whoresons jumped my caravan on the road not far from your township. They killed my guards, the few that didn't just run off. Took the blades and mechanisms, and threw me in this cage. Must have been en route to sacking your place; they brought you here not much later last night.”

Bellême chewed pensively at one of the willow bark strips. “I can't... just, why? It doesn't make any damn sense, Ed. Is the man mad? He must know that the Vitales won't stand for it. Unless...”

Yes, yes, you idiot, don't make me have to drag you to the obvious, thought Peregrinous angrily, as he continued to look at William with what he hoped was an appropriately anxious expression. Unless Bardorbis...

“Unless Bardorbis doesn't know about the peace treaty! By Ao, I bet that's it, Ed!”

“Of course!” exclaimed Edward, clapping a hand to his forehead in the best traditions of over-actors everywhere. “The man's kingdom collapsed months ago, he's more or less isolated! He probably thinks Ashland and An Loch are at each others throats, and he's trying to impress An Loch with a show of strength – prove that he's got what it takes to stand up to the Vitales. Devious little shit...”

A guard rapped on the cage with the hilt of his sword. “Shut it, you lot. Richforts'll pay the same price whether yer teeth are in your mouths or in your laps.” He spat on the ground and turned back to a game of dice. William noticed that the men were wagering rings, tools and other oddments – likely looted from the bodies of his crew. He cast the blanket aside angrily and rose shakily to his feet.

“Sons of bitches,” he whispered to Edward. “Damn these wounds, I'll give better than I got and then some.” He looked around – the camp had emptied out considerably since he had awoken. The last of the carts was rumbling out through the gates now, and all that remained was a sleepy looking lad standing by the gates, and the three guards dicing in front of the cage. William cast his gaze down to the refuse lying around the cage, looking for anything that he might be able to use as a weapon.

Peregrinous stepped in front of William, putting his back to the guards. He drew back the cuff of his sleeve, showing the hilt of the dagger that Armand had left him. “Bit better than a pile of shit and sticks, I'd say. Do you think you're up to this?”

William spat out the lump of chewed up bark, and stretched tentatively. The wounds hurt like a bastard, but not unbearably. He nodded at Edward. “Ready as I'll ever be. I'll follow your lead.”

Edward gave a quick smile; a genuine one, this time. “Just like our old Legion days, eh Bill? Get back on the ground there, pull the blanket up and get ready to retch your everliving guts out.”

William gave a fierce grin in return, and gingerly laid back down on the ground. Edward gave a soft count to 100, and nudged Bellême with his boot. Bill responded with the most godawful, ratcheting, wet gagging and puking sounds Edward had heard in years. One of the guards ran up to the cage door and peered in worriedly.

“'Ere, what's with your friend? Speak up, you little wretch!”

“I don't fucking know!” Peregrinous wailed, “He passed out and he's puking up... oh gods, is that blood?!”

The guard cursed and undid the catch on the gate, while his fellow guards stood up and fanned out around the cage, presumably trying to see the blood. “Fuck, fuck, shit! We can't collect a ransom on a dead man! Get out of the way, you, and stay where I can sees ya!” He shoved Peregrinous roughly to the side, and bent down to pull the blanket away from William.

William's legs pistoned out, both heels striking the guard soundly in his chest. Several ribs cracked with loud snaps, and the guard stumbled back, trying to draw in air to scream for help but unable to. Edward stepped up behind him and slashed open the guard's throat from ear to ear, sending a spray of blood across the cage. William rolled to his feet with a grimace, and drew the guard's short sword from the sheath at his waist. Edward let the man drop to the ground like a side of leaking beef. In grim silence, broken only by strangled gurgling from the downed guard, the pair of men turned to face the remaining guards, weapons at the ready.

The unlucky duo were still in shock; jaws agape and weapons still sheathed. This job was supposed to be a doddle; just watch over some prissy little architect and engineer, then get paid once the lads got back to collect them. Scribes don't fight, and they sure as fuck don't carve a man's windpipe clear through to his spine, right?

Too late, one of the guards sprang toward the gate, hoping to secure it before either of the men inside could escape. Bellême closed the distance with two quick steps, and snapped the sword down from shoulder-height. With a howl, the man staggered backward, clutching at a mangled ruin where the less-than keen edge of the blade had bludgeoned and torn the flesh and bones of his arm. William hoped the point of the blade was better maintained, and stabbed up under the man's ribcage. The blade slid in nearly up to the hilt, and a crimson freshet poured from the guard's mouth as his life fled from his eyes.

The final guard dropped his blade from nerveless fingers, and squealed loudly for help as he turned to flee. Peregrinous sprang after him, a thin smile on his face. He'd failed on his promise to make this one die first, but he'd make up for the delay, never fear. His first strike took the man low in the back, in one of his kidneys. The man fell, his cries for help turning into warbling shrieks of pain. Edward then sliced across the backs of the cur's legs, hamstringing him. But before he could really start to get to work, a warning cry from William brought him out of the red mist of rage and back into the present.

“'Ware, Ed, get behind something!” screamed William, making for a nearby pell. “The little shit by the gate has a bow!”

Sure enough, a white-fletched arrow buried itself in the ground not a pace away from Edward's left foot. With a strangled whimper, he scurried back to the dubious shelter provided by the cage, and started rooting in his inside pockets. “Bill, you have to distract him!”

“Distract him? What with? I left my helmet on a stick back at home!”

Peregrinous rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I don't fucking care, just get me two seconds to aim and I can end the little bastard!”

“Right... well, lets hope his aim is still as lousy as it was that last shot! Good luck!”

William broke cover, charging along on a diagonal away from the archer, screaming nearly as loudly as the poor bastard that Edward had gutted. Edward saw the archer turn, drawing an arrow back to his cheek and getting a bead on William. The Baron raised his own contraption up, bracing it against one of the cross beams of the cage. As the archer released his shot, Peregrinous pulled back on the release mechanism. A loud crack echoed across the yard, and the archer's head rocked backwards as a small metal dart buried itself in his eye. The man crumpled to the ground without a sound, and Edward allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction – the new design handled the recoil much more efficiently.

Bellême was just picking himself up from the ground; the archer's last arrow was still quivering in the wood of the palisade above him. Ed walked over and gave his old friend a hand up, and clapped him on the shoulder. William tipped him a wink, and turned to survey their handiwork. “Aye, you had it right enough, Ed. Just like the old days.”

The two scribes walked out through the gates together, leaving the dead and dying behind them.

Chapter 12: Unhappy Returns

As the sun sank into the West, the County Manor in Chernsburg shone like a jewel. The streets were lined with torches, burning in various shades thanks to the efforts of the local alchemists. Red and blue for House Richfort, orange and purple for An Loch. The City Watch was out in their finest dress uniforms; but their eyes were sharp despite the pomp, particularly where the city streets brought members of both houses in close contact. Everyone who was someone (and many who were not, but thought they were) were making their way to Count Gram's for the welcoming feast.

Gram's earlier anger had given way to general unease. Word from Captain Dumorne had arrived not long ago – no sign of the bandits, but several survivors had been found and would be returning with the Captain's troop in the morning. The only constant thread in all of the stories so far were the vicious canes, and some reports of men in the treelines, wearing bright colors. Meanwhile, both Duke Ralen and Duke Richfort had arrived with their entourages at more or less the same time this morning. So far no scuffles of any kind had been reported – indeed, the An Loch contingent had been remarkably polite, even raising toasts to the future of the alliance at several taverns around town and buying rounds for the Richforts. Rather than soothing his churning gut, this news soured Gram all the more. Fights made sense, toasts most certainly did not.

To further stir the pot, the Gram's son, Alayn, had accompanied the Richfort retinue in from Chrysopolis. Alayn had left for the capital several years ago, ostensibly to pursue an academic career with the Kingdom's Bureau of Exploration. In reality, the Count and his son had parted company under much less amicable terms.

Gram had expected Alayn to follow in his footsteps, learning how to lead, inspire, and turn a profit; thereby ensuring the flow of commerce and prosperity both for Chernsburg and for the Kingdom as a whole. But from a very young age, it was clear that Alayn was far more interested in chasing down myths and legends. Gram blamed the tales the lad's governess used to read to him when he was still just a toddler; legends of daemons and gods, heroes and villains. Or perhaps it had been the Church – young Alayn had spent an inordinate amount of time visiting the various religious orders around town, soaking up every bit of lore possible before moving on to the next.

Whatever the case, shortly after Alayn's 16th birthday, the Count and his son had a massive falling out. The city watch had brought Alayn into his father's study, where an incredulous Gram heard a story of unspeakable depravity. The guard had been called out on the behest of the groundskeeper of the local lichyard, just outside the Eastern wall of the city. Some of the tombs and burial mounds in the yard predated the earliest written records of the settlement, and rumor had it that they were haunted by fell beasts and cursed by daemons. Purely peasant superstitions, but still – the older sections of the lichyard were largely avoided except by the groundskeeper, who made regular rounds in the course of his duties. On the morning in question, the groundskeeper noticed that one of the burial mounds had been torn open, with several large stones sprayed out like rotten teeth. Inhuman moans and shrieks the likes of which the poor man had never heard before were issuing from the ragged black maw of the mound, and the groundskeeper quickly took to his heels and summoned the nearest watchmen without delay.

“Sergeant! Oh sir, you must come quick,” the groundskeeper gasped, running up to a trio of city watchmen stationed near the East gate of the city. “'Orrible it is! Just 'orrible!”

The sergeant wondered why all the horrible things in town always seemed to happen just as his shift was about to end, and stood up with a sigh. “What is it, Rodney? Don't tell me someone's gone and murdered one of your tenants.”

Rodney either didn't hear the sergeant's stillborn attempt at humor or chose to ignore it. “Sir, it's one of the old tombs, it is! Some godawful creature is in there right now, a'feastin' on something awful! I 'eard it a'screechin' and a'howlin' down there, I swears I did!”

Being made of firmer stuff, the guardsmen took the groundskeeper's report with a large grain of salt and went to inspect the grave. If anything, they expected to find some poor sod attempting to rob one of the antediluvian tombs – not some horrible beast as the groundskeeper swore was still inside, gnashing its unclean teeth and howling fit to raise the dead. Rodney refused to accompany the guardsmen back to the grave, but provided the watchmen with directions. On arriving, the sergeant in charge confirmed that the mound had been dug into in what appeared to be a very hurried manner, probably during the night before. It was utterly silent, however. He sent the two younger recruits into the ground to investigate (rank hath its privileges, the sergeant thought smugly); but when they returned, they came out bearing only the limp form of young Alayn Gram. The Count's son was still alive and breathing, but seemed to be in the throes of some powerful dream. The sergeant caught muttered references to “darkness”, “Farath”, and “ruins”. Along with the young man, a leather satchel was brought out. The bag contained several candles, flint and steel, and a book which appeared to have been burned from the inside out. The sergeant quickly sent for a covered wagon, swore his men to secrecy and had Alayn returned to the manor posthaste. The groundskeeper was merely told that the tomb was empty, and the graverobbers had likely fled. Alayn regained consciousness shortly before arriving back at the manor, and refused to answer any questions about his purposes in the tomb.

The Count was furious. He knew that despite the watch's best efforts, tongues would eventually wag, and rumors of his son's necrotic misadventure would begin to spread. No amount of railing, pleading, cajoling or demanding was successful in loosening Alayn's tongue regarding what had happened last night. All the young man would say is that the trip was not what it seemed, and that he regretted being caught. Gram threw the burned journal down on the table in front of Alayn, hoping to get at least some reaction from the sullen boy – and indeed, it seemed to work.

“That...” Alayn slowly picked up the book, and leafed through the charred stumps that remained attached to the spine. “Years of study... how...?”

Gram grabbed the book and pitched the sorry remains into the fireplace. Alayn started to rise his feet with a squawk of protest, but the Count slapped him across the face, hard. Alayn collapsed back into his chair, mouth hanging agape as he watched the leather cover blacken and burn in the fire.

“You young, fucking idiot,” Gram snarled, fists clenched at his sides. “You sit there and you listen. You don't want to tell me what you were up to. You can't explain why you were found inside a tomb, surrounded by candles and gods know what else, scaring the locals out of their wits. Fine. But I will NOT allow you do drag this family's name through the mud. Not after all the work your forefathers did to get us where we are today.” Alayn said nothing, only stared at the surface of his father's desk with eyes vacant of emotion.

Gram sat down in his chair, running his hands through his hair pensively. “Maybe a large part of the blame is on me. I let you indulge your interests and didn't take enough of an interest of my own in your upbringing.” He cast a glance at Alayn, but got no response. “Well... what's done is done. But no more.”

Gram picked up a letter from his desk and turned it over in his hands absentmindedly. “You have a fine mind, Alayn. I can only think that life here in our little Chernsburg has penned it in, made it turn down unnatural paths. So... For the good of the family, and the good of your future, I'm sending you off to Chrysopolis.” He tossed the letter down on the desk in front of his son, who looked up in shock.

“Chrysopolis? No, no...! I cannot, not now. I have too many things I must do here, father!” Alayn pushed the letter away, his mouth twisted in revulsion. “I swear to you, I... I was not myself last night. It shall never happen again, but I must not leave!”

“You don't have a choice in the matter, son. With you gone away to the capital, it'll be easier for the locals to forget this little... incident. And I meant what I said – you need a place where you can put your mind to good use, and Chernsburg is simply not it.” The Count pushed the letter back. Alayn made to shove it away again, but Gram seized his wrist in a grip of stone. “This letter will see to it that you are admitted into the Kairos Bureau of Exploration. From what I understand, they're looking for men of your talents to help expand the Kingdom's knowledge about our lands. Expeditions, artifacts, all sorts of things. And best of all,” Gram said in a soft voice, staring into Alayn's narrowed eyes, “you'll be far, far from here. Now. Will you be going willingly, or does the good Captain need to take you to Chrysopolis over his saddle?”

In the end, after a few more halfhearted protests, Alayn had left for the capital. Gram had received regular reports since then on his son's exploits – Alayn had indeed taken to his new career like a fish to water. The leaders of the bureau were amazed at how much Alayn seemed to know about the various nations and civilizations which had once inhabited the land within the borders of Kairos and An Loch. He was always keen to go on the riskiest expeditions, and had an uncanny knack for discovering truly unique artifacts and tomes wherever he went. The last Gram had heard, Alayn was out on an expedition into the far west, out beyond even the borders of An Loch. And yet, here he was, back in Chernsburg for the signing of a peace treaty, nearly three years to the date of his ignoble departure.

Yes indeed, thought Gram, as prepared to welcome the Dukes, his estranged son, and who knew how many spies, assassins and sycophants into his home for the evening, give me a good fight any day.

Chapter 13: A Party to Die For

What a fucking waste of time.

For the dozenth time, Armand tried to surreptitiously scratch his ass through his uniform trousers and failed. The damnable things were stiff as a board, how in the hell did anyone ever fight in these things? What he wouldn't give for his old hunting leathers right now. Sure, they're a bit dirty, but at least a man could move without feeling like his balls were being sanded off...

“Quit fidgeting, man,” Duke Ralen muttered. “You're a bodyguard, try to look the part.”

Armand manged a stiff nod and folded his arms across his chest. “Sorry, your Grace. Just a bit rough in the nether-regions. Won't happen again.”

The Duke rolled his eyes and moved off into the crowd. Armand ground his teeth and followed to the Duke's left. Damn their bloody dinner, damn their bloody protocol, and damn these bloody trousers, thought Armand, as his eyes roved around the crowd of mincing nobles, fat merchants and washed-out old whores. Bodyguard my ass. There's not a one of these little shits that's got a violent bone in their body. But then his eyes fell upon their special “guest”, and even Armand couldn't help but repress a small shudder. But that one... little fucker makes my skin crawl.

At first glance, Alayn was unremarkable. Average height, slim build, perhaps a bit bookish. He dressed better than a commoner, but didn't care overmuch for whatever the current fashions were. He wore drab colors, and was somewhat disheveled. His hands were long-fingered, delicate - almost effeminate. But they were each marred by a pair of scars, running across the full width of his palms. He was clean shaven, and wore his long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

It was the eyes which made Armand uncomfortable. Not the color; Alayn had the same dark brown eyes that his father did. He didn't tend to stare (usually had his nose buried in a book); nor was either eye off-centered or lazy. No, it was the way he made you feel when he did look at you. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they looked at you – merchants calculated how much money might be in your purse, nobles (when they bothered to look down their high and mighty noses) looked to see where you fell in the social order, soldiers looked at your gear and planned out how they could kill you. Alayn did none of those things. Armand wasn't much good at thinking in metaphors, but if he had been, he would have said that a bull probably felt the same way about a butcher sizing him up for steaks, hide and bones. Alayn didn't look at people, he looked at things. And right now, that emotionless gaze was fixed on Count Gram.

Old codger has some stones, Armand admitted. If the little creep was looking at me like that, I'd be drawing steel. And indeed, Gram seemed to be paying little mind to his estranged son – chatting amiably with Duke Richfort despite Alayn's soulless gaze boring into him. Armand's hand absently checked the hilt of his dagger (one of many), making sure it was loose in his sheath as Duke Ralen walked up beside the Count.

“...treaty should do us good in the long run, though.” Duke Richfort broke off, looking over his shoulder as Ralen approached the group. “Ah, speak of the devil and so he shall appear. Duke Ralen, it's good to see you.” Ralen raised an eyebrow as he reached out to clasp Richfort's proffered hand. “Am I the devil then, Duke Richfort? I hope you don't actually believe those old Ashford legends?”

“What, the one about your great great grandaddy being born of a daemon?” Richfort laughed heartily, and Ralen smiled in return. Eyes aren't smiling though, Armand thought as he watched the exchange from the side. “No Duke, these are enlightened times. Daemons and goblins be damned for the stories they are," Richfort concluded with a wink.

A soft, rasping voice cut through the Duke's laughter like a rusty blade. “There are stories, and there are... stories, gentlemen.” The three nobles turned toward Alayn, who had sidled up to send beside his father. Gram offered a faint frown of distaste, but stood aside to make room for his son in the circle. “For each story there is a grain of truth. Why, my father's own lands have such tales aplenty. Perhaps no devils, but the lands to the south were once considered... sacred." Armand watched as Alayn turned his head toward a window, and seemed to be... sniffing? How the hell did we get saddled with this lunatic? The boy shuddered slightly, licked his lips, and continued. "Certain rites and celebrations were held there. More importantly, there is reason to believe that some artifacts from those rites may be there still.”

“Still the same old tales, I see.” Gram shook his head. “And here I thought some time spent in Chrysopolis would wean you from those childish fancies.”

For a split second, Armand saw a flash of emotion cross Alayn's dead eyes – utter, unreasoning rage. But before he could react (the thought that he would have to cut the boy down before the little madman went for someone's throat certainly crossed his mind) Duke Richfort's boisterous laughter rolled across the room. “Fancies? Gram, your son here is one of the Capital's best-known and respected researchers! How many ruins have you uncovered this year alone? Seven?”

Alayn visibly regained his composure. “Seven? Ten, your Grace. But the numbers are unimportant.”

“And these southern lands,” Gram asked, skepticism still dripping from every word. “No doubt they have ruins of their own?”

“Oh yes. Although the forests have reclaimed much, the lands have not forgotten the ones who once built their cities beneath the stone.”

“Oh, wonderful. Perhaps these stone folk are the ones that burned my settlement to the ground then, eh?” Alayn said nothing, only stared at the Count for a handful of seconds. Gram finally turned away in disgust, and Alayn slunk back to his table in the corner after a halfhearted nod to the two Dukes.

And stay there, you creepy little shit...

“Speaking of your settlement, Count, I do have news you may find interesting.” Duke Ralen gestured toward the stairs up to the Count's personal study. “Duke Richfort, you should hear this news as well. But perhaps not where there are so many eyes and ears, eh?”

Gram frowned, and darted a questioning look at Duke Richfort. Richfort's gaze moved over to Armand, and this was clearly a type three look – the Duke was checking him for weapons and evaluating the threat. Armand did his best to appear bored, which required almost no acting on his part whatsoever. Finally, Richfort nodded. “Alright, lets talk. But leave the cutter down here, Ralen.” Ralen returned a cold smile, but gestured for Armand to remain where he was. The three men headed upstairs to the study.

Armand sauntered over toward one of the windows in the hall, grabbing a bit of food from one of the tables on the way. He munched on a haunch of roast hare as he gazed out at the rooftops of Chernsburg's central district. Year ago, I'd have been happier than a pig in shit in this town. All those posh houses, money just waiting for someone to come in and walk off with it. A wry grin crossed his face. But why just steal a few trinkets when you can have the whole town, eh?

There, a deeper shadow up against a roofline a couple of blocks away. Jared was in position. Armand very deliberately crossed his arms across his chest, then raised his right hand to scratch at his ear. The shadow on the rooftop vanished.

Armand grabbed a mug of ale from a passing servant and raised it high. “Lords, ladies and gentlefolk of Chernsburg! A glass to your health!” A few of the guests returned a hearty cheer, but most of the nobility graced him with a type two look – clearly putting him in the “scum and filth” stratum of society. Armand shrugged and drained his mug in a single pull.

Oh well, fuck 'em.

He grabbed another mug as the first cries of alarm filtered in from outside, where a flickering orange glow was beginning to dance in through the windows.

And fuck their health, too.

Finally, the party was about to get interesting.

I'm really enjoying this story - thanks for sharing.

Chapter 14: Homecomings

“If you'd asked me a week ago whether I'd be glad to see the Chernsburg slums again, I'd have laughed in your face.”

William shook his head wryly as he and Edward approached the west gate into the city. Twilight had settled over the land, but the gates remained open for the festival which was just hitting its stride inside. “But a brush with death does amazing things for one's appreciation of the familiar.”

Edward grunted noncommittally. His earlier good mood had evaporated some miles back, and the shacks could burn for all he cared. Burning... His mind wandered back to the tavern that used to stand not far from here. The sound of the bolt striking that fat slob of an innkeep... the crackle of the flames...

“ED! Snap out of it, man!”

Peregrinous came out of his reverie with a start, realizing the sound of the inferno wasn't just in his mind – orange and yellow tongues were dancing along the rooftops on the other side of the wall! Good Ao, Ralen wasn't wasting a minute, was he? He quashed a sudden fit of laughter, and began to run toward the gates. “Move it, Belleme! We've got to get to the Count! He needs to know about Bardorbis!”

“You go, Ed! I'm still pulling up lame from two days ago, I'd just slow you down! I'm going to check on my family and I'll meet you at the manor!”

The Baron snarled and briefly considered ending William's life right there – what was one more body to lay at Bardorbis' feet? But no... the bastard still could be more use alive as a witness than dead. Giving Belleme a curt nod, Ed turned and ran off toward the center of town.

William did not care for the look in Ed's eyes, not one bit. Injured or not, he made haste toward his family's home in the southern quarter. Something here wasn't right, and he'd be damned if his family paid the price again.

Huddled down into the hollow between two chimneys, Jared looked out across Chernsburg and allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction. Flames were reaching hungrily into the night from several spots in the city, both in the Richfort and Ralen delegations' parts of town. Panicking nobles and merchants thronged the streets, squawking like chickens and shouting orders at the City Watchmen. The Watchmen weren't doing anything useful either – with their Captain out of town and the gentry's spittle-flecked jowls flapping a mile a minute, they were largely milling about trying to respond to everything and accomplishing nothing. Perfect.

Jared unlimbered his bow and selected an arrow from his quiver – the fletchings were blue and red. And sure enough, there was his target, perfectly silhouetted in a second story window. The Count appeared to be gesturing at the distant fires angrily, while two stockier shadows stood to his side – likely the Dukes themselves. With a smooth practiced motion, Jared raised his bow, drew the nocked arrrow back to his cheek, aimed and loosed. By the time the sound of the window shattering reached the rooftop, Jared was already nowhere to be seen.

“...and the canes were everywhere, mom, it was – “

A pounding at the outer door interrupted Trug in the middle of his tale. Emily shot Trug a warning glance as she rose to head out into the entryway. She hefted a stout ash walking stick from a stand by the door, and stood well clear as she called out, “Who is pounding on my door at this hour? State your business or be gone!”

Trug had crept across to his room where his swordbelt lay tangled in a heap of clothes at the foot of his bed. He couldn't hear the caller's response.

“You son of a BITCH!”

Trug half-drew his sword as he ran out through the den toward his mother's voice, and heard the walking stick clatter to the ground. He rounded the corner as Emily threw open the door and all but dragged in the disheveled, beaten form of... his father?

Trug barely heard the clatter of his sword and scabbard hitting the hardwood floor. He stood watching, slack-jawed, as his mother seemed to be having trouble deciding whether to hug, strangle or kiss her husband of the last 12 years. William had no such trouble. He pulled Emily into his arms, and held on as though he would never let go again.

“Em... I am so, so sorry...”

“Sorry?” Emily let out half a sob, half laugh. “What are you sorry about, you damned fool? Not being in a cane's belly somewhere in that bloody wilderness you love so much? I'm just glad you're home, Bill...”

Trug wiped his sleeve across his eyes roughly – the candle smoke must have been his vision. He ran up and threw his arms around both of his parents.

“Dad... father! You're alive!”

William smiled and tousled Trug's hair. “Glad to see you made it too, son.” With a pained wince, he disengaged from the family embrace. “Sadly, I need to cut our reunion short.”

“What the devil are you talking about, Bill? You just got home!”

William shook his head. “There's a lot to tell and not much time. Captain!”

Captain Dumorne stepped in and nodded to Emily and Trug. “Your father's right, Chernsburg isn't safe for you anymore. We've got to get you both out of town, tonight.”

Emily pressed her lips together tightly, and her brows knitted. Trug knew that face well, and it never boded anything but ill for whomever she directed it at. “Now I'm not dragging our boy out on the road in the middle of the night without so much as an explanation! Do you hear me, Bill?”

William nodded tiredly, but didn't budge from his spot by the door. “You'll get an explanation, I promise. But on the road. I have to stay here and see the Count, but the Captain here has a team ready to take you and Trug up to Chrysopolis. I'm lucky I ran into him on the way here, truth be told. You don't have time to pack, you just need to go. I'll follow as soon as I can, I promise you.”

Emily saw darkness lurking in William's eyes, and her rage began to drain out of her. She wished it hadn't – fear began to creep in to fill the void. She picked up the walking stick with an unsteady hand, and nodded. “Very well. But I won't lose you again, William de Belleme. I'll drag you back from death myself if I have to.”

Bill smiled and pulled Emily close, one last time. “I don't envy the denizens of the astral plane if you come in there looking, Em.”

Trug grimaced and looked away as the couple leaned in for what was sure to be a lingering, soulfelt kiss. Disgusting.

Captain Dumorne pointed down at Trug's fallen sword belt. “Put that on, lad. We've got weeks on the road ahead, and you might need it. If nothing else, I'll see to it that you learn how to use it without cutting off your own arm.”

Trug buckled on the belt and followed his the trio of adults out into the street, where a carriage was waiting. He felt oddly detached, but emotions were sloshing madly around in his gut. His father was alive! ...but he had to leave him behind, again. William opened the carriage door and helped Emily inside, then Trug. He leaned in the door and gave them each one more long, hard look – as though he wanted to etch the memory in his mind forever.

“I'll see you both in Chernsburg, hopefully in a month's time. And whatever happens, do not trust anyone other than the Captain and each other. Understood?”

“Yes, but Bill, what is – “

“No time, love, Dumorne will tell you what I know. Ao bless both of you, I'll see you soon, I promise!”

The carriage door swung shut, the team pulled, and the Belleme family were pulled apart once again.

William made haste to the Count's manor, arriving as the beleaguered Watch was just beginning to get the fires under control in the rest of the city. He was able to pass through the outer cordon of guards easily enough – the local lads all knew him and let him in. But when he got past the outer walls, he was brought up short by a man wearing the livery of Duke Ralen. The fellow looked vaguely familiar, but it was likely just the uniform.

“Sergeant, I need to get inside right away and see the Count.”

“No one in the Manor tonight, peasant. Count's orders. Shouldn't you be putting out the fires in your hovel or something?”

William felt a flush rising to his cheeks, but managed to choke down his temper. An Loch soldiers loved to get a rise out of Kairosi, and he'd be damned if he was going to give this git the satisfaction.

“Just tell the Count that William de Belleme is here to see him,” William said through clenched teeth. “It's urgent.”

The man let out a low whistle. “Belleme, is it? Sorry sir, didn't recognize you in those... clothes.” The bastard had a glint in his eye as he ran his gaze over the tattered remnants of William's garb. “Wait here.”

A few minutes later, the sergeant returned and gestured for William to come inside the Manor. When they reached the landing outside of the Count's study, the man grabbed William by the arm and leaned in close.

“Now, be very careful talking to the Count, bumpkin. His lordship is understandably distraught.” He pushed the door open and walked William in, hand still grasping his arm above the elbow.

“Distraught? What is he...”

“My father lies dead in his own house, murdered,” a cold voice declaimed. “And my advisor tells me you know why.”

William's face drained of all color as he saw the tableau in front of him. Count Gram lay on the floor in a pool of blood, the shaft of an arrow standing out from the ruin of his eye. His son, Alayn, knelt next to him, his hands similarly spattered with gore. Dukes Ralen and Richfort stood off to the side, conversing in low tones.

And behind Alayn stood Baron Peregrinous, contriving to look somber, but with that same light of mad glee flashing in his eyes that had so disturbed William earlier.

William knew then that his life was about to get far more complicated. And likely far shorter.

And with that, Gables & Garrotes comes to a close. Going to be giving the story a break for a bit while I work on other projects, but I'll be getting to the next leg of Trug's journey sooner or later.

Hope you've all enjoyed it, and I really do appreciate all the feedback from those who've offered it.

I'm sorry to hear you're taking a break for now. It's truly been an engaging story. You're very good at this, and have a created a dynamic story that begs to be told. Be sure to let me know when/if you write more.

I think I'll go back and read all the way through it again now. Since I had to read it in segments I've nearly forgot the beginning. ;)

Posted By Torque at 3:46 PM - Thu Dec 15 2016

I'm sorry to hear you're taking a break for now. It's truly been an engaging story. You're very good at this, and have a created a dynamic story that begs to be told. Be sure to let me know when/if you write more.

I think I'll go back and read all the way through it again now. Since I had to read it in segments I've nearly forgot the beginning. ;)

I'm really glad you enjoyed it, Torque! As to future writing, I'm in the midst of writing the lore for the Kingdom of Kairos, so stay tuned for that in January. Different characters, but I promise a good yarn.