Session 3
session #3
Osilem, 24th of Syet – 564 H.E.
Tyrus woke with the sun as was customary for him. Trusting Gus’ food supplies to still be ample, he decided to forego his usual morning hunting expedition. Rather he chose to dedicate some time to shaping some arrowheads for the up-coming journey. He crept from the old Stilwell home where he’d squatted for the night and headed north to where he knew out-croppings of shale could be unearthed. Though still overcast, Osiris (1) had granted a temporary reprieve from the rain. The hillman knew it was still too warm for snow. But soon, soon a cold snap would come as it always did – welcoming winter, ushering snow, sleet, and ice. It would seem relentless in those dark months.
Enjoying the last days of autumn, the outdoorsman found one of his favorite places to think and relax. A small brook could be heard playing through the rock, not far away, running to meet its end at Black River. A large moss-padded rock emerged from the hard earth as if still being sculpted by tree roots, which clung to its sides in unyielding embrace. In the shadows of the birch trees, atop the stone he folded his thick legs and leaned his back to the wood, letting the cool sounds of Shu’s (2) whispers and Tefnut’s (3) babbling resound melodiously to the whistles of Osiris’ faithful. He found comfort in the solitude and eased his mind as the rest of the morning slipped away, broken only by the occasional rhythmic crack of rock.
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Adair also woke early and dutifully led the sheep to the pastures south of town. There, he occasionally shared fields with Van Feicht another Kendrit shepherd who leased Valinson land. Van was slightly older than the popular crop of late teens in Kendrit. A contemporary of Harden and trapped in between generations, Van often sought out the companionship of those younger, unlike the deputy who enjoyed the company of his elders. Van, eight seasons Adair’s senior, still enjoyed much of the talk and activities of the young. On this particular morning they shared adjacent fields. The two exchanged pleasantries and chatted awhile.
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Wrenchard awoke his muscles sore from the prior night’s martial training. It was good. It reminded him of more exciting days gone by; days of life, of energy, of nerves, of fear; not death, waiting, dying, and wasting. He felt alive. Swinging his legs out of bed sharp pains shot from his calves to his thighs. He had forgotten how much practice could hurt. It was good. Outside he heard his beloved Annabelle’s screaming excitement. A grin barely graced his lips before the sounds of his petulant wife scolding his eldest daughter wiped the proud smile clean away, forgotten. Wrenchard still had no resolution to the great burden, which he bore upon himself. Forlorn, he dressed and descended his worn staircase to seek out a late breakfast. Passing Jebediah’s room, he noted a raspy cough rumbling therein.
He joined Constance at the table for steak, eggs and oatbread with fresh whipped goat-butter. She greeted him warmly with an affable smile, rising as he moved to sit down. When he inquired as to her brother’s whereabouts she reported her sibling’s sudden bout of illness. Jebediah had come down with a light variant of the bog flu and would be requiring rest for the day. She alleviated any fears that Wrenchard may have had about the seriousness of the condition, reassuring him that it was quite common amongst those who’d taxed themselves while traveling and it was not contagious.
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The Fawkes boy rolled over in his half-sleep still struggling with his clothes and clutter for position on his bed. The military fork it seemed had led a mutiny and Jonas flopped onto the floor awaking with a start. He looked bleary-eyed at the victors up on the bed and sat up to avoid the light that poured in through the window shutters. Whether his father had let him sleep, or whether Isaiah had been waved off by Jonas or the mattress revolutionaries, he did not know. He shambled to the kitchen where he washed down some old oatcakes with goat’s milk.
Jonas figured that he’d go to visit his favorite avuncular figure, Van Feicht, and headed out toward the grazing grounds just south of town. Arriving there he found his friend to be stretching in the field. Unable to resist the opportunity, Jonas tumbled over the awkwardly positioned man shouting a greeting as he temporarily eclipsed Van’s view of the sky above. Coming up from a forward somersault, Jonas embraced his tutor’s hand. Van often spent time in the pastures teaching himself to juggle, tumble, walk on his hands and fall from trees. They were kindred spirits and Jonas had spent many days with Van Feicht learning similar skills. The shepherd would annually perform shows in the commons for the town during the Festival of Isis (4), and included the younger Fawkes into his routines. Van unconditionally encouraged Jonas in everything he did and truly believed in the young man. Van Feicht was Jonas’ best friend.
They shook hands, and from afar Adair could see the two chatting, laughing and sharing stories as well as challenges. It was a common sight to the young shepherd boy, but he was somewhat envious of the deeper friendship. Adair turned his gaze back to the sparsely crowned hills southward. Only a few hours before he’d seen the tail column of about a dozen men cresting a hill two small valleys away. Judging now by the roiling dust to be seen just beyond the most immediate hill, the last one between the riders and Kendrick, it’d be an hour now, no more.
Jonas and Van approached the base of the barren deciduous Adair rested in, whittling away the time. From his slightly better vantage he called down what he’d seen. His report had struck a sense of urgency in Jonas who sprinted back to town.
Minutes later the youngest militia member arrived at the sheriff’s house/office, leaning in the open doorway he drew up, catching his breath. Mr. Cronk waited patiently for the boy, assuming he knew what was coming next.
“Sturgis! A dozen armed and armored riders are heading to town from the south! I think we should alert the militia, but not everyone so they won’t panic.”
Sturgis armed himself with a heavy crossbow from a meager cache of weapons in the office and did just that, urging Jonas to keep a cool head upon returning to his post in the south fields. Before leaving, Jonas took one last deep breath, swiped a light crossbow from the wall mounts, a quiver of bolts and adrenaline fed muscles carried him at full tilt back to where his friends waited.
The clatter of Jonas came stumbling by the Valinson home disturbing those without and in. Tyrus had just emerged after leaving his fistful of arrowheads with Wrenchard who’d be fletching the shafts supplied by Gerald. The hillman would have laughed at the sight if he didn’t realize the seriousness of the situation. He moved around behind Wrenchard’s house to holler at the bumbling young man. Jonas didn’t hear Tyrus as he attempted to scoop up the bolts that kept obeying gravity, all the while continually tucking the slippery crossbow over his shoulder, as he ran in an awkward bent position. Unresponsive to the ranger’s yells, Jonas grabbed what composure and equipment he could and kept running.
Wrenchard opened the sitting room shutters and called out to Tyrus who was now chasing after the man. The two attempted to hold a loud conversation over the 300-foot distance. Neither could discern much of what the other was shouting. Constance, drawn to the commotion, entered the room able to see the futility in what Tyrus and Wrenchard were attempting.
Inquisitive, she could not resist, “What is going on? Jebediah is fast asleep but he might not be for long with all this noise.”
“There is some trouble by the pasture. Jonas is running, going to shoot himself or something.” Wrenchard realized the nonsense of the statement, silently hoping she didn’t.
“Wolves among the sheep?”
Wrenchard now realized that Constance had been left uninformed as to what had been transpiring. “I doubt it, Adair mentioned men approaching yesterday.”
Wrenchard closed the shutters and began to outfit himself with arms and armor. Constance, naught else to do, asked to tag along. Wrenchard nodded his assent, suggesting that she make the same preparations. Thinking better of it, the Groomer girl just waited for her host.
The two trotted out to the edge of town.
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Jonas near collapsed from exhaustion once he got back to Adair’s tree. As it turned out Van too had left shortly after Jonas; Adair minded the sheep. Shortly thereafter Tyrus arrived handing four bolts that Jonas had dropped back to him. Wrenchard and Constance caught up to the group in time to hear Adair’s report. Tyrus ran off almost immediately to do an end-around via the river, wanting to come up behind the riders. Jonas turned on the two newest arrivals.
“What is she doing here?” He asked Wrenchard with incredulity and then turned to Constance. “What are you doing here? This is no place for you.”
“What do you mean?” Constance seemed genuinely confused.
“Those could be a Menovian raiding party.” Jonas gestured with a fistful of bolts towards the nearest hill. Dust billowed from behind it.
“So?” came her reply.
“You know what they do…” Jonas thought his suggestion was enough and distractedly eyed the hilltop warily.
Constance only returned a blank stare.
Now more anxious, “…to young women, uh, old women, any women.”
Wrenchard motioned Constance to join him over to where he’d located a secluded hiding spot amongst some low-lying brambles and scrub. Standing out in the open to welcome trouble would be no good. Constance hustled to him, and a thoroughly frustrated Jonas hid behind Fatty Lumpkins (5) in the flock of sheep. Not to be too conspicuous Adair climbed down from the tree and acted as a shepherd boy, not a very hard feat for the young man.
Time stood still and the ominous heralding quiet blanketed the fields. The four remained still, silent, three not daring to budge, peek, shift or speak – to be discovered attempting to hide would surely raise unwanted questions.
A stone’s age later, the companions all felt it: the resonating rumble rising through the earth. The shod horse hoofs thundered. Yet they remained unseen. The companions all heard it: the thunderous gallop of heavy burdens borne by swift mounts, steeds of strength, endurance, and speed. Yet still they remained unseen. It was almost unbearable for Jonas. Wrenchard and Constance froze nearly holding their breath. And suddenly it all ceased.
Adair saw what the others could only hear. A single man led his mount to the pinnacle of the hill. He paused, leaving the mount, and slowly, methodically paced the entirety of the peak. Eyes intent upon the ground, for minutes he’d squat, listen, examine, peer at the town and pace some more. Only the sounds of creaking leather from the shifting horse broke the silence. It was obvious that the tall blonde man was searching for something. Adair had seen this behavior in Tyrus before. The lightly armored stranger did not even give Adair a second glance, focused he looked back to the town, eyed the ground and remounted.
As if in answer to Adair’s curiosity, he could now see the lone man for what he really was – lead scout of half score men who now came riding up behind the tall, loose pony-tailed, tracker. The ten riders spread across the hill’s crest. All seemed eager as they shifted in their saddles below the weights of their mismatched armors and helmets, adjusting all manner of weaponry and shielding. These ten men lacked uniforms, standards, tunics or heraldry. The only quality Adair could see that they did share was their lack of standard outfitting.
As they fanned across the hilltop, two of the ten men rode forward to speak with the only unhelmed individual, the blonde man adorned in a chain shirt who rested a heavy crossbow with some odd box-like attachment that jutted from its belly at an odd angle, in the elbow of his bent arm. A morningstar and shield were secured to the side of his mount. The scout half-turned his mount at the approach of the two men.
The first to approach started to speak though Adair had no means to tell what they were saying. He was an athletically built and well-defined man laden in scale mail and a side-burned helm that boasted protective leather flaps for the ears and neck. He wore a sheathed longsword and what must have been an ornate dagger. This gleaned from a decorative scabbard it was in. A red bordered shield broken into three black fields hinted details of silver across the distance.
Just behind the speaker a smaller, pear-shaped man in chainmail nodded his agreement to what the first man must be saying. This man’s reactions were obscured beneath his point-tipped cap helm. He held aloft a heavy lance, positioned at an awkward angle so as not to disturb the half spear lashed to his back. Adair could make out the shape of an ankh painted in black on the man’s small ovoid shield.
The sundry mix of men, arms, armor and mounts waiting behind echoed down into the valley. Tell-tale sounds of metals and leathers escaped into the still clammy air. The conversation atop the hill broke and with a slight gesture from the scale-armored man, the patchwork band poured down the slopes quickly closing the last gap to Kendrick. As Adair stood enrapt in some horrid from of wonderment and awe he relayed what he saw, loudly, to his hidden companions. Confirming all suspicions, he was sure these were Menovians.
Whether he was too loud or the lead scout had exceptional hearing the shepherd boy did not know. But it was enough for him to give pause, reigning in his mount. Adair clamped his lips so tight, all color faded from them. He had been noticed. In an instant he was examined and judged; the scout in the chain shirt rode on. The more well armored warriors followed in suit one of which spat in Adair’s direction in passing.
The flock of sheep disturbed by the horses thundering past moved as of a single mind, trying to distance themselves. Jonas duck-walked, precariously balanced, in motion while struggling to keep his secrecy intact. Within hour-long seconds the column had passed the sheep pasture where all were ensconced, leaving the Kendrits to their speculations.
Time flew forward, doubling to make up for the pace it had lost. Adair spotted Tyrus coming over the hill the riders had just descended. Jonas hopped up and hurtling fleeced backs sprinted towards town. Wrenchard trotted up the hill, passing Tyrus quietly, while Constance walked to where Adair stood still absorbing the action.
Tyrus continued past Constance and Adair, hustling after Jonas they presumed. Wrenchard mounted the hill, shielded his eyes from Ra’s blinding light and scoured the landscape below for any sign of a rear guard. Satisfied that any such unit must still be far away, for he saw nothing, he returned to the shepherd boy and the mid-teen girl.
In a hushed tone he leaned in on her, glancing about furtively, “Constance, when you and your brother left Menovia did you have any reason to believe that you’d be hunted or followed?”
She seemed to cast about in the long pause it took for her to answer. “I have no reason to think so.”
Citing wisdom as the better part of valor, the war hero bid Constance to return to his manor and hide his wife and children beneath the home in their root cellar. Heeding his words she did so and the trio hustled back to town, Adair and Wrenchard continuing to the commons.
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Here the riders were dismounting, stowing large weaponry and packs, securing saddlebags, and stretching their legs. Easily followed, Jonas had caught up to them as they began to move away from their steeds. Not yet wanting to be spotted he quick ducked behind a house and tried to lean out from the partial cover, spying on the arrivals. Tyrus started circumventing the warriors, wishing not to be seen, and headed toward the north end of the town - and the back of the pub – skirting the breach.
Wrenchard approached the area where Jonas paced about trying to look. Adair flattened against a house. Wrenchard whispered to him, “Jonas, any ideas?”
Jonas was curt, “Ideas about what?”
“Their intentions.”
Jonas was now mildly annoyed, whispering back heatedly out of the corner of his mouth without breaking eye contact with the ground, “They seem to be taking their weapons from their horses.”
The small group of Menovian irregulars made their way to the pub.
Adair and Jonas followed not too close behind, and flanked the front windows, within earshot of the action inside.
Wrenchard quickly picked his way across town, approaching the pub from the rear where he met Tyrus on the way in. Ali and Meg Hartigan were simultaneously hustling out the back, prompted by Gus. The two men let them pass then slipped in before the door closed, finding places to hide just inside of the open kitchen. Tyrus crouched behind a large stack of wood for the hearth. Wrenchard had an obscured view through the kitchen window from his kneeling position behind the dominating chopping block. Tyrus began to grow more and more agitated with each passing moment. He was uncomfortable and his anxiety was beginning to wear on his face, Wrenchard could see it.
With sudden clarity the ranger stopped fidgeting and made eye contact with the war-veteran. In a hushed voice he spoke across the kitchen’s open door frame. “Do you know how much alcohol is in this place right now?” he asked rhetorically. And with an exaggerated gesture, both hands spread wide, he mouthed a single word, ‘BOOM.’
Wrenchard stymied a snort and hung his head low, shaking his head in disapproval of the man’s zeal.
It became readily apparent that the men outside were thirsty and wished to begin their carousing. Gus entered the kitchen, calling back any and all satiating comments he could. Tyrus quietly caught his attention. Again knowing the effects of his uncle’s homebrew, he urged the pub-keeper to serve them all ‘the straight stuff’ in direct contradiction to his usual admonishments.
From the kitchen Tyrus could see a bit of the action as Gus returned and began to pour the root tonic into cups on the bar. The man dressed in scale-mail half turned to the rest of the crew and addressed them. Van Feicht had the misfortune of being seated next to where he stood at the bar.
“Let your hair down and enjoy yourselves men. You deserve it. But watch out for these country folk, they’re not all kindly mannered.” He prompted the pear-shaped man, sergeant Malchiah, to get up and begin distributing the refreshments. With a nod to his captain he did so. As they were both only little more than ten feet away now, Tyrus and Wrenchard got a good look at the two men.
Captain Sterling was of a taller more athletically muscled build. His helm now resting on the bar, they could see the thin brown beard that framed his mouth and face, accentuating his brown hair that parted in the center, and pushed back into a naturally curving s-wave. The man had sunken grey eyes highlighted by long eyelashes, the tiniest dimpled chin, and he tended to squint inexplicably. He held aloft his own cup with his effeminate hands while his sergeant passed the rest around.
Malchiah was thick-legged and thick-middled. Stubbly black facial hair patched with white shaded his face. Sausage-like, stubby, dirty fingers groped the cups, sloshing liquid as he moved about with a heavy nostrily exhale. The most prominent feature of his face was the noticeable slight dent in his wrinkled forehead. His greasy mid-length unkempt brown hair did little to hide it.
All the soldiers drank a toast to the words of their sergeant. “To Captain Sterling - what every Menovian officer should aspire to be.”
The tension in the room loosened some, as did the men’s lips and the volume in the pub increased. Wrenchard began rummaging through the catalogues of his mind to find the familiar sounding Menovian officer’s name. He was certain that he’d heard it once before.
Captain Sterling set down his own cup and called to Gus to pour him more. Other Menovian warriors found the tonic to their liking, though some took to watering it down instantly. While waiting for his refill, Sterling turned to the nearest Kendrit.
“You boy, stable my horses!” He shouted at Van; silence landed hard in the room like a rock.
Foolishly, Van turned slightly away, ignoring him.
“I said, stable our horses!” And with a pronounced swing, the captain brought up his left arm, bringing his gloved left hand to bear where Van’s face would have been had he not been so nimble. Though seated, Feicht was still able to sway backward dramatically, locking his legs into the stools’ for counterbalance and support. Sterling’s swipe went wide. The Menovians grumbled, a few stood, and steel could be heard leaving its sheath. Sterling fluidly brought his left arm back up, cuffing Van with a backhand, as the acrobatic shepherd was now returning forward as his maneuver dictated. The shepherd went sprawling.
Van regained his composure and wiped the blood from his mouth, licking some from his teeth, through which he seethed. Wordlessly, he crept out.
As the door closed behind him, the Menovians again embraced their revelry, as if nothing had happened.
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Jonas trailed after Van who started leading the horses from the commons, towards his barn. Realizing that if his friend had to stable all of the Menovian steeds then Van’s sheep would be forced to remain out of shelter for the duration, Jonas offered his own father’s barn for half of them.
“I’m gonna take a couple now, but could you bring the rest to my dad’s place for me when you are done bringing some to yours?” Jonas asked.
Van Feicht nodded, sullenly.
The would-be entertainer mounted one of the horses, and leading another, he cantered across town to his home where he grabbed up his lute and some other entertainment necessities. He left one of the horses there. Sack and instrument in hand he rode back and made his way to the pub.
In the meantime, duties needed to be tended to and Sturgis arrived to do his. Trailed by his deputy, the sheriff entered in rare form. Wrenchard recognized it immediately, when he had to do so Sturgis could fill out to an impressive size. The sheriff puffed his chest beneath his old banded mail and his already basso voice lowered two octaves. A peace-knot tied his long sword to his belt. Shield in hand, he crossed the entryway, trailed by Harden who, as always, was cool and collected. The Menovians stood in unison. Their reaction was not of greeting. They gripped hafts, hilts, handles and shafts. The mere sight of other armed and armored men seemed to set them at the ready, as barely tame dogs chomping at the bit. Sterling held out a hand to stave off their aggressions.
Sturgis introduced himself and his deputy, politely. If he was nervous it was hidden well. Harden draped a heavy crossbow - loaded - across his right shoulder casually. The deputy inquired as to the nature of the visit. Citing routine patrol, Sterling announced his plans for their estimated duration of stay. With the approach of Welcome Winter (6), a mere three days away, the Menovians would stay for the festivities before moving on. Not wishing to linger too long or stir up any suspicions, Sturgis absorbed what information he could and left, followed by Harden who grudgingly nodded at the sergeant.
Neither Tyrus nor Wrenchard could see the entirety of the action within the common room, but they had heard enough. So too did Adair who ran off to warn the townsfolk to hide away their loved ones and secure their doors. He got a bit held up at the miller’s where he was forced to endure the man’s ire toward Menovians.
“This is perfect,” the glimmer of malevolence radiated from his eyes, “we’ll give them what for this time.” Mahlon seemed to stare right through young Adair. “Go get Sheriff Sturgis and bring him back here.”
Adair was thinking of doing that very thing and graciously accepted the excuse to escape the man’s lunatic ranting. He wasted no time, passing the rusty old stocks to the sheriff’s office. By the time he arrived Sturgis and Harden were there discussing matters. Adair compounded their problems by informing them of the miller’s bravado. He then left to complete his rounds and return to the pub.
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Jonas tumbled in ready to begin the festivities for the Menovian irregulars. He boldly crossed the room and pulled a chair to his usual place by the front of the hearth.
“Hey! Welcome! Where you all from?”
After receiving the expected response, he struck up a song. “Old black water, keep on rollin’. Menovian mud gonna keep on risin’…” The men seemed to enjoy it.
After a few more tunes and a couple witty jokes, one involving the shortcomings of a Friar of Nephthys, Jonas misstepped. He had made a comment about the malevolence of Menovian officers and Setites. Sergeant Malchiah called him out.
“Fool, are you mocking our captain?” This squat man seemed eager to defend.
Always quick in wit and reply, the sly-tongued Fawkes never faltered. “Why would I do something like that? Anyway, I could only mock him if he were evil. And he is obviously an honorable and upstanding man.”
Jonas had Malchiah on the ropes; his head reeled unable to keep up with the flow of logic. The sergeant was mitigated; at least he thought so, “That he is.”
Jonas executed the verbal coup-de-grace, “Anyway, what do I know? I’m just a fool.”
And he played a light-hearted tune, displaying his mouth full of teeth. Across the room he noticed for the first time the scout that had led the Menovian party there. Only he seemed to have kept up with the banter and nodded at Jonas, smiling politely. He tossed a few silvers to the minstrel. Jonas recognized the handsome quality of the man instantly. He was pretty to the point of being almost detrimentally good looking. It put one on guard. Jonas noticed Gus secure away a sack of coins, presumably the tracker had paid for the Menovian soldiers’ fare.
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Wrenchard left his hiding place in the kitchen, coming around to enter the pub properly from the front. Tyrus trailed behind, waiting outside for an appropriate amount of time to pass before following in. They did not wish to be construed as entering together.
Wrenchard crossed the short distance from the door to the bar under heavy scrutiny. There he found engaging Captain Sterling easy. The two struck up conversation as the Kendrit waited for a mulled wine.
“Valinson, eh?” The old war-hero had introduced himself properly, and Sterling now looked up and to the right, accessing his own library of names. “Pleasure.” The captain extended his gloved hand.
“And might you be the alderman of this town?” asked Sterling. Malchiah got up and moved to join in the conversation.
“No. We have no alderman,” admitted Wrenchard.
Sergeant Malchiah appeared amused, echoing the admission, “No alderman?” He turned to the captain, “No alderman.”
“Well, we can’t have a town without an alderman,” Sterling noted facetiously. He pretended to be concerned. “Can I ask where your alderman is?” He asked Wrenchard.
Wrenchard thought for a few seconds while savoring his freshly arrived mulled wine. The conversation bore ill portent. He wanted to maneuver it to his advantage. “I was hoping you’d be able to answer that.”
Sterling relented in neither his derision nor his cynicism, “You don’t now where your alderman is?”
He did not seem to think this was readily believable.
Wrenchard continued flatly, “No he disappeared several weeks ago. I think he might have been abducted by bandits.
Sterling relished the badgering, “How many weeks ago?”
Wrenchard was glad to lure the man in, confirming the captain’s assumptions of all country folk being simple of mind. “Well, uh, actually six months ago.”
Wrenchard watched as the look of proud intellectual superiority emblazoned itself on the tall officer’s face. Sterling was overtly patronizing, “Well, fortunately for you, I am authorized to act as alderman in his absence.”
Wrenchard continued his dramatic display, Sterling too conceited and Malchiah too slow to realize what he was doing. “Oh,” he enunciated with feigned surprise, “why not appoint an alderman?”
The captain couldn’t believe the man was so stupid, snarling, “One has just been appointed. Me.” His expression turned to glee again just as quickly, “So, he must have had a stately home. You will take me there. But not now…”
Captain Sterling trailed off, forgetting Wrenchard as all the Menovians bristled at the sight of a fully armed and armored man entering the pub. Tyrus lingered in the entryway of the room, unsure of his direction. The warriors stood, a few drew weapons. Malchiah measured the caliber of the man. All eyes focused on the potential threat, Gus hustled to the end of the bar, calling out loudly.
“Son! C’mere, boy. How was the hunting? Scarce I see.” The round-nosed bartender gestured Tyrus back towards the kitchen. A few suspicions were alleviated. Once behind the bar, Gus ushered the woodsman into the back room. There the elder answered Tyrus’ questions. It was obvious that the blonde man was here of his own accord, asking around about a family, and passing out lots of money to Kendrits in the pub. Among those that had profited so far were Motie and Gerald.
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Meanwhile back at Wrenchard’s, Constance returned from having just been out to pasture with Mr. Valinson. There was some slight commotion downstairs and the muted sounds of voices carried up through the floor joices to waken Jebediah from his fevered half-sleep. Shortly thereafter, the voices faded away. Minutes later, Constance came in, "How are you feeling, Jebediah?"
"I think I am feeling better," Jebediah responded, trying to lift himself up from the bed. He swooned, forcing him to flop back down onto the bed with a groan.
"Try not to tax yourself, I have a feeling that we are not out of the woods yet." With uncanny insight, Jebediah could tell that she was proud of the analogy. "I'll need you rested."
"Alright dear heart, but I really am feeling better," he replied, reaching out for Constance’s hand and placing it on his head, which felt hotter than ever.
"No, you're not. You're still warm. Are you thirsty? Can I get you some water or steeped herbs?"
"Who is Herb? Is he one of Wrenchard's children?" Jebediah asked, before having a wet coughing fit that seemed to last minutes. When he was done he fell back on the bed, exhausted and in pain from the ordeal, his head spinning even more than it had been.
"You need to get your rest, we may yet need you to fight I'm afraid." Constance trailed off realizing that this was probably the last thing she should have suggested.
"Fight?" Jebediah echoed, and his eyes met his sister's. "What is going on?"
"Er, um..." She dabbed his forehead with a cool cloth wiping the sweat beaded on his brow. "It's nothing. I misspoke. Are you sure I can't get you something?"
"Ugh, everything aches. You look worried sister. I am going to be fine." He coughed deeply and spat into the bedpan. Jebediah looked up at the ceiling with a dazed look on his face. Clarity came back into his eyes for a moment and he added, "Put my weapons and armor under this bed. Better safe than sorry as mother always said."
A slight grin creased her lips at the mention of their mother, obviously recalling fond memories from more sedentary days. "I've already done so."
She stood up, leaving the bedside, crossing the room to the mantle to pour more water from the pitcher there.
"Besides, we have nothing to fear from a handful of Menovians,” she muttered to herself, barely audible enough for Jebediah to hear.
He lapsed back into a fitful slumber, his brow furrowed.
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Sterling seemed to remember Wrenchard again once Tyrus passed into the kitchen. Looking down at the man he began anew, “You will serve as my personal aide while I am here in town. Now make yourself scarce.” And he waived the simpleton off.
Wrenchard gladly obliged, smiling inwardly, for the Menovian proved to easy to manipulate. His hubris would be his undoing.
Jonas finished his set, and weaved between the tables collecting a few coppers in the cap helm he held out for donations. Excusing himself briefly, he headed outside.
Tyrus headed back out into the common room to cozy up to the tracker, who was still speaking quietly with Motie. Leaning over a cup of water, Tyrus waited for the diminutive loner to take his leave. Only minutes later, Motie did just that, rising, nodding to the fair stranger, and quickly making toward the door. Tyrus noticed him secret away a hefty pouch of coinage before he reached the doorway. Without delay, the hillman slid into the vacant chair which was still warm. The stranger seemed pleased for the company and offered to buy his newest acquaintance a drink.
After Tyrus introduced himself, so too did the pearly-toothed scout, “I am Canton Myle.” He extended his hand. Tyrus noted that besides the well-worn calluses, this man’s hands were a patchwork of scars. Traces of blisters, healed cuts, sealed skin, and discolored flesh all hinted at tales of trial and effort. They shook. Canton’s grip was firm.
He wasted no time in his inquiry, “Do you know of any strangers or visitors new to town?” He leaned back casually, his left arm draped over the back of the old, wooden chair. The heavy crossbow he’d brought in with him leaned against the base of the bar, only two feet out of his grasp.
“No, not for a long time.” Tyrus noticed the nonchalant motion, and redirected. “What is it you do?”
“I find things.”
“Do you hunt game?” asked Tyrus curious as to the appearance of the bigger man.
“Yes.”
The conversation was not proceeding as Tyrus had expected. He didn’t know what to expect, but he knew this wasn’t it. “Do you hunt men?”
“Do you eat men?” Canton replied cynically.
Tyrus asked rhetorically, “So you aren’t a bounty hunter?” He continued, “I thought you might be looking for someone who had done something wrong.”
Canton smirked a bit making Tyrus shift slightly in his seat. “Now, why would you say something like that?” Tyrus began to feel a little uneasy. The tracker now slid his right hand below the table, out of sight. Tyrus tensed ready for action. Canton’s hand came into view once more, cupping something above the table.
“Well, sometimes people pass through…drifters,” Tyrus offered.
The scout’s hand moved away revealing a small purse of coins, leaving it on the table top. Tyrus looked down at it. Canton watched the teenager do so and prompted, “But you said none for many moons…”
“That’s true,” Tyrus droned automatically still surveying the pouch. He reckoned that there had to be more coins in there than he’d ever seen. He was curious; he knew the value of coins. He wanted it. He resolved to get it.
Canton pressed the young ranger, “I found tracks at the top of the southern hill coming into town. A couple of tracks, that suggest otherwise.”
Tyrus looked up and was caught in the elder man’s stare. Again he felt uneasy. “Two tracks?”
There was that perfect smile again, “I never said, two” Canton emphasized shooting a wink at Tyrus who was now trying to figure out if he’d inadvertently given something up, or at least why this man was now acting as if he knew something, and what it was.
Tyrus quaffed his water. Frustrated by the verbal battery, Tyrus changed tack yet again. “So, are you from Menovia? Scales? What’s it like there?”
Canton seemed happy to allow Tyrus resume control of the conversation. “Well, I can take you there if you like. You could see for yourself. You know…with the right amount of money, you could start a new life there.” Canton sounded genuine.
Tyrus was confused. Not knowing what to do he stood up and excused himself. He quickly crossed the common room, bumping Valinson along the way, exited the pub and turned the corner, headed to the outhouse.
“Wrenchard! Where are you going?” Sterling hollered. He had noticed that his personal aide seemed to be taking leave of his own without permission.
The war-hero informed his new boss of his necessity that he needed use the facilities and made for the door. Wrenchard crowded into the small refuge with Tyrus. The two of them did their best to ignore the foul stench of festering feces. They spoke quickly in a hushed tone, Tyrus retelling as much as he could remember of the conversation he’d just escaped. The young hillman had determined that the tracker had only led the Menovian Irregulars to Kendrick and was operating independently on his own agenda. Wrenchard absorbed it all nodding, without interjection, so that the lad would speak hurriedly.
“He must be seeking escaped slaves or something,” Tyrus conjectured. “What else do they want people for in Menovia? And it has be Jebediah and his sister – who else is new in town? No one.”
Wrenchard did not reply, but merely rubbed his chin deep in thought.
“So, whaddya think? Should we turn him in…?” Tyrus asked, referring to Jebediah, “…and make our lives easier? Then maybe these guys’ll go away. At least this one and we’ll have less trouble.”
“Well, that may be so, but somehow I don’t think it’d be so easy. Besides, slavery is not legal in Rhondria, despite Menovian law and neither of the Groomers deserves to be returned to that.” Wrenchard lapsed back into thought.
“Well, I don’t know about all that, but I’ll tell you what I do know. Motie took quite a bit of coinage from Myle; and you know that he’s gonna turn them in. And this guy…this guy…well, he’s definitely smarter than I am. I’ll tell you that. It is only a matter of time before he tracks them to your place. So, I don’t know what you wanna do, but I like that crossbow he’s got.”
Wrenchard shook his head and proceeded to convince Tyrus that it wouldn’t be prudent to engage or provoke incident with either Canton Myle or any of the Menovian Irregulars at this time. The conspirators knew too little of what to expect or what they might be up against. Wrenchard wanted two things: more time and more information. He asked Tyrus to engage in a simple rouse in his next encounter with the man, and the ranger agreed.
Tyrus was the first to leave the outhouse returning directly to the pub.
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Jonas ran into Adair in front of the public house and quickly pulled the young shepherd boy into the nearby abandoned home where he had earlier stashed his gear. The Tatem house. Wrenchard, returning from the outhouse, spotted them and hurriedly joined them inside. Adair was briefed by both of the others as to what had been happening. Jonas was uneasy and broached what was on everyone else’s mind. He suggested trapping all of the Menovians in the Alderman’s house where they could be locked in and burnt alive in a raging inferno. With subtle manipulation, he figured that Wrenchard could coerce them there easily. Adair voiced no disagreement, but Wrenchard found the idea both extreme and heartless.
Uncharacteristically, Jonas recanted, “No you’re right. I think we can shelve the idea because once they rape and murder a few people you’ll come running back to me saying, ‘Jonas, what was that idea again?’”
Exasperated, Wrenchard only asked them to bide their time and trust in him. Then he left.
“Adair,” Jonas was unusually somber, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Have you ever killed a man?”
“No.”
“Neither have I.” The mere suggestion seemed to burden the already thick and stifling air of the musty old house.
“And, I don’t want to start now…” Adair trailed off and headed to the pub himself, leaving Jonas to his thoughts.
The young shepherd boy entered the common room and proceeded to the bar where he inconspicuously spoke with Gus for a while, getting as much of the story as he could.
Jonas, rolling over various scenarios in his mind, returned home to inform his father of the horses that he’d surely find had mysteriously appeared in his barn. To his chagrin he received only admonishment for accepting ‘dirty’ Menovian coinage.
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Like a courtier wishing to be wooed, Wrenchard leaned on the bar, continually glancing in Canton Myle’s direction. Accepting the Kendrit’s invitation, Canton sidled up to him, laying the expected stack of silvers towered beneath his dirty fingers on the bar.
“You were obviously glancing at me,” He opened.
Over Canton’s shoulder Wrenchard could see Tyrus attempting to retain a relaxed composure at a table near a small fireplace on the opposite end of the room. He dared not let his gaze draw recognition nor linger too long, he feigned to swat at a passing fly. “Well met. My name is Wrenchard Valinson.”
“Yes, I know. I have ears.” Canton seemed to wish to dispose of most pleasantries and get right to the heart of the matter.
Still playing at the game Wrenchard tried not to admire the man’s striking good looks, perhaps another characteristic with which he could capitalize. “Then you have the advantage…”
“I am Canton Myle. I understand that you are to be Captain Sterling’s personal aide while he is in town.”
Wrenchard nodded.
Canton smiled his signature smile, like a cat that ate the canary. “I do not envy that position,” he admitted.
The two continued to tap-dance around their true desires for some time. Both content to let the other steer, maneuver and manipulate the conversation for sometime. They discussed foul waters in the region and how travelers to town are susceptible to its ill effects. Myle received nothing concrete before Valinson’s attentions were drawn away.
As the evening was closing, Captain Sterling deemed it time to be shown to his new quarters. Wrenchard led both he and Sergeant Malchiah the short distance to the Alderman’s old home, where Sterling was thoroughly disappointed with the lack of amenities and luxury. The lithe man dismissed Valinson, after being certain to inform him to report back here just after first light in the morning. As Wrenchard dropped his head dutifully, the slam of the door sent him on his way.
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A few minutes after the officers’ departure, Tyrus rose to fulfill his part of the plan. He took a seat next to Canton at the bar. He saw that the tower of silvers still stood stacked high, waiting to be captured. It didn’t take long for him to take down part of the tower, as he informed Canton of Wrenchard’s knowledge of strangers in town. The capitulation quickly turned to a beating as Tyrus let slip that two such individuals were indeed staying at the Valinson home. Naively, Tyrus walked away feeling satisfied and stuffed the ten silver pieces reward for the information about the Groomers deep in his pocket.
The ranger noticed that Wrenchard was now entering the pub again. Unsure of what to do, he hurried to leave, nudging Wrenchard and prompting him to secrecy again.
“Wrenchard, may we use the outhouse?”
As dusk crept across the sleepy hamlet, Adair too left. He had to retrieve his forgotten sheep.
Tyrus wanted to make sure that Wrenchard knew at what stage of the plan they were now at. After the short briefing Wrenchard returned to the pub to clarify matters with Canton. Tyrus lingered behind in the outhouse for its intended use.
No sooner did Sterling’s aide enter than he was dragged away from his would be destination by a couple of the less intoxicated Menovian soldiers. The four of them invited him to sit down and felt it their duty to proceed informing him all about themselves. The map-maker could see the amusement on Canton’s face, as he leaned at the bar talking to Gus; both men watching him trying to slip away.
The other table of men seemed to be becoming more ambitious and finished their drinks, staggering out into the night air. Wrenchard attempted to disengage, but was pulled down by a wide hand with a strong grip.
“…and let me tell you shumshing about Capshin Shhterling. He may look like a poofta, but he’sh not.”
Wrenchard thought that this one’s name was Morgan, but he couldn’t remember exactly. There was no recognition in those glassy glazed eyes that seemed to focus 100 yards behind the cartographer’s head.
Tyrus emerged from the privy with a bit more spring in his step. Ever alert he noticed as four of the Menovians exited the pub and moved toward the closest house. They began to yell inside through the latched shuttered windows. These men obviously wished the company of whatever poor unfortunate soul waited inside.
There was no response.
The men, not to be deterred, moved to try the door at the front of the house. Tyrus crept along behind, keeping his distance. He ducked between the shadows and alleys of the other houses unconcerned for any noise he might possibly make. The Menovians were loud.
The Menovians reached the front door of Ida Cubitt’s house and found it barred. One of them, Alex Tyrus heard them say, forced open a shutter that shattered beneath his heavy mace. No windows in town had glass panes. With the wooden slats removed, the Menovian clambered in unhindered. Tyrus crouched low behind them to their right, by the side of a building. Even at this distance, approximately 100 feet or so, he could see that the men were still armed and all armored. He waited.
It didn’t take long for Alex to get the door open and the remaining three men entered the house. The last, the largest of the group carrying a long spear, closed the door. Tyrus heard what he guessed to be a bar, fall back into place inside the door.
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A scream caught Wrenchard’s attention. It did not seem too far away. It was enough to give him an excuse to slip away from his present company and out into the chill night air. As he stood there transfixed, wondering which way to go, and as if in answer to his query there came another scream.
Circling around Ida’s house, he moved to where he knew the forty-some-odd year-old woman’s bedroom to be and tried the shutters there. They were latched shut. However, above the grunting, someone heard his attempt at breaking and entering. Raising the Menovians’ suspicions, Wrenchard overheard them dispatch ‘Karl’ to the front to ‘check it out.’
Wrenchard knew he was caught. He didn’t want to leave poor Ida to the whims of these men, but he knew that he couldn’t defeat them all in a fight. With lightning speed he explored the few options available to him in his mind and decided on one. The war-hero moved along the outside of the house to where he knew the front door to be. He waited just around the corner from the front door, assuming that anyone emerging to inspect the perimeter of the building would inevitably turn around it and thusly directly into him. It was just then that he spotted Tyrus across the patchy dirt thoroughfare, squatted next to a building, short bow ready in hand. Tyrus nodded in Wrenchard’s direction and then towards the door, as he brought up an arrow to nock it in place. The cartographer heard the door open and with his left hand drew his cloak up over the lower half of his face, revealing only his eyes to shine in the dim cloud-obscured moonlight. He held his right hand aloft, poised at the ready, with one of his signature darts.
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On the way to militia duty that evening Jonas wrote a note before leaving the house. In a simple scrawl it read only two words: ‘frum teyerus.’ He neatly folded the piece of parchment and stuffed it into an empty sack. As he passed through town, he grabbed the most savory, juiciest, freshest, fattest sheep patty that he could find and slopped it into the sack with the note. Passing by the cooper’s house, he methodically looked about. Secure in his relative privacy, he lobbed the sack up onto the roof – a good toss, right into the crook of the eaves – and continued to his nightly chore at the breach.
Arriving there, Harden had no trouble finding the man for duty. He stepped forward, a hand extended.
“Jonas, two nights in a row. There may be hope for you yet.” He sounded genuinely pleased, as opposed to the mocking which the Fawkes boy was used to from others.
“Well, it is my job.” Jonas replied accepting the shake. Motar barked out into the dark at the south end of the breach. Only two nights before, there was an attack in one of the cow byres there, and Gerald stared out into the darkness as if the hope before the encroaching doom. Jonas admired the view of the broad, bearded man and his enormous leashed hound, finding inspiration for a song.
“Yes it is.” Harden replied and clasped him about the shoulder, returning to where Gerald stood ever-vigilant, not mentioning the faint odor of refuse that he now wiped from his hand onto his trousers thigh.
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It was over before Karl ever knew what happened.
As Wrenchard had predicted, the Menovian turned the corner right into him. The war-hero’s first dart fell off of Karl’s shield harmlessly. Still the man was unable to register the full scope of what was happening. Tyrus let loose with an arrow aimed directly at the man’s back. It went high. The young ranger stood and began to cross the clearing, flanking the warrior from behind. His second shot went slightly to the right, clear away from both men, but he was now closing the gap.
Karl noticed neither missed shot and was still attempting to focus on the veiled threat standing ten feet in front of him. He prepared to bring his half spear down too late. Wrenchard was faster, reaching for a second dart and launching it. It found home, lodging directly in Karl’s throat.
Blood sprayed the elder man’s mustache and shirt. Wordlessly, the Menovian fell forward. With the weight of the fall the dart was pushed through the back of the man’s neck, crushing his Osiris’ apple. Wrenchard backed up a step as a pool of blood began to well and collect from Karl’s gaping puncture wound. Tyrus crossed the open area to lean against the side of the house with Wrenchard. Both men stared down at Karl, bewildered.
It had only taken seconds, but now they had to act. They were returned to the present situation by another scream that emanated from inside the house. Apparently, no one missed Karl yet.
The conspirators grabbed the dead man’s arms and legs and hustled to the nearest abandoned house. Wrenchard wished that he’d picked up his failed dart but there was no time for that now. He had to think. This was just the sort of imbroglio that the savvy old war-vet had hoped to avoid. As Wrenchard concentrated on his options, Tyrus took it upon himself to state it most succinctly.
“We killed one. We’re in deep now…we’re in deep. We have to kill them all.”
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Notes:
(1) – Osiris is the god of nature and the judge of the dead.
(2) – Shu is one of the twin gods, a nature god, of air, sky, and avian creatures.
(3) – Tefnut is Shu’s twin. She is a nature goddess, of water.
(4) –Isis is the goddess of magic, the moon, love, family and fertility. The High Festival of Isis is celebrated on the 28th of Onk. This holiday is the most commonly celebrated one. Families throw parties to celebrate the coming year and to thank Isis for good fortune in the past year. People look forward to this with great anticipation . Families and friends exchange gifts at midnight and before dawn local priestesses of Isis leave gifts at the doors of certain households (usually poor ones), and everyone gives toys and sweets to children. No one works on the following day, which is full of day-long feasting (and sleeping off the previous night’s dancing and drinking).
(5) – Fatty Lumpkins is Van Feicht’s biggest, fattest ram. He has a large black spot over his left eye and ear that covers half of his head. This is Jonas’ choice sheep for finding prime patties worthy of lobbing onto the cooper’s roof.
(6) – Welcome Winter occurs on the 28th of Syet every year (which also happens to be the first day of the Great Fast of Ra). Priests of Set hold elaborate ceremonies that include drinking blood, sacrificing a fatted calf, drowning kittens and babies. Some common folk also sacrifice a calf this day to appease Apep.
