Walter Shuler's Blog: Coffee and Ink

So, again I'm finding it necessary to apologize for the radio silence. Summer's pretty busy around here between kids, the garden, getting into pickling/fermenting some of the stuff we grow, the day job...yadda yadda yadda. Anyway, in amongst all that, I'm shoehorning the work on NW as well as a new side project.

My partner in crime Brad Joyce and I have started work on a horror book. The working title right now is M, but that obviously won't be the final book title. If you missed the intro to chapter 1, you can catch it here. NW isn't going away, I promise, but you can expect slower updates at least while while Brad and I hammer out some of the kinks with M.

Anyway, I'm still plotting and outlining away on NW, and there are some cool (and not so cool) things in store for Haem, Merrick, Amelie and the rest, so I hope you'll check back as we move along. If you're into horror stuff (a la King or Barker), then keep up with M's tale as it evolves over on SFIPress.

Walt.

It's that time again, boys and girls - episode 15 is here. We're back with Suldred after his capture by the combined Cruthain and Estari forces. As always, if you enjoy the sojourn, why not share it?

Episode 15: Suldred

Suldred struggled against his bonds, but the leather thongs held him tight.

He lay on the dirt floor of a canvas tent, most likely one of those he'd surveyed earlier. Other than himself, the tent was conspicuously empty and Suldred could only assume his captors had removed everything to better secure him and prevent any attempt at escape. The tent's dark walls told him that it was night or early morning, and the soft murmur of voices indicated at least a pair of guards at the tent's entrance.

"Damn," he muttered, struggling into a sitting position. He prayed that Alair had made it clear and was on his way back to report to Northwarden. What was happening here was an abomination, and Suldred felt certain that the augmented Cruthain and Estari forces would make their move soon. Ravensholt was the closest kingdom presence, but was well defended. Northwarden was farther away, but the river made the city vulnerable, even with the great river gates. If Suldred commanded the enemy forces, Northwarden would be his point of attack. Ravensholt and the other northern outposts could be dealt with from a position of strength once the capital was put to the torch or occupied.

A slight lightening of one tent wall told him the sun was just cresting the curve of the world, a new day dawning. A day that would see his death, unless he was very much mistaken. Will they take me to the altar? he wondered. Would they sacrifice him or interrogate him first?

The voices outside his tent went silent, cut off mid-sentence. Heavy, booted footsteps approached, and the creak of leather armor came clearly through the thin tent walls. They came for him, he realized. A huge blue hand ripped the tent flap open, and a hulking Cruthain warrior stooped to enter. The early morning light gleamed from the thing's bald pate, the grayish battle scars clearly visible on its head, face and shoulders. Dispassionate yellow eyes regarded him, and Suldred stared back, determined to meet that gaze. The Cruthain jerked Suldred to his feet, the movement hard enough to jar the warrior's teeth in their sockets.

"Walk," the creature grunted, its accent as thick as its muscled arms. Suldred had little choice but to comply. The Cruthain dragged Suldred through the awakening camp. Colorful Estari horsemen, their hair woven with bright feathers and leather armor dyed a thousand different shades, called and hooted in derision. Cruthain warriors stared impassively, blue skin tinged with fire in the brightening morning. If yesterday's scouting had hinted that the tribes were adopting Celadonian military tactics and weapons, today confirmed it and more. Everywhere Suldred looked it confronted him. Celadonian wagons were piled high with weapons far too fine to have come from any tribal forge. Armor, stores, military gear, there was too much here for even the combined might of the Estari and Cruthain to have captured in so little time, he realized. No, this was something else entirely. Suspicion weighed like a stone in Suldred's gut.

An Estari horseman in orange and blue dyed armor sauntered forward, his long mustache drooping off his upper lip. "Ha, kingdom man!" he shouted in Suldred's face, one thick finger poking into his chest. "Not so strong now, eh?" The warrior's mouth laughed, but his eyes burned hot with hate. Other Estari crowded nearer, shouts and catcalls mingling with a darker undertone. Violence rode the air in camp like woodsmoke. A rock whizzed past Suldred's ear, and a clod of dank earth smacked into his leather breastplate.

"Away!" The Cruthain holding Suldred's arm shoved the Estari in the chest, sending the man to the dirt. "He is not for you," the Cruthain growled. The horseman rose to one knee, hand reaching for his weapon. Silence fell over the gathering mob, jeers dying stillborn as the warriors waited to see what would happen. In an instant, Suldred and his captor were surrounded by five more Cruthain, each holding wicked spears or swords in their blue-skinned hands. Murmurs and angry cries came from the swelling number of horsemen.

"Give him over!" he heard a voice shout, and that cry was taken up by the whole mob. The Estari who'd shouted in Suldred's face finally pulled himself from the dirt, glaring at the blue-skinned warriors that now stood between him and his victim. He snarled and spat, hawking a glistening wad of phlegm that struck one of the Cruthain in the face. The creature stared impassively as the spittle dripped down its cheek, and the instigator disappeared into the mass of his compatriots.

"Move," Suldred's captor urged, prodding him with the butt of its spear to get him moving again. The mob parted to let the warriors through, but they did not disperse, and Suldred saw as many black looks directed at the blue skinned warriors as at himself. Whatever cause the Estari and Cruthain might share, it was a fragile balance Suldred realized.

His escort led him through the orderly rows of tents so alien to these two cultures. They urged him toward the two larger tents that stood in the center of the encampment, and he realized they were larger than he'd first thought, but one stood out. Both used the same gray canvas, but the tent on the right exuded a palpable sense of evil. It coiled from the dark opening between the flaps, a tainted miasma that struck Suldred like a physical blow. For one mad second he thought the Cruthain meant to toss him within to face whatever night terrors waited, but instead his captor thrust him toward the other tent. None of the Cruthain even so much as looked at the other tent, as though doing their best to pretend it did not exist.

Suldred was thrust through the canvas flaps. Only the first Cruthain accompanied him, the rest taking positions outside the tent. The scene within was anything but what the warrior had expected. Given the rest of what he'd seen in the camp, he shouldn't have been surprised. Inside, several oil lamps spilled warm light over lavish surroundings. Thick pillows were strewn on the floor for sitting, and a thick rug blocked the chill from the earth. A massive wood chest held rolls upon rolls of parchment - maps, Suldred realized. More parchments were strewn over the seating area. Pouring over these documents was a single man who looked up as Suldred and his jailer entered.

He was an unprepossessing man in his late middle years, with more white than black left in his hair. His olive skin remained youthful despite his years, and hinted at an ancestry originating somewhere south of Fort Bragor. He wore a simple white tunic and serviceable breeches, and the only concession to vanity that caught Suldred's eye was a gold signet ring on the left hand.

"Thank you, Xantis. Cut his bonds, and leave us," the man commanded. Suldred's escort drew his belt knife and sliced through Suldre'd's restraints before backing out of the tent.

"Who are you?" Suldred asked, rubbing life back into his hands. They tingled with renewed blood flow.

"I?" the man asked, rising from studying his documents. "I'm known as the Scholar."

Suldred racked his brain, but had never heard of anyone calling themselves by such a name. His lack of recognition must have irritated his host, who brusquely moved to a small table at the side of the tent. "Wine? I'm sure you're thirsty after your ordeal."
"Water, if you would," Suldred replied.

"Water? Certainly not. I have wine from the vineyards of far Atagio, and mead brewed by north of the Sentinels. I would expect a hardened soldier such as yourself, about to meet an unknown fate, would prefer something with a bit more of an edge. Surely, water will not suffice."

Suldred's eyebrow rose. "Water will be fine," was all he said.

The Scholar scowled, but filled a pewter goblet with water from a nearby pitcher. "As you wish," he said, handing over the goblet. Suldred drained it in one long swallow, the cool, clear water washing the dust from his throat. He held the goblet out to his host, who dutifully refilled it once more, then indicated for Suldred to seat himself on one of the many cushions.

"Now, we shall discuss things like civilized men, shall we not?" the Scholar asked when they were both seated.

Suldred took a sip from his cup and set it on the floor close by. "That's the most tactful way of saying you want me to answer your questions that I've ever heard."

"Please," the Scholar beamed. "We might be enemies, but does that preclude civility? Must we treat each other as animals, as those," he waved toward the tent's entrance, encompassing the entire camp, "would act? I disagree. You're my prisoner, but you're also my guest, and the laws of hospitality require that we be civil to one another."

"I can't say that most would agree with you. Torture seems the surest way to get information a captive wants to hide," Suldred replied, looking at the Scholar, but trying to get some sense of what the documents around them contained out of the corner of his eye. Most seemed to be maps, but not all. To his surprise, several documents bore wax seals but it was impossible to tell whose arms they bore from his vantage.

"This might be the first time I've had a man argue that he should be put to the question," the Scholar said, laughing.

"Oh, don't misunderstand me. I'm quite happy to avoid that prospect. Pain and I have never gotten on well."

The Scholar smiled coldly. "Make no mistake. I will have you tortured unless you answer my questions. I simply thought I would give you the opportunity to avoid serious discomfort."

"Well, that's appreciated," Suldred said. "Good to know where we stand if nothing else."

"Excellent, a practical man," the Scholar said, rubbing his hands together in eagerness. "Let's begin. Whom do you serve?"

"I serve Lord Northwarden," Suldred replied, pride in his voice.

"Which one? Haem or Breccan?"

"Haem," he replied.

"Ah, so Lord Haem has returned to Northwarden. Things move apace."

"What do you mean?" Suldred asked.

The Scholar's face transformed so quickly it was frightening, the smile disappearing into a snarl and eyes glaring. "I ask the questions here!" he barked. "Now, how much does Haem know?"

"By now, he knows everything, including the location of this valley and the number of troops you have here," Suldred lied.

The cold amusement crept back into the Scholar's face. "You're a poor liar, warrior. Even if one of your men made it through our net, it would take him days to make his way back to Northwarden and report. Either that or Haem is nearby, which I doubt very much. No, Haem knows nothing yet, other than what his fool of a brother has told him. All to the good."

What's next? Suldred wondered. He did not believe for a minute that the Scholar was above putting him to the knife if the man felt it served his purposes best, and there was only so much information the warrior was willing to part with voluntarily. Very soon, the questions would become more sensitive, and the pain would begin.

"Now, let's try something different," the Scholar said. "How many soldiers man the walls of Northwarden at present?"

"I don't know," came Suldred's terse reply. This time, it was the truth. He'd scare been back in the city for two days before he was ordered out once more to investigate the attacks by the Estari and Cruthain in the northwest.

"Oh, come now. Surely you can hazard a guess?"

"I could guess, but that is all it would be - conjecture. I came north with Lord Haem from Celadon, and am not privy to Breccan's military plans."

"Then guess," the Scholar growled. A tiny vein throbbed at the man's temple.

Suldred shook his head. "I cannot. Even a guess would be treason. I shall not forswear my oath."

"Then we are at an impasse. Your refusal to answer tells me that our discussion will now take a decidedly uncivilized route. A pity," the Scholar said, rising from his cushion. "I had hoped to resolve this..." The sounds of shouting interrupted him. The shouts were punctuated with the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded. Was it an attack? Suldred wondered.

"Scholar, come now!" a deep voice from outside the tent shouted, accent thick enough to make the words barely understandable. One of the Cruthain, Suldred thought. The Scholar stepped to the tent's entrance, pulling back the flap. "What's going on?" he demanded. The response was too low, the sound of fighting too loud, for Suldred to make out the words, but the tone was urgent.

The scholar turned to someone else outside the tent beyond Suldred's range of vision. "Xantis, you will guard this tent with your life. No one enters, no one leaves. Do you understand?" The Cruthain grunted in affirmation and the Scholar turned to regard his guest once more.

"It seems there is some disagreement within the camp that I must sort out. You will remain here. If you attempt to leave, you will be killed," he said. Not bothering to hear a reply, he strode out of the tent and into the weak, morning light, leaving Suldred alone within the tent. He wasted no time and began shuffling through documents. The maps were mostly depictions of Northwarden, although there was one that showed the lands surrounding Ravensholt, and another depicting Whitefort. None showed troop movements or numbers so he left them. It was the others that drew his interest, the ones bearing official seals. Hi quickly grabbed several and scanned them, eyes widening with each line. At the bottom of each, the same seal - the rampant, crowned lion guarding a bridge. The seal of Orense.

"Ertran, you bastard," he grated. Suldred stuffed the documents into his shirt and glanced wildly around for a weapon to replace those taken from him. Little enough presented itself beyond a few utensils, but he did find a heavy, ornamental sword on a wooden stand near what must have been the Scholar's bed. The thing was two-handed, far too heavy to be of much practical use for anyone not a giant, but it was better than nothing. Looking around once last time, Suldred paused to listen. The sound of fighting had grown more distant, the conflict moving away from the tent. His eye fell on one of the oil lamps. It's going to get warm in here shortly, he thought with a grim laugh. He gathered as many papers as he could in the center of the tent and then smashed the lamp into them. Flames greedily licked the paper, following the spread of oil. Soon, it caught the rug beneath. Time to go, he realized.

Running to the back of the tent, he paused to listen. He heard nothing. Behind him, the fire spread, devouring the parchment and carpeting, spreading to the bed, which now blazed up. The tent quickly filled with thick, cloying smoke and he knew it would not take long for Xantis to notice. He shoved the tip of his stolen sword through the tent fabric and cut downward, creating a small opening near the bottom, which he quickly crawled through. Blessedly cool, clean air rushed into his lungs and he fought to suppress a fit of coughing. A glance around showed him no one nearby. Deserted rows of tents stood before him, stretching to the valley's far wall. He could only hope that most of the soldiers had been swept up in the fighting. With another look back at the Scholar's tent, Suldred ran toward freedom.

Better late than never, right? Well, here's episode 14 - it's a bit shorter than the rest, and I'll probably ultimately work this into the end of episode 12 during the rewrite. As always, if you enjoy, please share :)

Episode 14: Merrick & Amelie

"Murder? You speak of Cullen's guard?" Grand Master Ogden asked, lips tightening to a thin, flat line after the word's utterance. He glanced from Merrick to Unger and back, one imperious brow raised.

Merrick leaned forward. "In a way, Grand Master. We fished a body out of the bay not long ago that bore a striking resemblance to the young guard, but this was no sellsword. By his clothing alone, he's connected to one of the city's merchant families, but no one is will own up to it."

"What sort of resemblance, Sheriff? Are you suggesting some blood kinship between a merchant and this individual?"
"No, not at all. There was no physical likeness between the two men. No, the deaths themselves were almost identical. Both men had their throats cut from ear to ear. Both wounds were clean and precise, the work of the same assassin, according to the physician Anhalaus Siegbert."

Ogden's thin lips curved up in a smile. "So, you're claiming there's an assassin at work because of two murders, one dismissed months ago and one of a man whom you cannot identify? And this is based solely on the fact that both of these deceased gentlemen had their throats cut?" Ogden leaned forward, his expression suddenly one of a predator, about to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. "Tell me, Sheriff. Is throat-cutting an exceptionally rare way to die in this city?"

Merrick saw where the old man was headed and didn't like it. "No, Grand Master, but..."

Ogden held up a hand, forestalling Merrick's next words. "And is it so rare for a murder victim to end up in the bay?"

"No, Grand Master." Merrick didn't bother trying to inject anything further.

"Perhaps you found some incriminating documents linking this poor man to our guild in some way?"

Merrick only shook his head, feeling the noose tighten.

"So, your premise relies strictly on...nothing." The old man's lips curved into a smile, but his gray eyes remained cold and hard.

Now it was Merrick's turn to smile. "Perhaps, but perhaps not. There were a few items of interest recovered from the body, enough to convince Seneschal Jeddicks that there was a connection to the Mercers' Guild, and enough that he felt it imperative we investigate in a more direct manner."

Ogden unleashed a short, sharp bark of laughter. "And the mere mention of the Seneschal's name should have all us brigands quaking in our boots, is that it?"

Merrick smiled back. "Only the guilty need fear our attention, Grand Master."

"Oh, I have no doubt you'll find all manner of guilt within these walls, Sheriff, but there are no murderers here."

"Would that I could accept your word on the matter, but that is impossible. The Seneschal has ordered us to fully investigate the matter and bring anyone of interest directly to the Questioning Chamber," Merrick lied. It wasn't a complete fabrication, he justified to himself. Markus had insisted on all haste in the investigation. He'd never mentioned the Questioning Chamber, though. Still, it seemed a worthwhile crop to motivate this particular horse.

"The Chamber, eh? It's been a long time since the Crown sanctioned the use of torture." Ogden studied the pair through narrowed eyes. "What do you need of me?" he asked finally.

"Quite a bit, Grand Master, although an order from you compelling your guild members to comply with our questioning is the most important. We also need access to your records."

"Our records? What could you possibly learn from those dry accounts?" The Grand Master seemed genuinely confused, but Merrick could smell the lie on him.

"I'm sure we could learn a great deal from those documents, dry as they might be."

Ogden shook his head. "I don't believe I can allow that. Also, it is beyond my power as Guild Grand Master to compel members to cooperate with an investigation by the Crown. My authority extends only to matters that pertain to the guild and its bylaws. I'm sure you understand."

Merrick leaned forward in his seat. "I was hoping for your willing cooperation, Ogden, but failing that, I can see no other recourse. I've recently learned some interesting information pertaining to your...social proclivities, shall we say?"

The Grand Master's ever-present smile faltered, and then disappeared entirely. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Sheriff, but blackmail is never a worthy foundation for a working relationship."

"Blackmail is such an ugly word. Don't you think, Unger?" Merrick asked the deputy.

Unger's responding grin was evil. "Oh, ugly indeed. But not as ugly as the damage certain information could cause if whispered in the wrong ear."

"I see," Ogden drummed the fingers of one hand against the surface of his desk. "Then I have no choice but to cooperate with your investigation." He raised hate-filled eyes to Merrick's once more. "But understand this, Sheriff. I will cooperate as far as necessary, but malign actions are always answered in kind."

"Why, Grand Master, is that a threat?" Merrick tried his best to look shocked.

"Take it how you will, but I would watch my back if I were you. The Mercers' Guild has a long, long reach, and our patience is great."

Merrick rose from his chair, mirrored by Unger. "I'll keep that in mind, Ogden. Now, if you'd be so good as to announce to your members that we will be expecting their full cooperation, I believe we can move this along to a mutually agreeable conclusion."

"Swiftly, I hope." The old man spat, turning to stare out darkened the window at the lights of the city below as Merrick and Unger exited the room.


***


"It's too late for her. I'm sorry," the healer told Amelie.

Elden buried his face in Amelie's shoulder as the priest of Galas closed Helena's eyes. Gone, just like that, she thought, staring down at the dead woman's pale face, now composed in death, eyes shut against the horrors she'd seen.

"Will you be returning the body to her estate?" the priest asked, folded hands twitching slightly. He's nervous, Amelie thought. And well he should be. Summoned here in the middle of the night to attend a dying noblewoman who looked as though she'd been set on by an army of brigands. Nervous and perhaps suspicious, too. Amelie tried to read his face the way her brother did those he questioned, but the priest quickly lowered his eyes. Nervous, but enough to alert the authorities that all might not be as it seemed? If I were in his position, I would suspect me, she thought.

"No, I'm afraid that won't be possible. Would the temple be in a position to return her to her husband's estate?"

The priest shook his graying head. "I serve Galas, and Galas serves life. I will summon the Weeping Sisters. The priestesses of Evalor will escort the lady home." He wasted no time in removing himself from the gore-smeared hovel, leaving Amelie and Elden alone with the noblewoman's body and too many unanswered questions.

"What will you do now?" she asked the boy. Elden's breathing had eased, the great sobs that had wracked his small body subsiding finally. He dragged one filthy sleeve across his face, smearing dirt over the tracks of his tears. He shrugged. "She weren't me mum or nothing like that. Just a nice lady. She'd ask me to do things sometimes, and give me food for it." He looked up at her, eyes wide with remembrance. "One time, she give me a whole gold crown." A wistful smile tugged at his lips.

"You didn't live with her?"

Elden shook his head.

"Do you know what she wanted of me? Or what that...that thing was?"

He shook his head again. There would be no answers from the boy, she realized. Whatever Helena had wanted, that information had died with her, as had any about the monstrous being that had ultimately claimed her life and attempted to slaughter Amelie and Elden. She shuddered, remembering the thing's voice in her head, the hypnotic pull of its call.

"We should go before the Weeping Sisters arrive." Amelie stood, one hand on the boy's shoulder. He nodded, staring at Helena's corpse. "Elden, listen to me." He looked up at her. "If you learn anything about what happened here tonight, come find me. I'm the Sheriff's sister. Do you know the house?" He nodded. Most of those in the city who made their living through less honest means knew where the Sheriff lived and avoided the area as a matter of self-preservation. The pair stepped from the hovel into the gloom of the night-darkened city, the fresh breeze off the sea ruffling Amelie's hair and salving her spirit.

Another thought struck her then. "Elden," she began, but the boy was already gone, melted away into the night. "Damn," she muttered, turning her steps for home.

The 2nd episode to update this weekend. Enjoy it? Share with others :)

Episode 13: Suldred

Suldred crouched behind the rock.

He heard Alair’s heavy breathing at his back as the knight hunkered down awaiting Suldred’s orders. Behind Alair, the remaining soldiers from Northwarden spread out, all concealed in the brush. Swords were wrapped in rags and leather, and all wore leather armor so no unwanted sound or glint of sunlight on steel would give them away. They were a motley crew, but Suldred had handpicked each man, although Alair was the only one he knew well. The others were men from the Northwarden garrison, but Alair had served with him in Celadon.

It was not the men behind him that held Suldred’s attention, though. It was the camp spread out below that he studied. Suldred peered out from behind a large rock outcropping below which the ground dropped away, forming a broad, shallow valley. Within that valley camped a host of warriors, but it was like no camp he had seen before. Blue-skinned Cruthain warriors walked side by side with leather-clad Estari horsemen, mixed groups of warriors sat around cooking fires.

Orderly lines of canvas tents dominated the western side of the valley, anchored to the ground with guy-ropes. Suldred calculated that  each tent was large enough to hold eight men. Two larger tents stood amidst the others. If this camp had been made up of Celadonian forces, Suldred knew that the larger tents would house the officers in charge of the squad. He had no experience with the Cruthain using such configurations. While tents were certainly known, they had little use for the rigid structure of a military camp, and unless he was very much mistaken, that was what lay below.

A strange construction on the eastern portion of the little valley drew Suldred’s eye. Levering himself further out from the rock, he strained to see it better. A large wooden pen built of lashed, unpeeled logs dominated that end of the valley and several Cruthain warriors patrolled near the pen. Beyond that, Suldred saw a large slab of black rock. Beside the rock stood several Cruthain, though unlike any he’d encountered before.

Where the others in the camp were obviously warriors, these wore robes of dark red and he could just make out a spiral black symbol emblazoned on their chests. They were priests of some sort, he assumed, but the distance was too great to make out the details of what they were doing. He had to get closer.

Sidling back from his place of concealment, he turned to Alair. “I’m going that way,” he said, indicating a narrow game trail that ran along the lip of the valley. “I need to get a better view of what’s going on down there.” Alair nodded his understanding, but did not look happy about his captain’s decision.

Scrubby pines and rocks screened the ridge from the view of those below and Suldred had seen enough to know that the Cruthain in the valley were lax in their security, content that they were undetected. With luck, he could make his way east along the ridge without being spotted. He worked his way southeast along the trail, using all his skills to avoid making noise. When he was almost directly opposite the priests, he found a likely spot in the undergrowth and crawled to the lip of the valley on hands and knees. Below him, the nightmare scene spread out in stark detail.

He could clearly see inside the wood pen from his new vantage point. The enclosure held about twenty human captives, all with their hands and feet bound. Most were women and children, but Suldred could see a few bearded faces as well. All were disheveled and battered, many bearing wounds. Beyond the pen, three priests chanted around the massive black stone and he saw a human captive bound and lying on top of the rock. A group of Cruthain warriors and Estari horsemen stood behind the priests, backs turned to Suldred, absorbed in the dark ritual. One priest stood on the opposite side of the stone from the other two and gripped a massive wood staff, his arms upraised in exhortation. The other two priests moved forward as the leader’s chants reached a crescendo. The watching warriors took up the chant, echoes reverberating up and down the valley.

One priest gripped the victim’s arms while the other raised a jagged blade. Sunlight glinted on metal as the priest brought it down, plunging it into the victim’s heart. Suldred winced as the figure shuddered, heels tattooing the stone. Then something changed. A black shimmer filled the air above the body, coalescing from nothing. It writhed and pulsed, growing larger. The crowd’s chanting rose in volume and intensity until the warriors were shouting. The presiding priest, for that’s what Suldred took him for, brought his heavy staff down hard, the butt cracking into the stone.

As the staff smote the rock, the pulsing blackness seemed to explode, splinters of darkness shooting into the crowd of chanting warriors. As each warrior was struck, he stiffened, back arching in horrid ecstasy. The ritual continued, but Suldred had seen enough. Something black and evil was going on here, and Haem had to know.

He eased through the pines that had concealed his presence and sped back to where Alair and the other soldiers waited. Returning to the clearing where his forces waited, he grabbed Alair’s shoulder and bent close. “No matter what happens after this, one of us must get word back. Try for Northwarden if possible, but should things go badly, Ravensholt is closer.”

“What is it?” Alair asked, concern evident at his commander’s tone.

“We’ve found what the bloody bastards are doing with their human captives,” he gestured back toward the pen and the sacrificial altar and told of the black rites. “Lord Haem must be warned.” Suldred paused and took stock of the men. “Alair, I want you to take a third of the men and move north. Once you’re well past any Cruthain presence, swing back west and make for Northwarden. If you arrive before me, you’re to tell Lord Haem exactly what is going on here.” Alair looked like he wanted to argue but he held his peace.

“Gareth!” Suldred whispered to the soldier who had taken up the corporal’s duties in their little band. The stocky warrior stepped forward. “Aye?”

“You’re to take six men and head south,” Suldred told him. Move down past Lana, then turn west again and make for Northwarden. If you get to Northwarden before Alair or myself, you’re to report directly to Lord Haem.” He outlined what both men were to tell Haem, and then said, “I’ll take the remainder of the men and move directly for Northwarden.” He glanced behind the group toward the valley. “We must leave. Now.” The chanting in the valley had died away, leaving the forest in ominous silence. The soldiers quickly gathered up what little gear they had, and both Alair and Gareth chose the men who would accompany them. “Good luck, Captain,” Alair said, saluting as he prepared to head north.

“Foster,” Gareth called to one of his chosen men, “get over here and…” A feathered shaft sprouted from his throat, turning his voice into a blood-filled gurgle. Then arrows filled the air, the hum of their flight loud in the stillness. Soldiers dropped to the ground or ducked behind trees for concealment. Suldred dropped and rolled, managing to put a boulder between himself and their attackers.

He sat for a moment, breathing hard, and then risked a quick glance around the edge of the stone. Gareth lay where he’d fallen, eyes staring and obviously dead. Another soldier lay dead nearby, a man named Eames that Suldred had not known well.

Gasps of pain from nearby told him that at least one more man was wounded but in hiding. He saw nothing of their attackers. The rustle of leaves warned him a split second before the next attack and Suldred jerked his head back just as another arrow sped past his hiding place, the metal head striking sparks from the stone in its passage.

“Alair!” Suldred called. He hoped the man had the good sense to get behind a tree or rock when the barrage began.

“Here, sir!” came the answer. Good, Suldred thought, at least one was still alive who knew what he was doing.

“Can you see them?” he asked.

There was silence then, except for the thud of arrows into tree trunks and the twang of bowstrings from the concealing forest.

“Aye, sir or at least I think I can make out the bastards hiding in the trees.”

“Do you have a bowman with you who might be able to do something about this?” Silence fell again. Then a bowstring twanged nearby, perhaps twenty feet away, and Suldred had the answer to his question. A muffled thud and a grunt of pain from the woods told him the archer’s aim had been good. With a bit of luck, perhaps they’d make the bugger bleed a bit after all. He hoped that the sudden retaliation would force the attackers to focus their attentions on the area where the arrows were coming from.

Suldred loosened his sword in its scabbard and said a quick prayer to Ithna, the fickle goddess of luck and fortune. Crouching low, he eased out from behind the sheltering boulder, expecting to feel the piercing pain of an arrow shaft at any second. None came and the warrior crept forward, keeping low to the ground, praying that the forest scrub concealed him from the enemy.

A flash of movement ahead and to the right told Suldred where the enemy archers hid, and he altered his course. If he could creep around and come at them from the rear, maybe he could do something about them, or at least distract them long enough for Alair and the others to get away. He smiled grimly. Even the Cruthain would find it difficult to shoot while dodging a sword blade.

Suldred crept through the forest, thankful for the deadening carpet of pine needles. Long breathless moments passed as he navigated through the trees, and then he saw them. He had managed to circle around and come at them from behind – two Cruthain archers crouched in the shadows. A third lay dead on the forest floor, a feathered shaft jutting from his chest. Alair’s archer had aimed true, leaving only two for Suldred. Pulling his sword and breathing another prayer that Ithna’s wheel would wait a few moments more before turning on him, the warrior rose from his crouch.

He took the first archer in the back, his sword cutting through the leather armor the Cruthain wore with ease. The warrior dropped to the ground with a soft groan. Suldred knew it would not be so easy to deal with the second archer, though. Alerted by the sound of his companion crumpling to the ground, the other Cruthain turned, eyes wide with surprise. Not willing to give the archer time to draw the short sword at his hip, Suldred lashed out with his own blade. With nothing else available, the Cruthain caught the blade with his bow stave, the thick wood holding against the warrior’s steel. The Cruthain tried to bludgeon Suldred with his bow, but the warrior blocked the weapon and shoved his blade through the archer’s stomach. Blood fountained from his mouth as the blue-skinned bowman fell to lie beside his two companions.

“Alair, go now!” he yelled, hoping that the other man would run. With any luck, one of them would make it back to Northwarden, but with Gareth dead and their forces scattered, things were looking grim. He had to make it back to the horses and get to Northwarden, hopefully picking up a few of his men on the way.

The sound of a branch cracking behind him was the only indication that he was no longer alone. Suldred tried to turn, but something struck the back of his head hard and stars exploded in his vision. “Take him to Erach,” he dimly heard a voice say before darkness claimed him.

Alas, my planned auto-post for this chapter last weekend seems to have failed. The good news is that means you get 2 new episodes today instead of just 1. Episode 12 centers on Merrick and Amelie, and Episode 13 takes us back to the northlands, this time following Suldred as he follows Haem's orders to investigate the growing Cruthain/Estari threat. As always, this is rough draft material only, but if you enjoyed it, please share.
Episode 12: Amelie & Merrick
Amelie swatted the dirty urchin away.
"Look, I said piss off," she told him again. His begrimed face crumpled, threatening tears, but Amelie doubted their honesty more than she doubted the existence of the gods. Any benevolent gods, she amended, looking down at her soiled clothing. Around them, the city bustled as always, despite the setting sun that turned the air to gold, gilding the stone buildings around them. A cool evening breeze gusted through the streets, bringing relief from the heat of the day. Even Lowtown managed to look inviting in the warm light.
"But missus, ya gotta come," he said again, voice cracking.
"I don't have to do anything, especially not following you off to the gods know where to be bashed over the head and robbed." 
"If'n ya don't, me mum'll die," he all but wailed. 
Oh, he was good, Amelie had to admit. She'd also wager he was older than his slight build made him appear. His stringy black hair hung into his eyes, which were red-rimmed and glistened with unshed tears. A trickle of snot ran down over his lip. He was the perfect picture of a ragamuffin boy, the penniless street brat, but she caught the glint of metal from a hole in the hip of his trousers. A knife hid there, secreted away out of sight. 
"Get away from me, boy, before I call the Watch," she threatened, staying far enough away that he couldn't reach her easily with the blade should he decide the play had gone south. "I've seen your like before, child. Ith's balls, I almost was you, excepting certain bits and pieces. So, believe me when I tell you that I'll not be going anywhere with you."
His sobbing abated instantly, replaced by a feral grin. "Trig she said ya was."
That caught Amelie's attention. "Who said?"The urchin shook his head. "Don't know 'er name, just the Lady to us, but t'was she what said to fetch ya back."
"Back to where?" she asked, then changed her mind. "No, stop, it doesn't matter. I don't care if it's your sick mother or some mystery lady, I'm not going. Now, do I have to call for the Watch?"
He grinned again, displaying surprisingly white teeth for a child surviving on the streets of Celadon. "She said you wouldna want to, and if ya refused, I was ta tell ya somat."
"Tell me what?" she prodded. Glancing at the sky, she realized that evening would not last long. Full dark would be upon them soon. 
"She said to tell ya she needed a...'woman of your nerve'," he answered, screwing up his eyes to get the words just right.
Helena Blackmoor. It could only be her. But what did the Lady Blackmoor want of her, and why use this boy as her agent? A woman like Helena had an army of servants and retainers at her beck and call. Surely she could have sent someone less...dirty. 
"It's getting late, boy. Perhaps I can visit your Lady tomorrow."
He shook his head again, hair flinging out with the force. "Nah, said it's gotta be tonight." He looked up at her, all calculation gone from his face. He was just a dirty little boy now. "She said it's powerful important, miss."
Amelie sighed. Another glance at the sky showed the blue darkening to indigo in the east as the last of the sun's evening light faded out beyond the edge of the world. Merrick would be angry, she thought. She was breaking her promise. Oh well, it wouldn't be the first time she'd disappointed him, and he would get over it.
"Lead on, then. Let's see what your mistress has to say that's so important."
***
Merrick cursed under his breath.
He stood with Unger Humboldt outside the entrance to the Mercers' Guildhouse. It was a massive edifice. Constructed of granite and black marble, it bulked three stories over the wide, tree-lined avenue. Windows on the lower two floors were narrow, more akin to arrow slits in a castle than a guildhouse. The upper story boasted wide windows made of real glass, a luxury import from Sut. Just one of those windows would cost more than Merrick earned in a year.
A short, bespectacled man stood before the pair and Merrick could not take his eyes from the man's mustache. Maximilian Osworth was portly but wore skin-tight trousers that emphasized his spindly legs. His mustache sat thick and heavy on his upper lip, drooping down the sides of his mouth to swing below his double chins. 
"I'll tell you again, Sheriff," Osworth said, nasal voice setting Merrick's teeth on edge. "You'll not come in here like some, some hooligan, without a writ from the king's High Justice."
Merrick put on the face he reserved for dealing with officious bureaucrats, a carefully cultivated mask that had served him well over the years. "The Lord Seneschal was very firm in his instructions."
"Lord Jeddicks ordered this, this intrusion into Guild affairs?" The little man's eyes positively bulged behind his spectacles at the affront to Guild autonomy.
Merrick nodded. "He most assuredly did, and the Sensechal does not brook failure or interference when he deems the good of the realm in jeopardy."
"Well," the little man huffed. "Well," he said again, searching for some way to turn the conversation back in his favor but finding none, not with the weight of Lord Seneschal Markus Jeddicks behind Merrick's request. Osworth hemmed and hawed for another moment before looking up, eyes glaring daggers. "I'll have to inform Master Gustaf Ogden, of course. It wouldn't be right to allow you entrance without his knowledge."
"Do what you must, but be about it quickly. I've precious little time and even less patience for Guild games." 
The little man turned and waddled away as quickly as he could. That he could walk at all in those breeches surprised Merrick.
"You have a way with people," Unger said in his quiet voice. Merrick shot him a glance but did not rise to the bait.
"What do we know about this Gustaf?" he asked instead. 
Unger was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "He's the eldest son of the Ogden family, which legend says can trace its line back to the delving of the Stone." Unger smirked. "The truth is a bit less spectacular, though no less ancient. He's also the Grand Master of the Mercers' Guild, and his word is law as far as members are concerned."
"What else? Surely there's something we can use for leverage. Even with Markus' name, I doubt we'll get much out of him, much less access to the information we need."
Unger glanced around, eyes scanning from the heavy wood doors before them to the wide avenue behind. "Well, there is something else, but it's a gamble." "Say on," Merrick urged. Curse the man and his lack of vocal ability. Unger might be talented, but Jacks could teach him a thing or two about being able to open his mouth and let words come out. On second thought, Jacks' volubility might be a hindrance here, and his humble origins would certainly not open any doors for them. 
"Children," Unger said.
Merrick stared. What about children? Did the man have a bastard or two tucked away in the city? He certainly wouldn't be the first man with a high position to find himself suddenly more attractive to the fairer sex. Or did Unger mean something else?
"What?"
"Gustaf has a...proclivity for children. Specifically, young boys," Unger said, face twisting with revulsion. 
Well, that wasn't nothing, Merrick mused. Unnerving and nasty, but not nothing. No, it was a long way from that, and might just be the key they needed.
Short minutes later the heavy doors of the Guildhouse swung open. Osworth stood there, beckoning them to enter. "The Grand Master will see you in his private parlor. I will escort you there." He looked from Merrick to Unger and back. "Touch nothing and speak to no one until you are in the Grand Master's company." He led the way into the Guildhall without looking back, expecting them to follow without prodding.
Merrick had seen palaces and prisons, market stalls and sail makers, but the Mercers' Guildhouse was strictly for members of the guild, which meant that unless he had official business for the Crown, he was most definitely unwelcome. It was rare for any but a member to enter the Grand Foyer through which they now strode, and fewer still made it past the gilded doors that now swung soundlessly open before them at a gesture from their portly guide. 
The Grand Foyer opened on a long hall, high ceilinged and well lit by a dozen massive chandeliers each blazing with a hundred candles. The light reflected and refracted from the crystal to spread rainbows across the white marble floor. The walls were painted a rich, deep red, and massive paintings of notable members hung the length of the hall. 
"I'm not sure Rorrick could do better," Merrick muttered. Unger grunted agreement as they followed Osworth. Along the hall, doors opened onto other rooms. Merrick glimpsed overstuffed couches and plush chairs on which merchants young and old, slender and fat, fair and dark sat and lounged. Some held crystal goblets filled with liquor, while others smoked tabac from pipes, the aroma perfuming the air.
Osworth led them up a flight of stairs, down another long hall, and then up another flight of stairs and finally to an unprepossessing wood door, on which he knocked twice. 
"Come in, for the gods' sakes," a man's voice called out.
"I leave you here," Osworth said, with the same expression Merrick imagined he would use if he were turning a thief loose in a jewelry shop. The Sheriff was spared the need to reply as the fat man waddled away. 
"Strange man," Unger commented. 
"Indeed. Let's see if his master is any less strange," Merrick said, pushing the door open. The room beyond was large but spartan, with only a few pieces of furniture. The real beauty of the room was the view. Large windows provided a view out over the avenue and buildings below and let the last glimmers of daylight bathe the interior. There were several chairs, stiff and uncomfortable looking, and a large wyrmwood desk, behind which sat a man Merrick had to assume was Grand Master Olaf Ogden. He rose as Merrick and Unger entered the room, stepping forward to extend his hand.
"Welcome, gentlemen," he said, shaking each man's hand in turn. Merrick took the opportunity to study the Grand Master. He was tall and lean, with a shock of white hair that stood almost straight up. While at least sixty, Ogden appeared hale and strong yet, his grip firm and dry. A confident man, Merrick thought, and a strong will.
"Well, Sheriff," Gustaf said, returning to his desk and motioning for the two men to take a seat. "Osworth tells me there is a matter of some urgency we must discuss?" 
Merrick settled into the chair, finding it just as stiff and uncomfortable as it's appearance promised. It was also considerably shorter than Gustaf's own chair, forcing the Sheriff to look up at the older man. Well, this is interesting. A strong will and a sense of his own importance. 
"Indeed, Grand Master. A matter the Lord Seneschal thought worthy of your own attention," Merrick replied.
"And what might that be, exactly?" Gustaf asked, his manner one of supreme indifference. 
"Murder, Grand Master. Assassination, to be more precise." Merrick smiled inwardly as the Grand Master's expression hardened. 
***
"Mum?" the urchin whispered, pushing the door open. It groaned on its hinges from lack of use. 
Amelie kept her hand firmly on her knife hilt. No lights showed from the outside, the broken windows gaping like sightless eyes. Against her better judgment, she had followed the street brat deep into Lowtown, closer to Docktown than she liked. She could smell the dirty water around the quays, a mixture of salt and waste. Or maybe it's just the way the streets smell down here, she thought. The house was a ramshackle thing. No, she decided. That was too kind. It was a ruin, only waiting for the winter storms to sweep across Celadon and knock it down. Ruinous, that was the word. And frightening. The blackness beyond the doorway was impenetrable, but Amelie's eyes tried to convince her there was movement in that inky dark, slithering, whisper-quick movement. She pushed those thoughts away and gripper her knife harder.
"Mum?" the urchin called again.
"If this is some elaborate ruse, I swear you won't live to regret it," she growled at the disheveled boy.
"Ssshh!" he hissed, pushing into the darkness inside the house. Amelie fought for control, her stomach doing flips. Some irrational part of her mind still saw those strange, jerking movements in the dark. Just my imagination. Merrick always said it would get me in trouble.  Still, she followed him inside. 
A spark flashed in the dark, like a shooting star in the night. It came again, and then again. Then a soft glow lit up the boy's face as he breathed slow life into a tiny fire. Once the flame danced a little higher, he reached into a pocket and pulled out the broken stub of a candle and held the wick to the fire. It spat and sputtered into life, and her guide held it above his head. The little candle's light was meager, but enough to show Amelie the rough wooden floor and walls. Missing boards gaped in the floor, more blackness pooling beneath. She suppressed a shiver.
Her guide took a few steps forward, then dropped to one knee, studying something on the floor. 
"What is it?" she whispered, the sound of her voice loud in her ears. He held up a finger, red fluid running down it.
"Blood," he whispered and she heard his voice shake. Her heart thundered in her chest, the darkness pressing in all around her. If I had half a damned brain, I'd be running now. Out the door and halfway back to home, she thought. But instead of running, Amelie took the candle from the boy. The blood he'd found was a spattered in drops. Another glimmered ahead in the low light.
"Stay close to me," she hissed at him, drawing her knife and stepping ahead. The boy crowded behind her, his earlier bravado faded away. Another splatter of blood lay just at the edge of the candle's light, this one larger. Beyond it was a bloody boot print, hobnail pattern and all. She could make out a doorway in the wall ahead and another crimson print on the other side. Broken furniture littered the room beyond, its original form lost to decay. What might have been a table was so much kindling now, and cheap fabric that might once have covered a stool mouldered on the floor. Something skittered away in the dark. A rat, Amelie told herself. Nothing but vermin. But she raised the candle as high as she could anyway, trying to throw its feeble illumination even one more foot into the hostile night.
The blood spatters became a trail here, trickled out and oozing all over the rotting floor and debris. The bootprints had disappeared, but there was so much blood that Amelie had no trouble tracking it. Even the room smelled like blood, like copper and death, she realized. 
A loud thump from ahead almost caused her to drop the little candle, and the room lurched and spun as she caught it, the flame flickering and almost failing. Tine, don't let it die, she prayed, invoking the god of fire. 
"What was that?" the boy whispered, hand clutching tight in Amelie's shirt. 
"Quiet now, it was probably a rat or something," she said, hoping her voice sounded more convincing to him than it did to her. "What's your name, boy?" she asked, more to distract him than anything else. She heard him choke back a sob and then, "Elden."
"Listen closely then, Elden," she told him, scanning the darkness beyond the little circle of light cast by their candle. Another thump, this one close by. A flash of subtle movement, black on black. Something slithered through the debris, flesh hissing and scraping on the wooden floor. "Where would she be, your lady? Think."
Elden fell silent, but Amelie felt his fist still clutching her shirt tight, breathing in short, fast bursts. "The back room," he said, at last, dragging the words from someplace deep inside.
"Where?"
"Th...that way," Elden said, and she felt him pushing to her right. So, there was an exit somewhere over there. The slithering sound came again, grating against her ears, but there was something else, something beneath the scraping. Something that almost sounded like words.
"Elden, we're going to run for the doorway. If your lady is still here, she'll be through the doorway. I'm going to turn so that I'm facing into this room. My back will be to the doorway. When that happens, I want you to run. Run like your life depends on it. Do you understand?"
She felt him nod against her back, and then hot wetness as his tears soaked through her shirt. "On my count." He nodded. Keeping the knife held tight and the candle outward, Amelie turned until she judged she was roughly opposite the doorway. "One." Elden tensed against her back. "Two." He let go his grip on her shirt, a sob tearing from his throat. "Go," she whispered, and felt him push against her back in his haste to make the doorway and whatever safety the other side offered. 
As Elden fled, the room seemed to explode in movement. The darkness in front of Amelie rose up, churning and staggering. It drew in on itself, contracting and pulsing, and she could feel the throb of its power in the pit of her stomach. It was a man she saw. No, not a man. It was like a man. It wore the flesh of a human like a cloak, tattered and spattered with gore. The face hung half ripped from the body, but where there should have been the white of bone, there was shiny black, like a beetle's carapace. One hobnailed boot still clung tenaciously to a tattered leg, but the other leg was little more than tattered streamers of skin and muscle. 
Eaten, eaten, a voice pounded within her head. Eater, eater, it moaned. Stay and be eaten, stay and be one. The power of that voice hit her like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs with whoosh. It burrowed into her mind, twining worm-like in the fertile soil it found there. That worm set down roots that spread and grew. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to stay, to be one. To be eaten. It held her, that horrid compulsion, fixated. Eat me, she thought. Swallow me whole. Lead me into sweet oblivion. 
"Lady!" the cry came from behind her, so full of sorrow and loss that it tore at her heart, stripping away thoughts of oblivion and sleep. A lie, she realized. Such a sweet falsehood, but a lie nonetheless. In her moment of clarity, Amelie beheld the beast before her, black carapace shining beneath riven flesh in the wavering light of her dying candle. 
"You damned liar," she grated, forcing each word out against the weight that settled on her chest, crushing her breath. She raised her blade, a meager defense against such a monstrosity. The thing before her laughed silently, but she heard it. It echoed within her mind, that hideous absence of sound. Derisive, degrading. Let me eat you, it said. You'll never suffer such humiliations again. There is no shame, no pain. Only sweet, sweet release.
She laughed, a pitiable sound against the force gathering against her. "There is no peace," she said.
The thing before her shuddered, riven flesh cracking and peeling away from the true monstrosity beneath, the thing that wore the man like a cloak. The hateful words faded away, replaced by an alien chittering that assaulted Amelie's ears. It crouched, bending its legs backward, and then sprang at her, claws outstretched to pierce her flesh and kill. Amelie dropped the floor, face first, and the thing catapulted over her to land in a whirlwind of splinters behind her.
Amelie rolled and came back up facing the creature, somehow managing to retain a hold on her knife. The candle guttered, flickered, but didn't die. Blessed Tine, she thought. Don't let me die in the dark. The thing in front of her scuttled to the side, warier now, not so sure of an easy kill. Amelie kept the knife blade between her and the monster, but realized if she was to have any chance of surviving this horror, she would have to do something, not merely react. She had to do something the thing would not expect, but what? Then it came to her. 
The creature crab-walked to the side, and Amelie saw her opening. She pretended to lose her balance, falling to one knee on the bloodied wooden floorboards. The creature saw her moment of weakness and reacted as she'd hoped. In mid-stride, it leapt at her. Expecting to catch her struggling to stand once more, the thing was unprepared to meet her knife blade instead. Amelie half-stood, half-leaned forward. In the instant before the thing collided with her, she thrust forward with her blade into what she hoped was its face. There was a loud crunching sound as her knife broke through the monster's carapace, and then a gush of foul ichor flooded over her hand.
The thing before her shrieked and shuddered, writhing back from this unexpected agony. It staggered for a moment, black ichor dripping to the floor, before it steadied itself. It raised its head, questioning, almost sniffing and Amelie backed away. Then the thing jumped up, smashing through the thin ceiling of the little house. Amelie stood unsure amid the falling splinters and dust. Had it really gone? she wondered. She stood still, listening, but heard nothing beyond the pounding of her own heart. Perhaps she'd scared it off, or maybe this was some sort of trick. It didn't matter. She couldn't afford to wait around. Elden was in that back room, and perhaps someone else.
Still holding the stub of a candle, which was now all but melted, she stepped through the doorway into the room beyond. 
"Help her," Elden pleaded, looking up at her. He sat on the floor, Lady Blackwood's bloodied head cradled in his arms. Blood covered the lady, and much of the floor around her. There was so much blood Amelie doubted Helena still lived, but leaning down, she noticed the slight rise and fall of the noblewoman's chest. She did indeed still live, but for how long was another matter.
She sat next to Elden, pulling Helena into her own lap and handing the boy her coin purse. "Quickly, fetch a healer. There's gold here for his payment." 
Elden hesitated a moment, torn between running for help and staying to protect Helena. Amelie shook her head. "Go! If that thing returns, well, I've still got my knife." She brandished it, the blade still covered in sticky ichor, painted black in the dying light of the candle.
Elden looked from the gore-smeared blade back to Amelie and nodded, and then he was gone, leaving Amelie alone with a dying noblewoman, crouching in the darkness.

Saturday has rolled around once more, and it's that time again - time for more Breaking of Northwarden! Anyway, here's the latest installment. We're still with Haem as he comes to grips with his homecoming after so many long years. As always, if you've enjoyed the story thus far, please share.

Episode 11: Haem

Haem watched Breccan pour spiced wine into two pewter goblets.

They occupied Haem's small meeting chamber, set aside for private meetings when the large conference chamber on the main floor of the keep was not necessary. Well, Haem reflected, Breccan's chamber until yesterday. It was still difficult to believe he was home after all this time, although last night's events kept his mind too occupied to indulge in the dusty pleasures of nostalgia. Sunlight slanted in through the large double windows that overlooked the keep's central courtyard. Below, Haem could see the new barracks his brother had erected, new and pristine against the aging stone of the inner keep's curtain wall. Beyond the merlons, Haem could make out the forested hills where he'd hunted stag and boar as a boy.

Breccan handed Haem a goblet, and then took one for himself as he sat opposite his brother. The chamber was comfortably appointed, and a small fire blazed in the hearth against the fall chill. Despite the warmth from the fire, the atmosphere in the room was decidedly chill. Breccan stared out the window, his face an impassive mask hiding deeper currents that churned beneath the surface. The scene at last night's feast proved just how deep those waters ran. And just how lacking Haem was when it came to his brother.

Haem sighed, sinking deeper into the chair, his goblet of wine untouched and forgotten. In the silence, he studied his brother and realized he knew very little about the man Breccan had become in the years since Haem had left. Perhaps it was time to reconsider things, to try a new approach.

"Breccan, I'm sorry," Haem said into the quiet.

Breccan looked up from his contemplation, surprise registering on his features.

"For what, Haem?" he asked.

Haem sat forward, fixing Breccan with his gaze. "For treating you like the little brother I used to know. For last night. For not being here these last years, and burdening you with something that should never have been your responsibility."

Breccan smiled thinnly. "It's nothing. Last night was as much my fault as yours, brother. It's been...difficult recently. I took my frustrations out on you last night, and that was wrong to do."

Haem shook his head. "No, the fault was mine, but let's leave that. Know that I realize you're no longer the boy you once were, and that I'm trying, Breccan. That's what's important."

"It's a good first step, certainly," Breccan replied, his smile a bit more genuine. He sipped his wine and settled back into his chair.

"Tell me what's happened," Haem asked.

"First, let's talk about your late night visitor," Breccan answered. "It's passing strange, that."

"I have to agree," said Haem, finally taking a long sip of his wine, feeling its heat radiating out from his belly, warming more than his bones. "Suldred and I investigated that room from top to bottom, and there's no way he could have escaped, no hidden passages or secret doors. Ith's balls, man, there's not even a tapestry to hide behind," he said, invoking the Knower.

"That room hasn't been used since you left for Celadon," Breccan said. "Strange. You should double the hall guards until he's apprehended. Have you given any thought to investigating?"

Haem nodded. "Athedan is looking into the matter." Athedan had been their father's huntsman, but had shown aptitude in tracking far more than game. It was whispered that he could track a man by little more than his scent. Haem gave such tales no credence, but there was no denying Athedan's success. There was no better hunter of men in Northwarden than the scarred old man.

"A good man there." Breccan drained his goblet and stood to refill it, offering to refill Haem's own goblet, which he declined. "Enough about that. Either Athedan will find his quarry, or prove that it was nothing more than some lingering dream," he said instead. "Tell me about our troubles."

“Things are not as peaceful as they once were, brother,” Breccan said. He sipped his wine and stared out the window, as if wondering where to begin. “We’ve had trouble for the past half-year. The Cruthain have been moving.”

“They always traveled the edge of our lands as they move to their southern hunting grounds,” Haem said. The Cruthain were a blue-skinned race resembling humans, but stood a full head taller than the largest of the kingdom’s knights. For all their fearsome size, though, they usually confined themselves to raiding outlying villages where there were few soldiers to trouble them. A strange people, but they had journeyed along the edge of Northwarden’s bounds since time out of mind during their migrations and were usually more a nuisance than a real threat.

“It’s more than that, brother. They are massing in the northeast, up near Hamma’s Fist,” Breccan added.

“Massing? For what purpose?”

Breccan shrugged. “Who can know with the Cruthain? They’re an inscrutable lot, but something has them stirred up. Several of our outposts have been attacked in the last few months, though neither sustained heavy casualties.”

“Which ones?”

“Whitefort and Beamon were both hit within a week of each other,” Breccan gestured vaguely north and east. Whitefort and Beamon lay at the verge of Northwarden’s authority, built by Haem’s father as defense against the nomadic Estari, the horse lords of the north. It seemed that they were facing a new threat now.

“The Cruthain do not usually attack fortified outposts,” Haem mused.

“No, something has changed.”

“But what?” Haem wondered aloud. Their discussion was interrupted by a servant who ushered Suldred into the room. Haem made introductions and then looked to Breccan once more. “What else? There is more than just the Cruthain. The barracks expansion alone is proof of that.”

“The Estari have also been causing problems, raiding almost to the walls of Northwarden at times. More – reports have come in of Cruthain runners with the Estari on more than one occasion.”

Haem raised an eyebrow at the notion. “An alliance between the Cruthain and the Estari? That is something new.” Both the Estari and the Cruthain were fiercely independent. Haem had never heard of an alliance between the races. "What does Bradford Joyce say on it? Ravensholt sits hard on the Estari lands. Surely, he would have reported something?"

Breccan shook his head. "Joyce has seen the same as us. Fast raids, mixed Estari and Cruthain. He was to send a scouting party north into the Sentinels to investigate activity near Whitefall Gap but I've yet to receive any report."

"Well, be that as it may. Joyce's position is strong enough to withstand anything the Cruthain or Estari might throw at him, even combined. Ravensholt was built for just that purpose, and he's a worthy commander as well. What of these raids?” Haem asked, referring to Breccan’s mention of Estari raids close to Northwarden.

“The usual for the Estari – lighting-quick raids, some casualties. A few outlying homes put to the torch and cattle stolen. We've routed each attack with only a few casualties in our ranks. The strange thing was that they seem to have taken people, too.”

Haem stood and paced the room, one hand to his head in thought. “What do the Estari need with captives?”

“I don’t know, brother. They’ve never bothered to take captives before.”

“Perhaps they’re using them as slaves or hostages?” Suldred interjected.

Haem considered it. “If so, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. The horse lords have little use for slaves, and even less for hostages. They use their women and children for what labor they require, and the men hunt for meat. They build no cities, or even permanent homes, preferring their horses and tents to our 'scathat' ways,” he answered, using the Estari word for those of Celadon.

The deviations seen in the Estari and Cruthain worried Haem. It was not like either of the two races to make wholesale changes to their way of life. Conservative was barely adequate to describe their view of new things.

To Suldred, Haem said, “I know you’re saddle sore, Suldred, but we need to know the truth about this. Take twenty men with you and ride for Hamma’s Fist at first light. I want to know what those blue-skinned devils are up to.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“And Suldred,” Haem looked his guard captain in the eye, “make it a quick expedition. You are to gather intelligence, not engage the Cruthain in battle. I need you too much here in Northwarden to risk any kind of assault on them.”

Suldred nodded his understanding and left. The afternoon light was failing already and there was much to be done before first light. He hoped there would be time to get a few hours of sleep before leaving.

Hey, kids, it's that time again! Another installment of The Breaking of Northwarden is up for your eye-hole pleasuring needs. As always, shares are GREATLY appreciated.

Episode 10: Haem
Haem cut into the venison, juices pooling on the plate.

The feast was as fine an affair as he could remember in this hall. It lacked the pomp and ceremony of the galas and banquets he'd attended in Celadon, but for that it felt more...honest. That was the word, he decided. The room was arranged with the tables set in a large U shape. Above the U was a separate table for the Mardigan family and the highest ranking nobles in the duchy. A single step separated Haem's table from the rest of the room, more a utilitarian feature than anything designed to separate the lord of Northwarden from those at the other tables. From this vantage, Haem could see everyone in the hall, could carry on a conversation with those at the far end if he felt like shouting.

His brother sat at his left, while Kate sat on his right, as befitted their rank. Mael and Orrin were seated farther down the table. "I hope this humble hall still meets with your approval," Breccan said. "I know Celadon's arrangements would have been of a higher pedigree."

"I've not forgotten how things are done outside the capital, Breccan," Haem said, a bit sharper than he'd intended. Breccan's black mood lingered. When they were children, they sometimes lasted for weeks, but the spells became less severe as the brothers grew older. Trying to mitigate his tone, Haem went on, "In Celadon, such an arrangement as ours would have been unthinkable. The king's table was set on a dais, a full gallery above the other tables. Only the most favored were allowed to break bread at Rorrick's table. Of course, his father kept a different type of hall except when circumstances forced him to full ceremony. Rorrick is very different type of man, I fear."

"What's to fear, brother? For all their differences, I hear that Rorrick is his father's son and plans to accelerate Rickard's more ambitious plans."

"And what plans are those?" Haem asked, but he could guess well enough. Rorrick had made no secret of his desire to make Celadon into something greater, to create his legacy. It mattered little that Rickard had never pursued his bolder initiatives, but had discarded them in favor of diplomacy and expanded trade.

"I've heard he's planning to finally put paid to that scum at Blackspire for one," Breccan replied, his eyes far away.

Haem laughed. "Rorrick stands as much chance of uprooting Blackspire's Masters as he does eradicating piracy in Declan's Troth." He sipped his wine, and then continued. "Rorrick is untested, untried. He dreams of leaving his mark on Celadon, of being a king to remember. Sadly, he still thinks that requires great deeds, rather than ruling well and fairly. His father understood that."

"What's wrong with wanting to make Celadon a stronger kingdom? What's so evil about wanting to do something great?" Breccan asked, his voice suddenly acid.

Haem studied his brother before replying, taking in the pale face, the hectic spots of color high on his checks. If he had not been seated beside him and seen for himself that Breccan had barely touched his wine, Haem would have thought him drunk. The fey moods of his youth had never had this effect. Breccan would be morose, angry, distant, cold, but never this strange belligerence.

"It's not his desire to improve the kingdom that bothers me, Breccan," Haem told him, leaning closer and speaking so the words would reach his brother's ears alone. "It's the way he's trying to change things. War with Sut? That benefits no one. Stripping the heartland baronies of their troops to send west? A fool's errand. Rorrick chases ghosts and plays into Sut's hands. If he takes the bait, he will be the aggressor, and Sut will be justified in retaliating. The other nations are watching - even Blackspire pays attention to our troop movements. Do you think for one second that if Rorrick engages Sut that our northern or eastern cities will be safe? Fort Bragor has already sent ships against raiders from the south."

"The southern kingdoms would never dare do more than raid," Breccan dismissed the threat, waving a gnawed rib at his brother. "Sut is the greatest enemy here, but there are other concerns. You've been gone a long time, Haem, and things have changed here at home. Rorrick could be just the strong hand we need to stabilize things here."

"What do you mean?"

Breccan said, "While you've been off playing King's Counselor, some of our more fractious neighbors have been stirring the pot."

"Your missives never said anything about unrest here at home," Haem replied.

"Because I handled things!" Breccan slammed his wine down, sloshing red liquid across his plate and the table, spattering Breccan's shirt and face. Blood, Haem thought. It looked like blood.

"What a damn mess," Breccan wiped at his face with a cloth, but there was little to be done about the shirt. He looked at Haem, anger still simmering in his eyes. "If my lord will excuse me, I find that I am not fit company this evening and would retire." There was little Haem could do but nod his permission and watch his brother's retreating back as he left.

"That went well," Suldred muttered from the opposite side of Breccan's now empty chair. Haem shook his head, more in consternation than negation of his captain's thoughts. What was going on here? Obviously, Breccan had been keeping things from him, but what and why?

"Kate," he said, turning to his wife. "What's happened?"

His wife set down her goblet and touched the back of his hand. "Not tonight, Haem. Ask me tomorrow. For tonight, let's just be happy that we're all here together once more. Please?" she asked, blue eyes imploring.

"My brother all but accuses me of abandoning my responsibilities, my duchy is under threat from some unnamed foe, and you want to let it wait?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. He met with mixed results.

"Oh, Haem, why can't you let it wait just one night? Breccan is getting worked up about nothing. It was nothing, really, and it's being handled."

"Need I remind you that despite my absence, I remain lord of Northwarden? What happens here is my concern, no matter how insignificant it might seem, and particularly if there was bloodshed involved!" He struggled to control his temper. It wasn't Kate's fault. Breccan was duty bound to report all military matters to Haem, but it seemed he'd been keeping secrets.
"I'm sorry, Kate," he said, putting one hand on her shoulder. The anger slowly drained away, leaving him exhausted, drained. "This is not your fault. Breccan should have known better."

"Don't be too quick to judge him," Kate cautioned, trailing her fingers down his cheek and into his beard. "Your little brother has done well enough. He's handled the affairs of the duchy as ably as anyone could have. He's ruled Northwarden in all but name for a decade, and now he's being shunted to the side so his older brother can return to take up his hereditary duties. Have some patience, Haem. Breccan has become a good man, but it will take time for him to come to grips with this change."

"Shunted aside?" Haem asked. "Is that what he thinks? Without him here, I would have had to leave the duchy in the hands of an administrator, a king's man. One of those grubbing bastards with nothing better to do than to piss and moan all day in Celadon, or engage in back room deals for their own aggrandizement."

"Then you're grateful to him?" Kate asked.

"Of course I am! Do you think me heartless, another of Rorrick's sycophants?"

"Tell him, then," she said, her voice urgent. "Tell him what you just told me. Let him know that he's appreciated, Haem. He's your brother, and he's done more than his duty."

"Duty!" Haem's laugh was bitter. "Duty isn't a word Breccan ever learned when he was a boy."
"That's the problem, my love." Kate leaned forward, staring hard into her husband's face. "You still think of him as that little boy, your younger brother. He's not that boy any longer, Haem. Breccan has grown up, and he's trying to do his duty by his family, and by his brother," she said, emphasizing the final word.

Haem sat back, lost in thought. It was difficult to think of Breccan as duty-bound. He'd always been the reckless one, the younger son destined for little or no inheritance and nothing but a minor rank, while Haem had been groomed to take their father's place as the lord of Northwarden. While Haem had learned diplomacy and tactics, studied taxes and the like, Breccan had trained with the sword, made a name for himself at the local taverns, and gotten into one scrape after another, relying all too often on his family name to clear matters up.

"It's not my place to be saying so, but people can change my lord," Suldred's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. The captain was a man of few words, but Haem had found those he uttered well considered and thoughtful, quite at odds with the man's outward appearance.

"Can a man truly change himself, though? Does the leopard change his spots, Suldred? Or does he merely wear a mask of self-deception in an effort to be something he is not?" he asked.

Suldred shrugged. "If the act goes on long enough, does it really matter if he's truly changed or only trying to change? When does the act become the thing itself?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Haem said, more to himself than in reply to Suldred.

The rest of the feast passed without incident, although Breccan's absence was conspicuous. Haem spent most of the evening making polite conversation with people he'd once known well, but who now seemed strangers. It was made more uncomfortable by the requests for stories of Celadon. What were the ladies of the court wearing this year? What was Rorrick doing about the rising cost of wheat imports? Was it true that southern pirates had sailed right into Karin's Bay and besieged the city? This last one left Haem shaking his head in bewilderment, unsure where such a rumor would have even got its start. Pirates plied the sea lanes, certainly, but the kingdom's navy was more than sufficient to keep them away. For the most part, they preyed on merchantmen seeking a shorter route and a fatter purse, and no pirate would ever succeed in getting his pirate ship into Karin's Bay without a flag of truce and heavy guard.

At last the feast wound down to a point Haem and his family could excuse themselves without causing offense. Most of the guests had already left for their own homes if they lived nearby, or to their rooms in the castle if they had traveled from outlying baronies and earldoms. Some few stalwart souls remained, telling old war stories over ale grown stale, but Haem knew better than to try to outlast them.

Every muscle in his body ached. "I'm getting too old for these journeys," he mumbled to Kate, rubbing a sore shoulder.

She smiled. "You've been tool old for several years now. Are you just noticing?" she mocked.

"Gods, woman, you sound like I should be on the pyre already, off to meet my fathers!" He laughed, putting an arm around her waist.

"Well, if you're dying, do I get the duchy?" Orrin called back. He and Mael led the way toward the family apartments, rooms set aside specifically for the family's use.

"Keep it up, and you'll get an appointment to the western front with Iron John," Haem threw back.

Mael let out a whoop. "Bandits and Sutian soldiers! Sand and sun! I'll bet you're just aching to get out there," he joked, elbowing his older brother in the ribs.

"And where will you go, little fish, if I'm sent west to waste away in the desert?" Orrin asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Me? I'm bound or Celadon, where I'll feast with the king every day and have my pick of courtesans every night!"

"Courtesans and kingly suppers?" Orrin laughed. "I think not. You'll end up aboard one of those dragonships Earl Eddleston was so interested in. Forced to row to the beat of the drum and the lash of the whip!"

Haem chuckled at his sons' good humor, but said, "Enough, enough. Let's not invite ill luck, boys. We're all at home for once, and that's how it will stay."

"Gods willing," his wife added, a quiet prayer to any who were listening.

Haem hugged his sons and they went off to their own rooms. Watching their retreating backs, Kate slipped her arm into his. "It's good that you're home, love," she whispered.

"Aye, it's good to be back. I've been too long away. I've missed you all so," he replied.

"I know something else you've missed," she said, voice low and husky.

"Oh, do you now? And just what that might be?"

"Why don't you come and see?" She drew him into the darkness of the bedroom, arms wrapping around him. Haem let her lead, closing the doors firmly behind them.


***


Moonlight puddled on the floor, cold and bright. The fire had died down, and night stained the bedroom, inky black to the moon's bone white light. Haem sat up, gently moving Kate's arm so as not to disturb her slumber. Something had disturbed his slumber, a sound, soft, but out of place.

It might have been ten years since he'd last slept in this bed, but Haem had grown to adulthood and beyond in the keep, and knew all of its secret sounds. This one was wrong. He strained to hear, listening for...something. He heard nothing. He was just about to relegate it to the realm of imagination and fancy when it came again, a soft thump in the darkness. Like a door closing softly, he thought. Or an assassin's boot on a wood floor. It came from the direction of the door.

Haem eased his body out of the bed, crouching on the floor and putting the bulk of the four-post frame between himself and the doorway. His sword and dagger lay on the other side of the room near the large oak closet. He briefly considered trying to reach them, but realized that if the intruder were in the room, there was every chance that he might harm Kate in an attack before Haem could reach his weaponry.

He crept around the bed, body held low and all his aches and pains forgotten as his training took over. His father had insisted that Haem and Breccan learn hand-fighting in addition to their training with standard weaponry. While it had been some years since Haem had practiced the art, his body had not forgotten it seemed. His bare feet moved over the smooth floorboards with only a whisper as he slide-stepped into the dark.

Beyond the bed was a small antechamber where servants would wait until needed, with a door connecting it to both the bedroom and the hallway beyond. It was empty. Dim moonlight from the bedroom windows sketched the room in grays and blacks. The shadows were thick, but he was confident no assassin lurked here. He eased the door open, heart pounding. All it revealed as the dimly lit hallway, the flickering light of a torch the only illumination.

Wary, he looked up and down the hall, but saw nothing. Perhaps it had been nothing more than his imagination, the rigors of the journey and his mixed emotions at his homecoming. Wisest to go back to bed, he thought. No point in alarming the guards for nothing.

His hand was on the door when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled, and there at the south end of the hall a figure darted around the corner. Where he'd been hiding a moment before, Haem had no idea, but he was not about to let him get away. Heedless of the fact that he had no weapon, he ran down the corridor, slowing when he approached the corner around which the figure had disappeared. He turned the corner wide, almost touching the far wall, fearing a sword cut from hiding. There was no one there. No, he realized, that was not true.

A dark haired figure in a red robe paused before a door far down the corridor. He glanced once at Haem and then disappeared, the thud of the door closing loud in the hall. Haem reached the door only seconds later and wrenched it open to reveal...nothing. The room beyond was dark. The scent of dust and age clung to it like a cloak. No one had used the place in a long time. The faint light from the hall was only enough to illuminate the room beyond for a few feet, but Haem did not need better light to tell him his quarry was not here.

The dust on the floor was thick from ages of neglect, and not a single footprint marred its gray surface. The man had vanished.

So, here we are again. Yep, another installment of The Breaking of Northwarden is due. So, without further ado, here you go :)

Episode 9: Haem
Haem stretched, unkinking the muscles in his back.

"Almost there!" he shouted over his shoulder. One more rise and they would be home. He breathed deep, the scent of trees, grass, soil and water mingling together - it had been too long since he'd been home. He had almost forgotten how heady the smell of growing things could be, had become accustomed to the smell of salt and humanity in Celadon.

His black mare slowed to a walk, the rigors of the long journey north making it wiser to take the hill ahead at something less than a trot. Haem rode at the head of his personal guard, unprotected from unexpected attacks but for Suldred, who rode at his side. It was customary for a lord of any rank to ride in the center of the column, but Haem had little use for such niceties. If there was a threat, he deserved to take his share of that threat. This peculiarity earned him snide jokes from many other nobles, albeit muttered under the breath and never spoken directly. He cared little for what those lords and ladies might think. His men loved him for it, and that was really all that mattered.

Suldred rode beside his lord, and so it was that both men sighted Northwarden at the same time. They crested the rise, the road dipping down the other side, and Northwarden lay spread out before them. The castle occupied a massive outcropping of stone in the center of the Rush River valley. To the north, the valley rose up and up, eventually meeting the gray bulk of the Sentinels, the mountain range that formed Celadon's northern border, separating the kingdom from the lands beyond. The Rush ran the length of the valley, eventually emptying into Bear Lake to the south, the staging point for the merchant caravan overland route to the headwaters of the River Cel far to the east. Goods, metals and crafts flowed south with the river.

Haem's ancestors had built Northwarden to withstand assault from any direction - a relic of a more warlike time, when enemies surrounded them on all sides. Ash Keep stood in the center, Haem's ancestral home and once the sum of Northwarden's defense. Over time, it had grown as generation after generation added to the castle. Today, the keep boasted no less than three concentric walls, each taller than the last. The shortest, outermost wall housed twenty-five towers along its perimeter. The second wall was guarded by twelve flat-topped towers, as well as two massive gatehouses. The innermost wall was defended by eight towers, each twice the size of those guarding the second wall. Ash Keep stood proud at the center of the square formed by that final bastion.

"Home!" Haem shouted, grinning at his captain of the guard. Suldred said nothing, but his usually stoic face split into a smile. Together, they urged their horses, onward, down, homeward.

The city of Northwarden had grown with the keep. While no rival to the urban sprawl that was Celadon or some of the other cities in the south of the kingdom, Northwarden boasted a large population. Outside the walls, merchants, cart wrights, smiths, bakers, coopers and others had set up shop. Inns and taverns stood shoulder to shoulder with residences large and small. The city proper actually lay outside the castle, but a fourth wall encircled the entire expanse, with two huge river gates that controlled traffic down the Rush.

Haem urged his horse onward, down the slope. Soon they began passing outlying farms, neat stone walls separating fields and preventing livestock from trampling crops. Only a few cold weather crops grew now, as the last breath of autumn painted the trees gold, red, orange and yellow. The distant farmsteads grew steadily closer together, interspersed with businesses that either did not fit within the city walls or whose owners chose to operate outside the walls for financial reasons.

Ahead, Haem could make out the southernmost wall of the city. They approached the King's Gate, so named because of its orientation toward distant Celadon, but there was something wrong. A line of people extending almost a half mile waited at the gate. Maybe they were merchants and peddlers waiting for the gate guard to authorize entry, he thought. As they drew nearer, he saw that while there were many with carts and wains, none carried merchandise. Instead of merchants and peddlers, he saw fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, grandmothers and grandfathers all waiting patiently.

"What is this?" he wondered aloud.

Suldred said, "I'll find out," and urged his horse forward.

"You there!" he called to a middle-aged man standing at the end of the line.

"Eh, what is it?" the man answered.

"What's this all about? Someone die?" Suldred asked, indicating the line with a wave of his hand.

The man shook his head, his expression incredulous. "This? No one's died, least not that I've heard tell. Where have you been, sir, that you haven't heard the news?"
"What news is that?" Haem heard Suldred ask as he drew closer.

"Why, our Lord Haem is returning soon! I came all the way from Hasten's Holt to see the man. Been nigh on ten or eleven years since he left to go south and serve the king, but now he's to be coming home."

Suldred looked again at the line of people waiting to enter the city and shook his head. "What a mess. You'll need to move..."

"That's enough, Captain," Haem cut him off. "Let the good man stay where he is. We'll find another way into the city."

"You'll find it's the same story at the other gates," the man opined, squinting up at Haem against the afternoon sun. "And it'll only be getting worse as more and more folk come from the countryside. They say he could be here any time now." He looked at Haem again. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so. I just have one of those faces," Haem smiled. To Suldred, he said, "Come, Captain, let's try out luck at the Sun Gate. Perhaps our friend's estimation is of and the crowd isn't as thick there yet."

"Aye, my lord," Suldred saluted and motioned for the column to change direction.

"My thanks for the information," Haem told the man as he turned his horse and made for the city's eastern gate.

As he rode away, Haem heard the man's voice rise, "Wait! By the gods, was that...?" Haem grinned to himself. It was good to be home.

The scene at the Sun Gate was largely the same, but an attentive guardsman spotted Haem's party and raised a cry. Soldiers dressed in the livery of Northwarden quickly cleared the commoners from the road and ushered Haem and his party into his home. It felt strange, he thought as he rode through the gate. It was like coming home yet at the same time entering somewhere unknown. The city had grown. New residences and businesses lined the road. Sunlight glinted on more stone than he remembered, and less wood. Wool and leather were still worn predominately, but he also saw cotton, and even the sheen of silk here and there. His people prospered, it seemed.

People thronged the streets as Haem and his retinue followed the circuitous route from the gate toward Ash Keep. Young and old, his people lined the streets welcoming him home, and Haem's heart rose with that welcome.

"Welcome home, Lord Haem!" shouted a baker, still coated in flour.

"Mummy, who's that man?" he heard a small, towheaded child ask.

"That's Haem Mardigan come home again," his mother answered, smiling happily.

There were more calls of welcome, more blessings heaped on his homecoming. It surprised him, for while he had missed his people, he had not assumed they would miss him. His brother Breccan ruled here in his stead, and fairly by all accounts. He'd expected the citizens to accept one Mardigan as much as any other. This was something different, something that warmed a place grown cold during his long sojourn in the capital.

This, he thought. This was where he belonged, not sequestered in the capital, embroiled in or avoiding one plot after the next as petty nobles fought to better themselves. He felt a pang again at leaving Rorrick to the not so tender mercies of Morgan Ertran, but Eric and others were there to help control the situation if things deteriorated. Haem's duty was to the kingdom, and Celadon was more than just its latest king. It had stood through the reigns of countless kings and queens before Rorrick and would remain standing long after, so long as men and women remembered their duty, not to the individual on the throne, but to the kingdom itself.

And suddenly the party passed into the shadow of the gatehouse and emerged in the center of Northwarden, the grounds surrounding Ash Keep. Their horses clattered across the cobbles, and Haem's heart rose anew at the sight of the party awaiting him before the keeps great iron-bound oak doors. The fall sunlight caught his wife's hair and turned it to molten gold. Behind Kathleen lurked a lean figure wrapped in perpetual gray, Breccan, Haem's younger brother and steward of Northwarden these past years. Two young men stood to either side of his wife, Orrin and Mael, his sons. Orrin, the elder bore the Mardigan line's dark hair but Mael, the younger of the pair, was as golden and freckled as his mother.

Haem dismounted in front of the steps, handing his reins to a waiting groom who smiled and said, "Welcome back, my lord," before leading the mare away. The lord of Northwarden turned to survey his family when a heavy weight hit him in the chest. He took an involuntary step back and looked down to find his wife's blond head buried in his cloak, her arms wrapped tight around him.

She looked up, tears in her blue eyes. "You're home," she whispered.

He put his arms around her, feeling for the first time that he truly had come home. "Yes, my love, I'm home. Home for good."

"You're not leaving again?" She half-pulled away, looking up at his face, searching for some confirmation.

He smiled and stroked her hair. "No, Kate. I'm home to stay this time. Rorrick said himself he had no further need..." He broke off as she kissed him to silence. "I don't care about Rorrick," she said when she at last pulled her lips from his. "It only matters that you're home, that you're here, now."

She took his hand and held it for a moment before leading him toward the stairs. "There are others waiting to welcome you back." Then Orrin and Mael were crowding in, both intent on greeting their father. Such familiarity and lack of formality would never pass in the court of Celadon, but Northwarden was a rougher place, and the people less given to pomp and ceremony. It gladdened Haem’s heart to be done with the stiff formality of the king’s court.

Haem released his sons from his embrace and called to his brother. “Breccan! Get over here you lout!” he grinned. Breccan stepped forward, his smile lopsided.

“It’s good to see you, big brother,” Breccan said as he embraced Haem.

“And you,” Haem said, smiling but studying his younger brother closely. Breccan’s face showed the passing of years more than Haem would have expected. He was three years Breccan’s senior, but the younger man’s hair was almost completely gray. He was still whip-slender, though, and his dark eyes were as lively as ever.

“Sad circumstances to send you home, brother, but I’m glad you’re here.”

Haem nodded. “It is not the way I’d imagined starting retirement from my court position, but if it gets me home to stay, I’ll take it.”

“You’re staying, then?” Breccan asked, something undefinable in his expression.

“Yes,” Haem looked around, his gaze taking in his family, the keep, the soldiers and servants waiting at the edges. “I’ve been away too long and left you upholding my responsibilities. If nothing else, maybe some good will come from Rorrick’s decision.”

Breccan shook his head. “Come, there’s much to discuss. If you will be taking up the reins here in Northwarden once more, there are things that you must know.” He turned and began walking up the steps into Ash Keep.

"Oh, Breccan, let it wait," Kate admonished, her gaze hard. "He's had a long journey from Celadon, and he's been away for ten years, for the gods' sakes. Let him have a night of peace before you start your nattering, won't you?" She turned to Haem and extended her arm for him to take. "There's a feast laid in the hall. If you'd be so kind as to escort me?" Haem took the proffered arm gladly.

"Good," he said. "I'm famished."

"Then it's a good thing I didn't listen to your brother. But first," she made a show of sniffing the air, "I think a hot bath is in order. You reek of sweat and horseflesh, husband."

Haem laughed. "Good, honest smells, Kate, but a bath would be more than welcome."

Breccan said, "Well, if you must, then you must I suppose. The feast has kept this past decade; I suppose it will keep until you've bathed. And after, we will have our talk." Breccan's tone was sour, but Haem was in no mood to let his brother's black moods ruin this evening for him. He was home, by the gods. "Mael," Breccan ordered, "Tell the staff your father wants hot water for a bath, and have something appropriate laid out for supper."

"Yes, Uncle," the young man said and started up the stairs at a run.

"And Mael," Haem called after him.

"Yes, father?"
"Have them bring enough hot water for Suldred, too. I'd have my captain at table tonight." And afterward, he amended.

Mael nodded, and took off up the stairs at breakneck speed once more.

“Suldred, find the men quarters in the barracks and then come find me. You need a bath as badly as I do, and you'll need to dress the part for tonight's feast."

Suldred saluted and left, shouting orders to the guardsmen as he went.

"Captain?" Kate asked.

"He's earned it. Suldred's a rare man," he told his wife as she escorted him up the stairs and into the home he had not seen in too long.

***

As always, this is rough draft material, so kindly ignore the typos :) Also, if you've enjoyed Northwarden so far, why not share it with someone? Every share helps spread the word.

Walt

After no new episode last weekend, I'm posting this a day early. Hopefully, there will be no more delays, as chapters 9-13 are mostly written. As always, this is rough draft material, so likely chock-full of typos.

Episode 8: Merrick

Merrick held the compress to his head.

He sat alone in his office at the Windward House. Behind him, the early morning sunlight streamed through the window, bathing the room in a golden glow. Ordinarily, this was his favorite time of day. Today, he just wanted to close his eyes and make it all go away. His head throbbed and pounded, courtesy of Lady Blackmoor's lackeys. After leaving the warehouse where they'd palavered with Helena, Merrick had sent his sister home, instructing her once more to stay indoors. He doubted she'd heed that advice, but hoped her experience last night and Lady Blackmoor's warning would sway her. He'd believe it when he saw it, though. Curse Amelie's stubbornness, he thought. He shoved those thoughts away to concentrate on the paperwork before him. Hours passed and the pain in his head diminished only a little.

A knock sounded at the door. He groaned and sat up in his chair. "Enter," he croaked, the sound of his own voice reverberating painfully within his skull. Seneschal Markus Jerricks swept into the room, his lean frame swathed in his heavy cloak of office despite the summer heat. The Seneschal was a narrow man, in all the ways the word implied. Tall and thin, his long face was set in a perpetual smile. His long, bony fingers reminded Merrick of a spider's legs. Jerricks glared at the Sheriff, and Merrick glared back.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Seneschal," Merrick asked, attempting a civil tone. The Seneschal was perhaps the single greatest source of grief in Merrick's life. He held the purse strings that dictated Merrick's available funds, and those funds were never enough. As Seneschal, Jerricks was also Merrick's immediate superior.

Jerricks sneered. "Forgive me if I doubt the sincerity of your tone, Sheriff. Thankfully for us both, this will be a brief visit."

Merrick waited expectantly, fighting to keep his expression neutral.

The Seneschal stalked forward, skeletal hands held out before him as though he wanted nothing more than to throttle Merrick where he sat. "Lord Haem has been retired," he began.

"What? When did this happen?" Merrick interrupted.

"This very morning," Jerricks snapped with a look that told the Sheriff interrupting again would be unwise. "The king has decided that Lord Haem should return at once to Northwarden, there to resume his ancestral responsibilities. This leaves us in something of a precarious position, Sheriff."

Merrick stared at the older man, unsure what the Seneschal meant. With Haem gone, there were problems aplenty, but the man seemed to be referring to something in particular. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, until Merrick was at last compelled to break it. "Which problem did you mean, Markus? We're not short on them if you hadn't noticed."

The Seneschal leaned closer and said in a low voice, "Your position is in peril. Mine as well."

Merrick sat stunned. What in the name of the good gods did Haem's retirement have to do with his being Sheriff? Or with Markus retaining the post of Seneschal? The man had held that position since before Merrick had been born.

"I'm not sure I take your meaning," he said, staring up at the Seneschal's frown.

"Don't play the fool with me, Merrick deVries," Markus snapped. "With Lord Haem conveniently out of the way, others now have free rein to advance people of their own choosing to the more strategic posts in Celadon."

Merrick fought the urge to laugh. Certainly, the position of Sheriff of Celadon carried with it benefits, but he had a difficult time imagining any young lordling giving a damn about it, much less being capable of handling the headaches that came with the position. Still, Markus seemed to take it seriously. The position of Seneschal would be a prize indeed, one worth the attention of any number of nobles. Lady Helena Blackmoor, for instance. Or dozens of others, he chastised himself. He had no idea what game Helena might be playing, but she was far from the only one in Celadon with an agenda of their own that would be more easily pursued without Haem Mardigan nearby.

"True, Markus," he said, more to appease the man than anything. "What can I do to further...secure...our future?"

The Seneschal loomed over Merrick's desk, the morning sunlight glinting from his bald head. "Find me a killer," he said.

"A killer?"

"You've had another body turn up, floating in the harbor? One with a striking resemblance to another one you failed to solve, yes?"

Merrick nodded.

"Find me that killer. I don't care who's feathers you have to ruffle or how many heads you have to break in the process. Find that assassin and bring him to me." The man's lips peeled back in a feral snarl.

"And what will you be doing in the meantime?" Merrick asked. This was a side of the Seneschal he'd never seen, and it rattled him a bit. It was not the man's conviction that someone wanted to remove them from the game, but the fear that underlay that conviction. Seneschal Markus Jerricks was many things, but he had never been called a coward.

"I will be ensuring that when you bring this murderer to justice, there is such a public outcry of relief that our enemies can do nothing," Markus replied, his narrow eyes all but closed in anticipation. Whether he anticipated stalemating his foes or the prospect of a public execution Merrick was not sure.

"I have two of my best men investigating already, Markus. It's only a matter of time."

"Who?"

"Long-Eye Jacks and Unger Humboldt."

"Hmm," the Seneschal tapped one long finger against his narrow lips in thought. "I approve of Humboldt, a good man. I cannot say I like the faith you place in the other. Is he to be trusted with something of this magnitude?"

"Jacks is one of our better deputies, Markus. He's the one who broke open that smuggling ring last fall," Merrick lied. In truth, it had been Merrick who had closed down the ring, but Jacks had helped. "He's investigating the Mercers' Guild."

"And what of Unger?"

"He's following up another avenue of inquiry," Merrick hedged, not ready to reveal the strange medallion and its inscription. He trusted the Seneschal, but the fewer people privy to the details, the better things were.

"Very well," Markus said, but Merrick knew the man was not happy. "This is your first priority as of right now," the Seneschal said, waving a bony finger in Merrick's face. "And I expect regular reports on your progress!"

"I think I can manage that," Merrick replied, but the Senseschal was already leaving.

"Make haste, Merrick, for both our sakes," Markus said, closing the door behind him.

Merrick sat back in his chair, massaging his temple with his fingers. It had been a strange couple of days, he had to admit. Markus was frightened, and that alarmed Merrick. Whoever the man feared was powerful, and had the position necessary to make his wishes reality now that Lord Haem was gone. Merrick was glad the Seneschal had asked no more of him than what he had already been doing, but it lent even greater urgency to capturing this assassin. He busied himself with planning further avenues of investigation should the Mercers' Guild prove fruitless.

A knock at the door brought him out of his thoughts.

"Come!" he called. The door opened to reveal Long-Eye Jacks, who stepped in slamming the door behind him.

"You just missed the Seneschal. I hope you have news," Merrick said.

"Oh, aye, Sheriff," Jacks replied, stomping over to stand before the desk.

Merrick stared at the man, waiting, but Jacks said nothing further.

"Well, out with it!" the Sheriff shouted. The throbbing in his skull redoubled as his irritation rose.

Rather than explaining anything, Jacks reached into his shirt and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, which he placed on Merrick's desk. "Think you'll find somewhat of interest here," he said, sliding the paper across.

Merrick grabbed the parchment and unfolded it. Lines of neat text marched across the page, almost minuscule in size. Merrick forced himself to concentrate on the paper. It was a list, he realized slowly. The paper was arranged in columns. Each column contained a list of names, each name coupled with a series of numbers. Whomever had scribed the page had created five neat columns, each crammed with as many names and numbers as possible. It was all very precise, but...what in Cron's name did it mean?

"I realize that I might seem a bit slow to catch up here, Jacks, but what exactly is this?" Merrick asked.

"I got that off a Mercers' Guild scribe, Sheriff. It's a list of all Guild members who've signed on in the last two years, as well as who sponsored 'em."

Merrick shook his head. "This only helps us if our man joined the Guild recently, Jacks."

"You think that pup's been a member for half his life, Sheriff? Not a chance. He was still wet behind the ears when he bit it down at the docks," Jacks argued.

Merrick stared at the paper, the lines of names and numbers all running together. Jacks was right, he knew. The body they'd fished out of the bay had been that of a young man, and the Mercers' Guild required that all members be of age, as well as sponsored by an older member in good standing. Jacks might be able to discover the identity of the dead man by simply eliminating the names from the list. If nothing else, perhaps it would lead to other information. It was as good a place to start as any, he decided.

He handed the list back to Jacks and said, "Good enough. Start working your way down the list and let me know if you find anything."

Jacks' lopsided grin grew. "Already have, Sheriff. Been doing some digging like you said, and got more'n half those names crossed off."

Merrick's irritation flared. "Well, if you've got things in hand so well, what are you doing here, guardsman? Shouldn't you be out there crossing off the remaining half?"

Jacks' smile slipped a little, but did not vanish. "Well, that's the thing, innit? It's Unger."

Merrick shook his head again. "What about him? You two had separate investigations. Unger should be no part of this."

Jacks said, "Well, he's bein' a might touchy you see. Some of those names are folk he's investigating, and he's giving me lip about sticking my nose in where he doesn't want it."

Merrick sighed. Unger Humboldt was one of the best men he knew in these sorts of situations, but he was more than a little territorial. Professional pride, he called it. A pain in Merrick's backside was more like it. "Look, tell Unger he's to accommodate your investigation in any way he can without compromising his own progress," he told Jacks.

Jacks looked down at his boots. "Well, it might be a bit more'n that, Sheriff. You'll need to come see him."

Merrick gripped his aching head wit both hands. "I swear, the two of you are like an old married couple, always at damn loggerheads. Why can't you just work together and keep your mouths shut?"

Jacks opened his mouth to reply, but Merrick cut him short. "Never mind, we don't have time for this foolishness," he said, rising from his chair. "I'll go, and I'll put an end to this damn squabbling once and for all."

"Yessir," Jacks mumbled, making way for the Sheriff to exit the office. Merrick stormed out, his aching head forgotten in his rising anger, fueled by a tiny, nagging voice at the back of his mind that he recognized as belonging to Markus Jerricks.


***

"Dammit, Unger!" Merrick shouted.

The object of his wrath stood opposite him in a narrow street not far from the Mercers' Guild headquarters, arms crossed and a scowl darkening his face. Jacks lounged nearby, leaning against a brick wall and absently picking at his teeth with a bit of straw. Merrick had followed the guardsman to the Merchant's Quarter, inundated with the man's complaints the entire way. By the time they arrived, Merrick had a very good idea of the situation. It boiled down to Unger feeling as though his toes were being stepped on, and Jacks taking delight in the senior man's anger. He'd egged it on, of course. Jacks had not said as much, but Merrick pieced it together anyway. Now, they stood face to face and Merrick was determined not to let their inability to work together derail things any further.

"Look," Merrick tried again,"either work with Jacks, or I'll pull you off this detail and assign you to checking merchant manifests in the bay. It's your choice," he stared hard at the smaller man, almost hoping Unger would argue. Merrick felt the need to hit something.

"Fine," was all the response Merrick got.

"Good. I'd suggest you split the remaining names on the list if you're so damn keen to use it. Jacks," Merrick said, "you let Unger take the names that tie most closely with his end of the investigation. Let's remember that we're working together here. In fact, let's do something different." Merrick smiled slowly and saw Jacks draw back. "That's right," he said at the man's reaction. "You won't like this, but it's what we're going to do. We'll make this a bit more interesting." He looked from man to man, making sure they were paying attention. Jacks certainly was, but Unger feigned indifference. We'll see how indifferent he is when its his ass on the line, Merrick thought.

"From here on, if one of you fails to produce results in this investigation, you both fail. Understand? That's regardless of any results you personally produce. You fail. And let me assure you that failure will result in something...singularly uncomfortable. You both understand?" Both men nodded, and Merrick was gratified to see that Unger's attention had at last been caught. The man's scowl had deepened further yet, and now his face glowed a sullen red.

"Now, do we all see eye to eye on this?" Merrick asked. Both men nodded, although neither looked happy. Merrick cared not a whit about their happiness. "Two grown men unable to work together because you're too damn proud to cooperate," he said, voice thick with disgust. Both men had the decency to look downcast at that. "Get about it, and I want regular reports from now on. If it comes to it, go together to check on every name on that gods-forsaken list." He wheeled away, leaving his chastised guardsmen behind. They were good men both, he reminded himself, just used to doing things their own way. It was going to be a long summer.

**

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Walt

Time for another installment! We're back with Merrick after his late-night escapade in the alley behind the Sign of the Boar. Things are getting interesting for our favorite sheriff and his sister.


Episode 7: Merrick

Merrick's head ached.

He could see nothing, and his hands were bound painfully behind his back. The cords bit into his wrists, and a warm trickle of blood ran down the back of his hand to drip, drip, drip onto the floor. It was a wood floor by the sound the drops made when they hit, Merrick knew. He knew little more than that. His captors had covered his head with a cloth, or perhaps a sack, depriving him of sight. Straining to listen, he heard very little. Gulls cried somewhere off in the distance, but the birds were never far anywhere in this coastal city. Merrick thought he heard the slap of waves on wood, which would mean he was being held near the harbor, or perhaps somewhere at the far end of Docktown where the fisher folk made their homes.

Footsteps echoing on wood alerted him that he was no longer alone. He listened carefully, gaging the sound to prepare himself. The footsteps drew louder, nearer, and then the cloth was ripped from his head. Merrick squinted in the sudden onslaught of light.

"Well, well, the Sheriff of Celadon himself," a musical voice said from beyond the glaring light. "Quite the catch tonight, boys."

As Merrick's eyes adjusted, the glaring light before him resolved itself into a torch gripped in a meaty fist. The fist was attached to an equally large arm, which belonged to a hulking bruiser with a thatch of dark hair that fell across his slab-like face. The muscle moved back, taking his torch to a more comfortable distance. Behind him stood a figure he recognized, although he'd never expected to see her in such surroundings. He was in a warehouse, mostly empty but for a stack of wooden crates at the far end. The warehouse district of Docktown then, he thought.

"Lady Blackmoor," Merrick said, his voice hoarse. The woman made of moue of displeasure.

"So formal, Sheriff? I'd prefer it if you called me Helena." She stepped toward him, the torchlight catching highlights in her black hair.

"As you wish," he replied. This was dangerous territory, and Merrick was an interloper. Few stood higher in Celadon's hierarchy of nobles than Lady Helena Blackmoor, and few were more dangerous. One didn't meddle in the affairs of the city's nobles without repercussions. Sudden realization dawned then.

"It was you," he grated.

"Edward, a some water for the poor parched Sheriff," Helena called to someone behind Merrick. He heard a grunt and then heavy footsteps moving away. He heard them returning moments later.

"You can remove his bonds," Lady Helena told her lackey. Merrick heard the sound of steel clearing leather and tensed, prepared for an attack, but Edward merely cut through the ropes binding the Sheriff's hands behind his back. A tall, thin man who could only be Edward tossed a water skin in Merrick's lap. With fingers gone numb, Merrick unstoppered the skin and drank deep. It was cool and clean, and he thought he'd never tasted anything so sweet.

"My apologies for the rough treatment, Sheriff," Lady Helena apologized when he was done. "Sometimes the boys are a bit...overzealous in their work." She stepped closer still, almost within arm's reach, secure in her protection and her position as a woman to be feared. "Now, shall we to business?"

"It's your show, your ladyship," he said. "But tell me one thing. Why did you save my sister?"

"Who says I did any such thing?" The lady's expression was arch, cold, but Merrick saw a muscle tremble at her temple. There are lies here, he thought. Lies, but mixed with a good bit of truth. He'd need to be wary.

"No one," Merrick conceded. "Amelie remembered your presence, but not your face. Your act of generosity will remain safely anonymous...Helena." The muscle in her temple stopped twitching. So, she was worried that word would get around. Why, though? "Nevertheless, you have my thanks, Lady."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Sheriff," she waved his thanks away, a knowing smile on her lips. "Now that we've cleared up that matter, we need to discuss something you and I."

"You mean other than my unanticipated presence here?"

Helena laughed. "Your presence here is at the root of what we must discuss, actually."

"Go on." This should be interesting, Merrick thought. He'd never thought to see the day he was kidnapped by a noble. That was usually a fate reserved for desirable but unwilling peasant girls at the hands of unscrupulous barons, at least in the old tales. Or handsome princes. Either way, Merrick had always suspected the peasants had been unwilling. Nobility had a way of whitewashing certain situations.

"Very well. I'd thank you and your sister both to remain as far from the Sign of the Boar as it's possible to get."

Merrick said nothing, merely stared at Helena. Whatever he'd been expecting, this wasn't it.

"Stay away?"

Helena nodded. "Far away."

"May I ask why?"

"You may, but I don't believe I'll answer. Isn't it enough that I ask it? I could order you, you know. I could order you both, and your rank as Sheriff wouldn't do a thing to prevent it."

She was right. When it came to lowlife scum, brigands and murderers, Merrick's rank prevailed, but even his now-lofty position wasn't enough to contest the word of the woman in front of him. If she said to do something, he was bound by law to do so. Secrets on secrets, he thought. What game was she playing here? And how dangerous was it for him? For Amelie? Damn nobles, and damn their power games.

"And if we don't?" he couldn't resist asking.

The same knowing smile flitted across her mouth again. "For both your sakes, let's hope that doesn't occur, Sheriff. I'd hate to see something unfortunate befall such a valuable asset to the Crown, or to your lovely sister." She nodded to Edward, who disappeared into the back of the warehouse once more. A moment later Merrick heard the sounds of a scuffle. Something heavy fell to the floor, and he heard the tinkle of breaking glass. A woman shouted, followed by a grunt of pain. "Bitch!" Edward yelled.

Merrick's stomach clenched. He knew the woman's voice. Amelie was back there.

"If he lays a hand on her," he growled, but Helena cut him off.

"I promise no harm will come to your sister, so long as you both abide by our bargain. In return for what I didn't help your sister with, you and she will leave the Sign of the Boar and all the rats sheltering under its roof alone."

Footsteps sounded behind Merrick, too light for Edward. Another set followed, heavier, but out of sync. Edward was limping. Merrick suppressed a smile.

"What's going on?" Amelie demanded, coming into the circle of light. She held a long, thin dagger in her hand, the blade slick with blood.

"Stupid bitch stabbed me," Edward huffed, clutching his right hip. Blood welled up between his fingers, black in the flickering lantern light.

Lady Helena regarded the pair with an upraised brow. Merrick had the feeling she was appraising his sister, like a slab of meat in a butcher's window. He didn't like the implications of that stare.

"Well, if you were stupid enough to let her stab you, I'd say you deserve it," she dismissed the man. Turning back to Amelie, she asked, "You know who I am?" Amelie nodded. Helena went on, "Your brother and I have come to an agreement, dear. You'll stay away from the Sign of the Boar, is that clear? You'll stay away from Eudon Casale, as well."

Amelie stared hard at the woman for a moment, as if deciding whether to obey or stab her second victim of the night. "Yes, your ladyship." To Merrick's astonishment, she pulled off a passable curtsy too.

Helena smiled. "You've got something special there, Sheriff. I would cherish her if I were you, or someone's like to snatch her up." Merrick nodded, still staring at Amelie's bloody knife. Somewhere in the dimness Edward groaned.

"It's time I was going. The sun will be up in very soon, and there's work to be done. I trust the two of you will need no reminders of our agreement." Not waiting for a response, she turned to the brute holding the torch. "Give me that, and get Edward. Take him to get that stitched before he bleeds out." Taking the torch, she walked away. "And Amelie," she threw back over her shoulder, "if you should ever grow bored being the Sheriff's sister, come find me. I could use a woman of your nerve."