Verogne’s Strongest

His body ached. His hiding place beneath the old rotten trunk was damp. Water dripped onto him from its broken and decaying body. In the distance the hunting dogs barked. They grew closer with each passing moment, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to move. Running for a day now from Duranet and her accursed walls. When Priest Jon had led him astray. Belief so strong Verogne’s holy flame spilled from his hands like an opened keg. Belief so strong until Mace connected with arm and sent his weapon of the Faith spilling upon others. His brothers and sisters in faith, his brothers and sisters in arms. Burned away by that same holy flame he had brought forth.

He felt as if he were in tatters. Something was missing and he couldn’t tell what. Tears flew freely as the Dogs barked and barked. Their barks joined by the cries of men to one another. Cries of the pursuer coming upon the pursued. Cries of bloodlust and cries of sorrow. Longing saturated the wood.

Suddenly, a man fell before him. A wardog pouncing onto his back and digging its maw deep into his flesh. Piers’ body shook violently with the last drops of adrenaline it might muster. When the demonic blood-covered maw of the beast turned to him he felt those last drops go dry. Nothing remained in his body to muster up the courage or effort to fight off his coming demise. Worn down by the day of fighting followed by the day of running.

It barked a terrible, cruel noise at Piers. Then it lunged. Piers raised a limp hand in opposition and its teeth sunk into it. Pain shocked his system, stabbing into his arm and sprinting at speed into his spine then his brain. Within him it raged once more. A warm feeling in his stomach flared against the pain and enraptured his whole being as his arm was torn to and fro by the wardog. 

From the bite deep into his arm, from that torn and cracked bone and sinew, from that mangled form it came forth in glory. The One, the Righteous, the Promised, the Retribution in his purest. The Flame of that One True whom spoke only to the strong who cast no gaze to the weak. Soul ablaze, Faith risen from some place deep within Piers.

The mutt yelped as his body was consumed by the flame. His grip on Piers’ arm released and he scrambled in retreat, fleeing from the foxhole beneath the log and back across the corpse he had mangled. Piers rose as his shattered left arm dangled from his side, warmth consumed his body and gave forth that energy which had been spent those gruesome pair days prior.

Oh Verogne! How he had blessed thee! By the One you are that Promised Retribution! By the One you gift! Enemy lay abound now around me! They scramble into the clearing at the aid of their mutt! Verogne, take notice of your warrior! Lend me your power, Verogne our enemy is there! Set my Soul ablaze with your righteous Fire! I believe! I BELIEVE in Promised Paradise! Oh Glory, oh Glory, oh glory be to us! See your brave warrior like you saw Saint Vyana, Saint Avilor, Saint Cavum, Saint Venk and Saint Walia! Lend me the strength to cleanse this World! I will do what is demanded forevermore Verogne my Soul is yours!

Watch me dance my beautiful, my righteous, my promised savior!

From charred mutt flame sprouted forth and danced from grass to shrub to trunk to man. Terror cried out from the Roselion men. Mutt two sprouted forth and sprinted through clearing for the legs of the dancer. Flame came forth from hand and gripped the mutts by the collar. From collar to hide to organ and bone they were consumed by the promised coming. Clearing of rotted trunk of stream of shrub and of tree consumed in inferno. From rank of Enemy stepped man whose own flame crawled along armor of chainedmail. 

“Enemy! You dance with the Flame of the Righteous yet you bear blade for rabble unworthy of his gifts!” The warrior called out to Piers.

Oh Verogne, do not listen to his craven call. Look how I draw my dagger and bring it so. I tear off my tunic and expose my chest in bareness for whole world to see. I am yours, I wish nothing more than to do what is demanded. In his soul complacency slithers and constricts and uses your flame for carteling and theft. Your Promised Paradise; His playground of cruelty. Look how I tear mine own skin in your name. Upon my form forever more I place this call, upon my form forever more I engrave this most honored of declarations, this most righteous of requests. Into my skin I carve:

‘VEROGNE TAKE NOTICE’

Flame of false warrior turned against his own skin. Around Piers flame settles to ash, euphoria fades as His Mission here is done true. None remain, none to oppose the warrior of the One. Now, rest comes. In the ash he laid.

Bomel

Bomel’s dockyard was crowded to the point Goedarr thought it might have received more traffic than Baefivar did even during the Harvest season. Unlike Baefivar though, this traffic had a far different character. Men in surcoats bearing the Nottels coat, three golden stars surrounded by a circle of flame, swarmed the docks, checking everything that came in and out. Crates and barrels of goods were opened and inspected thoroughly before Goedarr as he and Greta made their way off the Cog and into the city. 

The ‘City’, if one might have called it that, was not much different from the docks. Soldiers of the Verognese Army, whom wore the Nottels coat too as the Dockmasters had, loitered, patrolled and infested just about every corner of this place. Goedarr considered how he wanted to approach this, gaining access to the King himself that is.

He might have told Sjors he knew the man, but in truth that had only been a gamble in hopes he might escape ferrying iron ores from the hills into Baefivar town. It seemed Sjors and his gang of officers had transformed the old textile town into something of a giant smithy in Goedarr’s absence and Goedarr had no intend to be made part of that great effort. No, here, in the Palace-City, talking to Kings and important men? Far better work for a Cheesemonger such as himself. No doubt.

He wandered the main streets for a little while with his daughter tailing along. Greta eventually spoke up,

“Pap, you know the King of Verogne?”

Goedarr laughed, “Oh no dear, you see, if we hadn’t made ourselves useful to that brutish Sjors we might have been made daytalers or the One knows what else. Those mercenary types are never to be trusted, remember that. Only the Righteous knows how he came to power.”

“So, why are we here? Ought we just gone to Elikavor and met with Goed and Cool?”

“Oh no, dear no! We couldn’t have just left our kin in Baefivar to fight that madman’s war with no chance for recourse! We owe a duty to all our kin and kine to make sure they get the best chance they can, then we head off to Elikavor.”

“Ah.”

Goedarr then saw a man loitering alone next to the entrance to some kind of plaza. He was picking his teeth with a sharpened wooden point and had his helmet on. It had a blue and yellow plume sticking out from its top, an officer of some kind.

“Sir! Sir! I beg your pardon!” Goedarr shouted, picking up his pace to a run to quickly close the distance before the officer could flee his grasp.

The man let out a little sigh, “You have it sir.”

“I am Goedarr, of Baefivar. You look to me to be a man of important station. No doubt a man who serves his righteous majesty of this holiest of Kingdoms dutifully and gloriously. I come bearing news of a revolution, a continuation of the breaking of the chains! This time focused against those arch-tyrant knife-ear loving Arkaimid blood barons of the Steel Kingdom. I implore you, help me bring my case to the King! Of course I will not fail to mention that any man who would help me in this most noble and faithful goal might see an extra windfall for his pockets. Appreciation from the most faithful and noble of people whom hail from the foothills of the Spindles.”

The officer rose a hand, it took him a while to speak it was as if Goedarr could see the stream of thought forming from the mountain-tops of this man’s battle-worn cranium and flow down their great slopes into a pooled solution within his mouth which the next words sprouted from,

“Baefivar, cloth-making city is it not? Is this part of the chaos in Silvran, with the dead Arkaimid and his House?”

“Yes, clothmakers who have suffered under joint Roselion-Isiline tyranny at the behest of that cruel Rholicarian house of Elf-Lovers. Our people rose up in arms before the King of Kings had died. Yet we hope this chaos plays out in favor of all good and faithful men. Both ours and you-”

“Slow down.”

Goedarr nodded though he could only do so much for this Verognese brute. Mongers such as himself were far more accustomed to speaking quickly and concisely unlike men of the sword whose heads were likely beaten to slowne-

“You said a windfall?” The captain finally added with a frown.

Goedarr nodded firmly and jostled one of the bags of silver on his belt.

“Well,” He looked left, then right. “If you do not lie this is a matter of great importance.”

“I am no liar sir. I am Goedarr of Baefivar, a well-known Cheesemonger. Were any men here in Bomel to know the Cheese-Trade they would verify as such and attest to my honest dealings. It is known too that Baefivar has chafed long under Roselion rule, any man with sense would know her cause and reasons just.”

His frown turned to a broad smile, his eyes locked onto the silver pouch. “The King is a very, very busy man. I will see to it. Take a room in the city and I will hold onto your good word.”

Goedarr fished out a pair of silvers and offered them in hand. “Here then good sir, what is your name?”

The Captain reached to take the silvers, when he did so Goedarr sprung his trap. Grasping the Captain’s hand with the two silvers and aggressively shaking it.

“James Afen, of the Saintly Lineage.” James said while their hands shook. He did not shake Goedarr’s hand with as much vigor as Goedarr forced upon the exchange.

“A Saintly Lineage! The One has shined upon his most faithful liberators on this day. Well, James of the Saint Afen, I shall be in the Cheese Markets tomorrow at dawn. You would meet me there?”

“Dawn.” 

“Dawn!”

Goedarr made at quick pace for the Peddler’s quarter where he and Greta might find quarters tonight. Greta seemed on the whole ambivalent ot the entire quest Goedarr had set upon and idly followed behind her father. When they’d came to the quarter it took Goedarr sometime to find refuge, before eventually being taken in by the Juups. A household lorded over by a fellow Cheesemonger, a fellow named Jon Juups.

They served a fine cheese of the cattle from the northern banks of the Tath Allna. It was served alongside Rye bread and some squirrel their eldest son had bought from a Soldiering man who was quartered outside the city.

When dawn came Goedarr and Greta followed Jon Juups into the Cheese Markets. A fairly humble affair here in Bomel. It was said the people of Promised Paradise’s cradle preferred to be a planting folk, with the dark fertile soil of their isle sprouting forth all manner of crop. As such, it was not common to see larger herds of dairy here, most of the peasantry kept to the fields and might have kept chickens, geese or pigs. From the soil too came their clothes, linens mostly rather than wool. 

The Cheese Markets then was a small outcropping of the larger market, four stalls large though sufficiently busy. Soldiers especially visited often, trading their generous pay for all manner of foods and other luxuries in the market. It was hard to pick James Afen out from this constant flow of Soldiering men until Goedarr heard his voice among the crowds.

“Move, move come on I’ve got business. Important business.” He commanded several men of presumably lower rank. As soon as he stepped past them a man operating a stall shouted, 

“WATCH OUT!!!!”

An impressive wheel of cheese fell forth from his stall and barreled towards James. The Captain seemed more startled by the Merchant’s warning and even worse, failed to notice this great circular dairy product falling imminently upon him. He took a step towards the warning merchant,

“For what?”

  In the midst of his step his foot was caught by the cheese and sunk deeply into its depths. The Captain Afen lost all his balance and fell forth, hitting the ground hard with a thud. Goedarr hustled forth, a common sight for men unaccustomed to the chaotic nature of the most vibrant markets no doubt. This Captain had much to learn of the Cheesemongering world.

Goeddar helped James to his feet. Seeing then the source of his folly. He had great, heavy eyebags. His eyes wandered and showed hardly any alertness to the world around him. Yet when he rose, James of the Saintly Line of the good and valiant Afen spoke as if nothing had happened.

“I got you a meeting, one man away from the King.”

“Oh?”

He lowered his voice, “General Haar.”

Goedarr smiled widely, his entire body vibrated with jubilation. “Good Afen! You are a miracle worker!”

He handed at once to Afen the entire bag of silver he’d tempted him with the day prior.

James puffed his chest, took the silvers and clapped Goedarr on the shoulder.

“Now come, he’s a busy man. We shall meet him at once.”

Night

Stephen cursed loudly, “Verogne be damned! How in the One’s name do I lose four rounds in a row!?”

Jame laughed as he raked in the pot, he was up seven silvers. Almost the whole of the ten silvers the three had between them.

Stephen threw his hands up, “That’s it! I’m out!” 

He rose in a haste and turned to gaze off into the Night. Hunt and Jame both shared a glance. Hunt received the Dice and pocketed them, he walked to Stephan’s side and sighed.

“Stephan, Stephan, you’re too bold you know that? Taking unnecessary risks, rolling when you have one dice to my three, how might you even win such a bet?”

Stephan waved a hand and didn’t reply.

Jame rose and tightened his belt. Feeling the handle of his club that hung from it in one hand and the buckle in the other. He strolled to the other side of the wall. Looking down into the Walled City of Baefivar below. Curfew was hours ago and the few figures he saw skulking about below kept to side-streets and alleyways. In the light of the few hearths that aided the pair of half-moons above, the figures looked more like drifting phantoms than men. Causing a sense of unease to creep up into Jame despite his safety here on the walls.

“Jame.” Hunt said in a serious tone.

“Hm?” Jame turned and walked to the wall that faced outwards towards the suburbs.

“Look there, do you see that?” Hunt pointed.

Jame scanned the general region Hunt was pointing, his eyes eventually finding it. In the far distance, hidden beneath a wooded hill, the glow of collected bunch of campfires rose into the sky. Their smoke lightly illuminated fading above the spring of light and into the heavens.

“You think it’s the Roselions?” Jame asked.

“Could be.” Stephan replied. “Sailing under darkness then preparing for an assault come morning.”

“Could be.” Jame replied.

“I’ll go let Venk know.”

“Go face the Bear?” Hunt asked with a chuckle.

“For this? Of course.”

Stephan left and Jame and Hunt stood watching the small oasis of light peeking out from the darkness.

Rout

Something like fourteen miles now from Duranet. Three days of skirmishes with confused men of his own army and Duranet’s garrison alike. Sjors sat atop his horse upon a hill that overlooked the surrounding lands. They were somewhere in the Sheepwalks that lay between Duranet and Baefivar. By Sjors assessment some day away from Baefivar and another two from Duranet.

A pair of riders appeared over the horizon and rode towards Sjors. Envoys sent to Baefivar to receive a report from Pike and let Sjors’ second know the status of Sjors own force. A sorry state they would have had to report on. His assessment was now he had something like half his original force. 

When the riders reached the crest of the hill, one spoke.

“Can’t get to Baefivar.”

“You can’t? Why?”

“There’s a Siege. Forty banners or so I’d say camped in a vale maybe a mile or so outside the Suburbs.”

It felt as if Sjor’s heart stopped for a brief moment. “A Siege?”

“A Siege, aye I saw it. Walls were still strong when we left.

Forty Banners? Opposed by a gaggle of men who couldn’t even muster the discipline to march in step. Who had for an entire month done naught but lynch their neighbors and turn their arms even on the holy Bishop whom called for peace and council? Sjors’ mind was surmounted by a wave of despair that even the break upon Duranet’s walls hadn’t invoked.

When Sjors turned his gaze back to the camp he and his aides had been able to rally together his despair only surged further.

“One be with you.”  The envoy bid him.

The envoy and his partner made their way down the hill to the camp. Sjors watched them leave and wheeled his horse about to look once more over the surrounding landscape. He sat there for a while watching the empty plains 

When the bright moons had begun to set and behind Sjors the dim moons rose. The man was broken from his spell. At some point he’d gotten off his horse and it’d wandered off a distance to the base of the hill where it rested. Not a soul had bothered him while he was up here. Not even his stallion which was unusually calm.

He came to the foot of the hill and retrieved Hare. Leading him into the camp of the defeated. As he came in and made his way for his own tent, Bishop Ramme cast his eyes downward as Sjors approached. When Sjors had come to the Bishop’s side he stopped.

“Bishop.”

The Bishop cast a glance up at Sjors. It seemed as if his entire body was quivering with fear. Sjors concealed a hate for the man that swelled up inside of him. A hate borne of those who postured faith in the One yet in times of struggle turned into the Elvi-borne rats which plague those corners where complacency dwells.

“I want the camp disassembled by the time the night-moons are at their height. Then we are on the march.”

“I- Yes, your will be done First Guard.” The Bishop replied.

Sjors watched him lead as he made his way to his own tent. Dismantling it was almost meditative in a way he sorely needed. Rage and Despair slowly fading into the deeper recesses of his mind where subpsyche hid.

When his things were packed and slung over his mule’s back Sjors felt new resolve. Something stirred within him, a distant flame that had died in those cursed trenches across the Spindles.

Dawn

Sjors mounted his horse prepared for him outside the Cathedral doors. The Zealot’s camp had been moved with only some rats being hunted by catchers remaining. Albert Pike, his secondhand, rode beside him.

“I had the men readied for the march onto Duranet. Nine hundred or so I judged were ready. Rest are still a rabble who can hardly swing a club.” Albert told him as they rode at a casual pace towards the Western Gate.

“Their equipment?” Sjors asked.

“Half or so have polearms, almost all of them have mail. The other half have a motley of shorter arms. Shortswords, clubs, handaxes and the like.”

“They can march in good order?”

“I wouldn’t have chosen them otherwise.”

“Alright, get the rest of the men drilling. I want them in good order when Duranet has fallen.”

“I’m not sure about when Duranet has fallen but I’ll try my best Sjors.”

“You damn better.”

“May the dice favor you.”

“The same to you.”

Sjors rode ahead of Albert. When he came to the Western Gate he saw the Column he had requested assemble. Three men wide it extended a great deal from the Gatehouse. Ramme and his Zealots could be seen in the van, most did not even carry weapons. Rather they carried braziers lit by their own flames. Priests toured up and down the van delivering sermons and occasionally they would break out in religious hymn.

Behind them were the first Guard of the Concord who were readied for conflict. A far more dour column of middle-aged and even some spare older men. Assembled in a motley of equipment from their various tours of service. Some old mercenaries whether in service to the Roselions or across the Lake in the northerly wars. Others men who had at one point served as a Retainer to a lord and then relocated to Baefivar for whatever reason might have pleased them.

Sjors admiration of the force he now commanded was interrupted by the calling of Goedarr,

“Lord! Lord Sjors!” 

“Yes?”

“You requested I and my daughter meet you here, how might we serve this great assembly of men?”

“Go to Bomel, convince the King there to support our cause.”

“Bomel? Is there not a blockade at Neracon?”

“There is but I wager you’re a resourceful fellow.”

“Ah. Well-” Goedarr hesitated. “Your will be done, Lord Sjors.”

“Now off with you. It is an urgent matter and I intend for you to be quick at it.”

“Quick at it.” He nodded and was off at his strange run. He passed Sjors back into the city.

Sjors rode past the men to the head of the Column where Bishop Ramme was mounted upon a Mule.

“Sjors! First Guard-General! We are ready to take up the sword in the One’s name!” The Bishop proclaimed as he came to the side of the Zealots.

“Right then, On the March. To Duranet. Quick Pace!”

“To Duranet. Quick Pace!” A Priest called behind him.

The Order echoed down the line and the Column began its march. Hardly in unison as Sjors’ old Company had once made its way. Men lagged in parts which gave it a rippling effect as they made their way past Sjors. It was embarrassing in a way but it was what was at hand. Duranet was soon to be freed.

-|-|-

What should have been a four days march for Sjors’ host took ten. Camp was set a half-day’s march from Duranet and her immediate contados. No reports from Bishop Ramme and his van from contact along the march there. Though after the column had nearly dissolved into a mob twice now, Sjors hardly trusted this sorry bunch of ‘soldiers’ to even be capable of watching for Roselion men. 

Setting camp went along just fine. Sjors had it set a half-days march from Duranet on the early morning of the eleventh day from their departure. He organized watches of some ten men or so for the rest of the day and had his men get to rest early. They’d only packed enough supplies for twelve days, the One had shown them some grace by having two of their horses be slain by Wolves in the night. With the Horse Meat and the grain allocated for them, Sjors guessed he might be able to stretch their supplies to a thirteenth day.

If they failed to take Duranet that was.

The idea of them failing to take the city caused a deep dread to well up inside Sjors. Some fourteen-hundred men here under his command and another fourteen-thousand being trained by Pike in Baefivar. A sizable reserve, sure, but whatever they were armed with would be more improvised slings and sticks than crossbows and halberds. These men here were the only ones who had any semblance of arms and armor. Whether they be made of the One’s flame or of Steel.

Sjors almost let his thoughts drift to the next steps after Duranet. Then he stopped himself. One city at a time, Arkaimidia was immense in its breadth and thinking too long on how to face it all would drive him to a rope.

When the men were settled into their tents and the first watch to their posts Sjors made a loop of the camp to make sure the men were getting their proper rest. He’d known in his Mercenary days any good commander needed only to shut their men with a mean glance, rather than words. It satisfied him that he seemed to have such an effect on both the older men from Baefivar and the Zealots. Two games of dice and a particularly boisterous sermon all put to rest by him simply riding by and staring silently at those responsible.

After the loop Sjors came to the pavilion that had been prepared for him. Simple, practical with a desk, a bed, writing implements, wax and parchment should he need it. He might have preferred some nice paper from the Forigar Estate yet a command like this afforded not even that luxury. When he had strung up Valar in a gallows then maybe he could write on southerly paper. 

He sat at the desk and began to write a letter to Pike in Baefivar. Inquiring on the state of the rest of the Concord Guard being trained there. It had almost been two weeks and he doubted they had that much time.

Bishop Ramme entered the pavilion not soon after,

“Sjors.” He said.

“Yes Bishop?”

“What is the plan?”

“We march at twilight then make an assault at dawn. The Bright Moons will be behind us and the One will be with your flock. They will be the first up the ladders to burn them out then my men will follow to take the citadel.”

Ramme nodded, “Wise.”

“Do you need anything else of me, Bishop?”

“No, I do not. May the One grant us favor. May his Righteousness shine through today and might his Promise be delivered. Verogne be with you.”

“Verogne be with you as well.” 

The Bishop left and Sjors stared at the parchment for a moment before returning the quill to its pool. The Bishop and his preachers always unsettled Sjors in a way. He’d hardly heard of any Crusade of Verogne that had resulted in anything but something like the Bomelian Oligarchy or the Reiners’ Cartel. Hardly better than the Isilines, only difference is the Isilines would look the other way when you put an idol in your house while the Reiners would render you soot.

He didn’t doubt the One’s word but where did it say in the Canons that one must cede all the authority of the Citizen to warlords and bishops? Where it said that only the Saints’ spawn may govern? No doubt the Saints were great men and women of faith, yet are their children as special as they? Much less their great-great-great-great grandchildren.

A dangerous lot, he hoped that Ramme spoke true when he praised the Concord as the path to Promised Paradise. No matter his personal feelings, the flames of the One were a powerful, beautiful and terrifying thing all in equal measure.

Pressing his worries about the Zealots aside he wrote letters well into the night. Scrapping almost four addresses to Pike, the man was a damn good organizer but Sjors had his reservations about him. He insisted on the perfect inquiry for the state of his men and eventually, fell asleep at that desk.

He awoke to the rattling of drums. Ink had spilled from his quill onto the parchment and nearly pooled to the point it might have stained his face. Another missive to Pike ruined. He rose from his slumber at the desk and exited the pavilion. Shocked to find Bishop Ramme preparing his men for him.

As he approached Bishop Ramme ducked his head slightly, “Sjors. The men are ready and we are soon to be upon those Carteling Bastards.”

“Good initiative Bishop.” Sjors surveyed the sky and saw a pair of moons just beginning to peak over the tree-line. His men were assembled into a marching column and the addition of drums hadn’t gone unnoticed by Sjors. It was later they had assembled than he would have liked, but he’d slept so long he could hardly blame anyone but himself. 

Mounting his steed he got a better look at the column, it was wider than he had ordered they be assembled on the way out of Baefivar. With men split into seven groups each with a ladder. At the fore of these groups were those zealots of the Bishop. Marked aside by their lack of any proper arms or armor, spare a few who had a sword hanging from a belt or a shield but no weapon.

Ramme rode up beside him. Once the man was at his side, Sjors asked.

“Where did you get the Drums?”

“Priest Jon and a few others made them.”

“Ah.”

The drums sounded off and the Column began to move at a slow pace. Sjors could tell they were Jon’s handiwork now that he was listening to them with a clearer ear. They were discordant. Some shrill and others far too deep. The drummers themselves left much to be desired as well. A good number of them were off such that the effect they had was hardly unifying the column to a single pace but more creating a general wall of sound that followed it.

Sjors rode at a leisurely pace alongside the columns. The cacophony of noise from Ramme’s drummers did little but give him a headache. His helmet doing little to dampen the ceaseless, terrible thumpings. When they finally arrived at Duranet’s suburbs and the drumming halted Sjors let out a sigh of relief.

The Columns proceeded at a slower pace through the orchards, gardens and roads that surrounded Duranet’s walls. Their arrival had caught the locals offguard, several of them either barricading themselves in their homes or fleeing the city entirely. The City’s gate was shut before them. Sjors found a small grove of coppiced trees that gave him a good view of the section of wall his men would be assaulting. It rested on a humble hill, which alongside his horse, allowed him to peer over the suburbs which lay in the small depression between here and the wall.

The first ladder laid against the wall was done too close to its base. Sjors cringed as the first of the Zealots began scaling it. The brave man at its head wore nothing but a pair of trousers and a belt that an empty scabbard hung from. He climbed with one hand and waved his sword with the other which was alight with the Flame of the One. His screams could be heard in a diminished form even all the way where Sjors and his followers watched the assault.

Then, the men at the top of the wall realized the assaulter’s error. A concerted push of a few men sent the ladder teetering backwards. The men at the bottom tried to stabilize it but it had swung too far already. The brave man who was at the top of the ladder leaped off and let out a blood curdling scream. He flew with such momentum towards the wall that Sjors thought for a moment he might make it. That was until a javelin thrown from the wall pierced his skull. His flaming blade was extinguished and his body plummeted to the earth below.

Sjors feared for a moment that the other teams may turn tail and run as well, then he saw flame spreading along the wall in his left peripheral. While Sjors had been observing the spectacle of the first attempted assault three more ladders had been laid off to the side where the first folly of an assault was attempted. Flame spread from a small beachhead that had been made by the first men atop the walls. Priest Jon himself could be seen at the center of this beachhead, waving a flaming axe in one hand and holding the Canons in the other.

A breath of relief escaped Sjors’ mouth. He almost spoke to one of his followers until he saw the torrent of flame that was burning the defender alive crawled off the side of the wall and sprouted forth onto the ladders and the men that were mantling up them. Sjors’ eyes widened with terror and his heart quickened as he saw Priest Jon and his lot turning their flames upon their own men. Then the flames were fully broken from the control of the assaulters. They spread now in all directions, consuming defender, attacker and ladder alike. Those three columns which had yet to lay their ladders and make assault now dissolved alongside those men waiting at the bottom of the ladders for their turn to mantle up to the wall’s top. The host of ill-prepared and undrilled men now fled in all directions. The last thing Sjors saw before he wheeled his horse to make his own escape was an Arrow fly into the throat of Priest Jon. What little remained of his vanguard fell soon after.

Noon

There were three moons high in the sky. Almost directly above Jame’s back as he bent down to pull the crossbow’s string back behind the nut. It felt as if he could feel their gaze upon him as he rose to an upright position and brought the crossbow level; then placing the bolt in its groove. The crossbow was raised and he turned to gaze downrange. Sweat filled his tunic and dripped in beads off his face. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the wooden board a few dozen meters away that served as his target. It had a crude imitation of the Rose-wrapped lion painted upon it. 

He pressed down upon the lever and watched the bolt fly. He missed.

A shock of pain rocked his back as he was struck with the cane of Drillmaster Venk. It took all his strength to remain standing and not collapse to the ground.

“That’s enough Jame! Get back to your column!” Venk shouted at him.

Jame walked away from the range and sulked back to where his Column stood under the hot moons. 

“Han! Charles! Guy! You’re all up next. Come along now!”

Jame took his spot in the Column, near the rear in the ninth line of ten. He held the crossbow and stood straight. Lest he draw the ire of Venk’s cane yet again. The moons seemed to speed towards their rest away from their apex upon the blue and empty sky. A man next to Jame collapsed from the heat and Venk hardly paid him notice. A pair of women who were observing heaved him up and carried him off.

Jame hadn’t known him, not that well. A cobbler maybe? Would have been nice to have him when they marched upon Roselion Castle. When the brighter moons had set and all that was left of one of their infernal trio, Drillmaster Venk came before the Column.

“You are all dismissed for the day! Tent parties are to receive one bowl of stew each! First watch is the duty of your Column, when you have received your stew all of you are to the walls!”

Jame felt dread wash over him. Standing in the sun for so long had made him forget the First Watch was him and his Column’s duty. After a long day of crossbow drills followed by standing under the hot moons Jame felt as if his falling asleep during watch were inevitable. He gave up a small prayer to the One that Hunt might bring his dice. Jame didn’t have many silvers to gamble but it would keep his attention for the night at least.

As the Column disbanded towards the cookshops the Guard had taken over, Jame was joined by two other members of his tent party, 

Hunt was recognizable from his distinct high-pitched voice. Possessing a hint of a Northern Laker accent.

“What a loooong day!” Hunt said with surprising vigor. By his voice Jame might have guessed the man had just sprung from an evening nap.

“Yeah, long.” Stephen answered him. His voice was lower, though not deep it always cracked at least once when the ‘man’spoke.

“Hunt, did you hear anything about what they are serving today?”

“Rabbit, acorn and turnips I heard. Should be good! Better than the old gruel my sister prepared!” He laughed. “Thank the One she scuttled off to Neracon when this all started, spared me from her cooking!”

Stephen did not find this amusing, frowning.

“Oh come on Stephen, she just wasn’t right for you! That young harlot would’ve left you by the time the three moons became two I don’t doubt it!”

“Whatever.”

Jame smelled the warm aroma that fluttered in the wind. A long line of Guardsmen had already formed and the smell of the stew caused Jame’s stomach to rumble. Women and boys carried buckets of water and offered them to the parched. Jame took one from a boy that looked to be a quarter his age. He chugged the entire thing and his stomach turned. Despite the onset of nausea he breathed a sigh of relief and handed the bucket back to the boy.

“Wow you sure were thirsty!” The boy said before skipping away.

Hunt laughed. Stephen’s eyes followed a girl who walked past the trio.

Jame wiped water from his lips, shuffling forward as the line moved. “Can’t believe we’ve got the first watch. Especially since Venk was shoved onto us. That old sod is far too eager with the cane.”

“You can say that again.” Hunt said.

Stephen nodded.

They’d finally come to the head of the line, the ‘bowl’ Venk had mentioned was a deep one. More than enough stew for the three guard of the tent party. Jame’s stomach roiled with hunger. He could hear Hunt’s and Stephen’s stomachs calling out in chorus with his.

“Here you are boys.” The old lady who was spooning the stew into these deep bowls said. Pushing the bowl forward for the three to take it. Stephen grumbled some dissent at the use of the word boy. Jame and Hunt each took up a side of the bowl to carry it. The three made their way to the Wall in silence and haste. Eager to sit down and feast upon the great banquet of rabbit, turnip and acorn that had been dispensed to them.

They sat and ate ravenously. A whole day of drills wore heavily on their bodies. Even the worst days of daytaling hadn’t been quite as bad as what Jame had just gone through. The worst bosses cut your pay when you lazed around, not whipped you with a cane then made you stand firm in the sun.

Jame finished his stew and sighed. Ultimately, after the entire day he felt rather empty. The part of him that craved for days before the Guard called out to him. When he looked over the edge of the tower he, Stephen and Hunt were upon all the rabble-rousing speeches that had been given by Priest Jon and Bishop Ramme on the streets of Baefivar did little to comfort his soul here after such a harsh day.

His reminiscence faded though, when Hunt pulled out the dice and gave him a knowing smile.

The Cheesemonger

Seven months on the River Forigar. Cog laden with the finest Bellic Sheep Cheese, Aubinone Cheese. Locals called it Hitsuji Cheese, Goedarr found his Verognese customers were more drawn to the vaguely Arkaimid-sounding Aubinone name he had given it. Goedarr passed the time by tending to the rigging of his family’s ship. A menial task, but one which kept Goedarr’s mind sharp for when the time to go to market came. Captains from the Estates were always content to boss their crewmen around and feast their way up and down the great rivers which ran from the Lake. An atrophy that no doubt was the reason they relied upon their dogs to force their goods to market.

Coming upon Neracon, Goedarr’s daughter, Greta, called from the front of the Cog, “Father! Look fore!”

Goedarr turned ahead, in the River Barr laid six Galleys interspersed along its width. A blockade no doubt. Goedarr strode to the front of the ship, losing his balance briefly. He was growing fat.

“Goed, Cool! Stop the Rows!” Goedarr called to his sons.

“Aye Father!” Goed called back.

The Cog began to slow as the River worked against it.

“Now drop Anchor! One of them are coming in!” Goedarr said.

His sons got to work hauling the Anchor over the side as one of the Blockade Galleys approached. They moved quickly, both the flow of the river and their many Galleys helping them come to the side of Goedarr’s ship.

“Hail Captain! Where are you bound for?” One of the men called across once they’d came aside the Cog.

“Baefivar good sir! Are those Roselion colors I see?” Goedarr replied.

“They are! His Lordship has ordered no trade pass for Neracon here. Baefivar has thrown out our men and made revolt.”

“Baefivar has made revolt?”

“It has.”

“My family’s estate is there, good man. Tell me, what kind of revolt?”

“You’re a burgher there?”

“I am.”

“We’re coming aboard!”

“What?”

The Galley swung closer so that a gangplank could be laid between the two.

“Why are you coming aboard?” Goedarr asked a second time.

“Don’t worry good man, we just want to inspect your cargo then you can turn around.”

Goedarr tensed, he never trusted an armed man. Much less one with Roselion colors. When the gangplank was laid and the men had come across the man who’d been yelling across the distance stopped in front of Goedarr. The other Roselion men fanned out past him and began inspecting the Cog.

“Sorry for the trouble Merchant. Got to see if you’re delivering any weapons or armors. If so we’ll have to take them and turn you around. If not, you can make port in Neracon and be on your way, so long as it’s not further upstream.”

Goedarr chuckled, “No worries. I’m just a Cheesemonger. You are?”

“Nort.”

“Nort, well met.”

“The same to you.”

They stood there for a moment as the other armed men rummaged through crates and knocked on boards in search of potential hiding spots. Goedarr and his family had never done much smuggling, aside from the incident in Nerach, so his Cog wasn’t fitted with any particular hiding spots the men might find.

The Roselion men searching the boat began to congregate on the deck. Eventually one of them said to Nort,

“Nothing but Cheese and Rations.”

“We’ll be back on our way then. Good days to you Cheesemonger.” Nort said.

“And good day to you all the same Nort.”

The Roselions lifted the gangplank after they had crossed. The galley was soon back to its spot among the others in the blockade.

“Boys bring us into Neracon.” Goedarr said.

“Right to it Pop.” Cool replied. The boys lifted the Anchor then got their rows. It was a slow move to the dock. Working against the water, it was part of the reason the journey back always took the better part of a year. Goedarr had timed the voyage so he would miss the worst of the Winter weather. A chill was already in the air by the time they had gotten onto the Barr.

Goedarr contemplated as they came into the Neracon riverdocks. A revolt in Baefivar so severe the Roselions had chosen to levy a blockade on Neracon. It had to be sizable then he guessed, any smaller one would have been put down by the garrison.

He wondered on its character. What first came to mind was a mob of Verognese Radicals clamoring for a breaking of the chains in all manner. Burning the houses of Burghers, Aristocrats and Roselion Men alike. If that had occurred Goedarr might have lost all of his fortune that was stored in the Baefivar Foodmongers Guild. A fortune of nearly four-thousand five hundred and six silvers. The other two thousand of his wealth was with his Wife and Aunt in Elikavor. Where he would be heading next if religious radicalism had swept through Baefivar.

When the Cog was docked Goedarr waved Goed over. Goed took the queue and laid the gangplank for his father.

“Goed, Cool, keep the boat. Greta come along with me.”

Greta filed in behind Goedarr as he headed onto the Pier. The Pier’s watchman eyed Goedarr and Greta as they passed. He nodded slightly to Goedarr, Goedarr vaguely recognized the man and he supposed the man recognized him. Otherwise he would have been stopped, no doubt.

Making his way to Market he searched for his Cousin-in-law. He would be at his stall this time of day. Selling those damned Isiline fabrics. Might have had to stop doing business with him all together did he not know the Tollman at the Pierhouse here. The clamor of the Textile market set in as Goedarr and Greta strolled into it. Men and Women calling to one another the make and dyes of their fabrics.  In the distant corner a pair of watchmen loitered. Likely the only watchmen in the city during this time. Like the men on the galleys in the river they wore that damnable Rose-wrapped Lion of the Roselions.

The stall of his Cousin-in-law was draped with fabrics of all colors. Even the famous Isiline Gold. The golden silks were front and center. Goedarr guessed they would be going for something like a hundred silvers a yard today. Extortionate, especially compared to Reiner Yellows but on the Forigar you didn’t have a choice. Every single fabric that hung from the stall was likely ten silvers more expensive than it should have been. That only being the case if the King of Kings hadn’t decided to throw another tariff on top of the hundreds that had been accruing over the past two decades. Yet in spite of all the tariffs the Isiline Monopoly in Roselion still had the markets clutched in its grip. Their Rose-wrapped enforcers made sure any company of fabric merchants that got too large were torn apart and their belongings sent back to Valar’s coffers.

“Carl, how’s the day’s business?” Goedarr asked.

“It’s been good. I sold half the Blues and Reds I bought from one of the Pater’s men who came by just last month. The Silks are selling a little slowly but you can’t complain I think.”

“Heard there’s some trouble upriver in Baefivar.”

Carl laughed, “Trouble is one way to put it. Guilds got so mad over some tariff Valar imposed on the dock that they strung up all the men-at-arms and the Bishop.”

“They killed the Bishop?” Goeddar was surprised. He expected some kind of religious upheaval, not a riot by the Guilders.

“Yep, Lord Valar’s got the river closed. Dozen or so of his boats passed by here for Duranet town not too long ago. I’d bet they are about to sail up and kill the lot of them. You’re lucky you weren’t there when it all started. Guilders there probably would’ve killed you for doing business with me I bet.”

Goedarr doubted that.

“Alright Carl, well, me and Greta ought to be on our way.”

“Do you wanna take some silks? I’ll give you half price Cousin.”

“No, no I bought some fabrics when I was in Forigar just earlier this year.”

“Ah, well safe travels.”

Goedarr returned to the boat. Goed was working on tying rope much like his Father had been at the start of the day. Cool was laid about on the deck, staring up at the sky. 

“Goed!” 

His son turned about, “Yes Pa?”

“I can trust you and Cool with the boat, can’t I?”

“Aye you can Pa.” Goed replied.

Cool’s head cocked up and the younger of the two boys had a wary expression on his face.

“Take this cargo up to Elikavor. Uncle Thoms will be there and he’ll help you two boys sell it all off. I’ll even let you keep a quarter of the proceeds yourselves.”

At this Goed and Cool both lit up.

“Will do!” Goed acknowledged.

“Me and Greta are heading down to Baefivar we’ll be back in Elikavor soon. Safe sailing boys.”

“Safe travels!” Cool waved as the two left. 

Goedarr wondered how he’d make his way to Baefivar. Certainly not by passing through Duranet. If Carl was right the city was no doubt swarming with armed men and the locals had no soft feelings towards Baefivar. He knew a boy from Duranet-On-Woodway, a village no greater than a two days’ walk from here. 

Junes was the boy’s name. A third-born son of a poor peasant family who did their running in the off-seasons. Goedarr guessed he could have the boy take on as his guide for no more than two silvers. 

When Goedarr and Greta passed under the Northern Gate out of Neracon they were given some odd looks by the Sentry. No doubt he rarely saw a man of Goedarr’s status going anywhere by land from Neracon. Situated at a fork of the Forigar, every major city was accessible by river. Despite this the Sentry didn’t stop them. It was the hotter part of the day and Goedarr doubted the man wanted to do much other than sit in the Gatehouse’s shade.

Goedarr’s legs already were sore from the day’s work of going about Neracon. He loathed the long hike to Baefivar he’d have to make now.

-|-|-

The First Guard-General

Sjors and his seven men came here to the Baefivar Central Plaza to receive the surrender of Captain Clothmaker. The mob that circled the Plaza parted, as the Captain and his Baefivar Guard came into the plaza. Of the four-thousand men he commanded only thirty were with him here. His best men no doubt, maybe the only men in the whole of Baefivar who had coats-of-plate.

Clothmaker himself eyed Sjors with some measure of contempt. Yet the Captain had been forced here not by Sjors but by the whole of Baefivar. Though they had ended the twenty-two, which the people of Baefivar did thank them for, Clothmaker himself was not worthy of command. Already twice he had been defeated by the garrisons at Duranet, small battles of which little men of either side had been wounded but battles that had already reversed the progress along the Duranet road the Baefivar Guard had made.

Now here, in the Central Plaza, the General Gathering of the Baefivar Concord had been made. As Clothmaker approached the Guildmasters called out to him,

“Tyrant!” One of the members of the crowd called.

“No better than the Puppet Valar!” Another.

“Coward!”

“Half-wit!”

“Son of a Whoring Daytaler!” They continued.

Sjors felt some sense of unease. Two days earlier the District Gathering of the Dignified Concord of Baefivar had called for him. He was voted unanimously First Guard-General, on account of his 17 years of campaigning both across the Spindles in Xueling and in the northern wilds of Ciarenia. The most veteran soldier in all of Baefivar. 

Sjor’s unease stemmed from seeing a piece of himself in Clothmaker. A far younger soldier than he, more a firebrand than a commander of men. It was said Clothmaker’s faith in the Changing Flame of Pakur had made him immune to the magics of the Twenty-Two. When they turned their cruel pact’s forces against him, he had passed from this world to the world of the unceasing flame. A more primal world, and when he re-emerged the Twenty-Two had perished.

Sjors had hardly an ember in his own soul. An adherent of the One by birth, the Faith instilled in him as a youth was vanquished by the realities of the Crusades over the Spindles. Worse yet, Sjors could see the possibility of failure leading to him being called here to the Central Plaza.

Clothmaker had assumed his role before the Concord was signed, and perhaps in response to his incompetence Sjors was made to stake his life upon his appointment as First Guard-General. Absolute Power to ensure the survival of the Concord yes, but Absolute Power contingent upon Absolute Devotion to the infant Concord’s survival.

“Captain.” Sjors acknowledged him.

“Sjors.” Clothmaker replied.

Clothmaker removed his belt holding both his sword and axe in their scabbard and loop. He offered it to Sjors.

Sjors took it and the Mob cheered and hollered. Under the Cheers Clothmaker laughed.

“This Concord is doomed, Sjors. It is a pity you are made their slave. Farewell.” The Clothmaker said to him.

The Once-Captain turned and left Sjors and his former men there in the Central Plaza. He walked through the Mob. Sjors would never see the man again.

-|-|-

Three days since the Surrender the General Gathering had been called four times more. Once on the first day, Sjors appeared before them and called for men to join the Concord Guard. Another time on the second day, Sjors did not appear before them, rather he was busy assessing the state of Clothmaker’s Baefivar Guard. A rollcall revealed there were 3,201 of them remaining. Desertions had cut their ranks down. Desertions hopefully to the wilderness and banditry; not to the House Roselion. Finally, twice they gathered on the Third Day. On that Third Day Sjors appeared before them in the evening with the former members of the Baefivar Guard, now the Concord Guard, and was presented by the General-Gathering the men who would be joining his force. Every able-bodied man of Baefivar had volunteered, supposedly. Sjors held doubts that all of them had truly ‘volunteered’ in response to his call but he would take them.

Sjors read to them his first Decree,

“I read here the first Decree on the matter of this Concord’s war upon the House Roselion which has beset this honored and dignified city with all manners of Tyranny. The whole of this honored and dignified city shall give unto the Concord Guard its entire effort. Any man who knows the arts of smithing, bowmaking, tailoring, sewing, spinning or any other artisanal work that is deemed necessary for the production of the weapons required to equip the Concord Guard shall serve not in the battles to come but in the forges, workshops and guild houses of this city. All those denizens of this here honored and dignified city who cannot engage themselves in these more skillful arts shall aid in the manner of preparing this city for siege. Anything that can be melted down and made into swords, spears and arrows shall be given over to this gathering of the Artisans.”

A general mumble went through the crowd before a younger man stepped forward, one of the Volunteers for the Concord Guard.

“I hear you, First Guard-General!”

The response was echoed by the rest of the crowd. Men, women and even children called out to Sjors.

“I hear you, First Guard-General!”

Something was rekindled inside of Sjors by this response of general assent. Something he hadn’t felt since he was given command for the first time, back in Xueling.

“I dismiss this General-Gathering! Here-on this City shall be devoted solely to that noblest of goals, the death of Roselion Tyranny!”

“I hear you, First Guard-General!” The mob assented.

The mob began to disperse. As they left the general, almost euphoric, feeling of being at the center of such a crowd left Sjors slowly. He was reminded of his age as all that was left as the chatter faded into the city’s winding streets was the pounding of his heart. He turned and began to walk for the building that he had made his operational center, the old Cathedral that the Bishop had once lived in. 

When he approached the self-proclaimed Bishop Ramme approached him. He wore simple brown robes, unlike most Bishops Sjors had seen in his life.

“First Guard-General!” The Bishop called after him as Sjors walked quickly past him.

“Not now Ramme.”

“Not now? The Breaking of Chains waits for nothing, First Guard-General! Tell me why you haven’t sent us valiant warriors of Verogne to Duranet yet!”

Sjors put a hand up to signal the Bishop to quiet himself.

Ramme did not call after him as Sjors marched through his camp of zealots into the Cathedral.

Sander Ron was waiting for Sjors next to the door.

“Sjors, I read your decree.” He scratched the back of his head incessantly as he spoke. A sign of anxiety in the middle-aged clerk.

“Baefivar is a city of sixty-thousand souls, how in the One’s name do you expect me to organize all this? ‘Anything that can be melted down … shall be given over to this gathering of the Artisans’. You expect me to sort through piles upon piles of old rusted firepokers and skinning knives?”

“I do.” Sjors replied.

Sander let out an aggressive breath.

Sjors continued and Sander left him be, retreating back to the Cathedral’s former hospital which the clerk had converted into his office. Sander had enlisted two Pakurian Monks to help him in his works and one of them flocked to his side as he left Sjors. The two engaged in a heated discussion that gracefully escaped Sjors’ ears as he came into his own office. Logistics was never his strong suit.

He entered the office of the late Bishop. Stripped of most of its religious artifacts and valuables which Sjors had handed over to Sander. They would need anything that the shrewd men of Baefivar could turn into silver. Sjors was under no false impressions about the state of his ‘Concord Guard’. Mostly boys and middle-aged merchants who had never seen combat. Those few older men who had fought in the Crusades or in the Northern wilds numbered no more than a thousand. Those were the only men Sjors could count on to have weapons or experience.

Duranet. That would be his first target. Nearby to Baefivar and no doubt where the Roselions would be massing their men. If he could strike quick enough, he might catch them unawares and wipe out a non-significant portion of the Puppet’s men.

He looked out the stained glass window of the Office. Bishop Ramme and his Zealot’s camp sprawled out from the Cathedral, with multiple lean-tos and tents set up that were visible even here in the back. Sjors guessed there were at least five-hundred of them here. Men who in the desperation of the anarchy and subsequent rebellion had found renewed faith in the One.

It took a moment, but then Sjors realized it.

Sjors stood and strolled forth to find that so-called Bishop and his Firebrand Priest.

-|-|-

Meetings in Baefivar

Sjors came in among the camp of the Bishop and his zealots. It clung to every side of the abandoned Cathedral though clustered around its entrance. A bonfire burned around the Priest Jon who stood within its embrace. He had the Canons in one hand and a sword in the other, reading from the Canons to the assembled men around him,

“There at Scuper, He ARRIVED! Verogne the RIGHTEOUS! Verogne the ONE! Verogne the PROMISED! Verogne the RETRIBUTION! Master Pisernas a ash pillar now, less than picked bone!” He read.

“Like Master Pisernas we shall reduce the Corrupted Lord Valar to ash! Make that pile no more than powder to be scattered among the Lake! No more Cartels and no more Tyrants! All that we must do is give over our faith to the One! To the Righteous! To the RETRIBUTION!”

The crowd cheered out cries of faith when Priest Jon had finished his sermon. Bishop Ramme stood among them, smiling lowly but not screaming out praises to Verogne like those around him. Sjors stepped into the crowd and came to Ramme’s side.

“Ramme, there you are.” Sjors greeted.

“Sjors. Are you going to hand me back my Cathedral?”

“You haven’t been confirmed by the Pontiff, it’s hardly yours.”

“Yet all those truly faithful name me their Bishop. What other is needed for me to inhabit the flock’s house of worship in our dignified city?”

“If you want the Cathedral then you and your flock should earn it.”

“Earn it?”

“March with me to Duranet and show me your faith. Make good on Priest Jon’s sermons.”

Ramme’s eyes lit up, “Then you’ll return my Cathedral to me?”

Sjors nodded, “If the Faithful serve well I will.”

“My flock of unyielding liberators will serve the Concord valiantly First Guard-General. They would feel no greater honor than to do so.”

“Then we’ll be leaving tomorrow at dawn. I want them in a marching column outside the city gates, three men wide.”

“At once.” Ramme nodded, stepping towards and then into the Bonfire. Whispering to Priest Jon who was flipping through the Canons searching for the start of his next sermon.

Sjors stepped away from the crowd of zealots and returned to his office in the Cathedral. He’d have Albert organize those men who were in fighting order then-

“Sjors.” One of Sander’s Monks said.

“Yes?”

“There’s a man and his daughter here to see you. I sent them to your office.”

“You didn’t just tell them to wait here?” He asked the Monk.

The Monk replied with a blank stare.

“Go back to Sander. I’ll see him in my office.”

The Monk scurried away.

Sjors sighed and came around the hallway to his office. An almost circular man dressed in a silk top that did little to hide his size or give him a strong figure. Moreso, it seemed only to enhance his rotundness. By his side was presumably his daughter, a younger girl maybe in her teenage years who unlike her father was built like a sailor. Sjors’ guess about her trade was confirmed when he saw her follow her father into the Office. While the girl’s father seemed to manage to walk without any sort of grace, indeed it seemed the man wobbled forward more than strode. The girl had that signature swagger that most who spent most of their time at sea had. Sjors supposed they had just got ashore if it was still as prominent as her’s.

Sjors stood near the window, retrieving his helmet from its place on the window sill. A Kettle helm that went over his coif. Its red paint was flaking off and dulled. The last time it was painted was years ago when he’d signed on to that company in Rhorimier. Redswords they called themselves. His reminiscence interrupted by the man behind him.

“I’m Goedarr, of Baefivar.”

“You’re a native here?”

“Born, raised and lifetime member of the Rivermans Guild.”

“Weren’t the Rivermans Guild broken up by the Roselions two months ago?”

“They were!? What happened to the Aldermans Council?”

“Indentured to the Isilines last I heard.”

“Indentured! Oh by the One!” The man wept.

His daughter awkwardly shuffled as the man sobbed into his arms. He was an ugly crier with fluids streaming in copious amounts from his eyes and nose. Sjors frowned at the display.

“Let me serve the Concord! I heard you were the big man around here. I and my family are yours! I swear it!”

“You want to serve?”

“I do! I’ll have you know I carried a Pike in a militia for two years! Two years!”

Sjors looked the man up and down. He wouldn’t be of much use in the Guard. Though, if he was a Riverman he was a man whose trade was trade. He had to be a good negotiator, he hoped at least.

“If I can find men of the Rivermans Guild who can verify that what you say is true. Then I know what you can do. You are used to traveling at sea and haggling?”

“I am, I am a Cheesemonger by trade.”

No wonder.

“Then meet me tomorrow before dawn by the western gate. Be ready to leave and bring a good deal of coin with you.”

“Your will be done!” Goedarr said. The speed with which he left the room shocked Sjors. His daughter following behind at a far more leisurely pace.

Sjors thought, The One works in mysterious ways.