For several minutes, Jameson bolted through the winding streets of the coarse little town, unaware of anything that he passed. Perhaps he should have waited to see Aylee safely over the wall, but he feared that if he stayed with her, he would want to leave with her, to do whatever he needed to convince her that he cared for her. Such a possibility could not prove acceptable. For one, the old woman relied on him and his ability to rescue her; the necessary actions took time and needed immediate attention. For another, Jameson could not have felt more rent in two concerning Aylee Hembry. Never had he met someone who had affected him so strangely. Every day that he knew her, he found her more intriguing, but for some inexplicable reason, she was set on mistrusting him.

Maybe, whispered the voice of insecurity, you have overstepped her wishes, and she had her heart set on Itchy all along. Maybe Jameson’s persistence had set her against him, because he had somehow not recognized her refusals as such. But then, why had she indulged him? Strolled for hours, and laughed and discussed. Trained and evaded…and kissed. He could not fathom what had conspired to turn her against him. To drown out the buzz of his worries, Jameson set himself to a new task. He leapt to the nearest door before him, knuckle striking wood until a clattering indicated the unlocking of a lock.

“Fire!” Jameson pointed as the blinking eyes gaped confusedly out from the interior darkness. “Get your family, find a way out. The gate is blocked. The soldiers will be here to burn your home soon enough.”

With every new piece of information, the eyes in the doorway grew wider and wider. Finally, the man seemed to jump and turned back into the darkness.

“Please knock on the other doors to warn your neighbors!” Jameson bellowed into the gloom before turning to the next pile of clay and brick that composed a home in Glowigham.

He would never make it through every home in the village before the soldiers set the next line of fire. Surely Joffrey would come to save his mother, but Jameson doubted the pair could make it past the soldiers. Jameson began a strategic knocking on only those houses that consisted largely of wood and brick rather than stone; they would more likely burn in the fire. Finally, he broke through the end of a narrow street into the courtyard of empty space.

Across a stone-paved span, Jameson spied a rustic chapel, a diminutive edifice whose moisture-blackened roof stood at least ten feet below the top of the wall, which rose highest at that point. In a natural divot, the chapel would receive less intensity from a fire that would engulf any nearby building. That married to the fact that the only wood on the entire building stood in the five-foot steeple on top of the tile roof and in the giant wooden doors, and Jameson knew for certain that the chapel would prove the perfect refuge to escape an otherwise deadly fire.

As he sprinted across the courtyard, he could hear the nearby clatter of soldiers' weapons, and a tumult had arisen behind him where the few he had wakened multiplied and raised the general hue and cry to save the village. When he glanced behind him, he noticed a man on a horse, sitting and directing from his perch on high. In response to his pointed finger, a small band of soldiers split off from the others, who had managed to put the flame to several of the surrounding homes, and started across the courtyard directly toward Jameson. He would have liked to know for sure whether the man on the horse would prove to be Malchus Lorne, as his voice and position indicated, but the soldiers forced Jameson to barrel his head down and rush directly through the chapel doors. Once inside, he shoved the doors shut and lowered the wooden plank into the pegs to lock the door.

“Hallo!” he bellowed through the opening as soon as he entered. “Edrick! It’s Jameson. Let’s go! I’ll help you get your mother out. Hallo!”

From a dark doorway at the front of the chapel, a mousy head poked out only a few feet off the ground. Edrick’s dear mother wore a look somewhere between fear and amusement, and Jameson could not imagine what had brought her pleasure under such circumstances.

“Where is Edrick?” Jameson begged, glancing around among the wooden benches. He had no time to go on a hunting expedition because he could already smell the smoke and hear the crackle of fire upon the wooden door. Before long, the soldiers would have found any other possible egress and either come through it or rendered it impassable.

“Edrick is not here,” the old woman crackled. “He moved me here in the middle of the night and then went for help.”

Jameson sighed, not excited that he would have to carry the woman while he planned and executed their escape, but he could not pause to feel his frustration. Grabbing her hand, he lead her back into the darkness of the corridor from which she had come.

“Please excuse me, dear woman.” He crouched and offered her his back. “I’m afraid we must forego propriety. Climb on. We must travel faster than your legs can manage; the soldiers are at the door. Did you see an exit back here during your waiting?”

“It’s my second ride in one night,” she cackled in answer. “And, yes, there is one door on either end of the hallway back here.”

When he reached the end of the short hallway, Jameson peered through a slitted window that made a narrow stripe along the stone wall. He could spy one soldier just outside the door, and rather than challenge him in the open where others could rush to his aid, Jameson stepped back into the darkness, setting the old woman on her feet.

“Would you mind stepping into that niche over there?” Jameson requested, pointing to a little alcove that dented the wall.

The woman stepped obediently out of sight, and Jameson readied himself for a fight. Since the sun had just peeked over the top of the wall, Jameson knew that the man’s eyes would not adjust quickly to the dark, and Jameson could easily take advantage of the soldier’s temporary blindness. A few moments later, the soldier lay unconscious on the floor at Jameson’s feet, and Jameson had borne the old woman out into the increasingly smoky air. Following the curve of the wall with his eyes, he noted a path forward toward the gate of the village. If he could make it past the line of fire before it began a serious burn, he knew he would carry Edrick’s mother to safety with little worry of encountering much danger. A few steps later, he reached the side of the chapel and saw the way clear before him. Jameson and his charge would soon see the freedom of the woods before them.

As always, Malchus found the scent of the smoke intensely satisfying, a confirmation in his mind that he had accomplished his goal. He also found that the unleashing of utter annihilation elated him, brought him a sort of delirious pleasure that took days to fade away. Much more effective than drink or herbs. Though he felt no great compulsion to see inside the city, he recognized his duty to Maximus, and he needed to speak to the old woman. Only she would possess any knowledge that could lead to the identity of the mysterious noble.

When he approached the gates once again, Malchus assessed his surroundings carefully, though he felt confident that he need not fear any interference. Malchus always paid close attention to his surroundings because small details could provide vital information in a moment when strategy became a necessity. Around him, his men milled somewhat aimlessly, and he barked at several of them to pay closer attention. Just because no one had as yet interfered with their destruction did not guarantee future security.

Inside the gates, ash grey air blanketed ash grey houses which stood upon ash grey ground. Though the twinge of the fumes burned his nose, it had dissipated near the front of the town and had only flared up yet in a couple of places behind. He followed a path along the north wall which he had commanded the men to leave unscathed. The path served a two-fold purpose: one, it funneled anyone who fled the flames into a single location from which the soldiers could decide how to dispense with them. It also allowed Malchus or any other soldier an entry beyond the wall of burning architecture if for some reason it proved necessary. After lingering outside the walls for nearly an hour, Malchus grew impatient, not trusting that anyone else could accomplish what he needed to accomplish. Maximus would hold only Malchus responsible if he failed to find the nobleman, to halt his attempts to redeem the duke's name.

Malchus laughed at the duke's title as he thought it. Some people had taken to calling Wilmington their king, but Malchus knew better. During his life, Malchus had studied the great histories of lands where a single king reigned over a thousand townships, and Duke Wilmington ruled over fewer than a hundred. Still, probably near ninety thousand people relied on the Duke for their wellbeing and for protection from bands of plunderers who too often roamed the unincorporated lands. Well, now a high-brow plunderer had wrenched control from the Duke, and Malchus felt certain that among outlaws, he himself would prove the most conniving and successful.

Though he did not hear as much lamentation as he had expected, he could not but feel content when he absorbed the scope of what he had accomplished in Glowigham. He had not entered the other towns, satisfied to watch the evidence of his feat rise black into the sky. Surprisingly, he enjoyed the much more concrete understanding of his exploit that a simple stroll through the ruins provided.

First order of business, Malchus stopped by the woman’s home. His soldiers had ostensibly searched it, but since they had not yet burned it, he felt compelled to take a look for himself. If he saw no evidence of her at the home, he would investigate other venues, but he would not leave open the possibility that some witless soldier would miss an important clue. After searching through each room, Malchus instructed the soldiers with him to examine every stone and tap on every wooden wall to listen for a hollow space. Malchus wandered into the courtyard behind the house and began to search for some indication of where the woman would have gone.

He spied a wooden door that seemed hewn directly into the wall, and when he opened it, he could see the back of a neighboring home. Apparently, the neighbors had built a door in the wall between their homes: a perfect way to evade soldiers who had come for the purpose of apprehension. Malchus opened the door and entered a tiny courtyard, its dirt floor littered with the snow of ashes that layered the rest of the town. After kicking through the thick dust, feeling for unusual items, he pushed open the door to the neighbor’s now-abandoned home. Before he had stepped two steps inside, his toe kicked against a hard object which then skittered across the floor. He followed its trajectory across a hallway and bent to retrieve it, finding in his fingers a small but sturdy knife, one of exceptional quality and incredibly out of place in such humble surroundings.

After pocketing the knife, Malchus quickly scoured the rest of the house and returned to his soldiers, who had found nothing but a half-eaten meal dumped into the fire, probably evidence of a rapid flight. Once he had gathered a small band of his men outside the house, he produced the tiny knife and displayed it to them.

“Does any of you recognize this knife?” he queried, holding the knife open in the air.

From near the back of the group, a hiss of whispers broke out almost instantly.

“What is it?” Malchus demanded of the two or three men in the direction of the noise. “Is it yours then?”

For a moment, no one answered, but then Malchus recognized the face of his soldier named Kirk, one of only a few trustworthy men among the soldiers. The soldier hissed a reprimand to his comrades and then stepped forward. “The knife belongs to Edrick, a soldier under your command.”

“Is he one of my scouts? Did he drop it earlier?”

“Uh, no, sir,” answered Kirk’s compatriot, finally brave enough to speak up. “But he is the one who told us about the old lady and the nobleman.”

Malchus could not restrain a laugh. In an attempt to impress his fellow soldiers, this Edrick had apparently signed the death warrant for his own kin. “Where is this Edrick now?” Malchus demanded.

All of the men peered around at their fellow soldiers, but none seemed to have an answer.

“The last time I saw him,” the second soldier eventually offered, “was when you announced we would visit this city.”

Irate, Malchus glared around at the other men. “Where is he?” he screeched. “Find this man for me. Everyone spread out and look for him. If we find him, not only will he die, but he will suffer greatly in the process! If you do not find him, all of you will suffer!”

Like beetles exposed to the light, the men scattered in every direction, none willing to stay around and deal with the anger of Lord Jameson Wilmington. If Edrick remained in the city, Malchus decided, the soldiers would find him, and if they could not, then the city would die in Edrick’s stead.