Chapter One: The Sigil-Keepers

A little less than three leagues from Mudroot, out east along the Pinchpurse Path, three weary horsemen approached a sudden curve and dip in the trail, slowing their mounts.

"This'll do," Wren brought his horse to a stop. "Good enough."

"Right you are," replied Brinkle the Big. He groaned as he ungracefully clambered down from his winded animal. "Let's get on with it, then." He opened his saddlebag, and from it produced a coiled slick-rope, the others watching closely as he lashed one end of the iron-strong cable around a suitably sturdy tree trunk.

"Stay with the horses, Flick," said Wren, lithely sliding to the ground. "They'll be here before long, so keep yourself out of sight."

"You sure, Wren?" The younger one, Flick, asked. He reached out and took his companions reins in hand.

"Sure, Flick."

The boy lead the three horses off into the treeline, and Wren lost sight of them almost immediately in the thick foliage. Using the toe of his boot, he marked out a circle in the dirt, then a smaller circle in the middle of the first. Crouching down, he placed a hand in the middle and closed his eyes, picturing the ancient pattern in his mind. It only took a moment; there wasn't enough time for any serious sigil-work, but when Wren looked up at Brinkle, an eery hush fell over the area, and he watched the shadows grow a tad shadier around his big friend.

Brinkle lumbered across the path, tying the other end of the slick-rope around his huge waist as he went. It was a simple trap, tried and tested. Finished, he slumped to the ground with his back against a tree. "I can't believe it's come to this." He mumbled, softly stroking the hilt of his knife in the dark. An owl hooted, far off in the distance.

"Believe it." Wren pulled a small, half-filled bottle from the leather pouch at his waist and held it up to bright, beautiful Mother Moon. The clear liquid within shimmered in the light, flickering specks of luminescence darting about within, like tiny, playful fireflies. "Not much left, but here you go," he said, handing over the bottle. The big man's eyes widened. He uncorked it with a pop and inhaled vigorously as a grin spread from ear to ear. Wren sighed. "Go easy now, only a taste."

As Brinkle drank, Wren listened carefully for the riders who would be following along the twisting trail. Nothing yet, only the whisper of the wind, a second distant hoot, and the soft sipping from the man at his side. Moments turned to minutes as they waited in anticipation. Wren strained to hear, willing them to come, and then finally there it was; an unmistakable rumble from somewhere over the crest of the hill.

"Well, 'ere we go then, Wrenfin." Brinkle the Big sighed, handed back the bottle and lurched to his feet as Wren followed the rope back across the trail, pulling up the hood of his cloak and concealing himself in the underbrush.

"They're coming, Flick!" He called out softly into the shadows, sliding his blade from its scabbard.

Brinkle grabbed the slick-rope in his meaty fists and braced himself. The sound of hoofbeats came from just over the rise now. Glancing over at Wren, he smirked and gave a wink as the three horses, silhouetted against the crest of the hill, rounded the bend before diving down into the dark towards him. Rising to his full height and bellowing a bestial roar, he hauled back on the rope with all his strength, putting his weight into it and raising the deadly barrier at the very last moment. The first horse, startled, tried to swerve away from Brinkle but galloped straight into the slickrope, oblivious to the black length as it rose to meet its forelegs. They were immediately snatched out from under the horse, sending the rider catapulting over his mount's head.

The shock of the impact yanked even Brinkle the Big off his feet, rattling him to his bones and pulling him to the ground. He was dragged head over heels into the middle of the path, rolling like a giant log before scrambling to his feet, just in front of the second horseman.

The horse reared up, legs flailing, rider clinging to its neck. Brinkle pulled back his arm and sent forth a mighty blow to the side of the creature's head, sending it reeling to its knees. He jumped upon the rider in a flash, tackling him down from his saddle, and the two men went crashing to the ground in a heap.

The third rider, at the back of the pack, had taken in the scene in an instant; he tugged on his reins firmly, controlling his mount, jinking to the side and aiming to go around the enormous figure beating his companion into the mud. Sticking to the edge of the road, he passed by safely out of reach and felt the relief surge through his veins. His poor, ruptured veins; Something had struck him in his flank. The blood was already wet and sticky to his fingertips as he clutched at his side.

He turned his head as the horse slowed, to see the slim figure of Wrenfin Agodak slinking from the shadows, a long, thin dagger held at his side. The sigil-keeper hadn't stood a chance in hell of seeing the blade as he had flown past Wren, and he'd barely even felt its sting, as it had slid up under his ribcage.

Brinkle finished off the second rider, delivering a final, hard blow to the man's jaw and leaving him unconscious in the mud. He joined Wren, and the two of them watched as the mortally wounded rider continued along the trail a short way, slowing his mount to a walk, before finally coming to a halt. The rider sat up straight as an arrow, the dark red heart-blood flowing heavily already, staining his jerkin and trickling its way down to drip from his saddle.

The second horse had vanished, no doubt heading back to Mudroot with a sore head, but the first horse was crippled beyond saving, forelegs shattered against the slickrope's uncanny strength and weird properties. Now the animal laid on its side breathing heavily, eyes rolling back in their sockets and spittle flying from its mouth. Brinkle's own eyes clouded and welled a little as he knelt at the horse's side and slit its throat, calmly and carefully, with a certain reverence. When he was done, he looked up at Mother Moon, and Wren could have sworn he saw a luminescent shimmer there for the briefest of moments, deep within the man's deep, black pupils as he prayed for the horse's safe passage.

The first rider had been killed outright from the fall; his unprotected head had cracked like an egg, and its red-jelly yolk spilled and mingled with the mud. The second had fared little better, Brinkle had no reverence for fellow humans, but he would live.

"Flick! It's done!" Wren yelled out. He approached the still-mounted horseman, took the horses reins and looked up at the mortally wounded man. He was gurgling, a raspy, ragged effort at breathing. The blood flowed freely and lent a metallic tang to the crisp night air.

"Sorry, friend. You're done too." Wren seemed genuinely sympathetic. The gurgling grew in intensity as the rider opened his eyes. He wheezed and coughed, his shoulders shook.

"Are you laughing? Well, that's good. I'll tell you something you'll really laugh about, though." Wren smiled as he walked the horse back to the others. "We didn't have to kill any of you, really. But you know how it is. Things happen out here, and it's just easier this way, you know? Nothing personal."

Wren grabbed at the man's sword belt and pulled him down to the ground unceremoniously, before delivering a well-placed kick to the hideous puncture wound, causing him to jerk and yelp as he tried to wriggle away. Wren disarmed him and tossed the sword and scabbard aside.

Flick had already pillaged the unconscious rider and now leaned over the dead man with the cracked head, rifling through his coin purse and pockets, making things vanish into his own at a speed that would impress even the famed spider harvesters of Sweetshadow. Brinkle left the lifeless horses, reclaimed his rope and now stood coiling it around his arm as he watched the dying sigil-keeper in anticipation.

Wren placed a boot squarely on his victim's chest, pinning him against the ground. Reaching into his pouch, he removed a small wooden box, deftly flicked off the lid and quickly shook out the sandy powder contained within into the poor wretch's face. The man's eyes immediately widened to an alarming degree as he attempted to kick and squirm free, realising the horror about to be visited upon him.

"Fffggllch..."

"I know, I know, 'fuck me.' Just relax, it'll be over in a moment." Wren pressed down as the writhing intensified. "Shush now."

"Ffggllking nooooo!"

He kept him firmly pinned in place for the few moments between the effects kicking in and the spasms stopping. It was potent stuff. He removed his boot from the man's torso and squatted over him, face mere inches from his. The laboured breathing had finally stopped.

"Hello, sigil-keeper. I know you're still in there, and I know it hurts like fucking hellfire, my friend," Wren hissed, staring into the straining eyes of the stricken man. "but I don't think you would have given it up willingly, would you have?"

There it was - the smallest flicker of life behind the pupils.

"You don't remember me, do you?" Wren whispered. "Well, no matter. It's the eyes, you know. That's what gave you away. And that's how you get in. 'Windows to the soul,' they used to call the eyes."

He reached down and dipped his finger in the blood pooling beneath the two of them before bringing it back up to the man's forehead and making a small red mark there, a swirl of colour against the pale flesh. "And this is the key."

As he pulled his finger away from the man's head, he watched as his pupils dilated, constricted, dilated, and so on, back and forth steadily in rhythm. Wren stared intently, focusing on the crack in the window, willing himself in. He followed the pace of the dilations with his every breath. In and out, in and out, he closed his senses off against the world, shutting out the night and allowing himself the familiar tumble into the dark, eternal blankness of those black pinpricks. It came easily to him now; the ancient, sacred techniques long practised and perfected. He dove in deep and smooth, shattering the broken husk of a man far more violently than his blade ever had his body. He probed and groped, pulling aside knowledge and dashing it carelessly against the floor of his sanity.

His victim screamed, an unending, heart-crushing scream of agonised torture as his memories were torn from him, one by one. Pulverised into nothing, his feelings were extinguished, his wisdom erased by the careless upending of all that he had ever been or would be. He screamed but made no sound. He futilely raged against it with a fury known only by one who has experienced his very existence melting before him.

Wren moved quicker through the dark passages of the man's being, discarding all such irrelevant trivialities, willing the man to accept this, do not resist. He felt his way towards more secretive things, esoteric thoughts and mind-worms. There were some good ideas in there, some bad, and most nonsense. There were hatreds, lusts, and loves. He trampled dreams and sent worries scattering, obliterated hopes and snuffed out precious relationships until, at last, tucked away safely behind an existential crisis, he finally found his prize.

He snatched it up unto himself, absorbing it in an instant, and quickly retreated from the sigil-keeper's most sacred place. He watched the tiny flicker of life behind the eyes, as it gave up at last, the husk of what was once a man already beginning to turn to dust beneath him.

Brinkle and Flick were already mounted and waiting, the youngster with the newly acquired horse roped behind him.

"And that's why you need bloody decent chainmail, lad." Brink was lecturing the boy again. He patted his substantial chest, "Mine cost a damned fortune, or cost someone, anyway."

Flick rolled his eyes and noticed Wren approaching.

"Ready then?" he inquired. "Got it, Wren?"

"Got it, Flick. The Wrackbone won't be pleased. "Nothing personal', my arse." Wren spat towards the desiccated corpse of the Wrackbone's sigil-keeper. "If only he knew. What about that one? May as well finish the job."

Wren pointed at the unconscious rider that his oldest friend had beaten into submission.

"Come on, Wrenfin, stop playin' about and let's go. We got what we came for, now let's piss off." Brinkle glared at him.

"Alright, alright." Wren swung himself up into his saddle and laughed. "Easier than expected. Good work taking down that horse, Brink, sorry you killed it. Let's be off, then, before Father Sun shows his ugly face."

Brinkle the Big scowled at his friend's back before clambering up into his saddle, his poor mount's legs trembling under his weight.

It took the best part of the rest of the night to reach Mudroot, and Father Sun was indeed peeking above the horizon to cast a warm, amber glow over the floodplains as the three men arrived at the causeway into town. They dismounted on the sturdy logs, before taking the half-fathom trek on foot and discussing what followed.

"Are you sure you don't want me to go alone?" Flick asked his friends.

"It's better this way, besides they already know what's goin' on. They ain't stupid." Brinkle peered at the walls surrounding the smog-topped town, imagining the guards' reaction to their return. He scratched at his gingery beard. "Three men leave, three follow, three return. It don't exactly take a warlord to work out."

"The idea is to act like we don't give a damn. Brash it out, lad. We won't be long, because we don't belong, which means as soon as he knows what happened, he'll want to beat a hasty retreat." Wren reassured the youngster.

"I still think you could wait for us out here," replied Flick.

"We could, but we won't, and so we'll go to see him together." Brinkle scratched at his beard harder and yawned, letting out a sound more monster than man. "I'm knackered. This is goin' to be a hard day if you're right, Wren. Where d'you reckon we'll be away to then?"

"Not sure, it depends on what this thing is, I suppose. It feels complicated somehow, a weird one to be sure, never felt nothing quite like it. How much coin did they have anyway, Flick?" Wren opened his saddlebag and fished around inside, searching for something.

"A few severins, couple of coppers."

"Keep it. And take this, too." He handed Flick the short sword he had taken from the sigil-keeper whose mind he had pillaged mere hours before. It was a plain but sturdy blade. "If we're going to swagger in there, then let's bloody well swagger, right?"

Flick laughed as he fastened his new weapon to his side and seemed to grow a foot taller. He pushed out his chest as he strode along with pride, a dirty-blonde mop of hair bouncing atop his head. The rest of the way, the three joked and laughed and talked and teased and shared a little of Brinkle's secret stash of flame-water straight from the bottle. It refreshed their tired, aching bones and merried their minds. The gates of Mudroot would have been open since sun up, so they kept their heads down as they passed between the palisades and through the imposing gatehouse, keeping to themselves, both ignoring and ignored. None of the guards gave them cause for concern; perhaps the night watch hadn't passed on the news of last night's activities to the morning lads. Whatever the case, the three companions were the only ones crossing the wall in this direction so early, though inside the bustle of trade and travel was already winding up for the day. They passed by a handful of locals who paid them no heed as they busied themselves with packing carts and horses, eager to be on their way, no doubt laden with goods for the wealthier towns and cities. There wasn't much to offer from this long-forgotten piss-hole, but the fish they caught quickly dried in the oppressive heat of the early afternoons, and some folk further inland thought them tasty at least. The three friends made their way through the marketplace, dodging traders and merchants as they went about the daily rituals of setting up stall.

As they pressed further into town, the streets narrowed and took on strange angles, the wooden homes rising two floors tall here, some even three. The air was thick with dust and smoke from morning fires, the wooden chimneys belching forth their poison plumes.

"Sun-damned miracle this place hasn't burned to the ground yet," Brinkle grumbled, "it would be bloody beautiful," he grinned as he removed his boot, hopping on one leg as he attempted to shake a stone from within the stinking cavern. The others watched, smiling at the sight. The brute was over seven feet of solid oak-hard flesh, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. Wobbling dangerously, he stumbled, nearly falling into the path of an oncoming labourer, causing the man to swerve and drop the bundle of tools he carried. An assortment of what appeared to be rakes and hoes were sent clattering to the ground.

"Watch it, you bell-end!" the labourer cried out.

"Piss off, shit dick," Brinkle scowled, roughly pulling his boot back over his foot. The labourer hurried to scoop up the scattered tools before scampering off. Wren and Flick laughed at their friend, glad of his company as they continued, leading their horses through the dingy streets. They dodged pot-holes and chicken shit until, at long last, they arrived at the small, unremarkable house which their illustrious captain had chosen to call his home.

Two legionaries lounged on the front step, engrossed in a game of knuckles. Another leant on his spear and watched as they took turns to flick the little rocks from between their fingers at the target: a squawking, plucky chicken. It was launching ineffective counter-attacks periodically, coming at them as if headless. The spearman looked up, noticing the newcomers' arrival, and stood to attention before tapping the back of his fist to his forehead in a sarcastic salute.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," the spearman gestured towards them with his weapon. "And where did you lads disappear to last night then?"

"Morning, Korbax." Wren strode past the chicken and squeezed between the two players. "We went for a little ride along Pinchpurse; it was a beautiful night."

He opened the door a sliver and slid through.

"And you two?" Korbax looked to Brinkle and Flick. "Care to share? You're his merry men, after all."

"We'll not be so merry if you don't leave that chicken alone, mate," replied Brinkle, wrinkling his reddish nose in the air.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm quite merry, Brink." Flick took a hefty swig of flame-water, "It's a good day so far."

"Give that back, you little bugger!" Brinkle snatched the bottle from the boy, took a hefty swig of his own and smiled. "Aye, so far it has 'bin, though."

Shuffling into the dim hallway, Wren closed the creaking door behind him and pulled down the hood of his whip-seal fur-lined cloak. He tip-toed his way through the detritus of a good week's fun, cautiously lifting his feet over scattered bottles and broken furniture. There were chicken bones everywhere. A pale blue woman's blouse hung on the end of the bannister, the faint scent of woodsmoke and lavender lingering in the air as he brushed by.

Stepping through into the main room, he took in the scene before him; it was equally as disgraceful in here, if not worse. The fireplace was cold and dead. A charred log, having rolled from the hearth at some point during the night, had left a sizable scorch across the floorboards. The room stank of stale sweat, vomit and strong liquor. In one corner, sprawled face down on a straw pallet, laid Baron Paegar, his bare arse for all the world to see. At the opposite side of the room sat Sheeper, busy tucking-in to a hearty plate of lightly fried seal meat. A lit candle stood on the table before him, along with an open ledger, inkpot and quill. Wren pulled up a chair, his stomach crying out for him to punch the chubby man in the face and escape through the broken window, feast in hand before his chance was lost.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Sheeper said with a smirk.

"I heard that already. Do you mind?" Wren pointed at the plate.

"Not at all, my fellow, by all means, by all means," He slid the meal over to Wren before pulling up the hem of his tunic to wipe at his greasy lips. "We weren't expecting you here so bright and early; otherwise I would have had Sarephel prepare sufficient food for all, please accept my most humblest of apologies. Tell me, my good man, what brings you to our humble shit-hole at this unmoonly hour?"

Wren chewed as he talked around the briny fried meat, relishing in its saltiness. "Had a spot of bother in the inn last night. Well, maybe not bother, I'm not sure yet."

The stout quartermaster leaned in eagerly, having to crane his neck to hear with his good side.

"Oh? How so? What did Brink manage to achieve this time, another dead innkeeper? A couple of locals we have to compensate for freshly broken limbs? Or perhaps he simply resorted to burning down the entire bloody premises, with all the patrons still inside, eh? Cut right to the chase? He'd like that, I'd wager!" Sheeper chuckled, his belly jiggling.

"It wasn't Brink," Wren squinted. "We met some blokes, some of the Wrackbone's men. They'd just got here."

Sheeper's jaw dropped. He slid his spectacles back up his sweaty nose from the tip of which they had been balancing precariously.

"The Wrackbone? Are you absolutely certain, Agodak?"

"Certain, Sheep." Wren chomped down on another piece of salty seal, not enjoying it quite so much the second time around.

Sheeper leaned back in his chair again. "Sarephel!" He screeched, "Water, wench!"

Paegar, Baron of Duddaburg and Captain of the Lucky Legion, cried out in shock, brutally yanked from the sleep of the dead, kicking and screaming back to the land of the living. "What in the hell is the matter? What's all the screaming about, you damned fool?"

Wren scooped up a chunk of seal meat with the wooden spoon and lobbed it at the Baron's naked buttocks. It struck home with a horrible splat. The Baron rolled over, peering through a single bleary, bloodshot eye at their unexpected guest. The other eye was missing, a gaping hole serving as a constant reminder to the Baron to never neglect his training.

"Well, well, well then. Look what the cat dragged in," the heavily hungover Baron Paegar said.

"Bugger your cat, I'm sick of hearing about the beast." Wren popped a third chunk of meat into his mouth and bit down. The juices were like saltwater against his poor tongue.

"Eh?" Paegar furrowed his brow. "What in Moon's name are you doing here, Wrenfin?"

He rolled off the pallet onto the floor and began rooting about underneath, pulling forth items of clothing and tugging them on carelessly.

"Morning, Paegar. I was just telling Sheep," Wren explained to the Baron. "We had a little run-in with some of the Wrackbone's men last night, down at the inn. They'd only just arrived, ridden in from Moon only knows where, wherever they've been hiding."

Paegar stood to attention, finally securing his belt and sparing them the awful sight of his flaccid cock bouncing about like a witch-snuffler's snout.

"I'd been wondering when we were going to hear from the Wrackbone again," his one eye narrowed, the empty socket opposite only seeming to reinforce its point. "It's been what, five years now since my brother sent him packing? He tucked tail and pissed off like a coward! But it always a simple matter of time before he showed himself."

The door to the kitchen was suddenly thrown wide as a young woman bustled into the room carrying a large pitcher. She banged it down on the table in front of Sheeper, causing water to slosh over the rim and splash onto the cover of the book laid before him.

"Careful, woman!" he snatched up the ledger and dabbed at the cover with his tunic, absorbing most of the liquid but leaving behind a dark stain of seal grease in its place. "Damn, now look you she-devil!"

She raised her hand and flicked two fingers at him, a foot from his red face. She snorted and stomped back through the door, slamming it shut in her wake.

"And who was that delightful enchantress?" Wren asked. He attempted a third chunk of the meat, and it felt like licking a mermaid's arse. He spat it back out in disgust before gulping down water greedily, feeling his tongue spring back to life with relief. "She's certainly a salty one, and I don't just mean her cooking."

"Sarephel, that's who. Our wonderful hostess and housewife this past week. Comely creature, is she not?" Baron Paegar smiled, his moustache twitched and tickled his nose. "I need a trim."

Taking the pitcher from Wren, he drank deeply before pulling out a knife and beginning to hack and chop at his bushy black beard. "What happened, then? You met these miscreants, and what about it? How do you know they follow the Wrackbone?"

Wren paused before giving his reply. He was there when the Baron's brother, King Hasrin, had finally defeated the Wrackbone's army on that foggy hilltop five, long years ago. He remembered it clear as day, how he watched as the enemy had filled the valley below, a solid mass of men moving like a slow wave flooding around the base of the hill. Wren remembered the fear, crawling deep in his gut as they came on as one, charging up the steep slope. He remembered the shouted orders from the officers, telling them to hold the line, don't give a single foot - "victory or certain death." And he remembered how certain death seemed.

Wren leant back in his chair and looked up at Baron Paegar. He was there too, that day on the hill. He knew what Wren had been through, what they'd all been through.

And yet here they still were. The enemy had fallen in their hundreds, unable to break the tight circle of shields, and so back down they were sent, harassed and harried as they fled. Wren and his men slipped in the blood soaked grass and scrambled down the hillside, eager to give chase, hacking at their backs in a glorious bloodlust. They ran the cowards clear across the valley and back into the forest like rats. After the red mist had cleared from his eyes, Wren looked up to find himself separated and alone. It was then that he had personally met, and felt, the Wrackbone first hand.

"Wrenfin?" Paegar still waited, "They follow the Wrackbone? How - do - you - know?"

Wren would have to tread carefully here; when it came to the past, there were some things best left unsaid.

"They don't follow him anymore. Brink offered them insult, they fell for it, and then followed us out along the Pinchpurse where we could handle them." Wren leaned over and pried Sheeper's ledger out from pudgy, ring encrusted fingers. He opened it flat on the table, flicking through list after endless list of supplies, weapons, armour, equipment and all the assortments needed for the Lucky Legion to stay on its feet. "I recognised one of them, from Hangman's Hill. He was a sigil-keeper for the Wrackbone, so I had a fair notion of what exactly they had. It was in his noggin."

At last, reaching a blank page of parchment, he took up the quill and began to scrawl. Baron Paegar had ceased sawing at his face and now leaned on the table between the other two. Like Sheeper, he peered curiously at the twisting, writhing knots that leaked from the tip of the feather as it flew across the parchment. The patterns seemed to fold back on themselves in weird spirals, tying and coiling themselves around each other. It seemed to the Baron and Sheeper that a hundred, long, thin worms were crawling about inside the thin sheaf.

Wren placed the quill back in the inkpot and the illusion was shattered: the worms ceased their writhing and the sigil was still. He could now begin to see some of the intent with which this sigil had been created.

"Seen this before?" Wren asked, looking from one to the other, then back. "No?"

They shook their heads in unison. Wren tore the page from the book and stood up from the table. With one last look at the sigil, he cast the parchment into the fireplace. "It's a ritual, a powerful one, but it's so bloody... messy. It took a lot of work to make, complicated stuff, but chaotic."

Paegar leant down and scooped up the log from the floor. "Can you perform it?" he asked, tossing it in after the sigil.

"Of course I can," Wren sneered, "but I don't know what it does, remember? And in my experience, these things don't usually turn out so well for their targets. So, who should I use?"

The kitchen door slammed open once more as Sarephel barged back in, broom in hand, and immediately set about pushing bottles and bones across the floor. Wren looked at her with a wicked smile.

"You'll not use anyone!" The Baron moved to stand in front of Wren, blocking his line of sight to the woman.

"You've used me for a whole bloody week, Paegar!" Sarephel cursed, "used and abused and ruined the place. Look at this mess!"

Her black ponytail swung back and forth behind her head as she glanced about the room. "You Sun-damned pigs!" Hauling back her arm, she threw the broom straight at Paegar's face. The shaft glanced off his head with a hollow clunk as he tried, but failed, to get out of its path. Sarephel yelled in victory and stormed once more into the kitchen, door slamming shut behind her.

"Okay Sheeper, let's be about our business," Paegar pulled the sword belt from under the bed and fastened it around his waist. "We'll take it to Hasrin, first. He'll want to know if the Wrackbone is back, and I should be the one to tell him. It might be bad for business if all that shit kicks off again, so it's probably for the best if we can avoid it, if at all possible, eh?"

Wren looked a little disappointed as he opened his pouch. "Fine. Brink will be pleased at least, he's not handling the heat well."

"Me and him, both. It makes sense, Wrenfin. Hasrin needs to know. Besides, the Wrackbone owes me an eyeball, so if there's to be any scrapping, then I want to be there."

Wren took out a small, folded square of parchment and laid it flat on his palm. "I'm going to need more of these, Sheep, and more shut-dust too, it's a good batch this time. And while you're at it, Brinkle would surely appreciate a little moonlick - he's nearly dry."

The quartermaster finally got to his feet, his round gut swaying as he ambled his way to his pack that was tossed in the corner days ago and ignored since. Dust billowed in the air above as he opened the flap and began to search for the requested concoctions.

Upon Wren's upturned hand, the little fire-wrap had begun to unfold, slowly rising at the corners and curling in on itself like the bud of a small, white flower. It shivered softly, and as it bloomed, a bright red flame bursting from within. It burned white-hot, and Wren quickly cast the ball of fire onto the hearth.

"You could have used the candle, you know," Sheeper handed over the valuable concoctions one by one as Wren stuffed them into his pouch. "They're costly, my dear Wrenfin."

"You're no fun, Sheep," he slapped the shorter man on the back and turned to the Baron. "Back to camp then, Captain?"

A piercing screech rang out from the kitchen, followed by a terrible clattering crash of pots and pans.

"And quick about it!" Baron Paegar clutched his hand to his sore head, marched out through the hallway and burst out into the world, his two favourite subordinates not far behind.

Brinkle stepped quickly to one side with a rare moment of nimbleness, letting the axe swing by harmlessly. Grabbing the guardsman's wrist with his left hand, he brought his right fist crashing down on his opponent's arm, shattering the elbow joint. The guard dropped to his knees in shock, teeth clenched against the pain. Brinkle pulled back his arm to strike again, this time at the man's temple.

"Don't kill him, Brinkle, you fucking mad-man! Leave him be now, get back, get back, get back, you brute!" The Baron came flying down the steps of the house with Wren and Sheeper in tow. He drew his sabre and brandished it towards the half-dozen guardsmen who surrounded their big companion like foxes on an ox.

One of the guards, a sergeant-at-arms with the dark brown tabard of Mudroot worn over his chain mail, turned to face the newcomers with a start. He gestured for a few of his men to fan out and cover his flanks. "More of them!" he snarled, and to the Baron said, "Just get over there with your friends!"

To one side of the small courtyard stood Flick and the two legionaries, their backs against the wall. Their weapons laid out on the ground in front of them. Wren and Sheeper looked at each other, exchanging blank looks before calmly and slowly moving towards their companions. It was tight quarters, and they had to pass by close to a couple of the guards, one of them took the opportunity to poke Sheeper in the gut with the tip of his sword. Sheeper growled, an unexpectedly vicious sound, and the guard thought better about trying it a second time.

"Korbax?" Wren whispered.

"Went for a shit," the legionary hissed back.

Baron Paegar was having none of it. He stayed right where he stood, sabre still raised and ready for action. He casually rubbed at his empty eye socket with a knuckle. "What is the meaning of this? Harassing people at this hour? Don't you have anything better to do this morning, constable?"

The sergeant-at-arms scoffed at the insult.

"You'll not find any constables in Mudroot, Sir. Would you be Baron Paegar? Of Duddaburg?" the sergeant asked, peering at Paegar's empty eye. This must be the man his master had warned him about. He snickered, "The one they call the Bastard Baron?"

"And Captain of the Lucky Legion! You can just call me Bastard though, it's fine," Paegar smiled. "And I don't give a shit what your name is. What do you want?"

The sergeant was getting annoyed now, his cheeks reddening as he became hot and bothered.

"Bodies have been found out along the Pinchpurse Path, and your men here were seen last night being pursued closely by the dead fellows, in that very same direction," he turned to Brinkle, who had moved to be with his comrades against the wall. "You thought you could sneak back in, and nobody would notice? You can't go around waylaying strangers in the dark and get away with it, not here!"

Brinkle stared at the axe where it had fallen by the injured guard.

"Don't even bother considering it." The Sergeant scooped it up from the ground.

"It's a lovely weapon," Brinkle grinned.

The Baron kept his sabre raised as he replied to the sergeant, "I assure you, all these men were with me last night, having a roaring good time, and we intend to be on our way peaceably."

"And can anyone vouch for this?"

"Of course. There's the owner of the property, she's inside."

The sergeant considered this for a moment; there was no question in his mind that the Baron's men were guilty as sin, but it was a tricky business. There was only meant to be three to bring in, not six. He snapped the order to fetch the woman, and two of his men ran to the house and barged inside.

"We'll see," the sergeant helped the injured guard, who struggled to stand and mewled like a kitten as he clutched his elbow.

Baron Paegar raised an eyebrow, the one above his one eye.

"Do you seriously intend to arrest us? All of us? I count... one, two... seven of you, including him," he smirked, pointing his sabre at the crippled guardsman before brandishing it in the air as he went on, "He won't be swinging that axe again any time soon. You didn't bring enough men."

"And, you just sent two away! What if we jump you now?" Brinkle chimed in, quickly adding, "We could take them easily, Captain."

"He's right, you know," counselled the Baron. "We very easily could. But we really don't want to."

The sergeant-at-arms and his men seemed nervous, shuffling their feet about and glancing at each other for reassurance.

"Hush now, lads, we'll get to the bottom of this," the sergeant said in a calming tone.

A minute passed in anxious silence, as the sounds of a scuffle came from within the house. Sarephel wasn't coming easily, but at last, the two guardsmen exited, dragging her between them kicking and wailing. They threw her down bodily in front of the sergeant, and she clung to his legs like a scared child.

"Get them locked away, Sir!" she screeched, "They're nothing but devils!"

"Calm yourself, woman, I need facts," the sergeant helped her to her feet before proceeding with his questions. "These men, you know them, then?"

"Yes, Sir. They've been here a week now, almost. You should see the state of the place." She calmed down a little, her anger subsiding now that she felt her frustrations might well be addressed by a little law and order. "They're awful pigs, Sir."

"I'm sure they are," the sergeant commiserated, "And don't you worry, your home is free from these vagabonds now. Tell me, woman, did any of them leave here last night, to skulk about in the night? Or arrive back here this morning, more importantly?"

"Aye, Sir!" She yelled, jabbing a finger towards Wren. "This one just got here, and I've never seen that big fellow before, or the child. Baron Paegar and his friend, the one they call Sheeper, they were here all week, though."

Wren stared daggers at Sarephel, and Paegar scowled, mumbling "You fucking miserable cunt."

"Is that right?" The sergeant-at-arms allowed himself the pleasure of a smile of satisfaction. "Well, that's all I needed to hear."

"So, you really do mean to arrest us then?" The tip of Paegar's sabre twitched with anticipation, "How's that going to work?"

The sergeant turned and faced him, sliding his sword into its scabbard. He approached the Baron; hands held out in peace.

"I don't need all of you, just the guilty. I know giving them up rankles somewhat, but what's the alternative here?"

Baron Paegar grinned. "We butcher you where you stand, then be on our way?"

"Come now, that's not wise, and you know..." the words were cut off abruptly as the spear tip embedded itself into the side of his skull, sending him reeling to the side, dead before he hit the ground. The Baron rushed past him as he fell, charging at the nearest guard and leading with a feint, before reversing his weapon and hacking down on the man's exposed neck.

"Should have worn a fucking helmet!" Korbax came like a whirlwind from the dark alleyway at the side of the house, following after his thrown spear to the fight. The group by the wall scrambled for their weapons as Brinkle covered them, his fists flying like blacksmith's hammers. One of the legionaries took a blade to the throat as he made for his sword; his hands flew to his neck as the blood began to spurt. Wren pulled his wicked little dagger free from its sheath and stabbed at a guard's face, causing him to jump back, then at his chest, neck, groin, the blade moving too fast to follow. It was all the guard could do to keep away, and that wasn't enough. He swung his sword at Wren wildly, a last-ditch attempt to counter and seize the attack, but Wren was too quick. He grappled the guard, shoving him to the ground and straddling him. He placed his dagger's point against the man's chest and pushed down hard with all his weight, puncturing through chain mail, the metal rings popping in complaint as the blade passed through them with a tug and slid into the guardsman's heart.

"Should have worn fucking plate!" Wren shouted into the dying man's face.

Brinkle had pummelled one guard into the dust and was now busy wrestling with another on the ground, the giant of a man clearly winning; when it came down to fisticuffs, Brinkle would always come out on top.

Flick had wisely kept his head down once the fighting had started, but now he picked up his new short sword and came to help Sheeper. The stout little quartermaster held his own, defending against blow after blow, even managing to trap his opponent's blade and then shove the guardsman off balance. Sheeper tried to gain the initiative, thrusting his sword at the guard's wrist, but the man dodged aside and redoubled his assault. Flick came to Sheeper's side and stabbed at the guard, pushing him back for a moment, letting Sheeper recover. The rotund book-keeper yelled, and from the edge of his vision, he saw a flash of speckled-brown running across the ground. Taking a chance, he threw himself forward, headbutting the guard in the chest and sending him reeling backwards. The guard's feet caught on the squawking chicken as it flapped behind him, and he tripped, falling hard onto his back with a thud, the wind rushing from his lungs. Flick kicked the man's sword away and stood over him, sword tip against his heart.

"Should have watched his fucking surroundings." Paegar slapped Flick on the back and kicked the guard, hard.

The fight had lasted all of twenty seconds, and only the one legionary dead on their side. Brinkle was still rolling about on the floor with one of the guardsmen. He looked up as he pushed his opponent's spluttering face into the mud.

"Are you going to knock him out or fuck him, Brinkle? Or maybe both?" Wren laughed.

"Ha! Are you all done then? Shame." He gave one last thump to the man's head and finally let him sleep.

"Well, that's that then," Paegar sighed. "This isn't good. We didn't need to make an enemy of Mudroot. Who rules here again, anyway?"

"Baron Mantok of Mudroot," Sheeper cleaned the mud from his spectacles with a small rag. "But he's a pissant, nothing to worry about."

Baron Paegar nodded. "Okay, well, that's something. Let's get this lot into the house."

He turned to Saraphel, who was sitting in shock on the front step, her head in her hands, muttering, "What did you do? What did you bloody well do?"

"You'll have to come with us now. It serves you right, they would have left if you hadn't sold us out, you damned nuisance," Baron Paegar stomped off to help his men. "Pack a bag, and I hope you have a horse."

Flick sat down by her side, looking at her worriedly. "I've got a horse you can have," he said with a smile.

She looked up at the boy, the anger returning to flash across her face for a brief moment before she realised it was Flick. "Thank you, I suppose. I can't believe this."

"Believe it," Flick replied, "You're not the first, and you won't be the last."

The men of the Lucky Legion looted the dead of any valuables before dragging the bodies inside the house. Brinkle hefted his new axe proudly and swung it around in the air, testing its weight and balance in his huge hand. It was a small, bearded hatchet, and he made it look like a toy.

The surviving guards were lead into the house, protesting loudly to nobody who would listen as they were bound and tied, safely inside away from prying, snitching eyes. Sarephel followed and gathered her things; not a lot, she didn't own much other than the house itself, just a few sentimental things her mother had left her, and of course her father's old mail shirt and dirk. Now she wore both with a pale blue blouse wrapped around her waist. With a stern look on her face, she didn't flinch as Korbax and the legionary lit the fire, and her house began to burn.

Once outside and finally ready to leave this forsaken town and all it's problems behind, the group mounted their horses. Brinkle was last to climb up, hating the idea more every second and trying to calm his poor beast. As he rubbed the horse behind the ears, he felt a tugging at his leg.

"Look at her," Korbax grinned, pulling on his helmet. The plucky chicken hopped around, pecking at Brinkle's boot. "She hates your fucking guts."

"I think I'll name 'er Plucky." Brinkle shrugged. He picked up the chicken and it let out an obnoxious screech.

"Very original," replied Korbax.