Chapter Six: Tallow and Traps

They headed up the road towards the squat, stone keep at the top of Hifrim's Perch. The town surrounding the keep was dank and dismal, the air smelt musty, and mould covered the damp wooden walls to both sides. Moss clung to the rooftops, growing thick in the usually damp climate. The road curved to the left between the houses, and they lost sight of the courtyard and gatehouse behind them, before it turned back to the right, towards the keep. The people of Hifrim's Perch stayed safely in their houses, though some curious folk watched them from rotten window frames as they walked by. Hifrim's Perch was falling down, day by day, piece by piece around their heads. To the right of the road, they passed a heap of rubble and timber; a house with a collapsed roof, which had evidently brought down the entire structure into the cellar below. "Sweet Mother, what happened here?" Yarwen asked Cantril, with an accusing tone.

"Like I said, the Kingdom is decaying, and so too does the Perch," explained the warlord. "That house collapsed a few days ago, crushing the owner's family. The woman had been unable to afford repairs, to some rotten timber shoring up the roof, and so . . ." Cantril shook his head sadly at the crumbled building.

"Why didn't the woman petition Hifrim for help?" Yarwen looked puzzled. "It may have been her property, but it's still in his town, and he her lord."

"She did," Cantril turned away from the rubble in disgust. "He told her, there isn't enough timber for all those who want it. You know how it is, Yarwen, these are rough times. There are too few men, not enough resources, too many mouths to feed, and little trade since the war."

Yarwen bit her tongue. He was right, and his criticisms of the king had some truth to then. The war with the Wrackbone had made many widows, and though the womenfolk of Selenia had done an admirable job of filling the more traditional roles of men in Selenian society, there were still those unscrupulous, corrupt folk who took advantage of the weakness of the kingdom's lords. Bandits roamed the roads, plied their trade in the villages, and it had become expensive for the merchants of Selenia to protect their investments on the dangerous roads. They paid out a fortune, to mercenaries and sell-swords, simply to ensure their goods arrived at their destination. The trade of Selenia had all but collapsed in the face of lawlessness, and even Yarwen had to admit more could be done to create stability. She knew women could be turned into soldiers, for example. Indeed, she herself had been one of the few who had decided to step into their dead husband's boots, and she had quickly risen through the ranks, from soldier, to legionary, to housecarl. The last five years had been the best of her life. There was one thing, however, that her ambition still required of her: a home of her own to rule, and men of her own to command.

But maybe not this shit-hole, she thought to herself, maybe it's better to let some other poor bastard deal with Hifrim's mess.

"It's all yours, Wen," Paegar said, seeming to read her mind. He elbowed her in the arm and smiled.

They continued through the dilapidated town, and soon arrived at the two large doors embedded into the front of the keep. They were both wide open, and two of Hifrim's soldiers tried to swing their heavy weight shut as they saw the three emerge from the houses. "Halt!" Cantril snapped, and the two men did, unsure of what to do.

"Don't you dare shut that door," Yarwen cautioned them. "If you hide in there, you'll never leave."

"Stand aside," ordered Cantril.

"Sir?" The first of the two soldiers wore a puzzled look. "Lord Hifrim . . ."

"Lord Hifrim must face the truth, we have lost the Perch. Now stand aside."

The two soldiers wisely decided to do as their warlord asked, and even held the doors open as Cantril lead Paegar and Yarwen inside. The room beyond was cool and dark, and it took their eyes a few seconds to adjust. Open passages lay to either side of them, and heavily trampled rugs carpeted the floor, leading up a long corridor ahead, running through the center of the keep. Solid oak doors lined the walls of the corridor, and at the far end was a spiral staircase. No more soldiers or guards could be seen or heard, and the place seemed abandoned.

"Where is he, then?" Yarwen whispered, suddenly feeling very loud in her rattling plate mail.

"Upstairs, in his chambers," Cantril took a step forward. "It seems we're alone."

At that moment, one of the doors close to the staircase was thrown open, slamming back against the wall. A man in a brown cloak darted out, and ran towards the stairs. His bald head was horribly disfigured by dozens of burns, livid red patterns branded into his flesh.

"Alone?" Paegar watched the man's legs vanish up the staircase. "That would be Hifrim's sigil-keeper, I presume?"

"Indeed," the Warlord said, starting up the corridor at a brisk pace, with Yarwen close behind.

"Careful, Cantril," warned Paegar, as he brought up the rear. "Remember what they're capable of, I should know, Wren's told me things. . . things. . ." his voice trailed off as he passed the open door, turning to look inside. The room was in disarray; parchments littered the floor in front of the small hearth, and a blazing fire lay upon it. Against one wall of the room was a table, and scattered over its surface were various alchemical ingredients, vials of weird coloured liquids, pouches of strange powders and a mortar full of brown herbs. Scratched into the timber above the fireplace was a hastily scratched sigil; the Baron's eye was drawn to its movement immediately, as the fresh white wood wriggled beneath the blackened brown surface. The carved pattern bagan to pulse.

"In the name of the Mother... Yarwen, come and see this," Baron Paegar said, altogether too quietly. He didn't wait to see if Yarwen came back down the staircase, in fact, he found himself transfixed by the writhing spiral before him, unable to turn away. Its pulsing kept time with the beat of his heart, loud in his ears, as he felt it tug at him. He walked towards it, the room becoming dim in the corner of his vision. The worms grew, pushing themselves around the edge of the spiral in a wriggly mass, clambering over one another as they went, around and around. Paegar moved closer. He felt a tickle at the back of his head, just above his spine, and tried to stop his feet, to pull away from the horrible sigil. The worms objected, throbbed together and snarled at the Baron. He gritted his teeth and struggled as it pulled at his mind, forcing his head forwards. He thought about turning around, running out the room, back down the corridor, out into the light. Paegar willed his legs to move, but they refused. The worms denied his request and shut out his free will. He tried to shout out, calling to Yarwen for help. He screamed, but made no sound, as the longest, blackest worm rose up and out from the sigil like a snake, rearing back to strike. Paegar's one eye widened as the terror rose up inside him at last, filling him completely, accepting no quarter. The worm's eyeless, snapping head slid into the Baron's empty eye socket, pushing its way between the long-shut lid and burrowing into the vacant space beneath. He screamed again, and again no sound came out. The worm pushed, wriggled and crawled its way beneath his flesh, and he watched in horror as the tail-end flicked out stiffly an inch from his nose, before vanishing into his brain. He woke up from the nightmare with a gasp.

Yarwen curiously watched from the door as Baron Paegar turned away from the weird sigil he had been staring at so closely. He stopped muttering and rose back to his full height, opened his eye and let out a gasp. "Paegar?" She asked, concern in her voice. "What is it?"

It took a moment for his eye to focus on her. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Yarwen, did you see that?"

"See what? You staring at that thing?" She pointed at the sigil. "What did it do? Are you okay?"

Paegar blinked slowly, then smiled. "I'm fine, Wen. It's the sigil-keeper's quarters. He was burning copies of his sigils," he pointed to the sheafs of parchment on the floor, half-scribbled sigils clearly visible. "Let's go."

Yarwen watched him leave, then looked back at the sigil carved above the fireplace. She shook her head, then followed Paegar out of the room and up the spiraled staircase. At the top stood Cantril, thumping his gauntlet against a door. "It is I, Lord," he said, loudly. "I beg of you, open the door."

"Cantril?" came a muffled response, Lord Hifrim's high-pitched voice was easily recognisable. "Why didn't you stop them, man?"

"They got over the walls with alchemy, my lord," Cantril frowned at Yarwen, who smiled back and shrugged in return. "Along with Baron Paeger, they unfortunately numbered too many."

"You Sun-damned fool!" Hifrim yelled. The door shook as something heavy crashed against the other side. "You've killed us, Cantril! The King's woman will see us hanged!"

The smile on her face quickly turned to a grin. She opened her mouth to call out to Lord Hifrim, but Cantril laid his hand on her arm and shook his head before she could antagonize his master. Instead, he turned to Paegar and whispered, "You speak up, Paegar, reassure him. He needs to know Hasrin won't have his bollocks on a plate."

Baron Paegar ran his gloved hand over his head and scratched his itchy scalp. "It might not be the best idea, right now . . ."

"I agree," Yarwen said, looking at him intently. "What did that thing do to you, Paegar?"

The Baron felt the worm burrow itself deeper, curl up into a ball and try to hide. "I'm not certain, but I've a good idea," he said. "I don't quite remember though, my head hurts." He unsheathed his sabre, reversed it and offered Yarwen the hilt. She took it from him, confused but trusting.

"Don't let that keeper near me," whispered Paegar, "or even look at me funny." He knocked on the door. "Lord Hifrim, in my brother's name, I command you to open this door," he spoke loudly and knocked again.

A few seconds passed, then Hifrim answered from just the other side of the door. "Paegar?" He sounded like a small boy, younger even than Flick. "Father Sun scorch your brother, he can't blame me for wanting better for the people of the Perch!"

"Open the door and we'll talk, Hifrim," said Paegar, patiently. "We know you and some of the other lords have been planning some mischief, but there's more at stake here than you realise. Open up, and let me explain."

Baron Hifrim gave no response, and muffled mumbling could be heard from behind the door. A few moments passed, before the high-pitched voice came back, saying, "How can I trust you? We both know Hasrin must be extremely displeased with me. I moved too soon, taxing the farms between here and Palecrest, but I needed coin, Paegar!"

"Coin you stole for a war against your own King!" Paegar couldn't resist the retort, and he felt a tingle at the back of his head as he yelled. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself before continuing. "And yet Hasrin shows mercy, I give you my word. If you don't trust your king, then trust me."

"Why should I, Paegar?" Hifrim was still hesistant.

"I told you, there's more at stake here than you realise. Please, Hifrim, just open the door."

More muffled discussion could be heard from the other side, as the three waited for the Lord's decision. Cantril looked inquisitively at Paegar, who said nothing. After another few moments, the sound of a heavy bar being removed from the other side of the door could be heard, and it swung inwards a crack. Yarwen moved forward and shouldered her way through the gap and into the room beyond, with Cantril right behind her. Paegar closed his eye, and shrunk back from the doorway, not risking catching sight of the sigil-keeper; if the sigil he had been ensnared by was what he suspected, then he would have to rely on the others to deal with the keeper first. He listened as they entered the room, Cantril telling Lord Hifrim to settle down and Yarwen letting out a yelp that made Paegar jump. The sounds of a scuffle followed, and a male voice that Paegar didn't recognise, telling the woman to "get away from me!" The voice was scratchy and ragged, and must be that of the sigil-keeper. There was a loud crash, then a struggled choking sound. "Well?" Paegar asked.

"Hold on," Yarwen replied, as the choking sound increased, then stopped. "There. Okay, Paegar, come in."

He opened his eye as he rounded the corner, taking in the small room. Cantril stood by his master, weapon drawn and raised protectively. Yarwen had the brown-cloaked man pinned down on his back against a small table in the corner. She was leaning over him, holding both ends of Paegar's sabre and crushing his wind-pipe with the rear of the slightly curved blade. The man's arms flew up, his hands clawing at her face but she twisted away and pushed down harder, at the same time bringing her armoured knee up between the man's legs. He shuddered beneath her and his arms went limp, falling back down to the table with a thump. "Why do you still use this awful weapon, Paegar?" Yarwen kept pressure on the man's neck, not cutting the skin with the dull edge but certainly causing considerable discomfort.

"Well met, Hifrim," Paegar ignored Yarwen and nodded at the young man beside Cantril. He was a short, proud looking fellow of about twenty years, wearing a plain tunic and brais. He had a fashionably trimmed beard and stood with his hands on his hips, his chin tilted towards the ceiling at a ridiculous angle. "Wait right here, my lord, I'll be with you in a minute," Paegar bowed, equally rediculous, and with an exagerated flourish of the hands. He crossed the room to the table, and picking up a lit candle from its surface he leaned in with Yarwen, over the sigil-keeper's bald, branded head. Paegar held the candle over the man's face and tilted it to the side, letting a large drop of tallow pool in the rim. "So, you must be Crythwan," he said, looking into the sigil-keeper's eyes. "Get this thing out of me, right now."

Crythwan's lips twitched into a sneer, and his eyes narrowed between tired crows feet. He tried to open his mouth, but Yarwen shifted her weight on top of him, and kept his jaw firmly shut with the sabre's blade. Paegar let the drop of animal fat fall from the candle, down to the sigil-keeper's face. It landed on his cheek with a hiss, and Crythwan gritted his teeth. His eyes flew to Paegar's, trapping them with his gaze, and as they met, the Baron felt the nightmare worm swell up inside the back of his head. It hissed and bit down, and a searing pain flashed across Paegar's soul. He shut his eye tight, trying to break the grip Crythwan had on him. It made no difference, and feeling the wriggling thing wrap itself around his will, he tried to thrust the candle's flame into the sigil-keeper's face. He stabbed down again and again, feeling the tallow squish between the fingers of his glove and turn to mush against Crythwan's face, and ordering the worm inside to let go. He felt it curl up, settle down and be still, but he only stopped when his fist started hurting. He opened his eye slowly, to see nothing but pummelled wood, and a smear of fat, a foot away from the sigil-keeper's head. The brands on the man's bald pate jumped as he laughed at Paegar.

"It's true then," Paegar muttered. "It really is a slave-maker."

Crythwan said nothing. He struggled to gulp under the sabre.

"Let him up, Wen, cover his eyes instead. That's how he does it." Paegar turned away as Yarwen backhanded Crythwan with her mailed fist and hefted him to his feet. She turned him around and brought him down to his knees in front of her, and wrapped her arm around his face. He let out a gravelly shriek and struggled against the metal as it dug into his skin, tearing a gash in his forehead.

"Baron Paegar," Lord Hifrim's trill sounded out-of-place as ever. "I assure you I have only acted how I felt was best for my people, and want nothing from your brother other than to be left in peace," he pontificated. "I only took from him what was owed, what he has neglected to provide himself."

Paegar scowled at Lord Hifrim. "You stole taxes to pay for men, mercenaries, no doubt, because you and your little cabal of lords want to take the Kingdom. I understand."

Hifrim's lowered his chin a little. "Yes, Paegar, and can you blame us?"

"No, not really," Paegar admitted. "I must confess that even I am displeased with my brother of late."

"He does nothing, Paegar," Cantril spoke up, adding his weight to his master's argument. "We're left to fend for ourselves, while he sits atop Mount Pale and watches Selenia tear itself apart. You know how it is out there, how it used to be, and how it could be."

"None of this matters," Yarwen snarled, staring at Hifrim. "Either way, you should rightfully hang. Why aren't we stringing up this fool, Paegar?"

"Because we need to know who else is involved in this rebellion, which lords are moving against the king, and where this sigil-keeper came from," Paegar said. "Lord Hifrim, I gave you my word you won't hang, and I meant it. But in return, you must answer those questions, and then beg your king for mercy."

Lord Hifrim's posture changed, as he let his hands fall from his waist and lowered his chin a little. "I will ask you again, why should I trust you?"

Paegar was getting frustrated. "Because we're going to need you, and all your men, to fight the fucking Wrackbone, as well you know!"

A hush settled over the room. Hifrim's chin went back up in defiance, and Cantril looked at him closely. "The Wrackbone?" Yarwen sounded incredulous. Paegar nodded at the sigil-keeper at her knees.

"Crythwan here was sent by the Wrackbone, along with the sigil that I just blundered into, and a messenger that you, Cantril," he turned to the warlord, "were told came from one of the rebellious lords? Which one, exactly?"

Cantril was staring at Lord Hifrim intently. "My master neglected to mention, Paegar. I know a few of the lords in question, but not all, I'm sure." Hifrim seemed to lose a little of his resolve, feeling his warlord's eyes boring into the side of his skull.

"I thought not," Paegar went on, "but I'll tell you, it was the Wrackbone. We got our hands on that messenger a few days back, the one that came with him," he pointed to the sigil-keeper, "and Wrenfin was happy to send him to burn with the Father."

Crythwan growled. He tried to break free of Yarwen's grip, but she was having none of it, and squeezed his head against her breastplate. Crythwan stopped struggling, raspily spitting out his words, "No matter, you whoreson, it's far too late to stop the turning tide."

"We'll see," said Paegar, turning back to Lord Hifrim. "All I need to know is which lords are against Hasrin, and you can keep the Perch, and prove your loyalty soon enough. So let's hear it, I assume the Southern Reaches are all involved? Lord Beacher? How about Lubrant?"

Hifrim's chin went back up immediately. "Lubrant?" He scoffed, "Lubrant's a Sun-damned imbecile, he has no clue what's going on even, in his own forest."

Cantril's face was a picture of disgust. "Montok was here a few months back," he said. Hifrim's cheeks burned red as the shame overcame him, but he held his tongue and kept staring at Paegar, not able to face his loyal servant.

"Montok, of course," Yarwen grunted. "Makes sense, he's been a pain in Hasrin's arse for a while. Who else?"

"Not Beacher, but some of the southern lords, yes. Calibrath, Derwent, Cadarnu, they all sent word," Cantril went on.

"Quiet, Cantril!" Hifrim squeaked. "Don't trust them, you fool!"

"You be quiet, my lord," Cantril turned on Hifrim, the loathing thick in his voice. "My friend, your father, was murdered by the Wrackbone, and now I find it is he who is behind the plotting you have had me conduct, in your name?"

Hifrim's back straightened as he tried to fight back the embarassment.

"And you do not even try to deny it. You knew it was the Wrackbone, and he even sent you his pet, who I broke bread with." Cantril walked over to Crythwan, and spat on the sigil-keeper through dry lips, sending spittle flying over the man's brown cloak.

"Shut up, Cantril, for the love of the Mother," Hifrim pleaded with his warlord. "They'll kill me, they'll kill both of us!"

"I'll kill you, Hifrim," Cantril rounded on his lord, and before Paegar could stop him, thrust his sword into Hifrim's stomach. The young man yelped in shock, and jumped back from the blade. His eyes flew open wide, and his mouth fell open. Cantril thrust a second time, and a third, stabbing at Hifrim's lungs. The blade ground against his ribcage and he squirmed away, falling to his back on the floor with an ear-piercing scream. Cantril thrust down one last time, again into Hifrim's belly, and tore the blade free to the side. Blood poured from the wounds in Hifrim's front as his hands clutched at them, too much blood to stop. It flowed heavily from his gut, and he screamed again as the fear filled him.

"By the Mother, Cantril," Paegar said, aghast. "I gave him my word."

"I didn't." Cantril turned away from the dying lord, and stared at Crythwan, who had stopped smiling.

Yarwen tapped the sigil-keeper's bald head, her other hand still firmly around the man's eyes. "You can do this one, too, if you like," she said.

"Give me an hour, and me and my men will come with you to Palecrest," Cantril said to Paegar, ignoring the woman. "I imagine ownership of the Perch falls to Hasrin, so do what you want with the place. Burn it, for all I care. I hope I never have to return." He walked out the door, leaving his lord to die on the floor in a puddle of blood. Hifrim gurgled, dribbling blood down his once haughty chin, and clawed at the front of his tunic in vain.

Paegar approached Yarwen and the sigil-keeper. He sighed, and scratched the back of his head. The tingle had gone, but it still itched a little. Probably just the heat, he told himself.

"Well, fuck," Yarwen complained. "We didn't get much out of them."

"You got Hifrim's Perch, Wen," Paegar said with a small smile. "A place of your own if you want it."

Yarwen laughed. "Are you sure? I thought I'd have to fight you for it, at the very least."

"I'm sure," he replied, "I can't even look after Duddaburg, it's in far worse state than this dump." He kicked out at the upturned chair behind the door, shattering one of its legs off against the stone wall before gesturing at Crythwan. "Now, what about this sack of shit? I bet he has more answers for us, don't worry, Wen."

"You won't get anything from me, Paegar," Crythwan cackled, "only what I already gave you!"

Paegar kicked the sigil-keeper in the thigh. "I know, you horrible little cunt, but I won't be the one asking the questions," he looked at Yarwen. "We have to take him to Palecrest, to the Church of the Mother."

"The Church?" Yarwen was confused. "What do they have to do with the Wrackbone?"

"Everything, my dear," Crythwan's whisper was like a whetstone against a dull blade.

"Everything, yes," said Paegar. "They know the old ways, though they detest it. They will be able to get what we need from him, though. . . and hopefully, remove this creature I feel inside my soul."

Crythwan chuckled, and Yarwen punched him firmly on the temple. "Yes, please, take me to the Church," he said,"you have no idea how far the Wrackbone's reach is, do you? You thought the war ended, ha!" he laughed freely, ignoring Yarwen's grip tightening. "The Wrackbone never went away, Paegar, he simply hid, and now he's ready to show himself, it's too late for you or for your fucking brother!"

"Quiet, you wretch," Paegar growled. "If you mean to tell me that the Wrackbone has corrupted the Church of the Mother, it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. 'Misery loves company,' as they say."

"We can't take him there, then," Yarwen said. "Sun-damn it, Paegar, this is getting more and more complicated."

"To the king, then, at least," Paegar stroked his moustache, thinking out loud. "We have to go back, anyway."

"Let's go, then," Crythwan rasped.

"Take his eyes, Yarwen."

"What?" the sigil-keeper muttered, as Yarwen drew a slim dagger from her belt. "No, Paegar, wait!"

"We can't have you commanding me with a look, you idiot, what did you expect would happen?"

"You don't have to blind me, just cover my eyes!"

"I don't think I want you commanding anyone, ever again, Crythwan," he moved closer, stood over the sigil-keeper and placed his hands around the man's head, curling his fingers around the brands and digging in hard. He held Crythwan's head steady, closed his eyes and turned his head away as Yarwen removed her hand from Crythwan's own eyes and stabbed down swiftly, one and two, piercing the two orbs of jelly. They popped like frogspawn over a fire and the sigil-keeper cried out in agony. The air burst from his lungs and his back arched in a painful spasm against Yarwen's legs as she levered out his eyeballs, slicing through the fleshly length behind and letting them fall to the floor with a splat. She walked to Hifrim, and bent over him. The only movement from the young lord was a tremble of his lips, as she used the dagger to cut away a strip from the leg of his brais. She used it to wipe the jelly and blood from her blade, before cutting another, second strip, and a third, much longer. She came back, rolled the first two into balls and stuffed them into Crythwan's empty eye sockets, then tied the third around his head, keeping them in place, as Paegar held the whimpering sigil-keeper's head still.

"Now, I feel much safer," said Paegar. "On your feet, wretch."

They manhandled the agonised Crythwan down the staircase, leaving Lord Hifrim to his final moments of peace and quiet. At the bottom, Paegar took the time to return to the sigil-keeper's quarters. He took his sabre from Yarwen and used the tip to carve lines over the sigil above the fire, obliterating any sign of it. Then he gathered the scattered parchments from the floor and brought them with him.

It took them no time at all to walk down the hill, back to the walls of Hifrim's Perch. Yarwen looked around with a new respect for the run-down town, taking it in with different eyes. She was already planning what to do with it, picturing the Perch as a mighty fortress, rebuilt from it's disrepair into something worth calling home. It would be a long time before that would happen, however, and she took out her frustration by kicking as Crythwan as he stumbled ahead of them.

At the courtyard, the men of the Lucky Legion had helped the King's men to dig up the bodies of their buried comrades, and the dead men were laid out in a line by the gatehouse. They had been suffocated quickly in their heavy armour, crushed by the weight of the earth as it had piled in on them from all sides. Some men stood around, grieving quietly for their friends. They would pray for their souls later tonight, when the Mother came to receive them. Sheeper had posted men on the walls, and now sat upon a barrel of mead in the shade of the gatehouse, surrounded by a small group of legionaries. He rose to his feet as he saw Baron Paegar approaching, and shooed the legionaries away. "Captain Paegar, Sir!" He hollered, jogging towards the Baron. "All's well, I trust?"

"I suppose so, Sheeper," Paegar shoved Crythwan towards the quartermaster. "Take this specimen, and make sure he's not looked after, would you?"

Sheeper grimaced with disgust as the blind man stumbled at him, murmuring and dribbling through quivering lips. He hopped aside and removed his spectacles, as if not wishing to see the horrible sight. "Very well, if I must," he grumbled, "who is it?"

"A sigil-keeper, so be careful with him," Paegar explained. Sheeper called for two of the legionaries, ordered them to get the sigil-keeper cleaned up, and they marched him off into the gatehouse. "You've made yourselves at home, then?" Paegar asked.

"Oh, you know us, Sir," Sheeper said, nodding his chubby face. "There's mead, and food inside, too." He pointed at two large wagons, each drawn by two sturdy horses, pulled up inside the courtyard. "Cantril came with those, and left with his housecarls, back into town. Good news, eh?" The quartermaster grinned, happy to have the wagons to fill with supplies. He clearly felt more like his old self.

"Good, Sheeper!" Paegar slapped his friend on the back, "Get as much as you can loaded up, then. We'll be leaving again as soon as he's back, now where's that mead, then?"

Paegar and Yarwen refreshed themselves and ate a hearty meal of bread and cheese, pillaged from the gatehouse. The shade and alcohol relaxed them for the first time in hours, and they began to enjoy themselves, Yarwen bragging about her new property as Paegar listened to her ambitious plans. "I'll have to make the walls taller, for a start," she was saying, striding back and forth across the open gate. "And make some murder holes," she pointed upwards at the ceiling of the gatehouse.

Paegar drank, and tried to ignore the itching at the back of his head. After a while, a legionary called out from the other side of the courtyard, by the road, and Paegar looked up to see Cantril striding down the road. He marched at the head of a column of men; all the housecarls, who would follow their warlord to their death, and a smaller group of perhaps a score of the soldiers who had defended the walls of Hifrim's Perch. Cantril halted his men, and gestured for one of the soldiers to follow as he walked into the shade.

"Mead?" Paegar placed a boot on the barrel. "It's good stuff."

"No, thank you," Cantril said. "This is Henfid, he's a local lad, and dependable. He has family here in the Perch, and so he's going to take care of the place until Hasrin can decide what to do with it."

"It's mine," Yarwen pointed to her own chest. "Hasrin won't mind, trust me."

Cantril rose an eyebrow at Paegar, who nodded in agreement with Yarwen.

"Very well," said Henfid, bowing slightly at Yarwen. "Lady Yarwen, I shall await your return," he said graciously.

"I'm no Lady, man," she sniffed, "not yet, anyway. Thank you, though. I don't know when I'll return, but if Cantril says you can handle it, then I'll trust you."

"Thank you, Yarwen," Henfid bowed again. "I shan't keep you, as I understand you are needed in Palecrest, however the keep shall be ready whenever you need it."

"I'm glad I don't have to worry, Henfid, thank you. Your service shall go well rewarded, I assure you."

Henfid bowed a final time, then left in a hurry. He rounded up the soldiers and headed off back up the road into town.

"Are you certain about him, Cantril?" Yarwen asked, watching the polite soldier leave.

"He's a good man, Yarwen, don't worry," Cantril assured her. "Now, shall we be off? I see Sheeper is ready," he looked at the wagons. Sheeper stood on top of the closer one, yelling at a legionary to be more careful as he loaded a bundle of blankets onto the bed of the wagon, dropping one to the dirt.

"Cantril," Paegar rubbed at his empty eye socket with a knuckle. "Back at the keep, Hifrim said that Lubrant wasn't part of this uprising. What do you think?"

Cantril didn't even pause. "I think he was telling the truth. Lubrant is as thick as pig shit, Paegar, and not cut out for politics and plots. The people of Hartford are pious folk, more afraid of the Mother than of their lord, and the local priest is a real piece of work, so I'm told."

Paegar nodded slowly, as a piece of the puzzle dropped into place. "The Church has influence there, then? Tell me about this priest."

"Aye, of course," Cantril nodded back. "He pulls some weight with the Church, clearly. They built a new temple to the Mother there last year, and I hear he does good work. He rides around on a black horse, giving out blessings, and wearing a longsword. It's been said that he protects folk, and has killed more than a few vermin as they tried to rob from his flock."

Paegar stroked his moustache. "He sounds like a good man," he said, "well, let's go. It's a long ride back to Palecrest."