Open field greeted them on the way back, just as it had when they first arrived. A single path of dirt led them, contrasting against the green grass that had grown to knee height. Ahead of Casser and his men were the stragglers, the villagers too poor to own wagons or horses of their own, carrying with them sacks and wooden boxes of their valuables and keepsakes. With their homes gone, Casser didn’t imagine that they’d last long. Maybe some of them would last a while, live a good life, but the rest would starve, else face some other untimely end.

The villagers still in view were mostly families, those with young children that needed to be carried or required a slower pace. They had fallen behind, which meant Casser and his men did the same. He couldn’t just leave them behind, open to attack from any beasts that followed. That didn’t mean he would help them along, having refused to help carry objects and children twice already.

“How long do we have to stay on the ass end of all this?” Bronel asked. Casser’s soldiers didn’t complain, not outright, but they made their displeasure clear enough when they could.

“Can’t for much longer. Their taking too long. I’m going to have to go ahead to Sansbrool.”

“Leaving us behind, eh?” Jof said.

“You and Bronel, sure. Lenn’s with me,” he replied. None complained about it aloud, but their faces and attitudes changed enough to notice. No one wanted rear duty, walking at a crawling pace all day as they watched for beasts and bandits.

“You should get going, then.” Casser didn’t say anything. He walked faster, Lenn’s footsteps quickening behind him, and caught up to the nearest group, a family of six. The parents each carried a child and a sack, while the oldest daughter, almost of adult age but still a few years off, carried the third child.

“Are you going on ahead, sir?” The daughter asked. Hair clung to her face, wetted by sweat, a sheen of it covering her skin that almost glowed in the daylight. If he were not a man of the world, Casser may have mistaken the glow for some sort of holiness, some premonition of the girls future import. But Casser was a man of the world.

“I am. I must reach Sansbrook as soon as possible and report what we have seen.”

“Good luck, sir,” the girl said. No sooner, a light rumble could be heard, like the growling of a small animal. The girl looked away, the cause obvious. He reached into his pocket and removed a small chunk of hardtack, handing it her way. “No sir, I couldn’t,” she said.

“Just take it. And don’t tell anyone, I don’t have enough for the village.” The girl took the food, quickly sneaking a bite into her mouth, hiding the rest within the smallest child’s clothes. The mother and father nodded their thanks, slowly drifting behind as Casser moved on.

They passed by family after family, often giving no more than a nod of acknowledgment if anything at all. Once they had become too far back to see, sunlight had begun to dim, the sky red.

“We push on through the night,” he said. He heard a mutter of acceptance, the words barely recognizable as blood beat in his ears. Sweat clung to his skin, gluing his clothes to his back, eyes stung by the drops that fell from his brow. The cloth he had wiped himself with had become damp, at the verge of uselessness as he wiped his face. He twisted and squeezed it, drops of salty water falling to the ground. It reminded him of rain. He longed for it, at the same time was thankful there was none.

The night was long, and cold, enough to crave the hot day that had just ended. Casser shivered in his armor, the metal cold against his skin. One two occasions they saw orange light in the distance, off the side of the path. The warmth of fire called to him, to Lenn too, no doubt, but they walked on each time.

The sun broke behind city buildings. Sansbrook, alight with the sun’s rays as its backdrop, appeared to him a holy city, the promised land, the end of their journey. It would appear so, if he was not a man of the world. There was work still to be done.

“Guard! I am Domicus, from Lorwood!” He called to the morning entrance guard from a distance, hand raised. A man, one of several, stood from his post and walked to them at a brisk pace.

“Sir Domicus,” he said with a salute. “What news from Lorwood? Are the tales true?” It was only to be expected that news would reach them.

“Aye. Word must be sent to High Artif Ramdel,” he said.

“Word has already been sent, sir. Artif Liard has been put in command. He shall be arriving in the city within a few days.”

“Hrmph. To be expected, I suppose.”

“If you would, sir, we have orders to bring you to Bertold.”

“Bertold?” The man nodded.

“The owner of the colosseum. Please, follow me, sirs.”

The door was shorter than normal, where judging its height was hard enough to make Casser duck to be safe. The room, thankfully, was of a more acceptable height, allowing him and Lenn to stand tall, the balding man in a chair standing to greet them.

“How are ya? I’m Bertold, master of the colosseum. And you are, sirs?” He asked, hand extended. Casser shook it as he replied.

“Casser of the Domicus,” he said.

“Sir Lenn,” Lenn replied as he shook the man’s hand. He was on the shorter side. Still, the door was needlessly short.

“Well sirs, please, have a seat.” They took their seats in front of the desk, as Bertold took the chair on the other side. He pulled his chair forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he glanced down at the paper in front of him, then he looked up. “I have to ask first. Did ya perhaps meet a tall man in robes before the, uh, incident?”

“So he’s related, I take it?”

“Indeed. The fella’s a bit eccentric. Most Beastmasters are, in my experience.”

“Would you also happen to be missing one of the beasts? A giant one wearing armor kicked us out.”

“Well, fuck.” The color of his face slowly drained away, leaving the man pale as sweat broke his brow. “I’m sorry, sirs, but on behalf of Artif Liard I’m gonna have to write down yer statements.”

He lifted the paper in front of him and tossed it to Casser before he could speak, hands searching for blank paper. The one tossed his way was an official declaration, citing Bertold as temporary scribe of Artif Liard. As far as Casser could tell the signature was genuine. Not that he was accustomed to the signature in question, however.

“How much are you aware of, Bertold?” It needed to be asked. An official document was nice, but knights were not privy to their intricacies. They could be forged, and knights could be fooled.

“I know ya found a nest of the bastards in the woods. And now I know ya met Nalmet, that bastard, and the fuckin’ monster he’s been takin’ care of. And you know it come from here. The document’s genuine, sirs, so I plead with ya make this a quick affair.”

“Fine. The Beastmaster arrived in the village first, said he’d been sent there by a member of the royal family on unofficial business.”

Bertold’s scribbles stopped. “Royal family?”

“Yes. He didn’t clarify. Seemed particularly interested in the beasts, including the one we killed. He dissected it on the spot while I was attending to my arm,” he said, lifting the wrapped appendage.

The man ignored the arm. “Ya killed one? How the hell’d you do that?”

“According to him, the creatures in that area have been malnourished. Make no mistake. If he’s correct, then a fully fed one of these things would have killed us all.”

“Did he have anything else to say about them?” Casser scratched his head as he tried to form the words in his head.

“He said they’re intelligent. About as smart as people. And the one in armor could speak. Ordered us out of the village and made sure to keep the cattle for itself. As far as I know, no one died. Peaceful, as far as getting kicked out of your home can go, I’d say.” The man stopped writing again, staring off into the distance halfway through Casser’s words. It wouldn’t be a wonder to find out he didn’t hear most of what he’d said.

“Well, we’re right fucked, then.”