6th day of the Turn of Greya, 4997

 

 

“Wake up, my Lord.”

Fighting through the fog of slumber, Everett sensed it was not the first time the words had been uttered. He parted his dry, cracked lips, nearly sealed shut with the white caulk that appears one sleeps. In a voice creaking with the rust of nighttime dereliction, he muttered, “Go away.”

For a blessed moment, the intruder did not respond.

Good.

“Please, my Lord,” pleaded the anxious voice. “It is time to rise.”

Opening his eyes a crack, Everett found what most likely was a soldier standing over him. Everett stared through crusty eyes at the dark, nebulous form in the gloomy tent. A faint line of gray running along the closed flaps behind the man was the only source of light. Everett’s gaze stared at the dimness, trying to make sense of what he saw.

Gods…he must be jesting…

Everett croaked, “Blast it, man…what time is it?” Puffs of cold mist floated from his lips, accompanying his question. Wood smoke teased his nostrils.

The Red Sentinel footmen shifted uneasily before answering quietly, “Ah…nearly dawn, my Lord.”

Dawn?

“Be glad I cannot see your face,” mumbled Everett. Snuggling deeper beneath the layers of woolen blankets and fur pelts, he growled bitterly, “Now, go away before I ask you your name.” He shut his eyes, waiting for the man to exit the tent.

The soldier apparently was absent of sense. The footman murmured, “Uh…my Lord?”

Everett opened his right eye only and stared at the dark hump of a figure.

“You are pressing upon my patience, soldier…”

“Yes, my Lord. I know. And I am sorry,” replied the Red Sentinel footman quietly. “But I am here upon the request of your father. He insists you arise now. They are nearly ready to leave.”

Beneath his mountain of coverings, Everett gripped the innermost woolen blanket in his hands and squeezed tight, twisting the fabric as though he wished to rip it apart. Fury as hot as the air was cold coursed through his veins.

Who in the Nine Hells is ever up at this hour?!

Suddenly alert from the rush of anger, both of Everett’s eyes shot open. Glaring at the footman, he growled, “Tell my father I’ll be out shortly.”

After giving what appeared to be a short bow—it really was terribly dark in the tent—the soldier muttered in relief, “Yes, my Lord.”

The man turned around, pushed aside the field tent’s flap, and stepped outside. For a brief moment, the contents of the tent’s interior took shape as a spattering of pre-dawn light slipped inside. Everett looked past the man and saw that the world outside looked a hundred shades of frosty grays.

Dawn…blasted dawn…

The soldier released the flap and Everett was again swallowed by almost complete darkness. For a few moments, he hid from the cold under the thick blankets, listening to the sounds outside his tent. It seemed most of the camp was already awake and preparing to move. Nearby his own tent, Everett heard the low, mumbling voices of other soldiers and camp servants. The soft whines of the wolfhounds—clearly anxious to be on the move—drifted through the camp, mixing with the gentle huffing and neighing of horses.

I should have stayed in Redstone…

A particular voice—strong and commanding—stood out in the early morning. It grew louder, drawing nearer Everett’s tent. The speaker was on the move.

“—you are sure that they are out here then?”

Everett reached up with his right hand, rubbed the dry, nighttime film from his eyes, and sighed.

Good morning, Father…

Another voice, deeper than his father’s and tinged with the accent of the Foothills, replied, “Quite, my Lord. A local shepherd spotted a pack along the lake only two days ago.” The strange brogue told Everett that his father was speaking with the Huntmaster.

The two voices, still gaining volume, approached his tent from the left. Everett glared at the dim line separating the flaps.

He had better not be coming to check on me like I’m some whelp…

“Good, good,” said Duke Gill Redlord, approval and excitement evident in his voice. “I’m anxious to find them.”

“Yes, my Lord,” replied Huntmaster Argues. After a moment’s hesitation, the Foothill’s man added guardedly, “I will urge caution today, my Lord. The tavern in Corlevange swelled with odd tales of the wolves in this area. One man claimed to see one both the size of a man and walking like one…”

The footsteps drew closer.

Keep walking, Father…

With a light chuckle, Duke Gill replied, “Country people with incredible stories are as common as grass in the Southlands, Huntmaster.”

“Yes, my Lord,” responded the Huntmaster warily. “Caution, nonetheless, my Lord?”

“Of course, of course…” The sound of one man clapping the other was accompanied with a congenial, “I trust you, Darick. You will not lead us astray.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

The man rolled his ‘r’s’ so much, Everett wondered if the accent were faked.

As they strode past Everett’s tent, Duke Gill raised his voice and said pointedly, “And if my son would be so kind as to join us, we could be on our way and find out for ourselves if there is any truth to Corlevange’s tales.”

Huntmaster Argus had the good sense not to comment on Duke Gill’s statement.

Everett glowered at the tent flaps and ground his teeth together.

Fools…

The sound of the pair’s heavy footsteps diminished as they walked away.

Everett muttered, “If you knew what was waiting for you today, Father, I doubt you would be so anxious to go.”

While Winters in this region of the Great Lakes were typically mild, an occasional cold snap like this was not out of the ordinary. Steeling himself for the chilly morning, Everett tossed back the covers and rose from the ground. He hurried to retrieve his woolen breeches and tunic, shoving them on despite their chill.

I should have put them in my blankets last night.

He pulled on his heavy, fur-lined overcoat and bound the clasps together quickly before the heat escaped from his body. After sinking his feet into his icy boots, the leather bone-stiff from the cold, he retrieved his scabbard and sword, buckling the pair around his waist. Standing in the middle of his dark tent, he peered around, searching for his cap and gloves, but the lack of light made it difficult to see.

Blast it!

Moving to the tent flaps, Everett lifted one to allow some of the meager light from outside into the dark interior. Spotting his hat and gloves in the corner, he moved quickly to pick them up. After tugging the woolen cap over his close-cropped hair—ensuring the tips of his ears were covered—he pulled on his gloves and worked the fingers to soften the leather.

Turning around, he stared at the tent flaps for a moment, not moving.

The day is finally here.

Everett supposed he should feel worried or perhaps at least a little anxious, but he did not. He had been waiting for five years for this moment. All he felt was a sense of wonderful, sweet anticipation. Tightening his hands into balled fists, the leather gloves creaking, he allowed himself a small smile.

With a short, quick nod, he muttered, “Time to take the chair.”

Striding forward, he shoved aside the canvas flaps, stepped outside, and let a low curse slip from his dry lips.

“Hells…”

Outside was even chillier than his tent.

A white, icy layer of frost had coated the dead grass and stick-rich bushes overnight. The branches of Winter-bare oak and ash trees loomed over Everett, their long, dark limbs tar-black against the gray sky of early dawn. He faced west, and looking over his shoulder to the east, he noticed that the sky in that direction had yet to hint at the sun’s arrival.

This is much, much too early to be awake…

A gentle breeze blew through the hunting camp, pulling along with it the gray plumes of smoke rising from the handful of campfires alight. The Red Sentinels who were not moving about, doing whatever it was that soldiers did, huddled around the yellow flames, holding their hands over the fires. A few looked up as Everett exited the tent. They met his cold gaze and dropped their eyes immediately back to the campfires.

Yawning through a small grin, Everett scanned the rest of the camp.

Besides the twenty footmen accompanying Duke Gill and his party, a handful of servants—cooks, groomsmen, wagon-drivers—were spread throughout the area. As Everett had expected, it appeared most of the camp was staying put today. All of the tents remained pitched and the wagons carrying supplies were not harnessed to any of the heavy horses. Today was the actual hunt; only a handful of people were heading east towards the western shores of Lake Hawthorne.

“Good days ahead, my Lord.”

Startled a bit by the greeting, Everett turned to his right to find a captain of the Red Sentinels striding toward him. Captain Remy Lydmon was in his early forties, had long brown hair peeking out from his black, woolen cap, and favored a small, narrow moustache. He was an inch or two taller than Everett and walked with the confidence of a man who knew he was respected.

Everett peered at the man while suppressing a grimace.

Could have done without you this morning…

Captain Lydmon had served as Duke Gill’s personal guard for at least a decade. There was not a Red Sentinel more loyal to his father than Captain Lydmon. Everett did not like the soldier and he was sure the soldier did not like him much, either.

In a short, crisp tone, Everett said, “Captain.”

A tiny frown crossed Captain Lydmon’s lips.

Everett purposely had not replied with the greeting’s expected response and the captain noticed. The soldier said nothing, however. He had always showed Everett the proper amount of respect, even if it was due to the admiration he had for Gill Redlord and not his son.

The man was dressed in the red and black tunic of the Red Sentinels, his tabard emblazoned with the Redlord crest of a white and black, quartered shield with a red sword crossing the face, hilt to point. Everett eyed the crest for a moment.

I’m not sure I ever really liked that…Perhaps I’ll change it…

The captain stopped beside Everett and said in an even tone, “Your father has been quiet anxious to go, my Lord.”

 “Yes,” muttered Everett. “I was informed of that already.” Letting a hint of mocking slip into his voice, he added, “Apparently Father wishes to catch the wolves while they are still asleep.”

Captain Lydmon stared at him with a tight expression. He clearly did not like the fact that Everett had poked fun at the duke.

Ah, well.

Everett let his gaze fall from the man and stared over to the fires, looking for one with a cookpot. He was hungry but all he smelled was the acrid smoke of the fires and the faint odor of horse manure. Drawing in a deep breath—the icy air turning his nose cold and dry—he exhaled a long plume of misty breath. Nothing seemed to be cooking.

“What’s for first meal?”

“Well, my Lord,” began Captain Lydmon. “Today you have the pleasure of dining on strips of cured lamb we picked up in Corlevange.” A hint of amusement tinged the man’s voice. “It’s as cold as it is salty.”

Perturbed, Everett looked at the soldier. “No hot meal?”

The captain shook his head once. “The Huntmaster suggested to your father that we do not cook.” Nodding in the direction of the smoke rising from the fire and drifting over their heads, he said, “The wind is blowing to the east. Huntmaster Argus was afraid the scent might carry too far and the wolves would smell it.”

Everett’s eyes narrowed and his gaze shot across the camp to rest on Huntmaster Argus.

Thank you ever so much, Huntmaster…

The redheaded man stood with the duke, quietly discussing something. The Foothills’ native was dressed in layers of tan leather lined with wool. Unlike most of the men about the camp, the Huntmaster did not wear a cap, leaving his curly red hair exposed to the cold.

Everett shook his head and said unhappily, “Fine. Lamb meat it is.” He did not intend to eat the horrid stuff. He was simply trying to be agreeable, as he had been instructed to be today.

Captain Lydmon nodded. “Good. I took the liberty of already putting some wrapped up, in your saddlebags, my Lord. The horses are ready to go and the hounds are eager to hunt. If you are ready, we can go.”

Everett peered at the captain.

Hells.

“You are coming today, Captain?”

The soldier nodded once and said firmly, “Your father invited me, my Lord.”

Everett was surprised. This entire excursion was his father’s misguided attempt to connect with his son. Everett had expected the party to be his father, himself, and the Huntmaster only.

“Do you often accompany him on hunts, Captain?”

“It is customary, yes.” Eyeing Everett closely, he asked, “Is there a problem, my Lord?”

Shrugging as if he did not care, Everett muttered, “Not at all. I am so glad you will be joining us, Captain.” Without waiting for a response, Everett moved off, striding to where his father and Huntmaster Argus waited by the saddled horses, his boots crunching on the frosty grass as he went.

That might present a problem…

As he approached, his father looked up from his conversation with the Huntmaster. The pair’s eyes met and Duke Gill gave his son a quick nod, his face devoid of expression. Keeping his face equally blank, Everett nodded back.

Hello, dear father…

The relationship between father and son was as warm as the Winter morning.

Everett’s mother had passed during childbirth. By all accounts, the duke and duchess had been a very happy couple, something that was rare in the households of most nobility. As a young child, Everett had spent more time with his nursemaids and servants than he ever had with his father. After his fifteenth yearday, Duke Gill had sent Everett on a decade-long tour throughout the duchy. Ostensibly, he had said it was so Everett would learn about the land and people he would one day rule, but Everett suspected his father simply did not want to look upon the face of the person responsible for the duchess’ death.

Everett had returned to Redstone a few weeks ago after a two-year stint in Smithshill, the trading city on the southern banks of Lake Hawthorne. In Everett’s mind, Smithshill had been one of the more tolerable cities in the duchy. The city was divided into two sections by the geography of the area. The nicer, richer Hilltop was an agreeable place for Everett, except when he wanted to find a decent game of knuckles. Then, he had needed to trudge down the mile-long trail into the mucky Fallsbottom, an area coated with the constant spray of the White Falls and thick with the rabble of the city.

After his return home, his father had put off meeting with him for over a week, providing one excuse after another as to why he could not see his son. When Everett had finally been called to stand before his father, he had done so without reservation. As had become a common courtesy extended when Everett was in Redstone, his father had asked Everett to go on a Winter hunting excursion. To the surprise of Duke Gill, Everett had quickly accepted the offer. Typically, Everett would always decline; he found the activity an absurd, pointless use of time. However, this hunt was different.

Everett had been instructed by certain powers to go with his father this year.

Nearing his father and the Huntmaster, Everett spotted another figure hurrying across the camp, clearly on a straight path to the duke. Everett stared at the white-haired old man and frowned.

Blast it, I could have slept for another hour…

His father’s assistant, Steward Grandy Elmon, carried with him a number of parchments and wore an expression of pure determination on his wizened face.

Duke Gill was the sovereign of the Great Lakes, but Grandy had as much to do with keeping the duchy running smoothly as anyone. During the trip east from Redstone to the small barony of Deartfield and the village of Corlevange. Grandy and Duke Gill had conspired to put Everett to sleep with countless, mundane details about what he must do to keep the duchy harmonious with itself and its neighbors. Everett had suffered through the exchanges, doing his best to appear as if he had been listening.

The parchments Grandy carried and the man’s expression indicated that the steward felt there was some sort of pressing matter that demanded the duke’s attention. A messenger must have arrived with the morning dispatches and Grandy felt he needed a moment of Duke Gill’s time.

Everett and Grandy reached the duke and Huntmaster nearly at the same time.

Duke Gill looked at his steward, raised a gloved hand, and said, “Not now, Grandy.”

The old man lifted his sheaf of parchments and said, “But, my Lord, this will only—”

With a kind smile, Duke Gill shook his head and interrupted, “Take a moment? Not likely, Grandy. I am going on the hunt now.” Pointing to the parchments, he added, “Whatever that is can wait until I get back.”

Everett kept a small smile to himself.

Grandy will be waiting for a long time, then…

Grandy said, “But, my Lord! The Brewers Guild has voted to raise their tariff by twelve copper per—”

“Grandy!” Duke Gill glared at the man. “The brewers can wait one day. I doubt the taverns will run out of ale before I return.”

Oh, I disagree, Father…

The steward seemed ready to protest further, but he pressed his lips together. “Of course, my Lord. Enjoy yourself.”

Duke Gill nodded and said warmly, “I always do, Grandy.” He was about to turn away from the steward when he paused and let out a quiet sigh. “Have everything ready for me when I return later, Grandy. I’ll look at it then.”

With a relieved smile, Grandy nodded, “Yes, my Lord. Thank you. I would feel better if we address this quickly.”

“You always do, Grandy,” said the duke with a smile. Turning to face Everett, the grin fell away and Duke Gill asked crisply, “Are you ready?” As warm and kind as the man’s tone was for the Steward, it was cool and wooden towards Everett.

Inclining his head politely, Everett said, “Yes, Father. I am ready.”

To take my rightful place.

Duke Gill eyed Everett for a moment before glancing at the Huntmaster. “Is everything prepared, then?”

Huntmaster Argus nodded. “Yes, my Lord. The hounds are restless, and the horses are saddled and laden.”

As he always did when near the Huntmaster, Everett stared at the man’s eyes, disturbed by what he saw: one was blue and one was green.

That’s just unnatural.

With a content smile, Duke Gill said, “Good, then. Let’s mount and head out. Get the alants ready, Darick.”

Huntmaster Argus nodded and immediately spun around, hurrying to where the alant hounds waited, collared and pinned. The duke, wearing his rugged leather huntsman tunic, turned and strode to his horse, held by one of the groomsman. Everett watched his father walk away.

“Safe hunting today, me Lord,” said Grandy curtly.

Everett shifted his gaze back to the steward.

An odd choice of words…

Much like the captain, Grandy was intensely loyal to Duke Gill and probably harbored a low opinion of Everett. Studying the old man’s face, Everett searched for any sort of suspicion, but his expression was blank.

I’m being paranoid.

After a quiet moment, Everett replied, “Thank you, Grandy.”

The pair regarded each other a moment longer and then the steward left, heading back to the duke’s pavilion, marked by the red and black pennant of the Great Lakes fluttering limply in the weak breeze. Everett eyed the man’s back as he walked away through the cold morning.

He might need to die, too…

“Let’s go, Everett!” shouted his father. It was a command, not a request.

Looking back to the waiting horses, Everett found his father already on his mount, staring at him. Captain Lydmon was also ready, his roan just beyond Duke Gill’s midnight black horse.

Coming, Father.

Everett began walking to where a groomsman held his horse, a spotted, dark gray mare with a black mane and tail. As he approached, a skinny figure came hurrying from between the tents to the west, hastily pulling a woolen cap over his head as he ran.

“Hold a moment, my Lord! I’m ready!”

The lanky man rushing through the camp was the ruling lord of the Deartfield barony in which they were hunting. In his mid-thirties, he had only assumed the position a few years ago after the previous Baron of Deartfield had perished from a wasting disease. Baron Jared Treswell looked as if he might be ill himself. He was thin, meek, and looked as if he preferred reading about hunting to doing it himself. In the camp of soldiers, he was a stork in a hawks’ mew.

Everett eyed the new arrival and frowned. His gazed shifted to the saddled horses. There were five of them.

Please tell me he is jesting...

Traditionally, the baron of the land where the duke hunted would accompany the sovereign, but Everett had never imagined Lord Treswell would come today. As he watched, however, the foppish fellow hurried up to a waiting horse and quickly mounted, managing to look only mildly awkward doing so.

Everett glared at the man.

Hells.

Five people were going on the hunt when Everett had expected three. He shook his head.

I hope this does not overly complicate things.

Duke Gill smiled at the skinny baron and said, “I’m glad you decided to come then, Jared. It will be an enjoyable time, I promise.”

Lord Treswell gave a weak smile and said, “Yes…well, we’ll see how things go, my Lord.”

“Your father would be proud,” replied the duke encouragingly. “He loved the Winter hunt.”

Looking wholly uneasy on his horse, the baron nodded. “That he did, my Lord.” He glanced around as if wondering what he was doing on top of his mount. “He was much more familiar with it than I, however.”

“You’ll be fine, Jared,” said Duke Gill. Glancing at Everett—still standing on the ground and glaring at the baron—he said, “Stop dallying, Everett. Let’s go.”

Everett felt his nose twitch in irritation. He silently repeated the same mantra he had been for a full week now.

Keep your mouth shut, go on the hunt…

Placing his foot in the left stirrup and swinging his right leg over the gray horse’s rear, he was careful not to catch it on the bow and lance strapped to the saddlebags. Settling into the cold, leather saddle, Everett had the misfortune to make incidental eye contact with the baron.

Lord Treswell gave him a courteous nod. “Good days ahead, my Lord.”

…and try to smile.

Doing his best to keep his eyes free of the contempt that he felt, Everett murmured, “Good memories behind, Baron.” Try as he might, he could not bring himself to smile.

The groomsman handed Everett the leather reins to the gray and stepped away as Huntmaster Argus walked past, leading the pair of wolfhounds. The Deartfield barony was known for breeding excellent hounds and, according to the Huntmaster, these two alants were his best. The dogs were a large breed that reached up to tall man’s thigh; they had broad, flat heads, square muscular jaws, and were covered with short, wiry hair. Most alants were light tans with gray markings, and these two were no exception.

Huntmaster Argus reached his horse, handed the ropes leading to the dogs’ collars to a groomsman—the young man looked a little afraid of the massive dogs—and mounted his horse. Once in his saddle, he accepted the leads to the hounds and tied them to the saddlehorn.

Once he was content with the preparations, the Huntmaster swiveled in his saddle to face the duke and said, “We are ready to go, my Lord.”

Duke Gill smiled and said, “Lead on, Darick.”

The Huntmaster kicked the sides of his horse and the hunt was on.

Huntmaster Argus led the group east through the cold, gray morning, letting the hounds sniff the ground ahead of them. Duke Gill, Everett, and Lord Treswell followed a couple dozen paces behind the Foothills’ redhead while Captain Lydmon brought up the rear.

For a short while after departing the camp, the party remained blessedly quiet. The only sounds were the horse’s plodding hooves on the cold ground, the snuffling and low growls of the alants, and the occasional whispered command from the Huntmaster to the hounds. Everett was hoping the entire hunt would proceed like this. He had no real desire to converse with any of the present company.

As the camp melted into the Winter-bare forest behind them and the wood smoke of the fires faded from the air, Duke Gill began to hum quietly to himself. Everett recognized the tune as something the playmen who would perform in the Duke’s Hall, Red Hawk at Dawn. Everett had always hated the song.

His father hummed, absentmindedly looking around the forest as they rode, wearing a happy, relaxed grin on his face. After a time, the duke blessedly stopped his droning, glanced at Everett, and said, “A beautiful morning, is it not?” His tone was warmer than usual. It did not matter to Everett, however.

Keeping his eyes forward, Everett replied, “It is cold.”

Duke Gill frowned, shook his head, and said, “Cold or not, it is beautiful.” Turning to look at Lord Treswell, he asked, “Don’t you think so, Jared?”

The man looked as cold as Everett, but he nonetheless nodded quickly. “Quite nice, my Lord. I’m glad you are enjoying yourself.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Duke Gill smiled widely and said, “I am, Jared. Very much so.”

Everett did not understand how getting up before the sun, riding around in the wilderness in the middle of Winter, intent on hunting down dangerous, wild beasts was an enjoyable experience.

An utter waste of time…

Duke Gill turned to regard his son, studying him for a moment before saying, “Someday, you will learn to enjoy these moments, Everett.”

Everett shook his head and said doubtfully, “Unlikely, Father.”

Duke Gill’s eyes narrowed. Everett noticed and silently chastised himself.

Try to smile, Everett.

Managing to summon forth a weak grin, Everett said, “Perhaps one day I might, Father.” Duke Gill’s face relaxed some. “However, I simply find that it’s just so…” He glanced around at the frosty grass and bushes, bare trees, and gray dawn sky. “…desolate out here. And so blasted quiet.”

“That’s the point, son,” replied the duke. “These excursions are the only time I can get away from the constant clamoring for my attention.” With a wink and a smile, he said, “I’m lucky Grandy abhors hunting, else he’d be pestering me with one thing or another even now.”

“No doubt, Father,” replied Everett evenly.

The duke eyed Everett carefully. “Never neglect your duties as the ruler of the Great Lakes, Everett. But even the duke needs some time away from sitting the Sovereign’s Chair.”

Everett fought against the urge to roll his eyes.

Gods, this is another blasted lesson…

Keeping his tone measured and polite, Everett said, “I understand, Father.”

Duke Gill regarded him a moment longer, gave a satisfied nod, and looked ahead to where the Huntmaster and hounds led the group. “Good, son. I’m glad.”

From behind, Captain Lydmon called out, “As much as you enjoy these trips, my Lord, I hate them.”

The comment surprised Everett enough that he glanced over his shoulder to the Red Sentinel soldiers. It might be the first time he had heard the captain ever disagree with the duke. Staring at the soldier, Everett asked, “Why is that?”

Meeting his gaze, Captain Lydmon said, “It is dangerous, my Lord.” Shifting to stare at the duke’s back, he said firmly, “Your father tempts Greya on these hunts.”

Everett stifled a smile. Invoking the name of the Goddess of Winter and Fate never seemed more appropriate than on this cold, soon-to-be-historic day.

Duke Gill huffed and called over his shoulder, “You worry too much, Remy.”

“If you’d like to ease my mind, my Lord,” replied the captain. “Then let me go back and bring along a dozen Sentinels with us. Simply for safety’s sake?”

Letting out a long sigh, Duke Gill turned to the baron and said, “Jared, have there been any reports of brigands in the area?”

Lord Treswell shook his head. “None in years, my Lord.”

“Any roving monsters? Orcs, razorfiends, or the like?” His tone was a jesting one.

The baron of Deartfield smiled. “Ah…not quite, my Lord. Thankfully.”

“Anything—anything at all—that should cause my captain to worry for my safety?”

“Just wolves, my Lord.”

Swiveling in his saddle, the leather creaking, Duke Gill called, “Satisfied, Remy?”

Despite himself, the captain smiled. “Hardly, my Lord.”

Nodding and facing forward, the duke said, “If I didn’t get a chance to get away from Redstone every now and then, I’d go mad, Remy.”

“Of course, my Lord,” replied the Sentinel.

A few moments of silence fell over the forest before Duke Gill looked over his shoulder again and said, “Truly, Remy. You can come ride with us if you’d like.”

“No, thank you, my Lord,” said the soldier. “I prefer to keep an eye on things from here.”

With an affectionate grin, the duke shook his head and said quietly, “Ever the loyal guard.” Turning to eye Everett, he added, “It’s important to find men like Remy, son. You want people you can trust close to you.”

Nine Hells! Can he ever stop trying to teach me something?

“Yes, Father.” Oddly enough, as he thought about what his father said, a tiny smile turned up the corner of his mouth. “That is something I have come to learn over the years.”

Duke Gill nodded and said, “Good…good, then.” He sounded genuinely pleased. After a few quiet moments, his father asked, “So, we’ve yet to talk much of your time in Smithshill. How goes the city?”

Everett groaned inwardly. He had no desire to converse with his father, especially about the mendacity of the inner workings of Smithshill politics and civics.

Keep your mouth shut, go on the hunt, and try to smile…

His father’s questions continued, unabated.

“What is your opinion of the Regent there? Are there issues with the guilds? Seems like there almost always is…I swear, every dispatch I get from Hilltop mentions some conflict between the merchants and…well, almost everyone else. And what of—”

Interrupting his father, Everett said, “Did you not say that you wished to get away from official duties today, Father?”

Duke Gill shut his mouth. After a moment, he inclined his head. “I did, didn’t I?” With a small smile, he said, “Fine. Forget Smithshill for now. But we will speak of it once we return to Redstone.”

Returning his father’s smile, Everett replied, “Of course, Father.” The grin was effortless and fueled by amused irony.

Thank the Gods that conversation will never take place…

Relieving Everett of further tedious discussion, Duke Gill turned to Lord Treswell and asked, “And how are things coming along with you, Jared?’

The skinny baron looked at the duke, clearly surprised by the question. “Pardon, my Lord?”

“You’ve been baron of Deartfield for what…almost three years now?”

“Three years in the Turn of Roden, my Lord,” replied Lord Treswell. “My father passed away the Seventhday before Roden and Rheoc’s Days of Leisure.”

“A good man, your father,” said Duke Gill.

Lord Treswell’s expression darkened a moment, turning sad. “Yes, he was, my Lord. He is missed by all of Deartfield.”

“Your tithings to Redstone have been down each year since, if I recall correctly. Deartfiled’s had hardship, yes?”

Everett pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Gods, can’t the man stop with the duchy’s business for five minutes?

The baron’s sad expression shifted to one of embarrassment. “Ah…well, my Lord, we’ve had poor weather for two straight Summers. And many of the sheep were struck by disease—some herds lost half their head. And—”

Duke Gill lifted and gloved hand. “Hold, Jared. I am familiar with your difficulties. I’m not angry by any means. I am simply inquiring how you and your people are faring. The duchy treasury is fine.”

With a relieved sigh, the baron said, “We are making due, my Lord. Thank you for your concern.”

The duke nodded, “Excellent to hear.”

Keeping his eyes forward, Everett sighed quietly.

I will not be as lax as he is…

Baronies were required to pay a certain amount to Redstone every year. Everett wanted gold, not excuses.

Duke Gill had continued staring at the skinny nobleman. “Might I inquire about something else, Jared? Something a bit more personal?”

With a nod, baron said, “Of course, my Lord.”

“How goes the pursuit for a future duchess?”

Everett fought to swallow the chuckle that threatened to escape. He ended up choking a bit and turning it into a cough.

Hah!

Lord Treswell looked as if he might get ill. “You mean a…wife, my Lord?”

Everett turned his head, staring northward to hide the smile that had crept over his face. Whispered rumors about the baron’s disinterest in women had floated through the duchy for years. As the hunting party had left Corlevange and traveled northeast on its way to Lake Hawthorne, Everett had spotted the baron eyeing a few of the soldiers the way most men stared at a pretty woman.

I seriously doubt the man wants a wife, Father…

Duke Gill pressed on, saying, “Yes, Jared. A wife. Without one, there will be no heir to Deartfield. And you are—what? Thirty-four years old?”

“Thirty-five,” mumbled Lord Treswell. He had dropped his gaze to stare at his horse’s mane.

“Even worse, then,” replied Duke Gill. “You need to get married soon. You will need a son—or daughter, it matters not—to carry the line. Otherwise, myself or Everett will be forced to decide what to do with Deartfield when you perish. A barony without a baron or baroness is a headache. The line quickly grows long for people wishing me to hand them the lands.”

Lord Treswell murmured quietly, “I understand, my Lord.”

Unable to resist, Everett leaned forward to look around his father, and said to Lord Treswell, “There are dozens of suitable women of noble birth in the Great Lakes. Surely you must have an eye on a couple, Baron?”

The man’s gaze remained focused on the horse. “No, my Lord. I do not.”

Duke Gill glanced over at him with a look of disgust and muttered, “Gods, son, you must be blind…”

Everett’s amusement fled; he did not understand his father’s upset expression. Staring at the duke, he said quizzically, “Pardon?”

The duke turned back to the baron and said kindly, “Would I be out of line, Jared, if I said the reason you do not have an eye for a woman would be that you have one for a man?”

Lord Treswell’s eyes shot open and he stared in horror at the duke. “My Lord, what…I don’t—”

Duke Gill interrupted, saying, “Jared, I do not care whom you love. I simply care if the line of Treswell continues. Find a woman who understands your situation, marry her, and find her a man with whom she enjoys spending time.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “Just make sure he has black hair and brown eyes.”

Everett peered at the baron.

Black hair, brown eyes…

Lord Treswell stared at the duke, mouth agape.

Duke Gill shook his head and said, “You are not the first nobleman to prefer the company of men over women, Jared. Truly, I do not care about your personal life. You are a good baron, you care for Deartfield well. That’s all that matters to me.”

After a long, drawn-out quiet, the baron muttered, “But the child will not be mine…”

The duke shrugged. “If you claim him as such, I will not care who sired him. Or her. I will publically acknowledge the child as the rightful heir to your holdings.”

Everett stared back and forth between his father and the baron, unable to believe what he was hearing. Like his father, he did not care about the baron’s proclivities; he could not believe his father was willingly sullying a noble line.

Unable to keep his protest to himself, Everett said, “But the child will not be of his line, Father. He will not be fit to rule.”

Duke Gill turned to stare at Everett with raised eyebrows. “Fit to rule? Hah! Simply because someone had the luck to be born into nobility does not mean he is fit to rule, Everett.” A critical tone slipped into his father’s voice. “I’ve met farmers, stablemuckers, and wheelhawkers who are better men than some of noble birth.” His gaze lingered on Everett for a moment. The tiniest of frowns creased the lines in the man’s face before he looked away.

Everett’s eyes widened.

How dare he!

Glaring at his father’s profile, he demanded, “What does that mean, Father?”

Duke Gill shook his head and muttered, “Never mind. I do not wish to talk of this any longer. We are here to hunt.” Staring ahead to where the Huntmaster led the group, he called out, “Darick! Anything?”

The redheaded man turned to look back and called, “No, my Lord! They have not caught a scent yet! And we’re almost to the lake!”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” muttered Duke Gill.

Everett continued to glare at his father, wondering if he should abandon whatever the plan was and just stab the man in the throat right now. He glanced back to where Captain Lydmon rode. The Red Sentinel was already staring at Everett carefully.

That blasted soldier would probably cut me down before father’s heart stops…

Duke Gill turned to the baron and said, “This is the area where the village folk said they’ve seen a—”

A sharp howl suddenly pierced the chilly morning, rising in volume while drifting through the barren forest. The sound startled everyone, including the horses. The heads of man and mount alike snapped to face north, staring through the frosty, brown and black trunks of the trees. The horses stopped, as did the alants. The hounds’ muzzles pointed north; their triangular ears stood at attention.

At first, Everett assumed the howl was a wolf, but as it continued on, he began to wonder if that was the case. It was deeper in pitch and had a strange timbre to it.

Odd…

Regardless, the howl was the signal for which he had been told to wait. Whatever was planned for his father was at hand. Everett stole a glance at the baron and the captain, again wishing the extra men had not come along.

I hope things go smoothly…

The long, eerie howl faded a bit before cutting off suddenly, like a candle’s flame snuffed by a stray, swift breeze. Silenced returned to the forest. The frost-covered grass rustled in the wind. Lord Treswell’s horse nickered quietly.

Finally, Duke Gill broke the silence, muttering, “I’ve been hunting for thirty years, and I’ve never heard a wolf like that.” His father wore a confused expression.

With a quick, hushed word, Captain Lydmon urged his horse forward. The horse swished through the grass and halted beside Lord Treswell, between the direction of the howl and the duke.

Staring northward, the captain said quietly, “If that’s a wolf, my Lord, it’s a very large one.”

Lord Treswell whispered worriedly, “How far away is it?”

Duke Gill replied, “A mile away? Further, perhaps…it is difficult to say with that howl.”

A soft, urgent whining from where the Huntmaster had stopped drew Everett’s attention. The two alants were pulling on their leads, eager to race off toward the sound. One continued to look back at the Huntmaster, almost as if he were begging to be gone. Huntmaster Argus hissed something to the animals and they both went silent. Looking to the other men, he motioned for them to approach while holding a finger before his mouth, indicating he wanted quiet.

Duke Gill murmured, “Let’s go.”

Without a word, all four men urged their respective horse forward, riding to where Huntmaster Argus waited beneath the boughs of a bare oak, his eyes wide and alert, staring north. While the alants had quieted some, they continued to tug insistently on their leads, still tied to the horn of the saddle. The man’s horse was forced to brace her legs against the hounds’ demands. The pair of anxious wolfhounds might spook any normal horse, but the mare was trained as well as the alants. Everett regarded the Huntmaster; he certainly seemed competent at his profession.

Such a shame…

As they approached, the Huntmaster turned his head to face them. Locking eyes with Duke Gill, he whispered, “Seems we’ve found your wolves, my Lord.”

The duke nodded and replied quietly, “Sounds like we found a large one. Perhaps it is one of those ‘as big as a man’ wolves your tavern goer saw?” A jesting twinkle danced in Duke Gill’s eyes.

Huntmaster Argus reached up to grasp a silver talisman of a tusked boar hanging from a leather thong around his neck and whispered, “I pray to Thonda we are all laughing at your jest around the fires this evening, my Lord.”

Everett shook his head.

Thonda can’t help you today, Huntmaster.

Duke Gill peered northward. “How do you recommend we proceed, Darick?”

The three nobles and the captain of the Red Sentinels stared at the commoner, waiting for the man’s guidance. During the journey to Corlevange, Everett’s father had raved about Huntmaster Argus, insisting he was the best with whom he had ever worked. Since leaving the village and heading to the lake, there had been more than a few jests lobbed at the baron regarding Duke Gill stealing Darick Argus away from Deartfield and luring him to Redstone.

 The Huntmaster lifted his right arm and pointed east, toward the lightening sky. “Lake Hawthorne is just over that rise, my Lord. I had half-expected to be in the shore mud without a lead.” Pointing to the north, he continued, “A gulley lies ahead, running uphill for…perhaps two miles or so before opening into a large clearing overlooking the lake, choked by thickets of fingerprick bushes to the north and west. If we can drive the wolf that direction, he or she would be trapped.”

Lord Treswell stared at the Huntmaster and mumbled, “She?”

Huntmaster Argus shrugged. “I have seen she-wolves as large as the males, my Lord. It’s possible.”

Duke Gill muttered quietly, “As long as the beast is dead, I do not care if it bears or sires pups.” He glanced down at the two alants. “Are your hounds ready, Darick?”

“Endret and Gann are quite ready, my Lord,” replied the Huntmaster proudly.

Everett stared at the two hounds, mildly curious as to which was which.

Duke Gill nodded and looked to the others gathered. “Here’s the plan, gentlemen. Bows at the ready, we follow the hounds, driving the beast north. Keep your hunting horns at the ready should we get separated. Take the—”

Another long, lonely howl echoed through the hills, closer now, almost as if it were taunting them to chase it. Everett shuddered at the sound, strangely uneasy at the tone of the wolf. While the howl was some distance away, he eyed the trees nearby nonetheless, worried that a flurry of gray fur was bound to burst from the thickets any moment. The anticipation was awful.

Gods, why does anyone do this?

The howl cut off as quickly as it started. With an impressive single-mindedness, Duke Gill immediately resumed his instructions.

“Take the shot if you have it, but keep your lances loose and ready. If it’s a she-wolf and she has pups, she’ll attack first.”

Clearly nervous, Lord Treswell said, “It’s the middle of Winter. There shouldn’t be pups.”

Captain Lydmon nodded, agreeing, “No, there shouldn’t. But I’ve seen stranger things on these hunts.” The soldier was already undoing his short bow from his gear strapped behind the saddle. “Wolf pups in Winter are rare, but the duke is right. Better to be ready and wrong.” He uncapped the top of the hard leather quiver on the side of his horse, exposing a number of russet hawk-feathered arrows.

Duke Gill also was undoing the straps holding his bow. Staring at the baron as he did so, he said quietly, “Ride with the bow in hand, but keep your arrows in the saddle quiver until you have the wolf in sight. Else you’re liable to fall out of your saddle if your steed takes a sudden turn or stumble.”

Lord Treswell nodded, wide-eyed.

Even Everett listened intently to his father’s instructions now. He had no desire to tumble to his own death when he was so close to the Sovereign’s Chair.

Eyeing his father, Everett said, “Perhaps you and the captain should go ahead of me and the baron, Father?” There was no need to put himself in immediate danger of whatever waited for his father.

Duke Gill regarded Everett for a moment before nodding once. “A sound idea, Everett.” Turning to the Huntmaster, he ordered, “You and the alants lead, Darick. Remy and I will follow. Everett and Jared will bring up the rear.”

In his Foothills’ brogue, Huntmaster Argus replied, “Of course, my Lord. Shall I untether the alants?”

Duke Gill glanced over the assembled group, ensuring they were properly prepared. Content they were, he looked back to the Huntmaster. “Release the hounds, Darick.”

With a confident smile, the Huntmaster draped his horse’s reins over the saddle horn and quickly dismounted, landing spryly on the cold grass. Approaching the pair of alants, he barked quietly, “Bonnet!”

The two wolfhounds immediately sat on their haunches but continued to stare north. They were clearly anxious to start the hunt; their short, stubby tails wagged back and forth, kicking up the frosty and crunchy Harvest leaves.

Everett stared at the hounds, quietly curious at the strange command.

Bonnet?

Seeing his confusion, Duke Gill leaned over and said, “Huntmasters use commands not commonly spoken in the presence of the hounds.”

Not really caring, Everett lifted an eyebrow in understanding nonetheless.

I suppose that makes sense…

Huntmaster Argus crouched beside his hounds, and lifted the collars from around their necks, whispering to them quietly as he did so. The wolfhounds alternated between staring at their master and eyeing the forest to the north. They were like two arrows, nocked on a taut bowstring and ready to be sent flying.

Both alants remained in place as Huntmaster Argus gathered their leads quickly, returned to his horse, and mounted once he tied the ropes to the saddle. Again, Everett was impressed with the Huntmaster’s ability to train his animals.

It really is a shame…

As soon as the Huntmaster looked to the duke and nodded, Everett’s father did not waste any time.

“Go, Darick.”

The Huntmaster nodded, looked to his wolfhounds, and said firmly, “Duckberry!”

Everett did not have much time to marvel at the odd choice of word as the two alants sprinted forth from beneath the oak, crashing into the grass and bushes and tearing northward. Their barking and yapping filled the quiet forest. After the quiet solitude of the morning, it was as jarring as if a thousand men were shouting. The Huntmaster kicked his heels into his horse’s side, following the hounds immediately. The rest of the party did the same.

The forest whipped past as the hunting party rushed north, a blur of tree trunks on all sides.

Everett gripped the sides of his horse with his knees, leaning forward over the horse’s neck, expressly intent on not falling from his saddle. He had his bow tucked underneath his right arm, just as the others did, hoping there was little chance he would actually need it.

Hounds, horses, and men crashed through bushes and pounded over the open grass, dodging the thick oak trunks and skinnier ash. Everett stole a glance east and noticed the sky just above the horizon had finally achieved a soft pink glow. Sunrise was near.

He smiled.

The dawn of a new era…

The alants were more agile and quicker than the horses and soon began to outpace the hunting party. Halfway through the gulley the Huntmaster had mentioned, Everett lost sight of the hounds. Their continued barking and yowling was enough to guide the men and Huntmaster Argus led on, driving his horse north.

Everett’s destiny was nearly at hand, and he was excited.

He prayed things would go smoothly despite the presence of Captain Lydmon and Lord Treswell. Eyeing the red and black tunic of the captain, Everett frowned. One way or another, he would need to die today. The act itself was easily accomplishable, but that was not what worried Everett.

How in the Nine Hells do I explain all the deaths?

Glancing to his right, he stared at Lord Treswell bouncing up and down on his horse. The man had as much riding skill as a sack of onions.

Perhaps he’ll save me the trouble and fall himself…

Another long, wolfish howl cut through the air, clearly not belonging to either of the alants. Everett’s gaze shot forward, peering through the trunks.

That was much closer.

The uphill ascent through the gulley suddenly sharpened, turning more into a hill than a gentle rise. The horses were forced to slow a little, winding their way east as they climbed from the shallow valley. Peering ahead, Everett watched the two alants crest the rise and dash into what must have been the meadow the Huntmaster had mentioned. A few moments later, the barking of the wolfhounds cut off with an impossible swiftness. One moment, they were snarling and yelping, the next, there was complete silence.

What…?

Everett wondered what had happened to the hounds. He knew little about today’s plan other than his simple role: go on the hunt and keep his mouth shut.

Ahead of Everett, Huntmaster Argus sat taller in his saddle, obviously confused as to why his hounds had ceased their barking. A moment later, the man pulled his horse’s reins, slowing his mount, and lifted his left hand to indicate that everyone should do the same. The four men behind him complied, dropping from a jarring trot to a quick walk.

Duke Gill and the captain reached Huntmaster Argus first, pulling up to the man’s right. Everett directed his gray to the curly redhead’s left and a few moments later, a jostled Lord Treswell fell in beside him. As soon as the five men were lined up, the Huntmaster muttered worriedly, “I think we should halt, my Lords.”

Duke Gill said, “If you think it best, Darick.” He tugged on his horse’s reins, stopping his black mare on the hillside.

The rest of the hunting party halted as well, at least two hundred paces from the crest of the hill. The five horses were breathing heavily from their run, great billows of steam pumping from their flaring nostrils. Peering up the slope, Everett saw that the trees ahead thinned out and the tall grass thickened, taking over the landscape.

“That is the field you mentioned?” asked Everett quietly. A bit of excited anxiousness had crept into his question.

Remain calm, Everett.

Huntmaster Argus stared north with his strange, mismatched eyes and nodded slowly. In a quiet, apprehension-laced whisper, he muttered, “Yes, my Lord.” The man’s red eyebrows were drawn together, his face a maze of worry lines.

Duke Gill whispered, “Any idea why they went quiet, Darick?”

Huntmaster Argus shook his head. “I do not know…”

Lord Treswell muttered, “Did the wolf get them?”

“Unlikely,” replied the Huntmaster. “Both Endret and Gann are fearsome.” He sounded more hopeful than confident. “A full pack of wolves might take them down, but by no means could they ever do so with such speed as that.”

A soft rattling of wood drew Everett’s attention to his right. Captain Lydmon was pulling an arrow from the quiver strapped to the side of his horse. Everett’s father looked over, noticed the soldier’s action, and nodded decisively.

“Arm yourselves, men,” mumbled the duke.

The five men drew arrows quietly and nocked them on their respective bowstrings. Once all were ready, Duke Gill looked to the top of the rise and whispered, “Remy and I will go first—”

Captain Lydmon interrupted, “My Lord, I think perhaps I should go alone and—”

Duke Gill glared at the soldier, cutting him off with a single look. “I am not letting you go up there alone, Remy.”

The captain protested, “Then allow the Huntmaster and perhaps Everett to come with me and—”

“No, Remy!” hissed the duke. “We are not separating, understand?” Staring back to the rise, he said quietly, “We all go up there together.”

The captain frowned, but replied respectfully, “Yes, my Lord.”

“Remy and I go first. Everett, Darick, Jared—you three follow.” Without hesitation, the duke quietly urged his horse forward, up the hill with Captain Lydmon at his side.

As they rode up the slope, Everett was glad the Huntmaster and Lord Treswell flanked him. He suspected something awaited them atop the rise, and he wanted as much protection around him as possible.

Please do not foul this up.

Everett’s father and Captain Lydmon reached the lip of the hill and entered the meadow. Everett waited for shouting or some other sort of alarm, but there was nothing.

What is going on?

Curiosity overrode his better judgment and he gave heel to his horse, trotting up the last few paces to reach the hilltop. With wide, alert eyes, Everett scanned the area.

Before them was a small, open field, covered with dry, frost-covered grass and low-lying, bare bushes. Thick, dark brambles of fingerprick bushes lined the western and northern rims of the clearing, seemingly choking the tree trunks. The eastern side of the hilltop appeared to end in a steep drop off, more cliff than hill. Lake Hawthorne took up most of the eastern horizon, still a muddy brown, yet untouched by the first rays of the day. While it was chilly enough for frost, it was rare for even the shores of the lake to turn icy.

In the meadow, Captain Lydmon had halted his horse a mere twenty paces from the rise. The soldier was pointing silently to the center of the field with his left hand still holding his bow. Duke Gill had stopped as well and was staring where the soldier indicated. Everett urged his horse forward, unable to see what the two men did. After drawing even with them, he was able to spot when had drawn their attention.

What in the Nine Hells…?

The two alants lay dead in the middle of the field. At least Everett assumed they were dead. The amount of bright red blood spread over the white frosty grass and tan hide of the hounds seemed quite indicative of the alants’ fate. 

A sharp, hissing intake of breath caught his attention. Looking to his right, he watched as shock and anger washed over the Huntmaster’s face. The redheaded man muttered, “By the Gods…”

Despite the uncertainty of the situation, Everett found humor in the man’s ironic statement.

More or less, Huntmaster…

Hiding the smile threatening to spread over his face, Everett turned back to the corpses of the two dogs and grimaced.

That sure is a lot of blood…

Everett’s gray nickered and tossed her head. Glancing at the other horses, Everett found that all five seemed agitated. The eyes of Lord Treswell’s mount were as wide as his rider’s was.

They smell something…

The five men scanned the thickets and forest, searching for the culprit responsible for the alants’ deaths. Captain Lydmon was a visage of calm, his years of training leading him to methodically scan the area. Lord Treswell was the extreme opposite; any rustle or creak of a branch and the nobleman would twist his head, his eyes dancing about haphazardly. Technique was meaningless, however. No one spotted anything. The meadow and the surrounding wilderness seemed utterly deserted. Somewhere to the south, a morning dove cooed; the soft greeting to the day was strangely eerie and unwelcome.

When nothing came crashing from the forest, Duke Gill silently motioned for everyone to approach the dead hounds. As one, the men quietly directed their horses to the middle of the field. As they reached the alants, Huntmaster Argus leapt from his horse and scurried to the sides of the hounds.

In a hushed, urgent tone, the Captain Lydmon protested, “Blast it man, don’t get off your horse!”

The Huntmaster was too distraught over the deaths of his hounds to listen to the soldier. The Foothills’ man bent over the two alants, placing his hand on their sides to feel for a heartbeat.

Everett raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Not likely…

The other men stopped their horses, hovering over the Huntmaster and his hounds and staring uneasily at the corpses. Everett grimaced.

Gods, those are vicious wounds…

Each wolfhound had gory, deep gashes on their throats. Large chunks of flesh and fur had been ripped from the hounds’ necks. Warm steam from the bloody wounds curled upward before fading into the chilly air.

After a long, silent pause, Lord Treswell asked warily, “A wolf did that?”

Shaking his head, Duke Gill muttered, “I know of no wolf that could do that.”

“Then what?” prompted Captain Lydmon.

The duke glanced up and scanned the hilltop again, not bothering to hide his worry. With eyes drawn together, he said quietly, “Hells, Remy…I do not know.”

Everett stared long and hard at the gaping throat wounds.

How in the Nine Hells was this accomplished, then?

“Wolf or not, my Lord,” said the captain quietly. “Whatever killed these alants is too big and dangerous for you to be out here with only us for protection.”

Duke Gill nodded slowly. “I am inclined to agree, Remy.” His gaze fell on something on the ground.

“Then we should turn around and leave, yes?” asked Lord Treswell.

Frowning, the duke replied, “No. We do not.” He stared to the southwest edge of the ridge.

Incredulous, the baron asked, “Why not, exactly?”

Duke Gill pointed to the ground a dozen paces from the alants. “I think that whatever killed the hounds is now between us and our way back to the camp.”

Everett peered down and spotted a splash of red on the white frost. Tracing his gaze in the same direction his father had been staring, he spotted another patch of red another dozen paces away. He was sure if he headed southwest across the field, he would find a crimson path leading back to the forest.

Whatever it is circled around us…

“What about the hunting horns?” asked Lord Treswell quietly. He was already reaching for the curved bull’s horn hanging from his saddle.

“We’re too far for them to be of use,” muttered Huntmaster Argus bitterly. The redheaded man stood, turned from his dead hounds, and stared south. His face was as hard as carved stone. “We will need to go a few miles south and east before they’ll do us any good.”

Smacking the useless horn, he baron turned to stare anxiously toward the southern rise. “Can we just ride for it?”

“An unwise choice,” replied the Huntmaster. “The beast that did this might still be in a mood to hunt. By running, we are simply encouraging it to chase us.”

“So, what do we do?” urged the nervous baron. “Perhaps the beast that did—” he glanced at the alants and grimaced, turning a shade paler than he already was “—my Gods…ugh…” Swallowing, he lifted his gaze and tried again. “Perhaps the beast that did that is gone?”

“Perhaps,” muttered Duke Gill while chewing on his lip.

He’s not convinced…

“Perhaps not,” countered Captain Lydmon quietly.

Neither is he…

For a few moments, the five men remained quiet. Four of them were actively thinking through a number of approaches to retreat to safety. Everett, however, was simply waiting. He expected something else was going to happen now that they were all here; he just did not know what that something might be.

Captain Lydmon turned his horse around, facing the direction from which they had entered the clearing and said, “I’m going to ride to the rise and see if I can see anything in the trees. You all stay here.”

Everett stared at the man.

Oh, how brave of you, Captain…

Duke Gill shook his head and said, “We all go together.”

Captain Lydmon said with a touch of exasperation, “For once, my Lord, please listen to me! If you had earlier this morning, we’d have a dozen soldiers with us right now!” The soldier’s response bordered on disrespect, but the duke did not seem to mind.

With a rueful smile, he nodded. “Fine, Remy. Go see what you can see.”

Captain Lydmon nocked the arrow to his bowstring and said, “If I am attacked, I will hold off the animal while you bolt. It would be wise if you all separate as you run, too. Make the beast choose who to hunt.”

Everett admitted it was a good plan. He wondered if it was going to be tested or not. He glanced around the empty meadow, feeling a touch of anxiousness creep up from within.

Where are you?

The Red Sentinel captain kicked his horse and began moving to the rise. All four men watched with anxious eyes. Everett glanced around the frosty hilltop yet again, shivering in the cold.

What exactly are you waiting for?

Captain Lydmon reached the edge of the rise and halted his horse. He held his bow at the ready and stared down the hill, searching the gulley and forest below. Suddenly, his head stopped moving back and forth and he leaned forward in his saddle a bit.

He sees something…

Sitting straight in his saddle, the soldier lifted the bow to shoulder height, drew back the arrow, and let it fly with a soft twang. Cursing, the captain reached to his quiver, fumbling to retrieve another arrow. A low, rumbling growl filled the forest to the south.

What—

Before Everett could completely form the thought, the sudden sound of thick parchment or thin cloth being shredded pulled his attention back to the bodies of the hounds. Huntmaster Argus spun around as those still mounted swiveled to face forward in their saddles.

Ten paces beyond the dead alants, it seemed as though the world had been torn in two. A black line, seven feet tall, hovered implausibly in the air. The Winter meadow on both sides of the rip fluttered as if it were a sliced painter’s canvas caught in a slight breeze. Behind Everett, he heard the captain loose a second arrow, immediately followed by an angry, painful howl.

Before Everett could turn back to the soldier, the Huntmaster gasped as if he had been punched in the gut. The man’s eyes widened as he was lifted off the ground. Huntmaster Argus appeared to be flung into the black slit like a boy would toss a river stone. The man flew into the blackness, pushing aside the flaps of the world, and disappearing from the hilltop. He did not even have time to scream. A moment later, the Huntmaster’s horse rose from the ground and flew into the rip. The terrified whinnies of the horse cut off the moment it passed into the void.

Everett stared at the tear in the world, wondering what had just happened to Huntmaster and his horse when a viscous, terrible snarling yanked his eyes back to the edge of the rise. Everett whipped around just in time to see Captain Lydmon getting pulled roughly from his saddle, crashing to the ground. The soldier’s horse pranced away from whatever was assaulting him, blocking Everett’s view. Captain Lydmon shouted in a panicked alarm, wholly unlike the soldier.

Everett watched between the legs of the dancing horse as the captain disappeared over the rise, screaming. As the man was dragged away, Everett caught a flash of dark fur against the branches of the trees.

What in the Nine Hells?

Everett swore that the captain’s assailant had been wearing leggings of wolf fur.

Before anyone could react, Captain Lydmon’s startled screams turned into shrieks of pain. After a quick, wet gurgle, he went silent. Everett knew the man was dead and was relieved.

One less thing to worry about…

A bit of doubt gripped him a moment later.

How in the Nine Hells am I going to explain this?

A sweet, sultry voice drifted through the meadow. “Truly, Everett, could you not get him here alone?”

Turing to stare due west, Everett spotted a familiar figure a dozen paces away, standing in the cold grass.

There you are…

Raela’s hair was bound and tucked beneath a red-knit woolen cap. Her pale white skin nearly matched the frosty white grass of the meadow. Her diminutive, typically alluring figure was hidden beneath a heavy overcoat of lustrous pelts of one animal or another. She wore tight, tan breeches and thick, fur-lined boots.

“I tried, Raela,” replied Everett. “I did not know about the captain or the baron coming until this morning.”

With an unconcerned shrug, the half-elf said, “No matter.” She strode closer to them, carefully eyeing the remaining men.

Everett watched her approach and asked, “Why did you wait so long?”

Raela offered a quick smile. “I was simply curious, Everett. The behavior of mortals under duress can be quite entertaining to watch.”

Everett stared at the woman a long moment then turned to look at his father and the baron, surprised that neither had said anything. Both men remained in their saddles, unnaturally stiff and unmoving.

“That is your doing, then?” asked Everett.

“Best if they don’t move. For my safety,” explained Raela. “And theirs, truly. Your Huntmaster was right.” Glancing at Lord Treswell, she added, “If he ran, my...‘friend’ would hunt him down within seconds.”

Everett stared south at the riderless roan, pacing along the ridge’s edge with quick, agitated steps. Looking back at the half-elf as she reached the side of his horse, Everett muttered, “That wasn’t a wolf, was it?”

Raela peered up, wearing a coy smile. “Oh no, dear Everett. It is most definitely not a wolf.”

Looking back to the rise, he asked quietly, “Did you do something to it…with magic?” The topic of magic was still one with which he was uneasy. “Did you turn it into some sort of monstrous wild mongrel?”

“Again, no,” replied Raela with a short shake of her head. “And if I were you, I would be grateful he did not hear you. They loathe that term.”

“What in the Nine Hells is it then?”

Reaching up a tiny hand and placing it on his gray’s neck, Raela smiled wider and said simply, “A resident of the distant west, Everett. A servant of our mutual friend, you might say.”

“Ah…well, then,” he responded. At the mention of their ‘mutual friend,’ Everett decided he did not care to discuss the matter any further. Quickly shifting his attention to the unusual rip in the air, Everett asked, “And what might that be?”

Raela glanced over and said, “I forgot I still held onto that.” With a soft pop, the tear in the world sealed. Peering back to Everett, she said, “It was simply a way for me to get the Huntmaster away.” Pausing for a moment, she tilted her head and mused, “Don’t suppose you know if he can swim?”

Everett asked quizzically, “Pardon?”

Raela shrugged. “No matter, even if he can, it’s unlikely he could reach land that far out to sea. Perhaps the needleteeth sharks will get him quickly.”

While Everett tried to figure out what she meant, Raela turned to face a stationary Duke Gill. Peering up at the sovereign of the Great Lakes Duchy, Raela said congenially, “Good morning, my Lord. I hope you are enjoying your hunt. It’s a peaceful morning, yes? Although, it’s a bit too cold for my tastes.”

Duke Gill ignored Raela, his stiff gaze locked on Everett. The man might not be able to move or talk, but he was conveying plenty with his dark brown eyes. Oddly enough, there was no fear or hate, but only a mixture of disappointment and sadness.

Freed from having to conceal his reactions, Everett rolled his eyes at his father’s clearly condescending stare and muttered, “Oh, please, Father…”

Raela noticed the glare as well, turned back to Everett, and said quietly, “This is certainly an awkward father-son moment, isn’t it?”

Everett supposed he should have felt regret or something of the sort, but he did not. Keeping his gaze locked on his father’s face, Everett said firmly, “Do what you need to, Raela.”

The mortal incarnation of the God of Deception inclined her head. “What? No sweet goodbyes? No ‘I love you, Father?’” The questions were mocking ones. Raela was well informed regarding the Redlord’s relationship.

Everett shook his head and sighed. “Truly, we don’t have time for that, Raela.”

The beautiful woman smiled wickedly and purred, “So focused…That is why we work well together, Everett.”

He glared at the woman silently, biting his tongue.

I wonder what happens when you kill a God…

In the five years since he had come to know Raela’s true nature, their dealings had been unusual. Her wiles had lured him to her a number of times, but more often than not, he found himself repulsed by the God. She was dozens of times more dangerous than she was beautiful.

The impossible scent of rosewater and Spring honeybells filled his nose. Shaking his head, he huffed the scent from his nostrils.

No!

Raela chuckled quietly.

Angry, Everett snapped, “Stop the silliness and just kill him already, Raela!”

Raela shook her head slowly, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “At times, you rival some of my brethren, Everett. To be honest, I find it a little unsettling.”

Everett glared at her but said nothing. There was nothing to say. Raela could be flippant, but underneath the frivolity coursed a raging river of determination. He simply waited for that to surge to the surface.

Raela stopped smiling and turned to face the duke. Staring up at the man, Raela mused, “You look like him, Everett. Both of you are quite handsome…I almost wish there was another way to handle this.” She sighed and shifted her gaze to seeming stare at nothing in the air. “However, there’s not…”

Everett recognized the look.

Magic…

The God stared back to the duke a moment later.

“Goodbye, Duke Gill.”

Suddenly, the man was lifted from his horse by an unseen force and flew twenty feet into the air. He was flipped over so his head pointed at the cold earth before being driven into the ground with a tremendous speed and force. A sickening, wet crack—much like a water-soaked oak branch might make—filled the meadow as the duke’s head bent at an odd, impossible angle. Duke Gill’s body almost bounced; instead, it toppled over, rolling once before coming to rest on his stomach.

Everett stared at the corpse, looking for any sort of movement. There was none.

A tiny smile spread over Everett’s lips.

Goodbye, father.

“Oh, that won’t do,” muttered Raela.

A moment later, Duke Gill’s lifeless body rose from the ground—as limp and heavy as a pile of wet rags—and rotated in the air, before collapsing back to the ground on his back.

“That’s better,” said Raela proudly. “Looks more natural that way.”

Everett stared at his father’s body, saying curiously. “How does that look natural?” The man’s head was twisted so he was almost staring at the cold grass beneath him.

Peering up at him, Raela said, “How else would someone look who’s fallen from their horse?” With a slight smile and a voice full of mock melancholy, she said, “It’s a terrible tragedy isn’t it? The ferocious pack of wolves attacked you, spooking his horse. The terrified horse tossed your father and…” She looked to the dead duke. “So sad, isn’t it, Everett?”

Everett raised a lone eyebrow. “Ah…I see.”

“Now you can claim complete innocence in the matter, dear Everett. There was nothing you could do.”

Shaking his head slowly, Everett mumbled, “No, there wasn’t…” That lie was plausible. Looking towards the hounds, he said, “So the pack of wolves killed the dogs. But how do I explain the missing Huntmaster?”

“Simple enough,” replied Raela. “The Huntmaster panicked, figuring he would be blamed for leading the duke into a dangerous situation. You begged him to stay, but he fled and will likely never be heard from again.”

Everett considered the story.

Likely enough, I suppose.

Glancing at the half-elf, he inquired, “And Captain Lydmon?”

Raela smiled and said, “As soon as your father tumbled, the poor captain rode off to get help. The wolves chased him; he fell from his horse, and was set upon by the pack.”

Everett reached up, absentmindedly scratching his chin and nodding. “People will accept that…” Glancing at a terrified Lord Treswell, he muttered, “What about him? Is there a reason you have not dealt with him?” Everett twisted in the saddle, looking to the east and Lake Hawthorne. “Perhaps you could toss him down the hill? His horse spooked and ran off the ridge?”

Raela stepped around Everett’s gray, her fur-lined boots crunching on the grass. She stood between Everett and Lord Treswell and said, “I don’t think so, Everett…” She peered up at the baron for a long moment.

Held in place by Raela’s magic, unable to move, Baron Treswell could only stare back with wide, fearful eyes.

Finally, Raela said plainly, “I propose we don’t kill him.”

Surprised, Everett said, “Truly?”

The half-elf nodded. “Truly, dear Everett. One dead nobleman on a hunting excursion is an accident. Add a captain of the army, and you have a terrible tragedy. Three deaths—and a second dead noble?—and people become overly suspicious. If you are the only one to emerge from the woods alive, tongues will wag more than they already will.”

She speaks true…

The irony of the thought was not lost on Everett.

Glaring at the Immortal Teller of Lies, Everett muttered, “Well, unless you have a way of clearing his memory of this—” he waved at the dead dogs and his father’s corpse “—I’m quite sure we cannot allow Lord Treswell to live.” His voice thick with sarcasm, he added, “I doubt today will slip from his mind.”

“Unlikely, dear Everett. But I believe his silence can be bought.”

A dry chuckle escaped Everett’s throat. “Do you, now?”

The half-elf stared up at him. “Have you not done that very thing yourself, Everett? Many times over the years?” Pretending to think, Raela said, “Let’s see…there’s the young man in Orcwatch, the captain of the Sentinels in Haven, the baroness’ daughter in Dunsvalley, the—”

Interrupting her, Everett said, “This is quite different, Raela.”

“How so?” mused the half-elf.

With a sharp laugh, Everett said, “We conspired to kill my father, Raela. The blasted duke of the Great Lakes lies dead because of us. And Lord Treswell not only witnessed the entire event, but we continue to carry on this conversation right before him.” Staring at the terrified baron, he snapped, “He will never keep this to himself.”

“What is that you people say here?” asked Raela. “‘Sweet cakes and poisoned daggers?’ Is that right?”

 Everett shook his head, dismissing the old saying. “Bribes will not buy this sort of silence, Raela. And I doubt threats will work, either.”

“Do not be sure of that,” muttered Raela. “My threats can be quite impressive.”

Stepping closer to the baron, the half-elf said, “I’m going to release you now, Lord Treswell, and you are going to sit here quietly. Understood?”

The baron stared with fearful eyes at the God.

After a moment, Raela chuckled lightly. “I suppose if I want an answer, I must release you first.”

Lord Treswell suddenly slumped in his saddle. Immediately, he sat upright on his own accord and stared back to Raela and Everett, his gaze dancing between the pair.

“What is this?” demanded the man. Staring at Everett, he muttered, “Gods…what have you done?”

Everett stared at the man.

This will never work.

Shaking his head, Everett muttered, “I still think we should kill him, Raela.” Reaching to retrieve and arrow from the saddle quiver, Everett said, “If you won’t, I will.”

Throwing up his hands, Lord Treswell shouted, “No! Please don’t! I swear I won’t tell what happened here!”

Pulling a shaft from the quiver, Everett mumbled, “Unlikely.” He nocked the arrow on his bowstring.

“He will keep his tongue, Everett,” insisted Raela.

“How in the Nine Hells could you possibly be sure of that?” demanded Everett.

With her eyes fixed on the baron, Raela said, “Because you are going to make this man your representative on the First Council.”

Everett gaped at Raela. “Surely you are jesting!”

Convened centuries ago when the old king had been deposed, the First Council was comprised of the ten sovereigns of the nation—one from each duchy. The council’s rulings were the high law of the land and helped hold the fledgling Oaken Duchies together in the early years, especially during the Demonic War. In present times, the dukes or duchesses rarely met in person in the capital of Freehaven. Rather, each sovereign appointed a prime minister in his or her stead. The council of ministers handled small matters, but important issues required the consent or rejection of the ruling lord or lady.

Staring at the baron in disbelief, Everett barked, “You want me to put him on the First Council?”

Raela glanced at Everett and said, “The current representative is your father’s friend and confidant, is he not? Do you intend on leaving him as your minister?”

Shaking his head, Everett blustered, “No, of course not, but I—”

Ignoring his protest, Raela interjected, saying, “Be a good boy, Everett, and listen for a moment before you twist your skirts like a hand maiden.”

Everett shut his mouth. Fingering the arrow he had drawn with the intent on sinking it into the baron, he glared at Raela.

I would probably never get the shot off…

Raela’s gaze shifted to his bow. An amused smile darted over her face.

“Truly, Everett? Do you think that would be wise?”

Everett’s nose twitched in irritation.

No…no, it would not…

With a quiet huff and a short shake of her head, Raela turned to peer up at Lord Treswell.

“Here is the situation, Baron. You will be the Great Lake’s prime minister in Freehaven, do everything Everett says, and keep your mouth shut about today’s events.”

The baron stared at her with dubious eyes.

Raela’s voice turned as cold as the air on the hilltop. “If you do not, I will pay you a visit and take you to meet one of my brethren; a being who knows as many ways to inflict pain as there are drops of water in that lake.” Without taking her eyes from the terrified man, she motioned toward Lake Hawthorne.

Everett glanced at the shining surface and lifted an eyebrow; Lake Hawthorne stretched all the way to Smithshill.

I wonder if she’s exaggerating…

Lord Treswell peered at the lake as well, deeply troubled.

Raela asked inquisitively, “You have heard of Agony’s Friend, Lord Treswell?”

Both men stared at the half-elf.

Lord Treswell’s eyes went wide and he muttered, “The God of Pain?”

“Yes,” confirmed Raela.

The baron looked as though he might get sick.

“Do you accept my terms, Lord Treswell?” asked Raela sweetly.

Everett swallowed his earlier protest. It would be a risk to let Lord Treswell live, but having a man utterly subservient to him on the First Council would be preferable. Everett’s list of people he felt he could completely trust would fit on a ripped corner of parchment. He studied Lord Treswell.

Heh…look at that...

The man was actually sweating despite the chill in the air.

He’s terrified of her.

The Baron of Deartfield appeared quite susceptible to being ruled by fear alone. Thinking through Raela’s proposal, he tried to find any additional drawbacks. 

It’s a good plan.

The skinny baron stared at the God of Deception for a long time. Eventually, he gave the tiniest of nods and muttered, “I will do as you ask.”

Raela smiled widely. “Excellent! You will certainly enjoy Freehaven. The cuisine there is quite good. The spice palate used is complex. ”

The baron stared at her as if she were mad.

“Now, both of you, ride back to the camp,” instructed the half-elf. “Mind that you go full gallop. It needs to look as though you were running from something.” Raela turned to Everett and said, “And Everett, do try to look scared.” She glanced at the baron. “Like him.”

Everett glanced over. Lord Treswell’s face had somehow managed to lighten a few more shades.

Raela reached up and patted  Everett’s leg, cooing softly, “I’ll be by to visit you in a few weeks once you’ve settled into the Sovereign’s Chair. There are a few matters we will need to discuss that will require us to tap into your newfound resources.”

Everett nodded and said, “Of course.” He had expected such a meeting; it had been part of the deal to which he had agreed.

Glancing at Lord Treswell, she said, “Congratulations on your new assignment, Baron.”

The man was staring at the corpse of Duke Gill and did not respond.

With a careless shrug, Raela said, “I’m sure you’ll come around.”

Everett stared at the baron.

He’d better.

Smiling up at Everett, Raela said, “And congratulations to you, Duke Everett.”

I like how that sounds…Duke Everett…

The half-elf inclined her head slightly. “May your reign last for ages.” A strange glint entered her eyes as she added enigmatically, “History will never forget you, Everett.”

Everett smiled.

No, it will not.

The half-elf waved her hand to the south. “Now go. I have things I must attend to.”

Duke Everett turned his horse around to face the rise, muttering, “Let’s go, Baron. I want to get back to the camp.” His stomach growled. “I’m hungry.”

As he kicked his bootheels into his gray’s side, he glanced to the east to catch the first rays of sun peeking over the horizon. Squinting against the sudden brightness, he watched as Lake Hawthorne, a muddy, flat brown only moments before, now sparkled in the day’s first light. Everett smiled.

A new era has dawned…