~ Chapter 24: Gift Horse ~

Roland stood on the edge of the overlook, cloak wrapped around himself. The wind buffeted his side, but he paid it no heed. Below them, Niverron burned for the second time this year.

The bait had worked, in fact it had worked almost too well. What was left of the 'Army of Thieves' had attacked the city head-on, moving as if reinforced from Hieron. Thinking the lake would protect their flanks, Nurjan had over-extended.

Slaugh's army hit them like a sledgehammer, and they crumpled appropriately. The large columns made up of wolves in black armour had folded in the middle, trying to pivot in place to fight off the new aggressors. The Thieves' had pushed forward, surprising everyone, and together the two bodies squeezed the Astmoor forces like a grape. Roland had watched, from his perch atop the hill, in grim fascination as the invaders force broke. They began scurrying to the wind, like a thick black rash growing upward. The Army of Thieves chased them down, driving arrows and swords through their backs, while Slaugh's forces moved to take the city.

Roland felt sick. He'd had enough of this, and the old surge of victory he might have once felt was nowhere to be found. He found himself instead imagining a conversation with Salem, picturing the young man standing there, asking stupid questions.

You always were too dumb for your own good. Roland thought, shivering into the gale. Why didn't you leave the first time I hit you? Why didn't you leave when you realised I'm little more than a seditious drunk?

Ah, yes. Of course. Because it was Salem's fault that Roland had gotten him killed. It was so much easier to blame him, rather than point fingers at the men truly responsible. Claude Morgan had wielded the blade, but it was the High Chaplain who pulled his strings. And all this, likely only set up to sink Roland.

It was working.

I still believe you're innocent. He told himself. Nevermind the fact that Salem overlooking his drunkenness and violence made perfect sense if he were a spy – it just didn't feel right.

“Surely your legs are little more than jelly now?" Roland flinched at the new voice, glancing back to see Claude. The snow leopard wore a long black and yellow coat, his collar riding high to protect his neck. Roland wondered why, after all, the cat was built for colder climates. “Weeks on horseback to the Madlands, then several more to come back here, why, I'm tired just thinking about it. We're getting too old for all this gallivanting."

Roland grunted, looking back to Niverron. He knew he shouldn't scorn Claude, the inquisitor was probably the only friend he had left, but he couldn't help it. Every time he looked into his old lover's eyes, all he saw was the cold determination he'd worn while slitting Salem's throat.

Even from so far away, the echoes of screams and battle touched his ears. Thick plumes of smoke wafted into the air. He wondered if the people who lived in that city felt liberated.

“Our esteemed Prince Halder has called a meeting." Claude said calmly, taking a spot beside Roland. “How are you?"

“Fine." Roland replied.

Claude cleared his throat. “Well. The good news is that I spoke with Audric just earlier, he says if we can drive the wolves back into the sea, there'll be no need to take Pahran." Roland blinked. He'd almost forgotten about the little island vassal state. So much of that had seemed important before, like everything depended on it. “With Slaugh's forces in tow, Audric and Baine plan to simply sail right after them, all the way to the capital if they have to. We're months away from ending this war." He clapped Roland on the shoulder, and Roland resisted the urge to flinch away.

“Good." Roland said, keeping his voice even. “I'm sure the Emperor will find some way to rebuff us, regardless."

“Lord Estoc!" Claude rounded him, forcing their eyes to meet. “We won, everything we wanted is coming true. Alavakia stays out of this war, the Northwest gets a taste of independence, everyone wins. Are you such a cynical bastard you can't see a good thing when it comes and slaps you in the face?"

No, Roland thought slowly. Because it's too good to be true. There's a trap in here somewhere, this is too easy.

“What does the Prince want?" Roland asked. Since returning to Ferrin with Slaugh's forces, Roland had so far successfully managed to avoid meeting with Halder alone. He was sick of being some royal brat's experiment.

“Oh, you know." Claude mused. “Traitor this, traitor that, purity of the Union. Never to let a thing rest, that one."

Roland narrowed his eyes, watching Niverron. The whole campaign, Nurjan had been one step ahead of them. No matter what they did, he seemed to know it before they did it. The reason Slaugh's attack had worked so well was because the wolves hadn't been ready. They'd come to rely on the secrets, thinking the Union unable to out-manoeuvre them with a spy in their midst. This time, the plan hadn't been shared around. Not that it was particularly helpful, Roland realised, as the only ones who knew the details of Slaugh's plan were himself, Prince Halder, and Arch Brigadier Audric.

They had successfully ruled out three people, in a nation of a million or so. Granted, they could probably discard the peasantry from suspicion. Perfect. Roland smoothed down the fur on his neck. Now we only have several hundred people to worry about.

“I suppose it doesn't matter much now, if they know our plans or not." Roland said, jaw flexing. “We'll win either way."

“Yes. Something like that. Still, royalty always has to make a show of seeming important. If they don't justify their existence, who will?"

Roland bit his tongue. “And what of Breeze and that artificer of yours?" He glanced to Claude, who looked away sheepishly. “What of Lady Orianna's pup?" Orianna had once been a friend of his. The two hadn't spoken now in weeks.

“I've heard nothing." Claude said. “Some spies said there were rumours of a wolf going by Witchborn working for a crime-lord down in Lyskirk, but he had no fox pup with it, unsubstantiated gossip."

“Fantastic." Roland hadn't mean to say it aloud, but now that he had he found his tongue wouldn't quit. “We borrowed her only child and send it to death, for what? So we could win the war anyway."

“They might be alive." Claude said. He still had one paw on Roland's shoulder. Roland only stared back, blank-faced. “I suppose you're right."

I usually am. He thought.

“What happened to us?" Claude asked next, retracting his paw, folding them both behind his back.

Roland couldn't help it, he laughed. “To us?" He snorted. “There barely was an us, Claude. Our relationship was little more than two self-serving bastards finding somewhere warm to stick their prick. I thought fucking someone in the inquisition would give me useful leads, and you thought the same of the nobility."

“Perhaps, at first." Claude said softly. “I mean, I... I'm sorry. For everything that happened."

“I'm not."

“I thought, in the end though, that we had... something." Roland had never heard Claude's voice sound like that. “Not love, I doubt men like us are capable of that anymore, but, maybe something like it. For a little while."

Roland said nothing.

“Roland..." Claude said, and his paw closed around Roland's wrist. The same paw that had wielded the knife, the same paw that slit Salem's throat, the same paw—

“Don't touch me." Roland snarled, yanking his arm back like it had touched a hot iron. He glared at the snow leopard. He was shaking, he felt sick. “Don't ever touch me."

And he turned in place, stalking off toward Prince Halder's command tent.

~ X ~

“Keep'n eye on him." Fenton said softly, patting Erasmus on the shoulder and jerking his chin at Breeze. The large wolf had a makeshift crutch beneath one arm now, and was slowly hobbling toward the local town. It was called Veletta, and it was a beautiful place. Simple brickwork, fine wooden buildings, verdant fields. The folk of Valetta were clearly not wealthy, but nonetheless they took pride in their home.

“Won't be difficult." Erasmus replied, his gaze sliding back to the Doberman. “He can't go very fast."

Fenton winced. “He ain't himself. Sooner we get that pup back, the better."

Erasmus nodded. He was right.

“Keep an eye out." The otter said, shouldering his pack and turning from the cart, jogging to catch up with Breeze.

They were close. So close. Seven, nearly eight weeks of travel, they'd been gruelling, dull, peppered only with the occasional town. But now. Now, Richeleau and Estrion were within their grasp, now Abigail was only a few hours ride from them.

Solomon's informants had told them the former Captain Estrion was half-Alavakian. When he fled Lyskirk (an admittedly wise move) with Richeleau, they'd gone to his family-owned farmland in the east, to a home older than Valetta itself. They were only a week or two from Lurren, the coastal town that gave view into Astmoor.

It was a good plan, Erasmus admitted. Estrion and Richeleau could ride out the war a little, and when they thought it was safe, travel up to Lurren, charter a ferry, and deliver Abigail to Emperor Kinborough in person.

Unfortunately, Solomon's people had been slightly unclear on the exact location of the farmstead. They knew only that it's nearest town was Valetta, but had promised the family was well known.

“You're getting quite mobile these days." Erasmus said to Breeze, nodding at his leg. It was still wrapped in bandage.

The wolf grunted.

“You're right, it is funny how you're always injured when we travel. It's almost nice, like the good old days. You know, when you hated me, and I you." Erasmus said, waving a paw about. Breeze stopped, frowned deeply at him.

“I didn't say anything."

“And so I was forced to interpret your wolfish grunt." The otter replied. “I think I'm becoming quite fluent in grunt."

Breeze cracked a smile. “Oh, and what did I say?"

“Well." Erasmus said, clearing his throat. “My accent is a little rusty, but I do believe that 'grugh' noise equalled something akin to: my dear man Erasmus, isn't it quite humorous as to the fact we find ourselves once again locked in this sort of predilection, with myself gravely injured, and only a foppish city-dandy along to protect mine-self." Erasmus bowed slightly.

“You are very strange." Breeze replied, turning and hobbling on. Erasmus rolled his eyes.

“I thought it was funny."

“Then I'll laugh when we've got her back."

Erasmus sighed.

They passed the threshold of what counted as 'town', finding themselves in a busy marketplace. Quaint little stalls had been setup all around, fruit vendors arguing and bickering with their customers. It was all good natured, and Erasmus felt quite at home. No plague-riddled madmen decrying the end of the world, no wolves being kicked half to death in the alleys.

“Kinda nice." He said, glancing to Breeze. The wolf shrugged, albeit with some difficulty due to the crutch. “So then. Your plan is to just ask randomly if anyone has seen a retired captain and a whore?"

“Somethin' like that." Breeze replied. Pivoting, he waddled toward one of the quieter stalls, avoiding the well as he went. Erasmus followed, hoping he wasn't planning to stab anyone.

“Top of it." The vendor called, as they approached. He was a portly badger, dressed in simple clothing, currently occupied with stacking some oranges.

Such a delicacy. Erasmus thought, eyeing the fruit.

“Uh, yes." Breeze replied. Alavakia spoke the same language in most parts that the Union did, and so Breeze's strange, clipped northern transferred easily enough. The Alavakians all spoke with a sing-song kind of tilt however, a light melody between the words, as if everything were a question. “We're looking for..."

“How much?" Erasmus asked, pointing at an orange. Breeze glared at him.

The vendor blinked, pausing in his arrangement. “Oh, er, well you two seem new in town... four clips, each?"

“Four!" Erasmus said, already fishing in his pocket. “This is robbery."

The vendor put on a frown like a mummer would a mask. It was a well-practiced act, a kind of parlour show all the customers and vendors played with one another. “Now, look here fella. I ain't trying to disrespect you none, but you know how I have to get oranges this good? We grow any this side of the Predator Strait they come out looking like browns." Breeze groaned, and Erasmus forced a laugh. “No, these babies are ordered right from Astmoor. War makes it blasted difficult to get 'em, but they're worth every clip."

“I'll give you a copper for three." And Erasmus held the small, circular copper disc out. One copper clip was equal to ten bronze clips.

The vendor squinted, but threw his paws up in mock frustration. “Damn it all, fine, but it's a steal at that." Erasmus grinned, retrieving three of the fruits. He stuffed two in a bag (one for Breeze, one for Fenton), and began peeling his own. “Now, what were it you two was saying?"

Breeze eyed Erasmus, readjusting himself on his crutch. “Well. We are... employees, of the Estrion estate." He nodded, as if settling on the lie. “Contracted to bring some things up from Gohdren, for, for the owners."

“My, you lot trekked a heck of a way!" The vender said, putting his large paws on his hips. Erasmus bit into the orange. It was juicy, sweet, the tang almost stinging in his mouth. He'd gotten too used to dried things and feral rabbit meat.

“Yeah, well." Breeze said. “Our orders, unfortunately, only say that it's 'past Veletta', but we've been past a few times now and haven't had a whiff of luck." He shook his head, shrugging. “You know... how it is?"

“Oh boy do I." The vender replied, chuckling. He pointed to Breeze's crutch. “And they makin' you do this on three legs too? Triumvirate's breath, just ain't right what a man's to do for his copper these days."

“I..." Breeze paused. “Hear ya." Erasmus stifled a laugh. “We just need directions to the estate, if you could help us out?"

The vendor nodded. “Aye, I know the Estrion estate. Everyone's been talkin' about it of late, most of us buy half our grain from there anyway. Some new folk arrived recently, can't say I've met them though, quiet folk, that family." He sighed. “As for where it is, I couldn't tell you, only that it's some ways northward."

Shit. Erasmus thought.

“Is there anyone who can?" He asked, around a mouthful of orange, cocking his head and trying to look as young and innocent as possible.

“Aye." The vendor said, pointing toward one of the larger buildings at the end of the town. “They employ a few guards, nothing special, little more'n scarecrows for petty thieves, but... everyone drinks at the Rusty Horse, so there's bound to be someone there who knows."

“Thank you." Breeze said, turning in place and shuffling off.

“I hear ya." Erasmus muttered, as they made their way to the tavern.

“It worked, alright?" Breeze grumbled.

The two stepped into the tavern and took a seat in one of the booths. Breeze waved down a server and ordered ale. The mugs were set and Erasmus took a sip, scowling. He'd never been one for alcohol.

Instead he turned his attention to soothing. The room felt warm, the good natured feelings of each person washing over the next. Positive emotions were more difficult to grasp than negative, but even so Erasmus drank them in easily. It was the emotional equivalent of sitting beside a nice warm fire on a chilly winter night.

“This is a nice town." He said, again sipping the ale and again instantly regretting it. “The vender said they get half their grain from Estrion's estate, do you think we'll be hurting the town?"

“They managed before." Breeze replied, eyeing the room. His gaze settled on a lightly armoured fox in the corner, head held low, three empty iron cups surrounding his head.

“What are you going to do to them?" Erasmus asked. He felt a lot of anger towards Richeleau. They'd taken the woman in, trusted her, and then she'd stabbed Breeze back as payment, thrown them in the river. She probably deserved to die, but the otter found he couldn't quite bring himself to want it. He wished he was still part of the inquisition, they could have sent her north to the camps, or put them in jail, much simpler.

“Whatever I have to." Breeze replied, glaring at the drunk, off-duty guardsman.

“And if they just give her over?" They'd had this conversation countless times already. “What if they see you and give in? Richeleau saw you fight when we left Niverron, she might convince Estrion that it isn't worth it."

Breeze turned his eyes back to Erasmus. They were cold, like ice, the eyes of the Witchborn, of a madman.

“You think they're likely to surrender to a man on a crutch?"

“Well..." Erasmus sighed. “No. But still..."

I just want to know what you'd do. Would Breeze still hurt them if he didn't have to?

Breeze stood, somewhat awkwardly. Erasmus shot a paw out and grabbed his wrist, tight. “What are you doing?" The otter hissed.

“Going to make him tell me where the farm is." Breeze replied calmly.

“And if he won't?"

“He will."

“And if he doesn't, you'll crack his skull on the table!" Erasmus snapped back. “Great. He'll be nearly dead, and the whole tavern will be watching us, so we'll lose the element of surprise. Richeleau and Estrion think we're dead, we should keep it that way." Breeze paused, and Erasmus pulled him a little harder. “Breeze. You heard the vendor before; we aren't in a city, this town is a gossip. You do anything to him and all of Veletta will be talking before we're even back to Fenton. There are other ways to get things besides beating them out of people."

“I..." Breeze faltered, half in the booth and half out, balancing uncertainly on his one good leg. “It can't be that easy."

“Sit down." Erasmus said. Breeze reluctantly did. He huffed, like a child. The otter rolled his eyes, then looked to the guardsman. He watched as the fox drunkenly stood, stumbling toward the door. “Stay here." He ordered the wolf, climbing to his feet and following.

     Outside the sun was beginning its descent. Dusk proper was still an hour off, but the light felt softer than usual. Turning about, Erasmus followed the sound of flowing water to the alley, where the farmstead guard was leaned against the tavern side, his prick pinched between two fingers, piss spraying on the wall.

“Eh-you want?" The guard asked, slurring his words. “I'm tryin' to... ugh." He slumped slightly, the last few dribbles pattering on his boots. Erasmus stepped up, lightly soothing the man as best he could. He touched anxiety, nervousness. It sloshed together with the mix of alcohol, as if feeling the emotions through a veil.

“Put yourself away, mate." Erasmus said, watching as the guard awkwardly did so. Erasmus put a paw on his back, gently, conversationally. Touch made it easier. “Look. I've got a friend inside who's looking for the Estrion estate. Now, you can tell me where to find it, then go lay down for a nap, and never go back there. Or..." He paused, giving the drunken man time to catch up. “I can go back inside, tell my big northern friend you wouldn't talk, and let him come out here and break all your fingers."

He really hoped the guard didn't call his bluff. Breeze would probably be able to chase down someone this drunk, even with his limp, but it would mean Erasmus had to admit he was wrong.

There have to be other ways.

“I... who are you?"

“Doesn't matter friend." Erasmus said. “I've seen him fight seven armoured wolves at once, and win. Last man he fought had his head crushed in with a hammer." Nevermind that Breeze nearly lost the use of his leg during it. He felt anxiety peak in the guard, and soothed it away best he could, smoothing his emotions out like a fretting mother might the sheet on a newly made bed. “I bet Estrion is a bad boss."

“Terrible, aye." The drunk said, swaying. Erasmus wondered if his paw was the only thing keeping him up. Damn lightweight. “He's always yelling, always got demands. Folk say he's running from somethin'. He ain't no cap'n anymore, but he makes us call 'im it. He's running. Hiding alright, with that woman."

“And it's here, what he's running from." Erasmus replied. People liked talking to soothers, especially when he was making an effort to use his ability. They'd say something troubling, and literally feel the weight of that emotion lifting off them. “His past has caught up. Tell me. Where is he?"

A few minutes later Breeze looked up as Erasmus returned to the table.

“Anyone dead?" The wolf asked. The otter shook his head.

“Not yet, but I know where they are." He looked away. “Let's go get her back."