~ Chapter 04: Civilised Folk ~

“Halt, you there, on the horse!" A hurried voice cried, the words splashing at Breeze's backside. Clenching his teeth, he pulled reluctantly on the reigns to stop Marlough's pace. The horse's hooves clomped on the well-trod gravel as she whinnied impatiently, and Breeze found himself grunting in agreement. With a tired sigh, he turned Marlough in place, resting his eyes on two rather alarmed Union soldiers trotting after them. A pair of burly foxes squished into plate armour, each one nervously clutching a poleaxe as if it were their first time armed. As they jogged over, one of the foxes held up a gauntleted paw, huffing.

The King's finest, no doubt come to welcome us at the city's gate. Just what we need.

He laid a paw on Erasmus's back, the otter still draped somewhat sack-like over their horse, floating somewhere close to unconsciousness. “Time to wake up, I reckon." He whispered, shaking the otter awake. The young Artificer stirred, some vague attempt at a word sliding from his lips, head bobbing sluggishly.

To their rear stood a bloody great portcullis, currently raised high in an ostensibly welcome greeting, ushering travellers into the very heart of the Ferrin Union itself – the grand city of Hieron. However, if the open gate was intended as a warm welcome, the walls that surrounded the city sent an entirely different message; towering layered monstrosities of stone, whose uniformity was broken only by the gate, and the occasional tower or crumbling scar in the brickwork. Why the city-folk even needed a gate that was so bloody high, and why they'd then just leave it open, Breeze had no idea.

Though, a part of his mind imagined what might happen to a man caught beneath the black spikes of the portcullis, were it to drop on his head.

Breeze had never been out of the northwest before, and couldn't help staring around like some slack-jawed yokel as the two guards – who really seemed more like clams than foxes, in all that stiff armour – finished waddling over. Over the brim of the city's ramparted walls he saw blue and yellow patterned flags flapping in the wind, presumably some sort of military standard mounted proudly over the dozens of pointy red tile rooves. Even here outside the city's northern gate, the surprising sounds and smells of civilised folk wafted out, though judging from the sorry state of the road, Breeze wasn't too sure if this truly counted as civilised.

The direction from which he'd come was a swath of corn and wheat fields, complete with innumerable peasants breaking their backs under the hot sun, hoeing and plucking and dragging and heaving for their wealthy masters. Breeze doubted any one of the men he saw in the dirt had a claim to the land they toiled.

The foxes glanced hesitantly at one another, clearing their throats.

“Right then, big fella. D'you got yer papers? Quick-smart now, let's see it." One of them finally puffed out, shifting his weight with a clank. It must be like a furnace inside all that metal, put out to cook in the sun - it was a wonder the fools hadn't melted. Breeze wrinkled his nose as he imagined the stench festering round their balls. “Or least a receipt of registry? C'mon, pass it over, and yous can be on your way."

“A what?" Breeze asked slowly. The guards were eyeing Erasmus now, the otter's head up and swaying around drunkenly. Meanwhile, Breeze fumbled for an explanation, not sure what they wanted from him. “I'm here for... err, to see someone. Someone important." Damn he felt like an oaf, what had Erasmus said his name was again?

“Oh, someone aye? Well why didn't y'say?" One of the guards replied merrily, his confidence swelling as he recognised Breeze's clipped northern tongue. The guard's own words sounded familiar enough, but they were elongated, as if every second word had a few extra Es and Os thrown in. “And who might that important someone be then, my good man? E's who that tied up bugger is for, I expect?"

Breeze thumped Erasmus on the back then, and the otter started, raising a paw, words slurring. “Third, Kwista. Claude. Master Claude." He coughed at the guard. “Morgan."

Fantastic. Breeze thought. The otter was nice enough, and kind of pretty in a stupid sort of way, but he wasn't the sort Breeze took to travelling with. He figured the sooner he was rid of the boy, the better.

“You need to be registered for mercenary work in this part of the world, northman." Said the more confident of the two guards, puffing his chest up and sneering as he edged closer. “Now why don't you hop down from that there noble steed, and we'll have us a parlay?"

Now you've realised I'm not some Lord, you can just do whatever you want eh? I'm just some savage to you. This how you treat all your guests down south?

Breeze watched them carefully, his paw unconsciously drifting to where his sword would typically rest; that spot was empty now, damn it. He couldn't fight them anyway, not here, even if he'd had a sword and wasn't nearly dead – it would be foolish, what with all these city people swarming by. He'd never before visited such an organised and colossal settlement, but even a northern savage like him could imagine that if he were to deck these two sods right now, all he'd get for the trouble were a dozen more clams just like 'em.

Besides that, his shoulder wound was still hot and painful, and he wasn't even certain he could raise his arm to swing a fist, let alone a sword. He could feel the wound now, sick and festering, hidden beneath his tunic and sticky with pus, leaking and bulging like some ruddy boil just waiting to pop. He could even smell it; the acrid taste sour in his nose.

Smells like death. He'd seen men fall to tinier scrapes than that, sickness didn't care a whit for who was named and who weren't, and complacency only spurred it. Death comes any day, at any time, don't matter if you're big or small, Kings choke on chicken bones, that's how it is.

“I am," Erasmus coughed suddenly, new life swimming to his body, arms and legs struggling to move, on account of them still being restrained. “Artificer... Erasmus Verranum, out on King's Business, by way of the Royal Inquisition." He looked around, shivered, and whispered. “Master Breeze, could you uh, perhaps untie me?"

“Yeah, why don't you go on an' do that, but slow there northman." The more confident guard said, backing up and planting his poleaxe in the dirt. Sighing, Breeze swung an aching leg over the saddle, his arse and hips seizing slightly as he went. Without any great delay he dropped to the ground, dusting his paws on his trousers. The guards shuffled in place noisily, watching as if Breeze might suddenly explode any second now.

Them metal suits ain't no good for night-work, and certainly no good for mud-work. You boys wouldn't last a day in the north.

He slipped a tiny knife from his back pocket and sliced through Erasmus's bonds, taking the otter's weight and easing him off Marlough.

“He wasn't well." Breeze explained, steadying the dandy. “Couldn't sit upright." The guards exchanged a twitchy glance, and continued to watch carefully as Erasmus dug through the saddlebags.

“Careful now lad." The shy guard added.

“It's, um, here somewhere, sorry..." The otter muttered, voice raspy and weak. “I, just a minute, and... ah!" With a triumphant flourish he pulled free a tired and sagging scroll, which he immediately proffered to the guards, a smug grin on his lips.

Mighty quick recovery from that serious an ailment. Breeze thought warily. Certainly not the plague got him then, it takes its time, then hits hard. Real bastard that way.

“It's a tad worse for wear, but you can surely sympathise, the Madlands aren't the most forgiving of regions, and I'm a poor outdoorsman." Erasmus said, adding a nervous chuckle as the more confident guard reached out and snatched the tattered papers. Breeze looked around, gritting his teeth as he watched – and smelled - a squeaking wagon heaped with fish wheeze on by.

“Why'd you stop us?" He asked, turning to the meeker fox.

“Er, well, you see we have a duty sir." The meek one stammered, jolting as if only now remembering how to properly stand with a polearm. “I mean, that is to say, well... it's to say--"

“It's to say that we don't like the bloody looks'a you." His partner growled, closing the scroll dismissively. If scrunching a roll of paper could be a word, then the man would have likely just cursed out every priest and their mother in the city. “Things'a been mighty violent up in the north these past months, an' we ain't in the business a' lettin' savages wander 'bout our city freely."

“Oh he has me to escort--" Erasmus began, but the guard cut him off.

“Shut yer trap, weasel."

“I'm an otter."

“And I look like I give an arse? I said shut it." The fox growled, stepping forward and jabbing a riveted finger in Erasmus's chest. Breeze couldn't imagine being stuffed into an upright coffin like that armour all day, let alone having the gall to feel safe enough to threaten some stranger in it.

All it would take was a good push, or a kick to the knees, and neither one could likely get up without some help, like a snail flipped on its back. Spears, cavalry, plate, all very well and good – but only for those with a lot of friends.

“Now, listen here." Erasmus said suddenly, pushing away the guard's finger. “If you'll hear reason for a moment, and re-examine the order with a closer eye, then perhaps you'd see that the Inquisition's seal is pressed firmly in the top right-most corner, quite authentic. I'm an Artificer, and we're here on urgent King's Business, and mustn't be delayed; now, I for one am all for due diligence when it comes to city safety, but I'm starting to think this has gone too far, yes, much too far. So, if it isn't too much bother, would you kindly re-examine the order?" The guards both blinked in surprise, the meek one even stepping back a foot.

Breeze exhaled, mildly impressed. The small otter may not be a fierce warrior of the wild, but he clearly had skills of his own. And he was skilled on the roads where Breeze found himself lost; diplomacy and city-speak.

You're a brute Czeslaw, good for little more'n crushing skulls. Could the Witchborn have talked his way out of a bind like this? I doubt it, we all do. A spark of estranged respect for the gentle dandy dug itself into Breeze's chest.

“Why yes." The guard grunted through clenched yellow teeth, yanking the scroll open once again. “Perhaps I acted hastily."

“It's a small matter, really." Erasmus replied, swaying slightly in place. He again put a paw to Marlough's flank, propping himself up and sighing. Breeze squinted as the sun came out from behind a cloud, the light glinting off the guards' armour.

They're little more than slow moving mirrors. He realised, looking away. Wonder if they break as easy?

“Of course, Artificer." The guard growled. “It's all here, allow me correct my... earlier mistake."

~ X ~

“ARRESTED?! You're a twice-pig-fucking sergeant!" The muffled voice screamed, the jail walls doing little to mute the furious bellows. “How in all the bloody fucking hells could you not know the seal of His Majesty's Inquisition?!"

“Well, your excellency--" A feeble voice stuttered, and Breeze recognised it as the – previously - more confident of the two guards that had arrested him.

“Not so proud now, are they?" Erasmus muttered. “Master Claude often has that effect."

“Sounds lovely." Breeze huffed, shaking his head and leaning back against the damp cell wall.

“Don't you dare grovel before me you bleeding coward! I'll have your station for this, you're lucky I don't have your whore-birthed head on a bloody spike while I'm at it!" Breeze licked at his teeth, trying and failing to ignore the cell's aggressively strong stench of piss. Erasmus was curled up on the bench beside him, shivering some more, eyes wide and focused on somewhere very far away. Breeze felt the madness again curdling his mind, the edges of normalcy bleeding away inch by inch. But it was slow going, and he'd be well soon enough, he just needed a decent Weirmother.

Just needed to hold on a tad longer, probably.

It was his shoulder that was giving him the most grief now, the wound was getting right serious, fingers of agony sneaking across his chest and down his ribs, the nearby veins close to his neck bulging a vengeful orangey red.

Better men died to less.

“I'm sorry, your excellency, I was--"

“Was NOTHING!" The screamer went on, if anything growing louder and angrier with each word. “You arrested men out on the King's Business! I could put you away for treason, you dumb, brick-born piece of shit! You realise that? How would you like to up and move to fucking Bastion, you rusted idiot?!" There was a long moment of silence, and Breeze found himself wondering if the screamer had left.

If so, he forgot his otter.

With that, the door to the row of jail cells slammed open, hinges buckling as it crashed into the brick. Breeze was surprised to see a tall snow leopard stride through, dressed in a long and sturdy black and yellow doublet, an ornate iron collar sitting at the point where neck became shoulders. His paws were ungloved and he was not armed, but he had the dangerous air of politics about him. A wide and lopsided red felt hat sat atop his head, a fine silver pin pressed into the brim along with a dainty grey feather. Breeze squinted slightly at the pin, and saw it was fashioned like a hook held within a circle.

To smith something so small and intricate must have cost a peasants' fortune, and he couldn't fathom wearing such a thing on a hat. Hats were good for keeping you dry, but they had a habit of getting knocked off in battles, and you'd never find a tiny pin like that after it was scattered in the mud. Breeze preferred hoods, least they stayed on in a scuffle.

“Artificer Erasmus!" The snow leopard exclaimed indignantly, and there was no doubt left the character was there for them. “I cannot believe they've done this to you, it's an injustice, why, an outrage! For a slight against you is a slight of His Majesty's Royal Inquisition itself! They may as well have paddled my arse like a kitten! For shame!" There was mirth in his tone, the laughter of someone who was completely in control – and enjoying it.

What unsettled Breeze were the Inquisitor's yellow eyes. His tone was merry, his teeth bared in a smile, but his eyes remained still, cold, calculating.

“It's alright Inquisitor." Erasmus replied sombrely, climbing to his feet. “You're here now."

The Inquisitor seemed to ignore his servant, going on with abandon. “You're earlier than expected, too. Why, I've half a mind to have Kalo drag those two whoresons down for some royal questioning, what do you say, eh?" The leopard looked back to the office, touching his chin playfully.

Breeze watched, taking in the fancy clothes, the mock hysteria, and the lithe and gently pitched voice.

“Oh, Inquisitor, I should think that far too much effort for such a trifling transgression." The otter muttered, rubbing his jaw. “It's no matter."

“Oh, you dear thing." The Inquisitor replied, tail curling. “You're so forgiving, it's your worst quality – I would have sent them to Bastion, you need only ask. Alas... taking their jobs and social standing will have to do." He laughed, and then as if snuffing the torch of his good mood, turned his attention back to the open door and screamed once more. “You, Duke of Limbs! Come and open this bloody door already! And at-fucking-once if you want to keep your balls!"

The guard, much less confident than earlier, came scurrying out with his head and ears bowed, fumbling with his keys and dropping them on the bricks. The Inquisitor sighed, his eyes sliding to Breeze. The leopard was lean, vaguely athletic but by no means a warrior. Compared to Breeze – who was so large and muscular he was practically ripping through his ill-fitted clothing – he seemed almost frail.

Yet despite this, the wolf felt an urge to bow his head and look away. Some ancient instinct of submission, a strange kind of primal fear striking in his mind and telling him to get away from this person.

Still, he forced himself to meet the Inquisitor's gaze head on; rolling his neck and hearing it pop.

“You must be the Witchborn." The snow leopard said softly, as the cell gate slid open with a rattle. “Most feared man in the north, eh?"

“Once, perhaps." Breeze replied, finally standing, and not without effort. A moment passed, the two men watching one another.

“I'm glad Erasmus found you, and he even managed to not die doing it." His voice was like honey, dangerously seductive. “Shall we be rid of this squalid place? I'm sure you're a mite curious as to what brought you here, we've much to discuss."

“We'll see about that." Breeze said curtly, following as the Inquisitor and Erasmus left the cell. He didn't bother looking at the cowering guard as he passed; the man had surely gotten enough of a verbal lashing. If he had any pride left, Breeze wouldn't be the one to crush it.

“What about Marlough, Master Claude?" Erasmus asked, looking around woozily.

“I'll send for her later." The Inquisitor replied curtly. “Things are a bit tense at the moment, I'd prefer we keep a low profile."

They left the small jailhouse without another word, the Inquisitor setting a brisk pace as they strode through the city streets. Breeze lagged slightly behind, gawking at the towering buildings that were three, four, and even five storeys tall. The roads were a little wet, cobbled together with a mixture of rough dirt and cheap bricks. This way and that went the city folk, bustling and hustling, nothing to be seen of them but their ears poking out of filthy hoods. Some dragged carts, some stacked crates, some just haggled at market stalls, filling their arms with stinking fish or near-rotted meat. Mostly they were foxes, but some wolves and other species were scattered throughout too.

What is your game? Breeze thought, watching the Inquisitor walk proudly, his head tilted to the sky as if all were beneath him. He didn't trust people like this; their faces never matched their body. He made a promise to keep this Inquisitor at arm's length. Which will be easy, once I put this stupid city to my back.

“These are the Copper Burroughs, home to most of the stables and lesser craftsmen, those that work smithing farming tools and such." Erasmus explained quietly, talking over his shoulder. “Every district in Hieron is named after a metal you see, the Vulpine Triumvirate honours smiths and soldiers above all else." Breeze nodded distractedly, amazed at just how many people could be gathered in one place. He'd visited by Bastion before, and passed through the other, smaller mining towns in the north – small, outpost-like satellite villages commanded by the various nations, erected over fabulously rich mineral veins. The Kings had long ago cut out the value from the land they already owned, and so turned their eyes northward to the land they didn't. Breeze knew the mines were little more than prisons really, places for Kings to send their embarrassments, free of sight and free of mind. Bastion was the largest after Reicherben, but Breeze had only seen the former with his own eyes, and figured he could imagine what 'a lot of people' looked like.

He was so very wrong.

The leopard huffed. “Don't judge us too harshly Witchborn, the Burroughs are a poor excuse for a district. Only the most misbegotten fools allow themselves to fall into this kind of destitution. Imagine, five families shoved into that hovel!" The Inquisitor exclaimed, gesturing at a colossal house beside them, so resplendent it had glass windows lining the front. It was so big Breeze was amazed to see it even had a balcony on the second floor, and as they walked beneath it some angry mother threw a pot of something grey over the edge. The liquid splashed into the street, stinking of feet. “A titbit on Ferrin's cities," The Inquisitor continued. “The northwest side is always the poorest. Rich folk don't want their back to the north, case you savages come sneaking up on them, eh?"

“Er, no offence." Erasmus added quietly. Breeze shrugged, amused that the nobility had apparently not realised that invading northerners could simply go around the city, if they wanted to start by eating the rich.

As for the Inquisitor, the otter had warned that he was... electric? No, damn it, what was it, stupid wolf? Erratic? No, smoother, leaner. Eccentric! Yes.

Breeze didn't know what eccentric meant, but he could guess just from watching the snow leopard's ranting flourishes. His real question was this; the Inquisitor may seem the part of the wealthy fool, but how much was an act? You didn't become a master of secrets without a penchant for manipulation.

Erasmus's change in demeanour hadn't escaped Breeze's notice. The previously chatty and even annoying otter now walked with his shoulders slumped and his head bowed, flinching each time his master spoke up. Whatever ailment had affected him on the road to Hieron was clearly still present, but Breeze still felt a change despite it, a submissive kind of off-ness about the Artificer.

He supposed everyone acted differently when their chief was around, it was only natural.

And yet something still ain't right. About this fop and his otter, and this whole damned city.

“Hear ye, hear ye! On the hundred-and-tenth year of the war, the great Ravager shall descend upon ye!" A nearly naked fox - so starved his ribs were plain to see against his pelt - shouted from atop a stacked pile of crates on a corner. “Your sins shall be eaten, your flesh boiled like carp, all our toils of Madness naught but fuel for his great fire! Weep Astmoor, weep Ferrin, for the end is nigh, lest we call end to this century of terror, the Ravager will come! He's killed your Triumvirate, drowned them in their own filth and decadence! Where are they?! Silent! And why? It is because your gods are DEAD! DEAD I say! And he has ended them!"

“Pay the afflicted no mind." The Inquisitor said, striding past the poor fox without a glance. “Weirmagics are a fickle thing, and most city folk prefer to put their faith in Soothing. It's more palatable, but admittedly less effective. Though might I add, I am sometimes shocked to find I have more in common with this sort of madman than half the bloody nobility..."

Breeze was reminded of a song his mother had sung him as a pup. He had only her songs left now, the rest ripped from his memory by the bastard father time. The song she'd woven for him like a rich blanket to warm his dreams was of an old and fat warrior in a great suit of armour, given to him by the soil. The armour was impenetrable, and he felt so safe and secure from the horrors of the world that he kept it on day and night. Slowly but surely, he wasted away, and even though many screamed for him to eat, to drink, he was sure nothing could harm him in his grand suit of unbreakable steel.

The song ended when he starved to death. Such were most songs sung in the north.

Anger bubbled within him at the dusted memory. Time wasn't the only bastard that had stolen his mother from him. He'd have more memories to lose, if Slaugh Morningbreaker hadn't run her through with his spear.

They ascended a flight of steps, and Erasmus informed Breeze they had reached the Iron Ward. The paths here were wider, and almost entirely made of patterned brickwork or clay tiles, with only a few muddy puddles at either side. Royal flags flew high, distinguished merchants bartered loudly, and nobility chattered back and forth like quibbling wives. Breeze thought the buildings before had been large, but the ones he found in the Iron Ward were dizzying in their height. It made him queasy just thinking about the scale, about how the wind and cold must tear at you from the peaks.

To the left he saw a gaggle of young women, all foxes, dressed in great flowing dresses, richly coloured parasols clutched in their gloved paws. They giggled politely as they nattered to one another, covering their mouth as they laughed, the blues and reds of their gowns spoiled slightly by the short line of dirt accruing at the hem. To the right he saw a tavern, though it was perhaps larger than some villages he'd seen. Out the front lounged a group of five or six young men, at least two of them wolves, laughing riotously, slamming their fists drunkenly on the table as they bellowed, the foamy ale sloshing in their mugs. Throughout all that, all manner of folk went back and forth along the streets; womenfolk, marching soldiers, wagons of precious cargo, the odd feral horse being led, all going somewhere more important.

It was eye-catching, and a lot to take in, but still Breeze kept a close eye on the Inquisitor. He didn't trust such men, and he couldn't quite work out what the leopard was getting at. He clearly wasn't stupid, and he had somehow heard of and sent for someone such as Breeze. He might be a Named Man in the north, but he doubted rumours of fabulous killers travelled this far south.

The sooner I can be rid of all this, the better for it we'll all be. He thought, trying to focus on what he'd do after he got his pay and supplies. Kill Slaugh? That's what he'd have done in his younger days, and certainly what had kept him going following the ambush; that anger, that seething, thrashing rage.

But it won't solve anything, and you know it. It won't even make you feel better. No. He supposed he could go over the mountains, find some quiet place on the Barren Coast and make some sad excuse for a life there. There's always work for men of his talents, always killing that needs to be done. But even if it don't last, it would feel good to take that fat pig's head.

As they approached the centre of the sprawling city, Breeze felt more keenly that he was the savage oaf, put out of place. He marvelled at a bubbling spring that Erasmus called a fountain, was shocked by the ridiculous amount of glass the city people used in everything, and could not keep himself from staring at the sheer amount of frivolity worn by the socialites. They adorned themselves in feathers and fluff, woollen cloaks and capes, large flops of soft materials for hats, all reds and greens and blues and purples free of any use. None of it seemed practical, and aside from a few men with (can they even use them) ornate arming swords clipped at their hips, precious few were armed. The only people holding weapons were the guards, and they were usually so wrapped up in plate or leather Breeze was sure they must be cooked like game on the inside.

“What's that wall protecting?" Breeze asked eventually, as they wormed their way deeper into the city. The wall in question lay at the end of the street, and seemed much like the one at the city border, only not quite as ostentatiously tall. Gates lined the perimeter, with two guards at each entryway watching dutifully, the sun glinting off their well-polished plate. Behind the walls Breeze saw a massive castle, with neighbouring towers that easily dwarfed any northern structure he'd ever laid eyes upon. “You aren't safe enough already?"

“That, my northern friend, is The Equitánt." The Inquisitor said, sounding as if he were bored of playing tour guide. “And it is our destination this day. The Iron, Steel, and Silver districts are charming and all, but The Equitánt is where the real business of Kingmaking happens!"