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"If Autumn is to Come"

'Beta' preview - 020518

PROLOGUE

They couldn't be counted. It might've been fifty of them. Or a hundred of them. Or ten thousand of them. They were on all sides, spears raking the sky hanging over the ridge around them. Him, Claodos, Yyvan, and a half-dead Steff, doubled-over with his blood leaking out in rivers through his fingers, his other hand waggling the tip of his sword around in the dirt. Volod couldn't keep a grip on his spear, himself, but it was for all the sweating in his palms. The leather wrap was the only thing keeping the short length of wood and steel from slipping out of his grip.

"This's it, boys," Yyvan intoned. The old dog's voice was weary from the day's fighting, but no less uncertain than it had ever been. "They've done made the stupidest mistake in the books. They've got us circled and they got their weapons out. Only thing tha's left for us is to kill every fuckin' one of 'em." The dark-furred dog flicked his spear and smacked Volod's hip with the butt of it. "You hear me? Don't give a fuck if you're young, boy! You fight now! No more of that petty, groveling bullshit 'bout taking a life!" The horse swallowed nervously and nodded shakily.

"I," he started weakly then swallowed again. He tucked the spear in the crook of his arm and rubbed his hands dry on the dirt-caked apron over his boiled leathers. "I've got it," he said harder. The enemy crept in, their faces under their armor drifting in and out through the shadows and dust stirring in the wind.

"Good," the dog said. "Steff?"

"'M 'oldin' on, seh," the rabbit groaned out in his odd accent. Volod felt his eyes burning suddenly, heated with tears and anger. He was only fucking fourteen! What the hell was he doing in a circle of spears staring down an army?! "They're comin', seh. But I'll get 'em," he wheezed. "Fuck 'em all raht up for what they done to meh!" The dark shapes shuffled again, a dull rattling and shaking of the earth as they stepped forward into the depression they had taken up. How many could be left now? How many were behind the ridge around them?

The earth shook again. Shield rattled and feet stomped on the ground, hundreds of voices raising up in unison, shouting, screaming, calling the god of death, curses, hex, insults, flinging their words with spit and blood and sweat. Yyvan crouched down and set his spear.

"Set spears!" he commanded. Volod blinked the tears in his eyes away and his body automatically obeyed. Knees bent, chest forward, spear set in the crook of his arm against the dirt with his right arm, his left loosening his sword in its scabbard. He should've taken Epper's shield when he died back there. The weight wouldn't have made a difference and now he felt woefully naked in just hard leather armor.

Volod watched as the army around them shifted uncertainly. A lone figure strode out from the press, his armor dark and deep and thick, twisted in places to turn even the heaviest blades aside. He wore a huge helm shaped like an equine skull with iron horns jutting from either side of it, wreathed in spikes and darkness. And while his armor was all but certainly made of some steel, it held no color and the eyes of the helm looked like black pools that seemed to devour the light around it. Those eyes bored into Volod and he felt his heart pounding in his chest, the pulsing echoing in his head violently as he took a step back. Somehow, he knew who it was.

"Drop your weapons," the voice echoed in the helm dispassionately. It was a command but one of concern. After all, if they didn't drop their weapons, they would be set upon by hundreds of spears and swords and die horrible and bloody deaths. It was unsurprising, then, that when Volod looked around, none of his comrades looked to be considering anything less than a horrible and bloody death. A pregnant silence hung and scattered sand and dust into the air.

The huge figure brought his hands up. Pointed, gauntleted fingertips glided over the helm, an audible snap of a tense length of leather being unfastened whipped through the air. Volod felt his legs shaking and wanted nothing more than to sit down as he watched the helm lift up slowly, a ritual given to the god of death.

"Volod," he heard Yyvan say tensely. "Keep your spear up. We'll be done here soon." Tears welled in Volod's eyes again and he rubbed them on the back of his hand into his fetlock. He knew what was coming. They both knew.

"Volod," the armored man said. His voice was no longer muffled by the heavy helm and suggested compassion and concern to Volod. As the helm fell away, he saw underneath the visage of a dark brown horse, his black mane spilling over him before it was pressed against his face by the breeze stirring the earth. "I regret meeting you this way. But such is the way of things."

"You want the honors, Volod? You want to run this arsehole through?" Yyvan barked a weak laugh. It was a joke, a bad one. That armor was thick and barbed and locked tightly so that where there were gaps, there were more barbs and hooks to deflect a blade, whether it was a sword or spear. No. There was no running this armor through.

"I've heard of you Yyvan. I regret meeting you this way, as well," he drew his face into a thin, dark line. "I'm sorry," The man said quietly, almost inaudibly. He drew himself tall, then began to recite calmly, loudly. "I am Vologgia, Warrior and Commander of Karstet's Mercenaries of the Damned, Holder of his Titles and Lands until his return. On his behalf, I order you lay down your weapons and surrender unconditionally or I will kill you all. Including the boy." He looked them over one by one as he spoke, his eyes meeting theirs in turns.

"You're my father!" the young horse screeched. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

"I was your father, boy," the big horse frowned deeply. "But I gave you up to the world." He gave a shrug that took in everything around him. "And it would appear the world has given you up as well." Volod's chest heaved and he squeezed the spear until he could feel the leather binding chafing between his fingers.

"Volod! Don't!" He heard Yyvan shouting words at him, but they meant nothing to him. When he blinked the tears out of his eyes, he had already charged halfway to the line. To his father.

CHAPTER ONE

He woke to the sound of waves lapping at the shore, carelessly licking over his legs. Sand pressed against his face, coarse and cold and sharp. Every fiber of every muscle burned. When they twitched, his fingers throbbed with heat and pain. His head felt heavy and dull and pulsed with agony and dehydration. He lay for several long moments, unmoving, before he realized that something was clutched in his hand, had crushed his fingers. Dried, hardened cloth stabbed at him where it wasn't shredded or torn, but for all the sand and salt caked into his fur and mane, he could barely feel it. A salty breeze ran through his faded fur, scouring the sand over the skin underneath.

The ocean licked over his legs again, icy fingers caressing his thighs.

He worked his mouth and felt sand tumble in past cracked lips. The scars across his body stung dryly and his ribs burned as he coughed violently. When he settled again, he slowly let the crisp salty air in then out. In...then out. The stallion cracked open his eyes, closed them again as daylight seared his vision. Dried fur and taut skin stung over his aching, battered muscles as he slowly stirred. He paused and stored a deep breath, then clumsily gathered his arm under himself, painting a furrow in the sand as he dragged his arm underneath his chest. Slowly, he opened his eyes again. Slowly, light spread across his vision, blurry and meaningless at first until darker shapes pooled into place. He stayed like that for what was surely a mortal lifetime, sucking in air until, eventually, the burning began to slough from his muscles and fell into a dull throbbing. His tangled mane fell over his shoulder as he pulled his other arm in. He relaxed his grip around the bundle in his hand and thumbed the cloth until he could see the dull gleam of metal underneath. A sword. He couldn't remember when he had grabbed it, but he was thankful for it in the same way a child is thankful to hold on to their favorite trinket--it was familiar and someone important had given it to him.

He wrapped his hand around the hastily wrapped weapon and dug the covered tip into the sand just in time to catch himself as he vomited. Harsh, salty sea water and acidic bile rushed out, stinging his mouth and nose. He panted and drooled for a few moments, his broad nose flaring as he tried to spit and blow the sand and salt still clinging to his cracked lips. A few more coughs wracked his lungs and ribs and he clutched at his chest to stifle the pain helplessly. The unpleasant taste and tingling in his mouth and the churning in his stomach couldn't be helped either. He couldn't recall ever having swallowed sea water before. In fact, he couldn't remember getting on a boat. Or setting a hoof on a beach. He sat back and tried to think about how he got there, but his mind was dessicated and eroded and frigid and he could only remember simple things. He could remember the criers in the bazaar, the smell of the filth and the food and the bay. He could remember the warmth of the vast city and the sun on the warm sandstone and brick and glass. The feeling of the docks under his hooves...the swaying of the ship.

He wretched dryly, his flickering with agonizing pain as he wheezed and spat the last of the sour taste of his mouth out in the sand. He rubbed his face on the back of his arm and felt the coarse sand scraping his nose and lips. And then he remembered.

He remembered the coarse burlap over his face, the darkness that had sunk over his vision as his head was jerked back. They had shoved him down when he struggled, hit him over the head with something hard enough to put a dent in his skull--he checked now and it still felt tender--then choked him until he blacked out. Everything was sliding into place now. They'd put him on the ship and took him away.

Away from Olyg.

His heart raced and his eyes stung anew, his face burning as tears struggled to well in his dry, salty eyes. He was wearing their clothes, rags that clung to him, stuck to his fur despite barely covering even a one of his scars.

He planted one hoof down in the sand, then the other. A deep frown poured across his face. The rags scraped at his discolored fur. "Olyg," he breathed desperately, his heart racing in his battered chest.

The last thing he could remember was that dream. His head throb to think about it, about how it was a scant ten years ago and how much had changed since then. About finding a home, finding a place away from the killing and dying, a place where he was valued as something other than a tool of war. Olyg had taken him in when he most needed it and now...where the fuck had he been taken? Gods, his head was pounding.

He pushed himself up to his hooves and leaned on the wrapped up long sword heavily. He had to go, had to know what happened to Olyg, what might have happened to his home. His legs shook with the effort of raising himself up. His fingers held tight as the sword shook under him, wobbling dangerously as he dragged his legs under himself, every strand of his muscle scraping past one another. Every movement was pure agony, but he would not quit. He paused, doubled over the sword, choked at the memory of a body he'd once seen on a battlefield, muscles ripped apart apart from...he couldn't remember.

He sucked in a breath and looked at the tangled forest ahead. A viscous lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it. His eyes flickered across the towering trees, their grey bark and dark, green foliage, their shapes utterly unfamiliar and unrecognizable. He looked back at the glittering, frigid ocean. His dry tongue roamed over his dried, broken lips, but still he could not remember the listing of a ship back and forth. The salty ocean pounded on the shores behind him, taunting him to remember what happened. He grit his teeth and squeezed the pommel of the sword tight.

"What the fuck?" he rasped at the cold beach. The ocean shrugged back on the shore.

***

Ethil scrubbed patiently at the filthy shirt, dunking it into the bucket just to press the cloth against the hard, ridged board again. She was as proud of the bucket and the board as much as anything else in her inn or garden. After all, she'd made it all herself. That brought a small smile to her aging lips.

The sun was setting and she had customers inside, the sounds of their laughs and conversations tickling at her ears. She knew she'd have to take care of them soon, but she kept at the scrubbing anyway. As stubborn as the raspberry stain was on this shirt, she had to wait. She blinked her eyes against the sun, rubbed them with the back of her damp paw, then looked up at the soft and gentle creek by the mill her father had built many years before. She couldn't say what, but something pulled her to it--perhaps a sound her old ears couldn't quite gather, a scent at the edge of her nose that she couldn't quite make out. She wrung out the shirt and set her jaw before she set her washing aside.

The badger pressed down her dusty dress as she stood, stepping with her long-calloused paws on the long-familiar paths between garden and inn and mill, toes squeezing through the soft summer grass. She felt along the wooden beam at the corner of the mill as she had countless times as a child, the stone wall that ran made up the face, stopped again when she felt the beam at the other edge. A sudden splash made her jump up, her thick, wiry fur bristling as she blushed.

"Young master?" she called cautiously. He was tall, his height aided by his long, thick neck. His wide shoulders once carried strong muscles, but now he looked sunken and gaunt, more effigy of a man than man proper. His mane was tangled and torn but no worse than his clothes which left him very nearly nude from head to hoof. She felt her cheeks burn hotter and looked away hastily. "Apologies, young master!" She stood awkwardly for a long moment, waiting for him to speak, to accept her apology or even explain his presence, but instead there was just a lingering silence. She risked a look back at him and saw he was carrying something wrapped in fabric, something that could only have been a weapon. He must've seen the frown on her face.

"Gugghh--" he started then coughed violently and wetly and leaned on the weapon like a crutch. He spat, took in a deep breath, and tried again, but this time the sound was even more incomprehensible. Ethil smiled sheepishly at the disappointed look on the horse's face. He looked away after a moment, coughed again, then slowly and painfully lowered himself back down to drink from the creek again.

"You look...weary," Ethil smiled faintly at him. "Why don't you come with me, young master? I don't have a spare room tonight, but I have food and water and wine. And if you don't mind, you can sleep in the stable tonight. I'll put out some clean hay in a stall for you!" she smiled brightly then blushed and winced when his sharp eyes glanced up at her from the creek. That hadn't been...racist, had it? Oh, dear! "I mean, whatever you'd like, it's no trouble at all! You just look a fright, young master. I have a clean shirt and trousers, too. I don't reckon that'll be very much comfortable or warm come nightfall."

He stopped scooping water into his face and sat up slowly. Ethil frowned at him, seeing the deep cracks in his nose, the dried blood washing from his torn ears, the scrapes on his knuckles, the bruises on his shins and arms, the scars that covered his chest and littered him from his knees up to his elbows. Life had not been kind to this one, not at all.

He stood again, this time slowly, using his sword as a lever in the dirt. Ethil felt her heart racing. She'd held off her fair share of bandits here before, and he looked considerably less threatening than even the least of those who'd tried to cause problems before. But the look in his eyes was hard, like it could cut steel or crush stone. She was starting to wonder if he could even understand her. Was he deaf? Or had he traveled from some place with a strange and distant language? She couldn't imagine anyone not speaking anything but the King's Tongue. But perhaps he only understood the Old God's words?

"Come! I've got something I can cook up for you. You must be starving." Though she smiled, even she could feel the worry at the edges of her face, creasing her greying fur in telling ways. When the horse didn't move, she sighed. "The food will be free--it's just leftovers! And the hay is nothing if you want it! But tomorrow we'll get you up to some work if you want more. Deal?" He took in a deep breath and rubbed at his neck slowly. After a long moment, he lowered his head in what Ethil took for a nod then tossed his sword across the creek. She gathered it up in its rough canvas and winced at the briny scent. The pieces were starting to fall into place now. "Later tonight, we'll wash you up." He glanced down at her dubiously. "That won't be free, though. We're gonna need a lot o' soap for the likes o' you!" she laughed. Volod smirked back down at her and tried to fight the wetness welling in his eyes.

***

Volod stayed for two nights. The first night he did not sleep well. He didn't mind the coarse hay or even the scent of the Lower horses in the stable. The mindless animals' snorting and nickering in the next stalls were harmless. It was the burning in his stomach that clawed at him. Ethil had fed him earlier and it had helped but the brine lingered and he woke up every few hours to spit it up again and again until he had to stumble to the creek to rinse his mouth clean. Ethil had been gentler with him in the morning, perhaps seeing the exhaustion in his face, or--he thought more likely--just in how he carried himself. She had brought him clothes as he ate and he gratefully dressed. It was only when he traded the rags for theroughspun outfit that he realized with some embarrassment just how naked he had been.

He spent that morning cleaning the stalls. It wasn't hard work but it was tedious and a little miserable on account of the stink of animals. But for his weary, storm-tossed body it was relatively easy work. When he had finished, he looked up at the barn and sat against the fence. A pair of scars burned with a distant memory of place not too unlike this one.

Lunch was more of the thick porridge she'd served him the night before. It had taken even more work to swallow, his throat ravaged from the ocean water and bile of the previous day. With so many questions, it was frustrating that he could ask none.

Volod spent the afternoon trying to help mend the fence around the garden. His fingers were too clumsy for the string and wire used around the garden and his muscles and bones were too tired and bruised to make lifting the stone for the low walls further out. Ethil looked just as disappointed as he felt. She'd grown to be tough for a time, but now she was too old and feared that repairing it herself would be risky with her old bones and aging muscle. After all, she had to be caretaker to this whole place by herself. She had no more family to do it for her. Volod had surprised her with his embrace when she told him and it had been a bit awkward, but he didn't regret it. It was as much for his benefit as hers.

The night had been quiet but gave Volod plenty of time to help clean and cook. Ethil had made a smattering of savory pies, the likes of which Volod had never known. He almost cried when he took his second bite. He ate voraciously and wanted more. As soon as he thought of trying to take some more, he stopped himself and frowned. He had not earned it. He could not possibly take more from this old, kind woman.

Volod slept well that night. Proper food and drink stilled his belly. Using his body gently had made his muscles hurt less but he was still plenty exhausted and the hay was plenty soft and warm to sleep in.

Volod awoke to the rooster cawing harshly in his ear. He shot up, cursed it, then rubbed the hay from his mane. His throat felt better but he was hungry. Ethil had already begun the day's chores outside, washing some of the bedspreads in the creek. Volod's stomach growled loudly and when Ethil turned and smiled wryly at him, he felt his cheeks turn red under his fur.

"Good morning," he managed to croak. Her smile turned bright in the morning sun.

He ate quietly at first. Ethil pushed more food and drink on him than he could have possibly managed to keep down even on his best days. As he had been starving and literally dying of thirst days before, he gratefully but slowly accepted it all.

"Please! Please! Drink!" Ethil implored, pressing a warm clay cup to his hands. Volod raised it up in a slute, then slowly sipped from it. The honeyed tea soothed Volod's throat and he could only wish he had been able to ask for it sooner. "Talk only if ye can!" the badger smiled at him. That poor woman's smile was infectious as it was endearing and Volod couldn't help but to smile back, but it faded quickly when he finally decided on the right question to ask.

"Where am I," he said. Ethil's smile faltered with his.

"What d'you mean?"

"I woke up on the beach. The last thing I remember I was in Vierogorod. How far have I come? What beach did I wake up on?" Ethil frowned at him and slowly shook her head, her eyes never leaving his.

"Oh, honey," she lowered her ears back. "You're in Fendara." A brief twitch on Volod's lips and a a deep inhalation were the only signs he gave that he had heard. After a long moment, he pushed the food and drink away and swallowed the tightness in his throat. Fendara. He thought the word, then mouthed it silently. What the god-fearing fuck was he doing in Fendara. He sniffed and blinked the wetness in his eyes. Some three or five thousand miles from home--what could possibly have brought him here? Why? He could feel the beating in his chest, his heart racing in circles. He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and held it in for a long moment as Ethil watched. He felt her worried eyes on him, afraid of, perhaps him and what he might do, or, perhaps, afraid of what had happened to him. He felt that twitch at the edge of his mouth again, then let it draw into a frown and buried his his head into his hands.

Ethil had not expected such vulnerability from a large man. She stood up and drew herself around him, rubbing at his shoulder. "Oh, sweet thing, don't worry," she cooed warmly. Volod shook his head and sucked in a shaky breath. Every part of him wanted him to just scream out his frustrations, to bring his fists down on the table, smash it to pieces. His life had been one travesty after another, so why not now? Why not be thousand of miles from home? Why not come here naked with a sword in hand?

"Story of my life," he muttered. He sucked in another breath and pressed his palm into the table. He had fought for every last scrap of anything he ever had. So why not now? Why not now that everything had just started to feel normal? He sniffed again. Why not?

He rubbed his face on the back of his arm, embarrassed to be sobbing even slightly in front of a stranger, but, the gods knew this was an extraordinary circumstance. He slid his hand over the table, pulled the mug of tea back and sipped it again. The warmth slid down his throat and into his belly, the honey soothing the lingering rawness in both. He chewed his lip for a moment and nodded to himself before he looked up at Ethil.

"How can I get back? What can I do?" His sharp, brown eyes bored into Ethil. She felt her heart aching for him and smiled again.

"You'll need some things." She patted his hand and sat back down. "I can spare a few coins and send ye south to Port Maero, but that's the best I can do." Her smile darkened and she drew her tea closer. "For now, though, it's best ye eat and get yer strength. There's bandits on these roads, y'know..."

***

[Galen rendezvous with the Captain and his detachment at Ford Three Rivers and meets the characters; they are onlyh three days from their next stop on their route; add details about the detachment, introduce supporting characters]

Lieutenant Doubros was a happy wolf. It was a struggle to keep his tail still and his ears down, but he did step with a certain lightness. He and the other men were ahead of schedule a full day, and he was anxious to be back home. By the sound of it, His Royal Highness himself was going to congratulate him on his family's service at the Autumnal War ceremony! On top of that, a friend of a friend close to the king had mentioned that estates from the war had finally been settled and organized and a few were being given out to loyal service members! He looked wistfully at his captain, the huge lion's fur bulging out of his breastplate and his mane brushed into luxurious, golden strands about his shoulders. He stood as proudly as he always had during the war. Galen only wished he could have chosen the other men himself. Instead, he'd just been assigned them.

"Let's hurry it up, fellas! I'd like to be in town by nightfall!" the lion shouted, his voice as solid and even as the steel he wore by his side. It was unnecessary to say it, really. They were already on track to make it by dusk, but maybe it kept them more alert when they had specific orders. So far, the road had been easy and the iron cage cart hadn't been as troublesome as Galen first thought it might be on these far, southern roads. In truth, he'd expected mud pits and rocks the size of his chest this far from the city. But, fortunately, he'd been quite wrong! They had even brought a detachment of engineers and piled extra planks of wood on the cart to help dig it out if it did manage to get stuck somewhere along the way. It may have been a lot of trouble for nothing, but it was good for him; the captain had made him take care of all the administrative work. In his cheery mood, he didn't even let it bother him that he'd gone through all the extra paper work! It's just extra practice, isn't it? He allowed a smile to spread over his face, not caring if his men saw now.

A good mood, indeed. Maybe if he made it back another few days ahead of schedule, he could get a commendation in time for the ceremony? Not that he was one for a patting on the back, but it could only help his chances at getting some of that land! After what he and his parents had been through, gods knew he deserved it! He shuddered to imagine if the roads had been as he first thought. It was a gamble every time he got his orders, really. And to be true, he wasn't the gambling sort.

"Lieutenant!" the captain called out.

"Sir!" His answer was every bit as quick as their progress. He appeared as quickly as he could before his captain, rendering the sharpest salute he'd made since his time in the Academy. He forgot how much taller the other man was until he found himself looking up at him.

"Be ready to make camp when we get there. They won't have enough rooms at the inn for us. In the morning, we'll load the cargo as quickly as we can and be on our way. We'll use some of the, customers to help us if need be." The lion allowed himself a small grin as he leaned in towards Galen. He spoke conspiratorially into Galen's ear. "Don't tell them this now, but once we get in, make sure the boys get a round of drinks. We've set a much better pace than I've expected." The lion's face seemed to hold a constant sharpness to it, but when the captain rested a huge, heavy paw on Galen's shoulder, he found it friendly and warm.

"Yessir!" He answered almost as quick as he'd come. Lieutenant Doubros smiled. He knew Captain Dormsmuire long ago during the war, but he hadn't seen him since. At first, he'd seemed cold and distant but it seemed like he was warming back up to Galen now. It had been a surprise to be suddenly reassigned to Captain Dormsmuire's detachment, but this wasn't the first time Galen had been sent on one of these taxation escorts. Come to think of, hauling back this load of gold was the most straight-forward that he could recall in recent memory. The only thing that bothered him was how overbuilt the cart was that they were using to haul the stuff. If any part of it broke, it'd take days to fix, but so far they'd been lucky. On the balance, he had to admit it'd still beat carrying it piece by piece.

It was heavy stuff, after all.

The smell of a warm fire and what he thought was freshly baked bread wafted down the long, straight road. He was sure he could see smoke in the distance, perhaps only a mile or two away, just on the edge of the horizon hovering over the trees. He couldn't help his tail from wagging then.

***

There would be no resignation letter. No, that would be too...normal. Predictable. Bureaucratic.

Snow surveyed the room for what he expected to be the last time. Books upon books upon books lined shelves on every wall, shelves that made the already small room even more dimin...diminished. Diminutive. Tiny. A small smile crept on his black lips.

He lifted the mug from the top of his book--no, not his; the city's book--and smiled at the dark circle of spilled beer it left behind. Oh, how he used to cringe at even the slightest smudge on his pages, how carefully he kept his claws trimmed, the fur of his fingers groomed, every detail of his quills and jars and knives and brushes--everything he did was to perfect his skills, to be the best at what he did, to make more money in this gods-forsaken city.

But he never did. Or rather, his boss never paid him more. He'd stay for longer days, working into the morning hours until he passed out in positions carefully cultivated over the years to keep from drooling over his books. He'd stay on those days he meant to have off, he'd make sure every single thing was documented carefully. Not a single bag of grain or sac of dolls or an ounce of even feather down--nevermind gold--got by his records. Not once.

But they weren't really his books. They were the city's. And it was his duty to help the city of Morges run, so said the Head Archivist. It was a city of trade, after all. A city without true borders, a city that crossed mountains and oceans alike, a city that relied on commerce to thrive. Without people like Snoqualmie, vanguard of vellum and parchment and ink, protector of dock records and agreements and scribe thereof. And he was tired of it.

He took a pensive swig of his beer, held it for a while, then swallowed the dark, bitter brew. "Fuck Morges," he sneered at the books. Then with a manic grin, he lifted up his final vial of ink. He'd made sure to convince his superiors he needed the most permanent and expensive of inks and plenty of it. There was a reassuring weight to the heavy, full vial. He'd only used it once, just to make sure no sand or knife could scrape the ink off. In truth, water would have done enough damage. But, as he turned the vial over and watched the thick fluid spread over the pages in one slow, viscous puddle, he felt his heart racing. He felt a little sick watching his own work being defaced, even by his own hand, knowing the damage could never be undone. And yet, more than anything, he felt giddy to close this chapter for good.

For good measure, he turned his mug over and let the last few drops out before he drained himself on the books in the shelves. Given all the blood and sweat he'd put in, it seemed fitting to add one more fluid to the mix. Not like he'd be around to clean it up, anyway. He was off to bigger and better things now.

It had taken some years, but he'd finally scraped enough coins together to get a good traveling cloak, some hardened leather armor that fit him well, and, of course, a beautiful, sharp sword.

Well, perhaps not beautiful, but one he was proud to own at any rate.

Today was the day he closed all of his affairs. He'd get what would be his last payment from the company exchequer, go to his residence on the far edge of the city and make his final payment, and then deposit all of his necessary belongings in a stash he had meticulously crafted near the tavern he'd reconnoitered for weeks. Mercenaries had been gathering there, quietly recruiting for people to go east to Garstedt, some as far as Fendara. The pay was good, but, more importantly, the work was honest and hard-earned. There would be no sitting at a desk, thanklessly scribbling away at margins and jotting names and notes. No, there would be true camaraderie on the field of battle! Brotherhood in a common cause--fighting for pay!

So maybe it wasn't exactly noble. But nevertheless...! It was adventure. It was a shot at doing something with his life, being a part of something important--at least something more important than being a pawn in a never-ending game. Snoqualmie's heart raced as he stepped into the tavern, already half-stupid from the ale he had been drinking all day to...inflame his excitement.

Not two steps had he passed through the door when the whole tavern fell silent. He could feel all their eyes on him as he swaggered in, a hand on the hilt of the longsword swaying by his hip, the patrons lingering conspiratorial distances from one another mid-conversation. Snoqualmie glared up at them, the glittering gold color of his eyes standing out from his inky black fur as he let his gaze scan across the tavern from one end to the other. As suddenly as it had started, the silence was gone, as if nothing had happened at all. Patrons turned back to their conversations and laughing and groping and leering just as they had before.

Snoqualmie had no idea what to think of it. It didn't seem like an auspicious start, certainly. He had no choice but to gather himself up proudly and make his way to the bar. "Ale, and keep it coming!" He slapped a few glittering coins down on the bar. A thick, dark paw gripped his arm and jerked him back.

"If yer here for the mercenaries, you're a fuckin' idiot. If you're just stumbling into a tavern with a weapon, you're still a fuckin' idiot." The dog's breath stank and something in his palm was pressing painfully into the back of Snoqualmie's arm. He snarled at the man and shoved him back as hard as he could. The man lurched back then wobbled against the bar with a hearty laugh.

"You think I'm just going to tell you I'm here to be a mercenary?" Snoqualmie did his best impression of a grunt and was pleasantly surprised at the results. He glanced at the bartender and flashed him a toothy grin against the surly, tusked visage the boar shot back as he set down his drink. Snoqualmie held it up and grinned wolfishly.

"I came for ale, tail, and sail! Don't intend to be in his shithole of a town everlong." He tossed back the drink, spilling more than he had meant over his chin. Ah, well--maybe it had been suitably impressive, like he'd seen in plays. "If it means joinin' up with arseholes like you to play soldier-for-hire,then..." he shrugged his shoulders wide, hesitated for a while, then spat a curse: "fuck it!" The grizzled dog jabbed a finger into Snoqualmie's chest, his stinking breath setting his eyes and nose burning and his fur to curling and bristling.

"Look here," his yellowed eyes bore into Snoqualmie's, "it ain't now play. We fight for real. If you wanna fight for money, ahright. You can do that. But that's for pussies." Snoqualmi winced. He'd have to get used to this language alright. The stinking man threw an arm around him and tugged him into a conspiratorial headlock. "We fight for something real."

"And what's that?" Snoqualmie sipped gingerly at his ale, his ears perked sharply.

"For freedom!" the man laughed lowly, beer sloshing over his mug as he gesticulated with it. "An end to these fuckin' nation-states. This city ain't nothin', but who are these pissant kings to crush the little men under their boots, always demanding taxes and tributes and telling the what to do?"

"So," Snoqualmie said slowly, working the ideas in his mouth, "you're gonna go fight Garstedt and Fendara?" The man laughed and shook his head.

"Oh no. We're just gonna go in and stir things up, take what we want in Garstedt, then it's off to Fendara before they know what hit 'em! Then we do it all over again the other way 'round!" the man cackled, threw back his beer then peered into his mug when he found it disappointingly empty again. He flashed an ugly smile at Snoqualmie. "D'ya mind...?" Snoqualmie blinked and fought the grimace trying to creep onto his face. Instead, he set down another coin on the bartop for his new friend.

"So," Snoqualmie leered at the man, "where do I go sign up?"

CHAPTER TWO

The draft horse ate slowly and found something to appreciate in mouthful of his food. The feint warmth of it, the delightful earthiness; it was a relief to cleanse his palette of the briny taste lingering on his tongue and sticking on the roof of his mouth. In truth, he was glad he hadn't been turned away just at the sight of him. He knew that he didn't look decent by any standard, and the innkeeper--an aging but gracious badger--offered him some food if he worked in her kitchen and helped with some chores. It was an easy offer for him to accept. Unfortunately, he still had to suffer wearing the scratchy rags until she could find something that would fit him.

He felt much better now. The food wasn't quite as satisfying as the water had been, and, if he was honest, it wasn't particularly good. But it was homey. An old bowl of leftover porridge from the morning was better than anything he might've scraped up from the dirt in the forest. There was comfort in this wooden bowl, and despite the abhorrent rags clinging to him, he felt almost civilized again, neither frantic nor feral after waking up in a place he didn't recognize. But he would get through, one step at a time. There was still some porridge left at the bottom of the bowl, but, for now, he was happy to sit back and savor the last few spoonfuls of his meal as slowly as possible.

He listened to the idle talk of a group of merchants who were traveling together at another table. It was oddly familiar and alien at once. He was used to city talk where complaints about prices and nobles and beggars were all anyone seemed to talk about. Occasionally at the edge of the city, you might hear about the roads or farmers looking for a drink might bemoan a bad harvest or high taxes. Here it was mostly the latter, only they spoke of bandits, too. He wasn't used to that. Mercenaries, maybe, but outright bandits? He was definitely far from home.

"Pretty sure he skinned 'im alive," he heard one say with a mixture of certainty and restrained excitement. At least the one-upmanship was the same, here.

"Dark business doing that sort o' thing at all," the other replied gravely. "You sure he was alive, though? That'd be rotten luck," he trailed off.

"Must've been. It wasn't a pretty job, I can say," he coughed thickly for a few moments and quaffed from his cup before speaking again. "Reckon that fella only got away on account of his size. Lucky bastard," he scoffed. The horse retreated into his bowl as he felt the eyes roaming towards him. Dark business, indeed. Business he had no intention of getting tangled up in, that was certain. His was bad enough, besides. As it was, he had to find a proper town or village to even begin trying to figure out what happened or where he was. And while he ostensibly had gotten here by the ocean, he wasn't keen on going to any ports. He doubted there would be much help there, anyway. He knew nothing of boats but that they tended to float on water, and that sailors were about as enjoyable as rubbing salted citrus into an open wound. No, he wasn't convinced he'd find anything helpful at a port. Not, at least, without serious coin.

The door clattered open sharply and suddenly, hinges squealing as it bounced off the shabby wall. Reddish sunlight poured in around a single silhouette before being briefly drowned by another much larger shape. The few patrons inside strained to see who might enter their quiet establishment in such a way. The doorway darkened again, engulfed by a third shape. The three newcomers peered around.

"Where is it?" the wolf demanded. He was large, strong, and clearly well-fed, his ears barely fitting beneath the door frame. He had a thick long sword dangling at his thigh and a short sword at his other. A dagger was sheathed in a stylish scabbard at his front, holding up thick, well worn wool pants. Chain mail sleeves covered most of his arms and neck and leather armor adorned his muscular torso. Not satisfied by stunned silence, he kicked over a chair, the back falling apart and scattering under a table. The horse sighed and turned back to his porridge. This had nothing to do with him. And besides, was he really in any condition to fight? Still, he fought to keep his hands steady as he ate and his ears pointed away from the intruders.

"I said, where is it?" the wolf growled, clipping each word through his sharp, jagged teeth. "I didn't bring my big friend here to be my bodyguard, so I'll tell you what." He dragged another chair over, the legs scraping loudly over the hard wooden floor. He set one foot on it with a thick thud and leaned forward. He looked over the entire room slowly and silently, and when he spoke again, he spoke quietly. "Tell me where it is, or we'll skin you alive and sell your pelts to the savages," he snarled lowly, baring stained, crooked teeth. Teeth that suggested he maybe sold the pelts but kept the rest for himself.

The horse suppressed a shudder in his seat and bit his tongue. He tried to turn back to eating, the wooden spoon scraping the wooden bowl. He gathered the porridge at the bottom into a cohesive blob and raised it up. He stopped when he saw the owner step out of the kitchen. That poor old woman, he shook his head. Without thinking, his free hand slipped under the table and stroked over the cloth-covered sword in his lap. It was all but useless there, utterly impossible to draw from the scabbard and cloth without him getting cut down first, but it was still comforting to know it there.

"W-w-we don't have whatever it is! B-but, if you want s-somethin--" the innkeep stopped herself. Footsteps approached from behind. Three sets, each heavier than the last. Clumsy but not drunk-clumsy. A heavy, broad paw rested on his shoulder. He felt his fur bristle then fall again at the touch. It was a struggle to still his heart.

"What's your name, friend?" the wolf hissed, grinning broadly to show off his sharp, yellowed teeth. His breath reeked.

The horse had to genuinely think for a moment and his heart leapt a beat or two, worried he might have forgotten it somewhere in the ocean. But a moment later he found it. "Volod," he replied coolly, his voice deep and coarse. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ears.

"Volod?" he clucked. "What the hell kind of name is that?" the wolf cackled. His two comrades chuckled with him as though to confirm he was, in fact, funny. Volod felt his fur bristle and his blood burn. The wolf batted aside the bowl of porridge, wooden bowl sliding across a wooden table. It skidded to stop, nearly spilling over before precariously falling back onto its flat bottom. The wolf rested his hand where the bowl had been, forcing Volod to look up at him. "So, what's a big fella like you doing in a place like this?" he said coyly. "Shouldn't you be on a farm hauling a plow?" he snorted. "You look like an animal!" The wolf and his friends laughed again. Volod scrunched his nose and turned his head towards the wolf.

"Oh? You need some work done?" he said blythely. The wolf would be first. The dog second. That bear, though...

"Huh!" the wolf gave his knee a haughty slap. "You might say that! You see," the wolf leaned in closer still, "we're looking for something...heavy," he snapped his teeth. "Big." Volod could smell his sour breath. "And the word is that it's coming right through here. And you look like just the sort of person as might be hauling such a thing. So," out came the short sword, perfect for a crowded room like this, "where is it?" the wolf hissed. Volod swallowed nervously but didn't lean away.

"I, uh," he mumbled and fidgeted in his seat. His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword in his lap, clutching it tight until his knuckles strained under his skin. He couldn't draw the sword from here. All but useless.

"I'm not asking again..." the wolf growled, jabbing the point of the sword against Volod's thick throat. His heart raced and he grabbed at the sword gingerly. Well, this is it.

***

The deep orange sky was slowly burning itself into a red barely visible through the slit of trees cut by the road. The surface became rougher and jagged, broad ruts dug into the hard surface from many a cart having traveled through. It'd been some time since any one from the Ministry of Transportation had been by to maintain this stretch. As he was more or less ahead of schedule, Galen decided to do them a favor. Besides, the inn was visible just down the road, anyway.

"Engineers!" he called out, promptly being met by the six men he'd brought with him. "We can push through for now, but let's get this smoothed out for the return trip. If it rains, I don't want to be stuck in a pit of lumpy muck with a couple tons of cargo." They saluted him promptly, their orange uniforms flopping about as they dug their tools out from the cart, a concession the captain had graciously given them so they wouldn't have to carry them on their backs.

Their destination turned out to be little more than a pair of houses by the side of the road, hardly even a village by any real standards. Perhaps a way stop? He'd never thought about it before, but Galen had only ever seen two other places like it in his years of doing these sorts of jobs. And at any rate, there was no question that the crew would be staying outside this night, just as the captain had said. Well, so long as she has enough drinks for the boys, they shouldn't mind.

While the engineers worked to patch up the road, he gathered his four remaining soldiers up and had them set up camp under the supervision of an especially grizzled sergeant--a Sergeant Lophleir, it turned out. The nice thing about being an officer was the chain of command. He didn't use it to beat his soldiers over the head with so much as climb his way out of having to do any heavy work himself. A captain told the lieutenant what to do, and he in turn told the sergeant where he wanted the camp, and the sergeant would then delegate authority further and further until the camp was built neatly and efficiently. All the lieutenant had to do was decide where. Tonight he avoided being too close to the main road lest they interfere with travelers' business and urged the men to a clearing on the other side of the creek behind the inn. The cart stayed tucked behind the main building while they began to dig small fire pits and gather wood before it got too dark to gather materials. At first, he wasn't too keen on the fires going up, mostly out of habit, but he realized the smoke wouldn't look out of place given the inn's otherwise humble chimney. Besides, it's not like some of these inns never cooked outside from time to time, he reasoned. He'd been to a few inns that built firepits outside for big meals.

The wolf sighed and rubbed the bridge of his muzzle absently then nodded to himself. He'd daydreamed enough and decided he should probably go talk to the inn's owner and see about the beer the captain had told him to get earlier. He took one last look at his engineers working on the road and his soldiers making camp just off the road from them, then went to the inn''s door. It was well worn wood with dusty iron hinges, and he placed his paw against the coarse surface to open the door.

But something stopped him. Something didn't feel right.

He shifted nervously on his feet. It wasn't a scent or a sound. Just a feeling tugging at the edges of his fur. He sucked in a deep breath, swelling out his chest as he composed his confidence, his left paw resting on the hilt of his sword. However clandestine his work was, he was a man of His Royal Highness, the King's military. He leaned in towards the door and listened. It was completely quiet. "Huh," he grunted thoughtfully. He started to open the door when he heard a terrifying scream.

***

Volod swung the sword as hard as he could under the table. There was nothing he could do about the cloth around it, but it struck true enough. The wolf's shin gave in, cracked or possibly shattered, the tattered cloth around the chunk of steel doing little to cushion the blow. He screamed out and began to crumble to the floor, and dropped his sword. Or he would have. Against all odds, Volod managed to keep the wolf's short sword pinched gingerly between his fingers. He didn't bother to think about how he had managed that.

He let go of the bundled sword and took hold of the other sword's hilt instead. He heard the smooth sound of steel sliding across leather as the dog drew his sword. The horse stepped quickly, kicking the chair back as he turned and swung the short sword quickly. He'd hoped to fend off the inevitable attack, but instead managed to bury the blade somewhere in the man's belly. He hadn't meant to kill him, but perhaps it was for the better--

"Oomf!" That dizzy feeling came back all at once and the porridge he'd just eaten threatened to come right back up as the huge horse caught the hilt of the bear's axe in his jaw and stumbled back against the table. He coughed a few times before letting out a surprised yelp, the bear lifting him by his tangled mane. Several clumps of hair and fur pulled out before he was flung across the table. He landed in a heap on the other side, his shoulder glancing on the far corner before he landed head first on the floor, his body joining soon after. His knuckles had scraped across the table top and he could feel the warm blood rolling down his fingers and, to his relief, the sword he'd manage to keep hold of.

A huge shape blocked out what little light he had left to himself and he looked up just in time to see the bear climbing over the table, brandishing a big chunk of something. He lifted it over his head high and Volod cursed the high, steeped roof of the otherwise tiny inn. The bear roared. Volod winced and decided the only thing to do was to shove his sword towards the massive man and hope for the best.

The table collapsed under the huge bear in a loud implosion of fur and wood. He fell in a pile in the middle, his huge axe somewhere amongst the broken table parts. Volod felt a huge weight on him and felt the hilt of the sword drive into his own belly before being torn out of his grip. He tried to double over and cough, but the bear huge arm stretched over his chest and held him down. His blood ran cold as he struggled to push himself away, to get out from underneath the other man before it was too late to fight back. But the bear didn't stir. In fact, he wasn't moving at all.

Volod pushed the limp but heavy arm off of himself and coughed raggedly a few times. "

Volod glanced around and saw the wolf crawling towards him. He was gasping and sucking breath through his teeth, clearly in immense pain. Unfortunately, his rage drove him more than his intelligence and he was moving towards Volod. A moment of panic set in when Volod failed to see the bear, but then he realized the beast hadn't got up. It was obvious why when he looked over. Several large splinters were jutting through his leg and side, and a chair that he apparently fell on lay smashed next to his head.

Volod touched his side and felt the extent of the damage the dog had done. A flesh wound. It could be deadly given time and infection but it was fine for now. He snorted and rubbed the blood on himself--his rags had become even sparser after that brief combat--and stomped towards the wolf.

"You've ruined my clothes!" Volod snarled. "I'm taking yours. You can keep only what you need to be mod--" the wolf glared at him defiantly and swatted clumsily at the sword, spitting a curse at Volod.

"Long live Garstedt! Long live Khavrel!" the wolf laughed out, spitting his words and blood at Volod. The wolf drew a smaller sword and waved it at Volod. He would have none of that. He stepped on the wolf's snout, his hard hoof pressing into the canine muzzle as he leaned over him and plucked the long sword from the wolf's scabbard.

"Give! Up!" He stabbed the long sword into the wooden floor with a dull thud just out of the wolf's reach and picked him up by the scruff of the neck. "Your clothes!" he snapped. "Now! Before I--" Light flooded the room and the wolf and horse both turned their heads away, wincing at the intrusion.

***

"Halt!" The voice boomed from the tavern entrance, the shallow sun casting a bright red glow that gleamed and bent around a polished breastplate. Volod squinted through the blinding light and barely made out the features of a canine man. More bandits...? He tightened the grip on his sword. Metal armor would make things harder.

"Drop him." The man commanded, wielding his authority like a club. He took a single step in. Volod felt his lips tense into an unbidden snarl before he let go of the man and brought that hand to take the hilt of his sword in both hands. Volod heard the warm drip of blood as it landed on the wooden floor, the warm liquid rolling down the edge of his blade.

"Did you kill these men?" the wolf gestured to the two bodies in the inn, pointing with a bright piece of fine, sharp steel. Volod didn't move. He wasn't sure if they were even dead, or, if they were, if it could be said that it was his fault. After all, one of them had literally fallen on his blade.

The wolf didn't seem impressed: his dark lips pulled into a tight scowl and he stepped forward again. The door swung shut behind him, smacking into the frame with a sharp crack. With the sudden darkness in the room, Volod had to blink the colors from his eyes to see the wolf clearly. His cape cut a dramatic figure, the likes of which Volod hadn't seen in some time. He hadn't liked it then, either.

"I ask again," the wolf spoke through his teeth. "Did you kill these men?" Volod hesitated, looked back at Ethil questioningly. She caught his gaze and came forward from around the corner.

"He did it in defense!" she offered, her voice apologetic, as if she'd done it herself, Volod thought. The wolf's golden eyes slid towards her and drew in tightly. He wasn't a big man, not compared to Volod, anyway, but he stood firmly, his lean arms moving fluidly as he sheathed his sword again. Ethil fell back again, clutching around the corner near the kitchen, peering timidly past the old, worn wooden walls.

The door swung open again and an even larger figure stepped through, blotting out the sun behind him. Volod realized he was a lion almost right away, his thick mane barely tucked into the steel collar of his plate mail. Fuck, were these the guards? In a hovel like this?

"Lieutenant," the man said coolly, his voice grating like stones trying to crush one another. "Is there a reason that man is standing with a sword in his hand?" Volod shuddered inwardly but squeezed at his weapon, felt the leather hilt creaking in his fingers. Why would he even think he might have good luck now? After countless days imprisoned on a ship, tossed about the sea, left to rot on the shores, starving and dehydrated, it seemed almost natural that he'd be on the wrong side of the law now.

"Drop the sword and we'll take you alive. Don't, and we'll drag you outside like those three."

"Ffffuff you!" the last bandit spat, blood issuing from his mouth. "Ah'm still 'life!" he dribbled around his words.

"I've little to do with these men! I was captured and taken to this place against my will! I only wanted to head south to Port Biyrn and sail back home to Vierogorod. These men waylaid me here and, well," he shrugged and glanced down at the canine drooling blood by his hooves. The soldiers looked at one another, then back at Volod. The commander heaved a heavy sigh, thick with impatience, before he spoke.

"I am Lord Captain Dormsuire of the King's Black Rose Regiment. And if you want to keep your head on, you'll drop the damned sword and come with us. He and I don't have the time nor patience to fool around with common bandits." Volod felt himself go weak, but he wasn't sure why.

"And go where? Why?" Volod's face twisted in on itself, his ears wilted. The captain smiled wryly and turned his head.

"Lieutenant." The wolf-soldier's ears sagged and he stepped forward.

"Wait! No!" Volod sank back and held his hands up. He relaxed his grip on the sword and let it dangle precariously from his fingers. "I only want to get home! I have no intention of fighting you."

"We're the King's fucking guard," the wolf soldier sneered at him. "You'll do as we say."

"King of what?" Volod stood taller but risked a glance at Ethil. She was clutching at the corner of the next room, a concerned frown frozen on her face. She would not come between the soldiers and him. She knew them.

"The King of Fendara." the wolf said, then looked back uncertainly at Captain Dormsuire.

"Don't mind him, lieutenant. He's playing dumb. He held a sword against the king's own, killed the king's subjects. If you won't take care of him, I'll do it myself." Volod winced then shrunk back.

"Whatever you think I've done, I assure you I haven't!" He retreated further, slipped on a piece of furniture and fell hard on his knees. "I only wanted to get passage back to Vierogorod!"

"No such luck today, son. We're going north in the morning. And you're coming with." The captain grunted at him then grabbed him by his throat. Volod gagged weakly and blinked. He twisted and dropped to his knees, pulled his throat from the lion's grasp.

"No!" he rasped and kicked himself away towards the door. He barely got to his hooves before someone grabbed his arm and pulled him off balance. He stumbled into the wall, head crashing into the wood first, then his shoulder into stone before he fell onto all fours. Hands slithered around his arms and dragged him outside where he was unceremoniously dumped face down into the dirt. A boot drove into his back and he coughed into the dirt as he felt the wind driven from his lungs. A touch of cold steel tickled at the back of his neck and his whole body clenched tightly in place.

"You've killed three of the king's subjects in cold blood and attempted to escape justice. As a knight under the King's authority, I have the right to sentence you to death," the captain intoned over him. Volod kicked and clawed at the dirt, struggling for air. He wheezed helplessly, desperate to speak. But what could he say?

"Lord Captain!" the wolf said urgently.

"Speak your defense now," the lion continued. "Or if not your defense, your final words." Volod writhed and kicked harder still, sputtering in the dirt as he felt the steel lift from his neck.

"Your justice is a joke!" Volod wheezed. "How can I defend myself like this!"

"Lord Captain!" the wolf barked sharply. "Look at him!" Volod could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his hear beating so hard that he could feel it lifting him off the ground and into the boot on his back. "He looks like shit! He has no armor and clothes that barely fit. He's not even got a belt or scabbard! If he's a bandit or murderer, he's not a very clever one!" For a long while, nothing happened. Volod tensed, willing every muscle in his body to become harder than the steel that might rip through his neck. But it never came. The weight came off of his back and Volod sucked in the air as greedily as he had drank the water from the stream a few days ago.

"I'm not a murderer! It was defense!" he rasped and coughed through his words. "They were going to ravage the place!" He panted and rolled onto his back. He wasn't about to beg for his life, but he wasn't about to die for something stupid, either. "I had no intention of killing them. I tried not to. But that's just now how it works sometimes." He saw the lion scowling over him, his brow fixed in a deep, unpleasant furrow. Something about it was vaguely familiar to him, like a god was reaching inside to draw out some part of him. For all the things he'd seen in war and in Vierosc's hellish underbelly, it was one of the most unsettling things he could remember.

Finally the lion turned the scowl on the lieutenant. "Well, Galen? Are you going to ask Ethil if those men were going to ravage the place, as he says? If we're going through this farce, will you validate his defense?" The wolf blinked, glanced down at Volod, then back up at the lion.

"Yes, sir," he said. He paused and looked back Volod before he turned sharply into an officious pose and walked back inside. Volod was left with the captain and an uncomfortable view of the sky.

"Listen closely," the captain said quietly, crouching down by his head. It was impossible not to notice that he was wearing plates all the way down to his knees, each one shining with an astonishing brilliance, leather straps holding them in place and dangling around the edges--Volod had never seen such a design before. The lion paused as though sensing his distraction. "I believe in the letter of the law. The king's justice demands dispassionate dispensation. If you killed these men without cause, no matter your situation, your station, your..." he hesitated a moment, waggling a hand at his knee, "your purpose otherwise, I'll have to kill you. Not just because of the law, but because of the convenience of you being here." The way he said it, Volod knew it wasn't specifically about him as he meant it. But... "If you're innocent, you won't know what I mean by that. If you're here for the reason I think you are, you already know you're not leaving here alive." Volod didn't want to meet his gaze, but it was impossible to avoid it. Why couldn't he look away?

"If I had any idea what you meant," Volod started, then shook his head. Gods was he weak, though. Every fiber of him ached from that fight and he felt sick in his stomach. If he never had to feel steel slicing through flesh, chipping bone...

"Lucky for you," the captain said evenly, "the lieutenant is more sure sure that you do not. But," he stood slowly, towering over Volod as big as the sky. "If I find out you know anything--"

"Lord Captain." The lion didn't move, his stony gaze lingering a moment longer.

"Lieutenant."

"Ethil says they were bandits," the wolf spoke in even, measured tones, a long-practiced cadence in his voice that only just hid the frustrations lingering beneath. "They singled him out. She said that maybe they saw him as the biggest threat there, and..." the wolf shot a glance down at him.

"I see," Captain Dormsuire said slowly. Volod's life was thousands of miles away across a damned ocean.

"Shall I return his sword, then?"

"No," the lion frowned. "He's coming north with us. Coincidence and conspiracy are damned hard to tell apart." Volod closed his eyes and tried not to grimace.

The gods fucking hated him

CHAPTER THREE

Krayg raised his bow up, watching the others carefully out of the corner of his eye. Only one set stared back directly at him, the others glancing amongst one another. A delicate but firm grip all at once as he raised it higher then dipped it. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth as he took in a breath and drew the bow across his instrument, producing a chopping, pleasant sound. He watched the beady eyes of the only one in the room he considered remotely close to his equal: the violist sitting across from him, playing the same sharp, staccato of the song's introduction.

The old man to his left played a slow but excited tune on the cello, like a water in a babbling brook: smooth and steady but bubbly and eager underneath the surface. Soon the tune tapered into a long, slow note for the ancient cellist, his fur a bright grey, almost white in his advanced age. The instrument was almost as large as he, the old fox for some reason favoring robes even when playing the damned thing. Seemed silly to wear something so loose and flowing, Krayg felt. Perhaps Master Razmund felt they were still in fashion these years?

The violinist to his right came in, finally, overly sharp as to make up for the player's timidness. In sharp contrast, his fur was especially dark on his head, only contrasting with the grey that tickled at his wrists and chin. Was he some sort of dog? Or maybe a wolf? Krayg could never remember and nor did he rightly care, not even enough to remember his name. The boy's playing was like the edge of a knife and about as subtle, but occasionally that was just what a song called for. Still, everything about him was irritating, especially his face. It looked sunken and weak to Krayg, his entire form looking slighter than it already was each time he glanced at that shy, deep face.

Krayg smiled as he turned his attention away from the others and finally carried the tune, leading it with his violin for the next part of the movement, the development. The ancient cellist toned low so as to be almost inaudible, hidden beneath the swelling of the violins for the moment, before the viola snatched the lead from the two. He was a handsome wolf, this one, always dressed very finely as though he favored discomfort over practicality, even manners of dress. He sat stiffly and held the bow delicately, Krayg noticed, the notes from the treble instruments falling quiet through the recapitulation of the movement. The movements were precise and delicate, like a thin sheet of glass that would snap at the slightest touch. Those middle tones were bright and powerful without any poor qualities that Krayg could immediately pick out, not while he was playing once again. What was the fellow's name? Arghyle? Seemed almost fitting for some reason...

The sound swelled, the bass of the cello growing louder and louder until it overtook all other sounds for a brief moment before quelling itself once again, hiding beneath the surface of the other three. The staccato repeated from the introduction, a fight between violinists and viola before exhausting all three to a slower and slower beat, falling until they all played notes even the cello could match. Then all at once, silence.

His three companions lowered their bows hesitantly, glanced at one another and at Krayg who frowned thoughtfully, bow still poised for the next movement.

"Need we continue just now?" the old fox intoned. His voice wheezed dryly as he patted his chest deeply.

"Well, I suppose not, master," his young canine companion agreed. Ah, right, Krayg thought wryly. The old man sponsored him for this, after all.

"No. But let's not take too long of a break, shall we?" Arghyle's voice was warm and friendly--well practiced, Krayg thought--but his face was hewn into a scowl, the red wolf clearly unhappy at the suggestion. He dared not upset two people, though, being outnumbered. Krayg simply grinned at this. Formidable, indeed.

"Let's!" he agreed with the former. "Perhaps some wine, though? Best not to stay thirsty for this next movement. It is quite...formidable."

"Capacious," the ancient cellist coughed.

"Protracted!" his young companion chimed in as to translate. "He means to say it takes--"

"Yes, yes," Krayg sighed. "We understand what he means. But now for the wine!" He set his violin down carefully, bow resting along the strings as he stood up. Normally he'd have servants tend to the drinks, but this room was very private and very secluded, specifically built to prevent the sound from bleeding out of the walls into neighboring portions of the keep. The young fox stood up sharply and wandered to the side-table set up against the wall, picked up the decanter of wine and nodded approvingly at its weight. "Yes. This should do..."

"None for me, thank you," the red wolf said. His voice was even yet proud.

"Nonesense! I'll only pour you a little instead," Krayg chuckled softly. He was pleasantly surprised by the scent that greeted him upon uncorking the canter. The fruity, pungent smell was heavier than he expected, not like the watered-down stuff elsewhere in the castle. This was exactly what he expected, only...more! "How wonderful," he muttered aloud deliberately as he poured four glasses all equally. He placed them on the pedestal table central to the room and the musicians and was thanked in turn by the old man and his ward. Arghyle wriggled his nose momentarily before raising the glass to signal his appreciation.

"To the sound and beauty of music," the white fox announced, lifting his glass high.

"Aye. And to the ears that may hear and enjoy it!" Krayg beamed down at the trio and lifted his glass high.

"Aye," the other two replied. Krayg smiled and took a drink, pleasantly surprised by the force in the wine. He could barely begin to distinguish the flavors for the pungent power of the alcohol within.

"Goodness! Why this stuff must be as old as you, Master Razmund! To not be watered down like the rest of the swill we keep here."

"Oh," the old man replied, caught off balance by the comment. He wasn't sure if it was meant to be a compliment or insult, it seemed, and Krayg enjoyed an inward smile at that.

"It is...strong," the young canine offered meekly before failing to suppress a cough.

"No. It is merely not mixed like the usual batches. There's no water added to it like the rest of the wine you keep here." Arghyle sipped at his glass and licked his lips. Clearly it was strong even to him. "I hope you don't mean to get us drunk on this, though? There's really no need for that," he suggested politely. "We're here to solidify our peace, after all." Not to get riotously drunk, he meant.

"Oh, no! Not at all," Krayg admitted. "I just felt if we were to start talking of peace again, I might start with something from before the war. So that we may remember such a time," he lied. "A time when we were friends."

"To friends and musicians," the old fox announced.

"Aye," came the rounds before they drank again.

The room grew silent, then. Krayg glanced around at each man's eyes in turn. Arghyle's met his briefly, violin in one hand and cup in the other. He looked away only to set his glass down and when he looked back, Krayg's gaze and shifted to the young nobles. The meek dog was looking into his glass, viola resting over his lap awkwardly, bow dangling from his small finger, caught on a piece of jewelry. He didn't even seem to notice Krayg was staring at him. As for his master, it was always difficult to tell what the old man was looking at with his thick, white fur covering his face and brows. Even so, it was clear that his thoughts reflected his own.

His father, King Birom VII of Garstedt was in talks with the King of Fendara and an emissary from the Kingdom of Akkerd who was sent to mediate the two. Peace would be the topic, but unlike the tenuous sort that had survived the past two years, this would be structured, perhaps even lasting. Something that the people could come to rely on. They could go on about their lives without worrying about once again being uprooted by the tides of war, their farms and livelihoods ran aground by soldiers on either side just to have the lines on the map drawn right back where they were at the start.

"Pardon me for asking, Lord Vrahmel," Arghyle's sharp eyes turned towards Krayg. "Have you any news of your sister? I heard she was missing."

The room became deathly silent. Krayg didn't move a muscle. The young canine tensed audibly, eyes leaping from fox to wolf and back. The old man coughed once then fell silent again, apparently ignorant of the sudden tension. Krayg swallowed before speaking.

"It isn't the first time. She's made a habit of being...disobedient. But I am certain she's well."

"I hope so." He sipped his wine once more then set the glass on the table. "I understood that she was next in line to the throne if she could find a suitable prince to marry. Should she not be--"

"She would be queen, yes, but her husband would be merely a prince," Krayg corrected. "Our laws are not...patriarchal like yours," he continued flatly before taking another drink from his glass. It seemed like it might get empty sooner than he'd like. "She's older than me by mere minutes, but older all the same." Why the king didn't decree that he was born first he would never know. The know-nothing fool, how could he run an entire country if he couldn't even get his household right, his son's birthright? But somehow it had become public knowledge that he had left his mother's womb later than his sister and now there was no way to undo the damage. "We've sent an envoy to retrieve her." It might be worth letting them make her unable to walk while they're at it, he thought darkly.

"I suppose you've not gone because His Highness has forbade it?" Arghyle arched his brow curiously.

"It is perhaps best not to speak of such personal matters, mi'lords," Master Razmund rasped. "Please. Let us return--"

"No, he's correct. My father forbade it. I suppose he wouldn't want to lose his only two children at once. Overcautious, perhaps, but I'm sure he'll want to see us again at some point in his life," Krayg growled, unable to hide the sneer at the corner of his mouth.

"That would seem reasonable," the wolf jabbed at him casually, placing his heavy glass on the table, still quite full of wine. The meek dog next to him looked up through his beady eyes, holding his glass close as though to protect it.

"The music, mi'lords," the old fox insisted tiredly. No one moved or spoke for a long moment until Krayg set his glass down finally and sat back in his chair. The tension vanished from the room at the sound of the chair legs scraping the carpet and the wood creaking subtly as he rested upon the richly cushioned furnishing.

"Yes. The music." He smiled a dark smile and scooped up his instrument. He gripped the bow tightly, letting it rest along his palm like the hilt of his rapier, a finger along the spine. He bounced it in the air, eyeing the tip without glancing at the wolf. "The second movement." He lowered the bow to the strings of the violin, nuzzling his cheek firmly onto the rest before stabbing forward to begin the song again, sharp sounds cutting through the peaceable silence.

***

The camp had stretched out for miles, tents as far as he could see nestled between craggy foothills so much so they looked like part of the mountains, as though jagged rocks had fallen off the mountain. It was only upon closer inspection that it was apparent that these were only tents, sticks and canvas that could be pulled up and hauled out with only minutes of notice. A far cry from the leathers and lumber and stone shapes Snoqualmie knew from the city. It was impressive, actually.

Snoqualmie flexed anxiously but kept a brave face, his dark features pinched into a scowl. He wasn't quite used to the grip of his sword in his hand but at least it wasn't as heavy as he thought it'd be. Lucky thing; they'd been standing with their weapons out for some time. He'd barely stepped into the sprawling camp an hour ago and was already being shoved into a sparring circle.

"I don't know what the fuck plays you've been watching, but that's not how any of this fuckin' works!" He was a big man and he moved quickly. There weren't any ranks in this army, or at least the line went, but clearly some were more equal to whoever was in charge than others. Underneath his leathers and the cotton under-layer, Snoqualmie itched. "Again!" the angry rhino shouted.

The two men took up stances two or three long paces apart, wooden swords in hand. They were cheaply made but solid, made of the hardest scraps around the tent city. Snoqualmie decided he wouldn't be hit by one. After all, they weren't wearing anything but their own armor and he'd just bought his. They didn't even have helms. He watched as they feinted at each other, poking and prodding testily, clearly feeling the same trepidation. They ducked, stepped, slid in the mud just enough to not fall on their faces or arses, indelicate and clumsy as a tavern brawl, only with a clear lack of any hitting of anything other than the odd tap of one sword on another. Eventually the angry man stepped in, grabbed one of them by the collar and threw him into the dirt several strides away in front of Snoqualmie.

"You! Get in here!" Snoqualmie looked down the edge of the sword pointed at him from across the man on his back. Snoqualmie's fur bristled and his muscles tensed, but he didn't move. "Are you jok--" the man stopped himself with a growl then stepped forward. Snoqualmie winced inwardly then stepped forward towards him, slipping around the sword casually pointed at him. "What's your name, deaf man?" the big rhino growled at him.

"Snoqualmie," he grunted out as roughly as he could. Hm, not bad. Confident and deep.

"Hah! Snow, huh?" the rhino grinned, showing off wide, cracked teeth. The other men laughed behind him and he shot them an annoyed look. "One of them ironic names, eh?" Snoqualmie felt the rhino's eyes roam over his ink-black fur pointedly. He grunted as he tossed his sword down out of the mud.

"Gimme the sword," the black wolf snarled. The man on the sword didn't even stand when he handed it up to him. Snoqualmie snatched it and turned to face his opponent. The rhino laughed again then shoved him forward.

"Over here, jackass," the rhino grunted and shoved him again. Snoqualmie stumbled forward, caught himself on the other man. It only seemed the polite thing to do to shove him back to the edge of the circle standing around them. He faced the rhino and shrugged at him. You're a professional. Don't fuck up and look like a damned fool now. His heart was pounding and his armor felt tighter now. "Come at me," the rhino beckoned. Snoqualmie couldn't help but notice he was on the wrong end of a steel sword with nothing more than a glorified stick. But he was a professional. He lunged forward, swung confidently, and felt the stick stop dead in place, turned aside by the rhino's sword. The tip gleamed as it slid forward right for his throat. He froze, his bark arched painfully back, neck taught and hard as he looked down his snout to the blade tickling at his ink-black fur.

"I said hit me!" the rhino snarled and flicked his blade away. Snoqualmie stumbled back in the mud as he was shoved away again. He blinked and swallowed again, mentally checked himself--his armor managed to come away dry it felt like. "Hit me!" the rhino roared. "Hit me, you daft fuck!" he gesticulated. Snoqualmie charged forward, the wooden sword in two hands. He stopped short, turned, put his momentum into a swing, felt it swing right through the rhino. He opened an eye, looked up at him. The big man had stepped back. He got enough of a look to see the large grey blur of a fist before it cracked him in the side of his head. Snoqualmie groaned but didn't hear it for the ringing in his ear. He spat out a curse he didn't hear either. He rubbed at his face as he watched the rhino stomp through the dirt.

"I don't know what kind of plays you've seen," he listened to him say to the circle through his muddied hearing. "I don't know what kind of play-fightin' y'did as kids. But that's just it. That's playin'." Snoqualmie stood up taller and took up what he hoped was a more confident stance. He felt the rhino's eyes on him, felt the other men's eyes follow, and shifted on his feet. He hoped to feint, but he felt the cold, hard steel wind around the wooden sword in his hand and smack him solidly in the chin. He felt the metal vibrate as it bounced off his jaw. "Attack the sword and that's what happens. Your opponent will move right through you, cut you open." Snoqualmie glared up at the bigger man and felt a growl in his throat. This was humiliating. He'd spent a small fortune to get here and this is where the rhino thought it'd end. Not fucking likely. "Attack the man. Swing at the real threat!" The rhino finally took up a stance against him, something that looked actually threatening. Snoqualmie couldn't help but to grin to himself, the pain in his face turning a little pleasant in a way, almost sweet.

He stepped forward, turned his feet and took another step and swung again. The steel sword caught his wooden one, twisted, gave him a moment to step back and turn. He slid forward and brought his wooden weapon down, found it caught on the rhino's crossguard. He stepped awkwardly and found the rhino turn with him, bringing the sword down near his face. Without thinking, he grabbed the steel sword at the cross guard and stopped it. Surprisingly, it worked. He heard the scraping of steel on leather somewhere nearby then saw the flash of bare metal as the rhino pushed a dagger near his face. Snoqualmie's breath caught and he blinked at the bright blade. The rhino flashed his cracked teeth at him.

"Always keep an extra blade on ya. You never know when you'll need it!" Snoqualmie swallowed then turned his eyes from the blade to the rhino. All the men that had fought had left a pile of blades nearby: swords, knives, daggers, even clubs. Snoqualmie felt the reassuring weight of his own dagger batting at his hip and grinned at the rhino.

"I'll keep that in mind." He let go of the sword, stepped back then took up his sword and shoved it back into its sheath. He had never felt so alive.

***

"So," Captain Dorsmuire leaned forward in the dim light of the tent. His gold eyes glittered as they bored into Volod from across the table, "you claim you're from Viegorod." He absently dug his claws into the table, scratching at the worn wood. "Tell me how you got here." He held a dour expression, one that harbored no humor and no patience.

"I don't know," Volod bit his words off. "I woke up here after a brutal journey in a ship." Six thousand miles from home, give or take. He still couldn't believe it himself.

"Why were you on the ship?"

"I don't know!" Volod repeated.

"Then why do you think you're here?" the captain's face darkened as he pressed Volod for more.

"I've no idea," Volod sighed wearily. His gaze faltered and he looked down at the small table. He wanted to say more, but nothing came to him. No ideas, no answers. After all, why does one kidnap a penniless man and drag him to the other side of the world instead of simply killing him? "But I want to get back," he said quietly.

"To Garstedt?"

"To Viegorod!"

"What's there? Why do you want to get back at all?" Captain Dormsmuire eyes remained fixed upon Volod as he took in a deep breath. He started to say one thing but the words wouldn't come out. There were just too many answers rushing all at once. Until:

"Olyg. I need to make sure he's okay." His heart suddenly pounded in his chest, his blood burning with frustration. "I need to get back!"

"Perhaps. But I need to ask some questions, first."

"Why?" Volod snapped. "I had to defend myself! You heard the lieutenant! He said so himself! I have to get back home! I've already been here too long!" Volod sucked in a deep breath and dropped his head into his bound hands. "I mean, I can appreciate that you have to worry about this, but truly..." he trailed off.

"You killed three men! While you were unarmed! While they were in armor! The only sort of people I would think capable of that are assassins!" Volod shot a glare at the captain who sat unflinching. "Now, tell me why you're here!"

Volod's eyes flicked back up to the lion's. "You've keep trying to get me to say something incriminating! Why do you think I'm lying?" The big lion bristled and drew himself up, his mane growing into a more impressive--and more intimidating--shape around his glowing breastplate.

"It doesn't matter what I think. It's about what I know. And I know that you showed up at a particularly...unfortunate time." Volod's brow arched up. "And I know, according to my lieutenant whom I trust intrinsically and especially, that you're an exceptionally adept swordsman," he shrugged his large shoulders. "I don't know how you dispatched those men without any armor or weapons to speak of, but you did. You're clearly dangerous. Just the sort of man we really don't want around our, er, around our civilians." Volod grinned wryly and sat back. He tried to fold his arms but found them tangled up in the rope. It only slightly spoiled the effect.

"Ah!" the horse showed his flat teeth. "There was something about that cargo, wasn't there? Wasn't just some food or water. It's something special! Something I'm not supposed to know about, isn't it?" The lion grinned back, showing his bright, sharp teeth.

"You know, I could kill you if I even suspected you knew!" Dormsmuire chuckled dryly.

"And yet, here I sit!" Volod matched his vicious expression, and, for a while, a silence hung between them.

"Well," the captain said suddenly and stood up. "Here's the rub. I am a man of Fendara. A man of the law. An instrument to both--"

"And not a soldier?" Volod asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"I am. They are one and the same to me. Which means as such, it is not my duty to pass judgment on you in matters of the law that reside outside of my domain. After all, I have no interest in killing men that are, in fact, innocent. And your case is an interesting one, to be sure."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means I don't care to be responsible for investigating and judging and executing the law single-handedly in this specific situation."

"Then why have you detained me? Why are you questioning me for details at all?" Volod shrugged as broadly as the ropes allowed and leaned heavily against the table as he fought to keep the frustration from his voice.

"Because I need to know if you'll be a threat to me and my men or to our mission." The captain drew his mouth into a thin line. "I could fabricate a plausible scenario that would justify killing you as an enemy agent or bandit or would-be saboteur. But that's not what I feel is right or just. It's not what the law is for." He pressed palm against the table and leaned over Volod. "And the law is meant to be followed. It is divine and fair and carefully calculated. And in Fendara, we enjoy our freedoms because of our divine king and his laws. To fabricate charges and kill you would undermine our holy pacts and lead us down a dark and bloody road." Volod felt his face starting to burn the longer the captain talked. "Instead, I would like to ensure I can complete my mission and take you to the magistrate at the nearest fort for a fair trial, for a fair chance under the laws provided in Fendara. If you're an agent of Fendara with an elaborate cover story, they'll unravel it and deal with you accordingly. But if you are, indeed, a man displaced on foreign shores for...whatever reason it is, they'll set you free to be on your way."

"There's another 'if' I sense," Volod growled.

"If," the captain glared darkly at him, the embers of the brazier blazing in his eyes, "I feel you are a danger to my mission or my men, I will kill you where you sit, stand, or sleep as I see fit, and I will not hesitate when I do."

"And you will make sure it's legal," Volod muttered caustically. Dormsmuire nodded his agreement. "You want to know what I think of the law, then?"

"Please! Tell me." As the captain grew more sure of his power over him, Volod could feel his excitement growing. It was maybe petty, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"You may want to sit down for this then," he grinned darkly at the lion. Captain Dormsmuire mouthed a word, his ears perked up before he sat down.

"Do go on!"

"The law made me a slave."

"A prisoner, you mean."

"No," Volod said flatly. "A slave. I was a child, no more than eleven."

"What did you do?"

"Whatever they told me to do. Mostly I--"

"No, I mean why did they take you to be a slave?"

"Oh, I used to ask myself that every night and every morning." Volod sighed and shook his head. He could feel his eyes burning but he blinked it away. "Maybe I was in the wrong orphanage at the wrong time?" Maybe my father fell in line with some bad people and found me before I killed him? He chewed his lip for a long moment before continuing. "Whatever it was, they forced me into the fighting pits underground. I worked cleaning up, treating wounds, then as I got old enough, they put me up as a prizefighter, too. Only I never got the money for it." Volod thought he would've felt more joy out of seeing the captain deflate, but instead, he only felt more bitter about it. Volod knew he was being cruel to him and it only hurt to continue. But now that he started, he couldn't stop. "Later, they made me fight as a mercenary. But again, they kept all the money. After all, they gave me food and water and all of my equipment. I was just paying it back with interest."

"And that's what made it legal?" Dormsmuire asked. Volod grinned a wry smile.

"Now you're getting it."

"Alright," the captain sat back and chewed on his cheek for a moment, arms folded over his breastplate. "Let's assume for the moment that you're an agent of Garstedt--"

"I'm not."

"For the sake of this argument, let's assume that you are. And that you've been given an elaborate story." Dormsmuire paused and took in a deep breath. "I could ask you more questions and try to poke holes in your story, see if you slip up and give yourself away."

"On the other hand: I'm not." Volod repeated steadfastly.

"On the other hand, if you're not, I could be asking you to relive some awful, awful events. And, if they're true, I can understand your displeasure at..." he winced as though he'd swallowed a rotten bit of food, "your displeasure at the law, at least of Viegorod," he hastened to add. "At the very least, I'm still looking for only one thing right now." "Will you cooperate?"

Volod closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. His body burned and throbbed with the bruises of being tossed around in a ship, with the deep weariness of being dehydrated and starved for days, with the lingering exhaustion of facing death in combat. He wanted nothing more than to be home and nothing less than to let some bureaucrat decide his fate. He sighed heavily and sank into the chair.

"Alright. For what it's worth, you have my word." He looked Dormsmuire in the eye. "But, I have one request. Since I don't trust the law or those who swear by it, I will put my faith and my life in someone I think we both agree we can trust." A small smile crept over Dormsmuire's face.

"Lieutenant Galen." Volod matched his smile.

"Yes. I'll be his responsibility." Volod offered his hand, the other following bound in the ropes. The lion's smile grew and he shook his hand firmly.

"Agreed." Volod didn't have to look to know the captain's left hand hadn't left the hilt of his sword the whole time.

CHAPTER FOUR

Volod sprinted. The metallic taste of blood and mud filled his mouth. His mane tore at his face, tangled and matted in places. The dark sky hung low above him with thick blankets of clouds and smoke, a black backdrop for the sun blazing amongst the fires razing the city walls. Galen ran beside him, and behind him a round but quick, cloaked figure

Mud and roots slapped at his hooves and threatened to tangle them, trip him. A lone arrow tugged his mane in front of his face, dropped it back on his shoulder. He risked a glance back, ignoring his instincts. He saw a blur just as the massive paw slammed across his face. He swayed off balance, his hooves crossed over one another, and then he fell on his hips hard. The huge monster of a man fell on him, pinned Volod's sword to his chest, the flat slapping down against his ribs before grinding painfully into them through his shirt and skin. The man was incredible and naked, his fur caked with dirt and blood until Volod couldn't tell where his fur color ended and the filth began. The monster roared and spat blood and saliva over Volod's face, viscera and gore soaking his face. Volod felt his heart in his throat, pounding so hard he could barely see. He let out a helpless, weak noise, an embarrassing sound. The weight pressed mercilessly against him as the beast reared an arm back, blood-soaked claws glistening through the fierce rain. Volod closed his eyes and chose not to die today. Never to die.

He thrust his fist out, opened his eyes just in time to see it shove down the beast's gullet, surprising them both. The weight on his chest barely slipped off, but it was enough. He tore his sword free and whipped it, using all the strength he could muster in such a cramped space. He felt the jaws close around his other arm and howled out. The sword swung through thick fur, hard muscle, stopped somewhere in the beast's shoulder as he reeled back. Volod kicked and thrashed his way on the mud and turned away.

The world changed into something else then: where mud had been there was dust and rock, crags jutting from hard ground. Soldiers' bodies littered rocky terrain, pools of black and red running from their corpses. A shriek tore across the sky above and froze Volod's blood. He tore his sword from underneath himself, stood to look up and fell on his knee when he found his leg didn't work. Warm blood ran down from a thick gash in his thigh, cloth and skin flapping loosely.

The ground shook, the massive white dragon landing in front of him. He knew its name somehow, the word tickling at the edge of his mind. His body burned but not from the sour and sulfuric air. He drew in a breath and shuddered, gathered his injured leg under himself and stood ready, sword fast in his grip as the dragon drew near. This time, he wouldn't wait. He'd make the first move.

Something gripped his arm as he swung, held him back. The dragon grinned at him, its ugly lips peeling back to show the dark, stained teeth underneath.

"Wake up," it said in an unearthly voice. "Wake up, little one!"

Volod turned and threw a punch at the wolf holding his arm back. The man turned away and took hold of his arm. "Wake up! You're having a nightmare!" Galen shouted and shook him.

"Get control of him, lieutenant! Control him or I'll run him through myself!" the captain barked. Volod blinked, his blood cold and muscles weak, tears filling his eyes. He blinked again to clear his eyes and fell back, held up by Galen's grip on his wrists. The wolf let go and sat back, panting hotly.

"Volod..." he trailed off. A pregnant silence hung in the air as he glanced from the lieutenant to the captain and back. Volod's heart was pounding in his chest. He felt like he'd run for days.

"I'm--"

"Don't say anything, Volod," Galen said cautiously. Volod saw the captain's hand slide off from the hilt of his sword before he drew his cloak over it.

"Get him dressed. Tie his arms up." Galen started to argue, but one look in the lion's eyes stopped him short. He sank down and lowered his ears. A guilty look spread over his face as his eyes locked on Volod's.

"I'm sorry, Galen. I had no idea..." the horse trailed off, a terrified frown marring his face. Galen shook his head.

"The fort is five miles away. You'd damn well better keep your head about you," the captain grunted, a sharp, white tooth standing out against his bright, golden fur. "Unless you'd like it on a pike at the gate." He tugged his indigo cloak behind him and slid through the tent flaps, leaving Volod alone with Galen.

***

"One more day. Fifteen more miles." The Captain announced it to Volod as though he were a friend, but the horse just turned his head from him.

"You're lucky I'm the kind of man I am," he snorted. His wrists were sore and raw from the ropes, but he'd long since ignored the feeling.

"How's that?" the lion inquired.

"I've been here before," he shrugged his shoulders. "Dragged by a rope against my will, taken captive by people I don't know, for reasons I don't know. There have been many a man who once would have me call them master." He snorted again. The lion shook his head and his mane swayed around him like an old oak tree in the breeze.

"This isn't personal, horse. It's the law. Shouldn't be hard to figure that out, should it?"

"Law or not, it makes no difference to me. A slave is a prisoner is a slave."

"I don't know how many times I can tell you that if you kill a man and the motivation is," the lord captain trailed off and wagged his palm at the air, "dubious, then we must try you." Volod tensed and sucked in a deep breath through his nose, his flat teeth pressed hard together until they nearly scraped. He took a few steps, then breathed out slowly, his chest and fur sinking back down. Still, he didn't say anything."Even if we're not sure you're one of our citizens, even if we have to do it on the spot, we have to follow the law. After all, it is decreed by the King and Council."

"The law says to tie me up and drag me by a cart then?" Volod gave a wry smirk. "Seems kinda backwards for a horse." The Captain's hand tensed on the hilt of his sword, then relaxed. It hadn't wandered away the entire time they had walked together. Since they'd tied Volod to the cart, in fact. Lieutenant Galen had been up front leading the entourage flanked by a knight and an engineer. It seemed the captain had decided to keep an eye on everything from here, even the prisoner.

"Why were you dragged along last time, then?" the Captain asked suddenly. Volod winced then chewed his lip into a scowl.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he muttered. His legs were still sore from whatever had happened out on the ocean and walking for a day had not helped. "It wasn't for murder, though." He looked in the Captain's eyes for the first time. It's just Dormsmuire, he thought. I can't keep thinking of his rank like that.

"Hmm," was all the lion said. The cart squeaked and groaned as it was pulled along the hard-packed road.

"Why haven't you tried me then?" Volod asked.

"Hmm?" the lion said again.

"You said you could try me on the spot. But you haven't. 'Least not so far as I can tell."

"Well," the lion started as though he knew exactly why, but just as suddenly, he looked at a loss. "Because I can't say it." His eyes flashed as they darted over the horizon. "I can't say because to do so might endanger our mission." Volod groaned. That answer could not have possibly been any less satisfying. "So, off to the magistrate with you. Whoever is at Fort Three Rivers will have to decide your case."

"Yeah? That hardly seems fair to me," Volod grunted. "Think about it, my welcoming party consists of a bunch of bandits intent on ransacking me for rags and a magistrate that may or may not think I'm some sort of enemy agent." He grunted again then spat into the dirt. The lion didn't say anything but his hand kept a tight grip on the hilt of his sword. "Hm! I've been starving for days and if it weren't for that badger, I might not even be able to walk for lack of food. But yeah, you worry about me giving you a fight, hands bound and all!"

"I worry about you being a fool," the captain glared at him. He was only a few inches taller but it was enough to make Volod pull back from him under his gaze.

"I didn't survive through the things I have by being a fool." The lion cocked his brow at him. "I've chosen to survive, always."

"And what have you survived then?" Dormsmuire's feline ears perked up and his lips curled at the edge of his mouth in a genuinely curious expression. Volod grinned wryly at him.

"I take it you've not seen my scars, have you?" Volod watched his expression change, his jaw set against Volod's defiance. "We'd be here all day if I went through the list of things. But let's say among the most recent have been being shipwrecked, starved, kidnapped," Volod turned to look at Captain Dormsmuire pointedly "--first by some bandits, then by you-- and, perhaps, in my near future, there may be an execution or imprisonment." Volod drew himself up and bored his eyes into the lion's own, "Neither of which I intend to allow."

"Cart,halt!" Galen commanded from up front. Volod nearly ran into the thing as it stopped quickly. Captain Dormsmuire grumbled something and strode towards the problem up front. Volod felt his fur bristle but didn't understand why. He didn't care. He wanted to get off his hooves. He sat on the cart wheel, awkwardly perched as he leaned against the sturdy side. Fuck, it felt good, though.

He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could feel the scar in his right hand throbbing through the raw pain in his wrists, the pulsing in the bruises on his legs; even his ankles felt battered, but that was more likely from the starvation and thirst he had suffered only days ago. Marching hard, long miles so soon was itself a crime.

A man approached, steps lighter than the captain's, lacking the rattle of his armor. Volod smirked and opened his eyes slowly. A dark-furred kangaroo held out a sword and a knife.

"'Bout time we found ya," the cloaked man grinned. Volod held his hands out for the man to cut the ropes off.

"It's good to see you, too," Volod smiled.

***

The first sign of trouble was the familiar whistle, then the sharp pain in Galen's belly. He glanced down, saw the wood jutting out from his stomach, the feathers wavering in the wind. He stumbled back against the cart and heard the cries to battle around him, distant and flat in his ears. He felt over the cart behind him and clutched at the arrow in his gut and winced as he felt the steel turn inside him.

"Stay back!" He jumped when Captain Dormsuire slap a huge paw on his shoulder, the lions eyes focused and sharp as he peered into the forest around them. In a flash, he charged forward, sword in hand as he stood in front of his soldiers, quickly deflecting the first strike against him with a loud crash of metal on metal. Only then did Galen hear the sound of leather on steel as his comrades drew their weapons. Galen snarled and started to draw his own blade only to find his arm immediately brush against the arrow sticking out from him. He gagged at the sickening feeling, then, with a hard effort, dragged his left hand up to pull his sword free in an awkward movement. If he died from blood loss from the arrow, so be it, but he would not die of cowardice waiting for his men to be slaughtered before him.

Another arrow sang its song then slammed into the cart beside him, narrowly missing his neck. Galen snarled and started forward just to be dragged back again. A flash of steel blurred in front of him, a growl in his ear, a white shirt under some leather, a kangaroo snarling some curse at him. The look didn't last long. He heard him groan out, could almost feel the hard steel push through the other man's boiled leathers. Galen turned and saw Volod behind him, pressing the sword through before he kicked the man off the blade. The stallion shot him a meaningful glance then turned to the next, his movements graceful and measured. This was his dance.

The huge horse slid from one movement to the next, the weapon arcing smoothly into one attack, cutting cleanly through an arm before sliding forward over the armor into the chest underneath, out again. Another elegant step and a turn to avoid a stumbling knight. Volod turned and the sword turned with him, chopping the man's head off before he even knew what hit him. Volod had no armor on him and blades were all around him. Somehow, though, he managed to avoid them all, turning some in the confusion of battle. Galen wanted to call out to his soldiers, the confusion already apparent. But Volod dealt with it himself, guiding their weapons with his own as he charged into the thick of it. Galen should have been there, too.

He started to walk forward but the arrow turned inside him and he fell on his knees, and winced, tears in his eyes as he hit the ground. He snarled and snapped the shaft the arrow without thinking, but it was useless. He moved his foot to stand up but his body turned against him, his armor riding up to catch what was left of the arrow stuck between the plates. He glanced up and saw Volod strike down another man, burying his blade in the bandit's chest. It stuck there and Volod was forced to fight unarmed and unarmored again. The next fool didn't see it coming when Volod stepped in and grabbed his sword arm, pulled the dagger from the bandit's belt and stuck him with it, once, twice, then a third time in the groin where he had no armor, just to be sure he'd go down. He pulled the sword from the aardwolf's hand just in time to stop the brunt of the mace coming at him, but not quickly enough for the kick in his stomach. Volod went down to his knee just in time for the Captain's sword to swing over him and into the bandit that had kicked him. Galen wasn't even sure that he had meant to miss Volod, but the horse didn't care. He shoved the huge lion back as he stood up, chopped into the bandit's leg, then, without missing a beat, turned the hilt into the lynx's jaw. When he fell, Volod didn't even bother to look before he shoved his hoof down on the feline's face.

"Sound off!" the captain roared out. Galen looked around and didn't see any more bandits, just his stumbling comrades.

"The Rose Knights stand tall, four strong!"

"Royal Engineers! Four strong!" Lophlier's voice pierced Galen's hearing.

"Five strong!" another voice replied. One of theirs had still fallen.

An arrow snapped through branches in the forest then smacked into Dorsmuire's plate armor, bouncing off otherwise harmlessly. Volod stormed off into the dark tangle of woods on his own, a stolen sword in his hand. The absolute hero. The absolute fool.

"Form up," Captain Dormsmuire gestured and drew back towards Galen, not letting his eyes leave the forest. Dutifully, the engineers withdrew with him and the knights formed in front, shields facing out. No arrows would bother them now.

Galen sat up against the side of the cart as best he could. It was awkward and it didn't make the damn arrow hurt any less, but at least he wouldn't be in danger from any more lucky shots like that one. Volod, though...that beautiful idiot was running into who knew what. And why? They didn't need to chase them down. The only reason he'd go after them is if he let his emotion get in the way. As a professional, he'd work with his men and rely on tactics and team work. Someone like Volod, though--he was clearly meant to fight alone. The way he slid through combat, narrowly avoiding death from friend and foe alike, protected by little more than woven cotton clothing. Galen shuddered at how easily an ugly death could have come to him. But Volod was different. He threw himself into the thick of battle to protect them when he could just as easily let them get caught up in the fight and run off. He was a herbivore, after all, and food and water was all around them here.

"Lieutenant," the captain's gaze didn't turn towards him, locked on the forest searching for more archers. For Volod. "You alright?"

"I took an arrow, sir," Galen grunted. Dormsmuire blinked, and for a brief moment, Galen thought he saw him wilt into his armor. The lion turned back on him and quickly crouched next to him.

"How bad?" the captain frowned. Galen thought he could almost hear his old friend's heart pounding in his armor, worried as he was.

"You ever been shot before, sir?" he snorted a wry chuckle at him.

"Only in muscle," he muttered and shook his head, his fingers gently prodding at the wound. Galen winced and complained but didn't fight him. The lion paused and thought for a second, looked up, jerked the arrow that had missed Galen earlier and examined the head of it. Satisfied, he cast it aside and gave Galen's shoulder a squeeze. "I can pull it out, but it will be a whole new sort of pain you've never felt. You'll bleed for a long while, even if I stitch you up. Otherwise I could push it through and it'd do less damage, need less bandaging and treatment. But..." his face tightened into a grim line "there's a good chance I'd lose it."

"That's not particularly appealing, is it?" Galen laughed dryly then winced. "Pull the fucker out. I'll live with the pain and blood." Then, with a heavy sigh: "It will be far from the first time," he muttered.

"Captain!" one of the knights shouted. Galen still had some trouble putting names to voices. He was still new, after all. "The horse is back." The captain stood up and shook his head at Galen.

"Take his weapon and secure him." Galen watched as two of the knights stripped the bloodied sword from his hand and tossed it into the dirt. The big horse barely protested until he was shoved down to his knees. Galen's heart jumped and he felt his blood turn from cold to hot in an instant.

"Captain!" Dormsmuire shot Galen a brief scowl before he drew his sword, his knuckles bulging in a tight grip. Volod wasn't guilty of anything! What was he doing?

"For the crime of attempting to escape the King's justice," Captain Dormsmuire boomed officiously, "I sentence you to death!" The knights forced Volod forward, his head rolling and mane whipping as he tried to pull free.

"Captain!" Galen cried again, standing and teetering against the cart. "This is foolish!" he barked. Fuck. That was not the right word to use. "Apologies, captain, I did not--"

"Lieutenant," the big lion turned slowly, his broad shoulders all but blotting out the sun from Galen's view. Gods, but he was a tall man compared to him. "You had better choose your next words carefully, for even I don't know the consequences if you don't." The lion's mane flared out with the fury plain in his face.

"He helped us! Saved us! He pulled me out of the way of a blade, cut down several of the bandits before they could strike you and others..." he trailed off weakly and bent over, wincing with the arrow shifting in his gut. He clutched the shaft tightly and kept it from turning any further in him. "That sword he has--it isn't one of ours, nor his. He took it from one of them!" But from who? He looked around and the answer was right there next to him. He pointed at the corpse just behind the cart. "Look! His sheath is emptied and he's bleeding from his belly, knife still in his hand!" The captain's scowl only twisted to the other side of his face.

"And still, he failed to warn us," he shot back darkly.

"Captain," Galen felt a snarl pulling at his own face. "This...this isn't us! We fight for justice! He is a man far from home, a man trying to survive! We can't kill citizens on nothing but suspicion of wrong-doing! We need proof!"

"We know nothing of him but that he is a soldier capable of killing as easily as any other! Look at what he's done!"

"This man did what any of us would have done. More, in fact! If I were him, I wouldn't want to have stayed tied up while combat waged on around me. I would have let him cut me free, too! The difference is, if I'm honest, I would have hid or run after that. This fool, without any armor and probably with hands he could barely feel properly, took a weapon into battle, charged right into the thick of it, and fought with us. Not against us! How is it justice to kill him now?"

"Then what, lieutenant? We tie him back up and hope he doesn't escape us again? We let him go and hope he doesn't become one of them?"

"Galen..." the lion finally lowered his guard and gathered Galen carefully before laying him down. "You're okay," he said in a fatherly voice.

"Get off!" Galen protested. The movement made the arrow twist inside him and he wanted to throw up. He shoved at the lion then winced. "Get this thing out of me, fuck's sake!"

"You'll be okay! We'll get it!" the old lion said. He was trying to be reassuring but the more he said it, the less comfortable it made Galen feel. "Where's that fucking horse..!" he snarled then looked back at the knights. "Secure the prisoner! Get that weapon out of his hands!"

Galen laid on his back, panting and clutching at his stomach. Shot in the fucking belly. Useless in the fight. What rotten fortune. He stared at the blue sky, ignored the stirring of people around him.

"They've fled, captain." Galen recognized the voice but not well enough to put it to a name now. "We'll stand watch."

"Horgrun, secure the prisoner! Lophlier! Handle the other casualties. I've got Ga--the lieutenant." Galen winced and grit his teeth. The arrow had to come out. He gripped the shaft tightly and started to tug it but the captain tugged his hand away. "Stop that. You do that, and you'll bleed out in a minute. I need to get the stitches ready first! Just...hold this." Galen watched the lion pull a cloth from his belt and press it over his wound. "I'll be right back. Don't pull it, got it? Just leave it." It wasn't often Galen got to see that expression on his face, but it was unnerving. It was gone in a moment, replaced with fury.

Volod had returned at some point, though Galen wasn't sure exactly when. He sat up enough to watch as two of the knights dragged him down to his knees, his arms wrenched behind his back. Dormsmuire's hand flexed around the hilt of his sword, fingers working around the grip anxiously.

"I did no such thing!" the horse roared back. "They thought I'd help them and cut me free!" Galen pulled himself up urgently, clutching at the arrow to hold it still. Gods damn the luck of it.

"Captain! Let him be! He saved us! He saved me!" The captain turned his fierce gaze on Galen and he sank back. "He was not with the bandits. They must have mistook him for their comrades back at the inn." He panted with an effort, his head spinning from the exhaustion and blood loss. His thigh felt warm. There must've been a lot of blood there. "He pulled me out of the way...saved you, too. You didn't even see it." The lion stood tall for a long moment and set his jaw. Galen sat up as the captain slowly walked closer until he towered over him.

"I want to make one thing clear, lieutenant." His voice was heavy with the weight of his rank. "I trust your testimony. But if you ever undermine my command, it will be an act of insubordination, no matter how long we've known each other." Galen was starting to see two of him, weaving in and out as his head bobbed. Galen swallowed then nodded emphatically.

"Duty before friendship," he twisted his lip in a wry smirk, then added, "sir?"

"Exactly right." The lion frowned deeply at him and Galen melted under the look. The captain wasn't disappointed in him, he was concerned. But he couldn't look weak in front of his men. Duty before friendship, after all. "Let the horse go. He is to remain unarmed. Right now, we need to treat our casualties. Sir Erak! Fetch me a suture kit."

Galen sighed and laid back. He looked up at the sky and remembered how he would run to the fields when he was young, run through the city streets and sleep on the edge of the farms to escape for a little while. It was calming, serene. He found he thought about it a lot after a rough day when he couldn't sleep. Right now, though, he knew the last thing he needed was sleep. But he just felt so tired...

"Alright, Galen. Let's get you patched up. Don't be embarrassed to yell if it helps." Galen felt the captain's huge paws on him, one on his hip, the other around the broken arrow stuck in him. "Ready?" Galen started to nod but Dormsmuire jerked the arrow suddenly. Galen's body screamed awake and he clutched at his wound. "That's it," the aging lion smiled wryly. "Live, Galen. Dying is too easy. Remember the pain."

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