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Lieutenant Arve Sutheray, a militia commander, is dispatched to keep the peace in the new settlement of Marimay, where good fences are doing anything but making good neighbors. And how else do you bring cowboys and farmers together?

Here's a standalone story set in the mixed-fantasy steampunk universe of An iron road running, Storm warnings, etc. Pretty simple. Pretty uncomplicated. Border collie cavalrymen and Border collie cowgirls, mmf <3 Thanks to Spudz for corralling the errors and helping me with the branding! He may be domestic, and I may be wild, but territory folks should stick together ;)

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

"Territory folks," by Rob Baird

---

Once it was that they never would've ventured beyond the safety of the Pale without the force of an army behind them. Now? Now it was only Arve Sutheray and six others, and even Captain K'nErryn had seemed to fancy the assignment a little bit of a joke when he gave it. Peacekeeping!

In centuries gone by, keeping the peace had been the job of the Iron Pale. Twenty feet tall, stretching from the White Sea all the way down to where it joined its counterpart on the southern border of the Iron Kingdom. To the west, civilization; to the east stretched away the boundless wastes that separated them from the great rivers and kingdoms of the far continent.

The last of the major raids had happened in living memory, but now they were sporadic and small. The patrols had done much to help that -- the patrols he'd ridden on, as a boy, in the junior branch of the militia. Twenty and thirty and more leagues beyond the safety of the Pale he'd seen the last of the wastes, before the settlers began to arrive. And now, with the railroad coming, and the steady march of civilization, out east to the sunrise...

Now, to hear their captain tell it, the problem was not predation but rather political squabbling. Strange thing for a militiaman to be tasked with, let alone one blooded in the fierce campaigns of the southern jungles. Arve did not look like a peacemaker. His green jacket was neat and crisp, but the glint of the polished brass buttons had nothing on the Border collie's sharp eyes.

Sharper still was the saber at his left side. The black scabbard was scarred from travels all across Aernia's frontiers, but the steel that it shielded was as deadly as the day it had first been forged. More than a few barbarians had found that out the hard way. The men carried pistols, but only as a last resort; most of the time they hung unused.

They were not common soldiers, the seven, but members of a proper clan militia -- for it was the right of all the old eastern lords to summon armed men under their own flag. Together they formed the Bannered Militia, independent of the King's Own Army and far more fearsome. Some of them now fought with pistols and rifles, but the Banner of Kite's Blood held to their swords as if bonded. The sash of silver-fringed crimson that adorned each cavalryman's uniform spoke to their allegiance and their shared history.

The seven riders were all combat veterans, and Lieutenant Sutheray had to assume that they'd been sent to the east for a reason. With luck, he'd find out what the matter was soon enough -- for now, he was content to enjoy the ride. The world was always more intelligible from astride a proper cavalryman's horse.

Officially they were no longer in the Iron Kingdom, though it wasn't like anyone else could really make a claim to the land. And in only a few short years the homesteaders had turned it into something that looked remarkably like anything else on the eastern plains of the Kingdom -- gentle farms, and stone houses; here and there a windmill.

"Might even be home, eh?"

Arve turned to the man riding beside him. "Hope you'd not rather be in the south."

There were worse places to be than civilization, and Dunnish knew it. The mongrel dog gave a broken-toothed grin, shaded by the wide brim of a lopsided hat. "Not so bloody hot up here, at least. You know where we're going?"

Arve raised his finger; pointed out to where, on the horizon, the hills shielded a few wisps of rising smoke.

"A town?"

"Well..."

Captain K'nErryn hadn't gone that far, and when they crested the final ridge Arve understood why: the "town" of Marimay was all of six buildings. Three were clearly houses, and one looked like the beginnings of a combined silo and mill. The largest structure was a wooden-framed inn and bar that served, according to his orders, as the town hall and meeting-house. But he also found a post office -- an outpost of the King's Own mail and parcel service, and the closest anyone had yet come to declaring that Marimay was more than simply some homesteader's folly.

Arve dismounted, leaving Dunnish to take care of the horses and the rest of the patrol -- not that it was worth the name any more than Marimay was worth being called a town. The door to the central building was unlocked, although, upon closer examination, there was also no glass in the windows.

"Ah!" The sound of the door opening drew the attention of a barrel-chested dog who had been busy stacking what passed for store goods. "You must be our sheriff, then?"

Arve shook his head. "No. Your what?"

"The law. By the gods, we could use it. You are with the militia?"

Who else would be wearing a soldier's uniform? Arve straightened to attention, and the Border collie dipped his muzzle in confirmation. "Lieutenant Arve Sutheray, aye. They sent me and the rest of my squad on request of a... a 'Mett'?"

"Reald Mett, that's me. Seven of you, all told? Space'll be tight, but -- well. Not like the inn has much traffic, now, do it?" He chortled, and rummaged about in one of the boxes until he found what he was looking for -- a key, cheaply made, that was for effect as much as anything else. "Just one room."

"It will have to do. I'm more concerned about the horses..."

"You and the damned -- ah, excuse my language; I don't mean to be cross. Just been tough times out here, you know?"

He didn't; nobody really knew what happened out beyond the Pale. Beyond the Pale was the domain of homesteaders and ranchers, operating with neither law nor royal mandate. Whenever either threatened to appear, the settlers had a way of moving eastward. Sunrisers, they sometimes called them. Migrants. Wanderers. "The... harvest?" Arve guessed.

"Harvest wasn't so bad. Good enough that we could afford to buy some interest for that post office you see out there. Service once a month, can you believe that? Just like a proper town -- bet you don't have much better than that in... where are you from? Chauserlin?"

"Blenharrow. It's a smaller town." He didn't bother to correct Mett about the mail service, which ran twice-weekly. "If not the harvest, and if not the King..." And not raiders, because if there'd been activity along the frontier the militia would've known. That, at least, they were kept well aware of. "How many people are you here? Three houses..."

Mett raised his finger to halt the implication: how much trouble can you bastards be getting into, anyway? "Three families live here. Eight of us, all told. But with the farmers, now, that's nearly thirty! And if you count the cattlemen... I don't, but if you did, it would be fifty `or more. We're on the map, anyhow, don't you agree?"

If it had been on the map, finding it would not have taken triangulation and the work of their best scouts. The postal service hadn't been much more help; once a month service was, itself, probably not in terribly great demand. "Fine, then. Fifty settlers. Why did you call for the militia?"

"Why, to keep the peace!"

"From?"

The door flew open again, backed by a heavy fist that was, in turn, followed by a heavier wolf. His eyes were fierce. "Raldi -- you'd best be telling me this is your damned army here! Came down as soon as I heard they were about!"

"That's right," Reald smiled. "Lieutenant Sutheray, this is Mr. Hastal Abarrochie -- one of those farmers I mentioned! He's very fond of wheat. Hastal, Sutheray here is a proper soldier -- now, you know, they don't have any other kind in the March."

"He can write warrants?"

Arve tilted his head. "Warrants? Who are you planning on arresting? And where would you store them? You don't exactly have a jail."

"Aye," Hastal grunted. "Wouldn't it be a shame if you didn't bring 'em back alive?"

"Who?"

"Take your pick." Mett sounded rather like he'd had a similar discussion before, and Arve half-suspected that the militia had been called in mostly to have someone else to try and talk Abarrochie into his senses. "In this case, it's, what? Is it Caren again?"

"He's certainly the latest!" Hastal unslung a sack from about his shoulder, reached into it, and pulled out a charred piece of wood. "Will you look at this? Look at it, damn you, Raldi. You promised me..."

Arve used his stature -- which was to say both that he was in uniform, and also that he stood half a foot over either of the other men -- to take the wood before Reald could grab it. The remnants of a campfire? A torch? "What is this from?"

"My bloody fence. Now, Raldi, you swore I could have the west side of the pond -- how'd you think I was meant to protect it? Don't I have the right to fence my own property?"

"Well, yes, and --"

"And don't that mean others have to respect it? What's the point of a fence if you can just burn it down?"

He'd been in town for barely ten minutes, and still had no proper idea of what was going on, but Arve already reckoned that the drama was well out of proportion to Marimay's diminutive size. "Who burnt it? Bandits, I'm supposing? You're losing crops to them?"

"Am I ever."

Reald held up both paws, calling for a moment of peace. "Now, Hastal, strictly speaking Caren K'nAndar isn't a bandit. He hasn't done anything wrong except..."

"Burnt my fence!"

"Yes, except that. Lieutenant Sutheray, you see, ah, Caren K'nAndar is a... a cowboy, I suppose you might call him. They were here first, if you want to think of it that way? Always looking for new rangeland -- they'll move on, soon enough, but right now they still think they've a bit of a claim on this land, and... well. He's also, uh -- he's also..."

"One of those types," Hastal finished. "Has a way about him. Part of that culture."

"What culture?"

"Can't you tell from the name? One of those what can't settle down; can't tend their crops, can't push a plow. Can't get off their horse long enough to do much more than... well. Well, I won't even say what they do to their womenfolk."

"Hastal means that he's from the wild country. The east." Having said this, the dog paused, and Arve could see him connecting dots in his head. "Ah."

"Like me, you mean?" Sutheray drove the point home, but flicked his ear impassively: Marchers were used to that sort of thing. Yet where would the Iron Kingdom be without the Pale, and men to ride beyond it? The March had long provided just that kind of man. "I guess I could've told from the name, yes."

Reald tried to walk back his mistake. "They're not, ah... they're not from Dalchauser, I hope?"

"No, I don't believe so. Further north. But I suppose I understand what you're trying to say. You've been having problems with them --"

His attempt at some form of diplomacy was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot, from outside. 'Peacekeeping' was not off to a particularly auspicious start. Arve felt for the saber at his hilt, narrowed his eyes, and stepped outside to find a brewing argument between Dunnish and a scrawny canine who was not letting his stature stop him any.

Dunnish had been the source of the gunshot, judging by the pistol he had pointed skywards and the smoke that curled from its muzzle. "Sergeant! What's going on?"

"Ah, sir, I was just demonstrating our pistols for this nice man. Before he could take his own out," Sergeant Gereo explained after a pause for effect. 'Effect' was all the pistol was good for; if Dunnish had meant real harm the little mutt facing him would have already been run through.

The Border collie closed his eyes, settled his wits, and took a deep breath. "I see. And who is this 'nice man'?"

"Caren K'nAndar," the dog spat. "And if you think we're about to back down just 'cause Hastal's got hisself some soldiers to do his biddin'... well, now, you've another think coming. Y'ain't the only ones can ride a damn horse -- more of us than there is of you, too, come to think. Seven? Well, there's seven of us just me and my brother's family, so what do you say about that?"

Arve frowned, and kept his paw firmly on the saber. "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm telling you that you don't scare me, lieutenant. March folk don't scare, and you'd best be mindful of that."

"I'm a Sutheray, Mr. K'nAndar. Trust me, I know."

That caught the wiry canine off guard. "Sutheray?"

Sometimes it was a useful family name: they had a well-earned reputation as horsemen. "That's right. Been six years in the militia. My father is a cousin to the Lady Sutheray, and I fought with her son, the Viscount Gyldrane -- in a real battle, mind you, not a pissing match between you and some plow-lover. So get over yourself, Caren."

Caren bristled, but even he could tell when discretion would be the better part of valor. Besides, he seemed to see a different strategy presenting itself: "If you're from the March, then you understand where we're coming from. These farmers -- ain't like to care about nothin' beside their precious bloody plots of land. Fences everywhere."

"Good fences make good neighbors," Hastal suggested. He and Reald had followed Arve outside, and while Reald kept his distance Hastal stood provocatively next to the soldier -- as if trying to claim some of his authority.

"Everywhere," Caren repeated, scowling. "Fence their bloody fields. Fence the bloody hills. Fence the bloody creeks -- hell, bet ten shillings Hastal'd have more kids if he hadn't fenced his bloody wife's cunt."

The wolf snarled, behind Arve's shoulder. "So ye're raisin' Rosyna to be free-range, are ya?"

"If you knew one damn thing about this land..."

"If you knew one damned thing about what to do with it! You cow folk tramp all over like you own the place, well, now -- now you tell me what you've done to make it yours! I built that irrigation gate! I plowed my fields! I planted that orchard -- you, all you can do is send your herd about to tear everything to pieces!"

"You don't have right to it." Caren leaned forward aggressively -- that was another thing they said, about those who hailed from the March. "The King's signed no deed. You think Mett's word is good for anything? He don't own it either. This is my country same's it's yours, and now what do you think I'm gonna do when you keep my herd from getting to water? Hm?"

"If you were so damn concerned about that, why are you out here? Lots of water in Perashire, isn't there?"

Arve raised his paw to keep the argument from escalating further. "But we're not in Perashire. And I'm not here to settle claims, I'm here to keep the peace. Mr. K'nAndar, now, I'm sure you're an honorable man --"

"Don't be," Hastal muttered.

Arve let his muzzle curl slightly, to show off teeth. "Don't push me, Hastal -- remember he and I are both from the March. We know how to stick together. And we also know what's out there."

He pointed off, towards the eastern horizon. Somewhere, far beyond, was the great river that bisected the continent, and the Dominion of Tiurishk on its far banks. Between the Dominion's cotton fields and the solid walls of the Iron Pale were a thousand miles of nearly empty scrubland.

"Now, you may not like Mr. K'nAndar here, and near as I can tell he sure doesn't like you. But I'll bet you both like each other a damn sight more than being eaten by one of the desert folk, don't you?"

Hastal's eyes formed very skeptical slits. "Do we get to pick which one?"

Since they were no longer at each other's throats, Reald Mett felt he finally had the right to speak. "Now, now. There's room enough for everyone here -- wouldn't have come to Marimay if you didn't think that. But if we're going to be a proper town, then we need to start thinking like one. Right, soldier?"

"Right."

Before the militias and the Railroad crushed the roving tribes of desert raiders, their predations had been legendary. Now it had been years since the last major incident; all the same, Arve felt that caution was in order -- besides which, he hoped that a shared project would bring the two groups together. It was merely a question of deciding on what. As soon as Caren left, and there was some semblance of peace again, he summoned Dunnish Gereo to review their orders.

"'Keep the peace' -- cor blimey, lieutenant, they ain't givin' us much to work with."

"I know. I can't believe they're building a silo before a bloody creche, the damned children." Arve sighed heavily. In the sickly light of a tallow candle, their map seemed more to be taunting them than anything else. "Tomorrow, you'll take Freysan and ride south ten miles or so. Get as much detail as you can on the lay of the land. I'll have Alurian and Laasl do the same in the north. I'll head east, and... we'll see, won't we?"

He left early, with the molten gold of the sun spilling a warm fire between the branches of scrubby trees. According to legend, his ancestors had come from the east: fleeing from persecution and predation, they had trekked over these same endless, featureless hills in search of the green fields of the Iron Kingdom. Stories of wealth and safety and prosperity extended far from the capital at Tabisthalia.

The stories were just that, though: disappointing fables. In those old days Aernia's reach did not stretch so far, and within the Lodestone Sovereign's embrace there was no room for immigrants. The first Sutherays had settled their own farms and pastures by the River Abyrcarl, just as Reald Mett now wished to do. Without the King's aid, they had tilled the heath into something like proper farmland and built the first of the great palisades.

More than five hundred years later, the Borderlands were still not-quite-civilized. Long shunned, their fierce independence had become a point of pride for many -- it was common enough for them to listen to the border council, the Landsmoot, before they ever obeyed a dictate from the king.

Arne did not quite agree with this. He, too, was proud of his heritage as a Sutheray, and a certain fighting spirit, but he was proud to be a subject of the greatest empire in the Known World, too -- which was why he'd taken great pains to suppress his native accent. Much as he might play to the sympathies of Caren K'nAndar, he felt the man was wrong: civilization was their birthright and their destiny. They would have to settle down, eventually.

Here and there he passed a few head of cattle: strong animals half as large again as their cousins in the cultivated west. Like the cowboys they had evolved the toughness needed to survive where the roads ended. They gathered together as though they were holding conversation, knee-deep in the waters of Esra Creek that wound west towards Marimay.

Around lunchtime he spotted a trail of smoke rising from beyond the next hill, and crested it to find a wagon with its wheels chocked and the mules standing idle. Two figures were bustling about a small, tidy fire; they stood at the sound of hoofbeats, and waved to his approach.

Borderlanders, by the cut and color of their clothing -- Marchers tended to wear simple, functional clothes. No girl of the Aultlands would've been caught dead wearing trousers, for that matter; certainly not ones made of coarse workman's denim. This one, some lanky mutt of a dog, had no such shame. "A soldier?" she asked. "What's a soldier doin' fifty mile past yer Pale, eh?"

"Keeping the peace," he said. "I'm Lieutenant Sutheray, of the Bannered Militia. We were sent to Marimay, a few miles west."

A look of recognition spread over the girl's face. "Ah! Aye. Me pa said you'd be out from t'Border, somewhere. Talk some sense into Raldi an' Hastal, hopefully-like."

Her companion looked to be a few years older; with her floppy ears she was probably a Border collie like Arve -- only wild, and with odd, mottled-blue fur. Her pants were dusty and her loose-fitting shirt had been patched beyond style or color. "Rose forgets her introductions," she cut in. "My name is Cassianna Emmish, and her name is Rosyna K'nAndar."

"Your father's Caren K'nAndar, then?"

Rose grinned in the same way her father probably would've: it was sharp and unapologetic. "One an' the same he is, sure. You've met? Oh, yes, I can see by yer face y'must've. Cassie, what say we ask Mr. Sutheray to stay a bit?"

Between the girls' pan-cooked bread and his dried jerky they made something of a meal together, although it would not have passed muster in any inn. "How long have you been out here?"

"Three year, seven month. No -- eight month. I forget sometimes. Me dad an' me mum lost their farm in t'Rising. Did you fight? You're a Sutheray."

"My banner was on the Whistling Pale, then; I missed the fighting." It had been a brief rebellion, anyway, when the King attempted to seize the harvest of the east to make up for a bad year in the Aultlands. Dalchauser had been one of the first provinces to rise up, and Arve was somewhat unsettled to admit that he did not know where his loyalties would've been. He demurred: "But they're good men. I rode with Jonham, Lord Gyldrane, in the east for a time."

"They are good men! We need more like that, out here -- they don't have many."

"That's what your father would say," Cassianna added, and snickered when she saw Rosyna's hackles lift. "I'm sure he's told Mr. Sutheray, too."

Even miles away he could not be free of the town's drama. "Told me what?"

"I'm going to marry Adan," Rosyna said. "Whether me pa says so or not, t'ain't no matter Cassie -- and don't you be goin' spreadin' no idea like it is."

"'Adan' would be..."

"Adan Abarrochie," Cassianna explained for his benefit. "Hastal's eldest. But you know, Rose is pledged with a ten-part of Caren K'nAndar's herd to a proper mate, and a plow-lover is not that. They have their uses, but... you can't marry one, Rose, they're too soft for us. Now, a soldier... why don't you ask if Mr. Sutheray is spoken for?"

"Why don't you?" the mutt shot back. "Ignore Cassie. The Emmishes are practically farmers themselves."

"Are not!"

"Been 'ere long enough, what ain't you? Fifteen year -- cor, I bet yer pa's herd's about to put down roots! Cassie'll tend 'em like a bloody orchard, she will -- now you just don't listen, Mr. Sutheray. It'll be well."

Arve rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm sure it will be..."

Back at Marimay, the soldiers put their maps together to no great effect; the land was featureless, with only two small creeks to break the monotony. The most noteworthy things, Dunnish added with a sigh, were the cows. The Border collie was largely forced to agree. What, then, was the angle?

"Protection," he suggested.

"Sir?"

"No good cover. Nothing defensible. We need to put up a palisade."

"There's enough wood along the creek 'bout a league west," Dunnish mused aloud. "They use it for the fences..."

And, Arve pointed out, it would be a group effort. The militiamen were not about to raise a palisade by themselves. The farmers and ranchers needed to help. It would benefit the whole area, after all: protection against the natives, who would certainly return sooner or later. With that infrastructure in place they could start to talk about building other things -- proper roads, and mills, and everything else a growing settlement needed.

He explained his idea to Reald Mett, who agreed that a palisade was a good idea, agreed that the militia would have to call on the support of every family in the area, and agreed that it was for everyone's benefit. All the same, he sounded profoundly skeptical. "You think they'll go for it?"

"Why wouldn't they?" Arve asked. "Of course."

"The fuck we will," Caren K'nAndar spat, a week later when Mett had finally managed to gather everyone together. Arve Sutheray had just begun to speak, starting with what he believed to have been an extremely simple premise: Marimay needs a palisade, and we'll have to work together.

"Mr. K'nAndar. Be reasonable..."

"He doesn't see reason," Hastal Abarrochie growled.

"Fuck you."

"Bloody fool thinks just 'cause it's been a few years, there's no more risk from the raiders."

"Fuck. You," the dog repeated in a hissing snarl. He pointed in the direction of the eastern horizon. "Me and my kin been livin' there since the like o' yours chased us outta Lowgren. We don't ask for no help, we don't get no help, an' we don't need no help, least of all from you. This Kiath fuck," he went on, turning to Arve. "Moved out here two years ago. Now's like 'e own's the place? I ain't never signed me rights to 'im."

Kiath was one of the middle provinces of the Empire; it had sided against the Borderlands in the Harvest Rising. "Well... I can understand that..."

"So you're asking us to put up a wall so these... these timid, plow-bound gardeners can be safe?" The protest came from an old man that he now knew to be Taluf Emmish, Cassianna's uncle and adoptive father. "And -- and their merchant friends, like Raldi here? We already know how to be safe -- a fast horse and a good pistol."

"Hear, hear," Caren stomped his foot on the floor, and the other cattlemen seemed to agree.

"But it's not just for them," Arve countered. "If the town can be protected, there'll be more people willing to come. A slaughterhouse here -- even a rail stop, eventually."

"More people. More fences. Gods, strike me down," Taluf scoffed.

"Fine. I understand that you don't see the benefit. But of course, a proper palisade would be expansive enough that you could also shelter in it, if it came to that."

"And our herds?" the older Border collie drawled.

Arve suspected that he was being baited. "Perhaps. Some degree of compromise is required, so... yes, I suppose, it --"

"Would not," Hastal cut him off. "Now, Raldi's an honest man and we need the town. I won't argue against that, and I won't argue that I like a good wall as much as anybody."

"Like a prison?" Caren asked, to chuckling from the cowboys. "Shame bein' a coward ain't a crime or you could stay there."

The chuckling rose to laughter that Arve held up his hand to stop. "You were saying, Mr. Abarrochie."

"I think we need walls, sure. But the harvest is coming, and I'm not going to waste time stretching it out" -- the wolf leered at Caren -- "to guard a lot of cow shit."

"Aye," one of the other farmers agreed. "If they like being free so much, let 'em. They don't live in Marimay anyhow; they don't care about us."

Arve took a deep breath, and gritted his teeth to keep from dropping his careful, calm demeanor. "Do you not understand that we are in this together? We speak the same language. The wilderness does not. I've seen what the raiders can do. Caren, I'm sure you have, too. We are Iron Men, not squabbling children! We have civilization, here; we can't hate each other. You don't all, anyway. Aren't Adan and Rosyna going to --"

Hastal bristled. "Watch yourself. You don't listen to her, now."

"Wasn't her. Cassianna Emmish said --"

"That bitch is even worse! Bloody Emmishes, puttin' on airs."

"That's my blood you're slandering," Taluf Emmish rumbled dangerously.

"And Adan's mine!"

But on this, at least, the cattlemen and farmers found common ground. "There is no 'Adan and Rosyna,'" Caren agreed. "Now -- now Shaffr O'Conla, that'd be more like it. You've a good boy, Jon," he finished, and patted one of the other cowmen on the shoulder. "Not some fuckin' plowboy what don't deserve it anyway."

"Oi!" Hastal spat. "Like you think I'd have Adan go off with some feral? Might 's well breed her to one of your --"

Lieutenant Sutheray managed to get out of the way in time to avoid being struck by the barreling form of Caren K'nAndar, although not quickly enough to seize the scrawny dog before he had pounced on Hastal Abarrochie. For his stature, he threw a startlingly nasty punch -- and then the meeting-house broke into complete bedlam.

An hour later, with most of the principles tied up to cool off, Arve slumped against the wall outside. Dunnish Gereo joined him, and the mongrel didn't look any happier -- he'd taken a blow that seemed to have left a painful bruise on the right side of his head. "Hey, brother lefter." 'Lefter,' from 'lieutenant' -- only Dunnish could call him that, and only because the two were so close.

"Hey. What do you think, Dunny?"

Dunnish rolled his eyes. "Well, it ain't civilization, that's for sure."

"No?"

"No brewery."

"Gods above. You know what the problem is, sergeant? They like to argue. Half of them only argue with cattle, and half of them only argue with wheat, and they're so used to that that when they meet someone who can disagree, they don't have a way of dealing with it."

"Brewery," Dunnish repeated.

"That would certainly help." Arve sighed, and closed his eyes when Dunnish left to turn in for the night. They were still closed when he heard footsteps, and opened them to take in the sight of boots. It was rather masculine footwear, but following the leg upward brought him to the faintly amused expression of Cassianna Emmish. "Oh. Hello. Good evening."

"Hello, sir. May I?"

He gestured aimlessly at the wall. "Of course."

The other Border collie took a seat next to him. Once she was suitably comfortable, she tilted her head back to look up at the dark sky. "I hear that back west, you can't see the stars anymore. Because of the smoke, and everything..."

"It's harder," he agreed. He had never been to a larger city than New Jarankyld, where the stars were still faintly visible -- though the factories did make it difficult, and it was no doubt far worse in Tabisthalia. "It would be strange, not to have them at all."

"Civilization isn't everything," she said.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Again he was struck by her attire, and the way she carried herself. In the west, in Blenharrow or Chauserlin, Cassianna would have looked quite different. Her hair would be longer; her nails would be trimmed. Some dress would accent her figure, rather than the worn shirt that hid it from view. She might be a shopkeeper, or a farrier's assistant, or something respectable.

Of course... of course, even further west in the Aultlands it would've been even more extreme. There her hair would be brushed into shiny straightness; the dress would be ruffled and frilled and delicate enough to suggest she did not move often -- certainly, that she did not labor. She would not have dared to speak to a man in the fashion she chose.

And that seemed a little ridiculous, too. Women of the March were not supposed to be such frail things -- they could ride, and fight as well as anyone. So why was he being so skeptical? So what if she needed boots, in the scrubland; why would he demand otherwise? "You like it out here, do you?"

"Yes." The answer came quickly, with no pause for doubt. "But I never saw a city, anyhow. I guess you're from a big town."

"Sort of. A bit." Blenharrow was not terribly large, but against the six buildings of Marimay...

"One of those people who needs the sound of forges to sleep. 'We are Iron Men,' and all that..." When she saw his raised eyebrow, she smirked. "I know, I know. You don't think there's something to the open range, Mr. Sutheray?"

Far overhead, both of the moons were visible. Arve thought of how they'd appeared as shimmering reflections on the river Chirel's Tooth, in New Jarankyld -- pale and cold, shimmering through a haze of chimney-smoke. Instead of stars, he had seen the light of a thousand torches and lamps. "Something, maybe."

"You don't believe it yourself, though."

"I'm a good Marcher, miss Emmish. I'm supposed to desire no more than a horse, and a fenced homestead, inside the Pale. A Marcher wife to raise a new generation of cavalrymen..."

Her smirk opened into a snicker. "Would that be so bad?"

"It's expected. I just don't know if it's who I am."

"But you are from the Borderlands. I can hear it in your accent," she teased him. "Even if you don't want me to."

He'd never quite been able to rid himself of it, this was true. "My whole life I grew up hearing that the Marches were uncivilized -- all but barbarians. Warriors and nothing else. But my ancestors, the first Sutherays in the Iron Kingdom, they were proud farmers... they were proud of being able to make something of the soil. We're more than just itinerant horsemen..."

"Is that all you think of us as, now?" Cassianna asked. "Clan Emmish is from Chenwyckshire. My father was just as born to the March as you were, Mr. Sutheray. He didn't choose to leave because he thought he couldn't make it as a farmer, or because he was some restless child who wouldn't be leashed. He never taught me or my brothers that we were just intinerants. He taught us to be proud of what we accomplished. Our clan has been making a living beyond the Pale for fifteen years, well before anybody thought of any fences. You love settlements, Mr. Sutheray? Well, we built our house with our own hands, and our herd takes just as much dedication and investment as any farm. Who are you to say that forges and orchards are worth more just because they stay in one place?"

Sure enough, she had a March woman's fierce gaze -- her eyes burned just as sharply as the roughest drill sergeant in the militia. He had to respect it. "Fifteen years is a long time. I thought that most of the sunrisers moved on or settled into a town. That's what I'd heard, anyway."

The cowgirl laughed knowingly. "The Railroad and the Royal Telegraph and the King all tell the same story. I hear it from Reald every time I go to buy supplies -- how we're Iron Men because we stake a claim to the earth and make it our own. Iron Men build things; Iron Men make things. Nonsense! All silly talk."

"Is it?"

"Of course. It's our spirit, Mr. Sutheray! The same spirit that makes you build a waterwheel to drive a smithy is the one that makes you decide you won't kept behind fences like somebody's pet goat. Raldi loves the Railroad; he's always talking about it. It has its place, but a railroad goes from here to here." She stabbed her long fingers into the dirt, and then used one to draw a straight path between the two. Her point made, she tapped at other places to either side. "What about there? Or there? Or all the way over there..." Her paw waved, either at the hills or the stars, he couldn't tell.

"It can't."

"I know. And I say, and Caren would say, that as Iron Men we can go there. To the horizon! And the next horizon, and the next! And while Raldi and Hastal and you are hiding behind your little wall, folk like us will be doing something! Folk like us, we've put our stake in the frontier -- wherever it is."

Arve listened to her, not completely aware of how alertly his ears were perked until she'd finished and was staring at him expectantly. Nobody had ever said it quite like that before, not even the Viscount Gyldrane -- a man of the March if ever there was one. "That... is something to be proud of. You should be."

Cassianna grinned; her teeth were white as the moons and sharp as her wits. "You should, too. Don't hide from who you are, Mr. Sutheray. You're not some soft westerner for somebody to break and throw a saddle on. Neither am I. We're better than that."

"You don't think we can be broken, miss Emmish?"

"Oh, just call me 'Cass,'" the cowgirl said, getting back to her feet. "Somebody'll break me, Arve, sure, but it won't be some comfortable engineer or a merchant with four stone walls and a warm bed. I'd jump a fence. You would, too, you just don't know it."

And then she was gone. Arve thumped the back of his head against the wooden wall of the meeting-house, and tried to organize his thoughts. At length he rose, and found a free spot on the floor in the crowded room that the militiamen shared, but it was some time before he could sleep.

A commotion rose him early, just after the dawn; he stepped into the main area of the meeting-house to find most of the town gathered. Sergeant Gereo was in conversation with Reald Mett, whose ears were back and who looked like he had been spending no small amount of effort defending himself against the sergeant's accusations.

"Hastal's gone," Dunnish explained, and gestured towards a skinny tabby cat; the boy could not have been more than twelve or thirteen. "So says young Daro, here."

"What?"

"He escaped last night," Reald Mett added. "From the meeting-house."

"Got busted out," one of the cattlemen, a ratty-looking fox, corrected.

"Well. Yes. Uh. Mr. Tasher helped him to... remove his bonds..."

"Damn it," Arve swore; Reald shrunk back, duly chastised by the look in Sutheray's eyes. "I told you to keep watch on him. You said you could! I needed to convince him about the palisade -- Raldi, you cur; you're worthless. Where is he now?"

Reald pointed to Daro. The cat fidgeted nervously. "Ah, that's just it, sir. He never returned to the farmhouse. Adan is out looking for him. But we don't think he would've gotten lost..."

"Why not?" Taluf Emmish had asked the question; his look suggested nothing but contempt. "Damn fool couldn't find 'is arse with both hands since it ain't stone-fenced an' cultivated."

"Yeah, like you can't find a bath," Pærtha Tasher called back. "You cow folk are all the same damned --"

Arve stamped his foot, and the sound rang out like a shot in the meeting-house. "Later. I don't have time to play games. Dunnish, you'll send a party out?"

"Freysan and Laasl are already looking," the sergeant confirmed. "I'm sure he's just..."

He left the sentence open, and unfinished. An hour later, Adan Abarrochie returned, with unsettling news. Arve could tell what Rosyna saw in Hastal's son; the wolf was handsome and rugged, forged from the same anvil as swords and sledgehammers. His silver fur glowed with youthful energy -- but his ears were back, and he looked alarmed. "I found his track, but it comes to a sudden stop two miles from here. There are hoofprints."

"Why Caren, you lousy --"

"I didn't do nothin', Pærtha," the scrawny canine protested. "Can't do, not trussed up -- right, Mr. Sutheray? Sir?"

"If it wasn't you, it was one o'yer damn cowboys," Pærtha hissed the word, and the stag waved his paw accusingly at the gathered cattlemen. "Figured you'd take care of a little problem like he wasn't but a damned bit of livestock. You always wanted to..."

Squabbling was one thing, for Arve; kidnapping was quite another entirely. "He's right, though, Mr. Tasher. Caren was tied up, and most of the ranchers are here in this room. Adan, did you see where the tracks went?"

"East." Although they were indoors, the wolf reflexively looked in that direction. "Straight east. They came from more to the north, but they went directly east."

Arve looked to Dunnish. "There's nothing to the east, though. It's empty..." Anyone escaping in that direction could travel only as long as their supplies held out, in the barren and increasingly desolate wastes that became the Menapset Desert. "You're sure, Adan? Maybe they left for the north?"

"No, sir. East."

"Don't mean anything, anyway," a cat who must've been the boy's father suggested. "These cattle boys are tricky. Coulda ridden in circles just to confuse you, lad. Coulda split up -- why, Kutsar knows, they coulda turned the shoes for that matter." Kutsar, goddess of the Third Hell and its traitors and thieves, was a telling choice.

Taluf snorted in disgust. "Oh, shut your mouth."

"No, no." Adan shook his head. "They didn't have shoes."

Everyone fell silent, for a moment, exchanging glances. "No way in any hell we'd ride without shoes, not out here." Even if the farmers hated him, there was no denying the truth of that. "Musta been..."

"Raiders? The natives haven't been seen out here for more than a year." But Reald Mett's protest seemed less than sure of itself: "We thought we'd see the last of those bastards..."

"'Less they were provoked," one of the farmers said. "Somebody driving their bloody cows through a native village for a shorcut..."

"Yeah, or plantin' a gods-damned orchard on some sacred fuckin' spring," came Caren's immediate riposte. "They don't like fences, neither. May be dumb, but they got some sense to 'em."

The farmer growled. "I see where your sympathies lie. Maybe we'll have to --"

"Stop," Arve ordered. "The enemy's out there -- not in here. Mr. Abarrochie may be in danger."

"But you're going to help bring him back, right?" Rosyna K'nAndar asked. Half the age of the men in the room and not much more than half the weight, she spoke with a seriousness all out of proportion to either. "We all are."

"Ellad -- not on my life or yours, girl," Caren snapped. "He wouldn't do nowt for us; we ain't doin' nowt for 'im."

"If you're not, I will," she shot back, as though he was a tavern drunk instead of her father. "Ride out me own self. I got a horse -- an' a pistol -- an' a mind to use 'em."

"Your bloody funeral," the fox who had explained Hastal's escape scoffed. "Hells, Rose, you think he'd ever let his son run off with you? God almighty, y'ain't that dumb."

"Which god, Cedda?" Rosyna said with a scowl.

"Take your pick." Cedda's accent placed him as an easterner and, apparently, one of the east's cultish monotheists. "Betcha got some god of bastards and old fools. Caren, why haven't you talked sense into her?"

"Been trying," the mutt answered grimly. "Ain't had much luck. You're stayin' here, Rose. What would Ivra have said?"

The scrawny canine glared them all down, her gaze whipping angrily from face to face. "Years out on that range and you're saying we ain't got it in us to protect our own?"

"He ain't our own." Caren shook his head, glare filled with derision. "And we ain't gotta risk our lives on his dumb account. Bloody fool ain't never known what was out here; ain't never cared."

Pærtha growled -- rather fiercely, for a deer. The muscular stag's arms were crossed threateningly over his burly chest. "Hastal knows more of these hills than you do -- that happens when you do something with the land besides shit on it."

"Then I'm sure he knows enough to get own self home. Don't need our help. Wouldn't want our help." Considering the icy tone in Taluf Emmish's voice, Arve realized Hastal had no allies outside the farmers and, by way of her love for Adan, Rosyna K'nAndar.

Daring anyone to stop her, Rosyna stalked towards the door. A few of the farmers made ready to follow, leaving the cattlemen to grumble, though even the farmers weren't moving terribly quickly. "Hold up," Arve said. Rosyna's paw hit the handle. "I said hold where you fuckin' are, and that goes for you, too, Rosyna."

She turned, and curled her lip. "Hie yer arse back to the Pale, y'damned coward."

"I wasn't asking." His paw went for the hilt of his saber, and he tugged it free enough for the steel to glint in the light. "You're staying put if I have to pin you to the door. Shut your mouth, Caren," he interrupted the dog's protest at the threat to his daughter. "She isn't any blood of mine, like Hastal isn't any blood of yours, isn't that right?"

"If you lay a finger on her..."

He turned his head to fix Caren levelly; his teeth were not bared but the look in his eyes plainly said they were about to be. "I don't know how I can be any bloody clearer to you children. Your foe is not in this room. It has never been in this room. Now it sure seems that Hastal Abarrochie didn't have many fans. Lots of folk seem awful ready to treat him like he'd be better fertilizing his own damn crops."

"Which is right," Cedda muttered.

"No. No, it isn't bloody right. Our enemy is the wilderness. The night. The animals that live in the darkness. We're better than them and don't you dare act like it ain't so. You been to the Whistling Pale, Cedda?"

"No."

Arve took a step towards the fox. "There's a bridge on the Chirel's Tooth, over a canyon a thousand bloody feet deep. Great iron beams, lookin' like as not they could bear the weight of every ship in the King's Own Navy. You think a tribe of Sujetay could build that?" No answer. "Do you?"

Cedda pinned his ears. "No."

Pærtha Tasher looked like he was about to add a snide comment, so Arve spun on him. "You. I saw Mett's notes. Last year the K'nAndars drove a herd a thousand strong west to market. A thousand head -- an' those beasts aren't nothin' like you've got back in the mid-country. You think some yelping sandy could manage that?"

"Ain't here nor there," the chagrinned stag tried to avoid giving an answer.

Arve drew his saber all the way free, to a few startled sounds from the gathered crowd. He pointed it towards the shrinking farmer. "Pærtha?"

"No. No sir! Th-they couldn't."

"Good." Arve let the blade fall, though he didn't replace it in its scabbard. "Now, they sent me to keep the peace and from where I stand, letting those damn howling wildlings have their way is the least peaceful thing we could do. So we're gettin' Hastal back, same way's we'd ride out if it was you, or Caren, or anyone else."

"But they ain't --"

"One of us?" he finished Caren's objection for him. There was a building anger in the collie's voice that removed the careful leash he kept on his dialect. "Or maybe you ain't. I'm from the March, remember? I rode through Chenwyckshire. Where were you an' yer kin in the Rising? Gave up yer farm an' rode for the sun, did ya? See now, where I'm from, a real man woulda stood an' fought. Woulda down owt to keep what were 'is. Think I ain't met a K'nAndar before? Deol and Aric -- what, cousins o' yers? Rode with 'em on the Whistling Pale, an' east in the militia too. Good men, they were."

"Well..."

Leaving the chastised Caren, he turned to the next. "And you, Taluf. Fifteen years out 'ere? That's a decent run. Takes decent stock -- why else d'you think Lord Iliff would take Bitti Emmish for 'is own? An' don't that make an Emmish heir to the Banner of t'Broken Staves? Now -- the March, an' us militias, we done fought an' bled to hold the border-line for twenty damn generations, an' damn me to the lowest hell if I change that on account of your squabbling."

"But for Hastal..." Taluf trailed off, and kicked at the floor. "A plow-lover like him..."

"Still more kin to thee an' us than those yowlin' bloody wild ones," Arve said, well aware that he no longer sounded anything like a stately commander in the Bannered Militia. "If it ain't for Hastal, do it because leavin' 'im to die is no reason to sully the honor of the March."

And that one was far, far harder to back down from. At mid-morning the seven militiamen headed out, joined by half a dozen farmers and eight cattlemen, Rosyna included. The track of the natives was easy enough to follow -- first east, and then a slow turn towards the north-east well past where civilization ended.

Dunnish and Arve looked over their maps without finding much to like there. The northern edge of the map, provided by Captain K'nErryn back on the Pale, had come originally from men of the Carregan Railroad or some telegraph company -- who had, judging from all the empty spaces on it, been chased from the territory before they had time to chart it properly.

"Oasis two days ride from here," Arve pointed out. "It says, at least. I think that's what it says -- map's not good for much."

Dunnish nodded. "Probably a camp, then. But they can't have gotten that far."

The Border collie was inclined to agree. The Sujetay rode often at dawn and dusk; they'd grabbed Hastal before sun-up, so by now their horses would be winded. He didn't know where the raiders had come from, but presumably it wasn't close by: the closer they ventured, after all, the greater the likelihood that they would've been spotted by one of the ranchers.

"Maybe," Cassianna Emmish agreed. For having been raised on the frontier, she looked like a militiaman in the saddle -- an easy slouch, and clear eyes that swept the horizon beneath her wide-brimmed hat. He was, he had to admit, coming to like her. "We don't see 'em often, though, thank what gods may look over us and ours..."

Arve didn't know much about the Sujetay -- whether they were one people, or many. The specific term described a tribe closer to the coast of the White Sea, but the Iron Folk rarely spoke to the natives, and certainly not often enough to learn what their own names were. 'Sujetay' would serve, or 'wildling,' or 'singer' from their keening wails. 'Sand-loving Sar-spawn,' the militia called them: Sar was the god of the second underworld, the home of the conspicuously indolent and foolish.

The sandies, many of whom looked like jackals, must've been closer kin to the Tiurishk and the city-states of the White Sea coast and its valleys. They shared nothing in common with a proper Aernian, neither language nor habit, religion nor custom. There was nothing proper about them, which was why the Bannered Militia and even the King's Own Army constantly sallied forth to keep them at bay.

When they captured an Aernian, it was never for good reasons. At best they would sell them to eastern slavers: Aernians were good money, because if they didn't work they could at least be ransomed handsomely. At worst, the goal was ritual sacrifice; Arve had seen plenty of those, during his service in the Menapset wastes. The flayed bodies, staring skyward and desiccating in the hot sun, were not a sight easily forgotten.

"We should stop," a voice called out; he looked over his shoulder to see that it had come from Pærtha Tasher. "For a bit, at least... we're not all so comfortable on horseback."

Cedda, the fox, snickered. "Wasn't ridin' out you farmers' idea? Didn't realize ye'd 'ave to go past yer fences, eh?"

To Arve's surprise, Caren spoke up. "Aye, but lay off. They're tryin', ain't they? There's a little brook not so far ahead, and some shade... we can water the horses, at least."

Even if the militiamen had not wanted to stop, other matters forced their hand: on the far side of the brook, the track disappeared. Cursing his luck, Arve settled under a gnarled, stubby willow and unrolled his map once more. If only the previous explorers had been more thorough. If only he'd had the time for a more thorough scouting expedition of his own. If only, really, Hastal hadn't gotten himself kidnapped...

"They went south." Cassianna was watching his conference with Dunnish Gereo, leaning against the old tree and looking as comfortable as if she'd been lounging before a fireplace. "Trust me."

"The closest oasis is to the north, though," Dunnish pointed out.

"I know. But they're clearly trying to hide their track. Downstream it gets marshy quick -- the cattle love it, it's nice and cool, but damn if it ain't slow goin'. South, you can ride... two-three mile, maybe? Uncle? What d'ye say?"

Taluf grumbled his way over to the tree. "I wouldn't go north. Not if I were tryin' to confuse us. Us'd see the broken heather an' all, right easy. I'd go south. Leave the creek maybe two mile up, down from... Scarber's Hill, maybe."

Pærtha Tasher looked over from the horse he was tending to. "You know this area well enough to give them names?"

No oath or scorn had been offered. "Been out 'ere fifteen years, plowman," Taluf reminded the stag, but the correction was one of pride, not insult. "It's a tall hill, an' flat. Everyone knows it. Could see someone comin' while five mile or more. Be a good place to stop."

"We do, sometimes," Cassianna added. "And we've seen signs of them there. It's the furthest east from Marimay we ever go. Our herd's out here; it's nice grazing."

Arve drummed his fingers thoughtfully, and decided that some caution was in order. Leaving most of his men, he rode on with Adan Abarrochie, Dunnish, and Freysan Hammerman. Cassianna invited herself, and on the grounds of local knowledge he agreed. The Emmishes had been right: riding upriver they made good time, and there was no good way for anyone to follow their track. Scarber's Hill, a weathered mesa, proved to be every bit the landmark they'd described.

On foot, the five crept forward until they could see the hill's slopes clearly. Arve pulled out his spyglass, squinting to try and bring the landscape into focus. Here and there the pale green grass was broken by optimistic shrubbery, which made for precious little cover. It swayed in a rolling breeze that blew from the east, just enough to be pleasant.

At the top of the hill he found more movement, and clicked his sharp teeth. "There they are."

"How many?" Dunnish asked.

He counted more than two dozen horses -- the light-boned ponies that the Sujetay favored, nothing at all like a proper mount. "Twenty-five or thirty horses. I see at least twenty men... maybe one or two more on the ground."

Adan perked up his ears. "My father," the wolf guessed. "Is it my father?"

"I can't tell. There's also a few bigger animals... cows, from the size and color. Dead, I think; they're not moving."

"Bastards." Cass Emmish saved her sympathy for the cattle. "Sandies do that pretty common-like..."

"What about us?" Dunnish turned to face them. "What are we going to do? Lieutenant?"

Two dozen natives wasn't very many: a small war party, doubtless the source of the scouts who had kidnapped Hastal. They had the high ground, though, and the advantage of visibility and preparation. He decided that the Aernians would have to split up: the Marimay folk would form one charge from directly north, as a distraction, while Arve would lead his militia from the west, with the setting sun at their backs. Returning to the group, he explained the plan to them. "Mr. Emmish, you'll take the lead."

"Taluf?" one of the farmers asked, incredulously. "He's just --"

"He will take the lead," Arve repeated. "He knows the country and he knows horses. Remember, Mr. Emmish. Your job is to distract them. Once we charge, not one more shot from you -- you'd be firing towards us."

"Distraction," Taluf said with a nod. "Reckon us can handle that."

"Good. I'll be watching for you. We'll attack before you're in range of their bows, don't worry. You'll hear our bugle, and that's your cue to hold your fire."

"Right." The old Border collie chuckled. "Guess y'did make militiamen from us, eh? Us'll make ya proud, don't worry none. Sunset, aye?"

"We could wait until it was dark. It would be harder to see us..."

"No, Mr. Tasher." Arve rolled up his map and got to his feet, lending some finality to the statement. "Sunset. No later. It gives you a few hours to prepare. Dunnish, let's go! Mount up!"

Cassianna had stood with him. "I'm going with you."

"The militia can take care of this," he assured her, and swung himself up and into the saddle. "Stick with Taluf."

"Aye, lass. We'll have plenty to do," the older dog said. "Leave 'em be."

"March women don't take orders," was her curt reply. "Arve -- you'll want a guide who knows the land."

At least, he reckoned, she would not be a hindrance. Cassianna was a natural astride a horse, enough that he wondered if, perhaps, there might not have been some truth to the notion that Marchers were born to be cavalrymen. He led the others back up the stream to a stand of trees where they could hide and wait for any sign of activity from the north. Where, too, he could keep an eye on the mesa -- for he wanted to be ready in case the natives acted rashly.

The sun was fairly high, though settling, and the activity on the hilltop had slowed: they were sleeping, he guessed. The militiamen waited, checking their weapons and steeling their resolve. All of them had fought before, either in the Harvest Rising or the various wilderness campaigns. "Should be easy," Trooper Hammerman said, noticing the way Cassianna fidgeted. Freysan was the youngest of them, and the most hot-blooded. "They're just sandies."

"True." Laasl, a stoat from just south of the Ostermere, offered agreement tempered with his typical caution. "But those bows... they're good with them, ya."

"Cor, ain't that the truth?" Dunnish was old enough to be anyone else's father, and had seen more than his share of the frontier. By rumor, the Sujetay could put an arrow through a flying grouse from a horse at full gallop. If anyone knew, Dunny certainly would. "But once they're spooked, they'll run. Savages."

"You want to talk savages," one of the other soldiers piped up. "I was on the Whistling Pale, and we done went to clear out a camp with some, um, what are they? Iron Corps. The Railroad militia? Cargal'th, sergeant, you know they have these bloody great rockets that go screaming out like" -- he demonstrated, in a whistle muted by the need for quiet in their hiding place. "Go up like shells, they do, when they land. Wasn't a thing left of that camp -- what I wouldn't give!"

"Hastal might disagree," Arve pointed out. "We're rescuing him, remember?" It was good that his men were excited, though: nerves were always to be expected, but he trusted his militia and his trust had never been misplaced. "Either way. We'll be fine, miss Emmish. You don't have to charge with us. We've done this before."

Cassianna was still fidgeting, stroking the shiny wood of the revolver she carried. "I came with you because I intend to charge with you. An' that's because I know what you know, Mr. Sutheray." Satisfied with whatever she'd been doing, the collie woman set her pistol down. "We both know why y'said to attack 'fore the sun goes down."

Laasl glanced between the two Border collies. "Sir?"

Arve nodded gently. "Both moons are up this season, and it's a clear night. I suppose," he went on, looking over to Cassianna, "that yonder hill has some sacred spot in their perverse religion. There's some reason why they have to be there. They were hiding their tracks because time is of the essence -- if they were just going to sell him, they could've kept riding." High hills and cliffs seemed to gather the worst, most bizarre impulses of the Sujetay. "When the stars come out..." He drew a finger across his throat, and the stoat flinched.

The cowgirl accompanying them did not, though the smile she offered instead looked very much less than mirthful. "Maybe you've guessed, Mr. Sutheray, why I been raised by my uncle, and not my mum an' dad. Maybe also you've guessed why Rosyna don't have a mother nor siblings."

"Reckon I have," the man answered. "Shame it is, that."

"Sir! Movement!"

Arve sprang forward, taking the spyglass from the trooper on watch and bringing it to his eye. Dust rose from the horizon to the north: Marimay's townsfolk were at the gallop, coming to the rescue of their own. The Sujetay had noticed, too: they were moving, to meet the threat on the hilltop. "Mount up," the Border collie barked, and pulled himself to the saddle. "Form line to the front; march!"

It was a matter of timing, now. They had perhaps two and a half miles to cover, and his militiamen would lose any element of surprise fairly early as they cantered across the open plain. The civilians decoys were next to worthless in combat: fourteen men, not all of them armed and none of them trained to fire from horseback.

"Ah... sir." Sergeant Gereo's voice had an odd, uncertain tone he'd never heard before. "The horizon..."

Arve looked again. Dust -- a lot of dust. It rose as though from a blazing prairie wildfire, thick and widening. Fourteen meager farmers and cowmen could not have been its source. Four hundred farmers and cowmen could scarcely have managed, he thought. "Cassianna. Your uncle's herd... how big is it?"

"Two hundred head? Maybe?"

"Ah, cargal'th," he breathed in awe. The cloud was spreading, churned up by a hundred living tons on the move. "Gods preserve us..."

Dunnish, too, could scarcely tear his eyes from the scene. "Well, you told Taluf you wanted a distraction."

Yet they had work to do. Facing the prospect of a stampede, the Sujetay had started to panic. Through the spyglass he saw horses wheeling, and men racing to and fro. "They won't stand and try to fight that. Prepare to advance at the walk," the collie ordered swiftly, forcing himself to regain composure. "March!"

Very nearly boot-to-boot, they moved from the cover of the trees. As soon as he was comfortable with their formation he brought them to a swift trot, and Freysan Hammerman sounded their advance with a bugle call that Arve knew the others would not be able to hear over the sound of the cattle.

A mile away. One last glance showed him that some of the wildlings were taking up defensive positions, trying to buy time for the others to pack and flee. The rest faced a troubling choice: their escape routes to the north and east were closing fast, and Arve's men cut them off from the west. There was only the south, and as the militia drew near the gap narrowed quickly.

"Eyes right! Draw swords!" He gripped his own saber and pulled it smoothly free, leaving one skilled paw for the reins. Some of the Bannered Militia were trained with carbine and pistol; some were trained with the lance. Increasingly, some were dragoons -- less true cavalry than mounted riflemen who fired from on foot.

Arve's men and women had the gift of honed, battle-tested steel. The sun at their backs flashed golden on the saber-points, and the Border collie felt a giddy rush of adrenaline. The thump of hooves and his pounding heart were a complimentary drumbeat. His bared teeth were sharp as his blade. His eyes had the diamond-hard focus of a hawk on the dive.

"Prepare to charge," Arve called out. "Charge!"

At five hundred yards he had a brief glimpse of arrows in flight. At two, hitting the slope of Scarber's Hill, the volley came again, fired in desperation and wildly off the mark. At a hundred yards he could clearly see the archers scrambling to mount their horses. From the corner of his eye he saw a horsed Sujetay turning, trying to veer from the oncoming storm -- then the whipping glint of Freysan's saber caught him, and in slow motion flung his crumpled body to the earth.

Three more went down before they could change the course of their escape. Half of the natives had already fled. Two of them, though, were busy trying to manhandle a heavy burden onto horseback -- a stout figure bound tight at wrists and ankles. Hastal was not making their job any easier, kicking and cursing at the pair.

A subtle touch of the reins pulled Arve towards a collision course. At the last second one of them turned. The Sujetay was an older jackal, in dun-colored robes streaked with cerulean paint. Teeth bared, showing the hissing grimace of a trapped rat, his eyes widened for one final, panicked moment -- then Arve howled the baying call of a wolf on the hunt and brought the saber down with a swift sideways chop that met flesh in a mortal, solid blow.

He kept his grip tight, letting his forward movement pull the blade free, and wheeled his obedient horse around. The soldier's prey had gone down kicking and thrashing, with both paws clutched to his throat in a futile effort to stem the blood that spilled between quivering fingers.

But his mate was still standing. He'd dropped Hastal; the wolf lay flat on his back. The jackal looked about for allies and found none. In a furious rage he snarled and went to his knees, ripping free a curving bone knife from somewhere in his robes. Arve knew the sort, if none of the others did: a charmed man's dagger, richly inlaid in precious stones.

The raiders knew some spells, learned from other barbarians or the Dead City in the southern wastes. Civilized folk did not practice thaumaturgy, of course, but the natives were not civilized and they had their dark, wicked ways. They whispered to their steeds, and their arrows; they danced in strange, wailing dances around monstrous shapes of whirling fire. The blade would surely be poisoned, or worse. Hastal spat an oath as the jackal raised the dagger up to strike. His back arched, his eyes flashed...

Then they rolled back, his muzzle gaped, and he pitched forward heavily to lie motionless atop the confused farmer. Hastal and Arve both found themselves looking at the same time at a sun-silhouetted form on horseback. Smoke billowed menacingly from the barrel of a pistol.

"Is that..." Hastal murmured.

"Cassianna Emmish," the silhouette confirmed. "'Putting on airs,' I believe. Go on -- say it."

He did not. And just like that, the battle was over. Twenty raiders had escaped, with their supplies and horses, but vengeance was not what the militia had come for. From the top of Scarber's Hill Arve watched them, dark shapes racing for the horizon. And the next, he thought, and the next.

Somewhere to the east lay the Dominion of Tiurishk, past the Sheyib River. Further south, the Confederacy, and the Spine of the World that separated the Menapset from Dhamishaya and the mysterious jungle kingdoms. All were many horizons away, indeed.

A blazing red sunset dragged long shadows from the trees and picked out the valleys in dark relief. Generations past had referred to the Menapset as the wastes. The badlands. An ugly, yawning, empty space. Now, though, he saw it in a new light. It was a blank canvas: a block of unhewn stone; a waiting anvil.

"What do you think, Mr. Abarrochie?" Arve asked the wolf standing next to him.

"It's... beautiful country," Hastal said. He, too, must've felt the vast promise echoing from the untamed land before them. "In its own way."

"Ours," the soldier added. "Your country. Your son's country."

The wolf sighed heavily. "My daughter-in-law's, I suppose..."

Arve patted him on the shoulder. "Ah, it won't be so bad."

It took more time for Taluf to be certain that his herd had calmed down, and to gather everyone back together; by the time they reached Marimay it was well past midnight and all of them were feeling the exertion of the day. Reald Mett promised a dance, and Pærtha Tasher volunteered to prepare a feast, but all Arve really wanted was a place to sleep.

Even the hard floor of their room in the meeting-house would've sufficed once again, despite the excited chatter the assembled townsfolk were still managing to muster, but he saw Cassianna whispering to Raldi Mett and soon she drifted over to pat comfortingly at his paw. "Come along..."

"To?"

She held up a key that soon turned out to be for the town's post office, next door. It had the advantage of quiet, at least. The never-used mail-sacks, when stuffed with straw, made for a serviceable impression of a genuine bed. Arve pulled his boots off with a low, exhausted groan. "Thanks for this..."

He pulled off his belt, next, heavy with his saber and pistol, and hung it from a nail driven into the wall. Following that came his shirt, and as he started to unfasten it he noticed that Cassianna had yet to depart. Catching his look, the Border collie smiled. "Yes? What, you think I've not seen a bare chest before?"

"Are you... staying?"

She laughed. "Well, it's a long ride back to the homestead, and I don't feel like making it alone."

It wouldn't have been right for him to force her to do so, anyway. Arve shrugged, and finished removing his shirt. There was no real sense of modesty in the militia; he'd seen most of them naked by now. "Suit yerself, I suppose, lass." All the same, he left his undershorts on when he finally removed his trousers and settled back on the straw that served for a bed.

There was enough space for her to join him without too much crowding, and she did -- for his sake, leaving most of her own clothes on. Not, he supposed, that the snugly laced buckskin shirt left a great deal to the imagination, as regarded the cowgirl's supple body. She wriggled onto her side, facing him with a grin. "Thanks for letting me come with you. We did good work, aye?"

"Aye."

"Hastal apologized." Cassianna snickered, rolling blue eyes darkened by the moonlight that spilled through the post office window. "I suppose it did hurt his dignity, a bit."

"There's worse to come. Adan and Rosyna?" Either Hastal's acquiescence or Rosyna's growling had forced Caren to capitulate, as well. There was no date set for the wedding, but nor was there a chance that it might be stopped. "Hope it brings the territory folk together..."

"It might. You know..." The collie woman sidled closer; were it not for the summer night he might've thought her to be seeking warmth. "Taluf has also said that if the right man were to ask for his niece's hand..."

Arve lifted an eyebrow, but there was no way of avoiding her deep, piercing gaze. "The right man? Do they have those, out here? Adan is spoken for..."

"He didn't mean Adan," she corrected him, and licked his nose. Her warm breath tickled his whiskers. "Nor did I; nor did you. You ought to be settling down, yourself. 'Horse and a fenced homestead,' right?" she reminded him teasingly. "Don't reckon you're pledged to nobody back in Dalchauser..."

He was not. "Thought we weren't about to be broken..."

"We'll see about that."

Arve thumped his tail against the straw. "Will we?"

"You need to sleep," she decided, and patted the heavy fur of his chest with the same delicate paw that had shown such deadly skill with a pistol. "But this isn't over. Have you ever seen me take 'no' for an answer?" She followed the threat with a wink, and again he was reminded of stark contrasts.

But it seemed like a discussion for a different day. Cassianna leaned against his side, and when he laid an arm over her shoulder she snuggled up obligingly. He focused on the steady rhythm of her breathing, and counted no more than half a dozen before sleep was upon them both.

He awoke suffused in warmth. Sun streamed into the room, painting the walls a lovely saffron and melting the soldier into slow consciousness. A good night's sleep on a comfortable bed had done wonders for his head; that, too, had been rendered soft and pleasantly fuzzy. He closed his eyes to bask in the slow return to wakefulness. And then...

The collie distinctly recalled drifting off with Cass Emmish in his arms. At first he thought she was gone; her form was no longer next to him. On the other hand, he felt a distinct weight on his crotch. His undershorts were gone; he was naked, and what he had taken for a morning breeze was clearly the cowgirl's gentle breath, ruffling his fur. He opened his muzzle, but the question came out as a wordless rumble.

"Good morning, Arve," she called, quietly. The words washed his sheath in a sultry zephyr. "Took you long enough." Little points of pressure walked trails through his snowy fur that he gradually realized were being drawn by her claws. Until then they had been keeping their distance, but now the touch was growing ever closer to the collie's generous sheath.

Then her fingers wrapped delicately around him, pumping with a few slow, gentle strokes. Arve grunted in what was trying to be a deep growl, but before he was even truly aware of his growing arousal he felt a slick, slimy warmth engulf him as he swelled directly into her hot muzzle. When enough of his length had slipped free, a good inch or two, she sucked firmly and gave him a lingering slurp of her soft tongue.

For a moment the warmth vanished. "You see, Arve?"

He opened his eyes, and at least made the attempt to see anything. The dog's cock was standing at full attention, glistening slickly in stark pink contrast to the slate blue-grey of the other Border collie. She lapped him teasingly, and a jolt of pleasure ran through the man's body. "See what?"

Cassianna's broad tongue circled him and the way she dragged it hungrily up the underside of his shaft had Arve shuddering in delight. This pleased her, clearly, for she giggled and did it again. "Never bet against a March woman getting what she wants." And as though he might've been about to disagree, she planted a mischievous kiss on the pointed, drooling tip of his cock before taking it between her lips, sucking him clean. When he popped free once more, she winked. "Never."

"Of course," Arve mumbled. "Never..."

Satisfied, for the moment, the collie woman bent back to the object of her affection and Arve sucked his breath in with a hiss at the sensations bombarding him. Her soft panting washed him in waves of heat that whistled from around her lips as she bobbed her long muzzle in steady strokes that had him reeling. Muscles tense and singing, he pushed his hips up firmly, and Cassianna snickered into the thick fur of his crotch.

"What's so funny?"

She looked up at him and arched her eyebrows; her white-tipped tail wagged. She swallowed heavily, drawing her cheeks in with an almost unbearable suction that only grew tighter as she pulled herself back towards his tip. Her keen eyes sparkled when he groaned -- and then she let him go, just as a spurt of his salty precum pulsed against her lips. The collie licked her muzzle in satisfaction. "Some strong, dauntless militiaman you are... comin' out her to protect us..."

Arve worked his paw through the ruff of fur that framed the Border collie's cheeks, and caressed the velvety warmth of her ear. And, with his fingers threaded into her luscious hair, he nudged her back to his prick. Feeling his sensitive shaft slurping back into sweet, suckling warmth he growled in approving delight. "You are," he panted, "making a pretty good case for... for you territory folk..."

Cassianna's smirk was made all the more telling by being made around a mouthful of canine cock. Her tail waved faster, to match the building intensity with which she devoured him. Her tongue rolled and curled around him; every new touch was a little twinge of heat that stoked a building pressure deep in the dog's loins. His hips thrust and bucked against into her, crushing her soft nose into his fur; his fingers scrabbled and tightened their hold on her floppy ears.

His panting was becoming hoarse, ragged with the feral pleasure consuming him. Arve could feel his knot growing, and his companion's whiskers tickled and brushed over it as she took him deep into her summer-hot mouth. Her folded ears perked with the girlish eagerness of an earnest mission. Beneath his moans there was only the lewd, sloppy sound of her insistent sucking as the cowgirl encouraged him to stuff her willing muzzle.

She seemed to know that he was nearing his end, judging by the patently devilish look she gave the other dog when he raised his head to warn her. Their eyes met -- she came to an abrupt halt, leaving him quivering, half-sunk in her skilled mouth with her tongue circling his twitching meat. Then he felt smooth, fuzzy warmth encircle his swelling knot. Too big for her paw, really -- but she winked at him, and squeezed down with a pressure that reverberated from his rigid member all the way through his overtaxed body.

The collie woman sucked harder just as the pleasure hit him for real; just as his shaft jerked, and his cum spurted hotly against the roof of her mouth, and her tongue. He grunted, gritting teeth that were clenched in an impassioned snarl -- gasping as her paw worked his knot to prolong his climax further. He obliged, squirming, groaning in ecstasy as he filled her muzzle with his musky load.

She made a game attempt to swallow, but her shallow panting quickly grew thick and wet. His pearly seed drooled from between her lips down his slowly twitching cock. When he was done, the spurts ebbing to weak dribbles, she let him slide free with a wet pop and a toothy grin that showed off a tongue stained with his seed.

Arve dropped back into the straw. "That's how you think you'll break me, eh?"

"Did it work?"

He laughed weakly. "Maybe."

"Just a shame," she said, and sat up, propped on one long, straight-boned arm. Wiping her muzzle with a paw, she paused to lap her fingers clean before continuing. "You Borderlanders do have such lovely knots... it was nice to see up close, but..." Cassianna looked at it again, as if to be sure. "There are better things to do with it."

Arve groaned at the thought. "The day is young..."

"Is it, now?"

"Mm. Come here and let's talk..."

Cassianna flopped on her side, and he pulled her closer. "Talk about what?" she asked coyly. It was a tough act to pull off: her eyes had a glinting mischief, and the fur of her muzzle was still matted.

March women, Arve thought. "What I'm gonna do t'ya..."

"To me?"

"Yes," he repeated. The shirt she wore had been tied tightly, and when Arve's paw worked down her side he could feel every contour of the woman's curves. The way her tail waved put a subtle, twitching animation to her hips. "To you."

"But why?" She batted her eyelashes, and pricked her floppy ears. "It's just 'cause I'm here, isn't it, soldier?"

The dog grinned. "No. It's 'cause I reckon you might need to be tamed."

Her eyes widened in feigned horror. "Tamed..."

Arve rolled onto his side, and twisted the cowgirl around so her back was to him and their bodies could settle comfortably flush together. There was only the barrier of her clothing in the way, and that could be dealt with. As the collie woman snuggled comfortably into his chest, he pressed his fingers between the laces of her shirt to toy with the fur of her lean belly. His reward was a thumping wag of her tail, growing faster when he opened the buckskin up to broaden the track of his explorations. Her fuzzy blue-grey ear twitched as his breath disturbed it, and he took the opportunity to take it softly between his teeth.

"Be honest, Arve." Her voice was just over a whisper, breathy and low. "You wouldn't settle for a westerner, would you?"

He grunted to think of it. Not that there wasn't something to be said for Perashire farmgirls, with their innocent eyes and their stocky, well-fed bodies -- birthed from the western plains' fertile soil like their fat carrots and beets and apples.

That said... Arve found where her denim trousers were fastened, and when he undid them Cassianna pulled her hips away from his so that he could push the pants downward. The wagging of her thick-furred tail only helped disturb them further.

Her legs were strong-muscled and slender, toned by years of living on the range and free from the comforts of a farm out by Salketh or Peraford or Friden Elgern, those old stately towns with their ivy-wrapped churches and cobbled streets. "Nah," he admitted to the collie, who squirmed as he petted along her inner thigh. "Wouldn't settle."

"I knew it..." Her breath wavered; her muzzle dropped open when his fingers nudged the soft warmth of her lower lips. Another few strokes and her right leg twitched in a badly stifled, reflexive jerk. "Good man..."

His paw was a firm, reassuring warmth on her mound as he slowly explored her, feeling every gasp hitch against his chest and the resistance to his fingerpads giving way to slippery wetness. "Would you move back to the Borderlands?" he asked quietly; his teeth still captured her ear.

"An' leave my home? Never."

"Never?" Smoothly, as though it had been an afterthought, he pressed one finger slowly into her, letting pulsing, clinging warmth surround him in enticing tightness. The Border collie bitch sighed happily...

But didn't change her mind. She was, after all, of the March. "Never. Would you move to the prairie?" He began to pump his finger in a steady rhythm that forced uneven, panting breath from her open muzzle. "W-we c-could find a place for you."

"That right? Get a horse and a few acres on the range?" With his voice deepening and husky, Arve heard his practiced accent cracking into coarse Dalchauserish. Gerra hawse anna few acre' un t'range. He slid a second finger into the panting collie in the hopes it might distract her.

Cassianna groaned and shivered, but his hopes were dashed by her snickering. "Aye, that's the spirit."

Her hips rolled and bucked into his palm, and when she ground back against his crotch it was to find him stiffening to eager attention. "Watch yourself. Ain't one of you sunrisers..."

"Maybe. But y-you'd... you'd fit in."

"We'll see where I fit," he teased, letting go of her ear to replace it with a playful nudge of his muzzle to muffle his voice in her mane. "Won't we?"

Her response was to lift her leg, hooking it around his to pull him closer. He slipped his fingers from the collie and guided his prick to her. The time for teasing was well past: as soon as he felt his tip nudge into warm wetness he pushed forward and slid deep inside with a smooth thrust that left them both gasping. Sure enough, he fit -- more or less. The cowgirl's yielding petals squeezed satin, clinging heat that pulsed and rippled snugly on the soldier's thick erection and she shuddered and moaned when he withdrew.

Grunting with the effort, Arve plunged into her again, spreading her sodden pussy around those long inches of slick, hard dogcock. It was a tight fit, but the two collies were made for each other and the way he stuffed her dripping folds full brought a muffled squeal of delight from her parted, panting muzzle.

He bucked faster, pushing urgently into her thick and fuzzy-furred rump. Sinking deep over, and over, giving in to his base urges, he wrapped his arms around her and growled possessively, holding her close to pound fiercely into her. It was only right. They belonged together, with his drooling, spurting cock plunged all the way inside her sopping cunt and their pelts blending into one as their bodies met eagerly.

Cass squirmed, gasping and shoving her hips back. He felt her soft fingers glide over the driving piston of his cock as she rubbed and teased herself. Her chest heaved in hoarse, eager breaths. She licked reflexively at her trembling muzzle. The collie woman's heated squealing became a begging yelp for the next half-dozen deep strokes of her canine lover.

She barked a loud, helpless yip and her ears went back for an aching moment before Arve felt her clamp tightly on his half-buried length. He fed the rest into her with a wet squelch and rocked in short, hungry, grinding thrusts as her juices spilled around his pumping cock and her pussy clenched and spasmed. If he'd been knot-deep that would've been the end of it... and...

And now, with the blue-furred collie lass whimpering in pleasure and her slim body begging for him, Arve was having second thoughts about his original plan to pull out before his thick knot swelled up to lock them together. Now he was thinking about how much better it would be to fuck her properly. To leave them both tied and gasping. To fill his mate with a litter of strong, purebred March collies to carry on the Borderlands' legacy...

As she recovered, he pulled his length from her, gritting his teeth as it grated over snug, velvet walls. She opened her mouth to form a muzzy question, and he sat up, grasping her waist to roll the cowgirl onto her belly. "Get up," Arve growled. "Ain't neither of us settling. You want to play wildling out on the frontier, hells, gonna fuck y'like one."

The question vanished and she got to her knees readily, falling forward to rest her muzzle on crossed arms. Her raised rump was an eager invitation, and her tail swayed in excitement. The male collie wasted no time in pressing his cock back between her dripping folds, taking her again in a deep thrust that took every advantage of her braced body.

His paws grabbed her hips to steady her against the swift, clashing thrusts. Snarling, he pounded into her upturned, eager rear like any other animal, desperate for the engulfing tight warmth of her enveloping folds. His knot slurped through her straining lips, thudding into her with a heavy effort -- he saw her paws clench and bunch up the fabric of the mail-sack beneath them as she fought not to yelp.

They were made for that, too, though -- the thick and throbbing bulb of flesh that would claim her utterly as his own. He fucked his cock into the shuddering collie bitch with rough, powerful strokes as she started to squirm and writhe again, her stance weakening and her thighs aquiver. This time he was not far himself. His need to fill her was too great, clouding his every thought.

Arve's claws raked her as he pulled his mate back into the sharp, brutal thrusts of a canine on the brink of losing control. All he knew now was the craving desire to rut himself into the collie's womb. His knot stretched her achingly tight and they both felt the last straining buck when he would not be able to pull out no matter how they tried.

For a few seconds more he humped her in hard, grinding strokes, feeling his pointed tip digging deep until resistance suddenly yielded and it sank just that much further in. Cassianna yelped and howled, and when he felt her gripping his shaft like a firm fist Arve gave in with a tooth-bared snarl of his own. His balls drew up tightly, clenching, and his cock throbbed as his seed finally splashed in quick, hot-pulsing ropes.

The tone of her howling shifted as the male behind her tensed and came. Arve heard her drop it, into a sated, keening moan. His hips arched by reflex, carrying his spurts deeper as he flooded her womb with virile, warm doggy cum. He pumped it into her strongly, the knot keeping every drop right where it belonged, still filling her as he collapsed forward and onto his mate's back.

Cassianna's muscles failed her; they toppled into the yielding straw together, panting. "That's more like it," the cowgirl murmured, voice hoarse from a raw throat. "How did you even have that much left in you?"

"Wanted to be sure..."

"Are you?"

He grunted. "Should try again."

"Should!" That was a new voice. Arve looked up to find Reald Mett leaning through the post office window. The window which, he realized belatedly, had no glass -- like all the buildings in Marimay. "Hi, lieutenant. I'm not bothering, am I?"

"We're, uh... finished, Raldi." The Border collie sat up with some difficulty occasioned by his still-buried knot: indeed the pressure sent a jolt through him that narrowed his eyes and caught his breath. Taluf Emmish and Caren K'nAndar were with Mett; so were a handful of the farmers, including Hastal Abarrochie and Pærtha Tasher. As soon as he'd caught Arve's eye, the stag brought his paws together in silent applause.

Cassianna got one arm beneath her and levered herself more or less upright, settling in the soldier's lap. "Aye, for now." She stretched out, and wriggled herself into a more comfortable position. "Give y'credit, Raldi, your sheriff does know how to keep the peace 'mongst us territory folk..."

"'Cept for the noise," Hastal grumbled. "Ruddy cowgirls..."

"See how much Adan minds," Taluf said, with a lewd snicker echoed by a few of the others.

"Yes, well." Mett peered further into the post office, to reassure himself that the pair had not made too much a mess of his prize. "When you're done here -- ah, and cleaned up --"

"Might be awhile," one of the farmers teased.

"Er. Well, yes. But when you are, we've been talking and, ah... well. You were right."

"Right?" Arve prompted.

"'Bout Marimay." Caren K'nAndar looked over at Hastal, sighed, and kicked his booted foot against the ground. "Our town. It seems we've got a palisade to build."