Chapter 1: Thunder Maker

To Empress Seviticah:

Your most Adoredness,

I have astonishing news: the traitor berDuvante rides to Wibbeley with no more than a dozen men! He pursues a thief and believes he is unknown to us, though our cousin Drefford plans to give him a most proper welcome! Might this be the end of the Gaurring problem? With a touch of luck, we shall soon set ourselves to reclaiming the Breck!

Our work continues apace. Praise Rauthmaug!

- Gred duReb, King of the Saot

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baetolamew had great respect for the duke—though at times he found it flagging.

Not all of the duke’s men trusted or even liked each other. The fighting men were especially unlikable, due mostly to the antagonistic nature of their work. Unlikable as they were, most of them were quite deserving of trust.

Baetolamew didn’t deserve the duke’s trust. Although he had great respect for the duke, until most recently he also had a gambling debt. The loss of debt coincided with the flagging of respect, as the debt was settled it in a most unsettling way.

The Duke Creigal berDuvante was a very important man. He usually had an entourage of a couple hundred people hovering around, as they attended the minutiae of their roles. For the duke to take only a dozen guards and go riding off into the night after a thief was highly irregular. For the duke to choose Baet to be part of such a limited guard was equally unexpected—except Baetolamew knew exactly why he was brought along—or at least he suspected. After all, Baet knew the thief. Indeed, he let the thief onto the duke’s property, to poke about the garden and collect a few seeds. He had not expected the clerk to slip away. He had not expected Humbert to steal whatever it was that he stole—the little bandit. He especially didn’t expect such a big to-do over what was supposed to be seeds. But that’s what one gets when he believes a liar.

Or perhaps Baet was wrong about the duke’s reason for bringing him. After all, he was a very good guard—or he was usually a very good guard. He sure hoped he was wrong. He hoped his selection was blind chance, or simply bad luck, as it were.

Three days northwest of Gaetilly, Baet suffered a nightmare. He tossed and thrashed in his sleep. Concerned by his friend’s difficulties, Haddelton woke Baet—only to find himself staring down the barrel of Baet’s fancy musket, Thunder Maker. For too long, Baet stared over the weapon with a question in his eyes. Haddelton realized his fate hung in the balance as Baet tried to make sense of what looked back at him.

“Friend?” Haddelton croaked.

His query broke the spell. Baet blinked and lowered the musket. “You fool! What are you on about!?” he snapped in a harsh whisper as he tucked Thunder Maker back under his pillow.

“It was your nightmare that woke me,” Haddelton snipped, offended to be so threatened.

Baet laid back in his bed with all his weight, “I don’t think I am shook of it,” he complained. “What did I say?”

For a long second, Haddelton considered telling his friend that he suffered guilty dreams—but he was upset by the episode. He did not appreciate having to face his own mortality in such a rude manner. “Nothing,” he said with a frown. “You made no sense,” he claimed, then turned his back on his friend, and with a huff, went back to bed.

The episode disturbed Haddelton and made him suspicious. The next day, as they rode, Haddelton surreptitiously glared at his good friend, Baet. Then, as Haddelton made faces behind Baet’s back, he noticed a strange thing: several of the other guards also glared when Baet turned his back.

Worse, the duke himself glared at Baet! Haddelton only saw it for a split second, and that from the corner of his eye, but he was convinced he saw the duke glare at one of his own guard!

What did Baetolamew do to deserve the ire of the duke? Was it possible the duke also suspected Haddelton of some treachery? After all, Baet and Haddelton were the best of friends...

Haddelton thought to pull Baet aside and have it out. He was quite convinced the man was guilty of something—or else why the dreams and all the suspicion? But he could not get his friend alone, then, when a chance presented itself, he lost his gumption and let his suspicions fester instead. Haddelton suffered through a night of his own bad sleep. He tossed and turned and thought, that damned fool almost shot me! He deserves what he gets! He turned and glared at his friend, as Baet huffed and wriggled in his own troubled bed.

The next morning, Haddelton confronted his friend as they took their breakfast away from the others. He grabbed Baet by the elbow and scowled at him. “What’s going on?!” Haddelton glared. “And don’t tell me everything’s fine—because I know you did something stupid! Feed me some line of crap and I’ll bloody you good!”

Baet backpedaled, a look of shock on his face. He was found out. His hands shook. His shoulders fell. For several seconds, he simply stared at his good friend. “I let Humbert into the gardens,” Baet admitted as he looked away. “I did not think he would get into the house.”

“You?! You let the thief into the manse?” Haddelton glared. “But why?!”

Baet shrugged, “He had a debt over me.”

“How much?” Haddelton asked.

Baet hanged his head. “Two sovereign.”

“TWO SOV— !?” Haddelton started, his rage getting the better of him.

Dread filled Baet’s eyes as he covered his friend’s mouth and begged him to be quiet.

Haddelton pulled away and continued—though he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Sweet Abra, you’re an idiot! You shit all over your loyalty for a measly two sovereign?!”

Baet shrugged, as he stared into the dirt, “I had a really good hand.”

“Cards!” Haddelton snorted. “Why am I not surprised this all started with cards?”

“...and dice,” Baet admitted, “and a bit of bones.”

Haddelton shook his head. He turned, took a step away, and said, “you are an idiot.”

“The dream gave me away,” Baet complained. “What did I say?”

“The dream,” Haddelton agreed. “And the duke’s ire.”

Baet blanched. “The duke knows?”

Haddelton shrugged. “Perhaps he only suspects… but he certainly glares at you like he knows.”

Baet turned away, “What am I going to do?!” He asked, as his hands began to shake again.

“What are we going to do?” Haddelton corrected him. He shook his head. “For now, don’t be rash. We won’t reach Wibbeley proper until tomorrow. Keep your head down, and try to keep your nose clean. We’ll think of something,” he said, halfhearted. “At the worst, we could always tell him the truth,” Haddelton shrugged. “You’re still a good soldier. He might simply send you back to the river lands, to help train the grunts.”

“Might?” Baet snorted. “And he might flog me in the square for all the other guards to see!”

“Yes, well,” Haddelton put a hand on Baet’s shoulder, and stared off into the distance, wondering with a frown of his own. “…try not to think of that.”

There was little time for more council as the duke and his guards shortly broke camp and rode for Wibbeley. Haddelton studied the others as he hoped to salvage nearly twenty years of loyal service. He studied Creigal and his captain in hopes of discovering what they certainly knew and what they only suspected. For a time, Haddelton was simply confused as he watched his fellow guards. He sensed factions and rifts he’d never noticed before, a fact that bothered him to no end. Indeed, it was a mixed and eclectic group, but the duke would not bring someone he did not trust. But then, Haddelton was never much of a politician. He preferred issues that could be resolved cleanly, with the edge of his sword.

The sun dropped beyond the horizon. A few miles outside of Wibbeley, the duke and his men stopped at an inn and rented several small cabins for the night.

Tomorrow, they’d go into Wibbeley, capture Humbert, and reclaim the duke’s stolen treasure—or so they hoped. At least it will all be over tomorrow, Haddelton thought as he rode his great steed, Mortimus, through the large courtyard of the inn.

And now Haddelton suffered as he tried to sleep. Something important poked about the back of his head, some terrible thought, some connection among the other guards that promised to be significant—but whatever bothered him still needed time to bake and set.

Or did it? Was all the concern simply fear run amok? It’d been a long day in the saddle and Haddelton had done a fair deal of thinking—though he felt he was not terribly good at it. Likely, he’d done a good bit of overthinking. How much of his problems were mere phantoms of his own summoning? How much of it could he simply ignore?

Exhausted, the guard only wanted sleep. He laid in bed, half puzzled over his day, as he begged for dreams of his woman. He closed his eyes, relaxed his mind, and slipped the horizon of this waking world—only to be poked by an urgency and stirred awake once more. The shadowy foreboding continued to rattle about his brain and linger in the air. It cast a pall over everything as it promised to come true in some terrible fashion. Haddelton felt exposed and in harm’s way. The feeling would not let him go.

As Haddelton thrashed and fidgeted, seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes rolled into hours. Slowly, time ran out for Haddelton. Caught in the great tumult of his thoughts, he did not hear the intrusion of padded feet. He did not feel the presence of menace and malice. However, at this time, a peculiar thing did occur. A meteor, a small piece of the old broken moon, fell through the air, split into three pieces, then clicked, clacked, and banged against the roof of the cabin. It was only the third time Haddelton ever witnessed a stonefall. He opened his eyes, and a face materialized out of the shadow, upside down and grinning. Haddelton recognized the face. It was the face of the royal attendant, Banifourd, one of the duke’s innumerable cousins. With a frown, Haddelton sat up. “What are you…?” he began.

Banifourd looped a wire around Haddelton’s neck and yanked him back against the headboard of the bed. Haddelton could not reach his sword, and he could not call to Baetolamew, as the air crushed from his throat. He kicked and thrashed as he attempted to wedge his fingernails under the wire. He could find no purchase.

As he struggled, Haddelton puzzled everything together. He realized there were serious traitors among the duke’s men. They were misled to this city for the sake of an ambush! None of the other loyal guards noticed likely because they were blinded by Baetolamew’s indiscretion. Baet’s guilt drew attention and served as a distraction from the plotting esquire—and how many of the other guards?!

But the revelation came too late for poor Haddelton. Terror gripped his heart as he flopped about. Blood seeped, spilled, and ran as the garrote bit deep. Haddelton’s lungs burned and his strength waned. Banifourd proved too strong and his advantage proved too great.

The searing pain of the wire turned to a dull ache and Haddelton lost his ability to struggle altogether. Images of his wife and babe played before his fluttering eyes. His final thoughts were apologies to Emia. She’d be so upset that he let himself get murdered.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Unable to solve his observations, Haddelton was doomed to the great beyond—but fate intervened for his good friend, Baet. The meteor that dropped out of the sky, that broke into three pieces, then clicked, clacked, and banged against the roof of the cabin, shocked both guard’s awake—only Baet’s attackers were not yet at hand.

Baet opened his eyes. He was surprised to see several shadows slinking about the room. Surprised, but not unprepared, Baet grabbed at the musket under his pillow. He missed the handle and gripped it by the barrel instead.

The first attacker was upon him. Baet was forced to swing the weapon as a cudgel. He lashed out, and smashed the handle of Thunder Maker into the man’s leg. The attacker lurched as the polished stone handle of the musket made a rude popping sound against his knee. A searing pain erupted in his leg and buckled him. The attacker gave an “ooof!” as he took a clumsy stab at Baet. Baet dodged the thrust, then slipped sideways and kicked the man in the face. The attacker crumbled to the floor.

A second assassin tried to get around his floundering friend. Baet sat up, flipped Thunder Maker about, and caught it by the handle. He leveled the musket at the second attacker and fired.

Light, sound, and smoke erupted into the room. For a split second, everything was illuminated. The most immediate thug was dead on his feet, as the musket ball smashed a hole in his chest. His injured mate rolled into a fetal position as he cowered from the deafening boom. A third attacker, a sentry at the door with bow in hand, was blinded as he stared across the room.

These three men did not concern Baet so much. It was the fourth attacker that worried the guard and sent shivers down his spine. Not only did this man look an awful lot like Banifourd, but he was strangling the life out of Baet’s best friend, Haddelton!

Banifourd, that weasel...

Darkness, deafness, and a fit of coughing set in. The light of the musket was gone as quick as it came, though the smoke still lingered. Baet leaned over the edge of his bed and grabbed for his boots as an arrow whistled overhead. He felt the arrow would have skewered him if he hadn’t bent over to retrieve his footwear, and the goodies he’d stuffed inside. The archer may be shooting blind, but he was shooting well!

Needing to get away, Baet snagged his boots, stood, and smashed through the window above his bed. He rolled to his feet with a wince and a curse as shards of glass bit into the sole of his bare right foot. Dogs barked and whined as Baet half hobbled and half ran from the cabin.

In his boots, Baet had his shot, powder, wad, hunting knife, coin, several dice, a pair of day old socks—and his other musket. After half a dozen quick steps, he dropped to his knees, and pulled Cloud Breaker from his boot. Coin and dice spilled in the dirt as Baet aimed his spare musket at the window he just dove through.

Banifourd peered out. He saw the musket and dodged back into the cabin before Baet could get a good bead on him.

“Banifourd, you bastard!” Baet yelled as he picked several coins out of the dirt and stuffed them back into his boot. He thought better of it and decided to run. With a huff, he abandoned the remaining money and one of his prettier die as he turned and hobbled into the night with a stream of muttered curses to mark his trail.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet crouched behind a carriage near the stables and reloaded Thunder Maker as he glanced nervously about the corners. He had serious questions.

Why did Banifourd kill Haddelton? For a moment, Baet thught it might have to do with his indiscression, but then, Banifourd was also wearing blue and white instead of the duke’s black and red... And who were the strangers with him?

Baet pulled the obvious shards of glass from his foot. He put on his socks and boots, then stared at the stables and wondered which of the duke’s men was set to watch the horses and supplies. Why were they not investigating?! He’d fired his musket! With such a racket, half the inn must be awake!

And yet, the world was quiet.

Baet slipped inside the stables. He called for the other guards, but found that he was the only one in the building. He also noticed a curious thing about the horses: not only were they unguarded, they were saddled, loaded, and ready to ride. On top of that, there were maybe twenty extra mounts gathered about the barn—which meant there were another twenty men about the inn! Baet cursed as he realized this wasn’t about him or Haddelton at all—Banifourd was after the duke!

For a split second, Baet thought he should put on some proper clothing, but he already had his boots tied, and time was wasting! Then he thought there was no way he could kill twenty some men with only two muskets—so he took a spear from among the company’s long weapons and ran from the stables as well as he could with several bits of glass still stuck in his right foot.

Outside, a thin arc of white dots stretched across the night sky and cast a faint glow about the complex of small cabins and outbuildings that formed the inn. Baet remembered the bang of stone that stirred him from his sleep and offered his gratitude to the shattered remains of Old Mother Luna. What a wonderful gift from the gods! he thought. And yet, the stones had not saved his good friend, Haddelton, with a child and a bride at home, a friend as guiltless and guileless as they come! Baet wondered what crazy justice must guide this world that a perfect friend should die while a sneak and a failed gambler should live. He half hobbled, half stalked among the various cabins of the inn as remorse burned in his soul. He did his best to stay low in the shadows as he approached the duke’s cabin.

Baet rounded the corner. He could see the door to the cabin was shut and there was no light in the window. There were no sounds about the night either, except a couple excited dogs that continued to bay in the distance. Thunder Maker must have woke everyone about the inn, and yet no one stirred. He strained to see about the cabins and the trees between them. The killers must yet lurk in the shadows.

The window of the duke’s cabin pushed open. “I can seee youuu!” Carringten called into the darkness.

Baet smiled to hear his voice. Carringten was captain of the escort and Duke Creigal’s most immediate guard. He was a formidable man, not one to trifle or hesitate, and he was loyal to the hilt.

A shadow shifted to Baet’s left and an arrow streaked through the open window. Several bodies shifted in the darkness and Baet counted those he could see. There were three—no—four men that lurked in the shadows nearby.

A fight erupted somewhere in the distance. Shouts, screams, and the clang of metal on metal ensued. Another musket roared to life. Emboldened by the distant fracas, the shadows about the duke’s cabin broke from their positions and rushed the door.

Something shifted to Baetolamew’s right. He realized there was a fifth attacker just to his side. The man was so close, indeed, he was too close! Baet abandoned his spear and grabbed for his knife. He shifted to his bad foot and tackled the man, despite the sudden burst of pain. The two men went down in a tumble. Baet stuck his short blade into the man’s side; once, twice, thrice. His enemy went limp as his blood splashed everywhere. Baet wiped his face—though it seemed to only smear the blood about.

Meanwhile, the other attackers kicked in the door of the duke’s cabin and rushed inside. “Have at you!” Creigal roar at the intruders. The flash and boom of a musket followed. Metal rang against metal as screams flowed from the small building.

“Balls,” Baet swore. He sheathed his knife, and took up the spear once more. Despite the pain in his foot, he charged for the duke’s cabin and hoped he wasn’t too late to make a difference.

All of the attackers were in the cabin except for one. The last of them stood in the doorway with a bow in hand. He raised his bow with a smug look of satisfaction. As Baet approached, he recognized the archer in the doorway. It was Willem, another ball-sucking traitor!

“Yargh!” Baet yelled as he made a wild lunge at Willem. The scream ruined the surprise—but it broke Willem’s aim as he was forced to turn his attention to Baet. Surprised but well-trained, Willem turned and released the arrow, then sidestepped Baet’s hasty attack. Baet twisted as he dived forward, so the arrow only glanced his side.

But the move overextended the guard. Off-balance, Baet careened forward. Willem grabbed the spear below the tip and gave it a solid yank, then stuck out his foot and tripped Baet as he reeled past.

Baet sprawled hands and face into a patch of flowers. With dirt in his mouth, he realized he would die for his effort. Willem dropped the spear, nocked another arrow, and turned toward the downed guard—but before Willem could put an arrow in Baet’s back, Carringten jumped out of the cabin and buried a hatchet in the traitor’s neck. Willem loosed the arrow, though he did not have the aim. The arrow struck the dirt a few inches from Baet’s head. Baet stared at the arrow as the harsh gurgle of blood carried from Willem’s throat. The sound was too similar to the rude noise made by Haddelton. Baet shuddered to hear it.

Surprised that he was still alive, Baet rolled over and stared up at Carringten. With a squint and a smile, the dark captain helped Baet off the ground. “Well met,” Carringten said with an approving nod. If he was surprised at all, he didn’t show it. He stared at the mess of blood and dirt that covered Baet. “Any of that yours?” he asked.

Baet looked down and noted the dark stains all over his skin and underwear. “Just a bit,” he admitted as he showed the captain the nick on his side.

Creigal berDuvante, Duke of Gaurring, stepped from the cabin, as imposing and regal as the name implied. “Tell me what you know,” he ordered with a stern frown.

“Haddelton and I were attacked in our room,” Baet began as he stood at attention. “I killed two: one in my cabin, and one over there. I don’t know either of ‘em, but Banifourd is also a ball-sucking traitor,” he said as he kicked at the dead form of Willem. “They all wear the blue and white.”

“These are Wibbeley’s colors,” Carringten frowned. “These others are either Count Drefford’s men, or they pretend to be,” he said as he turned to the duke. “What do you think of his lordship?”

Creigal frowned. “I would not be surprised if these are indeed the count’s men. Drefford has always struck me as quite fond of our king,” Creigal turned to Baet. “Where is Haddelton?”

Baet shook his head and lowered his eyes. “I barely saved myself.”

Creigal bowed his head and gently patted Baet’s shoulder. “Let’s see to the others,” he said and turned toward the sounds of conflict, now greatly diminished. Baet considered what he knew. Banifourd tried to kill the duke, and Willem was in on it—which meant Bence and Garf were likely traitors too. Baet sucked in his breath. He didn’t care a wit about Bence, who was a bit of a coward and far too fond of his liquor, but Garf was incredibly dangerous and talented. Baet would rather face Bence wielding any and every weapon than face Garf with nothing but his dick to swing.

The three men approached the diminishing sound of conflict. They could make out the voice of Vearing. “My brothers!” he roared, “I will avenge you, my brothers!” His words were punctuated by the clang of sword against sword.

Vearing was a monstrous man, even as he squared off against three others, all in blue and white. He used the great reach of his claymore to keep his enemies at bay, and swung the weapon with a speed and dexterity that verged on the impossible. The attackers backed from the man and searched for an opening to exploit. They could find nothing.

Indeed, it was Vearing that found the next opportunity. With a neat shift of his weight and a sudden change in direction, Vearing caught one of the attackers with his guard too high. He twisted his blade, dropped his strike, and cut across the man’s belly.

Blood and organs erupted from the man as he screamed something horrific, then toppled into the dirt. The other two attackers countered but were turned aside as Vearing danced away on surprisingly light feet. At a safe distance, Vearing turned back on his remaining enemies. A wicked grin split his lips as he stared down the remaining two opponents. “Come at me dogs, I thirst for blood,” he bragged.

Neither enemy approached, and to their credit, neither broke and ran. For several seconds, the three men circled.

“My brothers, I will avenge you!” Vearing bellowed as he closed on his enemies once more. With a violence, he pushed his opponents back as they were forced to take up defensive postures.

Creigal, Carringten, and Baet turned a corner. They could now see their friend at a distance. A trail of dead bodies showed the route of the fighting—but they were not all men in blue and white. Baet noted the limp form of Marik among them—in a pool of far too much blood. He wondered if any of the duke’s other loyal guards might yet survive.

Vearing suddenly stopped in his press and stared down. He was surprised to see an arrow protruding from his chest, dangerously close to his heart. “Huurr...” Vearing croaked as he attempted to press forward. He wobbled as blood gathered about his lips.

Another arrow sang out of the night to strike the giant man, inches from the first. Vearing dropped to his knees. The two men that stood against Vearing leaped forward, knocked aside his massive claymore, and struck him again and again. Without another sound, Vearing slumped to the ground and gave up the ghost.

Astounded to see Vearing die, Baet, Carringten, and Creigal stopped in their tracks. Garf stepped out of the night with a bow in hand, followed by four other men with blood on their weapons. From the other direction, Banifourd stepped into the light with his two men—one that hobbled as he walked and bore a bloody face.

Baet muttered a curse and raised his twin muskets. He didn’t know who he wanted to kill more, Garf or Banifourd. Still, he was a good shot, and they were not so far away. Chances were he might get ‘em both.

Carringten stepped next to Baet. The captain put a light hand on Thunder Maker and shook his head. There were eight men gathered about Vearing’s corpse. Even if two should drop immediately, a pitched battle was a poor option in the captain’s view. At best they’d have their revenge. At worst, Creigal would be captured or killed. It was the possibility of losing the duke weighed against the life of an esquire and a gang of hired thugs.

Baet knew the score. The captain was right. With a sigh, he sheathed his muskets, then followed Creigal and Carringten into deeper shadows.

“My men,” Creigal whispered, his voice filled with sorrow.

“There are still some missing,” Baet noted, all too happy to take a positive view.

“There is much blood on those swords,” Creigal shook his head. “I have little hope.”

Baet realized there was nothing more to do except escape. “We can leave!” He began in an excited whisper. “The horses are ready!”

Creigal and Carringten both turned to the guard.

“When I was first attacked, I retreated to the stables,” Baet continued. “The horses were saddled and loaded, and there was no one about. One of the traitors must have had the middle guard!”

“Bence had the middle guard,” Carringten stated.

“He was not there,” Baet shrugged.

“If Bence is there now, the devil take him,” Creigal snarled. “Lead the way.”

The three arrived at the stables and found everything as Baet remembered. The horses milled about; saddled, loaded, and a bit jittery, thanks to the repeated thunder of muskets. There was still no guard. Whatever his allegiance, Bence was not to be found. Baet figured he was safely out of the way, and likely drunk out of his gourd.

Carringten surveyed the horses with a satisfied air. He turned to Baet, “Cut the cinches and stampede the extra horses. I go to clear the gate.” With that, Carringten slipped from the stables.

Creigal tied their supply horses to Baet’s mount as Baet used his short blade to cut the cinches on the extra saddles. “I christen thee Gore Tongue, as thou hast drunk a man’s life,” Baet said to the blade. With a smile, he repeated the names of his weapons: Thunder Maker, Cloud Breaker, and now Gore Tongue. With the edge of Gore Tongue, he severed another cinch.

“You ready?” Creigal asked with his hand on the main door of the stables.

“Last one,” Baet called as he slipped his blade between beast and leather.

“Time to go!” Creigal called and pushed open the stable doors. He climbed into his saddle and heeled his horse with Carringten’s mount in tow. Several riderless mounts and supply horses followed after him.

Baet got on his own horse and pressed the stallion forward. The supply horses followed with the rest of the animals close behind. He pressed his horse through the courtyard. Six or so horses fanned out in front of him, and half a dozen more behind.

The yard was not empty. Several men stood to one side. They all wore the blue and white as they rushed forward. Most had nothing but swords and were too late to cut off Creigal or Baet—but two had bows, and they aimed at Creigal. The duke rode low in his saddle, a small target indeed. Baet knew a dozen men that would thrill at the shot—and half of them might make it. With a curse, Baet ripped his muskets from their holsters and stood high in his saddle. He took a hasty shot at the closer man. Though he missed, the boom of the musket was enough to spook the archers. One arrow sailed high over the duke and the other was well behind him as it grazed the saddle of Carringten’s mount.

The two archers turned on Baet and nocked arrows. Baet recognized Garf. He glared as he took aim. The archers fired a hasty shot and scrambled to either side. The arrows missed, but not by much. Baet returned fire, but he also missed as Garf dived away.

Baet swore at the traitor as he charged past in his blood soaked underwear. Garf turned and nocked another arrow. Baet pulled his horse hard to the left, and hugged close to his mount as an arrow sang past on his right. Garf’s next shot was even worse as Baet quickly put distance between them.

Creigal slowed as he passed through the wide open front gate of the inn. He could see nothing but the lifeless bodies of three men in blue and white—then a shadow shifted and broke from the wall. Carringten rushed to the spare horse. Baet stormed past Carringten and Creigal as he continued down the road with their supply horses in tow. Creigal and Carringten charged after him.

Garf and his companion continued to fire arrows though they fell harmless to the road. The distance was too great and the range quickly increased. Other men in blue and white wrangled horses in hopes of mounting a pursuit—but the saddles slid off the animals and took the riders with them. Garf swore a blue streak as he watched Duke Creigal berDuvante ride off with two of his guards still alive. He spit on the ground and kicked at a ruined saddle as the others tried to corral the horses.

Banifourd stepped next to his friend. “He’s still a long way from home,” he noted as he wiped blood from his sword.