The morning after Berthold’s arrival was one of organized chaos. Aris and Tor were able to have a hastily prepared breakfast with Liam a few hours after the first light of the Sky Shepard bathed the town in blessing, but then they were dragged in separate directions. The three shared a few laughs, but the tone of the impending challenges with the bandits had cast a somber air over the reunion.
Tor went with Merlitz and the Mayor to oversee the guard rotations throughout town. A scouting party was expected to return from the Parsimmion Estate by mid-day with news of the recovery there. Emrys watched Aris closely while they performed various duties to support their friends and family in the protection efforts, never letting her out of his sight.
Liam was set to meet Berthold in the stables, where Gren, Friar Belvedere, and the Knight were preparing to leave. It was this meeting that Liam dreaded the most, he had barely slept since his encounter with the council in the wee hours of the night, but thankfully by the time Berthold had arrived he, Aris, and Emrys had returned to their quarters.
Tor had described the Knight over breakfast. “Berthold is a pompous noble, the elvish blood obvious in his features. Long ears, inhumanly bright eyes. And hair that seemed to be impervious to grime and dirt.” Aris laughed with youthful exuberance, and Liam seemed startled and confused but laughed eventually after Tor prodded him with a half-eaten loaf of stale bread in the cheek.
It felt like the calm before the storm, but no one wanted to say it out loud.
The dried jerky made a rough tearing noise as Catlimeer ripped off a mouthful from the strip in his gloved hand. The bandit in front of him was one of the new lads, still wearing the ragged traveling clothes he had been conscripted in from whatever shithole he had been found in, along the rivers. The blood-red sash at his waist was practically new, it bothered the cult leader how crisp it looked as he listened to the report he was making.
“We know a scouting party arrived shortly after sunrise in the estate. They were greeted warmly before we moved out. So that wagon we tracked last night must have made it to town and sent ‘em. That road from the estate south to town is going to be crawling with people today and tomorrow, sir. Do you think we should set up ambushes there? Keep ‘em from organizing to town?” The lad finished, he has done this sort of thing before, thought Catlimeer. He swallowed the dried meat after chewing for a moment, then responded with his orders.
“Aye, take five volunteers from my crew here to bolster the ranks. I know ye lost more than ‘dat, but ya’ll have to make do. Make sure ye rob everyone, anyone that looks well-armed, ya kill ‘em from the sides. Take all weapons. I want them to make it to town, but not in a condition to aid them.” Catlimeer looked at the dozen riders on horseback that lingered around.
“Well! Get on wit it!” He shouted and then spurred his mount back towards the camp just out of sight from the meeting spot along the river. As he approached the guards outside his tent he grabbed an older woman by the arm.
“Tell everyone to start packing up, move the camp as far south along the river as ye can. No fires tonight. Eat the scraps. Rest. Be ready to move again if I tell ye!”
Catlimeer walked away from the ruffians and rabble, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the braids of hair tied to the wide belt he wore over his blood-red sash. They were precious to him, reminders of oaths and trials. Pain, pleasure. The path he had walked was soaked in the blood of prophecy.
He looked in the direction of the town, soon to be besieged by the raiders that had not yet arrived. The bandits were only one part of the carefully constructed revenge he owed the folk of this place for what they had done to his father. For the transgressions that they had enacted against the will of the readings. The will of the outside forces his father had sensed buried beneath this place. Beneath all of these cursed lands.
They would all suffer as he had foreseen. As his father had confided in him as a youngling.
But something else was stirring here. Something he could not comprehend. Yet.
He sniffed the air, felt the blessed winds on his face and snorted in disgust. “Ye will know the defilement of Daemons, Ar’rin. Aye, ye will know it, and I will relish the loss of innocence. Yer tainted myths. Aye, soon, “ he spoke to himself and the living nature spirits he knew were listening.
Berthold leaned against the stable wall as Liam made his way down the street with Gren. Belvedere fiddled with the saddles on his two mules as they chatted.
“So tell me, Friar, why do you dislike the burrow-kin?”
“Don’t call him that! He has not lived amongst his kinfolk in the Wylds for a least a generation, if not far longer than that,” answered the devout man. “But we do have a history of conflict. Gren came here with Sir Tommen, or so the story goes. Helped establish the Inn, started the Rangers, and even designed the bridge over the river crossing. I don’t…dislike him exactly. Just been a challenge to establish the Sect’s position correctly with his hand in the local community.”
Berthold adjusted his swordbelt and moved to greet the approaching pair accompanying him to the monastery. “I just want to know how the next day is going to go before we separate the lad from his findings.”
Belvedere carefully eyed the knight’s movements and muttered under his breath, “Separate. We will see about that, Berthold.”
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