Dinner was almost like old times. The Redsnout Mercenary Company was gathered around in a loose circle, members sitting on or leaning against the nearest object. Although demolitions made the majority of cargo in Jessup’s wagon, there was cooking gear, travel provisions, and campsite equipment. Since they were in civilized territory, Jessup only set up the poles and tarp for an awning to grant reprieve from the near constant precipitation. Their hosts were providing dinner this night, a simple stew of vegetables and local forage that included wild spring onions and various mushrooms.
True to form, Martu was on the outskirts of the circle, staring into her bowl with dark thoughts. The burning in her shoulder was decreased in intensity, but the sensation had spread to encompass her upper left arm and the left side of her back. Did she have an infection or was it more of a poisoning? Her bushwhacker’s superstition led her down the ideology that she was under some magical affliction. It was not the pine marten’s nature to brood and she found herself reconsidering killing Miss Taverand to solve the problem. Killing mages could stop their extended spell effects.
The activity of her comrades was a welcome distraction. From her position on the periphery, outside the awning, but on the eastward side that was opposite the current direction of the light rain, she could see Chicrose sitting too close to Orrik for their leader’s comfort.
The meadow vole masticated with loud, open-mouthed chews, almost as annoying as the teeth grinding, as he stared at the lynx’s mana-tech prosthetic with an intensity that suggested he could see through the mana-chrome outer layer to the inner mechanisms that allowed the machinery to mesh with magic. Chicrose was not known for poor table manners, but decency often fell to the wayside when he was engaged in an engineering problem.
Jessup the beaver was under a second, longer awning that sheltered the equines on the westward side of the circle. His bulk was too great for the packed camp stools so he sat on an overturned washtub, procured from somewhere -it had not been in the wagon, near the shoulder of his pony. The fey creature had yet to settle and her temper made her even more unpredictable. Martu observed Millie’s uneasy aggression when the pine marten was near and was avoiding the equine lest her injury be discovered. The scout was thankful she held a position in the Redsnouts as a foot soldier. Even the normal steeds had gotten wild-eyed and snorted when she helped with their saddles earlier.
Gloria was sitting on a stool across from Chicrose and said something in soft tones that Martu could not discern. However, the vole slammed his mouth shut and continued to gaze at Orrik’s prosthetic. The dove feathermage’s long tail was pointed outward from the awning, but the gentle glow of magic around her body prevented her from getting drenched in the elements. Martu was not certain she had done a good job of hiding her infection from Gloria when they met up before dinner, but the dove was too subtle to indicate either way. It was awfully mage-like of her and for the first time, Martu was wary. She had taken Gloria’s benevolent demeanor for granted. Still waters ran deep, as her pa always said.
Grasswhistle the hare sharpshooter, equidistant between Orrik, Gloria, and Martu, relaxed against one of the sturdy awning posts. Jessup’s brawn ensured that the posts would not waver under her weight. As she ate with a hearty appetite, the hare’s long, black-tipped ears bobbed, the crisscrossed white ribbons twining their length, flouncing with unexpected soigne. Her hat was balanced on the top of her rifle on the opposite side of the post, outside of the line of precipitation. Only a fool would assume she was unarmed. Martu knew for a fact that the sharpshooter had at least two firearms on her person at all times when on a job, one when off-duty, and a knife in a small sheath at her back, hidden by that shabby Lion Guard cloak, when it was not in a visible calf sheath.
Martu watched Orrik from under her brows, keeping her head turned away. Their lynx leader was affecting a cheerful demeanor, but his posture was too straight and his yellow eyes were pinched at the corners with weariness. His cheek tufts seemed more voluminous, the black splashes broader, than before they began this job in the northlands. Must be the colder weather. Martu heard tell of some beasts changing colors in the winter, too. Were lynxes the type to do so?
Martu arched her back and rubbed her shoulder, but stopped when she noticed Jessup’s small, black eyes watching her even has he told a ribald joke, garnering laughs from the rest of the Redsnouts. She was being obvious. The pine marten forced herself to quaff the contents of her bowl in one extended gulp, half-chewing the solids. She stood and picked up her stool.
“Patrol,” she grunted as she set the stool down under the awning, placing her empty bowl on top.
“Stay in the walls,” Orrik commanded, sounding like a casual remark. He was still smiling at Jessup’s jest, his eyes just a bit less strained.
Martu nodded once, appreciating that Orrik tried not to seem too controlling.
He need not have worried about her loyalty. The scout had been in awe of the lynx since his knighthood days, when his old Order passed through her familial forest on assignment. It had been Orrik in particular, not his fellow knights, that saved the forest without burning it down back when Martu was exiting kithood. Rather than find a space of forest to call her own, she chose to hone her forestry skills to be of use to that noble, young lynx. She was, perhaps, the first recruit of Orrik’s Redsnouts before they were an official mercenary company.
“Don’t let the mage know ya see ‘im,” said Grasswhistle.
Ah, she was talking about the younger blue heron feathermage that survived the ambush in the dark forest. Martu had also noticed that the heron seemed to be within a certain radius of the sharpshooter when he was not attending to whatever it was mages did. At present, the feathermage was across the bailey, perched on a barrel under the awning of the stables, long neck hunched in misery.
Martu did not have much experience with grief, but she knew what it looked like. She wasn’t there when their second-in-command died a few jobs ago, but had been comforted that he died as he lived, a courageous protecter of the meek to the end. Had the older feathermage met his fate the same way?
The pine marten did not like the uneasy feeling that came when she imagined Orrik meeting his end. He was just as honorable and virtuous as the vice-captain had been. The leader of the Redsnouts would absolutely give the last full measure if his code demanded it. Martu sighed as she drifted away from her comrades, wishing Orrik would be a little bit more selfish. Until then, she would have to do all in her power to keep him safe from those types of tough decisions.
Patrol consisted of meandering about the expanse that was the castle grounds. Most beasts were about their indoor business, save the loose spread of guards on the parapets and the stable workers performing nightly duties before bed. The majority of the ground was cobblestone, a necessary implementation considering the rain, but it was worn with age, nature reclaiming less trod spaces with sturdy shoots of grass and weeds. The whole atmosphere was of disrepair. The non-combat vassalage seemed to have the indifference of beasts that had been wearied away by fear. Martu supposed that was natural if the ashen monsters lurked just outside the lanternlight.
The scout wandered unmolested, hiding her strategic assessments with a sightseer’s posture: paws folded behind her back under her cloak and an upward tilt of her jaw as she looked about, never staring too hard at any one thing. Still, she noticed that the only exits were the big front gates and a smaller, multi-locked door along the back side of the castle, near to the wizard tower. It was worse than the claustrophobic feeling of a city. The pine marten hoped they would be finished with this job soon.
As she was coming around the back, almost pressing against the outer wall when she passed the wizard tower, Martu noticed a cloaked figure on the side of the stables. Her low-light vision told her that the silhouette was facing her and she sensed that she was the focus of its attention. The scout used her cloak to obscure the paw going to her hatchet hilt. She was not one for flashy bursts of speed favored by Grasswhistle, and had no issue with potential opponents knowing when she readied a weapon. Martu never had a problem bullying her way through with her size until she met fellow Redsnouts and this smaller foe certainly was not one of Orrik’s handpicked mercs.
The figure did not quaver at Martu’s aggressive posture as the scout followed the wall toward the stable. Instead, it raised an arm and made a beckoning gesture before shrinking against the shadows of the structure. The burn in her shoulder gave Martu an idea of what this was about. She had not seen Miss Taverand since the scout went to welcome her companions’ return from the forest. It was time for some answers.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Rather than lead the pine marten into the stables, the cloaked figure went to an area between the connecting small pasture and a storage shed, stopping to hide in the shadows when a parapet guard walked along the wall overhead. Martu also hid against the side of the stable with ease. When the guard scuffled farther down the wall, she resumed her passage, affecting the light steps of one on the hunt.
Killing Miss Taverand occurred to her again, but she dismissed the option. Orrik would be incensed if Martu did such a thing before the job was completed and they were paid. He would also have been upset for general morality reasons that the pine marten did not share. The backwoods forester’s lifestyle was one of remarkable practicality and ruthlessness when survival called for it. The scout was fine with exterminating a magical parasite if it meant that she should live, regardless of the pretty package it came in.
The figure waited for her underneath the wide boughs of one of the two conifer trees near the storage shed. Martu’s ears twitched at the nostalgic sound of the rain being muted against the piney branches. Before she could finish her approach, the figure threw back it’s hood to reveal the dainty features of the gray squirrel carriage driver. A small shine from the distant stable porchlight marked her large eyes.
Martu took two more paces to close the distance so that her low uttering could be heard. “Why have you led me?” It came out more hostile than intended.
From this distance, she could see the squirrel’s smirk between her chubby cheeks. Her cloak came to her knees; the silhouette was extended by the length of a maid’s gown going to her ankles. The bushy tail peeked out of the hem, distorting the gown in a way that indicated the squirrel was not used to tail management in a dress. It was the exact kind of impractical clothing that Martu detested.
“Why else?” came a voice from the dark side of the storage shed.
Martu hissed in surprise and readied her hatchet, taking a step back. A slim shape separated from the shed, making no sound at all and causing the pine marten’s hackles to rise all the way to the base of her tail. Miss Taverand halted, raising her gloved paws from her cloak in a calming gesture.
“I meant no surprise,” she said, her voice hushed to keep from drawing attention. “It is hard to be away from the eyes and ears of Lord Nobaran, and I did not want them to know I sought you.” She stepped to the tree, waving her arm. “Here, under the pine where he cannot see.”
Martu risked a glance to the tree. It was in the direct path of the wizard tower and the spread of branches would shelter anyone from an aerial view. For the first time, it occurred to the scout that Miss Taverand may have been escorted to the suspicious castle under duress. Orrik would hate such an obfuscation of their job description.
Having no love for unknown mages, the scout obliged, keeping close to the trunk of the tree. When Miss Taverand came under the boughs, she nodded once to her squirrel maid. The squirrel gave Martu a warning look before hiking her dress, revealing her driving breeches underneath, and scrambling up the pine with a deftness that the scout had to admire. The maid’s dress was clearly a costume, adding more weight to a potential plight for the mink miss.
Miss Taverand pulled off her hood and faced Martu with a proud tilt of her chin. Her level stare was one of flickering fire. Martu wondered if her own eyes would also change color. Then she would be unable to hide from her comrades.
Despite her regal bearing, the mink seemed at a loss for words.
Martu got to the point. “Why are you not like the creatures that attacked us?”
Miss Taverand cast her eyes down. “My affliction is more like a curse. The coal-wraiths are the result of infection by another coal-wraith… or one with a curse such as mine.”
Martu’s tightening her grip around her hatchet did not go unnoticed.
The mink added in a remorseful rush of words and wringing paws, “I was not contagious until recently. I am so very sorry to have infected you, Madame Redsnout.”
“Martu,” corrected Martu. Titles were not for a simple forester.
“Madame Martu.”
“No,” Martu barked. She loosened her grip on her hatchet in frustration. The mink seemed truly sorry for what happened. “Just Martu,” said the scout said in what she hoped was a gentler tone. She felt oafish before this dainty weasel-beast.
“Very well, just Martu,” said Miss Taverand. “My venom-claw will not kill you like a coal-wraith bite. But it will make you similar to one such as I over time. You might rise as a coal-wraith or -wight upon your death.”
There was a permanence to the mink’s explanation that Martu disliked at once. “There is no cure?”
Miss Taverand averted her eyes in shame or embarrassment, Martu could not tell. “None that I have heard of. My family carries this curse and I have not had much agency to pursue the myths of purification.”
“You are the reason for the attack,” Martu accused. She recalled that these so-called coal-wraiths had targeted the Taverand carriage with single-minded purpose.
The mink bobbed her whole body in a curtsey as she nodded. “I am the reason, but not the cause. Although I am fond of Eisen, the marriage arrangement was simply a means for my father to have me investigate the strange reports we have heard about the Nobaran territory. My father suspects a similar curse has befallen House Nobaran.”
Martu did not like where this was going. “Lord Nobaran ordered those…things to attack the caravan?” She kneaded her shoulder with the opposite paw, not caring about the mink’s grimace.
“I can—”
“No,” interrupted Martu. The marten stopped rubbing her shoulder. She did not trust herself to not harm the mink if she closed the distance between them, even if she meant to ease the discomfort. “You were saying?”
Miss Taverand dropped her arms to her sides, her shoulders slumping. “Yes. Eisen and his entourage were sent away before we, the caravan, left Castle Taverand. I’m not even sure he knows about the marriage arrangement. I believe Lord Nobaran may be acting alone.”
“Why?”
“My, you are direct,” the mink remarked before answering. “It is the duty of my cursed family to prevent creatures like the coal-wraiths from multiplying and terrorizing the citizenry. If Lord Nobaran is under a similar curse, he may have a different, ah, duty, we’ll say, depending on who cursed him.”
“An evil curse, then,” said Martu.
Miss Taverand’s expression became cold, fiery eyes flashing bright, her pleasant demeanor leaving her posture. “Make no mistake, the coal-blight is evil in all that are infected. However, seeking this curse is different from being inflicted with it. If Lord Nobaran has sought this foul state and seeks to spread it, then he must be destroyed.”
There was an exaggerated shifting in the branches above them, then, “Psst!” from the squirrel.
The intensity of the mink’s flickering eyes diminished and she drew her hood over her face. “I have stayed out too long. I must return to my chambers. Please come to me when the pain becomes too much for you to bear.”
The squirrel dropped from the tree, landing in a quiet crouch despite the rustle of her garments. Miss Taverand nodded to her, bowed to Martu, and hurried to the shadow of the shed in a flurry of fabric that should have made more noise. Martu’s ears went back at the abnormal movements. For a living creature, the mink had a similar unnatural locomotion like the undead coal-wraiths, albeit with more fluidity.
The squirrel carriage driver was still in her landing position. Martu noted an arm at the back, likely touching a concealed weapon. Was the squirrel also infected? Was she faster than Martu?
The squirrel tossed her head to push back the cloak’s hood. “Harm Miss Taverand and I’ll be sure to grant you two deaths,” she threatened, her large incisors bared.
Martu managed to hold back her usual retort of ‘I’d like to see you try’ that she used for, well, any challenge. Instead, she said, “Your mistress will come to no harm while under the Redsnouts’ protection.” Orrik would be proud.
The squirrel stood and snorted. “Hmph. Captain Tirig knows of Lord Taverand’s designs and will inform your captain should it be necessary. You will know me as Liena, my lady’s maid. These Nobaran buffoons are not to know I have other uses.”
Hence the costume. Very well. Martu was not one to spill secrets. Liena was not unnerved by the scout’s silence and went toward the stables without another word.
Martu leaned against the pine’s trunk, out of sight of the wizard tower to settle her thoughts before returning to the Redsnouts’ encampment. Miss Taverand had not mentioned if Lord Nobaran used the tower or had mages in his employ. Both would be the worser scenario.
Taking deep breaths seemed to inflame the pine marten’s insides. She scratched at her chest, unable to reach inside her ribcage to relieve herself of the sensation. This infection was getting worse. She did not like the idea of needing Miss Taverand to manage the changes. Still, the mink seemed sure Martu would not die of this discomfort.
The silver lining seemed to be that she could not get infected again. Remembering Orrik guarding himself with his mana-tech arm made Martu’s insides clench. May his uncanny luck continue. There was no way the Redsnout leader would not catch wind of a damsie in distress. His chivalry seemed to come from his breeding, the call to knighthood an inevitability that persisted even without an Order. Martu would do all in her power to protect her comrades from being bitten.
After enough time that Miss Taverand and her maid were long gone, Martu retraced her steps around the keep walls, brooding again, and all the sourer for it.
Miss Taverand was doubtful, but not sure if this coal-blight state was irreversible. Purification sounded like something in Gloria’s wheelhouse. Martu wondered if the Redsnout feathermage had the oomph to do such a spell.
The scout tried not to hope. She was no stranger to the unavoidable changes in fate, and would only require that her beloved Redsnouts dispatch her in such a way that she should not rise as undead, even if it meant an early execution. She doubted Orrik would be capable of this boon. Grasswhistle or Hugo, and Umar by extension, definitely. When the time came, she would count on the Redsnouts to grant her the two deaths she now required.
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