Castle Nobaran was perhaps a drearier affair in daylight. Daylight was a relative term. The unending cloud cover withheld dawn behind its dull, gray curtain, extending the atmosphere of nighttime for several hours into the day. There was a malcontented heaviness to the sky that threatened in soft rumbles of thunder. It would be a storm later, but for now, a balmy humidity pressed against every beast on the keep’s grounds.
Orrik would have kept sleeping if not for Gloria waking him this morning. He was alone in the tent pitched by his Redsnouts the night before, the dove having retreated after rousing him with a soft coo and gentle brush of wing feathers. Although it was sized for several, only Orrik, Gloria, Chicrose, and Grasswhistle had made use of the canvas lodgings. Jessup was possessive of the supply wagon when on a job and had chosen to sleep amid his explosives. Orrik knew the equines appreciated the beaver’s company. Martu never slept without the sky overhead and last night was no exception.
The lynx mercenary leader stretched, worrying about the pine marten. Martu was being quieter than usual, displaying an alertness in her posture that was her replacement for fear. The Redsnout scout was fearless, but sensitive to the ways of the outdoors and often reacted to superstition before reason. Orrik had come to trust his scout’s instincts and, after a brief exchange with Tirig yesterday, he knew she was on to something.
Based on the way his muscles felt, he had slept for several hours longer than intended. Orrik suspected his ‘Snouts were altogether implicit in his oversleeping. The lynx rubbed his face with a paw, grateful for such helpful and loyal comrades. It made him feel guilty that he would ask them to risk their lives for more than coin this day.
He made sure to pack his own bedroll and add it to the stack in the corner before leaving the tent or his Redsnouts would fall over themselves to dispense with his bedding. As always, Orrik counted his blessings and wondered what he had done in this life or the life previous to warrant such attention from such good beasts. His prosthetic paw was clumsy as he belted on his sword, the wrist mechanisms discharging small orangey and greenish sparks. He hoped it would hold up for the remainder of the job. With a deep breath to steady himself, Orrik lifted the tent flap and stepped out.
Martu was not within eyesight this morning, a common occurrence. Big Jessup was, as he rummaged through the supply wagon, whistling with a cheer that was at odds with the gloomy surroundings. Small Chicrose was in the front seat, foot-paws propped up, and fiddling with a mechanism of some sort. His leather roll of tools was laid out and taking up the majority length of the seat. Gloria was giving attention to the equines. The three steeds converged on the mourning dove with insistent nickers. Their coats were glossy from brushing and there was a buoyancy to their manes and tufted tails that indicated the feathermage used her magic to repel the damp.
Orrik looked back at the tent, warded for warmth by Gloria, and then at the cloudy sky. Thanks to the feathermage’s spell, he was able to sleep dry and in comfort. He was sure the Redsnout Mercenary Company had the most comfortable road accommodations of any merc group on the continent.
“G’mornin’, Cap,” called Jessup before resuming his whistled song. Orrik believed it was the bawdy tavern ditty played by the inn bard the night before the Taverand job started. The beaver might have heard the call to be a musician if the siren sounds of explosions had not blasted louder.
At Jessup’s salutation, the rest of the Redsnouts spoke up in a cacophony of greetings.
“Mornin’, Cap!” “Good morning, Orrik.” “Phweeeet!”
The last piercing whistle came from above where Grasswhistle was surely posted on sentry. The sound also spurred Plucky, Orrik’s destrier, to neigh a welcome. The black stallion was not fey, but he could be just as uncanny at times.
Thanks to Grasswhistle, all beasts going about their business within the bailey paused to look about. Those closest to the Redsnouts’ encampment stared at Orrik with guarded expressions. The lynx was not disturbed by their veiled mistrust. He knew the northlands had a reputation for adversity against harsh weather and, after experiencing the attack on the caravan, to the antagonistic supernatural as well.
Jessup disembarked from the supply wagon, the suspension in the axles causing it to bounce as it was relieved of his considerable bulk. Vole tinkering at its finest ensured that the wagon would bear the weight of Orrik’s destrier should the terrible need arise. It was a collaboration of several Torccster voles from the last time the Redsnouts passed through Chicrose’s home garage, Chicrose being the Torccster family representative with the mercs.
The meadow vole tinker took Jessup’s departure as a sign to roll up his tools and sling the leather over his shoulder with an equipped outer strap. He hopped down from the wagon front seat and went to Orrik as the demolitionist went to break down the tent.
“Howzit handlin’?” Chicrose inquired. He invaded Orrik’s personal space and lifted the prosthetic in his paws without preamble.
“Gloves,” Orrik insisted when he saw a small leak from one of the punctures.
Chicrose’s brown-gray pelt was pocked with several small welts and scars, many of which had managed to regrow fur, but in an almost chestnut color that contrasted with his natural color. While he still had the full length of his tail, it was a patchwork of brown, gray, and chestnut. His mother supported his departure from the home garage, knowing Orrik would insist upon preventatives that were more-or-less unknown to the tinker vole family, and thus extending the life expectancy of her favorite child.
The vole snorted, but retraced his steps to the wagon. He disappeared under the tarp and there was much scraping of metal on wood as he rooted around for his protective wear. Jessup gnashed his teeth at Chicrose’s obvious disruption of his careful sorting and lobbed the bedrolls at the wagon. The third struck it’s intended target and he chuckled at Chicrose’s screech of annoyance. The vole’s tirade of foul language was obscured by the tarp.
Orrik looked away so that the engineer would not see his amusement at their antics.
Jessup and Chicrose were collaborating contemporaries most times, but could devolve into encouraging rivals with little provocation, much to the agony of their leader’s sensitive ears. To Orrik, one of the best parts of taking jobs to places like the northlands was the distinct lack of machinery noise that was becoming more present in the robust southland cities. Between Chicrose tinkering whirring gadgets and Jessup designing more specialized combustion vehicles, there would be no peace among the Redsnouts if they got into a competition of one-upping each other.
“Sap-sucker lug,” Chicrose was muttering under his breath when he returned to Orrik’s side. The vole managed to retrieve his toolbelt, the heavy-duty gloves attached at the side loop on hip.
To preempt any teeth grinding, Orrik asked, “Will it need to be removed for repair?”
The lynx never got used to the loss of his left arm and, even after a few seasons with the wondrous prosthetic, still was not used to having the replacement. He enjoyed the convenience of a fully functioning limb, but his rational mind could not ease his body’s discomfort with a paw and arm that defied the parameters of limb strength and never tired like original flesh. It did not help that Chicrose, an exceptional tinker even by vole standards, made constant refinements that increased functionality. The damage sustained in the caravan skirmish was another excuse for the vole to tinker with the prosthetic sooner than Orrik would tolerate under normal circumstances.
The mercenary leader had spoken in vain. Chicrose leaned in close to the arm and began grinding his teeth as he considered.
“Goggles,” Orrik said through clenched teeth, controlling his desire to shout. His black-tufted ears flattened and he had to force himself to keep from shaking the carelessness from the vole. What would he say to Ma Torccster if her beloved son was missing an eye the next time they visited the Torccster garage?
Chicrose maintained his crouch as he released Orrik’s arm, pulling back his head a distance that was still too close to the leaking mana, and patted around his neck and head for the absent goggles. At least he stopped his teeth-grinding to go, “Ah,” reaching for a pouch on the backside of his belt to retrieve his protective eyewear.
Jessup finished tying the tent canvas into a neat pack and lumbered over, his visor goggles perched on the top of his head in standard fashion, heavy duty gloves coming out of a back pocket of his overalls. It was not the first time Orrik wondered if the demolitionist’s guild-certified engineering education was the reason the beaver kept his protective equipment handy. Jessup kept more distance between himself and Orrik, almost self-conscious that he towered over his leader.
“Better not take it off, sir,” was Jessup’s advice. He did not need to imply that things were suspicious around Castle Nobaran.
“Right,” agreed Chicrose in his loud voice, adding without tact for their surroundings, “Even if it fails, you can bludgeon a few baddies with it.”
Orrik sincerely hoped it would not come to that.
Jessup grinned at the vole’s indiscreet observation. “Aye. I hope to boom a few baddies on this one.”
According to Grasswhistle’s report when Orrik returned last night, Jessup had already boomed at least one baddie. If Orrik felt pity for evil, he would spare some for whatever was sieging the countryside. His Redsnouts could be more than enthusiastic when on a job.
A grizzled soldier mink in Taverand livery approached and waited on the outskirts of the Redsnouts’ encampment for acknowledgement. Orrik noticed the flash of teal from the corner of his vision and turned to nod at her.
The soldier nodded back and stepped closer, cutting a short bow. Her teal helmet plume and cape indicated she held a position of command. “Captain Tirig asks that you join ‘im fer the formal breakfast in the castle,” she said in a voice made guttural from seasons of military service.
“I shall attend,” the lynx responded. It would be an ideal time to get answers from Tirig.
He heard Chicrose sigh behind him. The repairs would have to wait.
“I’ll escort you to the dinin’ hall.” The mink soldier made another bow and departed to the base of the keep’s front steps.
“Let’s have Miss Glow take a look,” Jessup suggested. “Wouldn’t do to have ye leaking all over the fancy furnishings.”
Chicrose sucked in a breath to screech for Gloria, but the feathermage was already near. She was good about anticipating the needs of others.
“Please, allow me, Captain,” she said, gliding over in an absurd vision of demureness given the harsh surroundings. In all their seasons of travel together, Orrik had yet to see the mourning dove in a state of disorder.
Chicrose exhaled with an exaggerated gust of breath much to the relief of the other Redsnouts. He scooted away, giving Gloria a reverent amount of space to practice her art, raising his googles to observe.
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As before, the feathermage held glowing paws over the mana-tech arm. “Oh,” she cooed. “The block degraded much faster than I expected. After your repast, please let me apply a proper patch or you won’t have enough mana to operate.”
“We got some extra chrome filaments in the wagon,” offered Chicrose.
Jessup rubbed his chin. “Hmmm, I’ll weld a few patches with ‘em while you’re eating. We’ll have a proper spare made up after this job.”
Chicrose nodded his agreement, crossing his arms, a determined glint entering his eyes. Orrik’s heart surged with gratitude for them as the feathermage applied another magic seal over the puncture marks. He did not say anything, knowing that Chicrose and Jessup got particularly bashful with genuine expressions of appreciation. Instead, the mercenary leader left them with commands to fulfill in his absence.
“Make sure we are packed to leave tonight, though I expect we may be here a day or more longer. The majority of the dowry is still in the forest and lords do not leave wealth behind lightly.”
“You got it, boss,” said Chicrose.
Jessup’s affirmative was a single nod and he returned to the reduced campsite without dismissal.
“Might I see the patients once more?” Gloria asked, her brows knit together in concern. The overall gray of their surrounding made the black splashes on her cheeks more pronounced.
“Of course,” Orrik said. “You are a blessing.”
She dimpled at his praise and curtsied.
The mink soldier came to attention when she saw Orrik approach. “This way, sir.”
Orrik was led through a wide hallway at the opposite end of the expansive entry. Like the exterior of the castle, the interior had seen better days. The sparse furnishings were coated in a thin layer of dust that was not surprising. For such a large structure, the place seemed understaffed. Orrik was not well-versed in stewardship of households, but his experiences at the sprawling estates in the southlands gave him the understanding that efficiency and cleanliness required considerable beast power.
The dining room was a derelict banquet hall. The long tables that would have stretched down the length of the hall in two rows were pushed against the walls, leaving the head table at the far end of the chamber. The tables not blanketed in dust were laden with instruments of vague alchemical import. It was more like the place of a long-deceased scientist than a place for feasting.
Of the four chandeliers wreathed in cobwebs, only the one over the head table was half-lit, some of the sockets empty and others with half-used candles that gave off a tepid glow. The window vents at the tops of the high walls were shuttered closed. The intermittent wall sconces were lit with fresh candles that twinkled within their dusty glass casings. Pawprints and trails through the dust on the stone floor hinted that large rugs were dragged out of the room. This was not a land under recent misfortune: it was beset by long-term neglect.
A familiar lump was bent over the head table, his bulk spilling out on either side of what was probably a normal-sized wooden chair. Even across the distance and through his enthusiastic mastication, the Taverand Guard Captain heard the echo of his subordinate clearing her throat from across the chamber. The floppy ears flicked and the boar stood, his chair scraping against the floor.
“Orrik!” boomed the immense boar captain, turning around. It was rare to hear Tirig sound anything less than jolly when he was among foodstuffs.
“Tirig,” the lynx returned, padding across the floor.
Tirig met him halfway and they clasped forearms as if they were still comrades-in-arms. When they separated, Tirig turned and gestured to the head table. “Come, have some breakfast.” In a more reserved tone, he said to the mink soldier, “Dismissed.”
The soldier made a quick bow, but Orrik still saw a mutinous glint in her eyes. Her weathered face was impassive when she rose to make a smart about face and depart.
Orrik followed Tirig to the table to find a decent spread of recognizable dishes. The table was made of old, heavy planks that had been polished and the dishware was of quality matte silverwork. In the absence of full banquet seating, chairs lined the side of the table opposite the liege’s oversized chair. There were four place settings: one for the lord and one beside it, the other two across and slanted to the opposite side. It would make for uneven conversation if Orrik and Tirig were not the only ones in the banquet hall.
“Have a seat,” Tirig encouraged as he scooted his chair toward the table and hunkered down.
Orrik decided on a light meal as he sat next to the boar, taking a single serving of the sea bass fillet and a scoop of what smelled like crustacean stew. Seeing no pitchers of water, he started to reach for the decanter, but Tirig stopped him with a paw on his wrist.
“That’s poisoned,” the boar grunted between mouthfuls. “The food is fine, though.”
The lynx’s appetite faltered. He set down his fork, asking, “And why is our host attempting to poison us?”
Tirig swallowed. “Probably to add us to his undead forces.” His nonchalance was unfeigned.
He reached for his full chalice, holding his right paw over the top to dunk a small pendant attached at his wrist before taking a swig. Orrik was reminded of Gloria behaving similarly with everyone’s dinner portions the night before, except she had cupped each bowl and given a flash of her magic glow. He assumed she was reheating the food, but she must have also suspected treachery. He surged with violent indignation that his Redsnouts had almost come to grave harm.
The mercenary captain forced himself to calm, forced the haze of red filling his vision to subside. He needed to gather all the information he could to ensure success. Tirig knew much more than he let on.
“I hope your troops did not partake of dinner last night,” Orrik said, his voice light to conceal his rage.
“Ate every last crumb,” Tirig retorted. He gave a sidelong smirk. “Had little Meladore purge the poison from the cauldron Lord Nobaran so graciously provided before serving every beast. I take it your little dovey did the same since you’re all alive. Feathermages are damned useful featherbrains, aren’t they?”
The lynx’s response was the stillness that preceded death. “I pray you are not implying you would have let us be poisoned.”
“Easy now, Redsnout,” the boar said, using the nickname that was the namesake of the mercenary group. “Meladore told me he saw your feathermage treating your dinners before he could intervene. I would not’ve let you die a cowardly death. I’m not so craven.” He was not threatened by the lynx’s killing energy and helped himself to another oversized helping of the food, adding, “Plus, putting down your undead mercs would’ve been ghastly hard work. I don’t know how you got a pine marten that big to leave its woods and your beaver is easily the size of a boar.”
Orrik looked down and noticed his clenched paws. “I see you have done your research.” He took a steadying breath and released his fists. The knife handle that had been clutched in his prosthetic left paw was warped.
Tirig stopped eating and met the lynx’s yellow eyes. “I had to. Lord Taverand expected casualties. We will only have the element of surprise once.”
“There were surely closer groups you could have called in.”
The boar shook his big head. “I needed someone I could trust at my back when things got hairy. Plus, you have proper demolitions management. None of that crackpot fusehead foolishness most mercs have.”
The Redsnouts had fusehead foolishness in spades, but Orrik did not correct him. Most beasts saw Jessup’s gold-star guild certifications and assumed he was of the usual level-headed fare churned out by the southland’s Engineering Academy. In truth, the beaver was too talented for expulsion and too willful for gainful employment.
“You’ve got a well-rounded group, but you’ve always had a good eye for that,” Tirig complimented and returned to his meal.
Orrik sighed. “So, tell me how we put a stop to this mess.”
Tirig belched. “Simple. We…” he trailed off, wrinkling his snout, ears flicking. “Company.”
How did he do that? Orrik knew for a fact that Tirig had never been considered long of ear, as the southland hares would say. Since they last saw each other, the boar’s innate battle sense was honed to a skill similar to Martu’s enigmatic ranger senses. What trials had brought forth such an evolution?
There was not time to ponder the mysteries of Tirig for the two captains were joined by their host.
“Greetings, gentle-beasts,” hailed a weasel-beast entering from a side hallway near the head table.
Lord Nobaran was an orange-eyed mink of larger proportions similar to Lord Taverand, however that was where the similarities ended. Where Orrik recalled Lord Taverand being broad, chestnut fur shining with good health, Lord Nobaran was whipcord sinew, his fur dull as the dust decorating his manse. His lavish robes of office hung on his frame and a patchy tail peeked from the bottom hem.
Orrik felt his hackles rise as the mink lord swept through the room and seated himself in the armchair. Tirig maintained his gluttonous poker face, nodding to their host as he eschewed his spoon to drink from his soup bowl.
Lord Nobaran propped his elbows on the table, on either side of his empty place setting, threading his paws together to form a perch for his chin. “I trust you find our culinary offerings pleasing.”
“Top notch,” Tirig grunted as he set down an empty bowl.
“I thank you for your consideration,” said Orrik, the lie making his tongue heavy as lead. He forced himself to take a bite of his fillet. The buttery tenderness may as well have been sand.
The intent gaze of the orange eyes was unsettling. “I thank you for delivering Miss Taverand in safety,” said Lord Nobaran. He indicated the place setting next to him. “I am afraid her unfortunate ordeal has affected her nerves and she will not be joining us. Please, let us have a drink to her health, poor dear.”
The mink lifted the decanter, his paws looking emaciated in the folds of his embroidered sleeves, and filled Orrik’s and his chalices. As he raised his own, Tirig mirrored the gesture with his already filled vessel. With an oily grin, Lord Nobaran sipped his drink as Tirig quaffed his entire serving.
Noticing that Orrik did not reach for his drink, the mink said, “Is the wine not to your liking? I promise it is of quality vintage.”
It was easy for Orrik to reply, “The job is not yet completed. I prefer to celebrate with all my ‘Snouts after the work is finished.”
Lord Nobaran’s smile froze and Orrik was sure he saw the orange of the mink’s eyes flare. “Indeed.” He recovered, reclining in his large chair. “Yes, the job is not yet completed. There is the matter of Miss Taverand’s dowry. You seem to have left it behind.”
Tirig’s features became harsh, tusks protruding further with temper. Although the Redsnouts suffered no casualties yesterday, near to half of the guard captain’s soldiers were injured in some fashion. Even if his liege expected casualties, Tirig was not the type to bear the sacrifice of beasts under his command with good humor. Tirig’s temper, slow to flare, was legendary in their knighthood days.
“We thought it imperative to bring back the injured first,” interjected Orrik.
“Can’t forget that can we?” mused Lord Nobaran.
“Indeed, Captain Tirig and I were discussing the particulars of retrieval,” continued Orrik. “My mercs are ready for dispatch as soon as we are finished.”
He unsheathed the claws of a foot-paw and poked at Tirig underneath the table. The boar recovered and jammed a large forkful of fillet in his mouth, spitting out an, “Indeed,” with a few flecks of food.
Lord Nobaran did not contain his disgust well, his lip curling at the boar’s table manners. “Yes, that will be necessary. I shall leave the captains to it, then. There are many things I must attend to. You may speak with my steward should you require assistance.”
The mink lord was already rising as he spoke and exited the banquet hall through a small hallway opposite the passage from which he entered.
The captains finished their meal in silence, ears pricked for further interruption. Although he would have liked a clean beverage, the fillet and stew went down easy enough, the flavor recovering after Lord Nobaran’s departure. They did not speak again until they left the table to return to their troops.
“As you were saying?” Orrik prompted.
He paused at the exit so that Tirig could go first. The boar was too broad for them to walk through the hallway in tandem.
“As I was saying,” repeated Tirig, “we find this necromancer’s lair and put all the dead down permanently, Lord Nobaran included.”
Orrik was sure to keep his volume down and pitch his voice up to Tirig’s ears. “And how do we manage that?”
“Miss Odette is already on that. We can’t both go back for the dowry.” The boar sighed, his pace slowing as they came to the end of the hallway. “Pick your best foresters to send and that clever tinker.”
The lynx stopped walking. “If Lord Nobaran is responsible, this is most certainly a trap.”
Tirig took a few more steps before turning around. “Most certainly,” was his grim agreement. “That’s why you will stay behind and I will go for the dowry. It wouldn’t look right if Taverand’s captain did not retrieve the goods and sent a merc instead. You might run off with the loot, after all.”
Orrik snorted, willing his face to remain still. It would not due to laugh at the joke when his Redsnouts’ lives were on the line.
Tirig knew where the mercenary captain’s thoughts were. “We’ve no unhurt engineers left in the guard. We need the vole to salvage more wagons. Send any bodyguards you want, but not too many. We don’t want Lord Nobaran to know we suspect him. Leave your mage behind, too. I’ll bring ours.”
“My Redsnouts are my family,” Orrik started.
Tirig raised a paw to silence him. “I already know how you are with your soldiers. Terrible sentiment in a captain.” He rested the heavy paw on the lynx’s shoulder. “I will defend yours with my life if you watch over Miss Odette. She’s a jewel in her own right, not because she’s some lord’s granddaughter.”
All Orrik could recall of the mink miss was an appeasing and lithe frame obscured by her expensive cloaks. She had not spoken before entering her carriage at the start of the job and remained reserved in the presence of her grandfather, but Orrik had seen determination in her pretty face that seemed out of place at the time. During the skirmish, she kept her courage and followed instructions without complaint or fear. It relieved him to know that she was an active player in Lord Taverand’s scheme rather than an innocent or unwilling bystander.
Orrik mirrored Tirig’s gesture with his mana-tech arm, the paw only reaching the boar’s upper arm. “I will put myself at Miss Taverand’s disposal, then.”
Some tension left Tirig at Orrik’s yielding. “You have my gratitude.”
The captains separated and walked into the castle entry chamber, Orrik chuckling. “Don’t be grateful yet. If you return without all of my mercs, I’ll be reminding you why I’m the Redsnout.”
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