Chapter 4 Missing

[frenzied67]

Ch4
Missing

Winter's chill hit Pernandi the second he stepped out of the old tavern. Even though the sign above his head had been needing fresh paint for many years, he could still see the feminine legs on the tilted mug, kicking up in dance while brew sloshed out of the container's top. Why am I always stationed in these northern cities? I belong in the south with Human's who make sense, he groused in his thoughts, trying to nestle his chin deeper into the knitted scarf around his neck. With a last frown at all the snow piled up between the roads and walkways, he began to gingerly step off the taverns porch onto the walk. Though he did not slip, he still walked more gingerly than the natives of Lakehill.

I should move on to Javiero. Winter always slows down the rumors and information in these little towns and villages. The big cities never stop generating provender for the information exchange. Despite his observations, Pernandi did not head for the stable where his horses were stored. His steps continued away from Lakehill's sorry excuse for a gate into the little town's interior. He had a job and a duty. Sure his job was to collect rumors and intelligence, but he also had to continue his almost two decade search for the inheritor of the movement he belonged to. A local woman in a fur lined cloak came out of a shop ahead of Pernandi, the middle age woman carried a crate almost wider than the walkway; a strap around her neck helped her carry the open top box.

Her pale blue eyes studied Pernandi curiously, a few strands of red hair fluttered across her cheek. Like most of the people in Lakehill, she had never seen a man with brown skin and even darker brown eyes before. He was as rare as a giant in the lowlands, and thus an instant curiosity to these folk. Though if his skin tone had been paler he would have fit in as just another man with a strong jaw and soulful eyes. Pernandi himself had dealt with every race in Tanbril, even a few giant tribes in their mountainous homes. Except for the few contacts Pernandi had in this town who were used to him, his unique skin tone always drew eyes his way. Shying away from the unknown, the woman did manage to allow him space to pass by her fish and ice filled crate. Is everyone in Lakehill a fishmonger, he wondered after glimpsing her piscine wares.

Though fishing was a big industry in Lakehill, lumber and the tin mines actually brought in the most commerce. Yet everywhere Pernandi looked there were people carrying boxes filled with ice and fish. Coming to the second corner along the unnamed street he had been walking, he recognized the three A-frame houses and the one four story high peaked house that sat at each corner. He turned east heading for the second of four taverns he would have to visit while in this small municipality. Javiero, and all the towns and villages making up that city state's territory, had high peaked roofs on their buildings. The eastern midland climes always had poor winter weather with blizzards and ice storms. The roofs had to have a cant to them that would shed or disperse the weight of ice and snow. The homes and businesses also had small windows, recessed to take thick shutters; the only way to keep heat on the inside in the four to five months of winter these lands suffered.

Ahead, the Meadowlark Tavern's rickety sign came into view, dangling from the building's overhang over the walk. The caricature bird was winking at the viewer, it's wing held mug extended out for a toast; this sign too, needed fresh paint. Though Pernandi always feared ice on the walk, he did pick up his pace, not having slipped once through his entire walk was making him bold. Looking forward to the heated interior of the tavern, the southern man still had the peripheral vision to notice three men in front of a nearby inn's stable. The Human in the trio raised a hand to point across the road at Pernandi to his shorter and slighter companions. Those two began to cross the street in an obvious attempt to intercept him.

His quick eyes noticed both their gait and the very large blades strapped across their backs; he noted matching birds were inscribed on the pommels when they drew nearer. These are Faelora soldiers, they come from the far north, from the lands with all the lakes. He had heard tales of some Faelora city states that spent half a year in perpetual day, and the other half in constant night. Were these two from that far away? The first blush of Pernandi's curiosity fell away when he asked himself another question. Why would any Faelora wish to speak with me? Curiosity gave way to alarm, was selling fenced goods about to catch up with him? A brown hand fondled a diamond that had been shaped into a faceted eight pointed star within his pocket, his will pulled unseen ribbons of power from the relic. Pernandi wrapped himself about with those fluttering bands, holding them ready to strike out with or cower behind.

He also altered his course to meet them in the middle of the street, mostly to see how they would react. Though the Faelora men had fixated upon Pernandi, they had also been glancing about; now that he was moving toward them, their eyes never left him. Locking on to him like a hunting lioness spotting a limping gazelle. One had ruby gemstone eyes his bark like skin had an off green color, the second one had eyes like the rare pink sapphires found in the far islands of the southern sea; his skin was a pale gray flaky bark like texture. They had determination, yet he was not reading either malice or tension in either soldier.

"Human, are you the information peddler Pernandi of Deshnandu?" Pernandi hated that term, yet his cover required it.

"I am Pernandi, a business man," he declared, emphasizing a title that felt better; though it too was something of a lie.

Nearer the eastern side of the street than to the inn, the three of them came to a halt. They assessed him as much as he considered them.

"Ah yes, a business man," the Faelora on the right stated, emphasizing the title as Pernandi had. "We would like to purchase information from you then." Like all city dwelling Faelora, the two men wore neutral expressions that rarely changed as they spoke, neither mannerism nor expression betrayed mockery; yet Pernandi felt he was the target of some subtle ridicule. As he always did in this situation, he ignored the unsubstantiated derision yet doubled his scrutiny hoping he could catch concrete proof.

"And what is it that you think I can sell you?" he asked raising an eyebrow.

A momentary perfunctory smile twitched on both Faelora lips, again an expression that felt like mockery to the southern man. The silent one began to look around, his long head moving nonchalantly like a man bored with the conversation, yet he gave off an air of vigilance.

"We seek one of our own, a Faelora male with a lordly air. He will be around four hundred years old, so youngish to your eyes...."

"He will be traveling with a Human woman, one who will look older than her companion," the other Faelora broke in, his eyes still tracking every person on Lakehill's cold streets. Though the first speaker grimaced slightly, Pernandi was given the impression that the interruption was not the cause behind the wincing expression.

As an experiment, Pernandi trampled over the speaker just as the man was about to resume his dialogue. He really wanted to catch either of these Faelora in deriding him, any excuse to send these overly haughty tree puppets packing. Though he did not know why he particularly disliked these two, he knew that by selling them information he would not be helping himself or his chosen people.

"What are their names, what do they look like? Good information begets good results." This time the speaker's smile did not seem mocking, he even inclined his head to acknowledge the truth Pernandi had spoken.

"They act as fugitives, so we do not know the names they will be using." After imparting that unhelpful tidbit, the speaker reached inside his beaver lined coat. In his soul, Pernandi wanted to curse. So far these Faelora were not granting him an excuse to break off this burgeoning arrangement.

I am going to charge them a very high price. I'm going to gouge them so much that they will go to The Burning Spirits still in debt to me. Keeping his uncharitable thoughts off his mien, he watched the speaker produce a package of folded papers and a smallish blue suede pouch that bulged. "We have their likenesses drawn for you, the female's picture was taken when she was younger. I am sure you can extrapolate what she would look like almost twenty years later. This should be simple for you, she is one of your species," the pink eyed speaker stated unfolding the two drawn pictures, which he then handed over. Whoever the artist had been, their attention to detail impressed Pernandi. He swore that the only thing preventing the two people from stepping off those pages and becoming real was the lack of coloration.

Both marks looked like teens, beautiful in their youth. For a moment he wondered what crime had brought these two Faelora out to hunt these young people, then another hunch struck the southerner.

"I have never seen these two before. Does any of this have to do with the war between Estanabril and Anetheri?" Pernandi only asked that to see how the stranger's would react. He almost smiled when he shook Red Eyes up enough that he stopped looking about. Both Faelora fixed on him with narrowed eyes, betraying that he had struck his mark with that random arrow.

"What if it does?" Red Eyes asked after a drawn out moment; Pink Eyes glanced at his partner as if wondering what his companion's gambit was.

Smiling disarmingly, Pernandi shook his head as if dismissing his earlier guess.

"True, that should have no bearing on the arrangement we are making. I have to admit, looking for runaways is not cheap, especially using old pictures of these fugitives. I do have a network of snoops and bounty hunters who are highly specialized in their fields, they will not work for coppers...," he raised his eyebrow expectantly, ready to dismiss their first offer. Instead of listing a price, Pink Eye held up the small suede pouch. When Pernandi did not reach for that disappointingly small bag, the Faelora, with snake like speed, grabbed his free hand and placed the object in his palm. Taken aback, Pernandi squeezed the bag slightly and discovered it did not hold coins at all. The two Faelora smiled slightly as he loosened the drawstrings to peer inside the container.

A score of faceted rubies sparkled when revealed. A prince's ransom in value. When he gaped at the two, Pink Eye's smile held a superior quality.

"Of course we require your utmost attention to detail, and nothing less than full discretion from you and your network," he stated, knowing he had more than paid for such services and then some. "You will receive ten times that sum when you can deliver our- uh, fugitives to us." Ten times more? Pernandi was already holding more wealth than he had ever beheld in one place before. His voice shook when he spoke again.

"H- how do I con- contact you?" Looking pleased with themselves, Red Eye pulled out a dagger with a deer antler hilt. Power radiated so intently that Pernandi feared even mundane people could see the red energies; he looked about checking to see who was watching.

Hesitantly, he pulled out his oddly carved diamond and touched it to the dagger's hilt. Both he and Red Eyes drew power out of their relics tying a magical knot around both items with mystic ribbons. Now they would be able to communicate with each other no matter where in Tanbril they each were. "How did you know I was a magister," he whispered feeling uncertain. Pink Eyes answered for the duo, still seeming pleased with himself.

"We too have a network of discrete... uh... professionals. We know many things." Happy with themselves, the two Faelora turned about and walked away heading in the direction Pernandi had come. They knew there was no need for a handshake or a contract, they had more than paid for the deal now existing between them.

Long after the two men had turned into the street that held Lakehill's rusty portcullis, Pernandi cast glances between the pictures he yet held, and the path the stranger's had taken. Becoming aware of the chill nibbling at his bones pulled the southerner out of his bemused state after several minutes had passed. This is a lot more than a simple search for two people. They paid too much money. Politics stinks. Pernandi found his limbs almost uncooperative when he did start moving, his feet and hands had become numb from winter's greedy hold. Ah crap! I'm going to get that pins and needles feeling when I start to warm up. He did need the heat, but the pain of having sensation return to his extremities was not something to look forward too. He had just fumbled the pictures back into their folded up state and into an inner pocket when he entered the Meadowlark Tavern.

Brown skin or not, three patrons and the bar tender gave him stink eye until the door was closed. Warmth from two fireplaces almost made him sigh in delight, but he still understood why no one had been pleased for the few seconds the outside had scrambled in to steal most of that heat away. Victouer the proprietor was working behind the bar this day, the lack of a crowd excuse enough to not bring in his regular trained staff. That man's eyes began to shift about when he recognized Pernandi. Victouer may have a lot of access to information, but a spy he was not. The seven four person tables and the bar itself were all well made and well maintained, all hardwoods of some sort that Victouer made sure were coated and sealed against moisture.

Several pictures of Lakehill's countryside were posted on the east, north, and west walls, the bar itself taking up the south wall next to the only entrance. Behind that bar were stacks of barrels that held several types of beer or ale, a back room was reserved for the ten varieties of wine they had, as well as the six hard liquors they were legally allowed to sell. Victouer's office and living quarters could be accessed by a steep set of stairs in the south eastern corner. One man was seated at the bar which had seven stools before it. The other two patrons were set as far as possible from each other among the spread of tables on the main floor.
Licking his lips and failing to act casual, Victouer shifted uneasily behind his station.

"What can I get for ya, Pernandi?" Smiling Pernandi gave his usual answer, an old joke that always seemed to calm the proprietor.

"I'll have a willing southern woman. If you don't have one of those for me, then you can get me a rum." Smiling broadly Victouer relaxed, the northerner's rejoinder was unexpected.

"If there was a willing woman in this town, none of us would be here." Ambushed by the humor, a chuckle burbled out of Pernandi, and just like an earthquake ramping up its shakes, that chuckle built itself into an outright laugh. Pleased with himself, the tavern's owner reached down behind the bar and came up with a bottle with brown liquid inside, he plopped that bottle on the counter then turned it so the label faced Pernandi.

Surprised and delighted once again Pernandi offered wide eyes to Victouer.

"Kalinama Rum! You have Kalinama Spiced Rum? How did you ever get the city council to allow this into Lakehill?" Beaming as if he were responsible for distilling the rum himself, the tavern keeper offered his tale.

"Three of our council men and women traveled south to Trutore for some diplomatic crap. They each sampled it while down there. Guess what? They pushed to amend the law when they got back. Takes half a year to get a crate here, but it's catching on," he said as he poured a three fingered shot for Pernandi. Victouer did not insist on being paid before letting the southerner enjoy a taste reminiscent of his home, he knew Pernandi would be lavishing him with coin for both drink, questionable goods, and information soon.

The beverage burned his throat on the way down, alcohol fumes flooding his nasal passages, but the explosion of warmth in his stomach seemed to mitigate the returning sensation in Pernandi's hands and feet. The sweet after the burn made him close his eyes in sure delight. That flavor, oh that flavor! When his eyes fluttered open, he found the owner now had a serious expression. Victouer leaned in to whisper trying and failing to be surreptitious.

"I have to wait for Ulga to get back before we can head upstairs. I hope you don't mind." Pulling out three pentamarks, he laid the big silver coins directly in the northerner's hands; six times the price of the crate of rum. Sweeping up the bottle, he replied.

"I need a few minutes of privacy to get my thoughts together. Can that be arranged?"

Instead of an answer, Victouer set a second shot glass on the counter next to Pernandi's, he then tilted his head to indicate the stairs up. he had to balance the two shot glasses and the rum when he reached the door to the office, but he managed to get the door open with fingers that were only partially recovered. Two chairs sat upon opposite sides of the desk, they had concave shell like backs built upon round stool seats. Stuffed red fleece cushioned the seat and the interior of the back, allowing those seated to recline if they chose. Two one foot by one foot pictures were on the wall. Victouer, his late wife, and the young versions of his two children sat on the east wall. The man's mother, father, and older sister posed with five year old Victouer in front of a flower bedecked gazebo in the other; the paintings were almost as good as the two pictures the Faelora soldiers had given him.

More nails than necessary seemed to be holding the legs on the desk, and this was just the side facing the door. Wooden posts had replaced the desk's legs on the far side of the abused furnishing. This was the one item in the Meadowlark Tavern that had not been lavished with care, yet it was good enough to hold the rum and glasses. A door in the north east portion of the office was a portal leading to two other rooms, the owner's living space. All three partitions shared the same reduced head space caused by the ceiling's steep slope. Pernandi ignored the furnishings, running passed a bank of three filing cabinets along the west wall, none of which matched in color or dimensions. The hall leading to the back rooms was clear of people as was the far side of the desk when he checked there, Victouer's side of the furnishing.

After making sure he had complete privacy, Pernandi produced his shaped diamond relic. Using his will, he pulled forth three different colored ribbons of power from the relic. He wove those slender bands about each other, the result looked like the hard candies made in Landee. These he whorled together until he had a bowl of energy tipped and directed to the west. Excess ribbon was then run through the center of the bowl and back into the many pointed diamond star. Far away, almost halfway across the continent, Penandi's relic touched the relic of an old friend.

"Pernandi? Is that you? Your report is a bit early, ain't it?" Blexi the Gachtler queried. Knowing he did not have much time, Pernandi did not waste it on pleasantries.

"Is Istilirial with you? I was just approached by Faelora military agents who gave me a puzzle."

"All right. He's here, I'll tie him in." Blexi's mental image came into being in Pernandi's mind's eye, wavering like a mirage at first, but firming up as their long range connection solidified.

Istilirial also started off as a voice before his image did its heat shimmer appearance; all that was revealed were the faces and torsos of the speakers, none of the environment or background could bee seen. The Gachtler's amber eyes always looked hooded, as though indifference was Blexi's constant mode of operation. He had ivory white fur with brownish orange tiger stripes radiating around his body from his spine. His overly large battle ax, as always, was on his back. Pernandi could see the crenelated style war hammer counter balancing the broad angled ax head. Istilirial, the co-leader of Trillam Trumage's movement was a Faelora. His tourmaline orange eyes had a sad cast to them; not that he had anything to mourn, he just had that seeming. His skin tone was smooth and reddish, like freshly peeled madrone, and unlike the two Faelora Pernandi had dealt with earlier, Istilirial was honest with the emotions he expressed.

"You say you got a puzzle, Pernandi?" Blexi lead off, informing his Faelora counterpart of the spy's words.

Pernandi began to pull out the pictures he had hidden in his coat.

"I was just paid a fortune to search for a lordly Faelora youth and a Human woman in her mid to late thirties. I was given twenty cut and polished rubies that are around two hundred gold pentamarks each. The soldiers who paid me had a flying fork tail swallow marked on their claymore's pommels. I don't know what this is about, but I thought it would be important enough to pass on to you two at once." Annoyance passed over Blexi's features, his ears twitching back as his fangs made a brief appearance. That expression vanished when Istilirial pierced some of the mystery.

The Faelora leader folded his hands and rested his chin upon them, his slow exhalation was his version of a troubled sigh.

"The swallow is the symbol of the old Faelora Empire. Only Estanabril still flies that banner, which means those agents were sent by King Lorinlil. Close to two thousand years ago, before the empire's fall, Prince Lorinlil watched Humans slaughter his mother before his very young eyes. That deed, like no other, has skewed the point of view of all Faelora against Humans; the outrage was universal to my people. My guess, the quarry they are after have committed the crime of loving each other. Faelora pride would rebel most violently from a co-mingling of blood." Blexi and Istilirial's eyes met, both men calculating trying to see how this would help their Trumage followers.

Mouth twisted unconsciously in thought, Blexi floated an idea out, his voice sounding like he even knew the idea had not been fully thought out.

"If we had these two under our banner, their relationship could be used to reinforce Trillams teachings." The Gachtler even looked to Pernandi to see how receptive he was, but Pernandi was not in a leadership position within the movement. He was just a spy and information peddler. Istilirial pursed his thin lips, then slowly started nodding.

"'Only through the unity of the races will we ensure our survival in the age to come.' Yes, having these lovers could be a huge symbol for our movement. Not as big as having the bride take over running this show, when she's found, but impactful."

All smiles now, Blexi took up where his Faelora friend had left off.

"Do you have a description of our lovebirds?" he asked Pernandi. Nodding, he opened the folded papers and spread them out on Victouer's rickety desk.

"Better than that, I have pictures," he said studying the drawings. Pretty soon the images he saw appeared to the unlikely pair at the other end of the magical connection. Blexi had an eidetic memory, which is one of the reasons Trillam Trumage, when he had lived, had raised the Gachtler to be one of his captains, yet both men studied the renderings to commit them to memory.

"Okay, we will inform our other networks. Pernandi, convert as many of those gems as you need into coin. If you can, send some of that money our way. We can always use it...." Both leaders saw Pernandi's expression shift and freeze, his head tilted to listen. He had heard the bar's stairs creaking which meant the spy would have company soon. Delivering an apologetic smile to his true bosses, the southerner broke the relic's magical connection and hastily began to refold the pictures. He was withdrawing his hand from his inner coat pockets, where he had stashed his magic diamond and the papers, when the office door swung open. The tavern keeper's eyes snapped to the rum immediately and Victouer rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"I thought I heard you talking to yourself up here," Victouer observed while maneuvering into his seat across the desk. An easy smile came to Pernandi's lips.

"Just complaining about how long you were taking. Been a long time since I've tasted good spiced rum." His prevarication was not challenged, Victouer had naked avarice on his face as Pernandi poured their shots. The northerner was looking forward to both the drink and the coins he would be earning soon; ill gotten goods would be exchanged as well.


Relentless, dangerous winter still had a tight grip on the early spring weather. Rain that must have dripped directly off an ice sheet bombarded Gilserand as he ran up the steps to the wooden curtain wall. His pebbled flesh was telling him that heavy hail was breaking his skin, bruising his flesh, but that was just the sting of cold fooling numbed nerves. Though the snows had stopped, the warmth of the season felt far far away. Burning Spirits take him, Lords of Light and Life turn thy eyes away from this son of a bitch! There were no wrinkles on my damn uniform! he fumed in his thoughts. Stripped down to an undershirt, and a pair of black and dark green shorts that were meant for warmer seasons, Gil was doing twenty laps. First he had to run up the steep steps of the first wooden tower north of the barbican, through the first and second towers, then down the steps of the third platform until he turned south on the street.

All through boot camp, Gil had been ostracized from his unit through constant punishments and scoldings no other soldier seemed to face. This treatment followed him into basic weapons training through the winter. Even though he had passed his tests, both physical and from his training manuals, Lieutenant Guerlach had held him back from advancement. Only his promise to Captain Kinnert kept Gil from quitting, though days like this tempted him mightily. The trumped up charges and punishments just kept coming. I should be in my assessment period, where the officer's figure out which branch of the guard I belong to. The planks of the parapet walk seemed to vibrate with the stomp of his waterlogged boots.

One thing the captain had said had come true, Gilserand was in excellent physical shape. He had gained almost twelve pounds over the winter, all of it sculpted muscle. If he had even a quarter of this definition when he had been a kid, he would never have had to deal with a single bully. Still, Gil's body had limits. Going down the stairs next to the third tower, he slowed way down. He had missed a step last winter, and the steepness of those stairs had not been forgiving. The only peace he had been given in the guards had been his two week stint in the infirmary with bone bruising on his arms, legs and ribs; never mind his concussion.

Running south along the road paralleling the wall, the same street he had grown up on, he came up on the rearmost wagon of a pair heading for the barbican gate. The stench informed Gil of who he was sharing the road with. Gilserand had to cover his mouth and nose as he ran, increasing the pressure on his lungs to get oxygen to his body. Human and animal waste combined with rotten produce and other less identifiable smells to make a miasma he gagged on. Local farmers paid dearly for the compost from the city's midden heap. The cold weather may be dampening the stench, but Gil's stomach tried to heave as he passed by both trundling vehicles. After he cleared the wagons, he gulped air as if he had already ran all twenty climbing laps.

Dammit, I'm going to have to pass these guys again the next time I go around! he thought as he drew nearer his starting point. Two soldiers were talking in front of the steps Gil would have to run up. These men wore armor and had halberds in hand, obviously having a bull session after coming off shift.

"Make way!" he called out, alerting the two to his presence. Though they did clear his path, they also taunted him as he ran by.

"Runner, runner, runner!" they repeated over and over, until Gilserand reached the wall's wooden parapet. Every guard knew when a fellow soldier was being punished, and were happy to heap on some ridicule to make a lesson stick. Their calls reached the watcher atop the wood tower's top platform; that guard's chant took up just as the voices below stopped, the woman leaning her dome helmeted head through plank crenelations to continue the mockery.

The officers had always claimed that shame was a great educator, that it made good soldiers better. Or it broke them. I will not break! I will not give up! I will be a soldier! he vowed, entering the pass through built into the second tower. Four steps in the tower then he hit the outside parapet feeling grateful that some thoughtful souls had lanterns burning in each tower, at least the towers he had to move through. The taunting voice from the tower platform above called out jovially when Gilserand emerged.

"Runner, runner, runner!" Great, now I'm going to be mocked at all three towers now, he thought, certain that those cries had been heard far and wide. At least on the street he would have peace.

Looking at the tower top ahead Gilserand tried to see the guard stationed there, expecting to see a helmeted head ready to shout 'runner' at him. Instead of a figure leaning through gaps in the wood, he saw them dash from the front of the tower and begin ringing the warning bell at the back of the platform. That guard looked directly at Gilserand, eyes round with emotion.

"Smoke from the farms! Raiders in the fields!"

Braking to a halt, he looked back where the guard's free finger was pointing. Sure enough a black plume of smoke lifted like an ugly banner to smear the horizon. Gilserand could not make out the farmstead itself, the smoke was too far from the wall and too close to the brooding forest. Dozens of blue tinged smoke trails lifted up from all of the farms scattered through the west, but those farmers had learned to throw green wood and oiled branches onto their fires when they spotted dangerous creatures. The black smoke was a faster signal than sending a runner. Just that quick a second distant signal fire began to rise against the afternoon sun.

Adrenaline thrilled Gilserand's blood, the feel of fear tingled his extremities. The tower guard continued to ring his bell, still pointing towards the forest, and begging Gil to do something with his eyes. He stepped over the edge of the parapet, catching the planks making up that walk. Gil dangled for a moment then dropped the dozen or so feet down to the outward swell of the stone foundation for the wall, which he raced down until he hit the street.

"Raiders in the west, smoke from the farms!" he began to call, pelting south towards the barbican and barracks. Bells from the other towers began to sound, sending the warning faster than Gilserand ever could; but those bells could not speak, could not declare what the danger was or where.

The farmers on their crap wagons were almost to the barbican, the lead wagon beginning to take a wide turn to enter the tunnel. The same tunnel the soldiers would have to sortie out of. "Stop!" Racing by the rear wagon, Gilserand ignored the sullied air in order to cut the lead wagon off. "Stop!" he called again darting in front of the horses, making them shy back from his sudden advent. Wide brim hat dripping rain, the white haired farmer gaped at Gil. "Raiders in the west! You can't use the barbican! Get your wagons out of the way or you'll get your neighbors killed!" he shouted pointing towards the keep deep inside Alren.

Guards were already piling out of the barracks, either onto the deck, the soaked street, or along the covered balconies; most of them were not preparing for trouble, just gawking. Lieutenant Guerlach had already been running in Gilserand's direction, an extended looking glass in his hand, he must have been monitoring Gil's run. "Smoke from the farms, Sir! We can't have these wagons blocking our way out!" Though the junior officer did not like Gil, he did not hesitate in supporting Gilserand's decision in the face of this alarm.

"You heard the man, get these wagons back into the city, away from these walls!" Pointing out the route he would like the farmers to take, the lieutenant began to direct traffic, but before Gilserand could take off Guerlach stopped him.

Shoving his telescope and a set of keys into Gil's hands, Lieutenant Guerlach gave him a look that seemed to be begging him for something. "Get your unit together, make sure everyone is armored and ready to go. You are responsible for issuing them their arms. Now go!"

"Yes Sir!" Adrenaline made his feet just need the barest contact with the street's stones to propel him rapidly towards all the inactive guards, only a few were treating the alarms like a drill. "Raiders in the fields, this is not a drill! We have smoke from the farms! Again, this is not a drill!" Lieutenant Tigraff who could have been Sergeant Dilburd's blond twin, leader of the West Barbican Seventeenth Platoon, had started out to question Gil, but he heard the shouts. That officer spun in place and began squaring up his unit of soldiers. Gil found himself at the tail end of young troopers trying to pile back into the southern most barracks building, a scene in common with the northern structure.

Already in his tan quilted gambeson, Private Laffe looked lost standing on the porch all by himself; his hands held his chain shirt and black and green tabard. Though Laffe often looked like the act of thinking was a chore, he was still in Gilserand's squad. "Help me get the squad together, we have raiders to the west!" Gil begged. Laffe's first expression was skeptical, then he realized from everyone else shouting and running too and fro that Gil was not pulling his leg.

"Dammit, Ritter and a few other boys are on their way to the... ah, the market." Gilserand heard Laffe's voice shift from steady to evasive and hesitant, which meant that the men in question were actually seeking the services of prostitutes.

Grimacing from not knowing what to do, Gilserand was on the verge of cursing. Just like that his mind cleared of his momentary indecision.

"Can you head them off? Do you know where they are going? We have to get rounded up as fast as possible or Guerlach is going to skin us." His soft blue eyes widened as the possibility dawned on his slow mind, private Laffe began to nod with innocent enthusiasm.

"I can do it, they didn't leave that long ago." Still carting his armor and tabard, the big soldier lumbered for the northern corner of the building. Gilserand entered the barracks, dodging around all the other soldiers now running in every direction. He continued to shout the message as he breasted the Human tide. Eighth Squad, Gil's unit, had their quarters/gathering area on the second story, south side.

By the time he had reached the Eighth's door, dozens of other guards were relaying his words through the whole building, squad to squad. He found someone almost in the door trying to shrug their chain shirt over their padded gambeson by themselves. Beyond them four other men were in various stages of dress, all chatting and laughing like boys when the school bell had not been rung yet.

"I got you," Gil said, grabbing the hem of the mail. The man stopped hopping about and allowed Gilserand to tug the rattling links down his torso until arms and a head were revealed. Private Hougeman looked surprised when he found out who had helped him, his round brown eyes and button nose making him look especially boyish at the moment.

Gil did not wait for Hougeman's comment or thanks. "This is not a drill! Get yourselves dressed and armored! Gather your field kits because we're probably going outside the wall!" Gilserand's shout had the right effect on the five other soldiers. They stopped chattering and tossing clothing about and began to dress in earnest, their speed impressive. Setting the spy glass on the desk to the right of the door, he then dashed to the left where his trunk was stationed. Soldiers who lived in the barracks had their trunks at the foot of their bunks, men who had homes, like Gilserand, had their equipment stored in trunks against the squad room's back wall on the east side. He stripped as he ran, tossing his wet garments into a hamper before wrenching the big trunk open.

By the time he was lacing his still soaked boots back up, Gil was approached by Hougeman and Machen; another private with soft boyish features but darker hair than Hougeman. Machen grabbed Gilseran's gambeson and held the garment open, wordlessly offering to assist Gil.

"Some of the boys are off to the flesh market...," Hougeman began, but checked himself when Gilserand shook his head. Both men held the quilted cloth open so that Gil could climb into the padding.

"I sent Laffe after them," he said as the two men jerked the gambeson down his frame. All five men were surrounding him when his head popped through the encumbering clothing.

"Where's the lieutenant?" someone complained.

"What's happening out there?" Hougeman asked.

"You better not mess this up, Gil." Private Tulauten snarled, making Gilserand feel defensive. "You always mess up."

Sneering before offering his rejoinder, Gil was cut off before his scathing remark ever issued.

"When was the last time that Gilserand ever mucked anything up?" Machen countered, looking at his fellow guards. "The lieutenant picks on him. Guerlach makes things up 'cause he hates Gil. We've all seen it." Alright! I'm not the only one who has noticed this! Seeing a majority of those present exchanging nods stole the heat away from Gil's defensiveness. Helping hands were also holding Gilserand's armor for him to climb into.

"It doesn't matter that Guerlach hates me. Do you guys have your field kits? He's going to be here any minute." Many hands helped pull the chain mail shirt over Gil's body, for once the heavy armor felt comforting and not burdensome. Inside the rattling chain voices were hard to make out, yet he heard one statement through the rest of the confused clamor.

"We need our weapons. We're all in for it if we're still standing around waiting at the weapon's locker."

Two figures were making their way to the squad rooms back area, but the rest turned with him when four other people clattered in. Laffe had returned with the missing men, he was still holding his armor and tabard. Gilserand quickly added his tabard to his own attire, possibly the easiest item of clothing to don. Feeling hopeful for the first time after climbing the barrack's stairs, Gil held up the keys the lieutenant had handed him.

"Help those guys armor up, I'll get the locker open after I pack my gear." He set off for the back room as he stuffed his head into his domed open faced helmet. Tulauten followed him to the back while the others jumped to assist the late comers. Hougeman was busy stuffing ration boxes into one of the back packs, while Machen was adding first aid packages to another; three backpacks sat at their feet ready for someone to snag them up and add the third component of their kit. A coordinated but incomplete chain gang.

Tulauten tossed a bag back at Gil even as he hooked his meaty hands through the straps of a second. On the north wall, opposite the locker's holding rations and medical kits, was where the equipment maintenance satchels were stored. Sharpening stones, cleaning rags, oil for armor and weapons, and half a dozen other sundries were in each canvas bag. Gil grabbed the entire stack and handed them back to Tulauten, he snagged the top most satchel for himself. "Help them, it will speed us up if you do," he cajoled. The tall sandy haired soldier sneered at him over the burden in his arms.

"Ain't we the wanna be general, barking orders!" While the squad had been given no opportunity to bond with him, Gil had deliberately been placed on the outside, he still knew how to deal with an attempt at bullying.

Taking the gamble, he smirked at his fellow private soldier, then winked. That was enough for Tulauten, his challenge met with toughness and humor, the man cheerfully turned about and began to finish loading the Eighth Squad's packs. At the back of the room was the weapon lockers, a bank of shallow closets holding the broad bladed spears his unit was to be armed with. A slender locked chain was strung through the locker's handles effectively holding them closed. Lieutenant Guerlach's keys popped that lock open, and with a few tugs, Gil removed the chain. Just in time, a line of six men moved into the back room, taking packs in hand and shuffling into a line before him. Tulauten, Machen, and Hougeman lifted their packs and lined up behind the others.

Each spear had a six foot shaft that was topped by a three foot long tapered spear head. Those razor sharp blades allowed their wielders to duel an enemy with the benefit of reach. Unlike the long spears used to drive off cavalry units, these weapons were meant specifically to reap infantry. No one in this unit would cower behind a shield and poke at an enemy. Gilserand rapidly handed each man their spear after they stepped up. The last man in line turned out to be Lieutenant Guerlach, who must have recently arrived. Accepting his weapon and keys, the officer spoke in a loud authoritarian voice.

"Good job Corporal Gilserand! Your actions at the barbican were decisive and will result in lives saved! Now everyone assemble in the square, they are NOT going to use us to man the walls even though we were off shift when the alarm sounded. Go!"

Blinking in confusion, Gil almost started off without grabbing his own spear. I just got promoted? I just got promoted! The reality of the moment just did not want to sink in, but as Guerlach peeled off to rally the other squads he commanded Gilserand realized he would have to get the eighth Squad lined up. Orderly lines of armored guards pounded down the stairs now, Gil's squad quickly joining the stampeding queue. Outside, many units were already formed and marching towards the barbican. Eleventh Squad was just forming up, Seargeant Garr stalking back and forth like an impatient beast. The burly gnarl faced soldier did not comment when Gil joined him on the southern side, standing before their respective squads. As the rest of the Eighth Platoon formed up Corporal Tangier and Sergeant Goenz, of the Ninth and Tenth squads, joined them in facing the enlisted men. Gilserand could find no fault with how his fellows were lined up and at attention.

Sweeping to the fore, Lieutenant Guerlach barked.

"Form up in lines, four abreast! Eighth Squad to the fore!" Gil walked backward, using his spear tip to indicate where he wanted his squad to align themselves. No one messed up, no one got confused or tangled up, even Private Laffe. After the other three squads formed behind Gil's men, Guerlach gave another shouted command. "Equipment check!" Those in back began to rifle through the packs of the guard in front of them, making sure there was food, blankets, first aid kits, and maintenance gear inside each. Seargent Garr Checked Gil's pack, before everyone about faced, then Gil checked the sergeant's gear. The rain began to let up completely at this point, it had started to taper off before Gil had entered the barracks.

Not one voice was raised to declare someone was missing any item of gear. Lifting his spear arm as he drifted to the new front of his command, Lieutenant Guerlach was about to issue their marching orders. However, hooves clattering on the squared off stone road interrupted him. A dozen cavalry soldiers trotted from around the southern most barrack building, heading directly for the barbican. As usual the horsemen did not consult the infantry, they just assumed the next position in the line; crowding the rearmost squad of foot bound