The dowry retrieval party returned on the heels of the storm that threatened all morning. By evening, the squall was still in the throes of persistent howling winds and clunky booms of thunder. Icy raindrops gathered to stillness on every stone surface, creating slick spots in the most dangerous or unexpected places. Considering everything of Castle Nobaran was stone, it simply was not safe around any part of the building exterior and grounds.
Already numerous beasts-at-arms, including Nobaran natives, suffered bangs and sprains from stowing the recovered dowry goods in the storehouse, a hasty and disorganized affair that was sure to send the Steward into apoplexy upon discovery. The passage from the storehouse to the castle was the most treacherous and many a beast found themselves slipping or tripping up and down the stairs leading to the front door. Even Vern, as nimble on foot as in tree, had difficulty keeping himself upright as he attempted to shelter the equines in the stables.
There was plenty of room in the Nobaran stables. Although it was a fine and well-stocked structure, there were more vacancies than Vern would expect for a lord of Nobaran’s standing. While there was plenty of room for the stocky Taverand equines, Vern also noticed the stables were understaffed. The sole hostler he met yesterday was nowhere to be found. That meant Vern had to take care of all the irate and sopping steeds from the retrieval party.
Since Vern was serving in an auxiliary role with the Taverand reserves and did not have any notable culinary talent, that meant he was a general laborer for Lord Taverand’s army. Because his sister managed to keep their family employment slot at the Taverand stables after their father died, the Taverand chain of command assumed Vern would be able to assist in the management of the dowry train equines. Both he and Krim had been up to the task; Liena ensured it by forcing her brothers into the Taverand stables whenever she could get a hold of them during working hours.
The Taverand equines were durable and stocky. Although they could withstand quite a bit of northland weather, they knew they did not have to. Even Vern could feel the warmth of the beckoning building as he unhitched and wiped down the impatient equines. He did not have his sister’s knack for intimidating larger creatures and the steeds were aware of this. Twice, Vern was bowled over in the middle of ministrations. He could not complain since the ground under the awning was hard-packed earth covered in straw and the equines were thoughtful enough to step over him on their way to an open stall.
Only big Plenty, the equine that pulled the Redsnouts wagon, waited for his turn. The strong, black stallion was standing on the outer edge of the clustered equines, head in the actual rain, pointed to the opposite side of the bailey. Vern knew that the Redsnouts were encamped across the premature darkness caused by the storm. He recalled that Plenty was uncharacteristically alert and pleasant during the retrieval and suspected it had something to do with the Redsnout sniper’s mare.
A shadow loomed over where Vern sulked in the straw. “Looks like ye could use a paw, little feller.” The shadow contorted and extended a smaller lump.
Vern bit back all his ire for the situation in general and took the offered paw. He was hefted into the air before being returned to his foot-paws. The big paw released him and gave him a heavy thump on the head.
“There ye go.”
The squirrel had to take several steps back to see the full height of the huge Redsnout beaver. He was dressed in patched worker’s coveralls; the material was the thick kind that was used for construction. Instead of a tunic underneath, he wore a short-sleeved shirt of delicate metal links. Metal shirts were not any sort of fashion statement in the northlands. Vern ogled the wide flat tail resting on the ground, hairless like a rat’s but black and leathery. There was one beaver family lodge in Taverand territory that operated the lumber mill, but they were reclusive and Vern could not remember seeing one of their number in the past three season cycles.
‘Thank you’ did not come easy to the squirrel. He bobbed his head once and gestured to the fidgeting equines. “There’s a few more left to dry.”
“Oh, Millie hates being wet,” said the beaver in a conversational tone as he picked up the brush that Vern dropped and moved to the equines. “These babies are handlin’ it better though. Shoulda had Gloria come and give them a nice, warm bubble.”
With more than a passing affection, the nearest equines nosed at the visitor that was able to look them in the eyes. Once the merc reached out and rubbed one, the others nudged for attention. Vern bit back jealousy that they were more interested in someone that had never even fed them once in their lives. He remembered when the bay that the beaver selected to brush first was foaled. It was true that Vern did not have much interest in equines and cared for them out of duty, but it still stung a little.
He was grateful for the assistance nonetheless. The sooner the equines were sheltered, the sooner Vern could get a bath. The dowry retrieval party had returned coated in mud, not a single beast was spared some splatter. The Steward banished the Taverand soldiers to wash up at the barracks, denying them shelter in the main hall until after they were relieved of their earthen coating. However, Vern had no plans to get comfortable on a makeshift bedroll among the soldier beasts. He was going to see his twin after he was permitted to reenter the castle.
Vern patted the pocket of his tunic, feeling the small, hard acorn pendant of his brother’s birth tree necklace. As far as he was concerned, his part in the retrieval party was a success. He wished it had not cost so many lives. Combined with the initial casualties, the Taverand force was reduced by three quarters. Even though he was part of the reserves, Vern knew most of the soldier beasts and counted several among his friends.
“Anywhere’ll do then?”
The squirrel startled out of his grief daze. The Redsnout merc and the bay equine were blocking most of the light coming from the open double doors.
“Yeah, anywhere,” said Vern. “Nobaran steeds are all duns and don’t feather.”
He did not wait to see if the beaver would need further instruction and took another brush from the hook near the doorway. For a construction guy, the Redsnout was easy with the equines. There had to be more to him if he was able to interact with a fey pony and keep his limbs intact. Everyone knew fey ponies were pettish and deviant to the last.
Vern clenched his teeth and buried himself in work to fend off the memory that his father had been charmed by the idea of fey ponies to the point of attempting to introduce them into the Taverand equine bloodline. The result of that personal project was stabled next to Plenty’s flaxen cousin in the Nobaran stables, one of Miss Odette’s special team.
Out of perverse duty to his father’s memory, Vern made sure to see to Plenty next. The stallion was still in such a state of lovesickness over the Redsnout sniper’s mare that he eschewed his usual impish behavior during grooming, even when Vern got to the part of the gray mane behind the ears. The squirrel forced himself to be diligent even though his every cell wanted to be away to Krim.
The Redsnout finished most of the other equines in the time it took Vern to complete Plenty’s grooming. Even though the stallion was the second biggest equine in the Taverand party, requiring more time than the rest, Vern was surprised at the beaver’s progress. As the squirrel led Plenty inside, he assessed the other Taverand equines. All were dry and brushed soft, happily munching in their stall troughs with flicking ears and tails. The picture of equine comfort made Vern feel his aches and pains all the more.
The other three of Miss Taverand’s draft team were stabled in a line and Plenty parted from Vern of his own accord to stable next to the lead horse, an older gray mare whose coat was prized for going completely white by adulthood. As the stallion left the squirrel’s side, he flicked his luxurious tail like a whip, slapping Vern in the face with the freshly brushed end tuft. The equine seemed to be recovered from his lovesickness and was in standard hellion form.
Further inside, the beaver was admiring Captain Tirig’s oversized destrier. The equine was too big for any of the stalls and had been given the spacious foaling enclave at the end of the building. She was feisty southland stock that the boar brought with him when he took up employment with Lord Taverand. No one had been able to successfully breed her to add her liver chestnut with white stockings, uncommon in the northlands, to a local bloodline. Maybe Vern’s father could have succeeded if he had lived to see the advent of Tirig.
“Now here’s a creature all full of fey, eh?” mused the beaver. At Vern’s blank stare, he chuckled. “Once ye’ve seen it, ye can’t unsee it. That lazy red down the way also looks like fey stock. Guess there’s more to Ole Tavvy than meets the eye.”
The fey comment stirred Vern’s heart. He glanced over to chestnut Harmony nickering next to proud Liberty and wondered. Had father succeeded where all the other Taverand hostlers had not? Did Liena know? Liena. Huh. Vern decided he would get his paws on his errant sister before he went to see Krim. She better have visited their brother while Vern was away.
The Redsnout announced the task’s completion with, “That’ll do it, little feller.”
Vern bristled at the ‘little’ comment. “My name is Vern. I’m also Healer Gloria’s assistant.”
The beaver’s looked down his broad snout, eyes twinkling. “I bet ye are, little Vern. Perhaps ye might check in with our Gloria after ye’ve had a bite.”
Vern tried dodging, but still got a heavy pat on the head before the beaver waddled out into the storm, whistling as his flat, webbed foot-paws carried him across the slick cobblestone without so much as a wobble. His balance was such that he could walk with his strange tail held over the ground.
It was full dark when Vern left the awning of the stables. His grimy tail was tucked under his cloak and he leaned into the force of the wind, moving in the direction of the barracks. The lamps marking the castle’s exterior did nothing to illuminate his way, but they did help him find the squat barracks building next door. When the intermittent lamps stopped, he was in front of the darkened barracks.
Once inside, Vern’s paws became itchy in the surrounding heat. It was cold outside, even for a northland squirrel. Taverand territory was much drier than Nobaran territory and Vern was used to feeling the chill of winter, not the chill of an ocean-born squall. He rubbed his paws and stomped his feet to get feeling back in his extremities as he surveyed his dim-lit shelter.
The construction was in a similar style to the stables: thick, heavy beams harvested from the immense local conifers, back when the land was being cleared for agriculture, and basalt stone of a much smaller cut than the blocks that formed the main castle. Unlike the stables, the barracks were showing signs of disrepair. The stillness of the air and dust on empty gear racks hinted that usage was in a dwindling state. It was clear which Lord Nobaran valued more.
There was no quartermaster or staff to direct Vern and the lateness of his arrival meant that most of the Taverand soldier beasts were already returned to the castle main hall for victuals. Vern sighed and decided to follow the muddy tracks down a hallway that he hoped led to the bathing chambers. It felt appropriate to use light steps so as not to disturb the uncomfortable quiet of the space. The Taverand barracks were always noisy and packed to the gills with militant-minded beasts.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
When he rounded a corner, he was almost knocked over by another larger beast. The dark pelage of one of the Kerncone sisters blended into the shadows and masked her until she had almost trod upon the squirrel. Although she gave no indication of awareness, she contorted her long body to avoid collision and continued past the squirrel without acknowledgment. Based on the tearful eyes and haggard posture, Vern guessed it was Ildri, the middle sister.
On a less grueling day, Vern would have snapped at her. Liena got on famously with the Kerncone sisters since puphood, Gatha the oldest being her close bosom friend, and found no end to amusement at their teasing of her little brothers. Even in adulthood, the Kerncone sisters were still known to lob a jibe or carefully tailored prank at Vern and Krim. Krim took their mischievous attentions in stride and even managed the occasional retaliation. Vern was always the more hot-blooded twin, less creative and often unable to get his vengeance without his brother’s aid.
He had no words for the grieving mink and let her pass without interruption. He had not known the mildest sister was sweet on someone in Nobaran territory. Remembering her cry of grief when the Nobaran head ranger was stabbed at the retrieval made his stomach squirm and his heart clench. It was too close to how he felt when Krim was mauled. Except he stood a chance of getting his brother back.
Vern’s spirits were low when he arrived at the bathing chambers, announced by a humid warmth in the hallway outside the wooden door. He squinted at the beam of light coming from the cracked opening. He was careful in admitting himself, lest he have an actual collision with someone else.
The bathing chambers made Vern date the building back another decade at least. Instead of an open space, the room slithered along the side of the building, having alcoves of benches that provided structural stability in the guise of privacy. From his vantage point, the space was empty. There was a soft cadence of chatter farther down the chamber, likely where the soaking pool would be.
Vern went to a basin of water near the entrance and was relieved that the contents were full and clean. He dipped a paw in, feeling the lukewarm water as if it were a few degrees away from boiling. Without forethought for a change of clothes, he threw off his soiled cloak, tunic, and breeches, freeing his grime-encrusted tail from its bondage.
His eyes were closed in the bliss of hygiene when he heard a, “Oh, there you are.”
Vern was too exhausted to startle. He cracked an eye and looked to see a familiar face letting himself into the room. It was his best friend Tarle. The fox was free of mud, but had a dampness from braving the weather to look for Vern.
Vern and Krim had been friends with Tarle since the fox’s family moved to Taverand territory when they were pups. After being his mother’s runtiest kit, the fox went on to be large for his size in every stage of development after birth. He was broad of frame, though lanky, and his long, black-furred limbs ended in paws that suggested he might have another spurt of growth in him still. The dorsal side of his pelt was placed perfectly between red and orange, and his undersides were cream. His cheek tufts were the envy of every dog fox of marriageable age in their home territory and a few neighboring lands.
Tarle approached, saying, “That’s some storm out there.” He paused and was wracked with a full body shiver that sprayed raindrops. “I hate this place.”
Vern took an ewer of water and moved to the sloping floor that led to the drain. He dumped the contents over his head. When he wiped his eyes, the fox was standing next to him with another ewer.
“Thanks.” The squirrel took the ewer and poured it over his soapy tail. He wrung out his tail with careful squeezes.
Tarle went to the short stack of towels, worn but clean, to pat the rain off his head, arms, and legs. “Good on you for finishing the equines. ‘Twas a tall task.” He pulled a towel from the stack and tossed it. “Maybe you were already feeling the ghost of Gatha’s paw.”
Vern caught the towel before it hit him in the face. “I had help,” he admitted.
‘Ghost of Gatha’s paw’? The damn thing had not been severed for more than a couple hours and it was already interred into northland superstitious phrases. If anyone was going to become part of the nebulous accumulation of local lore, it would be Gatha Kerncone. Vern would bet dinner for a week that she and Liena would be laughing over it with typical bleak northland humor by the next full moon.
He knew some beasts got different after major injuries; that was normal. He had always been a little afraid of the oldest Kerncone sister and now could not help but be impressed by the mink’s fortitude as she continued on after the ambush with the same steadfast adherence to military excellence as ever. Maybe now everyone else would realize that Gatha was abnormal.
“No kidding?” Tarle was saying. “I didn’t see anyone stay behind at the hall.”
“It was the Redsnout beaver.”
“Oh, really? He’s a big ‘un.”
Vern snorted. “You’re one to talk.”
“Truly,” the fox insisted. “I’ve never seen anyone get close to ole Ridgeback’s size. He’s bigger than the lynx.” There was a gap in the conversation, then Tarle said in a curious tone, “The Redsnout mage was asking for you in the hall.”
Vern perked up. “Really? She did?” He wrapped the towel around his waist and approached the stack to get another to use on his tail.
Tarle surveyed his friend with lidded yellow eyes. “Yeh. She did. Said you were her assistant. How’d you swing that?”
The image of the serene dove feathermage softened the squirrel’s features. “She’s special,” he said. “She helped Krim. I know it.”
The fox became somber at the mention of his other best friend. “Coulda used her at the retrieval. While you were workin’ the stables, she came to the main hall. She put all the severed wounds weeks ahead in healing. I mean all of them, Vern.”
“She’s special,” Vern repeated, his chest swelling with the pride of being associated with the healer.
Tarle’s face held more skepticism. “She didn’t know what Meladore was talking about when he asked about heartfeathers. He’s pretty impressed, too.”
Vern brushed off his concern with, “Her magic is different from that usual stuff the herons do.”
“Oh, makin’ firecrackers come out your paws is usual stuff, huh? A moment. You can’t go out in-towel.”
The fox disappeared through the door with an agility that belied his height. He returned with a bundle in his paws that separated when he tossed it to the squirrel. Vern reached for the catch, but the tunic landed over his head.
“Thanks.” He got a sniff of the garment as he removed it from his face. It smelled musty from disuse, but aside from the fray of light wearing, it was clean. The breeches were too loose and he had to wipe down his belt before threading it through the waist loops. At least the color palette was browns and grays. He did not care for the Nobaran goldenrod.
“Don’t worry about returnin’ it,” said Tarle. “This was in a pile of ownerless clothes. It was pretty big. The Nobaran beast-at-arms were sayin’ that a lot of ‘em have been sent on long patrols and not returned for a couple seasons now. It’s suspicious.”
Everything was suspicious about Nobaran territory. “Did the lord also send out all his staff, too?”
“You get it,” agreed Tarle.
As they retraced their steps through the barracks, Tarle leaned in close and said in a hushed tone, “Back in the forest…I think I saw Surfi…”
“What?” Vern stopped walking in surprise.
Tarle took a few more steps before doubling back. He angled his snout down to Vern’s ear. “When the craiths attacked us. One of them looked like a fox. We fought. It was wearing Surfi’s chain and daisy ring.”
He retrieved an iron link necklace from under his tunic neckline. Even in the gloom, Vern could see the ornate silver band, shaped to resemble a daisy in flower, looped through the chain. It was a one-of-a-kind piece beloved by Tarle’s cousin who had gone missing last year. Everyone assumed she went to join the new fox lord’s population two territories over without notice, which was strange behavior for the sociable vixen.
“All those craiths were once people,” said Tarle, his voice going low with grief. “I think Krim…”
“Krim will get better,” Vern insisted. “Healer Gloria used her magic on him.”
“Have you been to see him?”
Their conversation halted as a mink in Nobaran colors appeared in the corridor. Tarle tucked his cousin’s necklace back into his tunic as the mink passed. The squirrel and fox resumed walking in unison.
After a few paces, Vern replied, “I’ll see him after I see Liena.” The squirrel’s stomach growled loud in the quiet hallway.
“Maybe you should eat first,” Tarle recommended. “This way.” The fox directed them down a hallway with fewer muddy footprints. “There’s a covered passage, but you’ll get wet anyway. Should’ve grabbed an extra rag.”
Vern shook his head, thinking he had put off dealing with his sister’s behavior long enough. “No, I need to see Ena first.”
Tarle clucked his teeth as the hallway became cold. “That might be a trick. Ever since we returned, Lord Nobar has put Miss Taverand under guard ‘for her protection’ and because the ‘sight of her poor chopped up soldiers would damage her heart’ and more nonsense. Only your sister is allowed in the Miss’s chambers and they tried to stop that, too.”
“Ha!”
Vern supposed they could try. He was sure Liena could bully her way with any of the small brains that Lord Nobaran might call ‘guards’. And although he was critical of his sister’s devotion to their mistress, Vern knew Miss Odette to be a fair and thoughtful ruler with steel running through her dainty frame. Back home, she always made sure to visit the healing dormitories to check on infirm vassals and soldiers alike. She even saw Lemy right after the hostler was trampled by Plenty’s violent sire two summers ago –it was the worst trampling the territory had ever seen.
They stopped at a door that indicated its connection to the outside with the gentle knocking of the storm winds against the wood.
Vern slapped his forehead. “I forgot my cloak.”
Tarle gave a test push on the door. “Don’t worry about it. They’ll send an aux to pick up all the discards.”
“Tarle, we are the aux,” Vern retorted with exasperation.
Tarle was also serving auxiliary in the Taverand reserves, but his proficiency with axes and size caused soldiers to overlook that he was not part of the standard troops. Even officers forgot to utilize him in his assigned station unless there was a shortage of firewood.
The fox shrugged. “I’ll do it later. That soggy drape’ll just get you dirty again.”
“Fine.” The thought of donning the mud-caked cloak was enough to get Vern through the door without hesitation.
A paved path led from the barracks to a side entrance of the castle. It was covered by an awning mimicking the castle’s roof style, though the construction was newer than both buildings. The awning did little to fend off the sideways slant of precipitation that buffeted the two beasts as they hunched down to create less wind resistance. Both wrapped their tails around their waists, more to keep an errant blast of wind from knocking off their balance than for warmth.
They were admitted into the castle after several hearty pounds of Tarle’s fist against the door. A sour-faced weasel in Nobaran livery, made sourer from begrudging disdain, gave them towels to wipe their foot-paws.
Tarle waited until they were alone on their way to the main hall to ask, “Say, are you really that Redsnout mage’s assistant?”
“Of course! She said so herself!”
“Okay, shh! Not so loud.”
Vern’s ears dropped to his skull for apology. “I mean, yes. I can talk to her anytime.”
Tarle stretched his neck, looking up and down the hallway before pulling Vern into the shadow space between two wall sconces. “I think the Cap needs to deliver a message to the Redsnouts cap. You should see him and pass it along to the dove to give to her cap.”
“Why can’t he do it?” Vern could not keep his annoyance for a disruption to his plans out of his voice.
Tarle shook his head. “Now isn’t the time for your hard head. The Cap has been under suspicion ever since Narda went traitor. She always wanted his job and now everyone is remembering that Cap is a southlander just like the mercs.”
Vern crossed his arms over his chest and jutted out his bottom lip. “So?”
“So, hard head, the troops are thinkin’ that Cap and the mercs are the bad luck. None of those Redsnouts have a scratch on ‘em. It’s unnatural.”
“Well, it is their job to do stuff like this. That’s why Cap had milord hire them.” Superstition and fear were at an all-time high if Vern was the voice of reason.
“Yes,” agreed Tarle with encouraging nods, “and that’s why you might use your in with the dove mage to deliver Cap’s message.”
Vern threw back his head and made a familiar frustrated sound of defeat that prompted the fox to give him friendly claps on his shoulders.
“See? It won’t be so bad. And you’ll have an excuse to cozy up to that sweet little dove.”
Vern gave Tarle a hard shove, turning his head away in embarrassment. To be accused of infatuation by the world’s most bumbling romantic bungler! Tarle could not compliment a pretty fence post without stuttering.
“I will! Please, don’t ever say something like that again.”
The fox chuckled. “No need to be ashamed. You’re in good company. Most of the troops worship her after today, even know-it-all Meladore.”
“Is she still at the hall?” Vern asked as they came to the well-lit entrance to the main hall.
“Neh, I think she’s already back with her people,” answered Tarle with a shake of his head. “You’ll have to go outside again to see her.”
It would be worth it. Having stayed behind this afternoon, Healer Gloria could update Vern on his brother’s condition. The expected meeting cheered the squirrel enough to oblige his stomach before making his delivery services available to the Taverand guard captain.
----
