There were still more questions than answers the next day. The calm after the storm was humid and stifling. Many of the Taverand soldier beasts had developed a chill from spending the night in the castle main hall. There was much sniffling and sneezing around the bailey as they began their daily duties.
Whatever cold Martu might have felt was inhibited by the uncomfortable burning in her torso. Her connecting limb joints had the sensation of extra lubrication, causing her to feel defter of movement, but also less contained. Her negligible temper was starting to rumble not unlike a bestirring volcano because the malaise was now affecting her sleep. Killing Miss Taverand before the job was over was seeming like a more sensible option the closer Martu got to true deprivation. Orrik would be so upset if she did. Could she keep checking the murderous impulse until after the necromancer’s lair was destroyed?
The Redsnouts reunion was grim last night, matching the violent storm that raged during Orrik’s debriefing. Though under the design and modifications of Jessup and Chicrose, the group’s large tent was not up to facing the full force of northlands weather. The solution was a barrier spell stored in a flight feather by Gloria, despite her tiredness from healing the injured soldier beasts from the ambush. The feather was hung from the center tent pole and gave off a halo of light over the lynx’s head as he addressed his mercs.
Orrik was grieved to learn of the Taverand casualties. While Martu was with Grasswhistle and Chicrose for the dowry’s retrieval, the Redsnouts leader was searching for a necromancer’s lair under the guise of accompanying Miss Odette Taverand on a tour of her new home. The necromancer was either Lord Nobaran or his missing mage advisor, or both. Orrik and Miss Taverand had been unable to verify this information because the wizard’s tower next to the castle was sealed by magic.
The perplexing trouble with the magic seal was that it had been made with a holy sigil. Anyone touched by the wraith curse would be unable to enter or exit the tower. Orrik spent the majority of yesterday afternoon looking for the Nobaran mage advisor only to learn that Grasswhistle had sniped the likely candidate in the retrieval ambush. Since the Redsnouts leader was obligated to take dinner with Lord Nobaran that evening and found him in fine undead health, it was clear the mink lord was not being controlled by his own mage.
Miss Taverand had been able to confirm that there was no beast affiliated with a holy order on the castle grounds. Lord Nobaran was not a pious tither and did not staff his derelict chapel behind the barracks. In his undead state he was also barred from the tower. Given Nobaran’s lack of distress about lost access to the wizard’s tower, another way to his undead stronghold was still available to him.
Martu was the last to settle in for the night, uncomfortable on her bedroll despite being on the ground, and the first to rise for the next day, roughly at the time it would be dawn in her birth forest. The irregular rise and fall of the sun and moon due to the nomadic lifestyle of a mercenary kept the pine marten’s circadian rhythm in tune with her distant family still. It was against marten custom to bring misfortune back to the family forest. As Martu took a pre-dawn patrol around the inside perimeter of the castle walls, it occurred to her that she might never see her relations again if she could not be rid of her curse ailment.
Orrik’s Redsnouts waited for Orrik to rise before eating the breakfast delivered from the Nobaran kitchens. Gloria was able to rise with the others and offset her expended mana the day before by reabsorbing the remaining power of her barrier spell. While their fatigued leader got an extra hour of sleep, the dove feathermage purified their breakfast of whatever poison was inside. Jessup then turned the salty porridge into a savory masterpiece with the aid of local produce he managed to procure through dubious means.
By the time the mercenaries did partake of their repast later that morning, the sun was doing its best to shine through the thinner areas of cloud. This happened in various areas of the sky and at differing intervals. When the sun almost broke through, the burning in Martu’s chest was sharpened. The pine marten bore the pain in determined silence. She wanted to tell Orrik about her infection on her own terms, preferably after this job was over and her leader had a proper night’s rest.
Come to me.
Martu jerked her head up, ears going back. She managed to suppress a snarl when Gloria looked up from where she ground herbs on the opposite side of the Redsnouts campsite. The others were eating alongside Orrik or engaged in various busywork tasks as they waited for the day’s orders.
Martu made a show of resuming her task of crossbow bolt inventory. The strange command, beckoning and familiar, had caused her to lose count. As she did not receive orders from mind voices before now, it was easy to figure out the source. She did not hear another phantom call until she was almost through with recounting the bolts.
Come to me.
She ignored the command with ease and finished her inventory without another mistake. If only she and Grasswhistle used the crossbows, there was enough ammunition for two or three more skirmishes if they were similar to the first two ambushes. Martu made sure to give the Redsnout equines wide berth when she went to the wagon to stow the bolts. Even the steeds without fey blood were reacting to her infection.
Come to me.
It was even more beckoning this time. The command reverberated in the pine marten’s skull, making her feel restless. The phrase caressed against her, cooling the burn in her body until it changed to the fire of rage.
How dare that mink witch try to compel her!
Martu felt along her belt. When she came in contact with one of her weapons, she unsheathed and inspected each blade: hunting knife positioned at her left when a sword was not equipped, combat knife sheathed at the back of the belt and hidden by her cloak, axe shaped like a hatchet to fool the untrained eye. Her actual hatchet had a longer handle and smaller blade, and was next to the armaments in the wagon.
She surveyed her comrades to see if they noticed her switching axes. Routine checking of her weapons while on a job was a common behavior of hers and no one indicated their possible observation. She timed her departure to match Orrik’s flow of conversation with Gloria and Jessup. As the lynx laughed at some comment made by the beaver, Martu walked behind him to mutter, “Patrol,” as she headed to the front gate to walk the inside perimeter. She assumed her departure was acceptable since there were no shouts for her to halt.
The pine marten had an idea of where Miss Taverand would be in the form of a general pressure to walk near the barracks building. She ignored this compulsion and started walking in the opposite direction toward the storehouse and stables. Sussing out a lair was entirely within her purview as Redsnout scout. Even if Lord Nobaran was as cunning as Orrik thought, the pine marten was confident her searching would be fruitful. The general pattern of paw tracks and settle states of soil, replaced fixtures or the indention of something now missing, all were trackable clues.
She made mental note of two suspicious areas before the mind voice called again.
Come to me.
It was much less comforting than before. For some reason, it came off a little impatient. Martu was unperturbed. It was time she saw a mink miss about a knife.
The compulsion to approach the barracks building dissipated as Martu came around the back of the castle. She skirted the sorry-looking kitchen garden. Connected to it was once a formal decorative garden contained within tall, withered hedges. The idea of being surrounded by the hedges made Martu uneasy and she continued along the castle walls. However, she could feel the pressure to turn around mount as she reached the dilapidated chapel. Miss Taverand was in the dead garden.
The pine marten’s shoulders slumped as she retraced her steps. Going the opposite direction revealed that the view of the wizard tower was obstructed in full by the sharp points of the castle roof. Perhaps it was a more strategic meeting place than Martu thought. Would this strategy favor her purposes, too? If she did happen to succeed in murdering Miss Taverand, would she be able to get her comrades out of the castle grounds before anyone noticed? When had she decided she would kill Miss Taverand?
Martu rubbed her shoulder where the infection began before slipping into the enclosed garden through a break in a dried hedge. Although the layout was not a maze, she still had to traverse half the circumference before the withered greenery opened up to a small courtyard punctuated by worn, stone furniture.
Miss Taverand was pacing in front of a stone bench. The hood of her winter cloak was down, her head being the only thing visible besides the bottoms of her foot paws. Even though Martu was across the space and behind, the mink stopped pacing and said, “Hello, Martu.”
The scout said nothing and stepped into the open.
Liena the squirrel was reclining on a chair under the pergola near her mistress. At Miss Taverand’s greeting, she sprang from the chair and closed the distance so that she was closer to her liege than Martu. She was still attired in a maid’s dress to conceal her teamster outfit and her green cloak looked of a quality similar to Miss Taverand.
“She made it,” said the squirrel. Her large, brown eyes were narrowed in suspicion.
Miss Taverand replied, “I called her.”
That confirmed Martu’s suspicions. And needed to be addressed at once.
“You will cease to do so,” the pine marten said with clear enunciation.
Miss Taverand’s tense expression melted into concern. “How are you feeling?”
Martu’s hackles rose when the mink took a step toward her. “Do not approach me.”
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The mink dropped her outstretched arms, gloved to the elbow. “My apologies,” she said, tone frosty at the rejection. “I am unable to get a message to your captain at this time, but knew that I could call you. At this point, you should be in great pain. The coal-blight is raging through you.” She closed her unnatural orange eyes as she said the last part.
“My lady, this creature will kill you,” warned Liena.
The squirrel’s arm was under her cloak and reaching behind her back, to the place where tree folk universally kept their killing tools. The trappings of service to the Taverand family did not conceal a more rustic upbringing. Had loyalty to one of high honor also compelled this Liena from her home forest?
Miss Taverand did not care for her vassal’s exaggerated caution. “She is a creature of my making.”
Martu stared at the mink and waited until fiery orange met her dark gaze. “I am not your creature.”
Miss Taverand broke eye contact, lowering her eyelids to flash her lashes. It was a soft, bashful gesture. Martu hoped her confusion did not translate through her blank expression. Everything about this mink was troublesome. The pine marten’s ears went back when the mink laughed, a musical tinkling of joy.
The mink wiped at the corners of her eyes and readjusted her winter cloak. “No, I suppose you are not. But you are suffering acute symptoms of coal-blight.” She paused to create a window for conversation.
Martu remained silent.
“Captain Orrik does not appear to employ talkative beasts,” remarked the miss. There was a cheeriness in her voice that seemed hollow.
Martu was not one for tormenting her prey, but she did get amused at the discomfort her silences caused. Each Redsnout had their own way of interpreting and responding to the pine marten’s disinclination for talking, but they had traveled for too long in each other’s company to be upset by it.
Liena’s uneasiness was for an unseen threat, one that kept her scanning the three entrances in the dead hedges. “Miss Odette, give her the message so that we might keep your appointment with Captain Tirig.” She was impatient to be away.
The mink straightened her posture and dropped her charming social pretention. She returned Martu’s direct stare with flashing eyes, her features relaxing into a stillness that promised endless patience. She resembled Martu’s memory of Lord Taverand the night the job was negotiated.
“Tell your captain that I am under suspicion at present. Any messages must be done through my maid, an airhead that cannot stop wandering near the stables if I look away for one second.” The mink smiled at the corners of her mouth.
The small expression was just enough to reveal a pleasant shared experience. Even through the cryptic message, Martu could hear Miss Taverand’s affection for Orrik. Hearing that her captain worked well with Miss Taverand troubled the pine marten.
Although the mink miss was softened by the accoutrements of her privilege, her reflexes amid the most mundane chaos were quick, yet strange. She knew most every beast that approached her even when they drew near from outside her range of vision. Her form of the wraith curse was writ in these irregularities and caused too many unknowns when considering her as a potential adversary. It was not safe for Orrik to have a lowered guard around Miss Taverand. Martu decided to tell him about the mink’s curse today even if it meant revealing her own infection.
“Psst!”
It was a whisper coming from a cluster of bushes near Liena. The squirrel crossed her arms over her chest and began to tap her foot to an agitated rhythm. Whatever was making the noise was not an enemy, though her posture indicated acute irritation.
“I expect, my errant maid might be wandering when I need her most. Like when I must get ready for dinner tonight,” Miss Taverand was saying.
“Psst! Ena!”
Martu flicked her triangular ears and tried to focus on the mink’s words. Miss Taverand was trying to communicate the available times to leave a message with her very attentive maid. The comment about being an airhead was an obvious shared joke to which the Martu was not privy. The pine marten was not above jealousy when it came to good company for Orrik. For all her deportment and well-mannered airs, a cursed mink was not good company.
“Liena!” The word hardly counted as a whisper. Vern the wagon driver from yesterday was peeking out of the bushes, his mouth stubborn.
Miss Taverand perked up and swiveled her head to look over her shoulder, her shoulders and torso following the motion like a snake. “Oh!” She dismissed Liena from her adherence to post with a shooing motion using both paws.
The squirrel maid stomped to the other squirrel, her paws balled into threatening fists. “What?!” she hissed, trying to keep her voice low. The squirrels erupted into the heated, fast-paced chitters of a whispered argument.
Martu ignored them and waited for Miss Taverand’s dismissal. Although she had no reason to stay in the garden, Martu wanted to be sure she had all the information Orrik might need since it seemed the maid would not be available to deliver a response until evening.
“Before you leave, I might try something to ease your pain,” Miss Taverand offered.
She was undisturbed when the squirrels’ arguing behind her devolved into physical scrapping, scratches and slaps being punctuated by particularly emphasized chittering. Martu was reminded of the frequent scuffles among family that were common to tree folk everywhere. That Liena would leave her home forest in service to one bearing a monster’s curse made Martu consider that the mink might be a beast of honor.
The mink reached out her gloved paws to implore, “Will you let me see your wound?”
At that moment, a sunbeam pierced through a parting sliver in the clouds. Miss Taverand was bathed in sunlight. Her eyes flashed with true fire and the white patch of fur under her chin turned ash gray. Although she squinted against the sun, grimacing as she raised a paw to shade her eyes, she was otherwise unaffected.
When part of the sunbeam struck Martu, the pine marten hissed and dropped to one knee as her torso was engulfed in internal flame. She clutched at her chest, not feeling the points of her claws as she tried to breathe. The air surrounding her felt too cold at her ears and the tip of her tail. The roaring sounds of a fire at peak heat as it engulfed healthy living trees pounded in her head.
Liena the squirrel won the scrap with her relation and threw the younger squirrel to the ground with a one-two slap combination into a leg sweep. “Hah!” she barked in triumph. Vern sulked on the ground, the pain of his loss greater than the buffets to his person.
Through the throbbing in her skull, Martu heard a distinct click that she had heard many a time in silence: the sound of Grasswhistle readying her rifle.
The pine marten sprang to action. She jumped at Miss Taverand and shoved her away as a firearm cracked. The mink tumbled to the ground, going, “Hey!” with no sound of pain.
Liena dashed from her position over the other squirrel, drawing her knife. With a fluidity separate from the flaming pain, Martu’s arm shot out with unnatural speed and she caught the squirrel by the tail. As the momentum turned her, Martu was able to see Grasswhistle sling her rifle over her shoulder and fast draw a pistol.
“Don’t! She’s not one of them!” Miss Taverand cried.
“She was aiming for you,” said Martu, calm as she tugged Liena’s tail.
The squirrel was flung back into the larger pine marten’s chest to be engulfed into a hug that constricted her arms at her sides. When she tried to bite the arm in front of her, Martu squeezed her into reconsideration.
“Liena!” shouted Vern, scrambling to his feet. He halted when the hare drew another pistol in her other paw.
“And I’m aimin’ at all a you now,” was the sharpshooter’s reply. “I knew you were funny after the first fight.”
Martu was still, her hyperfocus on the present lessening of the burning inside. “Captain should be the one,” she said, unaffected by Liena’s angry wriggling.
Grasswhistle bared her teeth. “I won’t let you make him.” Her tone was sad, but her arms did not waver.
Martu shook her head once. “Then who will protect him?”
“Shit!” the hare cursed. “Fine.” She paused to tilt her head to the side and spit. “Move so I can shoot the miss. She’s one of them.”
“So am I.”
The scout managed to keep her stance despite her captive’s increased struggle. The squirrel’s cheek was pressed against the pine marten’s chest and Martu could feel the straining in the jaws through her clothes. She kept her arms locked like a vice. A chomp from the pronounced incisors could be damaging.
“I beg your pardon! Do not align me with a monster like Nobaran,” went Miss Taverand as she struggled with the folds of her clothes to stand. The mink stepped in front of Martu and slapped at the pine marten’s crossed arms. “Release my companion at once!”
When neither Redsnout moved, Miss Taverand turned to the sharpshooter with her chin held high. She adjusted her cloak to its best advantage with a quick shake, her posture straight.
“My father and I carry a different curse though there are similarities,” she explained, tone haughty with refinement. “You may have noticed that I am very much alive, at least for now. Additionally, my continued life is the objective of your employment.”
Grasswhistle said, “I’m listening.”
“You met my father; you know we are not mindless undead. Our curse is manageable. Infecting,” the mink’s voice wobbled, “Miss Martu was a grave, grave accident and I am forever sorry for this. Before I meet your judgement, I might speak with your captain and explain that Miss Martu may not perish.”
Martu saw when Grasswhistle relented. It was in the slight shift in her shoulders. After all, Orrik would need to be the one to put Martu down. If Grasswhistle tried to spare him the grief, she would be banished for killing a comrade and then he would have no one to watch his back. Jessup and the others were not like Martu and Grasswhistle, they had homes to welcome them should the Redsnouts disband. For the scout and sharpshooter, Orrik was home and was to be guarded accordingly.
The hare lowered her firearms and said, “Talkin’ to Orrik is exactly what you’re going to do. Martu, turn the squirrel loose.”
Martu shrugged and complied. She raised her paw and caught the expected retaliation before Liena could stab the pine marten in the chest.
“You vile thug!” screeched the squirrel, pressing her weight into the stab, trying to break the hold on her wrist.
“Liena, to me,” Miss Taverand commanded.
She stepped away from Martu to draw her vassal to her. Liena dropped her knife and Martu intercepted it with her free paw as she released her hold on the squirrel’s wrist. Liena sprang back to Miss Taverand’s side in a single leap.
Martu communicated her lack of hard feelings by tossing the knife to its owner. Then she dropped her arms at her side and stood very still, knowing Grasswhistle could be trigger-happy. The squirrel caught the knife by the handle with ease and hid her equipped arm in her cloak.
“Now, Martu, out front,” ordered Grasswhistle. “You lead and the miss will follow. Squirrel, you can walk next to her. I’ll be behind you with my guns ready.”
“That’s hardly subtle,” started Miss Taverand. She was not intimidated by her possible fate at Grasswhistle’s paws.
Grasswhistle spun her pistols and sheathed them. “My guns’re ready.”
Martu knew the hare was a quick draw. As long as she had her adversary in front of her, she would be able to gun them down before they could retaliate. And none of the Taverand soldiers would be the wiser until it was too late.
The mink hesitated. Martu moved first. She gave her back to her Redsnout comrade and began walking toward a paved exit in the hedges. She heard footsteps that must belong to Miss Taverand and her maid follow. The scrambling sound in the opposite direction would be the other squirrel fleeing.
“Don’t,” Martu called as she walked under the exit’s trellis arch. “Gloria likes that one.”
“Oh, shut up,” came Grasswhistle’s grumble. She obliged and there was no gunfire.
Liena went, “Ugh, Vern.”
“Just so you know, I am to meet with Captain Tirig soon,” informed Miss Taverand. She sounded almost… annoyed. Martu admired her aplomb in the situation.
“You can see him after. Now hush,” said Grasswhistle.
Martu smirked, knowing that they could not see. Miss Taverand was being too reasonable for Orrik to demand capital punishment. He was too fair. And Grasswhistle knew this. If Miss Taverand had truly spent the day before in good company with Orrik, she also knew this.
A shadow covered them as they walked across the castle grounds. Clouds were gathering for another evening storm. As Grasswhistle muttered about the change in the weather, Martu felt the pain recede with the sun to a more ignorable level. The pine marten hoped her scouted spots yielded the entrance to the necromancer’s lair. Orrik was sure to have a great plan for pulling off this job now that all the cards would be in the open.
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