“My Liege! A mage sending!” Baron Clovis of Wegend turned away from the weapons rack, absently returning the blade to the rack, raising a hand to silence Advisor Muriel.

  Watch Commander Wallace, son of Dmitri sprinted towards him, a bird-shaped object, one recognizably made from parchment but oddly folded into its present form without any creases. And most importantly, it was bright red and black.

  The baron stared for a moment, as if the construct were a venomous snake, then with a sigh reached out and placed his seal ring onto the magical not-beast's head, trying not to imagine how many silvers in monster cores had been expended to get it here.

  It stilled, then the lights fled and it began to unfold, slowly, but constantly, then at last rolled itself back into a simple cylinder.

  He waited an extra moment, then grabbed the scroll and unrolled it.

  “To Baron Clovis of Wegend,

  Greetings, son of the Great Forest, I trust this missive finds you in good health for that health may yet be tested.

  I regret that I must inform you of a possible Demon rift. The rift inspects as Small Malefic, mid Tier 1. Not Demonic. And yet, its monsters are bipedal, multi-armed beings, how many arms being somewhat random, with extra joints and digitigrade legs. They have at times; fur, scales, hide or chitin natural armor, none of it particularly protective. Their faces seem a mix of beast, reptile and something alien. A small sketch of one such is included below.

  I am confident in the ability of me and mine to close the rift unaided. Yet the strictures remain. The Exterminatus has been called. The Levies are raised and the Baronetcy set to full war footing.

  I call to you, as the Emperor, may his light ever shine upon the lands of Aclelia, bids. Be ready, should me and mine fail.

  As is required, a messenger will find you with word of our progress in no more than 2 weeks or not at all.

  Regards,

  Baronet Ethan of Alfwin Pass”

  He stared at the parchment for a few more moments, and the ugly sketch it contained, then let the sending roll back up with a sigh. Tapping the rolled parchment against his lip for a moment. Then just shook his head.

  “Go find Sir Coswald Wallace. Tell him to start a general call-up. I want nine men in ten of the armsmen rested, provisioned and ready to march within 3 days.”

  Baronet Ethan was a bastard. A low-born, overly arrogant prat who rested overmuch on his war laurels…

  And yet. They were impressive war laurels.

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  With that man’s confidence, he could afford to do this right. Rest, feed, equip and provision the men for the forced marches ahead.

  “Warn the village, the 3rd Levies will be see a call up.” The faint wrinkles around the man’s eyes tightened. Clovis gave him a sad smile, answering the unspoken question. “They won’t be coming with us. But the defenses must still be manned.”

  “Yes My Lord. Find Sir Coswald. General call up-“

  He dutifully repeated the message back and, upon receiving the baron's confirmation, half turned to leave.

  Then hesitated. “May I tell him why your Lordship?”

  Clovis considered for a time, then sighed. “There might be Demons in the mountains.”

  The man’s face paled significantly as he offered a final salute, then turned and jogged, if a rather fast jog, from the room.

  Yes.

  That was the correct response.

  “In the mountains My Lord? Baronet Ethan?” Muriel asked, his voice pitched to travel no farther than the Baron's ears.

  “As you say.” He agreed.

  “Couldn’t happen to a better man.” The advisor muttered, considering his ledger for a moment.

  Clovis snorted. Well, he couldn’t disagree with that!

  “Are you sure 3 days are enough to prepare? A week or so might make things easier. Mayhap a week and a half?” He continued and Baron Clovis froze.

  That. That was something else.

  “You served my Father, Muriel.” He interrupted before the man could dig the hole deeper. The lack of title clear in his sharply frigid voice. “Served him well! And did the same for me over the last decade. And I do not believe anyone heard you. Thus in consideration of service and your advanced age, you will escape a whipping that might have taken your life.”

  “My Lord –“ He began, panic stretching his features into a rictus mask.

  A sharply slashed hand silenced him.

  “If Honor, MY HONOR-“ He barked, spittle flying free for a moment before he pulled himself back under control. “If that doesn’t move you to action, then have the sense the Gods gave a turnip and remember the Ravens. Delay? Play games? With a possible Demon rift? There would be a new Baron in Wegend by next spring.”

  He stared at the shaking old man, his voice going slightly soft. He was fond of him, but… “The Exterminatus Uncle Muriel.” He repeated, for the man was that, in spirit if not in flesh. He’d held Clovis as a baby. “Would you add us as targets?”

  “NO My Lord! No, a slip of the –“

  “Enough of that!” It was no slip! He sighed and flicked his hand in a dismissal. The old man gave a shaky salute, open hand to chest, then scurried from the room with nearly the same attitude, if not the speed or energy, of The Watch Commander.

  The baron shook his head softly. Staring blankly at the armory’s walls and the many weapons stored in racks or shelves upon them.

  He will march soon; Honor and good sense demanded it. To meet the messengers offering good news, perhaps. An excuse to turn back early. Not a wasted trip even so. He wouldn’t mind an inside look at Promises defenses. Merchant reports were worth only so much.

  But… he wondered. What should he hope for? To see his upstart neighbor bled a bit? He’d not cry crocodile tears if it happened. And yet…

  No sane man wanted a new front to the Demon war to open in his backyard! Two Hundred years of blood and death. Just recently ended. And now a chance, however slim, of restarting?

  No. Let him close this rift. Let him close it in haste.

  And if more men fell in that haste? Well, that was as the Gods willed. As a man, he would not ill wish another in favor of a Demon.

  He let his breath free in a long blast, straightening his spine with a smile as he faced his reflection in the metal of the blades before him.

  His heart and honor. Rugged perhaps, but clean and clear.

  Yes.

  He was no Riverlander. Spite would not blur his eyes, dull his edge.

  He picked up the blade again checked its edge on his finger.

  Not now, and if he had anything to say about it, not ever!

  ___