October 26th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Mak rushed to the open door and peered over his property. Past the crop field, just before the small forest, were two men. They wore tight tan pants and the same black coats with brass buttons as all northerners seemed to wear. They had two horses with them but no carriage. One stood before the other, pointing from the road to the river, most likely talking about the position of future rail.

He made a tight fist, and his blood boiled, as if the fizzore had been dropped in his veins. “How many eggs did you find, boy?” He needed to keep calm before his son.

“Eight.” Net’s attention was also fixed on the intruders.

“Go to the barn and check on the nests,” Mak said. “See if the swallows have taken to the hen eggs or not. Stay in the barn until I call you out, understand?”

Net must have felt the urgency in his father’s voice, for he agreed without a word and ran off toward the barn.

Mak left the shed soon enough to see the boy close the barn door behind him. Konni regarded him with the indifference she’d adopted of late, but the look turned lively when they locked eyes. “Is something wrong?” Her face had thinned since the summer. The bones in her cheeks had sharpened, her clothes loosened. She must have been giving herself smaller portions than the others. He’d confront her about it later.

Mak did not answer. He snatched the leaning musket and ensured that it was primed and loaded before striding off toward the intruders. “Stay here,” he called to his wife.

He focused on the trespassers as he marched along his property. Each step brought with it the thought of a fallen animal. He glanced at the horses. Two black mares, both fixed with hornless saddles and dainty violet silk beneath. Neither was Butterhoof.

How far would the northern bastards go? He could not risk any more night attacks. With the animals already dead, there was only one thing left for Guvson to go after. You’ll never get your hands on my family, you northern pig.

He recognized the man speaking with extended arms as Aldren Knester. The tall, muscular man was becoming too common a sight. Long hair, black as coal, cascaded from the back of his hat, and he ran a hand through it as he spoke.

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The man at his side was a shorter fat man with a massive mole on his chin, from which sprouted much less luxurious hair. The fat man touched the other on the shoulder and pointed to the quickly approaching Mak.

The muscular Aldren grinned, while the fat man retreated a few steps, his eyes set on the loaded musket. “Oi, good man,” Aldren stepped forward, seemingly unbothered by the presence of the gun.

Mak halted about three horse-lengths before him.

“Too bad about your farm,” Aldren said. “I heard some very unfortunate things happened here last night. Pity.” He looked back to his friend with a grin, but the fat man found nothing humorous about the situation. “I hope nothing happened to that pretty little Jerri. The thought of that golden hair burning hurts my heart.” He laughed.

Aldren turned back to face the barrel of a loaded musket.

He flinched but maintained an air of indifference. “It will probably take you a long time to rebuild. A lot of money. You might want to take any deal my boss is willing to offer. It would save both parties a lot of trouble.” His grin turned from cocky to sinister. “Accepting the deal would benefit your children most of all.”

It was enough of a threat. They would continue to push forward against Mak’s family if he did nothing to stop it. He raised the gun and took aim.

Aldren eyed the barrel suspiciously but did not allow himself a reaction. “This is the third time you come at me with that damned gun. When are you going to learn that I am not intimidated by you? You are a disgrace to the weapon you hold.”

A cloud of foul smelling smoke hovered around his head and his ears rang. Aldren dropped like an old rag. His hat flew from his head, the hair went with it. Lush, black strands danced in the morning air, pushed and pulled by the light wind. It fell slowly, like leaves or feathers. The grass caught it like trusted arms with a falling child, and the hair sprawled over the ground, as pretty as it had been on Aldren’s head. A man as bald as could be writhed in the dry grass. Blood spurted from a wound in his chest, and he went still.

Mak stared in shock at the hat on the ground. The black hair that had been Aldren Knester’s most distinct feature, was nothing more than an extension of the hat. A lie to hide what he saw as a flaw.

There was no time to dwell on the bizarre revelation. The two horses ran off. Mak felt sick, but he turned the gun on the fat man. The fat man struggled to bend as he inspected the hat and hair. His brows pushed together, and he mouthed a thousand questions.

“It is not loaded,” the fat man said from within trembling jowls. His eyes were fixed on the smoking barrel.

“I can hit you pretty hard with it,” Mak said, “Leave. Tell your northern friends to go back home.” He pointed Lady Marlay’s barrel at the dead man. “I don’t want to have to do this again.” It sounded like an intimidating threat, but it was honesty. Aldren Knester was the first man Mak had ever killed. The bald man stared up at him through dead eyes. His face was forever locked in an expression of struggle, and he paled quicker than Mak would have thought. It took everything to control his shaking limbs.

Piss ran down the fat man’s pants, darkening the tan cotton where it went. He moved backward, slowly and nodded. “I shall tell them, I swear it. Please, let me go.”

“Let you go?” Mak raised his voice. “That’s all I’ve wanted from the start! From the first northern foot that touched my land, I’ve only wanted y’all to go. So, go!”

The fat man turned and ran as quick as his soaked, nervous legs could.

Mak looked down at the large corpse and whispered, “What have I done?”