“A little rebellion is good now and then.”

― Thomas Jefferson

The gaze of the older guardsman was covetous as he inspected the high-quality gear of the group, especially Calvins. “What are you doing in our fair city?”

“Just passing through. Perhaps we will seek employment in the province capital.” Calvin replied with equanimity.

A shrill shriek sounded from above, probably female, followed by some laughter.

“Mh. Seems I will not have the time to chat any longer. Keep yourself clean.” He turned and walked toward the tavernkeeper. “So. You never knew she was still here, did you?”

From above came the sounds of a short struggle, then one of the two guards that had gone up came down again, manhandling a thin human woman less than twenty years of age.

“Rachel!” The tavernkeeper quickly circled the bar and walked up to them. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think you heard me clearly.” The guard that seemed to be in charge grabbed his shoulder. “Did you know about her desertion?”

“She is only an hour or so late! There was never an attempt at desertion!”

Mireille was quietly fuming as the young guardsman, a man with dirty brown hair cut roughly just below his helmet gripped the young woman making her cry out in pain.

“What seems to be the problem?” Calvin shoved his chair back and stood before other more hotheaded persons could make the situation deteriorate.

“Keep out of this, mercenary. What’s your interest anyway, it’s not as if she has any money to pay you with. Or are you interested in her other ‘goods’?” The old guardsman looked mock-surprised.

The woman, a teenager really, was dark-haired and slim. The resemblance to the tavernkeeper was visible at a glance especially the somewhat larger nose and full lips.

Her searching gaze found Alyssa’s as she struggled with her own reaction. ‘Stupid!’ Alyssa scolded herself internally as she rose and stood beside Calvin who gave an almost inaudible sigh.

From Mireille, a crack could be heard as lightning discharged into the table from her clenched hand.

The guard realized that something was wrong and took a step back while calling, “Hans! Claude! We have a problem!” Muttering something under his breath dull, leaden-grey metal began to form around his hands crawling up beneath his sleeves while bulking out the fabric of his coat. “If you go back to eating we can simply pretend this never happened. But if you try to interfere you will get what’s coming to you!” The insincerity was nearly oozing from his smile. Calvin sighed more audibly this time.

The other two guards came from the back room and the upper floor respectively looking harried.

“That was quick.” Iseret slowly rose to her feet with a laconic half-smile. In a low voice, she addressed the group. “Do we interfere? We will be targeted anyway.”

The young woman took the chance as the guard holding her was distracted shaking free of his grasp and called out to Alyssa, “Please! They force people to be branded, and most of them die!” A heavy hit on the back of her head made her bite her lips and blood flowed over her chin.

“No one can brand people by force! The celestial council ruled about that decades ago!” Calvin seemed really angry now.

“She is simply a draftee for the militia. Don’t listen to her nonsense.” The metal had reached his throat by the time he finished speaking.

“I only wanted some ale.” Calvin sighed, even more deeply this time. “Girls. I won’t stand in your way.”

Mireille was off like an arrow her feet and fists wreathed in lightning. An uppercut to the unprotected chin of the guard who had molested the woman put the man decisively out of the fight.

The Leader grimaced, the metal had already reached his chin, and ponderously lifted the mace at his side. Alyssa spat some arcane words before ripping a hole into the void. Ice spread over the wooden planks of the floor and caused the breath of those present to steam. Eyes widening while his pupils shrank from the adrenaline the older guard swung at her, but the mace simply vanished into the darkness and different from all the times before, did not emerge on the other side. Ripping it back ice-vapors followed, and the head of the weapon trailed flakes of rust, the surface pitted and worn, spikes blunted.

Alea stumbled back from the fight gesturing for Butler One who took a few quick, jerky steps. The man out of the kitchen hacked with his shortsword earning only sparks from the blades extending from the Butlers’ arms for his troubles, and with a deft turn, the automaton circled around the stumbling figure as bladed appendages came to rest at the guardsman's chin where a subconscious movement sliced several superficial cuts into his throat. Trembling in fear he froze. The eyes were very white beneath the helmet he wore.

The second guard that had searched the upper floors cut at Alyssa from the side blasting a shower of sparks from his left hand at Calvin who tried to intercept. As the blade neared she tried to duck to the side but was hampered by the chairs and tables. A cat made of darkness ran between her assailant's legs causing him to stumble. The creature vanished with a hiss as Cyrus pounced from above. “No! Don’t kill him!” Alyssa shouted, but it was already too late as the stinger plunged into the meaty part of the left shoulder piercing the tabard and cheap-looking chain beneath. Ripping it out the wyvern clawed at the defensively raised arms before gaining height with two heavy wingbeats shoving half-empty mugs from the tables to shatter on the floor.

Blood spattered on the ground.

Screaming, the man let go of his sword while grabbing for the wound, frothing with black poison. Stumbling back, he began to convulse.

A flash of fire blinded the now completely metal-encased guard, and with a stumbling turn, his weapon and forearm plunged into the darkness of the second seal. For a moment, he seemed to be fine, then he too, began to scream, ripping his arm back from the black oval. The mace was missing this time, and the fingers curled around each other like the legs of a dying spider. The metal was already disintegrating, vanishing in small bursts as his concentration failed. The arm beneath was pale and shriveled, the clothing ripped and worn.

The innkeeper had grabbed the woman and pulled her back from the fight, eyes widened in fright.

Alyssa felt the cat, the Alp, and the small creature's satisfaction. Cyrus was confused why she had stopped him. And beneath all that, she felt a familiar bond, bleeding frost into her arm and chest. The guards seemed to be well in hand, so she let go of the spellform. As the oval began to grow transparent, she saw a hand reaching for her, and a face looked back at her, features as familiar to her as what she saw in the mirror. Then it was gone.

Mireille looked at the innkeeper and Rachel and called, “Are you alright?” The young woman nodded from behind the man.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The merchant, his wife, and the men at arms in their employ had shifted back toward a corner of the room, and the merchant was talking hurriedly with his men.

“I did not even get to drink a single mug of ale.” Calvin looked at the ground where slowly thawing beer was seeping into the straw-strewn planks.

“Let’s ask what’s happening here,” Alyssa suggested.

“Mh. I think so too.”

Iseret had taken position behind the metal-branded who was cradling his right arm, trying to massage some life into the withered limb.

“They are collecting corpses. And after seeing the state, the woods are in with all the dead waking, I cannot think it a coincidence. Nordmark is in full rebellion and doing who knows what to its own people.” Calvin spoke into the room, no longer caring who heard him.

The merchant gasped and blotted his sweating forehead. The soldiers were grim but unsurprised while the tavernkeeper swore softly to himself.

A face pressed to a window in the back quickly ducked out of sight as Iseret looked in its direction. “We had someone watching. Might not have as much time as we think.” The snake-woman quietly remarked.

“What shall we do?! I don’t even know who you people are!” The tavernkeeper shook from residual nerves.

“Put those people into the cellar first and tell anyone looking that they could not find her and went to look for her somewhere else,” Alyssa suggested. “Bind them first!”

The man nodded and then visibly struggled before asking, “Could you take Rachel with you? I don’t know what to do! She can’t remain here, and the friends we had are dead or cowed by the guard.”

“We cannot take her with us!” Calvin adamantly refused.

The back door suddenly opened, and a stout man in his fifties entered. His bald pate gleamed in the light of the candles and his muscular arms stretched the fabric of his shirt and thick woolen coat nearly to a breaking point. Behind him were several men and women visible only briefly until the door swung close. He had the appearance of a prosperous craftsman or perhaps a foreman with a mallet at his left and a long hewing knife at his right.

“Brecht? What are you doing here? The lord's men are looking for you all over!” The tavernkeeper exclaimed in surprise.

“The name’s Brecht, Langhold Brecht. And you are just my kind of troublemakers. I can help you get away, and it’s the least we can do for your help with that scum.” He spat at the downed guards. “Come with me, and perhaps we have even more in common.” His voice was gravelly and slightly hoarse-sounding as if he used it more to shout than talk. “We can take them off your hands, Otto.” A disinterested gaze roamed over the merchant and his guards. “All of them.”

“And who are you exactly?” Mireille asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Just told you.” The man grinned and turned his head to look at her.

“That tells me nothing…”

Before she could continue the Tavernkeeper named Otto interjected. “He is a renowned builder and mason here in Volstedt but as the new orders came he argued and tried to resist. He was caught and imprisoned before breaking out and is now wanted in the whole county.”

“Nice of you to think so well of me.” Langhold grinned more openly now, then raised his hand and pointed at the merchant who was steadily walking toward the front door. “You will wait until I have spoken to you.” The former jovial demeanor became a lot colder.

Iseret nodded and, after seeing that there were enough people to subdue the guard-leader walked up to the merchant and his wife and guards. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, good sir, but if you tell the guards, the good Otto here would have a problem, so we cannot allow that for now.”

The thoroughly intimidated merchant grabbed his wife's hand and retreated toward his guards, nodding all the while. “Honey! We did nothing wrong. How can we let them arrest us?” The wife exclaimed but was soon shushed by the still trembling husband.

“Thank you.” Langhold nodded toward Iseret. “Far from home are we?” He took in her scales and eyes, the claws on her hands.

“Not so far from the home I chose.”

“Ha! Good answer. Let’s grab those people and get out. If we are still here when the guard decides to come looking, we will have a real fight on our hands. I hope you can trust me insofar as we have common enemies.” Brecht nudged the guard-leader, still cradling his injured arm.

Calvin nodded. “Let’s go and hear you out. I’m very interested in what you have to say.”

Otto said a tearful goodbye to Rachel, not without scolding her for not hiding properly, and then the group went out the back. The men and women they had glimpsed as Brecht had entered were still standing in the narrow alley, the surrounding houses leaning over and shading the roughly cobbled ground. Open sewers were thankfully frozen this time of year were overflowing with trash and nightsoil.

“They are friendlies,” Langhold said laconically and gestured. “Fall in. We go to the old house.”

The men eyed them suspiciously but otherwise did not bother them. They grabbed the subdued guardsmen and surrounded the merchant and his wife and men at arms. They wore patchwork armor, not of the shoddy kind but simply bits and pieces as if the contents of an armory had been unevenly distributed between them. Some held halberds or spears, and some carried crossbows, loaded and ready to fire.

A middle-aged brunette woman with an ugly cut across the side of her neck, still red and not completely healed, looked at Calvin and the girls lingering on Iseret and Butler One. “What did you find this time, Brecht?”

“Either a solution or a whole boatload of trouble.” Grinned the heavyset man.

“Seems to be more like the latter” With an unladylike snort, she tipped an imaginary hat before introducing herself. “The names’ Isolde. Former owner and proprietor of the ‘Kiss’, not that I expect that to mean anything to you lot. Nice to meet you.” A stiletto hung from her hip, and she wore a low-cut purple dress showing off her ample bosom with a furlined but cheap-looking cloak.

Walking down the alley, two younger men jogged ahead, looking carefully around the next street corner before waving them on. The clatter of a shutter was the only sign of life as someone pulled it shut at their coming. The town seemed like it was empty, even though some houses’ had smoke drifting straight up from the chimneys into the still air.

The maze of streets, never planned but grown over time, led them farther into the outer regions near the walls. An old house rising above its newer neighboring buildings came into view. A crumbling, partly fallen wall enclosed the whole sorry structure.

The group, numbering around a good dozen people plus the captives, Alyssa, Mireille, and friends, were quickly ushered into the spacious antechamber by a harried-looking older woman wearing conservative servant's clothes. “Brecht! How could you run around in bright daylight? The bounty not enough deterrent for you? Are you daft?”

“Tilda, my dear. Your nephew saw something remarkable, and I decided it was high time to take some small risks. Don’t be angry. It was all for the best.”

The interior was paneled in old, worn, down wooden planks. Some carpets lied about haphazardly while old paintings in varnished flaking frames hung from the walls. A staircase led to the upper floors, of which there were two, and several doors led deeper into the building.

“Follow me. Tilda, do we have some tea left? It’s colder than Zygmund’s arse out there!”

With the group slowly piling inside, the relatively spacious room was soon filled to capacity. Tilda, still grumbling, led them into a dining room. The adjacent houses blocked the pale winter sun, and the dark wood swallowed what light remained casting the chamber in gloom.

Brecht unceremoniously spoke a command, and several light-globes flared to life. “Enter and have a seat if you would.” The merchant, men at arms, and wife were escorted to somewhere in the upper floors while the captured guards were led into the cellar.

Some of the men and the woman called Isolde took some of the chairs and sat down. Calvin nodded and did the same, with the rest of the group following suit.

Silence descended as everyone looked each other over. The men that were still in the room were one older mustachioed gentleman in fine clothes looking for all the world like a librarian to a rich noble, ink-stains on his hands and a monocle hanging from a chain around his neck. The other was a younger man with the bearing of a soldier or a fighter with a heavy saber hanging from his hip and reinforced leather armor protecting his chest and upper arms. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, he cut a dashing figure. The woman, Isolde, was not as old on second glance as she had seemed at first but dark circles rimmed her eyes, the wound on her neck and relatively thick make-up combined to make her look older. Perhaps an intended effect.

Calvin broke the silence first and asked. “So, what do you think we could do for you?”

“I recognize a magician when I see one and can surmise you probably are a part of the academy. What I propose is simple enough. Most of those you saw have been unwillingly branded, and we would like to free those that have been forced the same as us. They are still held in the barracks dungeon, and with them and the militia, we propose to take this town from the sons of beasts and bastards that call themselves the Nordmarks.” Brecht leaned back and breathed deeply after this outburst.

“And why do you think the militia and those other branded would follow along with this plan highly likely to result in their death?” Iseret asked.

“How many people do you think this town has?”

“Why?” Mireille asked.

“Humor me, please.” The eyes of the muscular mason were cold.

“Two, maybe three thousand?” Calvin guessed.

“There are perhaps a bit over a thousand left. Of a population nearing three thousand. The rest were taken, killed, forcibly branded, or pressed into the army. Many died from the branding. And that, my potential friends, is reason enough. More than enough.”