Arin swung his axe at the knotted and scarred root of the stump yet again, only to have it bounce off yet again, leaving barely a mark in the wood where it had struck. He stood back, pulled a floppy wide-brimmed hat from his head, and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm. He ran a thumb across the edge of the axe blade, and judged it to be about as dull as the priest's weekly sermon. Blowing a frustrated snort, he looked back at the house across the field and saw Larell sitting by the front door, working industriously at the churn between her knees. She glanced up just as he looked at her, and flashed him a smile that nearly tempted him into dropping the axe and heading for the house. He returned the smile, if somewhat wryly, and reluctantly turned his attention back to the accursed stump. He pulled his hat back on his head, and swung the axe in a wide overhead arc, hammering it down on the stubborn root. To his dismay, the blade skittered harmlessly along the impervious bark. By the gods, had there been a spark? He stood the axe on the ground and leaned wearily on the handle. Nine growing seasons since this old ironwood tree was knocked over in a storm — and what a storm that had been! — and then nine frustrating seasons of trying to get that stump up out of the ground. He'd tried burning it out, but the dense hardwood would barely smolder, much less sustain an open flame. He'd tried digging it up, but the overgrown root system had rendered that impossible—unless he was willing to dig a hole deep enough to set the Breaker free! So here he was, chopping uselessly away, and still not having much success. He wasn't getting any younger, and the stump was showing no signs of giving up any time soon.

With an oath, Arin swung the axe around for another strike, only to halt his swing as he stared out across the field. Four riders were approaching from the east, trotting heedlessly across his freshly plowed buttervine field. From their postures and the way they rode, Arin got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He dropped the axe on the ground, taking care to avoid any hint of aggression, and pulled the hat off his head again, worrying it in his hands nervously as they drew close.

"Kin I hep ya, gentlemen?" He squinted up at the four riders as they arrayed themselves in an arc in front of him. They were begrimed from the road, but under the coating of mud and dust he could see that they were hard men — not the kind of men to be trifled with on a whim. They wore leather armor of uniform design beneath their cloaks, and it wasn't the cheap beeswax leather you'd get from cut-rate backstreet shops. Arin recognized the crest embossed on the breast of each man, as well as the distinctive gold-trimmed emerald colors of the cloaks they wore, and his feeling of disquiet grew stronger. One of the men spurred his mount abruptly forward, forcing Arin to step back hastily to avoid being trampled. The stranger leaned over his horse and looked coldly down at Arin for some time before speaking.

The man was tall and wiry, with a long, narrow, clean-shaven face framed by short dark hair. From the condition of his gear, it was apparent that he was a seasoned veteran. "I'm Corporal Rom of the Eastern Alliance. I assume you're familiar with that name," he said flatly. It was a statement rather than a question.

"Aye, that I am, sir," Arin continued to twist his hat into a knot, "but I think ye might be a bit west of your normal haunts, though."

Corporal Rom’s thin lips twisted into a sneer, "The Alliance holds jurisdiction even farther west than this — especially when it involves hunting war criminals." He studied Arin intently as he spoke.

Arin's eyes widened in surprise and alarm, "Wa... war criminals?" he twisted his hat furiously, "Um, beggin' the corporal's pardon, sir, but I was only just a cook in the Arm’s legions! I got a writ of clemency, just like the rest, from the Vertrex his self! I can show — " Arin snapped his mouth shut at Rom's curtly upraised hand.

"I'm not here looking for cooks, ypu fool, I'm here looking for rag-men. Or I should say, rag-man,” he said, emphasizing the singular. A small smile curled at one side of his mouth, “The last one of them."

Arin's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Rag-man? Where in tarnation do you think you're gonna find a rag — " Sudden realization, followed by astonishment, and then finally humor crossed Arin's face in rapid succession. "You… you be thinking I'm a rag-man?" He started to chuckle, which built into a laugh, which escalated until finally Arin was bent over laughing, with tears rolling down his cheeks. Rom’s companions exchanged glances, then glared balefully back at the man, obviously not amused by his reaction. The corporal maintained his grim look, watching dispassionately until Arin got himself back under control.

Wiping the tears from his face, a smiling Arin looked up at the four men. "I am powerful sorry you rode all this way for nothing, sir, I truly am. I've been called an awful lot of things in my days as a cook — mostly because my cooking was something horrible — but I ain't never been accused of being a rag-man before, that's for sure! Hells, they made me a cook 'cause I couldn't fight worth shit!" He chuckled again, "Only way I might’ve assassinated anybody was with a bad batch o' beans!"

Rom stared at Arin, unsmiling, "If that is indeed true, then surely you won't mind if we have a look around."

Arin’s smile vanished as he looked at the four grim men before him. "Doubt I could stop ya, even if I wanted to. Be my guests, I got nothing to hide. When you're done, come on into the house and have some of my wife's yryt tea, or some of my homemade wine. I ain't much of a cook, for true, but I can make some pretty tasty wine!" He stepped aside, bowing to the men as they rode past him toward his home. Shaking his head ruefully, he followed along on foot. He looked down at the shapeless mess he had made of his hat. Larell was going to chide him for that. And laugh at him. Doing his best to pull it back into shape, he plopped it back on his head as he walked.

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By the time Arin arrived at the house, the riders had already dismounted and were busily searching through his barn and outbuildings. He smiled to himself as one of them even looked inside the outhouse. Probably won't find much of interest in there, but you never can tell! His wife was standing by the open door of their house, with her arms crossed tight over her chest and a stormy expression on her face. He knew that look, and it usually meant that someone was about to get a tongue-lashing. This time, he knew — or at least hoped — that she would hold her tongue in check. He caught a glimpse of movement inside the house beyond the open door. He frowned, realizing that he'd been foolish to expect any manner of courtesy from the Vertrex’s flunkies.

"What do they want?" she whispered at him furiously, fear and anger eloquent on her lovely face. She was a petite woman, and her straight dark hair and dusky skin hinted at her eastern origins. She came to his arms as he reached for her, huddling against him for comfort.

Arin pulled her close and hugged her tightly, trying to reassure her. "Rag-men," he replied in a low tone. Even after all their time together, he was still amazed at how tiny and fragile she seemed when he held her like this. Nor at how misleading that seeming truly was.

Anger gave way to alarm as she pulled back and looked up into his face. "Sweet Builder! Here, now? After all this time? Did you tell them you were a cook? You have your discharge from duty papers, with the Vertrex's own signature!"

"They didn't seem much inclined to take my word for it," he replied wryly. He winced as a crash and the sound of shattering earthenware came from inside. Hugging Larell close, to restrain her before she could run into the house, he warned, "Don't rile them, love, just let them get it over with." He twined his fingers in her long black hair and pressed her head against his chest.

The search lasted for more than an hour, although to the distraught couple it seemed as if it might never end. Finally, long after they felt they could bear it no longer, Rom emerged from the house, carrying one of Arin's wine bottles in his hand. He met his squad in the dooryard and had a brief conference with them, voices pitched too low to be overheard. Rom shook his head in frustration, then turned and approached the anxious husband and wife, making no effort to conceal the disappointment on his face. As they faced him, Arin held his wife's shoulders and squeezed firmly for reassurance.

Rom regarded the pair suspiciously. "I found your discharge affidavit, which appears to be genuine, and we can find no evidence you've been harboring a criminal of war or that you are one yourself. So for the time being you're in the clear," he informed them reluctantly. He gestured with the bottle he held, "I will accept your offer of some wine. I hope it's as good as you claim." Arin carefully allowed nothing to show on his face as he nodded acquiescence. Rom scowled and hitched a thumb into his belt, "Do you know of any others who have moved into this general area within the past ten seasons?"

Arin scratched thoughtfully at his chin, "No sir, not that I heard about. Sorry." He looked at the soldier in front of him with a casual air, "You said you was hunting a rag-man? What in hells did he do? If you’ll pardon me askin’, sir. Back when I was with the Arm, I always heard where the rag-men was the Vertrex's own private squad of killers."

The corporal studied him momentarily, as if considering whether or not to answer. "Yes, they were, at least until one of them tried to kill him — and almost managed to do it. Crippled him in one arm, so the Vertrex wants him pretty bad. We've been ordered to track every lead we hear about, no matter how slim. There's a bounty of the Vertrex's body weight in gold for anyone who leads us to him."

Arin whistled appreciatively, since the Vertrex was no small man. That would be one respectable pile of gold! "For a reward like that, someone's bound to give him up — I sure would! — if he's still alive, that is."

Rom stared at the couple for a long moment, then grunted and turned to his horse. He stashed the bottle of wine in a saddlebag, then swung his lanky frame up to the saddle. His companions were already astride their mounts, waiting in stony silence. As Rom and his men rode past, he gave Arin one last hard look. "Remember, the Vertrex's body weight."

Arin nodded once, impassively, and he and Larell watched silently as the four riders set off across the fields. When they had finally disappeared over a distant rise, Arin blew a sigh of relief. "Heading for the Colpit's farm, most likely. Ha! They won't find a rag-man there, unless he's one grubby fat bastard by now."

Larell made a sour face, "It was probably the Colpits who sent those four here in the first place. They've wanted to get their greedy hands on this farm ever since we've been here." She turned and walked into the house, "Come on, 'cookie', I've got to clean up the mess they made, and you have to have your dinner."

Arin sat at the table dipping warm bread into the savory stew his wife had made. Larell had certainly mastered the skill of cooking, no doubt about that! Ruefully, he wondered to himself how many pounds he might have added over the past few seasons. That couldn't be good. He continued to eat as Larell sat down across from him with a worried look on her face.

"Do you think they'll find their rag-man?"

Arin stopped eating for moment, considering, then continued to chew. "Doubt it," he said around a mouthful of stew, "It's been ten years since the Vertrex was attacked. If they were going to find him, I think they would have by now."

"And even so, they still continue to look," she fretted as she drummed her fingers on the wooden table, "They're not giving up, and I don't like that they’ve come poking around here."

"Don't worry, love, it'll be alright."

"I have a bad feeling they're not done with us yet. What if they come back?"

Arin stopped tearing at the loaf of bread and looked Larell in the eyes. His face was suddenly an impassive, emotionless mask, and his eyes were cold.

"Then I'll have to kill them," he said matter-of-factly. He looked away and finished breaking off a chunk of bread. "The stew is excellent tonight, my love."

Larell watched her husband and shuddered inwardly. Arin was the sweetest man she’d ever known, the most loving — and the most deadly. She wished again now, as she had so many times before, that he had succeeded all those years ago. Things would be so different for them now.