They hadn’t been hailed nor had they been stopped by any night watch coming into the village. That meant that most of the fighting men had already gone then, which was good, Galen thought, but that also meant that anyone could come and go unimpeded through this village, which was bad. What if a couple of evil men came through here?

What then?

Galen couldn’t help suppress a shudder going up his spine from the possibility, his horse’s hooves clacking softly across the mossy cobblestones.

“Aren’t you from this one?” asked one of his men behind him another.

“No. I’m from further upstream,” he replied.

“What’s that one called?”

“Träement.”

“And this one?”

“Träelent, I think.”

“Same shit name,” said the first. “Same shit men.”

“Not the same,” said the second, sounding offended. “Every year we’d come down for bloodletting to this village and the next further down and we would almost, to a man, manage to cut them before they even got a scratch on one of ours.”

“That so? I bet they made for shit wine, too.”

“It wasn’t bad at all.”

“So what’s the one further downstream called? Träecunt?”

“Fuck you,” snarled the second.

“I bet you would. Don’t think I didn’t catch you looking at that boy earlier. Every time I see you, my cheeks clench tighter than my fist.”

“If you-”

“Quiet,” said Galen as he stopped his horse in front of the local inn, reading its sign. The men behind him fell silent immediately.

The Softly Sleeps Inn. The two-storeyed place was small and looked relatively old, but even in the dark Galen could see that the exterior was lovingly kept clean, with the windows recently washed and the surrounding shrubbery kept tidy to give it a rather hospitable look. There were no lights to hint that anyone inside was awake to welcome any weary travelers to stay the night.

And yet he was certain he had heard talking coming from within.

Galen glanced over his shoulder, looking at his men in the dark by the light of the Dame. Nine men in all astride nine horses. Nine good men. Perhaps they had been tarnished once, but no longer. At least when he was with them to help them suppress their bestial urges, to help them keep themselves on the just path.

Galen’s gaze fell on the girl thrown over the back of one of the horses, passed out from what he guessed was exhaustion. She had been his former friend’s oldest daughter, seventeen or sixteen summers old, perhaps even younger, Galen couldn’t quite tell. He had no eye for such things.

She had tried to run, but the dogs had had their fill earlier that evening and had shown no interest in pursuit. So Galen had them slaughtered - he would broach no indolence, especially not from animals - and sent Tarin after her instead.

Tarin had been a snatcher in a previous life and had never lost his speed, catching the girl handily inside of an hour before bringing her back to Galen. Tarin said she had lost her dress sometime during her escape before he got to her and Galen had no reason to doubt him on that fact. They were friends after all, and friends don’t lie to one another.

When brought before him the girl had pleaded and cried and had emitted all manner of different sounds, including what he thought was giving him her name, but she hadn’t thought to pray once.

And so he had taken the time to teach, as much as with the book as with the knife; Loulanne appreciated scars, he knew. They showed a pious convert’s convictions.

But she had squealed a little too much for his liking during their joint prayer and so, to celebrate, he had given her a new name to welcome her to her new faith.

Piglet.

Somehow, it seemed fitting.

“Stay here,” Galen said as he lowered himself off his horse.

His men shared a glance between one another. Three of them dismounted wordlessly while the remainder turned their animals. He could hear the sound of their righteous steeds crunching the gravel as they began to skirt towards the perimeters of the village.

Galen couldn’t help but smile softly to himself. He had trained them well.

The three that had dismounted came to stand some lengths behind him, tying their horses to a nearby fence. They would come in and do what needed to be done if he called for them.

Galen came up to the door of the inn. Much like the rest of it it looked old, but well-maintained. There was no hurry to his movement as his hand gingerly trailed over some of its granular wooden surface, admiring its fine make in the dark by touch alone. Oak, he thought. Rare in these parts.

Galen knocked politely on the door, rapping twice.

Then he canted his head ever so slightly and brought it close to the oak, coming to listen in with all the patience of a gathering storm.

A soft sound from within. Was that the wind, creaking?

No, footsteps.

Galen pulled his ear back and knocked twice again.

Behind him he could hear the familiar sound of steel rattling against leather as his men wordlessly drew their swords.

**

The sound of the ferne’s feet creaking on the old tavern floor were audible long before she even got close to the door.

Mauve was worried about her friend. She was going to insist to her that she stay here for the remainder of the night. She could not in good conscience allow her friend to go back to an empty bed after what had happened!

Mauve came to the front door of her inn and rested a hand against it. The wood was thick and sturdy, strong enough to withstand a drunkard’s antics; oak from the Reach, a gift from her husband.

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On strange nights like these, she missed his bravery.

Whoever came knocking so late, she thought, I hope they’re no more trouble.

Ferne Mauve pressed her ear against the door, listening for signs of outside. Was that the wind, breathing? Or the neigh of a horse?

The sudden sound of knuckles knocking almost caused her heart to burst from her chest.

“Who goes?” Mauve asked shakily, pressing a hand against her chest to still her heartbeat.

A man’s voice replied, barely a whisper through the wood.

“A friend.”

Mauve swallowed, hopefully not loud enough for the stranger to hear. Another moment passed before she opened the door, unhooding her lantern to shed light on her second late visitor this night.

It was a tall man, a length and some breadths perhaps, gaunt in the face and with dark, sunken eyes. He had a long mane of frazzled brown hair streaked with gray and wore a mostly linen outfit all dyed a faded crimson red: red leather riding boots, red linen pants, a red linen undershirt and a well-worn red-dyed linen traveling vest emblazoned with the threaded symbol of a small fire on the center of his chest.

He smiled at her the moment their eyes found one another and ferne Mauve noticed there was something stuck in the gap between his two front teeth.

She felt her face go cold.

“Reverend,” Mauve stammered, opening the door wider. She herself was dressed in the simple sleeping gown of a humble woman her age, somewhat stained from years of wear. “Sepa smiles. What brings you here to my tavern tonight?”

“Please,” said Galen with apology in his voice as he stole a furtive look past her shoulder.

“Call me friend. I apologize for the disturbance so late, but I was merely wondering about the state of your beds.”

The reverend’s words hung in the air, their meaning clear.

“My husband has gone already,” whispered Mauve in a choked voice, “and only men worn with age or injury sleep here this night.”

“Of course,” replied Galen in a soothing tone. “I do not doubt you.”

There was a pause where Galen’s bared teeth lingered in the air between them like an unsaid threat. In the light of the ferne’s lantern the gleam of the reverend’s spittle looked like an adder’s venom stuck against its fangs.

“Who is your friend?” asked Galen.

Ferne Mauve glanced over her shoulder to a shadow in the corner.

“A neighbor,” said Mauve, “from our village. She has had a troubled sleep.”

“May I come in?”

Mauve hesitated, looking past the reverend out in the dark of the night beyond. Had those shadows moved closer?

“Of course, rev-”, she stopped mid-sentence and stepped aside hastily, “my friend.”

The visitor entered, purposeful in his step.

The interior of the tavern was dark but by the light of the ferne’s dim lantern Galen could now clearly see a second, smaller woman standing meekly in the corner. She looked to be somewhat overripe, with her brown hair mottled with beginning gray tied up in a sleeping bun. The corners of her eyes were a crying raw. At his approach she gave a hurried, unpracticed curtsy.

“Reverend-friend,” she exclaimed in an unsteady pitch and Galen could smell a familiar reek wafting off of her. “Sepa’s smile!” she added as per the custom.

Galen merely nodded in reply, walking towards the table the pair had ostensibly been sitting at.

He saw two half-filled mugs alongside two displaced chairs.

His eyes then moved further around the tavern room, searching for signs of more people present. Nothing else seemed out of place.

Everything else looked cleaned for the night.

Just the two of them talking, then.

“Guests?” Galen asked quietly without turning to face the fernes.

“But four soured men, old or injured,” replied ferne Mauve, “and a grandfather sleeping off his wine in the stable out back.”

Galen nodded. He noticed that the ferne’s shoulders were shaking and that her fingers trembled when he took the lantern off of her hands.

First the farmer, now the innkeeper? Maybe there was indeed a sickness going around, Galen thought. Something to report back to the king, perhaps.

With light in hand Galen headed towards the nearby staircase and left both women shuddering in the dark, while three shadows hid patiently in the doorway behind them.

**

Galen returned some time later, bringing his smile back down the staircase with him again. Both women looked to have not even moved the width of a hand from where he had last left them.

“All is calm,” Galen said convincingly, pressing a trio of fingers to his chest as he came before the pair.

He had found the four men sleeping upstairs and they were just as the ferne had said, too sour for service. He would have to remember to see the stable after he was done here to check in on the grandfather.

Ferne Mauve breathed out a sigh of relief, while the other ferne- a leatherworker or a wife of one now judging from the smell up close - nodded emphatically as she clutched her hands protectively in front of her.

“Both our husbands have already gone to serve the summons,” Mauve said hastily, “as have the rest of our ripened men.”

“I bet they’d all make for good wine,” replied Galen in an approving tone. He took a moment to study their faces. “But why do you mention it?”

A look of confusion passed over Mauve’s face.

Galen was quick to follow up. “I did not ask you to tell me about your husbands, nor about the state of service of the men of your village. Indeed, the call to crusade came some while ago and all the ripe men from this region were meant to have been summoned for service already.”

“I am sorry reverend, I do not understand,” Mauve stammered.

“It has been in my experience that whenever someone mentions to me a detail unprompted,” Galen paused for a moment, searching the ferne’s eyes for something as he spoke, “that that someone is trying to convince me of something.”

Galen noticed that the ferne Mauve’s eyes were wide and white while her friend beside her had her eyes closed shut.

“So are you? Trying to convince me?”

“N-no, reverend.”

“And you wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“No, reverend.”

“And why is that?”

“Because friends are not meant to lie to one another.”

“Because friends are not meant to lie to one another,” repeated Galen. “Good, I see Loulanne’s word rules you well.”

“Yes, reverend.”

“Please, I told you before. Call me friend.”

“Yes, friend,” replied Mauve meekly, lowering her gaze. “I shall.”

Galen stepped past both women and moved to pull back a third chair at the table the two had been sitting at. He plopped himself down and made himself comfortable.

“Please, sit with me,” he said, his kindly-voiced imperative masquerading as a request. Ferne Mauve looked from her friend to the reverend, then moved to sit. Her friend followed suit, her gaze on her lap.

Galen brought a hand to his chin in thought as he looked between both women, rubbing the stubble of his beard. He would have to shave again before he returned to camp.

“Now. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what you were talking about together so late at night?” asked Galen in a cordial voice. “I do so love the gossip between friends.”

The leatherworker’s wife was the first to speak up, just like he expected.

Galen listened intently as she began to regale the story of a set of tall strangers that had come in earlier through the day and who, she was convinced, had tried to rob her earlier tonight. She had woken up while one of them had been right next to her, but she had managed to keep still until they had fled from her home. When she thought it safe, she had come running to her friend Mauve at the tavern to talk about what had happened.

When she then mentioned her confusion at the fact that they didn’t take anything from her save for some strange coins she had never seen before today, coins she wanted to show her husband when he returned back home, Galen nodded to himself knowingly.

When he returned. Not if.

It was only the description of the peculiar, jagged edges of the aforementioned coins that stopped Galen from snapping his fingers to signal to his men outside. Instead, he politely suppressed a cough.

In response, the three shadows that had been silently listening in the dark doorway promptly sheathed their swords and moved to mount their horses back outside. Six different riders that had been searching the village soon joined them in discussing the danger of what was just overheard. Their plan to teach the local leatherworker in hiding a lesson like they had done the farmer for avoiding the summons would have to wait until the morning.

Meanwhile inside the tavern, the ferne had just served the reverend a glass of a delicate, bubbly red, an expensive vintage that she just happened to have opened up today for a storyteller passing through. And throughout the remainder of the conversation that followed, Galen’s smile turned into a grin almost as wide as his face, his tongue all the while continuing to toy with the flesh still stuck between his teeth.