Varsus smiled when his company finally crossed the border into his own province, named ‘Varsus’ after his family line. It was late in the day, and he wanted to get home before nightfall.

If one was heading north, this was the last border to cross in the entire Kingdom. The province of Varsus ended at the sea, and to continue further north you would need a ship.

He heard tired groans of pleasure from many in the company of riders, wagons and other carriages. They, like him, were glad to be home again.

It had taken them almost two months to get back from Wademount. After the Prince’s unceremonious dismissal, they had rushed to break camp and leave as ordered, as did the rest of the assembled troops.

However, they did not maintain the same pace going north as they had when called south by the King.

That ride had been one of desperate speed, not knowing what lay ahead of them or if they were already too late. Many horses had faltered and been put down or left on their own.

Additionally, on the way south they had cut through some terrain that made for bad riding. On the way back, with time on their side they chose the path of easier travel to save the wear and tear on the animals, carriages and the people.

Even more, on their earlier ride they had observed none of the usual social graces as they passed through the provinces. They neither sent notice nor stopped to call on local lords and ladies, reserving all of their energy for reaching Wademount to help in the battle… or whatever it actually was.

This time, heading north and the danger now over, they had no such excuses, and in fact had to render some apologies for the mad scramble across the realm.

Some places they were required to stay several nights, or else render further offense. This caused the travel time to stretch from weeks into months.

Truthfully, Varsus had welcomed the diversions. He could have easily camped out and slept on the road, but dealing with other local lords helped him to keep his mind off of things he would rather not dwell on.

Even more, those holdovers had been necessary. Hunting had been extremely poor on the way back, to the extent that Varsus wondered if all the game in the forests had decided to pick up and leave en masse.

He had never seen such bad hunting in his entire life. Everywhere they went, the forest were quiet, and Varsus suspected not so much as squirrel was in evidence in the entire wood.

Even their own animals had been acting strangely the entire ride back. The mounts were either skittish or else the lead animals in the company had to be reigned in, lest they outstrip the rear of the caravan. They fought with the horses the whole trip from Wademount.

He knew the hunting, at least, was through no fault of his men. He had some of the best hunters in the realm.Varsus knew that because they had to be. It was not always easy to survive in Varsus province, despite his attempts to change that.

Varsus wondered if even worse might on the horizon.

Two of his men had gone missing during the ride back.

The men were free, but they had sworn oath to him, and to run off without asking his leave was not common behavior.

One of the men was known to be a solitary type, but the other had family that everyone knew well. Varsus found it difficult to believe the man had just ran off.

Now he would have to tell her family that her husband was gone and he knew not where.

It was that damned place. Wademount. Forsaken by all, and rightly so. It had done something to him. Who knew what it had done to others?

By the Gods, he thought, I am become bleak and mawkish!

His company kept moving. Their speed now was slowing, and it seemed as if they were taking the last bit of their strength to finally make it to the end of their journey.

Varsus looked around at his surroundings. At this southern border there was green everywhere. The oaks and maple trees of the middle and southern regions had given away to the pine trees that marked the north of Maeraland.

The province of Varsus was a very hilly land. It made construction of roadways somewhat difficult and farming not feasible for the majority of the country land.

Therefore, they relied on a lot of fishing and trade for goods, although there were some lean years recently.

Varsus frowned, in fact, one of the reasons he had been so glad to cross into his own border was the province he had just left, a much larger Earldom bordering Varsus province called Clermont.

The Earl of that province had no love for Varsus, the province or the man, and made no bones about saying it.

Any goods that Varsus would send south must necessarily go through Clermont, and Varsus had come to understand that he could expect delays of shipments and even complete disappearances of goods that were leaving or coming to Varsus.

Shaking his head, Varsus frowned. He had not went to the monarchy with this yet, but the slights were becoming more and more egregious, to the point where Varsus could not ignore it much longer.

“Ahhhh now we can finally relax!” a sharp voice shouted, almost directly in his ear.

Varsus jumped when he heard it, snapped out of thoughts that were becoming darker and darker.

Turning in his saddle, he saw Lord Multon stretching, his old craggy face smiling at the sight of the familiar territory.

The old Master at Arms was beginning to go a bit deaf, and as a result, Varsus had noticed that Multon raised the volume of his voice to compensate.

Varsus pretended that the old man was not yelling at him, and responded in a louder tone so the man could hear him.

“Somehow I feel I can’t quite relax yet, although it is good to see home.”

Multon stared at Varsus, looking him up and down.

Varsus grinned, although he did not feel in such a jovial mood.

“Is everything alright, Master Multon? You regard me as if inspecting me for your good wife’s cookpot.”

“You don’t look well, my lord,” Multon said, lowering his voice to what Varsus was sure he considered to be conspiratorial, but was in fact normal speaking volume.

“Ehh, I am just tired,” said Varsus. “Much as we all are. It has been a long journey.”

Multon frowned and lowered his head. Then seemed to come to some decision.

“My lord,” Multon began,” is this about Lady Avalaine?”

Varsus jolted completely upright in his saddle.

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“What?! I’m certain I don’t know what you mean, Master M—”

“Ohh come off of it now!” growled Multon. “I saw the look on your face when Prince Randall took her away.”

“He did not take her away!” snapped Varsus. As soon as he said the words he knew they had come out too harshly, too hot.

Multon did not pounce on this, but kept silent. The silence became awkward.

“Of course, she had no choice but to leave with him… or I should say she did not leave with him, but he merely escorted her back to her father. Regardless, it is of no consequence… or not to me…”

The rambling trailed off with no conclusion. Multon thought hard about his next words.

“My lord, if you want to marry her, then ask. I doubt her father would approve, but if he does not, at least you will know. Either you marry her, or it might be time to move on to other options, get about to the business of Varsus.”

When the Baron did not respond, Multon became annoyed.

“My lord,” he began, his voice low and hissing, “heirs to the province are not going to create themselves! Without an heir, then Clermont may well end up taking this land for themselves.”

Varsus was scowling now, his face red with embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment at his transparent feelings for Lady Avalaine, and anger at the thought of Clermont annexing or otherwise taking control of Varsus province.

“My lord—”

“That will be enough, Master Multon,” Varsus snapped, much louder than he had intended.

Quiet fell over those in the company near enough to overhear.

Varsus felt drained. He shouldn’t have snapped like that, but the old Master of Arms was constantly pointing out one lady or another that he should wed, and Varsus did not like to think of it.

He had been having nightmares most nights on the road. Horrible nightmares where he was dropped into a void. An endless black void of cold nothing.

Or at least he thought it was nothing. Only after falling through endless, lightless black for an eternity did he come to understand that there was someone, something there in that darkness, a vast presence filled with patient, cold malice.

Many nights he had awoken, drenched in sweat. He hoped that finally arriving home would put him to rights.

As the silent company wound through the countryside, they began to encounter the hamlets and villages that made up the outskirts of the province. Some of the people shouted out to them in greeting, although most merely stared.

The settlements grew more and more populous, until finally the roads became paved.

Varsus knew that it would be only a short while now until they would reach Varston, the town in which his castle sat directly in the center.

There were outer wooden walls that encircled the entire town, and they would need to pass through the main gate to gain entry.

Inside the wall would be more densely packed homes and businesses, and at the center of the town would be another wall, this one taller and thicker and made of stone.

Beyond this wall would be the castle grounds and his own castle, Clarion Keep, so named for its purpose centuries early to alert the populace of attacks from both vicious pirates and brutal Elves. Both had been inhuman in their violent intent.

These days though, attacks from the Elves were improbable, as none had been seen for generations, and although there was still occasional pirate trouble, they now knew the people of this land would not only fight, but would exact a hefty price for any loot the pirates made off with.

Varsus left off his ruminating as they approached the outer wall of the town.

Something was wrong.

“Gods damn that man!” Multon shouted, and Varsus did everything he could not to shout as well.

As he looked up over the wall, he saw his banner flying. The red field in the background with gray trim all around, and in the foreground a gray shape that looked like a crown, but was really four fists raised in victory. That was what he expected to see.

What he did not expect to see, was another banner flying above his.

This one was midnight blue with a white border. On the inside were 3 owls flying, wings looking majestic and trimmed with silver.

The standard of Clermont.

Now most of the men had seen it, and under-the-breath grumbling could be heard traveling backward down the line of men.

Varsus raised his hand for silence, and the men did so. Fury burned through him, washing away his fatigue in an instant.

As they approached the outer gate, Varsus could see that those guarding the gate were not his men, but instead wore the colors of Clermont.

The men did not try to bar his way. They merely opened the gate and stood aside.

Varsus did not acknowledge them as he entered. His face was frozen in what could only be described as surprised anger.

The company continued through the town, and Varsus saw many subdued people lining the streets. Some half-heartedly welcomed them back, but most stared at them, just as the people in the outer villages had earlier.

The light was fading. It would be time to light the torches soon, but Varsus thought there were still more people out on the streets than usual for this time of day.

The company rode in silence all the way to the inner gate of the keep. Again there were more Clermont guards manning the post, and again they made no move to stop him from entering.

As soon as the entire company had amassed at the gate Varsus turned and spoke.

“All you men,” he shouted at his company, “go now to your families or wherever else you would! Rest well and know you have served me, and the Crown well, and I honor you for it!”

The men shouted back multiple iterations of affirmative acknowledgement and began to disperse.

Master Multon sidled his horse close to Varsus.

“My lord, are you sure?” he hissed. “We may need these men still.” His eyes slid to the two guards in Clermont livery manning the gate.

Varsus stared at them too. Hard.

“No,” he said, “I think our friend the Earl will not let it come to that.”

Then Varsus urged his horse forward, and both he and Multon rode through the gate and toward the stables.

***

After they had left their horses with the stable master, Varsus and Multon stalked through the keep at whirlwind speeds.

As they moved through the castle, Varsus noted that his people, from the administrative functionaries down to the chambermaids were all gone.

He recognized none of the people he now saw performing those duties.

Anger growing with every step, Varsus finally reached the place where he knew he would find the man responsible for this.

As he reached the doors to his audience chamber, the two unfamiliar Clermont guards at the door moved to open it for him. Varsus did not allow them the chance, and moved between them to throw open the doors himself.

The heavy wooden doors slammed against the stone walls. Everyone inside the audience chamber spun to look when they heard the noise.

All except one man, who was sitting at the top of a modest dais in the large, high-backed chair that was usually reserved for Varsus himself.

Varsus stalked to the bottom of the stairs and locked eyes with the man now sitting in his place.

“Earl Ragenald”, Varsus said, through gritted teeth.

The Earl, dressed in elaborate dark blue finery with silver trimming, sat casually in the chair. He was easily twenty years the senior of Varsus, though not so old as Multon, who’s face was red and showing signs of impending explosion.

“Baron Varsus,” said the Earl, his tone mocking. “I was wondering if you would ever come back.”

Varsus ground his teeth, but did not reply.

***

Outside the gate to the inner keep, Barnaby was the last of the men to break away and depart.

He was young, one of the youngest in the company, and he had a full head of curly brown hair with no beard to go along with it.

Barnaby had always been a big kid, and grew up to be a big man, so he had volunteered himself to the service of the Baron in the year of his majority.

He had the task of stowing the large supply wagon that trailed the rest of the company. It was a task he hated, but as he was the low man in the company, it was his job, for now.

Before Wademount, he hadn’t hated the job, but all the way back, it had begun to grate on him. Why should he be stuck with this wagon when they could easily trade off between him and a few others?

It had made him so tired and weary, and yet there was a fire in him. Tonight he finally realized what it was.

Hatred.

He hated these people. His “comrades” disgusted him. Why was he fighting for nobles and royalty that he had never even met and who would not piss on him if he were on fire?

Then Baron Varsus gives them a couple of words of thanks and sends them off with nothing. Not gold, a meal, not even a drink!

Now he was left out here in the moonlight all by himself.

He heard the horse attached to the wagon wheezing again. The damned creature had one job to do, and all he heard day and night was constant wheezing. And it seemed no matter how much he fed the thing, it was just getting thinner and thinner.

“Quiet, Lunger,” he growled. Once he had loved this horse. He couldn’t remember the feeling of love, but only that he was sure he had loved it. Lunger had been a fine horse. Now it was just skin and bones.

Although he had caught sight of himself in a pond a few days back, and he was definitely losing some weight himself.

Barnaby detached the horse from the wagon, meaning to lead it to the stables, but as soon as he unhooked Lunger the horse tilted over and fell to the ground, dead.

Barnaby stared at the dead animal, feeling nothing. Feeling nothing but cold.

“That will change in awhile,” said a voice from behind him.

Barnaby spun to face the person speaking, and he realized immediately that it was not a person.

The thing that stood before him looked like a man, but one whose skin had gone far past pale to being gray with white mottled splotches.

It had dark black hair that somehow did not pick up any shine from the moonlight on it.

The thing wore a gray tunic with red trim and a high collar. Its breeches were flared at the bottom and tucked into a pair of gray boots with curled tips that pointed up toward the sky.

Barnaby moved closer. Somehow he felt like the thing wanted him closer.

Then he saw its eyes. Red eyes. Solid red. No white area, no pupil or iris, just red and softly glowing.

The thing was smiling, and Barnaby saw the enlarged fangs in its mouth.

He was not afraid. Suddenly, he knew what to do.

Barnaby dropped to his knees then doubled himself over until his forehead was touching the ground.

“Master,” he said.

The thing that was not a man was pleased.