The entryway gave way to a large open landing where two curving staircases converged. Ennric had never seen the room's like. Palatial in scale, the house's decor reminded him of a hunting lodge. There were heads of trophy bucks and boars on the walls, and a chandelier composed of deer antlers hanging from a ceiling painted with both forest and pasture scenes. The subdued glow of its many candle flames glimmered off the polished dark woods of the stairs and the golden boar's heads that capped the ends of the banisters.

There were old shields and life-sized portraits decorating the paneled walls, symbols of nobility and heredity, each a treasure in its own right. But the one that truly caught his attention was the coat of arms hanging on the center wall between the two staircases: a shield split down the diagonal, one half green, the other blue, with a black, running boar prominent in the center, and above the boar, a soldier's helm cast in silver.

Ennric stared at the device of heraldry, knowing he was soon to be in the presence of nobility, and felt a wave of nervousness. Here he was, one old soldier acting as the representative for all of Moonfane Forge's interests. All of the protocol he'd tried to memorize about how to act and speak around the high born fled him on the spot. He'd not even shaved that morning, and he probably stank from sweating under the sun on his cart seat all day.

"Mendall, who are these people? Are they with the group milling about in the drive?"

"Ah! Lord Arnoald, sir. These people've arrived from Hold Moonfane. They say there's been an attack. They're on their way into the city to see the king, and they're needing permission to camp on the lands tonight."

The man now descending the stairs was not someone Ennric could imagine working outdoors or tracking dirt into a house. He was a lord in all ways. Tall and well-built, his face bore features that could be called both distinctive and handsome. His light brown eyes were large and stern. A wide jaw and cheekbones framed a prominent nose that was like a hawk's beak. His hair was feathery and blonde, just long enough to be slicked back and tied in a short tail. The man wore gleaming leather riding boots and fine black trousers. Hints of white lace peeked out at the collar and cuffs of his blue jacket, its buttons burnished gold. His posture spoke of habitual authority. At his hip was a rapier.

Yet, there were signs that perhaps this man was not just an idling noble, evidenced by his sun-darkened skin and the muscle that pressed out the sleeves of his jacket. He would at least know how to use the blade he wore, Ennric surmised. As he observed him, Ennric also recalled to himself who this was. Not only a noble, but Wenzl's older brother. Not all brothers looked alike, and the resemblance wasn't strong, but it was there—in the eyes, the ears, the hairline. Again, Ennric experienced a chill.

"Is that all?" said Lord Arnoald with a turning down of the corners of his thin lips. "Surely, you didn't need to troop them in here to take care of that?"

"Sir?" queried Mendall uncertainly.

"For spirits's sake, man. Next time just tell them to camp where they would, and come let me or Ulrika know." With a flick of his eyes in the direction of Ennric and Purcell, Arnoald added, "My apologies."

Ennric found he was bobbing his head in a nod, though he certainly couldn't see any reason why a high born man such as this had any need to apologize to him.

Mendall drew himself up, his tanned brow knit. "My lord, if you don't mind me saying, that's not how your father would do things."

Pausing on the bottommost step, which only served to accentuate his height, Lord Arnoald voiced an exaggerated sigh. "Mendall, go find something to busy yourself with."

Mendall shrugged, bowed, and said, "Sir." He then turned back for the entryway.

"Now," Arnoald continued, stepping off the last stair and approaching Ennric and Purcell, his riding boots clicking across the floor. "As long as you're here, I might as well hear what news you've brought from the north. And introductions are in order. Let's start with that. Who are you and what brings you here on your way to see the king?"

"I already mentioned, my lord, they've come from Hold Moonfane," Mendall broke back in, turning around and walking back over. "There've news of an attack, sir."

"Mendall," Arnoald spoke, putting a note of finality in his tone. Looking down his sharp nose at his servingman, he repeated, "I said go find something to busy yourself with."

Surrendering, Mendal bobbed a nod and issued a quiet, "Sir," before taking himself out of the room.

Lord Arnoald kept his silence until the man was out the double doors and had closed them behind himself. Ennric waited with apprehension for him to speak again. Or was he himself supposed to speak now?

The manor lord broke the tension by cracking a smile and quietly laughing. "Don't mind him. He's worked here since before I was born. Thinks he runs the entire property. So ..." He slapped Ennric heartily on the back, setting up a little cloud of dust. "I can see you've come a long way," he observed, clapping dust off his hands. "I'd be pleased to hear about what brings you to King's Hold. Follow me. We might as well be comfortable as we talk." He gestured with his hand at a door off the side of the grand entryway and then led the way through it.

Ennric allowed Purcell to go first and then followed. They found themselves in a lavish little hosting room. It looked to Ennric like the kind of room in which high born ladies would chat and have afternoon tea, with plastered walls bearing more paintings, and a cozy little fire hearth, presently swept out for the warm months. There were a number of high-backed, cushioned chairs and some little tables where refreshments might be placed. On a sideboard was a bottle of brandy and a set of crystal snifters. The lit candles on the mantle were hardly sufficient to light the room, though the painting above them was illuminated eerily by their glow.

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Lord Arnoald's boot steps were dampened by the room's thick rugs as he went to a chair and threw himself down in it with one leg over the armrest. "Have a seat," he said with a gesture at the other chairs. "As I'm sure you've gathered, I am Arnoald. I oversee Boar's Helm in my father's stead while he's in the city. Oh, and if it wasn't clear before, yes, you have my permission to pass the night on his property. Just be sure to tell your people that they may not hunt any of the game on these grounds. If you wish to purchase meat, you can see my butcher.

"Now that that's out of the way, tell me of your travels. And your names. It's been so long since we have had visitors from outside King's Hold, and news from the north has been few and far between. Mendall mentioned you arrived from Hold Moonfane, and that there had been an attack of some sort? Was this along the border? Would that not be something to take up with the heads of Moonfane Forge, rather than with our king?" On this last question, a hint of amusement crept into the manor lord's voice.

The deluge of information and questions gave Ennric pause. He wasn't even certain he was sitting in a polite enough fashion, let alone where to begin answering. He had not expected to be thrust into the presence of the nobility directly off the road. He felt completely unprepared and more than a little unworthy.

"Uh ... m-my lord," Ennric cleared his throat, trying to gather his thoughts. "I'm ... my name is Ennric. I am, uh, was a soldier in the Moonfane Forge garrison." Ennric paused and faltered. His throat felt so dry. How was one supposed to speak to a man like this? Soldiers were not meant to address nobles. Where did one even start? Say the wrong thing and their mission for aid would be over before it began. How was he to convey the gravity of what had happened to their town, that it was not some petty bandit raid along the border?

He wished he could pour himself a glass of the brandy to wet his throat and calm his nerves. Since entering the room, he had been unable to take his eyes off the painting above the mantle.

"It's not like that, sir," Purcell interjected. "That's where we came from, Moonfane Forge. The heads of town are—"

"Arnoald?" A woman's voice came from the entryway. In a moment, what Ennric took to be a serving lass poked her head into the room. Was she here to offer them refreshments? If not the brandy, he hoped at least for a glass of wine. Anything to help him confront this situation.

"Brother," the young woman said, striding into the room. "Did you know that there are Moonfane yaks in our stables?"

A look of perturbation passed over Lord Arnoald's face. "Moonfane yaks? Really?"

Hands on hips, the woman nodded. Ennric stared. If he'd not known better, by the way the woman was dressed, he'd have sworn she'd just come in from milking cows. She wore a dark kirtle fringed with dust, and a plain blouse. Her black hair was tied haphazardly back, revealing a subtle sheen of sweat before her ears. Yet, she had called the lord of the manor brother. Ennric's eyes went back to the painting above the mantle. No mistaking it, she was in the painting, along with the rest of her family. Then, this was Lady Ulrika. Wenzl's sister.

"Moonfane yaks. ..." Arnoald spoke measuredly now, his eyes settling on Purcell. "You say you're from Moonfane Forge itself?"

"Yes, sir. Our town was attacked," Purcell said breathlessly, taking the initiative and stepping in for Ennric in his paralyzed state. "An entire army came down on us and burned half the town to the foundations. Most of the guard and garrison were killed or injured. The heads of town, too. We've come to petition the king for help."

Lord Arnoald's countenance became grave. Likewise, his sister's face went pale.

"How?" Lady Ulrika asked. "Moonfane Forge is protected by magic. It's one of the safest cities in the kingdom."

Ennric felt Purcell's eyes on him. When he could not bring himself to speak, she went on. "It's hard to explain, ma'am, but before the attack, they concocted a ploy to get our mage to dispel the town Barrier. We were taken by surprise. The town is in ruin. We need coin, workers, reinforcements from the royal garrison, if they can be spared."

The room felt much too warm to Ennric. He looked at the painting above the mantle—a family portrait. Father and mother, and four children. Three boys and a girl. The youngest boy in the painting, probably no older than thirteen when it was painted, still looked much the same as he had the final time Ennric had seen him. Wenzl. Wenzl, posing in his noble clothes with his siblings in the painting. Wenzl, cold and dead in Ennric's arms, the flames of the fires reflecting in the pool of his blood on the cobbles.

As that painful vision reared its ugly head once more in Ennric's thoughts, Lady Ulrika spoke his name. "Wenzl." Worry, distress, inquiry, all in that single word.

Lord Arnoald sat forward in his chair, a kind of desperation in his eyes. "Our brother, Wenzl, is assigned to the Moonfane Forge garrison. Do either of you know of him? Is he alive? Is he amongst your party? No. How could he be? He would have been in here to greet us by now."

"I don't know of him," Purcell said hesitantly. "I was a guardswoman. Ennric here was in the garrison."

All eyes turned to Ennric. He swallowed, but his throat was ash and dust. "I ..." Get it over with and tell them, old man. It's your duty, after all. They need to know. They need to hear it. He took a breath. "I ... I don't know." The words came tumbling out of their own accord and Ennric discovered he was powerless to stop the flow of cowardice. "It was chaotic in the aftermath, sir, determining who survived and ... and who didn't. There were soldiers who made it, albeit injured. But ... I don't know the numbers, or who exactly had not yet been accounted for. I ... I don't know."

Why had he said that? Why could he not just tell them? Did he fear it would jeopardize their goodwill? Surely, the lord and lady of the manor could see right through him. He sat with his fingers clasped between his knees, eyes on the floor, waiting for them to divine the truth. Above the mantle, the faces in the painting cast their judgement down on him.

Arnoald said, "Then I pray to all spirits he's amongst the survivors. We need to send help there right away," he declared to his sister. Nodding her agreement, she swept from the room. Arnoald stood up. "Take comfort, friends, you've arrived at the right place to receive the aid you need. While I cannot guarantee an audience with the king, I can get you a meeting with my father, Lord Widald. He is an advisor and close confidant of King Caiside and can certainly pull some strings. I'll send out a rider this very night with a note to my father telling him to expect us. Tomorrow morning, you two shall accompany Ulrika and I to the city to see him.

"In the meantime, my sister will muster what of Boar's Helm's resources we can send up north. Take heart. Moonfane Forge has Boar's Helm's support. And if I can do anything to influence it, it will have the king's support, as well. As for tonight, you and your people will have rooms here. Anything you need. Rest, recuperate, and be ready to leave for the city at first light."

Ennric stood, saying woodenly, "That's most gracious of you, my lord. We, Moonfane Forge, are in your debt." But what he felt was not a sense of relief at his quest being on the cusp of success, but a deep foreboding, the cause of which he could not put his finger on.

He didn't perceive Lord Arnoald opening the bottle of brandy and pouring three glasses, until one of them was pressed into Ennric's hand. Numbly, he held up the snifter of amber liquor, and caught the look of determination in Lord Arnoald's eyes as he clinked his glass against Ennric's. The crystal chimed like a bell.