The great hall of Wegend was a study in all he’d grown to expect from The Forest nobility. Carven pillars like spiraling vines or spreading trees. Wooden beams densely covered in etched hunting scenes and elaborate knotwork, while tapestries depicted the Baron's, or his ancestors', deeds and battle glories. Braziers and torches illuminated it all in a flickering light that set the shadows to dancing and brought the elaborate carvings to life.

  Baron Clovis sat rigidly in his high-backed chair at the head of it all. A man in his middle years with graying hair, his frame still ripe with the hardened oak-like muscles of a regular combatant.

  His welcome had been technically correct—the proper salutations, the ritual offering of hospitality. But underneath the ceremony lay a coldness that damn near froze the wine in Ethan's cup.

  “Baronet Ethan, sa-Baronetess Ermina. You honor my hall.” the Baron offered in a voice that spoke of neither honor nor happiness. Empty words.

  The servants heard it too, moving about as if on sheets of glass. Every movement overly careful and obviously uncomfortable. Nervously casting their eyes about. Confused, no doubt, at why The Forest's fabled hospitality had descended into this. It felt more like a funeral than a feast.

  Musicians played in the corner, their woodland pipes and harps producing melodies that fell as hollow as the Baron's words on Ethan's ears.

  “Your lands are prosperous.” Ermina offered diplomatically, when the silence began to grow over thick, gesturing toward the laden table. “The Forest provides!”

  “The Forest provides!” The surrounding dinners obediently echoed.

  "It does for those who understand its ways," Clovis added, cutting into the roast with skill and measured care. The portions were modest. Not insultingly so, but somewhat disproving Ermina’s words. Timber, herbs, and the occasional valuable mushroom provided wealth, but grain grew poorly if at all here. While herding livestock in the shadow of the mountain, and the near constant assault of monsters and beasts that came from it, was a constant challenge.

  For all of that, it was a well-prepared meal. The roasted venison was succulent, the fennar heavy with mushrooms and stewed to perfection. Under other circumstances, Ethan would have praised it. But the company quite spoiled the taste.

  “I trust your journey through our Forest has been enlightening?" Clovis continued, his pale eyes fixed on Ethan. “The Count, I understand, gave you leave to observe even his court at work.”

  And Ethan had been wondering how the Baron knew about young Adelbert. Well played Count. Well played.

  “Count Marcellus is a great man," Ethan replied easily. "Broad of mind and unwilling to play games with his hospitality. A true example of nobility.” Of course, after the hospitality ran its course, it was becoming something else entirely, but who needed to say that?

  “I’m glad you found him so.” The baron ground out. Shooting Ethan a cutting glance. “Though I’d hope you’d see the importance of making good connections. It can be a cold, dismal world for those who remain isolated.”

  Ethan nodded, a touch Lord. A touch indeed.

  The conversation limped along for a time. A bit of gossip about recent rifts and the state of trade. But little of it actionable and nothing of what Ethan had hoped for before Leo’s report.

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  No front-line reports of common Mountain beasts or local maps. He didn’t even bother to ask. What little Clovis did answer, he did with the proper manners, but little of any content. Nothing beyond the bare minimum courtesy demanded of one of his station to one of Ethan's.

  And as much as Ethan was beginning to hate this pale imitation of a man. He had to remind himself that he too was human. Born of the same variety of humors and biases as all men could be.

  When a servant overfilled his chalice, the wine dribbling over his hands and down to stain the table top, the servant froze white faced in terror. The count merely licked the wine from his fingers before flicking a common dismissal with his other hand. Shouting a casual reminder to come back with a rag to clean it up.

  For all his anger, he didn’t take his ill humor out on his own people.

  No, Ethan mused uncharitably, he took it out on Ethan!

  The evening crawled onward with all the grace and comfort of childbirth. When Clovis, at last rose and offered a benediction to the gods, closing out the dinner Ethan had to force down a sigh of relief.

  “May the gods give you what you deserve.” The Baron offered, grasping Ethan's forearm briefly as Ethan did the same in return. His hands as cold and hard as Iron.

  “And may what you give out return to you threefold.” Ethan offered. Saluting the man and thanking him for the meal as custom dictated. Before making his way from the hall.

  And if he did it with a trifle more haste then was common, why the Baron wasn’t complaining.

  In under 5 minutes, they were mounted and riding through the town green. The honest merriment going on around them was a balm, bringing warmth and a hope of defrosting to his very soul.

  “That was…” Ermina finally spat, her privacy skill subtly shifting the sights around them. “Awkward! Awful as well. I don’t think I’ve spent a more unpleasant evening! I’d say in years, but I believe ever. The thugs you saw off seem somehow the kinder for this night's memory.”

  Ethan snorted softly. Not hardly. But he could respect the feeling. At least that conflict had been over quickly. Not lingering on for a pair of hours.

  Still, he held his tongue; he’d not badmouth a man's hospitality from inside his fief. Not just for custom, but of practicality as well.

  They twisted their way through the usual walls of thorns and on towards the river. Walking their horses in the nearly non-existent light. A torch would merely ruin their night vision and with the moon overhead, they weren’t completely blind.

  Just close to it.

  Which made Ethan's guts twist up all the more fiercely as a low whistle broke through the quiet of the night from 10 o’clock on a sundial.

  Whoo-twoot.

  Ethan’s hand snapped down, drawing the spatha from its sheath beneath his leg and setting heels to the horses’ sides. Even as Guile and nine Lancers did the same.

  A high-pitched screaming cry of rage exploded from the darkness as small forms, perhaps chest high on a standing man scrambled to avoid the crushing feat of the charging horses.

  There wasn’t a great deal of momentum behind them, but at least they weren’t caught flat footed. Ethans sword licked down through a barely seen head even as the waspish flutter of a thrown pilum pinned another to ground.

  Swords rose and fell around them in a rush for a time, then it was still. Any of the little buggers left alive had long fled.

  Ethan carefully dropped from the saddle, bending down to get a better look, then nearly hurled the contents of his stomach at the wretched smell.

  He knew that smell. Didn’t even need to see. Goblins.

  Ethan stood up and grimaced. Counting shadows and sighing in relief when he reached eleven. They’d have to check the horses for any slight cut or scrape, a goblins blade would infect nine times out of ten, but they’d live to get that treatment.

  He turned back towards his horse when a shadow appeared in front of it, hands clasped together, offering him a boost. Ethan took it easily. If he wanted to make a point, he’d more than earned the right.

  “Thank you, Sir Leosige.”

  “Pleasure, Milord.” He offered, then the shadow seemed to come apart, dissipating into the surrounding gloom.

  Ethan moved his horse back to Ermina side, noting both the unsheathed poignard and the shaking hands that held it without comment.

  But inside. Oh, inside he made himself a promise.

  He’d return this favor someday.

  And with interest.

  ___