Dawn had not entirely arrived when Alter was gently shaken awake. The sky had only just begun its enlightening transformation. A distinct, almost pulsing smudge of orange sat squarely to the east, surrounded by a blooming selection of blues diving back into black as the last few stars desperately held onto visibility. A basin of warm water had been placed in the middle of the room, wisping trails of water vapour reaching upward, silhouetting his clothes that had been neatly arrayed for his convenience. Tabitha offered a quick, silent curtsey before slipping from the room to continue her duties as Alter prised himself from the warmth of the bed. Crossing to the basin, he quickly submerged his face in the floral-scented water and for a few brief seconds pondered the nature of existence. Existence existed, as did he. Lovely. Withdrawing his features, he groped for the small towel hanging from the basin’s side and subjected himself to its rough, thrashing embrace. Replacing the towel and opening his eyes he picked up a small mug of cold water and drained its contents in two long gulps. The mug clattered back onto the side of the basin as Alter entered the time-honoured battlefield of getting dressed, eyes blinking away the last vestiges of moisture still clinging to his eyelashes. Layer by layer he enrobed, pausing briefly to ponder the camouflage scheme they were locked into. By all accounts their destination was primarily woodland and grass prairie, unsuited to the tan, olive and dull orange their desert camo provided. However, they should still register as natural enough to an unwitting eye, the difference not so great as to be considered detrimental.

  Stepping out into the corridor, he could see that the bedroom doors for the other quarters were a mixture of open and closed. The faint smell of cooking tickled his nose as he descended the stairs, causing him to pivot into the dining room where three of his friends were already sitting. If there was joviality in the room, he could not see it. Not that there was any sense of despair or resentment, merely overwhelming tiredness and the looming pressure of purpose. The food was slightly different, rich and complex flavours traded for simple, travel-resistant stability. The men of the squad came and went, when Alter had finished his meal he too returned to his room, fishing the little key from its hiding place beneath the wardrobe and opening the secure footlocker. With hands on hips, he surveyed his assorted equipment. One of the benefits of travelling by horse was the potential for storage, although the prospect of keeping one or more valuable weapons out of his immediate reach was disconcerting. He’d figure it out once he could see what he was working with, for now he began the process of loading himself up normally. One by one, clink by clang, the men clattered their way down to the entrance hall where a bleary-eyed, yawning Winslow leaned heavily against the doorframe.

  “Are you all ready to depart?” He asked, his question punctuated by a wry eyebrow.

  Alter counted heads and confirmed that all were present and good to go.

  “Alright then, your mounts are waiting for you outside the city so we’ve got a bit of a walk ahead of us, hence waking you up a little earlier than expected.” Winslow explained.

  “Why the sudden change?” Riptide asked quickly as the men began filing out into the early morning air.

  “Security concerns. A newly hired stable hand we now believe is in the enemy’s pocket managed to put two and two together about yesterday's movements. Bastard tried to slip poison into the horses’ feed last night. We’re very lucky we caught him in time.” Winslow spoke casually, his voice barely audible over the crunch of boots on gravel.

  “I hope you break him.” A growling voice, likely Boats’, came from somewhere behind them.

  “Oh we will, count on that.” Winslow rumbled in response, his face briefly scrunching into a spiteful grimace.

  The sudden aggression of the conversation caused it to dwindle out, the men falling into silence as they marched past dark windows and shadow-strewn gardens. Exiting the estate they made their way to the same gate as yesterday. The streets were mostly empty and quiet, however a small number of locals were already up and moving and some early morning businesses were beginning operations. They arrived at the city gate with no ceremony, the heavy portcullis raised just enough for them to duck their way under. The quartet of guards on duty gave curious looks but hurriedly diverted their attention as Winslow fixed them with withering stares.

  By the time they reached the green of grass the sun was emerging over the horizon. The nearby hills and forests were bathed in golden light. The fields glistened with a thick layer of morning dew which, if you squinted hard enough, could be mistaken for a forest of freshly spun spiderwebs. Winslow led them away from the main road and towards a copse of mature trees standing defiant against the push of civilisation and agriculture. Movement could be seen amidst the huddled trunks, men and horses both being picked out by the dawn’s light. Upon sighting their approach, a cluster of men wearing the armour of the Houseguard emerged to greet them. Each one led a horse which Alter quickly identified as their chosen partners. They were fully saddled and harnessed, a sense of anticipation and an eagerness to get going showed in their body language. One of the men was dressed differently from the others, he stepped forward as the two parties met and Winslow beckoned him over.

  “Captain Alterfate, this is Hubert Farfield. He’ll be your liaison for the mission, as mentioned by Lord Masserlind I’m sure.”

  The man saluted smartly. “I’m ready to assist, Sir. I’ll keep the horses in top shape even if it kills me.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Alter regarded the man. He was younger than originally estimated, Alter would put him at the twenty mark and stood a half-head shorter than him. A short but thick tangle of black hair sat atop a freckled, boyish face. His body was thin but not weak looking, his clothes clearly designed for outdoor labour, complete with a belt strung with various unknown tools likely crafted for horse-based work. There was a short sword on one hip, and as the horse he was leading plodded up behind him Alter could see a hunting bow strapped to the saddle.

  “I’m sure you’ll do a fine job, Farfield.” Alter gave him a smile and a nod. He refused to call a man ‘Hubert’ on principle.

  Farfield broke into a youthful smile as he finished saluting and led his mount towards the road. Winslow and the squad watched him go.

  “He’s a good kid.” Winslow spoke with warmth. “Clever, and damn good at his job despite his appearance. You need not question his motives, he was one of Oliver’s childhood companions, the lad puts a hound’s loyalty to shame.”

  “Is he any good in a fight?” Whim asked.

  “He’s trained.” Winslow answered with a frown. “But not experienced. I would take it as a personal favour, Captain, if you could ensure the lad does not needlessly endanger his life.”

  “We’ll do our best to keep him out of the firing line.” Alter reassured the Sergeant before noticing a sudden detail. “Hold on, I only count seven more horses, we're one short.”

  “Ahh, you noticed. There was a slight change of plans. Come with me, the rest of you take your horses to the road and make yourselves ready.” Winslow ordered before setting off towards the trees.

  Curious looks were exchanged as Alter followed the man away from the group. As they plunged into the shadow of the canopy and away from listening ears, Winslow began to speak.

  “As a leader, there will always be a certain burden of expectation on you. A leader personally appointed by Lord Oliver himself doubly so. When a stranger on the road looks at you, sees you, they will instantly measure you against what they expect a leader to be. This is a problem. You are a Captain of a knightly order in all but name, but you do not look the part. Your bearing, your mannerisms, they’re too soft. Your men, too relaxed in your presence. Your equipment, while unique and terribly effective as I well know, appears simple. Ungarnished. Those who misunderstand you may call it cheap. Weak. We cannot have that.”

  “That’s fine, I like being underestimated.” Alter responded defensively but Winslow quickly cut him off.

  “It is not fine. You would sully your master’s reputation. Now, I cannot give you new weapons even if I wanted to. Nor can I dress you in emblazoned armour, it would only compromise your prowess. However, your horse is as much a part of your equipment as anything you carry. Not that I enjoy calling a living being ‘equipment’. Nevertheless, a Captain riding the same breed as the men behind him reflects badly on our Lord, and that is something we can fix.”

  The pair emerged into a small clearing where stood waiting was a middle-aged man tending to another horse. A much larger, much more imposing horse. Its coat was a mixture of dark brown and black, its heavily muscled body exuded sheer power. As its head turned to look at them Alter had to fight the urge to take a half-step backward. This was to be his mount? Surely he was not worthy.

  “How is she doing, Master Farfield?” Winslow asked.

  “Ready to get to work, she took to the scent on the saddle surprisingly well.” The man answered as he slowly turned around.

  He scrutinised Alter, jabbing his chin at him. “Is he the one?”

  “He is.” Winslow confirmed.

  “What a terrible joke.” The man muttered at a volume deliberately loud enough to be heard by all present.

  “Now, now, don’t be like that. Let’s just see what happens.” Winslow laughed gently.

  “Rrrgh, fine. You, take the reins.” The second Farfield held out the strapping for Alter to accept.

  Reasoning that to hesitate may well torpedo the whole situation, Alter stepped forward and claimed the offered reins. Farfield Two begrudgingly stood back as man and horse regarded each other. Alter was statuesque as he was watched, scrutinised, sniffed, licked, and nibbled a little. Having seemingly made some sort of decision, the horse let out a hefty snort and took a pair of eager steps.

  “Well I’ll be. Here I was expecting a shattered rib cage.” Farfield sounded stunned.

  “I told you.” Winslow chuckled, giving the man a hearty slap on the back. “I’ll meet you back on the road, Captain. I’m looking forward to seeing your men’s reactions.” He called out before heading back the way they came.

  “Alright then. Introductions. This is Tarikell, she is an eight year old Royal Ebony, originally brought here for the former Lord Masserlind. Her name comes from the old Bersk language meaning ‘The amount of force needed to guarantee victory’. Mount.” Farfield instructed.

  With a little difficulty Alter managed to climb onto Tarikell’s back, the man nodded.

  “She hasn’t immediately thrown you off. Good. On you go, and make sure to keep my boy safe. He’s got talent, unlike the other one.”

  Without another word he stalked off in the opposite direction, leaving Alter and his new horse alone.

  “Alright.” Alter murmured uncertainly before gently bringing Tarikell up to a trot.

  They emerged from the copse amidst a barrage of cheers and exclamations from the waiting men. Shrugging off the myriad questions and quips he moved to the head of the group and paused. With a wave to Winslow and a click of his tongue, Tarikell began to plunge down the road. The thunder of hooves filled Alter’s ears as the others rushed to catch up. After a few minutes the column settled into a more comfortable pace, and they disappeared into the vast woodlands of the world.