The carriage shook gently as the well-dressed man climbed aboard. Two of the knights mounted the driver’s bench while the other two climbed onto a narrow shelf running along its back. The horses were soon encouraged into motion, the animals settling into a slow, stately pace away from the building. As the carriage passed them, the soldiers in yellow trim fell into step behind and alongside it. By the time it pulled out of the estate and disappeared from view, more than two thirds of the assembled personnel vanished with it. Those that remained kept their stiff to-attention postures until contact was broken before finally relaxing their shoulders and necks. It would appear that there had been an invisible competition afoot between the two groups on who could endure the most discomfort, with no clear winner crowned at match’s end.

  “The way I see it.” Riptide began as they watched the regular garrison disperse. “If that was indeed the uncle, his being here means one of two things. Either we’ve done enough damage to his operation that he’s been forced to take direct control. Or things are going so well for him that he can afford to come and gloat.”

  “Or, he’s a pretentious prick that thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants.” Whim snorted.

  “Or that.” Riptide conceded unhappily, giving the man a sour look.

  There seemed little sense in continuing the discussion, so Alter directed Tarikell to continue their progress towards the stables, with the others silently falling in behind. They were strangers to the stablehands on duty, but their horses weren’t. With practised quickness, the staff took control of their mounts, beginning the process of unsaddling and handing the bags over to the relevant squad member. A number of confused looks and questioning glances were given. Alter felt the sting of the sore fact that they were one man short, but held his tongue. It would be up to Oliver how that particular news item was broken, or the notably absent Farfield Sr. He absentmindedly buried his face in Tarikell's shoulder, the horse turning to take one last nibble of his backpack before being led away.

  The walk back to Osprey Hall was also made in silence, as they passed through the trees and the building came into view, the front doors opened. Morgan stepped through and took her customary position just off to their right, bowing softly and offering them the slightest of smiles. A gesture which they had come to realise was the happiest she seemed capable of giving. As ever, the questions of how on earth she knew to expect them at that moment could be asked. But at this point none of them cared to enquire.

  “Welcome back, Sirs. Your rooms have been prepared for your arrival.” She greeted them.

  “Thank you, Morgan. We have not yet informed Lord Oliver of our return, could you send a message to the main house?” Alter asked as they moved past her and into the building.

  “A servant has already been dispatched. Would you like me to call a doctor for your associate?” She asked upon spotting the bandages around the uncomfortable looking Vangroover’s neck.

  Alter looked across to Boozehound who nodded. “A second opinion is always appreciated, thank you.” He responded thoughtfully.

  Morgan bowed again and peeled away from the group, disappearing through one of the many doors they’d never thought to investigate. The Hall, much like Morgan, was surprisingly prepared. Open windows and doorways through the building allowed a clean and pleasant breeze to flow throughout. The long white fabric curtains gently billowing like wedding dresses amidst bouquets of freshly picked flowers in ornate vases set between them. From the dining area, the customary smell of cooking wafted a mouth-watering promise. But that was for later, as each man sought the comfort of their own rooms to de-kit and unwind.

  Alter had barely had enough time to dump his weaponry in the chest, strip himself of his other gear, and sink into one of the comfier chairs before there was a polite but firm knocking on the door. Having been given permission to enter, Morgan stuck her head through the door, informing him that Oliver and Winslow would be arriving shortly and to ready the briefing room. Suddenly, the soft, warm confines of the chair became an inescapable prison, one in which he was more than happy to remain incarcerated within. But his newly founded rebellion would be short lived, as the quiet sound of Morgan knocking on other doors stirred his reluctant sense of responsibility. Like a sunken being dragged back to the surface, Alter struggled from his upholstered throne and made a snail-like march towards the upcoming meeting.

  The various squad members filed into the briefing room, carrying with them the various items they had gathered as evidence through their travels. Two were missing though, Boozehound had insisted that Vangroover head straight to bed, electing to remain as the estate’s doctor examined his neck. They still had a couple of minutes to twiddle their thumbs, attempts at small talk fell flat as the feeling of being back at school, ten minutes before the big final exam took over. Eventually, loud footsteps heralded the Lord’s arrival, as Oliver strode into the room with Winslow in tow. The squad members collectively winced, the boss was already in a bad mood. Alter noted the bags and dark stains around Oliver’s eyes, and the way his hands tighten into fists as he rested them on the table. Winslow offered them a silent greeting, accompanied by a gesture that conveyed pity and apology.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I’m glad to see you all. But I cannot help but notice some missing faces?” Oliver began, his ashen face a picture of frustration and concern in equal measure.

  “One of my squad members was wounded during the operation. He’s downstairs receiving treatment from my medic now that we’re off the road.”

  “That’s a relief. I was worried I’d lost some of you.” Oliver breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Technically you did, Sir.” Riptide reported quietly, awkwardly shuffling on the balls of his feet.

  “What do you mean?” Oliver snapped after his moment of relief was abruptly shattered.

  “Farfield didn’t make it.” Alter answered simply, his desire to cushion the blow failing to produce the necessary words so blunt honesty took the helm.

  The expected silence was crushing, a pressure radiated from Oliver that was like being trapped in deep water. With the speed of a volcano rising from a tropical sea, Oliver’s eyes scraped across the table to eventually fix Alter with a deathly stare.

  “What. Happened?” His voice was low, forced through an ungodly tight larynx. Fire danced in his eyes as his otherworldly powers threatened to breach containment to visit horrific vengeance upon him.

  “We encountered a hostile Soul Kindler, Sir.” Alter began, and with the support of his comrades launched into the story of their expedition.

  Oliver’s demeanour didn’t exactly soften as they spoke, but he did look a lot less like he was about to commit several murders as he took in the information. They spoke of the pursuit, and how they intercepted the wagons carrying the stolen uniforms within the forest. Of the surrender of the wagoneers and their brief imprisonment in Kingspool. Winslow interjected to confirm that a man that matched their description had indeed been transferred to their custody. The recounting continued, reaching the events at the hidden camp. Oliver and Winslow listened intently to the story of battle. Eyebrows raising and mouths opening at the details of what had transpired. Finishing with Farfield’s unfortunate fate, and the disposal of the weaponry, silence regained its foothold upon the scene. It was a solid forty seconds before Oliver spoke again.

  “That’s … I see.” He murmured. “I’ll have to inform his father, what a sorry task.” His voice tailed off as he lost himself within his thoughts.

  “Tell me more about this Kindler. You believe he was Sirrithae marked?” Winslow picked up the discussion.

  “We believe so, from the colouration of his abilities. His uniform was devoid of any particular markings, but it was noticeably well made compared to those around him. He was also armed with this, perhaps it could render a clue as to his identity?” Alter answered, placing the jewelled rapier on the table and sliding it over.

  Winslow picked up the weapon with a practised eye and a quiet hum. “Any distinctive features on the man?” He asked as he examined.

  “Nothing of note, we only ever engaged each other at a distance. Then the killing shot blew half the man’s skull off, there wasn’t much to identify after that.”

  “Mmhmm. This is a quality blade, expensive as you can probably tell. There aren’t many individuals around here that could afford something like this. Fewer still with the ego to bring it on what was supposed to be a covert campaign. Does anyone spring to mind, my lord?”

  Oliver emerged from his self-imposed mental exile with a frown. “Sir Dreswin? He could fit the description. Did the man laugh a lot during the fight?”

  Alter shrugged. “We didn’t get close enough to hear anything.”

  “Well, it’s nothing a proper investigation can’t dig up. Did you find anything else?”

  “These.” Riptide nodded, produced the encoded documents they found under the mattress.

  The two men gazed at the letters with fascination and a growing sense of smug triumph. Oliver nodded to himself as he leafed through the strange maze-like pages of mutated characters, odd lines and cryptic diagrams.

  “This, my friends, is most certainly crackable. It’s been a while since I studied these codes, but I know someone who’ll have this translated within the next couple of days. If my hunch is correct, this paper alone is worth all the hardships you’ve been through.” Oliver gave them a predatory grin.

  “So, things are looking up then?” Whim asked hopefully.

  Oliver’s expression retreated to a more measured, sober appearance at the question. “Not exactly. But we’ve opened some avenues for retaliation of late.”

  “We saw that the migrant camp was looking better as we came in. The people were praising your name quite highly.” Pavejack added with a smile.

  Oliver didn’t respond immediately, instead he turned to face the windows, hands that had relaxed slowly balling back into fists. When he spoke, it was with a voice from the dead of winter, tired and resigned.

  “No. They do not. They sing my uncle’s praises.” He growled.

  The squad looked at each other as Pavejack bit his cheek and turned red.

  “There was a significant food supply being distributed. Was that him?” Riptide asked.

  “Yes.” Oliver turned back to them. “He is accelerating his plans. It shall be up to us to match the pace, with you at their centre.” The statement was soaked with the comfort of a leader’s confidence.

  Alter smiled “When do we start?”

  Oliver returned the gesture. “We’ve already started.”