[Mkguild] Gauging Loyalty (1/3)

[C. Matthias]

Man it's been too long since I finished a new 
Metamor Keep story.  This one isn't quite "next" 
in my list of stories, but the one I'd started 
work on in the beginning of the year got bogged 
down and I just could not get it to move, so I 
went to this one instead.  Big thanks to Chris 
Okane for the help with George and Sir Nestorius.

Metamor Keep: Gauging Loyalty
By Charles Matthias


July 13, 708 CR


Though the hour was late, the sun hung low in the 
southwestern sky dangled above the white-capped 
peaks of mountains. Nearing but not yet touching. 
Thick masses of bright clouds obscured the 
eastern and northern skies, but to the west and 
south the evening sun reigned. A warm breeze 
pressed from the south, stirring the pines, fir, 
and cedar, leaving a sweet scent in the air. The 
creak of branches was lost amid the crunching of 
horse hooves and the clatter of wagon wheels on 
the hard-packed road, even to ears as sensitive as a jackal's.

George had spent portions of the long ride from 
Metamor to Hareford half-dozing in his saddle, 
but as they neared their destination he was alert 
and observing all with keen eye, raised ears, and 
long breaths. The small company of soldiers were 
also alert, though in the warm glow of a Summer's 
day, and with other patrols and soldiers moving 
along the roads and in the surrounding fields, 
they relaxed too. Hands and paws normally ready 
to grip swords and spears were scratching at fur 
or straightening armor. Eyes accustomed to glance 
from side to side were focused on the small castle ahead.

The craftsmen with their wagons were paying no 
attention at all except to their tools. George 
wished he'd thought to send a message to have the 
soldiers of Hareford ambush them just to teach 
the recruits never to let their guard down. But 
he could not fault them for feeling safe. They 
would have opportunity aplenty in Hareford for learning how to be a soldier.

Their company left the villages of Aglador and 
Caoraigh behind them as they ascended the gentle 
slope of a wide hill. The castle of Hareford with 
its thick walls and squat towers had an 
uninterrupted view of the land in every 
direction, stopped only by the mountains to the 
north and west, and the thick forest to the east. 
The road branched around to both west and east, 
with the western branch leading through the 
village of Tuskmore and its apple orchards, 
fields for grazing sheep, and then the barren 
crater filling with grass and new pines before 
the old northwestern passage in the mountains. 
The eastern branch led to the eastern gate of 
Hareford, and a road vanishing into the trees on 
its way toward Eagle Tower, the northernmost defense of Metamor.

George and his company remained on the main road 
through the southern gate. The town gates were 
open with a dozen soldiers standing guard on the 
bridge over the moat. With Summer in full bloom 
so too the moat bloomed with algae beds 
stretching like thrown carpets. Where the water 
was clear he could see gnats and flies dancing 
over the surface until they were snatched from beneath by puckered fish.

The lead soldier at the gate, a black-furred 
goat, waved to the jackal as his horse set hoof 
to the wooden bridge. “Well met, Patrol master. 
Sir Nestorius told us to expect you. We will see 
to your horses, but the wagons will need to remain outside.”

“I know your streets are narrow, but is there no space in the square?”

The goat shook his head, making the beads he'd 
braided into his goatee clack. “I'm afraid not. 
Merchants from Starven beat you to it.”

George, in the middle of dismounting, lifted ears 
and even tail higher. “Starven?” He dropped to 
the bridge, toe claws spread to grip the wood. “What have they to trade?”

“Furs and salted fish and meats mostly.” The goat 
stuck out his tongue in obvious distaste. “But 
there's quite a few more of them than we're used to seeing here.”

“A good sign,” another soldier offered, this one 
a man still growing. “It means the lands north of 
Metamor are safe for travelers.”

“Safer,” George corrected. “They've never been safe.”

The goat bleated, even as eight of his soldiers 
moved to help with both horses and the wagons. 
The craftsmen remained on the road sorting their 
tools content to wait outside. George turned to 
the soldiers with him and said, “Dismount and 
stay here by the gate with the craftsmen until 
you're sent for. I must first speak with the master of Hareford.”


There were few wide streets in Hareford, and 
these only those nearest the two working city 
gates and those connecting the castle courtyard 
to the castle itself. Between the gates and the 
courtyard the homes, small already, had been 
built so tightly together only three or four 
paces of hard-packed dirt and stone remained 
between them for men to navigate. Horses refused 
to venture into the tight confines of half the 
alleys so tended to be kept in stables near the 
city gates. Wagons transporting goods from the 
rest of the valley often did not even fit through 
the gates and had to be transferred to small 
hand-drawn carts on entrance to the city.

Hareford was cold, remote and packed tighter than 
a pack of sleeping dogs. Little wonder then so 
many soldiers assigned there could not endure more than a season or two.

George liked the city with its sturdy walls, maze 
of narrow passages, battle-worn and hearty 
people. No other place in all of Metamor was as 
remote. It perched on the edge of the Midlands, 
dangled above the mouth of the Giantdowns as a 
sentinel against a raging sea. Would his duty 
allow it, he too would enjoy a few seasons at Hareford. Probably more.

To reach the castle doors he was forced to 
squeeze past the fur merchants from those wild 
lands. Some had carts laden with pelts of moose, 
wolf, bear, and oddities even his nose did not 
recognize, while the others were all hawking 
salted fish and meats as the gatekeeper promised. 
George's stomach rumbled as the tight streets and 
crowd gathered to buy pressed him close enough to 
touch each delectable morsel.

George knew the hospitality of Hareford's master awaited him and so pressed on.

Waiting for him at the castle doors were a pair 
of familiar faces. A blonde-haired woman in 
chainmail, her frame stout despite the Curse, 
stood with hands folded and thumbs tapping as she 
scanned the streets for his arrival. Beside her 
stood an eagle dressed only in a loincloth and 
quiver; wing claws grasped a large bow. His eyes found the jackal first.

“Ho, George! What brings you to Hareford!”

George barked a laugh and waved with one paw as 
he walked toward them. “Marcus! Marcia! It is 
good to see you both again. I'm here with some 
supplies and the craftsmen Sir Dupré requested.”

Marcus the eagle tilted his head skeptically. 
“Aye, because you are the natural errand boy of 
Metamor. Why are you really here?”

George flashed a fang-filled grin and gestured at 
the door. “Why don't we all meet with the master 
of Hareford and discuss such things. Is Sir Nestorius in?”

“Aye, and Sir Dupré is out west on patrol,” 
Marcia replied, casting her brother an irate 
look. “Come along. He's already prepared a room for you.”

George followed the Caruslo siblings into the 
castle which had halls nearly as narrow as the 
streets. “So, merchants from Starven, eh? Been a few years hasn't it?”

“We always see one or two during the Summer, 
except last year. Things must be really quiet to 
the north to see as many as we have.”

“My patrols have been seeing less Lutin and 
bandit activity in the north. Haven't yours?”

Marcus squawked, tail feathers spreading a moment 
before settling down. “The same. It is heartening and disturbing.”

“How so?”

“We all long for peace, George. We're soldiers 
but you need years of peace to rebuild defenses. 
But we need the smaller fights to test us for the 
larger ones. We've not been having as many 
smaller battles and I fear it weakens our men. 
Sir Dupré is working the soldiers hard and I've 
tried to do for my patrolmen some of what he has 
done to keep the soldiers ready, but without 
Lutins or bandits to show us real combat, there's only so much we can do.”

“And,” Marcia added, “if we have years of peace, 
it makes it harder to rebuild our defenses. The 
money and men go elsewhere because we forget the 
danger our borders and the enemies beyond them pose.”

George nodded at each point and then stretched 
his back. “True, true. You never know the good 
soldiers from the bad until they're in a real 
battle. But Metamor herself has been attacked 
from the north twice in ten years; we are not 
likely to forget it any time soon. It's part of 
why I'm here and why the craftsmen are here. 
Building a new wall over the Giant's Dike! What a 
marvelous and ambitious idea! I take it then Sir 
Dupré is doing everything he can for Hareford?”

Marcus nodded. “He's as stubborn and headstrong 
as the ram the Curse made him, but put him in 
front of soldiers or in the field and you 
couldn't ask for a better commander. We've had no 
issue working together these last six months, and 
I look forward to the next six months.”

“He chafes under commands he does not like,” 
Marcia added, “but he does follow them. He is 
very direct and will let you know why he thinks 
what he thinks, which I appreciate in him. He 
does prefer to keep the company of the soldiers 
who came with him, but I know it is only because 
he was exiled here. There's a few of the soldiers 
and scouts he's taken a liking to; do you want to know who?”

George shook his head. “Hopefully not. I like 
William and trust him. But if any here wishes to 
tell me what they think of him I will listen.”

Marcus squawked again but said nothing more as 
they climbed a narrow set of stairs. Beyond was a 
small passage and the black-furred lion mage's 
study where he liked to receive visitors and 
conduct Hareford's business. Marcia knocked on 
the door and a deep booming voice called from the other side, “Come in!”

Marcia stepped through, and George followed 
after. Marcus closed the door behind them. The 
room beyond was warmly lit by sunlight through 
southern facing windows and lanterns filled with 
witchlights. A hearth at the far end crackled 
with fire. The northern wall of the room was 
dominated by a massive bookshelf at which stood 
the master of Hareford. Nestorius was dressed in 
a scarlet tunic and breeches with no other 
adornment, but against the black of his fur the 
fabric appeared to shift forward and back as if 
illusion. The effect made George blink a few 
times before he realized it was all a trick of the eyes.

Nestorius swept one arm wide half-turning toward 
him as his other arm snapped closed the book he'd 
been reading. “Patrol Master George, welcome to 
Hareford! And good evening to you. I trust you 
had an easy journey from Metamor?”

George inclined his head to his host and rapped 
his fist on his chest. “Sir Nestorius. The 
journey was easy if tiring. My hips and back are 
reminding me my years of spending days in the saddle are behind me.”

The lion nodded sagely. “True, true, time does 
touch us all. Come, sit. I have had a repast 
prepared for you. Marcia, Marcus, please stay for 
whatever George has to report will be of interest to you as well.”

The main table in his study had already been 
arranged with a covered platter. This Nestorius 
lifted to reveal thin cuts of salted meat, 
potato, and fresh baked bread. The scent made 
George pant despite himself and he did not 
hesitate in taking the offered seat next to the 
lion's own. Nestorius opened a cabinet next to 
the bookcase and retrieved four goblets and a bottle of wine.

After pouring the wine, Nestorius also sat and 
said a Sathmoran blessing over the food. George 
waited for him to finish and then plucked a small 
chunk of meat with his fingers. Both salt and 
meat were fresh and it had been cooked just 
enough to make it chewy with juicy center. Good for both humans and carnivores.

“How is Amelia?” George asked after licking the sauce from his claws.

Nestorius's face stretched in a satisfied smile. 
“Ah, you passed my wife on your way here. She's 
in Aglador seeing to our first harvest of 
strawberries. I fear some time ago I mentioned 
missing them and she made it her mission to grow 
them here. Last Summer she managed to find a 
merchant selling them. The soil and sun are 
better in Aglador, and so after preparing the 
beds she planted them. The local farmers provided 
tools, manure and water and have watched over 
them since. She should return in a few days with her first bushel.”

George wagged his tail. “Now I wish to stay in 
Hareford a few extra days! I'm sure Copernicus 
can manage the scouts if I am delayed.”

Marcus and Marcia both laughed, while Nestorius 
almost purred his delight. “If you do, I shall 
certainly save one or two strawberries for you.”

“One or two?”

Nestorius's purring grew louder. “Three then.”

George chortled and shook his head as he reached for another bite of meat.

“So, how are things in Metamor these days? I hear 
the Summer Festival was a success.”

“Quite. I missed most of it managing patrol 
routes and making sure the merchants got out 
safely. Brigands are always a challenge in the 
south and this year no less than before. They're 
even worse beyond the valley thanks to all of the 
unrest in the Midlands. But there were only a few 
fools who got themselves cursed this year and 
only a few others who got themselves killed in 
the games, so I consider it a successful festival.”

Marcia lifted a hunk of potato between her 
fingers, eyes on the jackal. “I hear the crowds 
were larger this year than last.”

George nodded as he turned over another piece of 
meat between his claws. “Aye. Some were the 
Bradanes refugees settling in, others were 
curious merchants eager to see Duke Thomas's new 
wife. Apparently she wanted to participate in the 
joust but Thomas and Thalberg talked her out of it.”

Marcus almost choked with laughter, while Marcia 
and Nestorius both smiled. “From what little I 
know of her it does not surprise me.”

“And how are things in Hareford?”

“Well enough. The Spring rains and snow melt were 
ideal for a good crop season even if the warm 
Summer airs arrived a week late. Patrols have 
been quiet. A few skirmishes here and there up 
north, but the Lutin tribes usually push even 
further north this time of year. This year is no 
different. Truly the most excitement is being 
generated by our military commander in his quest 
to improve our defenses. I understand you have 
brought the craftsmen he sought?”

George nodded and licked his chops. The meat was 
delicious and before he even paused to answer the 
lion he snatched another morsel. “I have. And a 
detachment of soldiers whose job is to protect 
them. I suspect they'll be living and sleeping in 
the forests and hills where their work is. At 
least if we understood Sir Dupré's request aright.”

Nestorius sipped his wine and nodded. “He's been 
busy with marking up a road to Eagle Tower since 
March. They've removed perhaps half of the trees 
he wants cut down for his road. I made sure he 
kept well clear of the Haunted Woods with his 
surveying. By harvest time he should have the 
road complete, especially if you've sent him the 
men he wants. If they need to quarry for rock, 
there are a few good places we can show them where it's safe.”

“I leave those details to you, of course.” George 
washed the meat down with a drought of wine. The 
flavor was rich and he felt the tang of the sea 
in its bite. “Excellent vintage, Nestorius! You do know how to treat guests!”

The lion was chewing his own morsel so only 
nodded at the compliment. George continued, 
“Sadly, the craftsmen cannot be spared for as 
long as Sir Dupré wants them. They can stay until 
harvest to assist with construction of the road 
and make repairs to the fortifications. 
Rebuilding the Giant's Dike will take years to accomplish. Decades perhaps.”

“Have you come to see so for yourself?” Marcus 
asked. The eagle must have eaten already because 
after a few bites for politeness sake he declined any more of the meat.

George shrugged as he reached for a hunk of 
potato. “I would like Sir Dupré to show me the 
site and his plans. I know he must have convinced 
each of you of their wisdom for you to send his request for me on to Metamor.”

“I wasn't certain at first,” Nestorius admitted. 
“But he laid it out clearly and even drew his own 
schematics for its defenses. If Metamor has the 
will for it then it will help deter future 
incursions from the north without jeopardizing 
trade.” He swept his hand across the platter and 
George knew the meat had been purchased from the 
Starven merchants. “If not, then nothing will 
come of it. There seemed no harm in asking.”

“None at all. In fact, Duke Thomas is quite 
interested in the idea. Hence why I'm here. Our 
noble Horse Lord wants me to make an appraisal of 
Sir Dupré's idea first-hand. I'm sure Misha who 
has crossed the Dike many times will also want to see them.”

“Where is the Master of the Long Scouts?” Marcia 
asked. “You are right, I would have expected to see him come with you.”

“He and Madog are away for a few weeks doing 
whatever it is they do with automaton magic. I'm 
sure he'll tell me all about it when he gets back 
and I'll understand none of it.”

Nestorius nodded, voice sage and for a moment 
distant. “Our Black Axe is learning he has more 
skills than he imagined. Madog has opened a door 
in his soul; it cannot be shut again.”

George stuffed a piece of meat between his teeth 
to keep from making a sarcastic comment. When he 
finished chewing he said, “So I need to speak 
with Sir Dupré and have him guide me around the 
Dike. I understand he's on patrol west of 
Truskmore. When is he expected to return?”

Marcus tilted his head to one side. Golden avian 
eyes fixed on the jackal. “He left this morning 
so he will be gone for at least a few days more.”

“Then I suppose I shall ride out to Truskmore to 
join him. Will there be time tonight before the sun sets?”

The eagle and the woman exchanged quick glances 
before nodding. “If you hurry. But you'll need 
help finding him.” He turned toward the black 
lion and stood taller upon his perch. “Sir, with 
your leave, I'd like to help guide him to our commander.”

Nestorius wiped his jowls with the back of one 
paw and nodded. “Of course. Marcus, Marcia, go 
and prepare. George, remain here with me a few minutes more.”

The Caruslo siblings excused themselves from the 
table. Once the door was shut again, George took 
another piece of meat between his claws. “What do 
you wish to tell me you did not want to say in 
front of your must trusted friends?”

“They already know, but since you are intent on 
joining Dupré in the field, I thought there was 
something you should hear first before you left. 
Had you decided to stay the night here you would 
have learned anyway, so please do not believe I 
am trying to be crafty or some such. No 
legerdemain, merely no more time to say it.”

Nestorius folded his paws on the table and his 
shoulders sagged from some invisible weight. “As 
you may know, when the Bishop visited, he brought 
a letter for Sir William coming from his eldest son.”

“I believe his name is Jory. The one Verdane is 
holding in Kelewair as an alternate heir if he 
cannot rescue his hostage son. What a mess.”

“Aye, Jory. William does not like speaking of his 
family and so far has not accepted my offer to 
contact them magically. I do not care what the 
bat thinks of it; he is an exile and I know how 
painful it is. But yesterday, among other 
dispatches throughout the valley, a second letter 
arrived. He did not tell me what was in it, but 
he decided to go on patrol moments after he read 
it. I do not think him capable of treachery, 
George. I do not believe he is doing anything 
untoward. I only tell you this because I do not 
believe he will welcome your surprise visit.”

George ate another piece of meat and shrugged. 
“Ah, but we're old friends, rivals, something of 
the sort. Perhaps I'm just what he needs. And 
even if not I'm going anyway. Thank you for 
telling me, Nest. At least about this I won't be 
surprised.” He tapped the platter and lifted his 
goblet, “And thank you for this. Quite excellent!”

Nestorius smiled, posture once more relaxed. “You 
are welcome, George. Have you had enough? Is 
there anything I can provide for you before you set off again?”

George downed the last of the wine, stood, and 
put a paw to his still sore back. “A new spine if you can spare one.”

----------

The road west of Truskmore led through dense 
forests and a grassland crater upward into the 
foothills of the Dragon mountains. At the end of 
the long road stood the Gateway, a narrow passage 
through the cliffs toward a large meadow and the 
site of a long abandoned signal tower. Among the 
many plans Sir William Dupré had for Hareford was 
the restoration of this tower, and the regular 
patrol of the alpine road. Perhaps in time a 
village could even grow in those remote regions, 
but for now only graced by the hooves and paws of 
wild beasts and the occasional scout of Hareford or the Glen.

Tomorrow they would enter the Gateway and survey 
the land for a week. They could have reached the 
pass in a single day from Hareford with ease, but 
he wanted to do a thorough patrol of the lands 
west of Truskmore first. While there was far less 
danger here than to the north or east of 
Hareford, these were still lands it was his duty 
to protect and he could ill do so without knowing them.

Most of the year they were quiet too, but with 
Summer in full bloom William had been surprised 
to discover a stream of traders between Lake 
Barnhardt, Glen Avery, and Hareford's villages 
using the western road. It was thickest during 
the middle of the day, and so they stayed near 
the junction where the road forked between the 
Glen and the Gateway. As evening pressed they 
moved north through the forests until they 
thinned to more grass with stands of pine where 
the soil bore into clefts in the rock. By the 
time the sun pressed against the teeth of the 
Dragon mountains at the south end of the Valley 
they pitched their tents for the night.

The warm air flowing up from the south cooled as 
it climbed the mountain side. Not far above them 
clouds began to collect and he knew by morning 
they'd be covered in a blanket of dew if not 
enclosed in a thick fog. But for now they could 
see out across the forests toward both Hareford 
and the Glen. In the far distance he was certain 
he could even see Metamor Keep, but the eyes of a 
Ram were not meant for so far away.

He'd brought a dozen soldiers with him only two 
of which were of the five who'd joined him in 
exile. In the last month he'd begun integrating 
them into the various armed divisions stationed 
at Hareford. Keeping them separate at first was 
natural as they all found their bearings, but too 
long and it would create dissension among the 
soldiers as well as raise suspicions in Metamor. 
He made no attempt to interfere with Captain 
Sobol's first Equitaire company, but with the 
other units he had no such compunctions. The boar 
Becket was now Captain of his own patrol, while 
the three boys were assigned to other units in 
the castle and villages. Only the dog Alexander 
was not yet assigned to another company, and he 
too would be not long after William returned to Hareford.

William availed himself of any unit he wished for 
on his patrols. This time he chose one already 
accustomed to surveying as they'd been with him 
thrice now to mark out the location of his road 
to Eagle Tower. Surveyors needed to be good at 
capturing on canvas details of the land and what 
it could be, and this was a skill he needed.

His son Jory had asked to know what his father looked like as a Ram.

“I'm sorry, Sir, but could you stop chewing for a moment?”

William snorted and flicked his ears back against 
his curling horns. The surveyor, a monitor lizard 
with splotchy black and yellow scales named 
Sebastian, sat on a rock near one of the 
campfires, dipped his quill in the inkwell, 
stared intently at the ram's black-furred face, 
and then added a few more lines. William hoped 
the man wouldn't draw in the blades of grass 
sticking out between his lips. With nothing to do 
but sit on the grassy slope he'd taken to slicing 
the blades for a snack. It surprised him how good they tasted.

In the center of the camp Blanche the ewe was 
hovering over a small cookpot into which she'd 
tossed a few vegetables, grain, milk, and water. 
A few of the soldiers stayed at her side to help 
keep the fire hot and to snag a taste. The others 
ranged about, keeping an eye on the forest 
nearby, the rocky cliffs to their north, and the 
southern sky. Alexander, the black and orange 
furred dog, and Martin the boy, were keeping 
watch on an outcropping of stone not far from where William reclined.

William rubbed his thick fingers together and 
then eased the letter he held in his free hand 
open to peer at the words. His son's handwriting 
was improving with cleaner lines and tighter 
curls. But the words he knew were Jory's; though 
he'd never smelled his son since becoming a 
sheep, he could almost see his face from the 
scent of the ink alone. Not wishing to receive 
another plaintive reprimand from the lizard, he 
kept his face as still as possible fighting the 
tongue eager to pull the strands of grass inside 
his mouth to chew, letting only his eyes rove across the words.


Father,


I know you received my first letter, the Bishop 
said so, and he promises me he will entrust this 
letter to a good courier so you should receive it 
this Summer. I hope you do. I miss you, Father, 
but I am trying not to show it here.

Grandfather insisted I learn how to ride and take 
care of a horse and I'm enjoying doing so as much 
as I had learning to take care of the dogs. 
Riding lets me leave the castle grounds. My 
favorite place to go is to the pastures and watch 
the sheep and rams. I like seeing them because it 
reminds me of who we are, Father. And it makes me 
wonder about what you can do and what you look like.

Can you hit with your horns like a normal ram? 
What do your horns look like? Is your face white 
or black or something else? Do you have wool too? 
Father, I want some little token from you. I miss you so much.

I am ten years old now. Grandfather had a feast 
to celebrate it and he actually smiled. Mother 
was there, and I was able to see Sasha, Lydia, 
and Timas again. They all miss you too. Mother, 
Bishop Tyrion, and Grandfather all were talking 
about Uncle Jaime when they thought I couldn't 
hear them. I keep hoping maybe if Jaime is freed 
I can come to Metamor with you. But I know they won't let me.

I am praying for you every day, Father. Yahshua 
loves us and is with us, especially when we hurt. 
I am trying to trust Him to help me do the right 
thing. I will always be a Ram like you, Father. I'll never forget it!


Your son,


Jory Dupré


He let his eyes linger upon his son's name for 
several seconds before his thick fingers pressed 
the letter closed. It was so little, the tiniest 
morsel of the life of his family so far away. A 
life he had been driven from, or tricked into 
forfeiting, he was never sure which. His eldest, 
ten years old now. Then Sasha was nine, Lydia 
eight, and Timas four. There had been another boy 
who would have been six had illness not snatched 
him away in infancy. Had he not been a fool in 
his feud there might have even been another after Timas.

The greatest blessing any man could ask for was a 
bountiful family. They lived, but would they ever 
see their father again? Would they see him as an animal first?

And so the lizard drew. His son wanted a token 
and he would have a portrait. Small enough to 
hide from the rapacious wolf Verdane, but large 
enough to show the man within the facade of the 
ram. He had promised not to have contact with his 
family, and to such a foul vow he had kept. But 
this simple request born on the tears of his son he could never deny.

“All right,” Sebastian noted with satisfaction, 
long forked tongue sliding in and out of his 
mouth, “I am almost done, Sir Dupré. You can move 
your lips again. Try to keep your ears still now.”

William gladly drew the blades of grass between 
his teeth and resumed chewing. He set the letter 
upon a rock to protect it, picked up his knife, 
and sliced free another fistful of grass.

The grass was still in his hand when Alexander 
perked his ears and stood, staring intently to 
the treeline to the south. A moment later Martin 
also stood, shielding his eyes with one hand as 
he glanced into the sky. William could not help 
but flick his ears outward to better hear, 
eliciting a hiss of frustration from the lizard 
trying to draw them. The sound of crunching twigs 
and needles beneath horse hooves sounded from within the trees.

“You'll have to draw them later, Sebastian. We 
have a visitor.” He stood and without thinking 
put the blades of grass between his teeth before 
wiping his hands clean. He followed Martin's gaze 
and saw a familiar eagle flying low in the sky 
toward them. “Ah, it looks like Marcus from 
above. Secure your quill, ink, and parchment. 
There will be no more drawing this day.”

The monitor lizard flicked out his tongue again 
as he gathered his things. William stayed at his 
side, one hand upon the pommel of his sword, 
while Alexander and Martin climbed down from the 
granite outcropping to join him. The other 
soldiers in the camp were also gathering and 
readying weapons, but each relaxed when they recognized the eagle.

Marcus swooped in a wide circle before landing 
twenty paces down the slope from William. He 
straightened his bow slung across his back before 
striding toward the ram. “Sir Dupré, forgive me 
this surprise, but you have a visitor from 
Metamor who wanted to see you right away. Is 
there space about your fires for two friends?”

“For you, Marcus, of course,” William replied. He 
liked the eagle and master of Hareford's scouts. 
He was a warrior and fiercely proud of his home 
and its people. It had not taken more than a 
month before William knew Marcus was a man he 
could trust. Marcus was loyal to Hareford and to 
the scouts under his command. Neither would he betray. “Who is our guest?”

Before Marcus could answer a horse and a canine 
rider emerged from the line of trees and cantered 
up the sward. The dog had a narrow snout, 
triangular ears ending in sharp points, and dusty 
tan fur. William bleated in surprise, annoyance, 
and relief. He finished chewing his grass and 
then wiped his snout free of any strands.

He waved his arm and then set them on his hips. 
“George! You rascal bandit, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

The jackal dismounted and brushed pine needles 
from his tunic and breeches. Dark brown eyes cast 
first to the eagle and he inclined his head. 
“Thank you for being my guide, Marcus, but did 
you have to lead me through so many trees?”

“You did say you wanted the quickest route,” 
Marcus noted. “There are no roads here and I 
cannot see through trees. You missed one by your ear. No, your other ear.”

George brushed the last of the needles out and 
then handed the reins of his horse to one of the 
soldiers from the camp. The rest of the men 
returned to their evening tasks, and Alexander 
and Martin returned to their quiet posts on the 
granite outcropping. Blanche began preparing an 
extra pair of potatoes for the gruel. Sebastian 
had finished stowing his supplies, but held the 
canvas in his long-fingered hands while staring 
at William with unblinking eyes. William waited 
for the jackal to answer his question.

“And it is good to see you again, William. I see you've been sheared.”

He lifted one arm and plucked at the very short 
wool already growing back. “A few weeks back. I'm 
told it will make fine thread; I've asked to have 
it fashioned into a tunic. I grew it, I may as well keep wearing it.”

George chuffed and brushed a finger across the 
front of his snout. “Sensible. I never know what 
to do with the fur I shed. At least you get to have it all off at once.”

“And once a year.” William narrowed his eyes as 
the jackal repeated wiping the front of his 
snout. He lifted a hand to his own snout and 
could not resist a bleat when he found a strand 
of grass stuck to his chin. “Oh baa...”

George offered a yipping laugh while Marcus 
tilted his head to one side in a way only a bird 
can. “Oh, don't worry about it; I've eaten a few 
things I'll never mention to anyone too. At least 
you have an easy tongue to satisfy.”

“I suppose I should be grateful. What brings you 
here to Hareford, George?” He did not dare cast a 
glance back at his son's letter still resting 
upon the rock near where he'd sat for his portrait.

“Your request for craftsmen and your idea for a 
wall over the Giant's Dike.” George sniffed 
toward the cookpot, wrinkled his nose, and turned 
back to the Ram. “I've brought a score of 
craftsmen to work on the road north; they can stay until Harvest.”

William nodded and drew one hoof through the 
grass. His chest swelled at the news. “They 
should remain here for there is much work to do 
and few trained in how to do it. Do I have Duke 
Thomas to thank for sending them at all?”

“Aye.” George stretched with fists pressing into 
his lower back and head tilted upward until his 
bones popped. “Ah, much better. It's drawing late 
and I have been in the saddle most of the day. 
What in the world are your men making over there?”

“A stewed gruel,” William replied, an amused grin 
sneaking into his snout and lifting the ridge 
above one eye. “You could always hunt on all 
fours in the woods if it is not to your taste.”

“I could!” George offered another yipping laugh, 
an equally devilish grin writ across his canine 
snout. “And as tempting as the taste of a fresh 
killed coney and all the blood and flesh on 
tongue and fang is,” the very thought of it made 
William's throat clench in disgust, “I'd rather 
talk about your plans for Hareford and I cannot 
do so if I'm running around the forest a vicious 
little jackal. Besides, Nestorius fed me before I 
rode out here so I think I can manage eating or 
not with whatever you have on offer. Eaten enough 
like it before, another scoop or two, eh, I can manage.”

William stomped a hoof and crossed his arms, 
casting a quick glance at the monitor lizard 
still waiting for him to inspect the drawing. 
“Even after ten years in a respectable position 
you are still a disreputable mercenary at heart, aren't you?”

George turned his head so only one yellow eye 
studied the ram. “Metamor changes many things 
about us, but vices and virtues are not one of them.”

“In sooth.” William turned his head away from the 
jackal, glancing upward at the southern sky. “The 
sun is falling behind the mountains. We have 
another hour until twilight. You'll want to pitch 
your tent before then. We can talk of the roads 
and walls and defenses in mine after dusk. Now, 
if you'll excuse me, I have my responsibilities to attend.”

The jackal shrugged and followed after the 
soldiers to find his horse and supplies. Marcus 
took a few steps closer, talons digging into the 
grass. “It is too late for me to fly back to 
Hareford, but you know I only need a place to perch for the night.”

William smiled and patted the eagle on the 
shoulder with his two-fingered hand. “Of course, 
my friend. My tent is yours. Now, perhaps you can 
help me with something now.” He glanced back at 
the retreating jackal, but George was already 
near the encampment talking with the ostler. 
“Sebastian, how is it coming along?”

The monitor lizard stepped forward and lifted the 
canvas; it was two hands wide and tall and 
touched lightly with black ink. “I do not yet 
have your ears or all of your horns, but another 
hour and it should be finished. What do you think, Sir William?”

William stared at the nearly complete profile of 
a ram whose face was long and broad. The lips 
were pressed tight together, and the one eye was 
intent and deeper than any mere sheep could 
muster. The tips of the horns curled in front of 
the cheek, and the first impressions of where 
they rose from the top of his head were there, 
but the remainder was missing. The expression was 
dignified, noble, and full of pride. A suitable depiction for his son indeed.

Yet, as William studied it, he wondered how much 
bitterness was in those tight pressed nostrils. 
How deeply did his furrows brood? Did his eye 
stare out into the world or deep within? And was 
it Sebastian's remarkable facsimile or his own mood reflected in the portrait?

Marcus nodded as he looked at the image and 
patted the ram on the shoulder with one set of 
wing claws. “Well done, Sebastian. You have captured Sir William's bearing.”

“Indeed. We can finish the rest before we return 
to Hareford. Thank you, Sebastian.” William 
turned back to his rock, reclaimed his letter, 
and kept it pressed between his fingers. “Marcus, 
care to join me on a quick inspection of camp? I 
don't suppose you'd like to join us for gruel.”

The eagle squawked a laugh. “Unlike George, I 
would prefer to hunt in the woods!”

William tipped his head back and laughed.

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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias