"Unmarked longboat spotted in Minoc waters. Royal Guards dismiss rumours of slaver galley sightings. Petty theft offender still at large, missing hours after mystery ship sighting, says worried wife." * * * * * All was calm on the coast tonight; even the elements seemed to speak in whispers. The Northern sea breeze crept inland, tickling the treeline and teasing the single strand of smoke rising up from a clearing beyond the beach. The night was quiet apart from the crackling of sparks and the rhythmic slap of waves against a wooden hull. An unmarked longship swayed gently in the surf, casting deep shadows down the beach. Tracks ran from its yolk into a copse of trees to the south where a brazen camp fire burned. The hearth was well built and impressive in size. The fire revealed the camp’s lazy defenses and poor condition. Beyond tattered bedrolls, hungry pack horses fought at their tethers, braving gusting sparks to feel the fire’s warmth. A cluster of flaming embers spit into the air, settling a few feet away on the dry grass before a well-worn boot gently patted it out. Kinnard scraped his sole back and forth in the dirt until he was sure the sparks were extinguished. He ran a calloused hand through his dark hair and gave the spot a long look. The grass was fine: the ash only gave it the look of being burnt. It looked worse off than it was, just like their group. Satisfied that the sparks were snuffed out, Kinnard turned his attention back to the lute resting on his lap. His fingers were dirty, but they worked delicately as he pulled the strings taut. There still was something therapeutic about stringing his lute. The simple task gave him a small reprieve from the company he had been locked aboard with for a month at sea. He was not the only man who had found an escape. The tapping of a small stone on wood gave way to the hiss of a spark and the stink of nightshade. Kinnard’s eye jumped to the light of a pipe flaring across the bonfire. Hamish sat among the others, gripping the tiny stone instrument he used to pack down fresh pinches of nightshade. The pestle looked ridiculous in his hands. Even the pipe seemed small as he lifted it in his big, scarred fists. A sudden commotion interrupted his companion’s puff. The group turned to the treeline to see Lothar emerge with an armful of freshly chopped wood. He was dripping sweat and grunting hard, heedless of the creatures that stalked the woods at night. The thin hatchet’s strap across his chest told Kinnard that tonight the Executioner had forgone the axe responsible for his grim namesake. Hatchet or executioner’s axe, it did not matter; he knew Lothar could hold his own with a kitchen knife. He was a man who ended conflicts as quickly as he caused them. A man does not curate severed heads without the skill needed to swing a blade. Lothar eyed the company resting around the fire and exchanged a brief nod with Hamish, who had managed to light his pipe at last. His lute now strung, Kinnard picked a peaceful tune as he continued to watch the group. Lothar added a log to the hearth, and as he approached the fire, the light showed stale blood dried into his clothes. Staring at the gore flecked across Lothar’s broad chest, Kinnard thought he looked like a villain who had leapt straight out of lore. It was a description he didn’t entirely disagree with. Invariably his eyes fixed on Dinkard, whose ragged breathing had driven him close to madness at sea. The bruiser laid back on his bedroll with his fingers interlaced behind his head and eyes pressed tightly shut. His snores were arrhythmic and loud, but he looked fast asleep. At least he can sleep through that, Kinnard thought. When questioned about his irregular breathing habits, Dinkard always gave the same answer. “Old war wound,” was all he offered in his blunt tone. Lothar had spent years battling alongside the mace-fighter, and though he trusted him with his life, he’d admit he knew very little about his stoic companion. Most of what Kinnard knew of Dinkard was gathered through observation. He seemed to care little about his surroundings, though he was always aware of them. Even at rest he clutched his mace in his hands, gripping it as though it were his only way back from the dream world. Korin was next to Dinkard, seemingly oblivious to his snores. It was a silent exchange, as Dinkard said nothing of the toxic stink that permeated Korin’s clothes and weapons. Korin sat with his head bowed so that his greasy hair draped down to his thighs. He was immersed in the cleaning of his weapon, running an oil-soaked rag down the length of his blade to remove any trace of the poison he applied each morning. Kinnard watched Korin’s nimble fingers work and wondered if he had even considered picking up the lute. He had the dexterity a man needed to pick and chord a Renaissance waltz. Where most of their group favoured the stopping power of heavy weapons, Korin preferred the precision of a kryss. He was quick on his feet and deadly in battle. Kinnard had watched many seasoned warriors exhaust themselves carving the air where they thought they’d finally stuck the nimble fencer. Kinnard noticed the way that the crafter Alaric watched Korin’s cleaning effort too, seemingly pleased by the reverence he showed. He had been scratching runes in the dirt, and held a bottle of mead tightly in his off hand. As the group’s only blacksmith, he complained loudly about wasting his time and effort repairing weapons that were not properly cared for, and Korin was modeling good behaviour now. Still, Kinnard thought the journeyman was happy to help his careless companions; it had proven difficult for Alaric to perfect his trade on the road, and though he would never admit it, he seemed pleased when an opportunity for practice presented itself. Just this morning Kinnard watched him sharpen Griswald’s axe, grinning while his massive forearms held the head in iron tongs. Griswald sat furthest away from the group, and Kinnard struggled to read his expression through his thick beard and the flicker of the hearth. Chainmail covered every inch of his body and Kinnard knew a freshly-honed battle axe lay somewhere within reach. Kinnard dared not approach him; Griswald was their unofficial leader now, and was likely lost in the machinations of some grand plan. He brooded over a map held flat across a wooden crate by small stones. He nodded slowly and mouthed words to noone as his hands moved across the parchment. “It’s alright, fellas. I know why I was the only one gathering wood,” Lothar started, though nobody paid his sarcasm much attention. Dinkard smirked, though his eyes stayed shut. “You all have immense respect for my strength - I get that.” Lothar dropped the kindling in a noisy pile and found the spot he had marked by the fire. He lifted his backpack from the stump and settled into the seat he’d claimed. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he let his hatchet slide off of his back. Kinnard watched as Lothar unfastened the buckles on his pack and pulled back the flap. He gaped as Lothar lifted a severed head by the hair and placed it neatly beside him. “You… still have that?” Kinnard had stopped playing his lute. “Of course I do. This is a thief.” Lothar grabbed the trophy and moved its mouth like some morbid puppeteer. “Not often you secure one of these,” he said in time with the forced action of the thief’s jaw. “Well, that is unsettling. That doesn’t concern anyone else?” Kinnard saw more smiling than shock as he glanced around the fire. “It changes faces several times a day. It’s a bad omen, Lothar.” “I like it. Let’s not mince words: you’re upset that I claimed the head of the thief who snatched a blade right out of your pack.” Lothar grinned, demonic in the light of the fire. “Just stick it on a spike and be done with it. Flies are starting to follow us.” “You sound like a woman, Kinnard,” Dinkard said, though he still looked fast asleep. “There’s no shortage of thieves in this area, Lothar. Hard enough to keep track of our belongings without you adding heads to your collection.” Korin spoke without looking up from his blade. “Kinnard. Lothar.” Griswald waved the pair over, keeping one finger pressed to a spot on the map laid before him. He cleared his throat before he continued. “Minoc lies to the south. It is a mining town with a sizeable port. It might be just what we’re looking for.” “Is this where we settle?” Lothar asked evenly. Griswald rifled through the parchments stacked under the map and produced a coded piece of intelligence. “Cost me a penny, but my contacts say the town is ripe. The prize of Britannia protected by farmers’ fields and tent flaps.” Kinnard nodded, watching a smile creep into the corners of Lothar’s mouth. “We would need a secure front to operate from,” Griswald said. “Somewhere to stockpile weapons, cinnamon, and shade. Rooms for the women to work.” “I think we’re all about read to re-establish ourselves.” Kinnard was so tired of sleeping in bedrolls, and could not stomach another week of hard rations. “I’m sure we can contact the locals and establish our organization peacefully.” “Or forcefully,” Griswald said in monotone. “Or peacefully. No heads required.” Kinnard looked at Lothar. “You and your peace, Kinnard. It’ll be the death of you,” he smirked. The sickly sweet scent of nightshade announced Hamish’s arrival in the small circle. “What’s so interesting?” The rest of the group had begun to join the trio by now. Griswald rose to his feet and eagerly clapped his hands together. A smile crept across his lips as he turned to address the group, but he was interrupted. “BOOM!” bawled a voice beyond the fire’s light. “Damn it, this was my good cloth,” screamed a voice Kinnard recognized as the brash mage Edmund. He burst from the copse patting frantically at the sleeves of his robe. “Oh, you idiot.” “Like I said, your pets can’t always do the fighting for you, Edmund,” came a voice behind him. Illuminated by small balls of fire that dance between the palms of his hands, Archard strode into view. “I’ll give you another go, if you like. I bet you can get me next time.” “Enough,” Griswald snarled. “Listen up.” “Oh yes, master Griswald. We’re all ears, sir.” Archard rolled his eyes. He mouthed something to Edmund, but Kinnard couldn’t quite make it out. Griswald turned back to the group surrounding the fire. “I know we've been on the road for a long, long time, scraping by on what we can. I’m about ready to start taking what we deserve. I know you’re tired of keeping your heads down and flitting around like gypsies, and this Minoc seems as good a target as any.” All the men began to nod. Kinnard could see Griswald’s confidence grow. Even the magi seemed pleased by the idea. Archard placed a hand on Griswald's shoulder and stepped past him. Griswald sat down, not bothered by the intrusion. “Re-establish, fellas.” Archard’s voice was loud enough to drown out Dinkard’s hoarse breath. “Remember what we use to have? Can you remember anything we lacked?” He held his hands high. Archard turned to Hamish. “I remember your pipe was never empty.” Kinnard was next. “I had never seen so many different lutes before I laid eyes on your magnificent studio.” The mention of his old instruments stung. How many shipments had he slipped past the Royal Guard to pay for that lost collection? “We had servants,” Dinkard muttered, nodding with eyes closed. “Women with breasts as big as my head,” Korin yelled eagerly, looking up from his blade for the first time. “Titles,” Lothar said. Korin snorted. “That what I just said. Big ones!” Kinnard laughed. “Peace,” he added softly. “Yes, all that and more. Everything and anything any man could pray for. The North Company was untouchable, even by the King, until-” Griswald stood abruptly and Archard trailed off. “That king got what he deserved,” Korin said. Kinnard was glad not to have to revisit their downfall again. He’d heard enough of that scandal in the weeks he’d spent at sea. “I’m grateful you all came with me. The exile was my burden,” Griswald said. Kinnard did not press the issue though he knew that to be untrue. Anyone with links to Griswald who hadn’t fled south now swung from the gallows. Their company had made a bloody exit from their homeland and been on the run ever since. “Now I’d like to pay you back for your loyalty, and I think this Minoc is our prize,” Griswald finished. The men nodded and began to exchange excited looks. “Excellent. Edmund, would you be so kind as to find a few pigeons with the strength to reach our old contacts? Let them know the coordinates of this port.” Griswald pulled a scrap of parchment from his pile and handed it to the mage. “Send for the usual. Perfume, copper, the coin press. Get me the wax seals of all the neighbouring lords. You know the rest.” Griswald exchanged looks with Archard. “We take whatever we want, right? I need you to do a little window shopping.” Griswald held up a hand before Archard set off. “Can you please keep a low profile?” He gestured to the palm of his hand, where no fireballs twirled. “Wear your cowl, at least.” The mage smirked, gripped Griswald’s forearm, shook once, and then was gone. Hamish cleared his throat and tapped his stone pipe expectantly. “Yes, more than you can dream of,” Griswald said. “In the meantime, I need you to visit the town. Turn over some rocks and introduce yourself to the fattest grubs you can find. Make an impression.” As the three men left the camp, Kinnard began to play a soothing Baroque ballad. The rest of the group settled in beside the fire, lost in the melody and thoughts of the glory to come. There was work to be done. The music stopped. All eyes turned to Kinnard. “Ah, the damned head. Its changed again!” The companions’ laughter echoed all the way back to the beach.
