Quiet as a mouse, Draka mused as Maud slid on tip toes through his door. Behind the deep pot swinging from her hands was a basket with leaves of a dozen shapes and sizes spilling out of it. Draka imagined how good it will taste when she finished cooking. He clasped his hands tighter to concentrate on his prayer while she, as quietly as she could, arranged everything on the table.

  She sat on the edge of the table, letting her feet dangle and swing while he finished his prayers. Rising from his knees, he felt his bones and muscles realign themselves to the tune of a dozen cracks and one long groan he tried to hide with a hiss. They didn’t hurt, but he knew that they would soon. Especially his knees and hips. And fingers. He had been warned that those would be the first to ache as a warning of the rest.

  She tilted her head at him, “That was a short one.”

  Draka nodded and sat on the edge of his bed with a shove of the unraveled sheets. He began putting on his socks under the scrutiny of his young ward. Yesterday’s socks, as far as Draka was concerned, were draped neatly and presentably over their corresponding boots, which had several practical purposes that Maud should appreciate. First, they were dry, which is why he draped them over the boot. Second, it didn’t impede any area she had cleaned. And third, it made her chore of washing easier.

  She heaved and turned away. “Ugh, please don’t.”

  But…

  She heaved again. Draka slid his toes into the sock with his eyes fixed on her expression.

  Her cheeks puffed and she raised a fist to block her mouth.

  He slid it almost to his heel.

  She made a loud sound like she was nearly vomiting.

  Draka froze. His eyes narrowed.

  She was being overdramatic, as usual. What was her problem? She complained about having to wash his clothes too often, so he changed his shirt and trousers only once every few days and went everywhere barefoot instead of using his socks. She complained about that! Draka slid the sock up his ankle and reached for the next because there was no pleasing her.

  “Really?” Maud was miraculously unaffected by his socks. “You really are a barbarian.”

  Draka shrugged as he finished lacing his leather boots over his calves. Once finished, he belted his sword to let her know they were going to the market. A smile beamed across her face as she followed him out to saddle Vigora.

  Vigora nuzzled her hair while Draka lifted the saddle into place. Maud giggled and rubbed Vigora’s white cheeks, trying to break away. Draka slid the empty saddle bags onto their harnesses, keeping an eye on Maud and those pears that Vigora loved so much.

  Tasteless fruit if ever he had tried one, but Vigora loved them. He didn’t mind Maud feeding his horse pears as much as he might any other fruit. Pears had few seeds and they weren’t large enough to break her teeth or cause her indigestion. However, Vigora was getting better and better at convincing Maud to give her more. Draka saw right through Vigora’s ‘good behaviour.’ And Vigora knew it. That’s why she would look sideways at Draka with those pale blue eyes so that he could see each chomp.

  Before Maud could pull another pear from her pocket, Draka lifted her onto the saddle. She adjusted her dress-skirt. Draka took the reins and led Vigora to the ferry.

  “Good morrow, my Prince, Miss Maudeline,” the ferryman bowed at them one by one. He wasn’t native to Talkro. One of the many who flocked to his lands in search of work. This one, Draka remembered, was named Eugene. Wool-haired, bushy browed, tanned Eugene. His eyes were nearly as golden as Draka’s and that made him like the man more for some reason.

  Vigora cautiously followed Draka onto the ferry. Dark, frothy lake water sloshed over the edges of the wide barge. Maud’s neck vein became distinct but that was the only sign she gave that she was uneasy. No matter how many times they did this, she and Vigora both disliked the ferry.

  “I hear that the garrison is to be lifted,” Eugene pulled the ferry across by cranking a chain wench, his eyes fixed on Draka’s. “I’m no fighting man, but my son is near the age of one. If you look to fill the place, he’d make a good and honorable watchman.”

  Draka grinned and nodded warmly. Vigora shifted her hooves, Maud had tightened her knees. Draka reached a hand to cover hers, aiming the same warmth in her direction. She met it with her other hand covering his.

  The wench crackled and shrieked with each crank, fighting against the current that was brought in by the stream that passed through and fed the lake. There was a natural tug of war between the Zorn River and Ille River currents, causing the ferry’s want to twist and roll as it was pulled across. It was that tug of war that created the island the fort was building upon. Fresh bricks rose from the water to reinforce the edges of the island and allow for them to keep debris from continuing to build up there. The mortar of those bricks was still setting.

  They were bound for a wooden pier that jutted from the island, a new addition. It didn’t look like the engineers had built it in less than a week. It matched the tall wooden walls of the fortress, complete with the remnants of bolts from the houses the planks originated from. As they neared it, Draka saw that there were tightly wound ropes for the ferry to bump against. The ferry bumped against it, rocking everyone forward.

  It was no secret that Maud was glad the ferry was the only way to cross to their side of the lake. The village itself straddled the lake on the other side with a bridge to the fort where the old road ended. It was a stone and wood bridge that arched high enough that the fishing boats—and eventually, God willing, trading riverboats—can pass beneath it. Draka was happy with the progress. Army engineers were fast and efficient in comparison to artisans and tradesmen. Cheap, too. They built with the understanding that it was them who benefited. Artisans and tradesmen built with the idea that they would only benefit while it was being built and from how well they do so. The bridge wasn’t pretty to look at but it was functional. A six-drawn ox cart filled with siege engines and a company of armored soldiers could cross without worry.

  Draka nodded to the saluting pikemen at the fort gate. Maud nodded to the gardener, one of her cousins…Draka gave a curt nod trying to think of his name…Sasha? Joshua? Soshua? No, wait…Samma! Draka beamed at remembering him. He must have been good, there were plenty of pretty white flowers and thick foliage growing along the outside of the wall. It was pleasant to look at. He liked that.

  Once inside the gate, Maud slid from the saddle while Draka steadied Vigora.

  Vendors filled the roadway with covered stands dangling with their goods. Some had drawings or carved numbers that could be seen over people’s heads. Though the bailey within the walls was crowded by the morning traders, the road was mostly kept clear for the passing of soldiers. The vendors were spaced well and behind them, to Draka’s left, were workshops, and to the right were the barracks and stables.

  The blacksmith, Egan, was given the largest shop, in the center, so he could shoe the horses within the walls and display his wares. Soldiers had priority, but he made most of his money from passing traders. Beside him was a woodworker’s shop that was already echoing with hammering. Morin, Draka was sure his name was, was young but had a knack for building cabinets and chests almost as quickly as he seemed to father children. Six of them, Draka shivered. The next shop was an Alcer native named Zachary, one of the friends of Maud’s aunt. He was a glassmaker who made jars that allowed for the fish caught in Talkro to sell almost a hundred miles away. Draka liked him.

  Maud’s Aunt Leta waved at them with a wide smile from her stand near the bridge gate. Maud brushed his arm and went to her for a hug. Vigora followed with a swish of her tail on Draka’s face as if to make him jealous. He was glad that Vigora kept close to Maud. He wouldn’t have taken her to such a crowded market if she didn’t. Plus, it allowed him to always see where Maud was. None of the other horses would dare leave their stables while his mischievous Arabian mare was there.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Draka watched them embrace, his heart warming. He and Leta shared nods. Leta didn’t seem unhappy with how he treated Maud. That always made him sigh with relief. He made his way to the other side of the keep, opposite the shops. That was where the stables were, forming a horseshoe from gate to gate with the main structure of the fort built over them. Draka rushed up the stairs along the wooden wall to the first level of balconies over the stables, hoping to beat the rush of waking soldiers. An archer jumped upright at the sight of him. A cup of coffee dropped from the man’s hand, bounced through a loophole, and fell into a hay pile below. He and the archer looked down through the loophole with mirrored frowns.

  Sorry, Draka patted his shoulder and continued up the stairs.

  Each level was made to house a hundred and thirty-four men-at-arms, if beds were traded in shifts. Draka didn’t have four hundred men garrisoned in the fort, but it was nice to know he could. The two levels above the stables were the same: three doors. The middle one was to a hallway of cramped offices. The other two were for the large barracks rooms that were lined with tall bunks and chests for the soldiers. Draka had no idea how the engineers fit the same number of beds around the stables on the first level, but they managed. As far as he could tell, none of the soldiers complained.

  After one last look to be sure Maud was still safely guarded by Vigora, he went through the middle door. Sunlight filtered into the hallway from a window in the shape of a cross at the end. A few unlit lanterns hung from hooks between the office doors. He didn’t read the carved labels on the doors. He followed the sound of arguing.

  “Nobody believes that!” Draka was sure that it was Christophe.

  “It happened not once, but twice,” he recognized Captain Gerard Solle’s gruff voice. Draka paused at the door before opening it. Gerard didn’t sound engaged in the argument. He sounded amused by it. “I saw the first with my own eyes.”

  “Not possible,” Christophe must have stomped or bounced a cane off of the ground, Draka was unsure.

  Draka’s curiosity piqued. He stepped in. Gerard and Christophe were on their feet in jolts, bowing respectfully. He motioned for them to sit back down in the chairs on either side of Gerard’s plain wood desk. Both men looked to Draka as he sat in the only other chair in the cramped office.

  “Please explain to this Cretan that it is,” Christophe leaned toward Gerard to emphasize, “Absolutely impossible for anyone to be struck by lightning and survive the first time, let alone a second. Maybe, maybe if it is a Paladin or a Cleric, but certainly not some blundering villager.”

  Draka leaned back in his chair. Not what he thought they were talking about. But he knew the answer.

  It was the blacksmith’s boy, Dalfur, who had been struck by lightning twice. Once while he was fishing in the lake and later while he was carrying flowers somewhere near the bridge. Was it inside the bailey or the village? Draka couldn’t remember. What he did remember was who the boy thought he was going to give those flowers to.

  Draka nodded.

  The Baron looked from him to Gerard with a scoff, “You only say so because you two fought together as lads.”

  Gerard shrugged, “Figured I’d put a stop to that fight before it got messy.” He began filling three shot glasses with schnapps. He handed one to Christophe and then the other to Draka.

  “I apologize again for my behavior yesterday. I was irate. I had no idea who you were. The only notice I got was a note sent to me that said, ‘Now you’re someone else’s problem, regards.’ Bloody Phillip Taggerty at his finest.”

  “Bloody Phillip,” Gerard said as the three tapped their glasses and drained them. In a breath of alcoholic vapor, Gerard said, “Now that we’ve settled that. How are you planning on handling the mines? We can’t give them back now, it’ll make you look weak to the other Lords and whatnot.”

  Draka rolled his eyes. He wiggled his shot glass for Gerard to refill it. Gerard exchanged a quill and paper for the shot glass. Draka wrote, ‘Let them think I’m weak.’

  “You’re right,” Christophe leaned back in his chair to look up as Gerard leaned over him to hand Draka the filled shot glass, “He’s no nobleman.” To Draka, “If you look weak to your peers, what will your people think? And I’ve already heard from my footmen that they’re not exactly leaping to your beck and call.”

  “There have been some who support his claims readily,” Gerard tried to soften the blow.

  “Either way, this is an opportunity,” Christophe handed his own glass for Gerard to fill. “I can defend the Rhine from any attack. There are only three bridges within a hundred miles of Strasbourg.”

  “Berone,” Gerard corrected for Draka. He handed Christophe his next shot.

  “As the commoners say, but it is the Baronnie de Strasbourg, and I would like it if you ensured that the men defending it called it that!”

  “Did I ever tell you what we called Hebsulem while we were there?” Gerard eyed him while filling his own shot glass.

  “You mean ‘Jerusalem’?”

  Draka chuckled and wrote, ‘Heblem.’

  “Quaint,” Christophe seemed unamused. He lifted his glass to salute Draka before drinking.

  Draka and Gerard did the same. Though right before taking his drink, Gerard muttered, “Some of us called it the Banks and not because of the west one.”

  Gerard and Christophe snickered and Draka slapped both of their shoulders for it. They all drank cheerfully.

  “I know, I know, it was a bad joke, but you have to hand it to the men for coming up with that one. All the money of the world came out of that damned place for centuries,” Gerard defended it. “At least with Berone, it has some of the actual name in it. Can’t complain, in my opinion.”

  “That’s because you’re from Alcer,” Christophe grumbled. “Damned fools think ‘Baronnie’ is the name of the place, not what the place is.”

  “Baron of Berone does have a ring to it.”

  “Well, what says you, Prince? You’re the final authority now.”

  “Yes,” Gerard grinned playfully, “What will you enforce? Berone or Baronnie?”

  “Baronnie de Strasbourg!” Christophe barked proudly. “It is an ancient city, as old as the continent.”

  “Pah,” Gerard disregarded him, “Berone is no more part of that ancient city than Talkro or Alcer are. All three have that claim. Shall we call all of them ‘de Strasbourg’?”

  ‘Berone is common enough,’ Draka wrote. Gerard quietly cheered; Christophe pouted into crossed arms.

  “Very well. Shall I change my family crest to match it?”

  Draka rolled his eyes.

  Gerard spoke for him, “That’s a bit far, isn’t it? The amount of people who give a shite about your titles compared to those who can read it are too disproportionate for that to matter.”

  “Laugh all you want,” Christophe wagged a finger at them. “But titles are important beyond just saying them. You’ll see soon enough.”

  Draka narrowed his eyes. Christophe took it as an invitation, “If the King calls you, you must fight. But if you call upon the King, who outranks and outweighs your privilege, well—must I say it?”

  ‘Keep your crest and teach your peers properly.’

  Christophe nodded his appreciation.

  Gerard rolled his eyes, turning away. “Of course everyone else gets a bloody title,” He said quiet enough that Draka shouldn’t have heard it.