The taverns of Adlersthron were abuzz with whispers of changes, the likes of which had never been witnessed before.

  The Eagle’s Nest was one such establishment. A tavern of middling stature; not opulent enough that any noble would dare set foot in it, unless they wanted to commit social suicide, but also not so cheap that most day laborers could dine there every day either. The beer wasn’t stale, and the pies were always hot, filled with fresh meat and vegetables. A perfect place for skilled craftsmen, merchants and sometimes soldiers to meet for lunch and dinner.

  It was lunch time, and the main hall was buzzing with the drone of craftsmen and soldiers enjoying their food and drinks, discussing the most recent gossip. The smell of beer, hot food and sweat mingled in the air.

  “Did you hear that Sir Erthric was kicked out?” one of the uniformed men said to his fellow soldier, sitting across an old, rickety table. His lazy eye squinted at his companion, who was tipping back his mug of beer.

  “Yeah,” the other man almost belched. He was younger, with a large hooked nose and small eyes. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he whispered, “There are rumors floating around that the General found out he was the one behind the half rotten grain they were feeding us.”

  Othar couldn’t keep his voice down in his enthusiasm. “Good riddance! I got sick for a whole week from eating it, and I wasn’t the only one.” He pushed his voice down to a whisper. “Did they really kick him out? Isn’t he the son-in-law of Hrodric's distant cousin?”

  Folke nodded emphatically. “Yeah. Sounds too good to be true, but that's not all. I've heard Sir Helmric was thrown out as well.”

  “I hope that's really true. They say the bastard got two dozen men killed fighting the sheep-shaggers, and then pocketed the money meant for their families.”

  “What a scumbag. You didn't hear me say it, but I personally saw Sir Torvald being thrown out. I heard he bought third-rate armor for his men and pocketed the rest of the money. He was swearing all sorts of vengeance as they marched him out.”

  “Hmm…” Othar muttered as he leaned back in contemplation, his chair creaking against the floorboards. “This kind of thing has never happened before, has it?”

  Folke shrugged his shoulders. “Nah. I don't think so.”

  Othar squinted his eyes at nothing. “Why do ya think it's happening?”

  “Maybe it's the Queen, eh?” Folke arched an eyebrow. Then a wide smile spread on his face. “Maybe we should always have had broads ruling us, just like how your wife rules over you!”

  Othar growled, putting his tankard down on the table with enough force that some of the beer spilled out. “Quiet, you, or I'll smash your teeth in.”

  Folke chuckled in return.

  A few feet away from the merry soldiers, two other men sat at the corner table; their backs to the wall, eyes scanning the room. They had the rigid posture of military officers, but wore no insignia that would identify them as such. Both were nursing their mugs, not drinking much beyond small sips.

  “Shouldn’t he already be here?” the younger man asked.

  “Patience,” Brenn stretched the word out. “What is a few more minutes compared to what we are about to achieve?”

  Korrin’s shoulders sagged. “I wish I was as hopeful as you, Captain.”

  “You are. You’re just–” Brenn stopped abruptly as he noticed a nervous looking man enter the hall in his peripheral vision.

  He tilted his head towards the tavern’s entrance. “I think that’s our man.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Neither of them directly looked at their potential quarry, waiting for him to make eye contact first.

  The thin man stopped in his tracks, as if the noise had struck him physically. He wore a clerk’s coat, well-mended and worn thin at the cuffs. He scanned the room, rubbing his thumbs against his hand nervously. After agonizing moments, he caught Korrin’s sideways glance. He was about to ignore it when Korrin’s impatience got the better of him.

  He turned his head to face the man, lifted two fingers and crooked them twice.

  The man did a double take, then approached their table with unsure steps. Up close, Brenn realized the man was younger than he looked. Mid-twenties, perhaps. Sunken cheeks and tired eyes rimmed with dark circles made him look much older.

  “Are you the men I’m looking for?” he said in a shaky voice, his poor attempt at hiding his nervousness ineffectual.

  “Maybe,” Korrin arched an eyebrow. “Are you Jarn the clerk?”

  The man nodded sharply and sat down on the seat Brenn had gestured toward.

  “Yes. I work for the quartermaster under-”

  Brenn lifted a hand. “Don’t say the name out loud. For your safety. Did you bring anything?”

  He shook his head. “Not the ledgers. Too dangerous. They watch everything now. I made a copy of a page.” He fumbled through the pocket of his coat, until he found what he was looking for, and produced a frayed piece of parchment.

  Brenn took it from his slightly trembling hands and scanned it. Evidence, but not enough to implicate anyone. His eyes were drawn to an odd symbol at the corner. A diagonal cross, with the upper arms curved like an ox’s horns.

  He showed it to Jarn. “What is that?”

  Jarn shook his head. “I don’t know. I just copied it as it was.”

  Pocketing it, Brenn trained his eyes back on the thin man.

  “Thank you, but this won’t be enough. We need the whole ledger.”

  “Then you’ll need to get it yourself,” Jarn whispered. “I don’t think I can get a full ledger out without it being noticed. Everyone is on high alert.”

  “You said you wanted to get revenge on those responsible for your brother’s death?”

  “Yes,” Jarn whispered, with an angry edge to his voice despite the shaking. “My brother marched out in a breastplate so thin you could bend it by hand. He died with an arrow to his chest.”

  Brenn let the silence build up as he fixed the man with a stare.

  “Then you need to do this. They recognize us now. The moment we approach, they will either block our way or burn any potential evidence. They must be caught unawares.”

  Jarn thought for a while, licking his dry lips as his eyes stared at something only he could see. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes hardened with conviction as he met Brenn’s gaze and nodded slightly.

  Brenn smiled faintly at the younger man. If only enough men mustered their courage like him, soon the Royal army would be free from rot.

  Suddenly, Jarn’s eyes bulged in alarm.

  Brenn’s eyebrows knitted in confusion, as Jarn toppled forward. His face hit the table with a loud thud, hard enough to rattle the mugs.

  A crossbow bolt jutted from his back.

  The room stood transfixed for a few heartbeats. The nearby men’s eyes instantly glued to the bolt, their bodies frozen mid-action. The drone of the conversation collapsed into hollow silence.

  Brenn and Korrin both instinctively threw themselves away from their chairs and hugged the dirty floor. Just in time, as another bolt flew at their table. It shattered an earthen cup right where Brenn’s chest would have been, had he been sitting.

  Brenn caught a glimpse of the shooter, a man already turning away, his dark cape flaring.

  Then a high pitched scream cut through the silence.

  A barmaid stared at Jarn’s slumped body, and the bright-red blood pooling beneath him.

  The floor echoed with the scraping of dozens of chairs, as men stood up, either to investigate the commotion or flee. Someone overturned a table. Another tripped and vanished beneath scrambling boots.

  Among the hubbub, Brenn got up before the panicked mob could trample him, dusting his dirty clothes, an angry scowl on his face. As men pushed past each other to flee the tavern, his eyes swept from the door to the two windows of the hall. Finding nothing, he turned his attention to the man they had been talking to moments ago.

  He was lying there motionless, as they had left him, blood soaking his vest and the bolt sticking out of his back. It was buried deep inside.

  Korrin was already there, checking Jarn’s pulse. He shook his head lightly. The bolt must have gone straight through the young man’s heart.

  Brenn stared at the bolt. To be this accurate, even at this distance, spoke of skill and practice. A lot of practice. His temples flared with anger, but he set his jaw tight and exhaled it away. The sight of Korrin itching to follow the assassin put a bucket of water over it. He put a hand out to bar the Lieutenant’s way.

  “No point,” Brenn said in a low voice. “He’s either gone or has an ambush set up.”

  Around them, men avoided looking at the body. Eyes slid away from it as if it were a ghost.

  “I know, but he died right in front of us.” Korrin’s voice almost choked up with emotion. “If the news of this spreads, no one will come forward with information.”

  “That was their goal,” Brenn said through clenched teeth. “But nothing must stop us from removing the vermin. Nothing.”

  Korrin nodded his agreement.

  Outside, the city went on as if nothing had happened. Inside the tavern, no one spoke above a whisper.

  The rot had struck back. Answered courage with blood.

  It was going to be costly. It was going to be bloody. But the house was going to be cleansed, one way or another.

  Notice: I am planning two parallel plotlines (military purge + council reform) and stuck at the moment. So the release schedule will slow down to 3 - 2 chapters a week until I have hammered out the details and built a backlog. Thanks for understanding.

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