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It was a long, winding path of beaten earth, twisting around and between the grassy hills that rose beyond the immensity of the plains enclosing the capital city. Behind me, I couldn't see the walls, but a tiny little speck of the Quiet Palace's dungeon tower yet refused to be devoured by the horizon. I struck my mount into a gallop. It was way further into the countryside than I'd been led to believe. Perhaps I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere.

As I worried that this might end up as a complete waste of my time, rushing impatiently along the circling road, the hill finally withdrew sufficiently to my right, revealing the farmhouse in question. It dominated a smoothly descending valley covered with huge squares of fallow land and crops. I thought that it was, indeed, a perfect spot to cultivate, with the U-shape of the valley concentrating the rainwater. The rich stone house, the stable, the high granary and the many additional, cheaper wooden buildings for hired hands: all attested to the fact that settling this area had been a profitable initiative, not only for the farmers, but for the lord that paid me as well.

That was, of course, until the buildings were burned down. Only their blackened skeletons remained, except for the stone house, of which the walls still stood. I pulled the reins to slow down. Approaching, I began to spot corpses; mostly canines, like me, but also a few felines. The latter poured in from further west, in search of food and safety, and often ended up working as hired hands. The bodies had been looted down to their clothes, and there weren't enough of them. The stone house alone must've sheltered five or six families, not to mention the seasonal workers. I squinted at the fields, and, indeed, the harvests had begun. It looked like the work of a Lowlander raiding party, because there were no dead children, and this rich, elevated stone house was a gutsy target to attack. Peasants could still fight if they saw a threat coming, and many of their tools made for acceptable weapons. Lowland raiders, however, wouldn't have bothered with looting clothes, and this was much too far from the Northwestern border. Strange.

I rode down to a halt, near what was left of the stable, for no particular reason -- out of principle, maybe. I tied my horse to a burned bit of fence that appeared solid enough. I looked around; there were no animal carcasses, which raiders would certainly have taken as well. Cattle and slaves were easy to move, and worth a lot. I pulled out one of my swords, just in case, and stopped. I turned, and walked slowly toward the granary, not the house. I'd just smelled people in the house, canines, obviously hiding, and I pretended not to have noticed anything. Since I knew precisely what to listen for, I subtly turned my head, and focused while I headed away. I heard the rasping of metal and lumber against leather. They were armed. I was beginning to get a good read of the situation, but I wanted to make sure. If they made the first move, that would solve my interrogation either way. Survivors wouldn't hide from me. I was extremely well-known as a hired blade, and nearly worshipped by the people, for I had a tendency to take the unpaid jobs others couldn't be bothered with. Even if they didn't recognize me, I was obviously a servant of the kingdom, with my war-horse, and shiny light-steel armor. Barbarians from the Lowlands, on the other hand, wouldn't be canines. Felines and reptiles lived in the Northwest.

I reached the destroyed granary, and saw exactly what I expected to see. The charred grain on top had been disturbed, dug through. I plunged my glove into the precious, golden cereal. Looters lived here. They'd moved in during the days between the attack, and my arrival. They were probably poor, desperate people. Well, looting wasn't legal, and poor, desperate people could be very dangerous to the unwary. I couldn't leave them there.

I whipped out my second sword, and started decisively toward the house. I took root before the entrance, arms wide open, holding my weapons at an angle, looking intimidating.

-- Out!

Rumble in the house. Panicked voices. I sighed. Petty criminals always got caught, and always were surprised to get caught.

"I can hear the three of you distinctly. Come out without weapons, and sit down on the ground."

I could also smell them distinctly, but it seemed unnecessarily rude to stress it. They knew that already. Because I pitied them more than anything else, I wanted to say that I wouldn't kill them, but I didn't. I never said that. It was one of my rules. Scared prisoners were easier to handle. Mistakes were made in the past. When your prisoners thought you were a good guy, they tried stuff. I'd learned that.

They came out. With their weapons. The first one was huge, dark brown, with a short military axe of great quality that couldn't belong to him in any way. He looked aggressive. The other two joined him at either sides, with a garden hoe, and a chair. A chair. That was a first. They were grey, and frightened. They attempted to look menacing: an outstanding failure. All three had matted, dirty furs; holed clothes covered in blood, because their previous owners had died in them; and the big one missed half of his left ear. I shook my head.

"Don't do that. You know who I am. Drop the, uh..."

I hesitated.

"...Weapons."

The biggest looter, the leader, undoubtedly, opened his jaws to respond, but froze. One of the grey ones, the smallest, seemed the most obscenely alarmed by far. He suddenly charged screaming with his chair, and with an astonished face, as if he was just as surprised by his action than the rest of us. I reflexively flashed my left sword, with a side step to my right. The chair fell to pieces, along with bits of bloodied fingers. The attacker stumbled to his knees, screeching in pain, holding, and staring at his mutilated hand. I hadn't meant to do it. I felt sad, but he had attacked, and this was an opportunity. The other two looked on, horrified.

"Drop your weapons, or more fingers will be lost."

The weapons hit the ground. I brought the three further away. I sat them in the dirt, together, in a line.

"You are all detained for looting, under the authority of Count Rimet. These are his lands. He will judge you and pronounce a sentence."

The big one spoke.

-- But, sir, we didn't-

I cut him off, knowing perfectly well what he was about to say.

-- I'm very much aware that you three didn't slaughter these folks. I'll make certain that's explicit.

They stared miserably at their paws, except for the one with missing fingers. He attempted to stop the bleeding by pressing his wound in his dirty shirt. I went to my horse, brought back some water and bandages, and begun to clean and wrap his hand expertly. Treating wounds was literally the first thing that battle monks taught their pupils. In my line of work, that skill never stayed dormant for long.

"Lord Rimet lives at the court," I mentioned while I worked. "This means you'll all stay at the Quiet Palace jail for a little while, at least a few weeks. I'm sure Rimet won't consider you a priority."

The absence of a reaction led me to believe they hadn't caught my meaning.

"You'll be fed during your stay."

Quite a heavy load of desolation flew away from my prisoners' shoulders and faces. Multiple weeks of guaranteed food was probably the longest they'd had to look forward to, ever. Even the one who'd lost fingers looked up to me as if I was the smarterest person in the world for figuring out that getting locked up would be better than their lives. Freedom wasn't worth much when you didn't have a chance. I finished with the bandaging.

"We're going to walk back to the capital, now. I have rope. Should I use it?"

They all shook their heads.

"Do not try my patience. You won't get a second chance."

I was talking for nothing. They weren't about to run away, I could see it in their eyes.

-- Thank you, Silver Warrior.

It was the other grey one. The one who hadn't lost fingers. That struck me as a strange thing to hear from someone I was arresting, but it was genuine. They were all thankful. They probably felt safer.

I had a thought. Since they appeared willing to cooperate, I pointed to the big dog.

-- You, tell me the truth. How long have you had the axe you were holding?

He squirmed, afraid to get in trouble again.

-- I just picked it up, I swear!

I smiled inwardly.

-- Show me where.

Shortly after, the brown-furred looter designated a patch of long herbs with his hand. We were far from the farm, halfway up the side of a hill, but, true enough, there was a corpse in there. It was assuredly not a farmer. I went in close, and turned the reptile around on its back, ignoring the stench. I recognized the armor instantly, though it was damaged beyond any use. Thick linen loosely held two superimposed coats of overlapping bands of the thin, hard wood of a tree that grew along the banks of northern rivers. It was a startlingly effective use of wood as armor material, for even if metal could easily get through the layers, the first layer would absorb the shock when it broke, and another hit would generally be required on the exact same damaged band as the first to get through the second layer.

"River people," I muttered to myself.

The axe was of different make, but that made it all the more disquieting. There was no longer any possibility of doubt. Those water-dwelling reptiles weren't the most notable race in the Northwest, but they were, indeed, from the Lowlands. And this one was geared for war.

-- What does it mean? asked one of my prisoners.

Bad things, I thought. Bad things.