Arlet pinched the bridge of his nose, straightening the broken cartilage. Jenkins leaned against the tavern wall, a smug grin smeared across his face.


    “Don’t say it.” Snapped Arlet, storming back to his command post.


    “Wouldn’t dream of it captain sir! That would be too easy, I only pick the fresh fruits from the tree’s top, not the old lady fruits that hang lower than grandma’s tits.” Said Jenkins, making Arlet wish he had just said ‘I told you so’ instead.


    We are in the port of mercenaries and the ‘best man’ spends all day flapping his cockholster. Thought Arlet, wondering how Sintra had fallen into this sorry state.


    Just two months ago Sintra had boasted nine ‘companies’ of armed soldiers, bragging of their foreign mercenary contracts to Lord Green the last time they sent their taxes to him. A ‘company’ was supposed to be two hundred fighting men, yet Sintra’s ‘companies’ —if they could even be called companies— consisted of five to ten veteran soldiers, men with experience who acted as examples and mentors for the ten to twenty conscripts that filled out the rest of the ‘company’. Fifteen to thirty militia were the antithesis of what a martial company meant!


    If the mayor was still alive, Arlet would have put him in the stocks and flogged him within an inch of his life. Unfortunately the mayor was long dead. Without any heir or second surviving the events at city hall. No one but Green could be blamed for the city''s lackluster state. Though Arlet long ago knew that calling these platoons of soldiers companies was an old Sintran jest. One that grew into a national ruse. But he had expected twice their number, sixty to a hundred men per company, not fifteen!


    Sintra had a port, and often sent soldiers abroad as mercenaries. A way for young men to earn enough coin to pay for tools and guild fees, or settle debts that couldn’t be squared with peaches and grain. Mixed platoons were a Sintran secret export. One that other nobles and even the occasional foreign king paid good money for. Since an entire company of veterans cost far more than most nobles were willing to pay, while a platoon of raw recruits caused too much trouble to risk hiring them. Which opened a cleverly marketed niche for Sintran mixed platoons. The veterans kept the recruits in line and taught them how to fight, while the recruits bolstered the squad of veterans into a platoon. Simultaneously keeping the unit cheap to hire, and effective in combat.


    An astute deception in Arlet’s mind, since it allowed Sintra to pay for it’s militia and town guard with the coin from distant lords. Bolstering their coffers and their citizen’s martial culture in one fell swoop. If Arlet ever found the strategist who had originated the idea, he would buy them a whole barrel of ale. Even if they were a bureaucrat who never raised a blade themselves. Then he would slap them into tomorrow for allowing the deception to spread to Baron Green. After they drank of course.


    “What would you do Jenkins? Besides women or buggery that is.” Asked Arlet, hoping to avoid more quips.


    “Ah, beat my own meat sir. Always helps me think-”


    Arlet shot him a glare that could have curdled milk.


    “Sorry sir! We need more men, or a healer. We have two companies worth of men laying in bed bleeding. Those cockless sods would bring us back to full strength!” Answered Jenkins.


    “Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just send a letter to the king and I’m sure we’ll have a legion of royal knights before nightfall.” Feigned Arlet, bouncing a palm off his forehead.


    “No need to get snippy sir. You still haven’t heard the rest of my report.”


    “By Taloc, you have more bile to spew? One would think you have a swamp in your stomach, and an ocean in your head!” Marveled Arlet.


    “Sorry sir. I joke when I get nervous... And, well. I stopped by the mayor’s granary today, wanted to make sure the grain popped since the fire giant walked down that street. Ahem, you can imagine my surprise when I found it mostly empty.” Said Jenkins.


    Arlet scowled at him.


    “Knights! Do not repeat any of this!”


    “Yes sir!” Shouted six men in unison.


    Arlet’s hands flew to a stack of ledgers, pulling open the one that documented the mayor’s granary, flipping through its rough pages, he arrived at the last documented delivery. Over two years ago… reported as filled to capacity.


    “Grain theives…” Muttered Arlet, planning to hang the responsible parties. “Jenkins, that granary was reported as full. A thousand bushels of wheat is missing… Sintra’s entire militia budget for the next year and a half is missing! How?- No, we need solutions, Lord Green will judge the grain thieves come winter. For now, I need you to help me find some food before we starve.” Asked Arlet.


    Jenkins tapped his chin. “Hmm… It has been difficult to find a sweet lass lately. None of the farmers girls have come to town for the past three weeks if my dick aint lying to me.”


    “By the God King’s thunder! Think with your stomach instead of your cock!” Shouted Arlet.


    “Sorry sir! I just get a bit outta sorts without a lass to chase. What I meant was they haven’t come to town cause they are out working the fields. Same as half our militia. Suspicious that, feels like another man cut in on our dance if you ask me.” Opined Jenkins.


    “What do you mean by that?”


    “Well, if these portals were an enemy invasion, not saying it is, but still, they hit our weakness, nailed us right in the clit. All our menfolk are traveling home to their farms. Heck, some even took their whores with ‘em! Our cellars and pantries are at their emptiest, waiting for the harvests from Petra, and the surpluses from Kesky or Avignon.”


    Arlet’s frown deepened. Jenkins was saying exactly what he had been thinking. Everything about this portal plague felt planned. Hellhounds arrived first, preying on roads and farms when the citizenry would be most vulnerable. Picking off unsuspecting farm hands, and ambushing any travelers.


    Those same hellhounds were sieging them now, they had gotten a taste of human flesh and found it delicious, attacking any citizens foolish enough to leave the city alone. If they were not bad enough, the portals seemed to concentrate on the river, dropping all manner of aquatic beasties. Eels longer than a boat battled with masses of tentacles that turned the river black. Or flabby fish women to clog the waterways. The fire giant’s appearing within the walls seemed like they had been designed to destroy the city and its palisades.


    “As if God himself wanted us destroyed.” Whispered Arlet.


    “Aye, ol’ Taloc might have decided our ungrateful hides aren’t worth protecting anymore. And let that old god come back for her black houses.” Jenkins said, nodding in agreement with the captain.


    Yet, If that is true… Pandora wouldn’t avoid the keep, she would try to retake it as soon as possible… Arlet shook his head, reminding himself he was thinking of humanities’ slaver. Any of the conniving deities would have a hundred plans to retake their lands, inflicting as much misery along the way.


    The two men stood in silence, pondering who could have brought this apocalypse upon them. No obvious enemies appeared. Greenwood was not a major center of anything, operating just barely deep enough in the black to avoid starvation.


    Petra regularly produced excess wheat and fruits that were exported to other fiefs at honest prices, an asset to the kingdom albeit a small one. No lords would benefit from Petra’s destruction. Avignon and Mont St Michel housed churches on the war path of Therun Taloc, bringing in a few dozen pilgrims each month. Supplicants who sought guidance in their own lives by following Taloc’s footsteps. They might not find the answers they wished for, but that wouldn’t justify destroying it. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    The most remarkable thing about the barony was Baron Green’s philandry. Was a jilted noble capable of inflicting portals on Greenwood? Arlet couldn’t fathom the pettiness involved. Though his strategist skill did not permit its dismissal.


    “Viscount Blackwood has not sent aid, and I have not heard from Lord Green in over a week. We may have to seek aid directly from the king.”


    “The royal court? Here I was thinking my deck marbles were worth a roll.”


    What does that even mean? Thought Arlet.


    “My first duty is to die in my lord’s stead. Failing that my next duty is to report that death to his liege lord. I’ve adhered to the proper protocol despite the danger, but these portals will overwhelm us soon. What would become of the monsters then?” Said Arlet.


    “By Poseidon''s wet dick, a hole in one plank is how the whole ship sinks.” Said Jenkins.


    “Uhm… Yes… I think. Greenwood would become a wasteland that preyed on nearby fiefdoms.” Said Arlet.


    “How do we know they aren’t opening up in every land?” Asked Jenkins.


    Arlet’s mouth opened in horror. If the entire kingdom was under magical siege then humanity itself was on the brink of extermination.


    “We would be overwhelmed and humanity would perish.” Said Arlet.


    “Fucking hell captain. That’s darker than the inside of my anus! But it reminds me of something my old man used to say. God helps those who help themselves.”


    “Yes of course.” Responded Arlet hesitantly, marveling at how quickly the man moved from humor to business.


    “Then let''s go help ourselves to some ladies! Plow their fields if you catch my drift captain.”


    Arlet almost hit the man, balling his fists and kneading the table in fury.


    “What? Not funny? I meant let’s go get the harvest. Send me or one of the other corporals with a score of men. We check on the local homesteads and see if anyone is there. If no one is home, we liberate their supplies. If they are, we help them harvest and bring ''em here.”


    “Dammit! Say what you mean!” Shouted Arlet, pounding his fist against the table in front of him. Had Jenkins said it in a more direct fashion then Arlet would have complimented him on the fine idea.


    “We should start with Petra sir. We have a few dozen horses, let me take a company out there.” Said Jenkins.


    Arlet shook his head. “With the granary empty, we’ll have to eat the horses. I can’t risk our winter supplies… And I sent a half dozen to the butcher this morning. We cannot risk losing more.”


    Jenkins mouth formed an oh. His witty tongue finally met something that would shut him up. Arlet drank the silence in, If only this peace could last.


    It couldn’t, but at least it wasn’t disturbed by Jenkins. Instead, one of the knights called out.


    “Dust cloud on the horizon sir. Looks big enough for a whole zoo of beasties coming our way.”


    Arlet whirled, finding his knight peeking out of an arrow slit in the direction of Petra. Captain Arlet retrieved a shield and spear. His knights following without a word, knowing they would be needed, passing through the command post into the open aired walkway over the gate itself. They took up a V formation, Arlet in front, Sintran archers on either side, and knights on each flank, anchoring the team.


    In the distance the dust cloud resolved into a caravan of wagons. Arlet’s heart raced with anticipation. Could it be? Were these the reinforcements Viscount Blackwood was duty-bound to send, or would they be refugees, seeking shelter and sustenance?


    There must be a dozen wagons at least. I can see two drivers on each wagon plus the spearmen walking alongside them. There must be six scores of souls out there. They will eat us out of house and home. Bloody heaven! How can I even think of turning them away!


    “Looks like someone came up with my idea already. Not sure how I feel about enjoying sloppy seconds.” Chimed in Jenkins, his painfully obtuse joke falling on deaf ears.


    Long moments passed as the caravan drew closer, with more wagons coming into focus.


    “Where did they all come from? Even if every farmer in Petra banded together they wouldn’t have that many wagons, or soldiers.” Observed a knight.


    One of the Sintran lookouts climbed the tower for a better view, aiming a spyglass at the approaching army.


    “Hellhounds coming behind. Looks like they’re being tailed.” He called.


    “You!” Shouted Arlet, pointing to a Sintran man, “Go get everyone in the guardhouse up here, we may be in for a battle. Quickly man, I’m counting on you.”


    The Sintran sprinted for the tavern, giving the stairs an inquisitive look, as if he considered leaping from the gatehouse’s roof onto the cobblestones for expediency''s sake.


    Bloody insane Sintrans, don’t be dumb! Thought Arlet, reciting a silent prayer asking God ‘why put me in charge of drunken scallywags’?


    Thankfully the man used stairs as designed. Slipping into the tavern / guardhouse.


    Flashes of light burst from the caravan. A mage was with them, battling the hellhounds, or at least driving them back a pace. Squads of pitchfork wielding militiamen came into view. Their uniforms caked in dust and blood. Whomever they were, they had seen heavy fighting. Arlet tried to count their number heart feeling heavier with each head he added to the tally. So many lives could be saved today, but what about tomorrow? Knowing that with their arrival, any food stores would dwindle even faster. Sintra’s future hung in the balance, and the burden of decision might just crush him beneath it’s weight.


    He could not ignore the fear that gnawed at his resolve, presenting solutions he refused to entertain. As the caravan drew closer, he could make out the faces of its passengers. Anxiety crept into his heart at the weariness he saw etched into their expressions. They were not uniformed soldiers, but rather a motley group of desperate people, seeking refuge from the chaos that had consumed the surrounding lands.


    A marauding warband had come to Sintra. Made up of vagrant farmers and their neighbors.


    The weary companies of Sintra, already gaunt from hunger, gathered alongside Arlet. Their faces etched with hope and fear. The moment of truth was upon them. Let in their countrymen and starve together, or turn them away and live with the guilt. Footsoldiers stepped off the road, aiming their spears backwards. A stalling tactic to keep the encroaching hellhounds back. Wagons approached in a line, one open-topped wagon cutting from the rear to take the lead.


    A short figure with a long gray beard and an unusually large hat waved at the captain. Soon joined by a slender woman covered in bandages, one feline ear aimed in Sintra’s direction. Suddenly, Arlet didn''t care if all of Sintra burned.


    “Open the gates! Let them in!” He bellowed.


    At his command the gates of Sintra swung open, allowing the caravan of weary Petran souls into their refuge. Arlet intended to greet his lord in person but the first wagon caught his eye. Barrels of salted meat looked up at him, presenting him with an eyeful of salvation. While the second wagon was filled past the brim with freshly harvested peaches. He cursed himself for even thinking of barring the gates.


    These were no marauders, but triumphant heroes. Tears of sweet relief welled up in Arlet’s eyes. The hardened champion crumbling as victorious wagons passed into his protection.


    “Therun Taloc! Thank you for hearing our prayers.” Arlet said under his breath.


    A dozen wagons streamed beneath his feet, leaving a score of soldiers outside the walls, engaged in a fighting retreat with a dozen hellhounds. Teeth gnashed at spears, kept back by sharpened steel.


    “Archers! Aim true!” Shouted Arlet, sending his own spear whistling through the air at the nearest hellhound.


    Due to the gatehouse’s height and the hellhounds'' proximity, the spear was never seen, it pierced the hound’s side, nailing it to the ground. A dozen archers followed his example, pincushioning the nearest two hellhounds. Their accuracy was commendable, but their coordination needed work, all of them had targeted the nearest enemy, hitting them with too many arrows. Not terrible, but wasteful of arrows, the best of which came from Mont St Michel, an impossibly difficult route now.


    Hmm, I’ll have to appoint marksmen to coordinate every three or four archers.


    “You sods call that archery? Quit gangbanging the spear targets and aim for their titties!” Shouted Jenkins, sending his own arrow at a distant hellhound.


    His shot missed, but accomplished more than all the others. The arrow planted itself where the largest hellhound had been standing, making the alpha move. Danger entered the alpha’s mind, and he turned to leave, calling out to the pack as he disappeared into the forest. As if to seek easier prey.


    The hellhounds scattered into the woods.


    Arlet found himself blinking quickly, the veteran overcome with a sense of hope. Every fiber of his being devoted itself to his inner strategist. Skills he had learned to beat multiple opponents now found themselves aimed at counting men, weapons, and most importantly heaven-sent food. Not a single wagon was barren, as if the people of Petra had loaded every scrap of food into those wagons. Then harvested food along the way here.


    “They have bought us another month.” Whispered Arlet.


    “A month! Those are properly sturdy farm lasses! They’ll keep me warm all winter long, ain''t that right boys?” Called Jenkins, sparing a wink at a Petran woman passing by.


    She ignored him, while the man at her side –most likely her husband– stared daggers at Jenkins. Sintrans echoed his glee with their own cries and catcalls, making Arlet wonder if he should get to cracking heads and making butter from the peanut gallery.


    “I wonder if they will go for a sergeant or a captain first.” Said Arlet, giving Jenkins a side eyed glance.


    Jenkins met his glance with a growing smile. The two officers exploded with laughter.


    A moment of understanding passing between two warriors.