《Journeys in the Fairworld:  The Brigand of Potham (Complete)》


 A Country Gentleman

    In the northern hemisphere of the Fairworld, there exists a close collection of small kingdoms, assorted duchies and principalities which together form the dwarf continent which has been called Ursiland for the better part of two millennia. Bordered in part by the Hinterlands to the east and the sea to the west, these nations constitute a modestly insular civilization with little contact with others beyond the mixed and peculiar folk of the Hinterlands and their own cultural relatives in the far south beyond the tropics, whom ships reached by following the western coast past the trackless depths of the Hinterlands and the great desert of the world¡¯s dead wastes.


    Tucked in the far west corner of this region is the Kingdom of Gandburgh. And tucked in a corner of Gandburgh, there is the village of Potham.


    Nobody would ever have said that Harlow Barnstabrake was a bad sort of person, or even more selfish than mankind is ordinarily wont. He was a gentleman; generous in his ways, courteous in his disposition, kind when he remembered to be, and sensitive when it was convenient. He was a man highly regarded and well liked by most, nearly worshipped by some, and only really disliked by the jealous sort. For he was handsome, athletic, and a master at positively everything. Even those skills at which he had no particular art or flair, his bounteous personality was sufficient to carry him with distinction before all but the most petty of critics. He was a man who could do anything, and he knew it well. There was no one he could not please, save for those whom nothing could please. The sun that shone upon Harlow was one of a perpetual spring morning; cheerful, virulent, and above all supremely confident in its cool and benevolent domination of all it came upon.


    ¡°No, I can¡¯t say as I really expect to win the footrace again, not this year. Since I¡¯ve been back from the university, you know, I¡¯m not in the form I was. Jenkins is your man. He¡¯s a skinny fellow, no hand at anything heavy mind you, I can lick him any day at wrestling. But he can run like the wind and swim like an eel, and like as not I¡¯ll be hard pressed to make it a really close match. I¡¯ll be so fagged by it all that I¡¯ll cut ¡®cross the finish line looking more like Jenkins¡¯s grandfather!¡± Harlow stooped and waddled about theatrically in a silly impression of the venerable Mr. Jenkins, and the three girls comprising his audience giggled with the most unabashed appreciation. Harlow was a magnet to all persons of popularity in the village, not the least of which was the budding exuberance of the local maidenhood. If any young man in Potham on Heath desired the frequent company of the most amiable of provincial girlish spirits he did well to attach himself to Harlow¡¯s train, for even he could not manage to flirt proficiently with the entirety of his nubile flock at once.


    Harlow grinned in the glow of laughter and applause his performance elicited. He towered magnificently over his feminine entourage, his great boots adding not insignificantly to his already above average height, and the polished brass buttons of his coat and silvered hilt of his hunting sword flashed in the sun with only a bit more brilliance than his keen eyes and dashing smile. Harlow leaned nonchalantly against a nearby fence post as he basked in the well being of life all about him.


    Charlotte, Angela, Mary Eloise, all capital girls; pretty, charming, easy mannered, and shapely. Glancing at the sea of bright faces, profuse compliments, and pronounced decolletage before him, Harlow felt that he would do quite well enough to accede to his mother¡¯s wishes and pick any one of them, or indeed any of the other girls in the village......eventually. Just not quite yet. Harlow was the heir of a yeoman estate of no little size and weight in the neighborhood, and as his mother was quite fond of reminding him, the son of Harlow Ethelridge Barnstabrake II was in all probability positively the most eligible bachelor in the county. And Harlow wished to keep it that way. It was a grand life, and he liked it.


    Bidding a cordial adieu to his trio of damsels, Harlow made his way further into the village. The vicar wanted him to sing in the madrigal at the upcoming festivals. Of course, he was no great singer, as Harlow would freely admit, but the vicar and his wife were insistent that they couldn¡¯t possibly exclude young Harlow. He could do the ¡®tra la la¡¯s¡¯ in the chorus.


    Rehearsal was at the rectory at eleven O¡¯Clock. That left comfortable time enough to pop into the Arms for a pint of bitter and a chat or two with the innkeeper Mrs. Wilberforce or perhaps the Honorable Gareth Larch, if such a capital conversationalist also happened to be stopping by to lend a liberal ear to anyone who might yield loquacious diversion, which is just the sort of audience Harlow liked best. Harlow whistled a dance tune and twirled his walking stick a bit as he strode up to the tavern and skipped over the threshold.


    ¡°What-ho, dame Wilberforce, what-ho! Have anything drinkable in the house?¡±


    There was an uncomfortable silence in the public room, and Harlow suddenly had the feeling that his entrance had rather not come off. Hanging up his hat, he made his way to the bar.


    ¡°Morning, Mrs. Wilberforce. A pint of bitter, if you please.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll please me well enough to serve you, Mr. Barnstrabrake, unlike some.¡± The matron Wilberforce punctuated her remark with a significant look to a corner of the room, and proceeded in tones inadequately subdued. ¡°We have foreigners here today, Mr. Barnstrabrake. That greasy fellow, Mr. Gates, he¡¯s been to the village now and again. He always pays his bills, but often in queer coin and sometimes a year or two late. Not that I¡¯m complaining, mind ye. He¡¯s generous with the interest. But I prefer customers to be more reliable, and I don¡¯t hold with foreigners, especially Hinterland folk.¡±


    Harlow followed Mrs. Wilberforce¡¯s censured looks to a darkened booth in the corner of the room. The morning sun did not seem to stream through the windows quite so well there, and in the gloom there sat a tall, lithe man smoking a white clay pipe, his feet propped indecorously upon the seat across from him. He seemed familiar to Harlow, and he¡¯d certainly heard of the vagabond Mr. Gates. He¡¯d been an irregular curiosity for many years, turning up at odd intervals and staying for a few days at most, sometimes engaging in eccentric business that left the local merchants scratching their heads, other times meeting with other queer folk of his own ilk, and sometimes he would loiter for days at a time and appear to do absolutely nothing at all, except perhaps to wander the countryside and startle the farmers with his outlandish appearance and peculiar manners. Harlow, however, had never to his memory so much as seen the man before now, much less spoken to him. Having recently completed his two years book learning at Fordham and grand tour of the metropolis, it seemed to Harlow that he would do well to continue furthering his ever expanding standing as an educated man of the world, and engage the itinerant in a brief chat. It would make a splendid topic for conversation over tea, as the young ladies were theatrically terrified of Gates and were wont to exchange the most harrowingly dubious tales about the man.


    ¡°Morning, good sir! Fine day to have been travelling a long way.¡±


    The man mechanically cocked a dark, glittering eye at Harlow.


    ¡°Forgive me sir, but as I have done the courtesy of ignoring you, I would have expected that you would return in kind and ignore me. But no matter, the damage has been done. Pray take a seat!¡±


    The man Gates gestured offhandedly, but did not remove his feet from the seat across from him. After an awkward pause, Harlow pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down.


    ¡°You have traveled a long way to come here, I understand.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. It¡¯s a full twenty paces to my room, not including the stairs. Do you always drink before eleven o¡¯clock?¡±


    ¡°Eh? Oh, right. I thought I¡¯d stop by for a bit of refreshment after coming down from the house.¡±


    ¡°Ah? Yes, I suppose you must have walked the better part of two miles unpaved road. Don¡¯t be surprised, I travel a great deal and can tell from a man¡¯s boots how long he¡¯s been walking. Besides, there is not a house of your quality within a mile and a quarter of the village. Barnstabrake junior, is it not?¡±


    ¡°I....I say, what makes you think so?¡±


    ¡°Well, if you¡¯re uncertain as to who you are I can¡¯t help you much, but if you can corroborate me I would hazard that you are the son of Harlow E. Barnstabrake, esq.¡±


    ¡°I say! Well, I mean yes, I am, but how the devil...¡±


    ¡°I have a flawless memory for faces. I bought a mare from your father last year, and you look exactly like him, with just a bit more height and considerably less waistline, and a slight bulge to the nose that probably betrays your mother¡¯s side of the family.¡±


    ¡°What do you know of my mother¡¯s family?¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all, except that they might have a nose that your father¡¯s side does not. Did you want something?¡±


    ¡°Ah, well, I suppose not. Just looking for a friendly chat.¡±


    ¡°Did you find one?¡±


    ¡°Frankly, sir, I¡¯m not quite sure.¡±


    ¡°I have that effect on people, especially when I am deliberate about it.¡±


    Stillness hung upon the last comment. Momentarily at a loss, Harlow took a moment to observe his enigmatic companion.


    The man was perhaps slightly taller than Harlow himself, more lithe and sinewy of build. He was bald, and what hair remained was long, black and unkempt, beginning about the crown and ending irregularly just above the shoulders. He was unfashionably bearded, not unlike a sailor yet his beard was kept very short in a way which highlighted the man¡¯s sharp, raptor like features. His eyes were keen and piercing, giving the impression of missing nothing. A thin smile played on the man¡¯s lips, which upon speaking betrayed teeth which were not the most orderly endowed to a healthy mouth.


    It was the alien who at length broke the silence.


    ¡°Well then, how is Mr. Barnstabrake Sr? Was he ever knighted?¡±


    ¡°Er, no. Not yet, anyway. He was passed over last season, but he¡¯s hopeful that the College of Arms will take another look at his case this year.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure they shall. Your father seemed to me an excellent candidate for the Gandish nobility, and the government will most certainly be delighted to accept his arming commission. How many men would he be expected to quarter?¡±


    ¡°Well, a knight of the realm must at a minimum furnish and provision a full company at all times.¡±


    ¡°Doubtless your father already has a contract in mind?¡±


    ¡°Father is hoping to get a contract with an incorporated regiment. They charge a premium but generally manage themselves, so in the long run professionals are much cheaper and less troublesome than were my father to raise the troops himself as part of the territorial army.¡±


    ¡°To be expected. The next time I find myself in the metropolis I may drop a line with Colonel Drakenhart, chief of the Variburg Lictors. He¡¯s an old friend.¡±


    ¡°The Variburg Lictors?¡±


    ¡°Quite. Their men are drawn mostly from the Hinterlands, and they¡¯re a well experienced lot. They should give your father an excellent reputation.¡±


    ¡°Hinterlands regiments have a reputation of their own that I¡¯m not sure father is anxious to acquire by association.¡±


    ¡°Ah, well if you wish merely niceties I¡¯m afraid Hinterlanders are not always to be your preference.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you from the Hinterlands, sir?¡±


    ¡°I see my reputation precedes me. Properly speaking yes, and properly speaking no. I¡¯m a rambler and I¡¯m not from anywhere really, but all things considered I suppose I have ultimately spent the larger part of my life somewhere or other in the Hinterlands. Things somehow always manage to draw me back there, one way or the other.¡±


    ¡°Tell me sir, are the Hinterlands really as wild and primitive as they say?¡±


    ¡°Far less so and far more so, of course.¡±


    ¡°You speak in riddles.¡±


    ¡°Always. It makes things more interesting, and keeps prying young bucks befuddled. Good morning.¡±


    Gates arose, and taking a firm bite on the end of his pipe he strode over to one of the windows, flung it open, and stepping clear through to the street was gone.


    Harlow found himself staring blankly at the now empty site of this remarkable exit while Mrs. Wilberforce sputtered into a shocked fusilade of indignant outrage at the unprecedented spectacle.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Potham on Heath was a quiet and respectable place, where little more extraordinary ever occurred beyond the excesses of a transient rake or the odd occurance of thievery. And when a person did do anything exceedingly peculiar in public, remark on the event was to be made for easily a fortnight after. And anyone who was a witness to any event of eccentricity was to find himself the central source of intelligence for the whole of an inquisitive community, a position which Harlow now found himself to most agreeably occupy.


    By the time he had managed to escape the clutches of the Vicar, the Vicar¡¯s wife, and the ceaseless refrain of ¡°The Nymphs and Fauns Did Merrily Dance that Day¡±, the peculiar behavior of the ever mysterious Mr. Gates was a leading topic of conversation, and Harlow found himself a sought after authority.


    ¡°Did he really just get up like that and step through the window? Did he even apologize or anything?¡±


    ¡°Was he in any sort of a terrific hurry? Perhaps there was something terribly important he needed to do at that moment?¡±


    ¡°If he were in such a hurry, wouldn¡¯t he have, you know, gone into the back yard, to the shed?¡±


    ¡°Lizzy!¡±


    ¡°Well, he might have needed to use to the necessary.¡±


    ¡°Lizzy, don¡¯t be vulgar! Oh Mr. Barnstabrake, do you have any notion as to why Mr. Gates should have behaved in so peculiar a fashion?¡±


    ¡°Oh, impossible to say, my dear Miss Carlyle, impossible to say. I¡¯ll say though, he was mighty cool about it. Just took up his pipe and stepped right on through, like this.¡±


    ¡°Oh Mr. Barnstabrake, you do a marvelous impression of Mr. Gates! Although, I¡¯ve never seen him, except once I think--¡±


    ¡°I bet he¡¯s a smuggler or something, and had to leave before the excisemen found him.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, Lizzy, there aren¡¯t any excismen in the village, although do you think he could be a smuggler, Mr. Barnstabrake?¡±


    ¡°He could be anything, my dear Miss Hearst, he could be anything, although I have a mind that he¡¯s more or less a harmless sort. But he¡¯s a strange and peculiar fellow, make no mistake. I¡¯ve had my eye on him for a long time (or at least I¡¯ve heard what people have said about him from time to time). Like I say I don¡¯t see any great harm in the man, but I¡¯ll be watching for him, Miss, make no mistake. You can rely on me (and of course the other lads in the neighborhood as well). We won¡¯t allow any mischief in these parts!¡±


    ¡°Oh, that is so very brave of you to say so, Mr. Barnstabrake, you make me feel so much safer!¡±


    ¡°Fiddlesticks. I still think he¡¯s a smuggler! I¡¯d bet three shillings on it!¡±


    ¡°Lizzy!¡±


    ¡°What if he¡¯s really a Kobald!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, Therese, Kobalds don¡¯t exist.¡±


    ¡°How do you know, just because no one¡¯s ever seen one? Kobalds are magical, you know!¡±


    ¡°But magic doesn¡¯t exist either, as anyone with an education should know. Surely you don¡¯t believe in Kobalds and magic, Mr Barstabrake!¡±


    ¡°Oh no, of course no! Sheer superstition!¡±


    ¡°I hear people in the south study heaps of magic!¡±


    ¡°Yes, I believe the Anachronians do, but they¡¯re peculiar folk, and build far too many machines. I mean, I suppose a steam engine is fine enough so long as it is stationary, but if you buzz around all over the countryside being pulled by one it will churn your brain up a bit, all the vibrations you know.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re so well read, Mr Barnstabrake!¡±


    ¡°I still say he¡¯s a smuggler! I¡¯ll bet six shillings on it!¡±


    ¡°Lizzy!¡±


    As inquisitive and easily animated a place such as Potham could at times be (at least as regards the eccentricities of an enigmatic wayfarer), it still took time for the newest gossip to spread from the highstreet to the outlying houses and manors of the gentry. Nearly a full two miles out of the village proper was Ashpier House, where word of Mr. Gate¡¯s recent antics had yet to come at all.


    The early afternoon found Fanny Howard reclining on the lawn engaged in the most predictable of activities to anyone acquainted with her character: Reading.


    Fanny was a tallish young woman more near thirty than twenty, a prolific reader with a body of knowledge acquired in this way that could readily embarrass any man with a university gown fresh from the tailor. Fanny¡¯s reading was nearly as much an occupation as avocation, for she was unmarried and still at home.


    There were some who considered her too intelligent, others as simply too plain. Fanny was not a woman whose beauty was of striking character, nor was hers a personality of any easy magnetism. Her intellect was imposing and her charm closely kept, and she had never managed to cultivate the art of flirtation. There were indeed many who dismissed her as merely a snobbish intellectual with no interest beyond weighty books, bland watercolors, and a well worn pianoforte. Certainly, she must have no interest in men.


    But this was untrue. However there were not many men in her acquaintance whose intellect and character were such that Fanny felt were at all suitable, and of those even fewer who were unmarried and had not already adopted her as a sort of favored granddaughter.


    And then, of course, there were a few splendid fellows who were very charming and terribly fond of her, so much so that to a man they had appointed themselves her brothers. They would come to her for advice on how best to claim the attention of the popular girls in the neighborhood, and she had aided them in such endeavors with sufficient wisdom such that most of them were married by now.


    Likewise (and despite popular perception to the contrary) books were hardly her preferred companions. But these days they were often the only ones that were really left to her. For many years her greatest companion of all had been her elder sister, who was regarded as the finest beauty in the county when she had her coming out, and the two of them had shared many happy times together, often at the center of masculine attention. But she had been married now some seven years to a knight who lived nearly fifteen miles from Potham, and visits were infrequent. Second only to her sister were her three younger brothers, but the eldest of these was recently off to university and the others were barely containable lads of nine and ten.


    The volume Fanny perused was an old one, the leaves stiff and crackling, the bindings loose and askew. A hundred and fifty year old printing of an even older publication, its prose and style were as quaint and eccentric as were its contents.


    ¡®It hath been commonly shewn that the Kobalde will shunne the lightening of day, seeking himself instead his Crevices and Moundes wherein he keepeth his wares and mindeth his tyme till the ryse of the nexte moone. Yet he will not venture forth when the moone is new, for he still needeth light to see by, nore will he venture the moone that is full, that in its lightening he may be dyscovered. But fear ye most the Half Moone, for then doth the Kobalde venture with the gretest boldness, and taketh him the yew lamb and the gedling and perform all manner of mischiev. Keep ye yer goods and stock close and bind thy doors, for the Kobalde may even steal ye Babes and Lasses from thyer beds and take them to their laire to be be devoured at tea.¡±


    Jolly sort of reading for bedtime, to be sure. Fanny was only ten years old when she first picked up this particular volume, and even wading through its peculiar language she managed to frighten herself sufficiently that she hardly slept for a month (and neither did her sister, for there is nothing to a horrid tale if it cannot be retold in proper drama).


    The book was closed gently. Fanny adored the history and folklore of her people and the library was full of it. Her father, Sir Walter Howard, scoffed at much of it as so much frivolous nonsense. Be he was proud of his lineage nonetheless, and the family was an ancient one, boasting generations of staunch yeomen and retainers of several earldoms and not a few knights of their own, among whose exalted ranks Sir Walter himself had been so honored to be numbered for the last six years, much to the adulation and jealousy of not a few of his neighbors. Three complete suits of armor were displayed prominently in the hall, one thought to be the suit of Sir Horace Howard (The Bold), another somewhat battered one with a mismatched helmet belonging to Sir Winston Howard (the last of the family to have ever entered the lists personally), and a new one that Sir Walter had commissioned for himself only last year. The trio mounted a hollow guard that served to remind all and sundry of the family¡¯s tradition and significance. According to official opinion, there was nothing more splendid or romantic than a knight. The ages of chivalry were the pinnacle of honor, gallantry and adventure. Every child knew the exploits of the heroic kings and the Knights of the Golden Wheel of the mythic past, told and retold by parents and grandparents who knew the stories themselves by heart. Fair damsels, dark castles, and terrible beasts abounded in legend, while history itself was no less wanting of chivalric glories on the field and in the lists. Of course, nowadays noblemen did not generally conduct their hereditary duties in person, carrying their responsibilities instead as patrons of professional regiments. The tumultuous brilliance of the past had been reduced to but an ember of memory, whose light added just a bit of color to the settled, matter-of-fact sort of world which the modern Ursiland had become.


    Fanny folded her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. It was a good life. Not exciting, to be sure, nor particularly exalted, but by any sensible measure it was quite well enough. But Fanny could not quite consider herself a woman entirely satisfied. Perhaps it for was want of a man, a precariously balanced instinct for both wild romance and a tidy household, but while Fanny was no less endowed with such instincts than the next person, she was sufficiently acquainted with life beyond the bound volumes of fiction to be of a mind that there was greater nuance to the question.


    Passion, she had come to believe, is revered because it gives a person the greatest possible sense of purpose, and while this sensation is often as overwhelming as any heat of the body, like the senses themselves it dulls over time and loses its sharpness and virility, and the glorious experience reduces swiftly to a humdrum discipline at best. It is a fire that burns quickly, but if properly tended leaves a bed of coals about which one may solidly forge a life. The purpose remains, but the sensation is less, and mortal men and women are creatures of the flesh who thrive upon what they can grasp, not what eludes them. Love, passion, family, these are not the only worthy purposes to which a human life may cling, but certainly the commonest, for they hold the greatest of primal powers over the human disposition.


    Regardless of these musings, one thing stood clearly to Fanny. It was in any case to her most pronounced that she a woman who was distinctly lacking in any particular purpose.


    To be sure, she did have a few purposes in life, if she thought about it enough or was reminded in some conspicuous way, such as the next moment when she was abruptly assaulted by a pair of diminutive barbarians who pounced upon their sister unannounced: Edward and Peter, ages nine and ten, known to domestic staff by the rueful sobriquet of The Barbarians Howard.


    ¡°Heavens above strike down the both of you! What on earth do you think you¡¯re doing, you savages?¡±


    ¡°Sorry Fanny, but we have such terrific news! We found a toad under the snapdragons and so we simply had to put it in one of the aprons hanging on the clothesline outside the kitchen! I hope it was one of Mrs. Winchester¡¯s, won¡¯t she flustered silly when she finds it!¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s hers that is. It might have belonged to another of the servants. I should feel bad if it were Daisy, do you think it was really one of Daisy¡¯s, Ed? Mother will scold us if we make her cry again or something.¡±


    Fanny gave the boys a stern look.


    ¡°The two of you ought to temper your exuberance or you¡¯ll both wind up hanging in a cage off King¡¯s Dock as pirates! It was very naughty of you to have put it in Mrs. Winchester¡¯s pocket. Now, you both go right back this minute and rescue that poor toad. You can put him in Mr. Stoke¡¯s pocket instead. He needs livening up.¡±


    ¡°I say, I should like it if we were pirates, wouldn¡¯t it all be so jolly exciting! And we would surely escape from any cage! All you need do is pick the lock, that¡¯s what Black Abraham did, he used his quartermaster¡¯s left rib.¡±


    ¡°No he didn¡¯t, that¡¯s a myth. It was a jackdaw¡¯s rib.¡±


    Fanny heaved a sigh.


    ¡°The both of you are far too grisly of mind for gentleman of breeding. And I wouldn¡¯t have needed a poor jackdaw¡¯s rib anyway (or a quartermaster¡¯s rib, for that matter). I would have been sensible and lived a life of honesty, or else kept a sharp saw on my person for just such emergencies.¡±


    ¡°Coo! Now that¡¯s a thought!¡±


    ¡°But surely they¡¯d take it away from you!¡±


    ¡°I would hide it in a compartment in my shoe heel. Now off with you, or I¡¯ll fetch the toad myself and put it in father¡¯s nightcap and claim it was you two that did it.¡±


    The two barbarians scampered obediently off while speculating in animated tones about the possible reactions of Mr. Stokes once his forthcoming doom was fulfilled.


    The interruption by her spirited minor siblings was sufficient to spur Fanny to return to the house. She¡¯d had enough reading for the present and it was nearing luncheon. Besides which, she had half a mind to be in the vicinity so as to witness the jollity when Mr. Stokes discovered there was an amphibian on his person. Sir Walter¡¯s secretary was one of those people whose pomp naturally lent itself to be the subject of humorous escapades on the part of right-minded people. He was a young man who took himself far too seriously for his own good.


    The promised diversion did not materialize at luncheon, as the barbarian horde did not succeed in laying their fiendish trap by that time. Instead, Fanny had to endure the odious felicitations of a most appallingly settled and unperturbed Mr. Stokes. Fanny took comfort in knowing that her diminutive brothers were never daunted by a lack of opportunity; they were tenacious as badgers and would not give up on a good joke unless compelled to do so by superior force.


    Partly from a self imposed sense of obligation and partly from not wishing to endure the twin terrors of being both bored and in the company of Mr. Stokes, Fanny resolved to visit one or two of the tenant farmers after luncheon was over. Sir Walter felt it was unseemly for a woman of the house to involve herself in the functional affairs of the estate, but Fanny was not particularly concerned about her dear father¡¯s sensibilities in this matter, and it was her observation that these regular visits of hers gave her a much clearer understanding of the tenant¡¯s situation than her father¡¯s periodic regal tours of his private realm. And her father was at heart a sufficiently sensible man that he would not infrequently heed his daughter¡¯s word.


    The furthest allotment from the house would have taken the remainder of the afternoon to reach on foot, but Fanny was a good horsewoman and didn¡¯t at all mind taking her mare leaping across the odd hedge and brook, so long as neither of her parents were about to make a fuss. As it was she reached Midge Fuller¡¯s cottage in good time enough, where she found the good yeoman in a bit of a heat.


    ¡°No good relying on the forest wardens, no Miss! No good at all. That¡¯s two lambs this month while those laggards are busy swilling beer with our taxes!¡±


    ¡°Are you sure it was a wolf?¡±


    ¡°Not a wolf, Miss, more like two. And large ones. See?¡± Midge pointed with his cane at a markedly disturbed fenceline.


    ¡°But hasn¡¯t it been years since there¡¯ve been any wolves in Potham?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a mind as they ever really got rid of ¡®em, beggin¡¯ your pardon Miss, not all of ¡®em anyway. But these, these must be a new breed to these parts. By the looks of it, I¡¯d say as I¡¯d never seen or heard of anything the size of ¡®em. I sure as thunder would never want to meet one in the woods, that¡¯s sure for certain Miss. Take care on your ride home, and keep to the roads.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Fuller. I do believe I can outride any wolf, but you are right that it is best to take precautions.¡±


    The conversation shifted to a more mundane discussion on crops and such, and Fanny found herself back at the house in time well enough for tea, where she discovered to her regret that Mr. Stokes had already experienced the genius of her sibling¡¯s enterprising spirits only a short while after she had left. And, to turn minor disappointment to further irritation, not a moment after her return visitors of the more trying sort were announced.


    The Honorable Harlow Barnstabrake II, and son.

 May Day

    Albert Stokes was a smallish sort of man, both in stature and physique.  He attired himself in a manner that was almost painfully respectable in all aspects save for a decidedly unfashionable beard, which in marked contrast to that of the irreputable Mr. Gates, was longish and neatly combed to a waxed point with his upper lip shaved bare.  But despite its eccentricity, in this beard Mr. Stokes took great pride, for he fancied himself a scholar and intellectual aesthete. To be sure, he was well read in the sciences, arts and classics, indeed as well or better than any university educated man of his own age.  But lacking such a prestigious education left Mr. Stokes with perhaps an unfavorable sensation that he required a distinct air and appearance to reenforce his greater than average connection to the wisdom of the ancients. To Fanny at least, the entire effect was quite to its purpose, for despite his full colored hair and smooth features he still gave all appearance to being every bit as drab and ancient as the most venerable of Reman masters.


    Mr. Stokes sat at his ease and regarded his companions over a delicately sipped tea.  He had no objections to the Barnstabrakes personally, other than the fact that he disliked them intensely, both father and son.  In them, Mr. Stokes was exposed to everything which he found wholly objectionable. Rustic, bucolic self importance with just a thin veneer of education worth only the money paid to attach the name of an ancient university to one¡¯s reputation, compounded with a bull headed determination to further inflict their importance on society by seeking ever greater honors and recognition.  Mr. Stokes was not quite certain which he loathed more, the blustering elder Barnstabrake and his enormous girth with all the ego, deportment, and moustache to match, or the charming, athletic young Harlow with his repulsively smooth manners and his odious ability to impress all people with his magnificence. All people except those of Mr. Stoke¡¯s own piercing intellect and judge of character, that is.  And Miss Howard¡¯s.


    Mr. Stokes gratefully redirected his gaze to rest fondly upon the younger daughter of his employer.  With all his provincial defects, the excellent Sir Walter had done well in raising this splendid young woman.  Her restrained, self possessed beauty and grace elegantly matched her intelligence, which Mr. Stokes held in the highest esteem as being very nearly the equal of his own.  Although both a knight and his employer, Sir Walter¡¯s state in life was not so greatly removed from his own modest respectability that Mr. Stokes did not disavow a strongly favorable partiality for Miss Howard.  In manners, wit, station and age, Miss Howard was to Mr. Stokes in every way a most amiable equal.


    The elder Mr. Barnstabrake was pacing to and fro as he spoke in a strident voice, his hands folded behind his back (though barely able to reach each other around his spacious frame).


    ¡°No, no, I say, these wolves cannot be tolerated!  Can¡¯t have wolves running about, mucking into everybody¡¯s business, eatin¡¯ the chickens and all.  Worse than foxes. We were well done to clear ¡®em all out before, and rotten sloppy that we didn¡¯t clean out the lot of ¡®em after all!  I¡¯m thinking of organizing a special committee. We¡¯ll petition the Sheriff to recognize us as a posse and we¡¯ll root up the whole countryside till every blasted wolf is cleared off properly!¡±


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t wonder if there would be anything left of the countryside once you were finished, Mr. Barnstabrake.¡±


    ¡°Quite, Miss Howard, quite, we¡¯d do a thorough job of it, by jingo!  Not a stone left unturned, not a shrub unbeaten, that¡¯s what I say! A Barnstrabrake never does things by halves, eh Harlow my boy?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes, quite right father.  I dare say that I wouldn¡¯t fancy a bit of wolf hunting.  I¡¯m sorry, Miss Howard, I do hope all this hard talk isn¡¯t frightening you, eh?¡±


    ¡°Not a bit of it sir, unless it is a fear that you and your companions will flatten every house in the neighborhood in your exuberance.¡±


    ¡°Oh...¡±


    ¡°Eh?  Oh, I say!  We¡¯re not fools, Miss Howard, I can assure you of that.  No half-cocked fools amongst us, we¡¯ve got a solid grip on the desperation of the situation, I can assure you Miss.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Of course.  Besides, there are other reasons to form a posse, not just wolves.  They say Black Abraham is still at large, and the last reported sighting was in Quillsgate, not fifteen miles from here.  Fifteen miles! There¡¯s a lot of shifty folk passing through these parts lately, like that fellow Gates. Did young Harlow tell you about that?  Tell them, Harlow!¡±


    ¡°Indeed, it was a most extraordinary...¡±


    ¡°...Stepped clean through a window he did!¡±


    Fanny stifled a smile.  ¡°Goodness, that is quite a cause for concern, Mr. Barnstabrake.  I wonder you don¡¯t write to the Home Office to dispatch a regiment.¡±


    ¡°A steady notion, to be sure, Miss Howard, but there is no need to call the military from their grave duties guarding our frontiers.  This is a matter for the citizens to handle. It¡¯s high time we stood up and showed everyone what¡¯s what!¡±


    ¡°Indeed, Mr. Barnstabrake.  Wolves, pirates, eccentric vagrants, what¡¯s the county coming to?  I¡¯m sure we will all do well to entrust ourselves to your efforts.¡±


    ¡°Very kind of ye Miss, very kind.  I¡¯m sure you will all notice the effects of our labors once we¡¯ve got a solid start.¡±


    ¡°As will the College of Arms also take notice, I assume¡±.  Mr. Stokes uttered his interjection inaudibly, except perhaps to Miss Howard, as he chuckled into his tea.   Ms. Howard, however, appeared not to have heard the witticism.


    Harlow leaned comfortably against the sitting room mantlepiece.  He had only just begun to walk home from the village and was enjoying a pleasant chat with the Honorable Gareth Larch, that ever amiable listener, when his father had come tearing up the road in the carriage from the opposite direction and insisted that Harlow join him.  The senior Barnstabrake had concocted some new scheme or other, forming the local gentry into a posse to cope with the harrowing events newly facing the countryside, such as the appearance of wolves and the escape of a notorious pirate in the next county over. All very interesting and Harlow would be delighted to take some position of leadership or other once the whole thing got going, but at the moment he really rather wished his father would leave him out at this stage.  The Harris sisters were expected for tea, and Harlow was rather keen to have been there. Ah well, couldn¡¯t be helped! Must support the old man in his fancies.


    Of course, the recent activities of Black Abraham were certainly cause for notice.  The man had long been one of the better known pirates, with a suitably grisly reputation, but he had become a positive terror to the whole of the nation two years ago when he raided a country house a full twenty-five miles inland and abducted the daughter of the Second Lord of the Navy from her own bed, with  the entire band subsequently escaping to the coast with their captive in tow. The whole nation trembled in the sudden knowledge that nowhere was safe from this particular brigand of the sea.


    To terrorize an entire nation may speak well for a pirate in the annals of literature (so often published post-mortem), but it is ultimately a foolhardy enterprise in practice.  Just as it was stirred to fear, so too was the nation stirred to purpose, and the power of the king¡¯s navy was brought to bear upon the head of Black Abraham. He held his captive for a year while he attempted to extract ransom while avoiding the marauding fleets dogging his trail at every turn.  Yet the exploit proved a hopeless one, and the dreaded pirate was doomed from the start. In the end he was cornered at last, his captive liberated, his crew slain, and himself sentenced to die in the gibbet. But fate had a stroke yet to play, for the pirate escaped his death cell in the dead of night, having picked the lock with a bone.  A full eight months had passed since, and though there were varied and numerous reports from every part of the country, there was no one who could say they really had a solid notion as to the whereabouts of the terrible pirate.


    However, the idea that Black Abraham or any pirate should seek refuge in a place such as Potham on Heath struck Harlow as distinctly implausible.  Such a man would seem to be far more naturally inclined to take to the sea and fly to some exotic place or other. Unless of course he¡¯d managed to make all the exotic places he knew of equally hostile to himself.  It seemed a dratted nuisance to be a pirate, and Harlow wondered why anyone would ever bother to seek any sort of life of adventure. It is a far better thing to spend one¡¯s life in a comfortable village with a solid reputation for merely talking well about the subject, a skill which ran deeply in the redoubtable Barnstabrake line.


    Harlow found himself studying the younger Ms. Howard.  She was a handsome enough girl in her own way. In fact, if you took the time to look at her she was as handsome as any girl in the neighborhood, with as fine a face and figure as any man could reasonably wish for.  But besides being a good six years his senior, she was bookish, and prone to saying things that a chap had a bit of a bother to come up with a suitable answer for. She had a reputation as being peevish and a snob, but Harlow couldn¡¯t say as he quite saw that.  She was alright, just a bit on the sharp side, rather like a thistle, and Harlow was inclined to prefer roses instead, with all the thorns plucked off. Meanwhile, though Mr. Stokes may have held rather severe views of Harlow, for his part Harlow had in turn no opinion whatsoever of Mr. Stokes.  He hardly ever noticed the man, and would have been hard pressed to remember exactly who he was. But that was alright, for if Harlow had known how much Mr. Stokes disliked him he could not have found a better way of leveling the score. For such complete, oblivious dismissal would have infuriated Mr. Stokes far more than any insult by word or deed.  That is assuming of course that Mr. Stokes had the capacity to believe that anyone might ever overlook him.


    As it was, the visit was fruitless in its stated intent, for Sir Walter himself was not at home, and after the obligatory pleasantries and posturing were complete, the Barnstabrakes were off to elucidate the next neighbor with Mr. Barnstabrake Senior¡¯s latest scheme, leaving in their wake an equal measure of relief among the inhabitants of Ashpier House, save for the Barbarians Howard, who held Harlow in the highest regard in all save that he wasn¡¯t a pirate or highwayman or of some other proper profession befitting a gentleman of his standing.


    Few people in the neighborhood were of a mind to pay much heed to the elder Mr. Barnstabrake¡¯s heroic schemes.  It had been several months since the escape of Black Abraham had been really fresh news, and despite a recent report in a place as semi-local as Quillsgate, not a few felt that Mr. Barnstabrake was rather a bit overdue in his enthusiasm and speculated to themselves that in all likelihood a recent rejection from the College of Arms weighed more heavily on Mr. Barnstabrake¡¯s mind than the activities of any pirate.  Neither were the activities of a few wolves of any urgent concern, nor the peculiarities of an otherwise harmless if unsightly vagabond. There were far too many pressing things about to be bothered with heroism.


    May Day was fast approaching.  The fact that it was early June was not a disqualifying condition, as May Day was celebrated four times a year at the very least in Gandburgh, sometimes five, depending on which day of the week the actual first of May happened to fall that year.  This year the Queen of May was one Miss Agatha Watson, a gigglish girl of seventeen who had simply known that she was destined to one day be May Queen.  In fact, there was not a small number of people who wondered in passing what on earth the young lady would find to do with herself for the rest of her life once this May was over.  Meanwhile, it was her most pleasurable duty to decoratively preside over each of the four (or five) May Days along with her perpetual consort, Robin Hood. Unlike the may queen herself, a different young man was selected to play Robin Hood for each celebration, and this coming Third May Day it was to be Harlow who would don the green mask.  This was to be expected, of course, as other than his two years at the university there had not been a single year since he was twelve that Harlow had not been selected to play Robin Hood for at least one of the May Days.


    A May Day technically lasted two days, the first being an all day affair of feasts, games, and frollicking that left everyone far too exhausted to have a ball in the evening, so that was held on the following night.  This particular Third May Day was in the end a distinct disappointment, as it rained rather dreadfully, so everyone was keen to make up for it at the ball, which was being hosted this year by Sir Gerard Botts of Wingham Manor.  A massive tent had been staked out on the grounds, which were still damp from the preceding day¡¯s rain, but that couldn¡¯t be helped. However, there was at least a particularly spacious wooden dance floor which had been erected in the center of the tent, which made up for things a bit.


    The Third May Day ball was always an egalitarian affair in which the whole of the neighborhood could participate, gentry and peasantry alike.  Only a swollen rank of domestic servants remained enthralled, and these were rewarded for their pains with a purse and a day off each, so that was no matter.  It was a time when the usual social barriers were lifted, and providing everyone was well behaved, served to forge a common unity between all persons of every rank that would last as a nodding courtesy until at least early July. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    It was traditional for the gentry not to attend the Third Ball in quite their finest attire, but to dress more simply so as not to outshine the peasants.  They generally managed this well enough anyway, but their dress remained more subdued nonetheless, in marked contrast to the other party, who made it their business to assemble the finest and most elaborate ensembles they could muster.  And of course, the May Queen herself was always sumptuously attired, and frequently quite fancifully so.


    Miss Watson was radiant as much with spirit and delight as with her ornaments and natural physical perfections, which were displayed to no mean advantage.  She had a different gown prepared for each of the May Days and each May Day ball. Tonight she wore a loose, pale green chiton styled after the manner of the ancients, of far too thin a material with far too many openings here and there for the liking of a good many of the more mature members of the company.  Harlow however found the entire impression wholly to his complete satisfaction....or dissatisfaction for that matter. A year ago he would hardly have noticed the girl, but here in the candlelight with her eyes sparkling beneath her golden curls and her skin smooth and warm against the revealing cloth, Harlow knew he could never have truly known satisfaction or happiness before or since.  He was in love. Or at least he thought he might possibly be so for the moment.


    The only slight hiccup in the matter was the blasted Robin Hood mask.  It was an elaborate affair of sewn cloth leaves that the vicar¡¯s wife had made especially for dear Harlow on this occasion, and it itched and tickled horribly, and Harlow had the distinct impression that it made him look silly.  But none of the girls seemed to mind, especially Miss Watson, and that was all that mattered.


    The dancing was merry if haphazard, the selection of dances being somewhat simple and limited due to the mixed nature of the company.  There were few wallflowers to be found, and even those young women who could not entice partners simply danced with one another in the informality of the circumstances.


    Fanny, however, stood in the periphery.  She was not asked to dance often, and one can only dance with one¡¯s male relatives so much, and she was further sufficiently self conscious that she would not have stood up with one of her female friends.  It is well enough for the younger and more popular girls to be so spirited, but for Fanny it seemed as much an admission that she was less than desired.


    Fanny was attempting to adopt a philosophical attitude towards the situation.  But somehow it didn¡¯t quite seem to work.


    ¡°Quite a spectacle.  One doesn¡¯t usually see the uppish folk of any people kicking heels with tradesmen and the tillers of soil.  Does it all work out well in the end?¡±


    Under the casual nature of the circumstances, it was not to be unexpected to be addressed by a stranger without a proper introduction, but Fanny found herself taken aback nonetheless to be so suddenly accosted.  The voice had come from behind her, and she turned to see the most extraordinary gentleman.


    He was tall, bald, long haired and bearded.  He was dressed cleanly and neatly but in a peculiar manner of distinctly foreign appearance.  And in gross contradiction to all propriety of the circumstance, he wore a large, archaic looking sword.


    Informality and rudeness (whether intentional or not) were always to be met with formality and civility.  That was the way of the Howards. Fanny curtsied regally.


    ¡°I believe we have not been introduced, sir.¡±


    ¡°Of course we haven¡¯t, as I¡¯m technically uninvited.  I understand the ball is open to all residents of the neighborhood, but my status as such is most distinctly dubious.  Will you permit me to introduce myself, or will I have to permit myself?¡±


    ¡°I see I have no choice one way or the other, sir.¡±


    ¡°Quite right, you have seen through my stratagem.  Shall we dance?¡±


    ¡°You are quite forward sir, so permit me to be forward also and decline.¡±


    ¡°Splendid suggestion, as I don¡¯t know the dance anyway.  And your name was?¡±


    ¡°No names have as yet passed between us, sir.¡±


    ¡°I see you are not one to miss the obvious, my Lady.  That¡¯s frequently uncommon.¡±


    ¡°As is discourtesy in this country, sir.¡±


    ¡°Ah, so you have perceived that I am a foreigner.  Do you object to foreigners?¡±


    ¡°I have met an insufficient number of them to make any judgement on the matter, but you sir are most distinctly swaying my opinion.  Goodnight, sir.¡±


    Fanny expected this rebuke sufficient to convince this rude and eccentric person to depart from her presence.  But he did not, instead remaining rooted where he stood, gazing gravely at the crowd of dancers.


    ¡°Hmm...there¡¯s certainly an awful lot of people here.¡±


    ¡°Nearly the whole neighborhood, sir.¡±


    ¡°All here at once?  Isn¡¯t anyone minding their homes?¡±


    ¡°This is a celebration for the whole community, I doubt anyone would stay home tonight if they could help it.¡±


    ¡°Fools.¡±


    And with that, the man departed.


    This quizzical encounter left Fanny a bit unsettled.  An innate sensibility to remove herself as much as possible from the site of this intrusive occurrence led her to seek a different corner of the room, preferably in some confident company.  This manifested itself in the form of one Miss Bellingham.


    Abigayle Bellingham was certainly not one of one of Fanny¡¯s more intimate friends, but she was more than an acquaintance to be sure, and Fanny lost no time in relating her recent exceptional encounter.


    ¡°What a spirit!  I dare say he was moved by chaotic forces indeed.  Do you quite feel that you are still within the feral vibrations?  Let us both refresh ourselves with pure thoughts, for the Dispirited Winds may be wafting both of us!¡±


    Fanny was quickly regretting her present choice of confidant.  Miss Bellingham was a splendid young woman in her own way, but she was an Aesthete of the more pronounced sort and held curious ideas about the universe, an odd mix of ancient superstition and modern speculation, with the only unifying thread being that it was all occult and most typical of her adopted strata.  She was attired in the classical Greco-Reman fashion popular amongst her set, a baggy chiton of subdued tone and ill fit that may have spoken volumes about the purity of her philosophical sensibilities but little indeed of her attentiveness to public perception. On a May Day such fanciful dress was a bit less jarring, particularly this evening as the May Queen was herself similarly garbed (if to daringly superior advantage), but Miss Bellingham espoused such fashion at nearly every formal occasion, and even when attired in day wear her eccentricity became quite apparent the moment she addressed any given topic.  Like Fanny, she too was unmarried, but Miss Bellingham had long expressed that she was wed to Sensibility, and to all appearances was content with this circumstance.


    Fanny remained distinctly curious about the peculiar interloper, and finding Miss Bellingham¡¯s confidence to have been predictably insignificant so far as concerned the acquisition of information of any solidarity, she began to make enquiries elsewhere amongst the company.  It was in doing so that Fanny at length discovered the identity of the strange man who had so boldly invaded her privacy.


    He was none other than that very character so recently made infamous for his peculiar deportment as regards first floor windows, the vagabond Mr. Gates.


    The climax of the evening was now approaching: The traditional Abduction of the May Queen by the Outlaw Robin Hood.  It was the task of the young man playing the role of the outlaw to navigate a series of obstacles set by the Sheriff¡¯s Men and escape with the May Queen as his prisoner, to return in five minutes or so at which time a special cake of honey glaze and walnuts was served to everybody.  The particulars of the ritual varied from one village to the next, but followed a similar pattern throughout most of the country. In Potham, it began with the entrance of the Sheriff¡¯s Men, eight men of the neighborhood dressed in colorful capes, feathered hats and masks, beating tambourines and small drums and blowing small horns.  They would separate Robin Hood and the May Queen and then perform a dance in a ring about Robin Hood which consisted largely of vigorous foot stomping to the rhythm of the tambourines, drums, and petty insults hurled at Robin Hood. After this, the Sheriff¡¯s Men would lay a pattern of wooden rings on the floor in a path leading up to where the May Queen was now seated.  Robin Hood was expected to leap from one ring to another while the Sheriff¡¯s man guarding each ring would attempt to pull it away with a cane. The event would last until the young man playing Robin Hood managed to either reach the throne of the May Queen or had taken a sufficient number of bumps and falls that he was deemed to have made a noble effort, hopefully before the poor young man was particularly injured in any way.


    Harlow was well prepared to be sporting about the matter.  It made no difference, he would either pass the test or fail it magnificently, but he was rather a bit more keen to pass, if for no other reason than he was thoroughly delighted at the prospect of snatching up Miss Watson¡¯s delicate form in his arms and speeding her out the door.  Who knows, he might even be able to steal a kiss or two before they returned. It was the opinion of the young men in the village that the time from the abduction itself to the presentation of the Abduction Cake was calculated to give the celebratory couple just enough time for a whopping great snog or two outside while no one was looking but not enough time for anything more scandalous than that.  Harlow had the opportunity to put this theory to the test on more than one occasion, and had determined for himself that it was quite sound. However, the pleasure of the outcome was dependent on the mutual enthusiasm of the May Queen herself. Harlow recalled seeing young Wilson Bates staggering back from the abduction with a profusely bleeding nose one Third May Day ball many years ago, and ever since the poor fellow had been referred to as Crook Nose.  This recollection dampened Harlow¡¯s expectations a bit, but Miss Watson did seem a spirited sort so perhaps things might wind up exceedingly pleasantly after all.


    The Sheriff¡¯s Men had begun their ritual, dancing gleefully about Harlow with a colorful assortment of pointed personal observations which they had been saving up all year.  They then brought out their hoops, which were newly made and a quite bit smaller than usual. It was cheerfully explained that this was a decision made in light of Harlow¡¯s renowned athleticism and previous successes, and he was likewise informed with equal cheer that there would be no letting him off this year.  They would all be exceeding their very best, just for him.


    Standing in a corner, Mr. Stokes observed these proceedings with absolute distain.  The shameless rusticity of it all was only surpassed in offense to Mr. Stokes¡¯s cultured sensitivities by the younger Barnstabrake¡¯s own debonair smugness through it all.  The laughter and gleeful quips of the whole assembly at this spectacle was equally revolting, and Mr. Stokes was only prevented from extracting himself from the midst of this unseemly debauchery by his own cultivated sense of propriety and deportment that bound him to remain and bear it with all the appearance of cheerfulness so as not to be unjustly considered an unpleasant prig.


    Young Barnstabrake was attempting the first ring now.  The man demeaning himself in a mask and copiously feathered hat nimbly plucked the ring out of the way in the last instant and Harlow very nearly laid himself on the floor.  As it was, he just managed to balance himself on one foot and with a gallant laugh attempted the ring again, and this time Mr. Stokes was thoroughly disappointed as Harlow succeeded.


    So it continued with the next ring and then the others, with Harlow missing on the first try but making it on the second or third, and never actually quite falling to the floor.  In good time enough, he was at the last ring. The assembly was now particularly loud and obnoxious as the last man engaged in a frantic contest with Harlow, and Mr. Stokes felt that he could surely bear no more when all at once Harlow got a foot into the ring and then made a mad dash for the throne to the cheers of the crowd.  With a most low class whoop, Harlow scooped up a hysterically gleeful Miss Watson and made for the door, and in utter disgust Mr. Stokes at last averted his eyes. There was only so much a gentleman could do to be amiable.


    There was an avalanche of voices as everyone related excitedly to one an other the details of the diversion they had all witnessed together not a moment before as everyone awaited the return of the triumphant couple and the subsequent cake and punch.  Girls who were ardently cheering their hero not a moment ago were now grumbling among themselves about how lucky Miss Watson was and how she always seemed to get everything to go her way, and wasn¡¯t she so dreadfully smug and wouldn¡¯t it be just like her to go ahead and just let Harlow kiss her, and she simply must tell them all about it when she came back or they would never forgive her.  Many a young man had suddenly become equally severe in their observations that Harlow was far too lucky a stiff and that they all ought to come up with some splendid prank or other for him on his return.  The matrons and clergy of the company had commenced a discussion of the scandalously improper way the young people were behaving and how they really ought not to let it happen again next year, while mature gentlemen caroused separately to one another about the good old days.


    The conversation was beginning to settle to a more stable level of animation as the wait for the return of Harlow and Miss Watson lengthened.  A few moments of indulgence was alright, but this was getting a bit much. It really was not at all appropriate for them to be gone so long, and it was suggested that someone ought to go out and fetch them in before the pair had been alone outdoors improperly long.  It could become a scandal.


    The air was beginning to become rather tense.  Surely they would be back in a moment. They would not dare run off together while the whole neighborhood was awaiting their return, it would be disgrace that would ruin them both.  Perhaps they had merely lost track of time, which was quite innocent enough but the vicar had better go and fetch them all the same.


    The vicar was dispatched and the tension began to ease a bit.  Of course, the young couple must have been engaged in harmless conversation and the vicar would bring them back any moment.  But where now was the vicar? He seemed to be taking his time returning. Surely he hadn¡¯t discovered anything improper?


    Abruptly, the vicar himself burst back into the assembly.  A tide of voices arose and it took a few moments before anybody could get any sense from the terrified old gentleman.  But soon enough the elderly cleric managed to communicate his shocking intelligence:


    Harlow Barnstabrake was lying on his face in the drive, a terrible bloody wound on the back of his head.  And Miss Watson was nowhere to be found.

 High Crimes and Misdemeanors

    Harlow lay staring at the ceiling, wondering to himself just precisely what it was that he¡¯d done wrong.


    He really was a good enough chap in his own way.  In fact, if one were to be vain about the matter and pay heed to public opinion, he really was distinctly splendid.  He always did his best to be agreeable and courteous, he always strove to be a gentleman in every respect, he was a decent hand at just about everything, and everybody always seemed to like him so very much.  He didn¡¯t see why on earth the universe should suddenly become so unkind to him.


    Harlow felt absolutely terrible.  He was lying on the same couch in Wingham Manor upon which he had apparently been deposited last night, his head swathed in an itching bandage and under strict orders from the doctor not to be moved for at least two days.  Not that such a thing would have been very likely in any case if Harlow had anything to do with it, for he felt dizzy and queasy with every twinge of his muscles. A concussion is an unpredictable thing, sometimes being little more than a nuisances while in other cases it can leave a man with a permanent disability.  As it was, Harlow¡¯s head throbbed so that he almost wished the doctor would just go ahead and cut the whole thing off and release him from his earthly body, or barring that at least permit him to drink sufficient whiskey to make the whole universe completely irrelevant for a day or two. Whoever had bashed him on the head last night could at least have been courteous and done a better job of it.  That way perhaps Harlow might never have woken up at all. As it was, Harlow was looking forward to returning the service in kind, assuming he ever laid hands on the blighter that did it. But on the other hand this wasn¡¯t really a gentlemanly way of going about things and once Harlow had finished enduring the Trials of Job he supposed he might just as well be grateful to simply wash his hands of the whole beastly affair and be done with it.  And of course, there was also that minor detail that Harlow had not a notion in the universe at whom to direct his wrath.


    Harlow was quite certain that he had absolutely no idea who hit him, a fact which he had been obliged to repeat constantly to what seemed like the entire neighborhood.  No, he didn¡¯t see the fellow. No, of course he didn¡¯t recognize him, hadn¡¯t he just said that he didn¡¯t see the man? No, he didn¡¯t have any warning. No, he didn¡¯t hear a twig snap or a bush rustle or anything beforehand.  No, Miss Watson did not cry out before he was struck. What do you mean ¡®did his attacker have any singular facial features¡¯? How on earth could Harlow know anything about the beastly man¡¯s face if he hadn¡¯t seen it! No, Harlow had no idea whether or not there was more than one.  No, he didn¡¯t hear any horses or a carriage. No, he didn¡¯t hear any footsteps either. How could he guess how many there were if he didn¡¯t hear anything! No, he didn¡¯t know....what do you mean, OF COURSE he didn¡¯t know what color his eyes were! Harlow relished an audience as much as any Barnstabrake did, but this was all a bit much.


    Of course, Harlow¡¯s own discomfort was surely nothing compared to that of poor Miss Watson, assuming the unfortunate girl was even still alive.  Which of course meant that her present experience must truly be unimaginably horrible, for Harlow could not conceive feeling any worse than he already did at the present moment.  It was utterly disgraceful that he hadn¡¯t prevented the whole thing from happening in the first place. Harlow felt a sense of helpless rage over the fact that there was nothing he could really have done to prevent so wholly an unexpected turn of events or rectify them in some way this very instant.  He hated himself for having failed to protect the woman in his charge even as he couldn¡¯t for the life of him see how he could have prevailed against something so completely unforeseen. The whole thing made Harlow feel that much more sick, and he wished devoutly that someone had left a full bottle of brandy conveniently within his reach, or if not that then the culprit¡¯s beastly little neck so Harlow could wring it out properly, whoever it was that the neck belonged to.


    It was this last which formed the axis of the questions which hung most heavily not only on Harlow¡¯s, but indeed the minds of the whole community.  Who indeed had perpetrated this incredible deed, and for what purpose? Where now and in what wretched condition was poor Agatha Watson, and how was she to be delivered from her predicament....or else avenged?


    Strident voices were now filtering from down the hall, accompanied by the slamming of doors and the clap of heavy boots on hardwood.  Harlow had a mournful premonition that his solitude was about to be violated.


    ¡°....spread out on the countryside between Crickwood and Barrow Heath.  Hodson with twelve men will scour the downs while six men under Bates will form a detachment and inspect Wiggins Farm.  There¡¯ll be no getting through our net, by jingo! No, sir indeed! Afternoon, Harlow! Blast, why are you lolling about in here with the drapes all shut?  It¡¯s like a bally tomb!¡±


    ¡°Precisely, sir, and if you would be so good as to keep it that way....oh, hell!¡±


    The elder Mr. Barnstabrake had flung open some of the drapes and unleashed a piercing ray of sunlight which stung Harlow¡¯s beleagured optic nerves.


    Mr. Barnstabrake senior was outfitted in the most splendid hunting dress his wardrobe could furnish, with a wicked smallsword at his side which looked painfully delicate hanging as it did from his over ample frame.  Nothing so terrible had ever happened in the neighborhood in Mr. Barnstabrake¡¯s lifetime, and he was enjoying every glorious moment of it.


    Not so Mr. Stokes.  With Sir Walter still ensconced in the metropolis, Mr. Barnstabrake did the next best thing and appropriated the reputable knight¡¯s secretary into his entourage.  Mr. Stokes stood stiffly in fresh riding attire with a brace of pistols (his own duelling set) thrust awkwardly into his belt. He had spent the entire morning galloping across the countryside in the wake of the indefatigable Mr. Barnstabrake who with boundless energy had assumed command of the whole situation not an hour after Miss Watson had disappeared the evening before.  And he had hardly even stopped for breath since, a redoubtable feat to be sure, given how much the man had been using his lungs.


    ¡°Bully, if it isn¡¯t a splendid day!  Damned if there has been such catastrophe in this county in a generation!  The whole neighborhood is out in force. We will have recovered poor Miss Watson before nightfall, I shouldn¡¯t wonder.  Our efforts will not be forgotten for a long time, mark my words!¡±


    ¡°Indeed, they may well be remembered for as much as a fortnight!¡±  The quip was uttered softly and Mr. Stokes had not intended that it bemuse any but himself.  But Harlow heard the remark.


    ¡°Blast if you can¡¯t take your bally search somewhere else, I¡¯m bally dying at the moment and wish to be left alone.¡±


    ¡°Eh?  Just a little knock on the head, what?  Never hurt anyone, much. You¡¯ll be on your feet in no time.  That¡¯s the Barnstabrake spirit!¡±


    ¡°This Barnstabrake spirit is rather more inclined to take leave of its mortal coils sooner than later.  If you would be so kind sir as to dispatch a boy or two with a few barrows of some cool, soft dirt to yonder garden, and then you can just carry me through the window like Mr. Gates and bury me promptly.  I would be much obliged.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Gates!  Damn the brigand!  No, no question that¡¯s who we¡¯re looking for, mark my words!¡±


    ¡°Eh what?  Gates?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Gates¡± interjected Mr. Stokes, ¡°It would appear that Mr Gates was seen at the ball only a short time before the abduction, and has himself since disappeared.¡±


    ¡°Except when the party under Simmons spotted him on the downs at dawn.  Damn near got him, too, if he hadn¡¯t been so damn nippy on his feet. That¡¯s what comes of a life of thieving and vagrancy!  Ruinous on the soul, but teaches you to run fast. He fled into Crickwood, and is probably still hiding in the forest, like some thieving fox, but we¡¯ll hunt him down!  I¡¯m meeting with Burnsdale and Sir Gerrard Botts in thirty minutes, we¡¯re going to assemble all the horses and hounds we can muster and uproot every shrub in Crickwood until we find him!¡±


    ¡°Him?  You mean Gates?¡±


    ¡°Of course I mean Gates, confound it!¡±


    ¡°Are you sure that it¡¯s Gates who¡¯s got her?¡±


    ¡°Oh course I¡¯m sure, who else could it be?¡±


    ¡°Sorry, sir, I just....¡±


    ¡°Oh, take a nap, boy!  Coddle that lump on your head until you have enough Barnstabrake blood flowing in your system to join the hunt with everyone else...if we aren¡¯t already finished by then.  Come on Stokes, we have horses to commandeer!¡±


    Stokes ruefully followed the elder Barnstabake back to the drive, wishing for nothing more at the moment than to be in bed with a cold towel over his eyes.  It was worth it to have seen young Harlow put down like that, though. A rare and splendid spectacle indeed.


    The senior Mr. Barnstabrake was not the only individual who found the recent events in Potham on Heath to be a source of exciting inspiration.  The Barbarians Howard were uniform in their opinion that this was nothing less than the best thing that ever happened, and having spent the entire day in closeted discussion unravelling the mystery for themselves were eager to inform their elder sister of their discoveries.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    They found Fanny in the sewing room trying to distract herself with a book of folklore.


    ¡°Fanny!  Have you heard it all?¡±


    ¡°Heard...?¡±


    ¡°The ABDUCTION!¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes.  You needn¡¯t concern....¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, we¡¯ve solved it all!¡±


    ¡°We have!¡±


    ¡°You have?¡±


    ¡°We have.  And we know who did it.¡±


    ¡°You do?¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to ask us who it is?¡±


    ¡°Well, I suppose..¡±


    ¡°Why, it was Black Abraham, of course!¡±


    ¡°Black Abraham?¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡±


    ¡°But why would Black Abraham....¡±


    ¡°Because that¡¯s what he does!  He¡¯s always coming into the country to kidnap girls!¡±


    ¡°He only did it once.¡±


    ¡°But it made him famous!  And wouldn¡¯t he want be made famous again?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, he got into such trouble and and they did catch him after all.....¡±


    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t catch him again, he¡¯s a pirate and he¡¯s smart and he¡¯s got a ship and he¡¯ll carry her off to some faraway place and then send off ransom notes until everyone pays him such a heaping amount of money...¡±


    ¡°And isn¡¯t it just beastly that he had to carry off that girl!  He should have taken us. We¡¯d be splendid pirates!¡±


    ¡°Girls aren¡¯t any good at all good for adventures, except for you Fanny.  He should have taken you instead, then he could have taken us too and then we¡¯d all be pirates!¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t that be ever so jolly?¡±


    ¡°Most definitely not.  I have no desire to be abducted by anyone, I don¡¯t care how great a pirate it may be.  And you, young scoundrels, need to be a bit more serious. Poor Miss Watson is in such terrible trouble, you should not be so flip in your manner!  Besides, you have no idea it was Black Abraham that did it. It could have been anyone. Perhaps even someone in the neighborhood we know. I¡¯ve sent word to your father to come home at once, and in the meanwhile you are not to be out of doors after nightfall.¡±


    ¡°Coo!  What if it¡¯s old Adam Rank, I always said he had a mean unsporting look!¡±


    ¡°Harlow would have thrashed old Adam Properly.¡±


    ¡°Not with him being all soppy over that girl!  He ought to have been on his guard, what with pirates and highwaymen about and all.¡±


    ¡°How about that big swell Gareth Larch?  He¡¯s only been in the neighborhood an entire year, so he¡¯s practically a foreigner!¡±


    ¡°I think he¡¯s far too fat to have given Harlow any trouble, and he¡¯s definitely not a pirate; he talks too much.  Pirates don¡¯t waste time talking for hours and hours about the weather!¡±


    ¡°Coo!  Do you think it could have been Black Abraham after all?¡±


    ¡°That will be enough from you two!  Enough talk of pirates and highwaymen and whatnot.  Go upstairs and practice your lessons. Now.¡±


    The two elementals of chaos scampered obediently off, still sufficiently wound in their exuberance not to protest against the terrible injustice of the recently issued command.  Fanny attempted to return to her book, but found herself as before merely gazing at the printed words without cognition, her mind preoccupied.


    She was worried.  Miss Watson was not a close friend, but she was a sister in Fanny¡¯s set, neighborhood, and of course sex, and she was very young.  She was a good young woman, if overly flirtatious, and Fanny was not one who could set aside her concern easily. And even disregarding the fate of a sister, what of the rest of the neighborhood?  A world of safety and security had been shattered in one terrible moment, and she found little to relish in the scent of danger arising from the hearth.


    Of course, there were other kinds of women.


    There was a hollow clack of a door opening and a tense looking servant girl curtsied and announced the arrival of Miss Bellingham.  The young woman swept into the room and kissed Fanny on the cheek in the manner of a dear friend, which in Fanny¡¯s view she most distinctly was not.  She was not of a mood towards hospitality for Miss Bellingham¡¯s eccentricity.


    ¡°The world stirs about us with a feral energy, I fear we have awakened terrible forces with our indifference.¡±


    ¡°Indifference, Miss Bellingham?¡±


    ¡°To the Girdle of Nature, of course.  To the suckling fauns at Gaia¡¯s bosom!  To the Old Men of the Trees! To the great bears of the hills and the sparrows on the wing!  To the Sylphs of the Air and Kobalds of the Earth! To the...¡±


    ¡°I really am not of a mind that Miss Watson was carried off by sparrows, my dear Miss Bellingham.  Pray be serious, these matters cannot be taken lightly!¡±


    ¡°Of course I am being serious, Fanny dear.  Of course, poor dear Agatha was not carried off by the sparrows.  They don¡¯t possess such vibrations. Nor do the Sylphs, for they are of Light and can bear harm to no one.  No my dear, I¡¯m quite certain this is very much the work of the Kobalds, for they are crafty and bear a slight very ill indeed.  They may be small, but they are capable of great leaps, you know, and it would have been quite easy for a Kobald Prince to biff poor dear Harlow in the head with his little fist.¡±


    ¡°I daresay Mr. Barnstabrake would not appreciate your manner, Miss Bellingham.  This is far too serious a business. We have no luxury for idle fancies.¡±


    ¡°Hush, Fanny dear!  Do not speak disrespectfully of the Kobalds.  They are keen of ear and quick of temper! Besides, I have been roaming the countryside all morning, you see-¡±


    ¡°I do see.  The twigs and mud sticking about your person are hardly un-noticeable.¡±


    ¡°-and I have found all sorts of Clues and Indications.  I am quite certain it was Kobalds. Dr. Ford believes it was wolves, but he told me not to tell anyone.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean!¡±


    ¡°There were wolf footprints everywhere about Wingham Manor this morning, and Dr. Ford says he found some hairs in the wound on Harlow¡¯s head which he thinks might be wolf fur.  He told me not to tell a soul, as it would bode very ill for poor Agatha if it were true (being eaten by wolves and all) and he doesn¡¯t want anyone to know until he¡¯s sure. It¡¯ all such very queer behavior for wolves, he says.  But it¡¯s all nonsense, of course, I¡¯m sure it was really Kobalds. They are Cunning and may disguise themselves as all manner of beasts with their Arts.¡±


    ¡°Tell me more of what Dr. Ford said!¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t, my dear Fanny, he made me promise not to breath a word, and I never break a promise. It produces bad vibrations.  Besides, I don¡¯t remember any more. It was really not all that important since I already knew it was Kobalds.¡±


    ¡°Oh for goodness sake!  Stop talking about Kobalds!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re quite right, Fanny dear!  It doesn¡¯t pay to speak of them in gossip.  It offends them.¡±


    ¡°Do you in all seriousness really believe it was Kobalds, Miss Bellingham?¡±


    ¡°Goodness, I quite forgot!  See here!¡± Miss Bellingham reached for her reticule from which Fanny noticed with curiosity a long wooden peg protruding.


    "What on earth is that?¡±


    ¡°A Kobald¡¯s walking stick, of course!¡±


    Fanny examined the object.  It was of rough finished hardwood, a shaft nearly twelve inches long with a rounded handle not unlike that of a common rolling pin.


    ¡°It¡¯s a belaying pin.¡±


    ¡°Beg pardon, Fanny dear?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a belaying pin, Miss Bellingham.  They¡¯re used aboard ships to secure line to the bulwarks.  Sailors sometimes use them as makeshift cudgels as well......Where on earth did you find this?¡±


    ¡°Near Wingham Manor, not a dozen yards from where poor Harlow was biffed.  Everybody is far too busy looking for that Mr. Bates..¡±


    ¡°Gates?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, I don¡¯t know.  Whoever he is, everyone is far too busy looking for him to pay proper attention to Clues.  I¡¯m quite sure it¡¯s Kobalds; the walking stick proves it!.¡±


    ¡°Why should anyone be looking for Mr. Gates?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, perhaps they think he did it.  See, look at the side there, there¡¯s the name of the Kobald who owns it!¡±


    Examining the belaying pin more closely, Fanny observed some crude lettering carved along a portion of its length.


    ¡°Ardent Fancy?¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that a splendid name?  Just the sort of name a Kobald Prince might have.¡±


    ¡°It sounds rather more like a ship to me.  In fact it seems rather that I have heard of such a ship.  But why carve it on a belaying pin?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s a walking stick, silly goose, and that¡¯s his name.  The Kobald Prince¡¯s I mean. I must be off! I wish to show this to Dr. Ford.  Perhaps this will convince him that it really is Kobalds after all.¡±


    Fanny bid her farewell nearly to empty air as Miss Bellingham soared out of the room as abruptly as she had entered it.  Fanny resumed her book, pondering all she had just heard. Where had she heard that name, Ardent Fancy?


    On a sudden inspiration, she arose and found her way swiftly to the nursery, where the young barbarians were engaged drawing pirates in their lesson books.  After a brief interrogation, Fanny extracted what she she had already begun to suspect and left her astounded brothers to their creative vandalism.


    She leaned against the nursery door as she closed it behind her, her breast heaving with an uncertain excitement as her thoughts turned over what she had just learned.


    The Ardent Fancy, as she had been precisely informed, was a forty-four gun merchantman currently interred by the Admiralty after having been captured in pitched battle with the ship¡¯s former captain.....who was none other than the infamous pirate, Black Abraham himself!

 Black Abraham has Struck!

    Word of Miss Bellingham¡¯s discovery spread quickly throughout the neighborhood.  There were perhaps a few among the peasants who held strongly to ancient superstitions that they were inclined to take her part in the matter, but for nearly all and sundry the implications of the discovery were to quite a different and terrifyingly tangible conclusion.


    The evidence all pointed to one thing.  The true identity of Mr. Gates was now known, the character of the enigmatic vagabond at last brought forth into terrible light for all the world to see and shudder at its horror.  Black Abraham had struck!


    ¡°I always knew there was something wrong with the man, something not at all right, and he always had a bit of the sea about him, what with all his shag and beard.  That I didn¡¯t realize he was a pirate before is past my reckoning, I¡¯m sure. And such a pirate! Such a desperate monster that he should ply his dreadful trade in our quiet village, stealing our children and looting our homes!¡±


    ¡°Aye, Mrs. Wilberforce, it is dark days that we live in to be sure, with not even honest country folk like ourselves safe in our beds that marauding pirates and Hinterlanders can¡¯t molest our kind!¡±


    ¡°But how could he be a Hinterlander if he¡¯s Black Abraham?  Do the Hinterlands even reach the sea?¡±


    ¡°Aye, in places so I hear, but what difference anyway?  There¡¯s no telling what all Black Abraham has lied to us about all these years.  /he may never have been from the Hinterlands at all. But there¡¯s two things certain:  He¡¯s our man, and we¡¯re going to get him and bring poor Miss Watson back!¡±


    ¡°Amen to that sir!  I¡¯m a Godly woman and have never been one to bear a grudge against anyone, but I make no qualm that I¡¯d sure as like to see that animal strung up and skinned alive properly and buried with a pike through his cursed heart, as a warning to all other beastly foreigners!  Another half pint, my dear?¡±


    ¡°Ye don¡¯t skin pirates, ye hang ¡®em in a gibbet...if ye catch ¡®em alive.¡±


    ¡°Well, a gibbet is fine enough for me, so long as it¡¯s sooner as not!  I can hardly sleep a wink for the fretting!¡±


    ¡°Well, we¡¯ll see about it soon enough, Mrs. Wilberforce.  Sir Walter Howard is back from the city and he and Mr. Barnstabrake are organizing a moot tomorrow.  I reckon it¡¯ll be the first one we¡¯ve had in well nigh eighty years. Most of the gentry will be there and possibly the Sheriff himself, along with everyone else in the entire neighborhood, like as not.  I¡¯ll be there for sure, and I daresay as you will too, Mrs. Wilberforce.¡±


    ¡°Aye, if a woman can even safely reach Moot Hill by tomorrow.  Who knows what that heathen pirate will be doing by then!¡±


    Before there was ever a place called Potham on Heath, before there was ever a kingdom called Gandburgh, there was the Moot.  It was the axis of ancient tribal law, the final court of the old feudal society, and the ultimate gathering of the countryside.  It consisted of an assembly of the entire local community (or as many representatives thereof), gathered to address some pressing issue that touched them all.  Every locality would call a Moot from time to time as the need arose, and the standing councils of every county ultimately derived their authority from the Moots.  Even the parliament of the nation was itself descended from the Moot.


    In most localities there was a traditional place where the Moot would be held, most often a suitable hill or knoll.  In Potham on Heath, Moot Hill was a grassy mound some eight feet high and thirty across, flattened and partially paved with flagstone.  Stone steps arrayed on three sides gave convenient access to the mound from the surrounding green.


    Generations ago the Moot had been held regularly in Potham.  A great table would be set upon the mound, at which the leading citizens conducted the affair.  Its business was mundane, and more often than not the event was principally a social gathering with the attendant crowd casually observing the proceedings while picnicking on the lawn, after which there would be games and dances.  But as the counties became increasingly governed by representative councils and managed by professional bureaucrats the Moot had become so completely boring an affair that in most localities it had long ceased to be held with any regularity, if at all.


    But today, the Moot was reborn in Potham on Heath.


    The scene was remarkably different from any picturesque tableau of a quaint generation past.  There were no blankets set upon the lawn, no hampers, no sweets, no children playing games. Even the ancient great table was not in its customary place, for no one could quite remember where it was and in all the rush to pull things together it was quickly decided to make do with a few wobbly spare tables from the inn.


    Nor indeed was the crowd in any mood of pastoral tranquility.  Everyone was standing, some milling about in an uncomfortable nonchalance, others talking in small groups, and some had given up all attempt at society and merely remained as they were, arms folded or hands in pockets, and there were even one or two women who found occupation weeping quietly to each other about the dreadfulness of it all.  No one (except Mr. Barnstabrake) had attired themselves in any particular finery for the occasion, but many had stout walking sticks and not a few had brought assorted weapons which they now bore with an awkward idleness. The official word was that the proceedings were to commence at three o¡¯clock sharp, but as it was it was now nearly five-thirty with no sign yet that anyone really had any idea what they were about.  A tense hush hovered over the company even as the air was strained with urgent and subdued voices.


    Mr. Barnstabrake bustled to and fro in an uncharacteristically insecure manner, divided as he was between being important by getting the crowd in proper discipline and issuing orders to everybody, and being important by standing as visibly as possible near the place where Sir Walter Howard, Sir Gerrard Botts, and the Sheriff himself were clustered absorbedly about a large well worn map.


    There was slight disturbance at the table.  Some article or other was required which had been left at the foot of the mound, and Sir Walter descended to fetch it.


    Sir Walter Howard was of medium height, bald with keen features dulled by a pair of unstylish spectacles.  His horse was tethered to an ancient post close to the mound and he had no difficulty in extracting the object of his quest from one of the saddlebags where it had been left behind.  Turning to make his way back up the mound, he found himself unexpectedly faced with with his daughter.


    ¡°Fanny!  What on earth are you doing here?  I specifically said that neither you nor the boys were to leave the house alone.¡±


    ¡°You specifically said that we were not to leave the house alone after dark, sir.  As you can see, I have followed your instructions faithfully.¡±


    ¡°Well whatever.  Dark or light, I would feel better if you stayed home and did not wander about recklessly like some gypsy¡¯s daughter.¡±


    ¡°You did not instruct me to heed your unspoken feeling, sir, but merely your explicit command.¡±


    ¡°Bah!  I¡¯ve sired a lawyer.  But if it¡¯s a lawyer¡¯s game with which you would sport with me, miss,  then I think I can still master you. I ought to, I educated you.¡±


    ¡°But surely it is the ambition of the master to make his apprentice greater than himself.¡±


    ¡°If the master had known what he were getting himself into he would have left well enough alone.¡±


    ¡°Be that as it may it is done, and you are stuck with having a quiz for a daughter.  You were going to scold me?¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes quite right.  You see, then, although you are technically in obedience to me as it is still daylight, by the time we get this affair sorted out and finished it will most certainly be dusk at the earliest.  Therefore, if you are to obey your father then you had better return home immediately, lest you find yourself in disobedience.¡±


    ¡°Well said sir, but you neglect not one but three points.  First, your instructions were that I should not leave the house if it were dark, you have said nothing to the effect that I should take any action should I find myself already out of doors when it becomes dark.  I cannot be accountable for the imprecision of your instructions. Likewise, I can neither be accountable for your tardiness, as these proceedings ought to have begun two and a half hours ago, therefore if I am held late it is no fault of mine.  Lastly, I am not in fact out of doors alone. I am in your presence and will be quite honored to accompany you through the remainder of the evening.¡±


    ¡°Fiddlesticks.  A man should never teach a woman to think.  She¡¯ll out do him and then he¡¯ll never have any peace or respect again.¡±


    ¡°Now you¡¯re being coy with me, father.  That¡¯s an emotional argument.¡±


    ¡°It is not.  It is bald fact.  I am helpless in the grip of my own creation¡¯s connivence!¡±


    ¡°Would you have me do any less, father?¡±


    ¡°Of course not, you¡¯re exactly the splendid little she-devil that I raised you to be.  I am taking Sir Gerrard home in my carriage, so you¡¯ll just have to put up with it if he starts snoring.  That¡¯ll teach you!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m quite sure it will be a lesson well learnt.¡±


    ¡°Hmph.  Pardon me, Fanny dear, I believe things are at last about to get started.¡±


    Whatever Sir Walter¡¯s expectations, things were not at all about to get started.  Sir Walter found himself absorbed into the directionless discourse the moment he ascended the mound, and Fanny was left to wander amongst the crowd.Stolen story; please report.


    A certain damp chill had taken the air in marked complement to the general mood, which was likewise as uncharacteristic of the season as was the community itself unaccustomed to such turmoil.  It was as appropriate a setting as if the entire circumstance had been the machination of some dark wizard from ancient legend. The sky was grey with cold clouds, a chilling droplet of rain fell here and there to shock warm skin, and in the distance across the forest a faint rumble of thunder shook the air forbiddingly like some terrible brew being prepared in a sorcerer¡¯s lair in the depths of the trees.


    Fanny strolled across the matted grass in quiet observation of all these things.  Everyone was far too absorbed in their conversation or thoughts to really be very much attentive to an irrelevant young woman wandering in their midst, a circumstance which Fanny felt lent her greater advantage in taking stock of the matters surrounding her.  Her thoughts were an engine of inquisitive clarity even as her feelings were a fluttering mass of bemused excitement and anxious dread. Yet through it all, she could conclude little other than that no one in the company had any more solid grip on the situation than did another.  In listening to those about her, should could find neither consensus nor corroboration of either the events leading up to now or what action should be taken with regards to them. There was nothing but for Fanny to sort these things out for herself in her own mind even as she watched attentively to see how events continued to unfold.


    It was at length in her wanderings that Fanny abruptly found herself confronted with an individual whom in her estimation was perhaps among the least suitable companion for sorting out any matter of particular intellectual difficulty.


    Harlow Barnstabrake was walking slowly, leaning heavily on a fashionable but flimsy walking stick which was proving rather inadequate to the task.  He was dressed in an uncharacteristically subdued manner, his clothes worn awkwardly as one who had found it demanding to dress himself. He was pale, and his hair was ungainly clipped and shaved under the bandage which still bound the back of his head.  His stride had brought him directly into Fanny¡¯s path, and he smiled weakly and touched his hat brim gingerly as the two made eye contact.


    Fanny curtsied in turn.  The two had stopped and were facing one another, and conversation of some sort was unavoidable.  Yet speech was slow in coming. For a fleeting moment that seemed yet to stretch painfully, the pair merely regarded one another.


    Harlow felt terrible.  This was, of course, a marked improvement from his condition of three days ago, at which time even death itself seemed a preferable alternative.  It was, he supposed, a certain reflection on his own strength of character that he could be grateful in feeling positively awful instead of the unimaginably deplorable durance of the morning after his tragic misadventure.  This was probably the sort of stuff that martyrs were made of. Harlow felt that he could confidently open any volume of Brinkley¡¯s Book of Saints and find a kindred soul on every page, nodding approvingly at even the most grisly woodcut and perhaps uttering a compassionate ¡®stout fella!¡¯ in solidarity with the poor saints of old.


    It was perhaps the greatest testament to the extremity of his condition and poignancy of his suffering that Harlow felt like talking to no one.  It takes a great deal indeed to dissuade a Barnstabrake from seeking an audience, and for the moment it was Harlow¡¯s sole ambition to shun all of humanity for the remainder of his existence (which would hopefully be rather shorter than not).  Unless he could secure a drop of brandy, that is. He¡¯d even passed by the Honorable Gareth Larch with only a polite tip of the hat, which given that unassuming if weighty gentleman¡¯s bountiful skill as a conversationalist (as evinced by his capacity to listen politely to positively anyone for as long as could be humanly endured) surely marked the ultimate display of Harlow¡¯s depressed sensibilities.  Yet finding himself faced with Fanny, Harlow abruptly felt an issuance of life aroused in himself once again, a sense that perhaps the simple pleasures of his now shattered youth were not so hopelessly dashed after all. Her presence seemed to charge the air about him in a way that left him with a sense of both confidence and intimacy. There is nothing like grace and fine features to dismiss a little headache.  Although he was hardly at his best, at least before Fanny Howard it was really no matter; there was no particular compulsion to impress.


    A brief gust of wind caught them both and momentarily painted Fanny¡¯s dress revealingly against her shape.  As he met her gaze Halow felt connected to her in a way that was almost tactile, as if every shift of flesh or bone was somehow transmitted between them by some radiating touch as they stood facing one another.  The awkwardness of the moment washed over him like a shock and Fanny looked away as he cast about desperately for something perfectly ordinary to say.


    ¡°Er, I say!  Miss Howard. Good afternoon.¡±


    ¡°Good afternoon, Mr. Barnstabrake.¡±


    ¡°Er, yes, quite.  Good afternoon. Enjoying a bit of a stroll?¡±


    ¡°Come sir, the Moot has been publicized across the whole of the neighborhood.  Surely you don¡¯t think I am am here merely for a stoll?¡±


    ¡°Eh?  Oh right, quite.  I mean, I knew that.  I¡¯m supposed to give evidence if called upon, and all that.  I really don¡¯t want to, beast of a headache, don¡¯t you know?¡±


    ¡°Indeed?¡±


    ¡°Eh?  Well, yes, quite, I mean, I suppose you heard...¡±


    ¡°I was there, Mr. Barnstabrake.¡±


    ¡°Oh, right, so you were, I supposed.  Beast of a fix, isn¡¯t it? Poor Miss Watson.  There wasn¡¯t anything I could possibly have done, I was caught by surprise.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you would gladly have given your all for Miss Watson¡¯s safety.¡±


    ¡°I suppose I would have indeed.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°But I say, what brings you out here at all?  Surely a young lady like yourself would be safer at home, what with Black Abraham the pirate lurking about somewhere?¡±


    ¡°Given that the Second Lord of the Navy¡¯s daughter was abducted from her own bed, I don¡¯t see that I am particularly safer at home as not.  A public place such as this might perhaps be even safer. Besides, I don¡¯t see that this is exclusively men¡¯s business, as it is we women who appear to be the object of this pirate¡¯s ambitions so far, assuming there is any truth to that theory in the first place.¡±


    ¡°Ah?  Oh, right yes.  I mean, good sort of talk that, but, er, I mean....¡±


    ¡°Yes, Mr. Barnstabrake?¡±


    ¡°Well, perhaps you need an escort, don¡¯t you know?  I am unoccupied at the moment. Wouldn¡¯t you feel better under the protection of one of the stronger gentleman?¡±


    ¡°An intelligent one would be a bit better.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°By that I mean that a person is more than just potent through his strength and nerve, but in a greater measure by wit and character.¡±


    ¡°Ah, well, you need have no fear there, Miss Howard!¡±


    ¡°Indeed I do not.  I am here with my father and have his wit and character with which to complement to my own.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    Awkward silence again hung between them.  Harlow shuffled, and Fanny shifted. Again Harlow attempted conversation.


    ¡°I say, you don¡¯t supposed it will rain a bit?¡±


    ¡°It already is raining a bit, sir¡±


    ¡°Ah?  Yes, I suppose it is.  Don¡¯t you think that you might catch-¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°-a cold?...ah, right.¡±


    Silence reigned yet again, straining with clumsiness through each succeeding second.  Harlow coughed, Fanny sniffed.


    ¡°I say, what do you think really happened?¡±


    ¡°The night of the ball?  You were intimately involved with the event while I was a merely a distany witness.  You ought to have a better grip of the matter than I.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯ve been dashed well telling everybody that I haven¡¯t a notion in the world what really happened to me.  I could have been struck down by lightning for all I know. It¡¯s all really quite unpleasant. To be so close to having your life taken away from you, and yet to have no idea how or even why it happened.¡±


    ¡°Not a tenth as unpleasant as whatever fate has come upon Miss Watson.  Are you not forgetting the young lady that was in your charge?¡±


    ¡°Do you think I can, even for a second?  Lord! That¡¯s the worst of it. There was nothing, nothing I could have done.  They..he....it...whatever it was...crept up and took me out from behind. I never had a chance to protect her.¡±


    ¡°Is that what matters to you, sir?  That you could not protect her? I wonder which is of greater distress to you, Miss Watson¡¯s fate or your own failure to prevent it.¡±


    ¡°What!  Why should you say that?  There was nothing I could have done.  Why should it be my fault?¡±


    ¡°I did not say it was, sir.¡±


    ¡°Well, there was nothing I could have done.  How many times do I have to tell everybody that?  I don¡¯t know anything, I never saw or heard a thing, and I just bally wish the whole thing hadn¡¯t bally happened!¡±


    ¡°As does Miss Watson, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°Right.  My fault again.¡±


    ¡°I never faulted you, sir.¡±


    ¡°But you said....oh, Lord, never mind.  I beg your pardon, Miss Howard.¡±


    Touching his hat again, Harlow turned and departed.


    Fanny gazed at the young man¡¯s receding form as he was absorbed into the crowd.  What on earth had all that been about? He must have been blaming himself terribly for all that had happened.  He reacted like one with a conscience as tender as that of one of her barbarian brothers having discovered he had accidentally put salt in his mother¡¯s tea instead of Mr. Stokes.  Physicians have written that those who are victimized by the abuse of another often feel themselves at fault, however wrongly. Perhaps Harlow felt some genuine affection for Miss Watson?  Perhaps there was a bit more to this young man than copious ego and bluster? Perhaps Fanny had been too harsh towards him.


    Fanny took a breath and began walking even as she felt her face warming.  She was not about to question herself.


    There is, perhaps, no more debilitating a flaw in one¡¯s character than the propensity for self doubt in excess.  This was the opinion of Mr. Stokes, at any rate. It was moreover his opinion that for the informed and sophisticated intellect, any self doubt at all was an excess of the weak willed.  A bit of minor self correction may be in order from time to time, but never doubt.


    Stokes gazed about at the assembled company from his vantage at the top of Moot Hill.  He stood aside from the table where his employer Sir Walter, the Sheriff, and one or two other notable citizens were gathered in animated discussion over some wholly irrelevant detail.  Despite his aristocratic and rustic background, Sir Walter was in Stokes estimation a most intelligent gentleman. It was a pity to see him brought down to a level of petty squabbling by his inferiors.  Were it Stokes place, he would have shown a much stronger hand of leadership. It was in his view the great tragedy of human history that prestige and authority never seemed to fall upon those of superior intellect.


    Stokes had been in a reverie for some moments now, reflecting on the hopeless disorder of this rustic assembly.  It was to his minor astonishment, therefore, that he was abruptly jolted from his musings to discover that the assembly was at last coming to some sort of order.  Mr. Barnstabrake had been bellowing forth instructions for all to quiet down while a few of the Sheriff¡¯s men were mingling with the crowd dispatching the same message, and the Sheriff himself was occupied beating a small gavel on the table to inadequate effect.  The word soon passed about that things were finally coming together.


    At long last, the Moot commenced.

 The Great Moot

    There were many things that were said of the Sheriff of Harester, for either good or ill.  He was a man of certainty both of mind and action, a character to cultivate both the staunchest and unquestioning of admirers and the most malevolent of detractors as a matter of natural course.  He observed the world about him with care, digested its happenings in his own time and council, and upon ruminating to conclusion he moved with swiftness and decisiveness. In the happy way with which fate tends to round off such personalities as the Sheriff, his countenance was one to suggest every ounce of the sage wisdom and razor wit accredited by his adherents and every inch of wickedness attributed in equal measure by the opposition.  A small, compact man with a face as grey and thin as was the neatly trimmed hair surmounting it, eyes sharper than thieve¡¯s daggers, lithe and sinewy musculature clinging to brittle and aging bones like ancient laws which are still actively enforced, and an overall stature as diminutive as was his own rank as sheriff of a quiet county in a small land. Dressed in the conservative elegance that marked a man of position, self assurance, and ruthless efficiency, His Lordship Sir Edgar Brace, the Sheriff of Harester, arose in the dwindling sunset to address the Moot of Potham.


    His words were short and to the point.  A grave matter of both near and present danger faced the community of Potham.  To right this circumstance required the orderly cooperation of the entire community and submission to the King¡¯s lawful authority.  There was to be no nonsense, no cocksure foolishness, and positively no backchat. With that, Doctor Ford was summoned to present before the assembly the Facts as Known.


    Doctor Ford came to the table with a sheaf of mixed papers.  It was with some awkwardness that he set them to order while attempting to manage a wayward pince-nez, and already a ripple of impatience bled through the crowd.  The Sheriff quickly issued a sharp rebuke followed by a withering stare distributed unevenly across the crowd. The Sheriff was a man with a profound respect for the ponderous intractability of a mixed rural assembly, and it was his view that these sorts of things should be kept sealed with a tight lid at all times, rather like a jar of wasps.


    Doctor Ford began again.  Too quietly. He was commanded to speak up and not to dither.  A thorough and clear summary of the events leading up to the present was required and time was pressing.


    The good doctor steadied himself and began a third time, with as much volume and clarity as he could manage without becoming embarrassingly shrill.


    The crowd settled to an impatient simmer as Doctor Ford began to painstakingly recount the events leading up to the tragic disappearance of Miss Watson.  Thoroughness is a quality which is generally indispensable to the art of investigation, yet wholly intolerable to a public in righteous outrage at the twin wrongs of both heinous crime and abominable inconvenience.  A violent kidnapping or gruesome murder is bad enough, but that it should add further horror to society by interfering with tea and upsetting breakfast¡­..well, the human spirit is capable of only so much endurance.


    Mr. Barnstabrake was a man whose reverence for high position was equalled only by his desire to impress, but even the majestic presence in sum of two knights and the Sheriff himself was not sufficient to quell him from topping the burgeoning swell of impatience.


    ¡°Dash it all, Ford, half of all that we already know and the other half we couldn¡¯t give tuppence about.  Who cares if Miss Watson¡¯s dress was pinkish in color¡­.¡±


    ¡°It was rather more green, Squire Barnstabrake.¡±


    ¡°....green, pink, dash it all, we don¡¯t care about rescuing the dashed dress!¡±


    ¡°I rather think it is of marked significance that the dress was rather attached to Miss Watson at the time of the abduction, and thus any observation of the dress would be rather a marked indication of Miss Watson¡¯s present or past whereabouts.¡±


    ¡°Details!  We can sort all that out later.  We need action! We need¡­.¡±


    ¡°Squire Barnstabrake, please permit Doctor Ford to proceed.¡±


    ¡°Eh?  Oh, yes, right you are, M¡¯lord Sheriff.  Press on, Ford, but for pity¡¯s sake don¡¯t drivel.¡±


    ¡°Proceed, Doctor, and leave out no critical detail.¡±


    Doctor Ford proceeded again, though perhaps in a bit more haste than before.  Nevertheless, a strained quarter hour later he came upon his concluding remarks.


    ¡°....in light of these facts, and in the absence of any direct or indirect observation of Miss Watson since the night of June the 10th at about eleven o¡¯clock, we are left with a number of possible avenues of investigation.  Let us begin with the popular speculation¡­..¡±


    ¡°Popular speculation my left boot, we know who did it!¡±


    ¡°.....the popular speculation of the involvement of a notorious pirate recently escaped from the custody of the Admiralty and now believed to be at large in Dunster or the surrounding counties.¡±


    ¡°Do you identify this individual?¡±


    ¡°I do, M¡¯lord Sheriff.¡±


    ¡°And how do you identify said individual?¡±


    ¡°I identify him as the fugitive known as George Abraham Wilkins of East Bellsport (presumed), otherwise known as Black Abraham, convicted of piracy, kidnapping, extortion, and other grievous offences, now at large after having escaped custody pending the execution of sentence.¡±


    ¡°And what evidence do you provide in support of your claim?¡±


    ¡°As principal evidence I provide this.¡±


    ¡°Do you identify this object?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°What is the object.¡±


    ¡°It is of the form and shape of a conventional device of nautical instrumentation known as a belaying pin.¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Under what circumstances was the object brought to your attention?¡±


    ¡°It was discovered at the scene the morning of Saturday the 11th inst.¡±


    ¡°And what is the relevance of this object?¡±


    ¡°The object is inscribed with the legend ¡°Ardent Fancy¡±, the name of the last ship captained by Black Abraham, currently interred by the Admiralty.¡±


    ¡°And do you, Doctor Ford, believe it was Black Abraham who abducted Miss Watson?¡±


    ¡°I do not.¡±


    An abrupt hush fell upon the assembly.


    To that very moment the social consciousness of the entire community had been riveted upon the single notion of the dreaded pirate.  The formality of the present proceeding had hitherto been merely an aggravating distraction to be hurried through as speedily as possible.  Now, to the astonishment of all a hitch had appeared, and the public was spellbound.


    ¡°See?  I said all along it was Kobalds!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡±


    The Sheriff¡¯s rebuke of the shrill voice which had cheerfully arisen from the depths of stunned communal silence had to all appearances a most dramatically opposite effect to that which he doubtless intended.  All at once the entire assembly erupted in a whirling babble of excited speculation or vociferous disbelief. It was some time before a tenuous order could be restored and Doctor Ford was called upon to explain his remarks.


    ¡°I most certainly can and will explain my assertion, M¡¯lord Sheriff.  Permit me now to do so.


    First, there is the matter of motive.  Why on earth would this pirate, Black Abraham, choose to abduct Miss Watson, so soon after his escape?  Having nearly perished in the gibbet after his last attempt at such an escapade, why try again? With his ship still interred by the Admiralty, no less?¡±


    ¡°He could have acquired another vessel in the intervening months.¡±


    ¡°True, but why venture inland to engage in kidnapping?  Why not merely return to piracy?


    Second, there is the belaying pin.  The art of engraving is something which is commonly associated with sailors in the mind of the public.  However, more often than not this is in reference to the particular art of scrimshaw as practiced by whalers, who tend to have more time on their hands than the average sailor.  I suppose another sailor might still have produced something like this in a moment of idleness, particularly if he were on a ship with a larger than average crew (such as a pirate).  But why bother to engrave something like a belaying pin? It¡¯s not as if it were a personal item or an object of any importance that one might be inclined to decorate it. And if one were to do so nonetheless, you¡¯d think the man would have at least have selected an object which wasn¡¯t totally inferior.  This brings me to the pin itself. Note the roughness of it¡¯s finish and the irregularity of its shape. It does not appear to have been expertly made, and it is so rough that one can hardly handle it without acquiring splinters. A tool such as this is used constantly, and must be smooth and non-injurious.  Even the wood is of poor quality, spongy and pitted, like it was plucked from a refuse bin. Taking all these points together, my conclusion is that this object simply is not genuine.¡±


    ¡°A forgery then?  But why make such a thing?  To implicate Black Abraham and divert our attention from the real culprit?¡±


    ¡°Or it could be a product of idle fancy, created on a lark and only by happenstance been mislaid on the scene.¡±


    ¡°I find that highly unlikely.  It seems far too extraordinary that such an apparently incriminating object should simply happen to be found at the scene.  Do you have any further evidence to support your suggestion that it was not Black Abraham who committed this crime?¡±


    ¡°In point of fact, I have evidence which suggests to me that there has been no ¡®crime¡¯, precisely, at all.  That Miss Watson was not in fact kidnaped.¡±


    ¡°What!¡±


    ¡°Indeed, and it grieves me profoundly as such, for if my suspicions are correct then Miss Watson¡¯s fate would appear far more final.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?  Explain!¡±


    ¡°Indeed, M¡¯lord, I believe that Miss Watson and Mr. Barnstabrake were in fact attacked by wolves, and Miss Watson¡­.was removed.¡±


    ¡°Dragged off you say?¡±


    ¡°I did not wish to put it so.¡±


    ¡°What evidence do you have?¡±


    ¡°It is well known that Potham and indeed perhaps the whole of the county is experiencing a resurgence of wolves.  Ten years ago I would have said they were extinct in this part of the nation, or at least nearly so, but recent attacks and sightings have confirmed that they most definitely are not.  Indeed, these wolves appear to be larger and bolder than any I¡¯ve ever heard of. And I believe it was a pack of them which attacked on that night and carried off Miss Watson.¡±


    ¡°But nothing was heard.  No howls, no cries.¡±


    ¡°Indeed you are mistaken, M¡¯lord Sheriff, I know several persons in the vicinity at the time who claim to have heard wolves that night.  I have the list here, if you care to call them for testimony. Besides, what with the noise and revelry in the house that night, who but those few not in attendance would have noticed?¡±


    ¡°Is this all?¡±


    ¡°No, M¡¯lord, there were also numerous wolf tracks found at the scene the following morning.¡±


    ¡°This I was aware of, but that is still hardly conclusive.¡±


    ¡°Indeed no, M¡¯lord.  But I believe that this is:  In this envelope, I have several hairs which I found embedded in the wound inflicted upon Mr. Barnstabrake, and I am quite certain that they are those of a wolf.  Wolfskin is a relatively valuable pelt, and I have reviewed as much relevant literature on the subject as I could find and examined every example of wolf fur I have been able lay my hands on, and I am absolutely certain that these hairs came from a wolf.¡±


    ¡°Are you suggesting that a wolf leaped up on its hind legs and somehow struck Mr. Barnstabrake on the head rather than biting him?  And if these wolves were so bold as to attack a pair of adults in close proximity to a large gathering, why drag off only one?¡±


    ¡°I do not know, M¡¯lord, it is all very strange.  But this is the evidence I have, and I can see no other possibility.¡±


    ¡°But what about Kobalds!¡±


    ¡°Silence!  The Moot will consider now consider the evidence presented.¡±


    The Moot considered the matter.  Loudly, excitedly, and not a little ferociously.  The matter was argued back and forth, too and fro far past the time when the light faded completely and torches had to be sent for.  It was not until midnight that any course of action was at last settle upon.


    Popular opinion remained fixed where it had found sure anchor before.  Once the public grasps a certain idea, it takes far more than a single appeal, whether rational or impassioned, to dissuade it.  The point was taken as settled: Black Abraham, in the villainous guise of Mr. Gates, was the surest culprit, and plans were laid to effect his capture.  Never before had there been such a hunt as this, and although it was agreed that the details were to be sorted out the following morning by the Sheriff and a select committee of prominent citizens, all were certain that the matter would soon be brought to rest with Miss Watson recovered safely and the terrible brigand brought to swift and dreadful justice.


    Fanny had remained throughout the entire proceeding observing carefully.  She digested their conclusions as Sir Howard¡¯s carriage rolled up at last to convey its master and his companions to their respective abodes, and it was her view that she was hardly more enlightened now than she was at tea time.  She had a distinct feeling that all was not right, that there was more to this onerous mystery, something obvious and dreadful that no one dared even consider.


    The wind had long since arisen and the clouds broken into a scurrying mass of sinister veils through which the moon shown with a dim reluctance.  As Fanny ascended into the carriage, a distant sound drifted along the feverish breeze that sent a jolt of sheer terror through her soul.


    Somewhere, somewhere frightfully nearby, a wolf was howling at the night sky.

 The Hue and Cry

    It was shortly after luncheon the following day that a small miracle occurred in the drawing room of Wingham Manor.  A turbulent morning over prodigious tea and piles of maps had produced a wonder in the form of a solidly outlined plan of action that all present were in sufficient agreement with to at least go along with for now and say ¡°I told you so¡± later on.


    The finest horsemen in the village were to form into two parties who would ride in the straightest line possible towards the coast, the first group to head directly to the port city of Wimmouth without stopping while the second making stops at each intervening village to make enquiries.  A courier would be dispatched immediately back to Potham should either group find word of either Black Abraham or Miss Watson.


    In Potham, the Sheriff was to officially proclaim the Hue and Cry at four o¡¯clock sharp that afternoon, conscripting every able bodied man into the Posse Comitatus.  The men were to be divided into groups led by the local gentry, with the Sheriff in overall command. Each group would constitute either a search party, a roving patrol, or else be assigned to guard duty (these last largely being the domestic servants of the gentry, who were tasked with guarding the homes of their employers).  Every man was to be armed and from everywhere were gathered all manner of offensive objects, from rusty old swords and delicate birding guns to freshly sharpened billhooks and threshing flails.


    Though the riders were dispatched on schedule, it took nearly the remainder of the day to sort out the parties to search Potham itself.  Morning at last found an energetic if lurching start of the whole prodigious enterprise.


    Harlow had felt simply splendid that morning.  Which wasn¡¯t to say that he had never felt better, but the pain and dizziness had all but disappeared, a fact which Doctor Ford very kindly attributed to Harlow¡¯s own remarkable constitution and dauntless spirit, and which Mr. Stokes privately chalked up as a common case of ego¡¯s triumph over melodrama of its own making.  Regardless of either theory, Harlow felt as fit as ever and was more than willing to assume command of any of the many search parties which would be no doubt eager to embrace him as their leader. It was the least he could do.


    It would be entirely correct, indeed tastelessly graphic, to say that thorniest task by far facing the search parties was Crickwood.  It was hardly the largest forest in the county, and indeed not even the largest in the immediate neighborhood. The adjoining shrublands of Barrow Heath were nearly double in area.  But the sinuous understories of Crickwood possessed a devious character after their own fashion, hostile and cruelly mischievous towards all intruders. To bend the will of the forest was to do battle with it on its own terms, and it defied all efforts of management.  Even the forest wardens rarely ventured there. Wariness of the forest, of its power and purported denizens, was anchored as deeply in the ancient consciousness of neighborhood as were the tangled roots of the wood itself burrowed and meshed within the fiber of the earth over the ages.


    At some point in their lives all men will be put to the test, and those men who tend to think particularly well of themselves are no exception.  Some of these prove to be made stoutly of bluster and little else, quickly finding that they have an appointment somewhere or have forgotten something or other of terrible importance.  Others, propped by the fortitude of spirit with which fate has blessed them, arise to the challenge with determination in that hour when men of greatness must forge their way to the forefront where their talents are most needed and displayed to most advantage.


    It was at the crossroads of this thankless dichotomy that Harlow had the inconvenience to find himself at about eleven o¡¯clock that morning.


    It would be untruthful to say that Harlow was lost.  More accurately, he was markedly dubious as to his surroundings.  He knew that the forest line was perhaps half a mile that way. He knew that east was more or less this way, and west the other.  He knew that he had only a vague idea of what lay ahead and what lay about him, and that the rest of the search party was somewhere else a considerable distance behind.


    The fringes of the forest were a gloomy spectacle even in good weather and full daylight.  The interior was, in blunt language, positively oppressive and inclined to dampen all but the most unconventional of spirits.  Harlow pressed his way forward through the snap and tear of brushes and twigs. The cheerful optimism of the morning sun suffered an unfortunate change of mood with its passage through the groping canopy, emerging in dim rays searching anxiously about the forest floor.  Meanwhile, a wood filled with living creatures held an uncanny silence about the person of the impudent intruder. The only sound that punctuated Harlow¡¯s progress were the jarring disturbances of his own clumsy making. It seemed as though every creature in the wood stood motionless except for him, watching his progress with mocking eyes, waiting for him to make just one more step before they all pounced as one.  And, even as exaggerated as this imagery was, Harlow was keenly aware that there were indeed a number of common animals of pronounced hazard in the wood (badgers, adders, and so forth). And that was to say nothing of the brooding rumors of resurgent wolves. Or of the nature of his quarry.


    Buzzing off at seven thirty in the morning to hunt down a pirate is exhilarating enough when one departs in the company of the whole neighborhood armed to the teeth with every weapon that could be found or repurposed.  It is quite another prospect to pursue a man with a reputation as a ruthless killer while entirely alone in a hazardous wood with which one is only vaguely familiar. The rest of the search party could be a mile away by now.  And Harlow was not at all confident that they could be brought hither reliably with either a shout or a gunshot, even if the sound could penetrate the maze of gnarled trees and clinging brush.


    Taken altogether, it was Harlow¡¯s sinking conclusion that his decision to scout on ahead had not really been one of his usual moments of steady good sense.  It was really quite stupid, in point of fact, and if anything were to mark a change in Harlow since his misadventure at the May Day ball it was the fact that he was at the present moment acutely conscious of the folly of his own bravado.  If he found a sign of Miss Watson or Black Abraham he would be hard pressed indeed to bring back a sensible report of it¡¯s location (if he didn¡¯t get himself completely lost and die of starvation in the process, of course). And if he should happen to run across the pirate himself, he would be facing the man alone.


    Harlow took a steadier grip on his gun.  He had gamely selected the handsomest firearm in the house, a brightly polished and delicately ornamented fowling piece, and he was now dearly wishing he¡¯d picked something of a somewhat larger caliber and less conspicuous finish, and furthermore stuffed his trousers with as many pistols as they could hold without falling apart (as the others had done).  His hunting sword at least was a solid enough weapon. But Harlow was again rather aware that he really didn¡¯t have much notion of how to make proper use of the thing. He was in fact a rotten swordsman when it came down to it, barely any good with a smallsword much less a cuttoe. It is the common tragedy of mundane life that in the midst of a grave and dangerous circumstance Harlow instead found himself bitterly bemoaning years of chatting his way through fencing classes and not paying attention.  Even as he could hardly have predicted his own current adventure with purported pirates, he could have been challenged to a duel at any time over the years, yet he¡¯d never had the sense to practice his skills of survival. What sort of a fellow was Harlow that he could think so well of himself anyway?


    And of course, what on earth was Harlow doing ruefully bemoaning himself when he ought to be paying very close attention indeed to his surroundings at the present moment?  In his depression Harlow still carried enough of his usual confident cheerfulness to achieve the remarkable and actually chuckle at himself for once. Here he was in the middle of the greatest adventure of his life, yet absorbed in self recriminating introspection while who knows what could be going on around him.


    A snap.


    Harlow hadn¡¯t moved, he had halted a moment ago while caught up in his own thoughts.  Where had the sound come from? What was that? Another sound?


    It was over before Harlow had even realized it had begun.


    He stood frozen, white knuckled hands gripping the frame of his gun in total epilepsy of action, his instincts locked in a dilemma of indecision even as the opportunity to act had already been lost.  He felt his eyes wide and his breath quick and short, his body teetering between total petrification and trembling collapse.


    From out of the very air, a cold, wickedly sharp blade had appeared at Harlow¡¯s throat.


    Whoever was wielding the blade was standing behind Harlow, the weapon passing over his right shoulder to press like a razor at a particular point where Harlow fancied he had an artery or something.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    There had been no warning.  It had happened so quickly, Harlow hadn¡¯t so much as a chance.  Just like the night of the ball. It was unfair, it was ungentlemanly it was¡­..it was reality.  Cold reality did not accommodate steady chaps like Harlow any more than it did others. Harlow had gone and stuck himself out into a kind of world of which he had no sense or experience at all, and in that world Harlow was simply a helpless idiot who was as good as dead.


    ¡°Let go of the gun.  Slowly, just let it slide to the ground.  We don¡¯t want it going off. Don¡¯t go trying anything heroic, not now.  There¡¯ll be a time for that later on, assuming you don¡¯t go and do something stupid and make me kill you, that is, which I have no desire to do¡­.none that I can think of, at any rate.  There now, just keep your hands neatly at your side like that and relax. No, don¡¯t turn around. We can carry on this conversation without a proper introduction, I think. I, for one, have no time for niceties.¡±


    ¡°What do you want from me?¡±


    ¡°Genteel and modestly enlightening conversation.  You are capable of such things, I hope?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Hmm, perhaps not.¡±


    ¡°I say, really, what in God¡¯s name do you want?¡±


    ¡°Far too many things to elucidate on at the present moment I suppose, but I would be satisfied with a pleasant chat and a bit of useful information.  Look here, I¡¯ve spent the better part of a week hiding in this dratted forest, and I would very much like some explanation as to why I have been obliged to have taken up so tedious an occupation.¡±


    ¡°Eh?¡±


    ¡°Oh for goodness sake!  Were you really hit on the head all that badly?  If you really are an addle pate, please inform me so I can find someone else.¡±


    ¡°So it was you!¡±


    ¡°I beg your pardon?  I do not follow your flow of thought, whatever there may be of it.¡±


    ¡°It was you who knocked me out, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.  I have met you scarcely twice, and on neither occasion do I recall having inflicted any violence on your person or even borne the smallest of ill will, barring the fact that I am presently holding a sword at your throat.  It¡¯s quite sharp, by the way, I would advise you not to stir.¡±


    ¡°What ever are you talking about?  Who are you, anyway?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm, it seems things need to be untangled quite a bit for either of us to make sense of the other.  Here, draw your sword nice and slowly, and put it on the ground with the musket. Then step over there.  We shall talk.¡±


    Harlow felt the blade dart lightly away from his neck as he gently let his hunting sword drop to the ground.  He stepped a few paces aside as directed, and then cautiously turned to face his assailant.


    It was Gates.  A bit more worse for wear from his recent woodland hiatus, but Harlow had no trouble recognizing the man.  He stood holding a long, cruciform sword in an easy manner with the point leveled most inimically at Harlow¡¯s heart.


    For a moment, the two regarded one another keenly.  At length, Gates gestured towards the bandage around Harlow¡¯s head.


    ¡°You seem to have met with some misfortune.  Blunt impact, I might surmise, struck from behind?¡±


    ¡°Yes.  I was hit over the head several days ago by a dishonorable blighter who crept up on me from behind.  Though I suppose you wouldn¡¯t know anything about that, eh?¡±


    ¡°Quite correct.  Barring what you¡¯ve told me, that is.  There seems to have been quite a lot of excitement in this hitherto sleepy hamlet over the last few days.  Perhaps you¡¯d better tell me about it.¡±


    ¡°I should think you would know far more of the matter than I, sir.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what could have given you that idea, Mr. Barnstabrake.¡±


    ¡°What have you done with Miss Watson?¡±


    ¡°Miss who?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t play ignorant, Gates.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not playing, my bewilderment is wholly genuine and complete, I assure you.¡±


    ¡°I can see through your lies, Gates.¡±


    ¡°A remarkable assertion, given that you¡¯ve never heard one of them.  Are you not overly confident in your wit, sir?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine enough for you to toy with me, sir, given that your have a sword at my chest while I am unarmed.¡±


    ¡°Quite right, and I intend to keep it that way for the moment.  Now, perhaps we both can come to a better understanding of our lives at present if you would explain just what it is you think I¡¯m lying to you about.¡±


    ¡°Fine.  I can play your games.  It was you who snuck up behind me at the ball, hit me over the head and then kidnapped Miss Watson, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°It most certainly was not.  What on earth ever gave you such a notion?¡±


    ¡°Er, well, I mean, everyone is saying¡­.¡±


    ¡°What!  Everyone is saying it?¡±


    ¡°Er, yes, that¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Well of all the absurd¡­.but why!¡±


    ¡°Er, well, I don¡¯t know, actually.  I mean, you are rather an eccentric sort of foreigner.¡±


    ¡°Is that all?...well if that doesn¡¯t just¡­..humph.  People! So tell me, just what is it that I¡¯m supposed to have done?  I¡¯m a trifle behind the times for news of my own escapades it seems. You say this woman, Miss¡­.¡±


    ¡°Miss Watson¡±


    ¡°....Miss Watson, was abducted and you yourself assaulted.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I assume by your previous statements that you did not see who did it.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And no sign of the lady since?  Nothing else, other than the fact that everyone thinks I did it for some reason?¡±


    ¡°Well, Doctor Ford thinks it was wolves.¡±


    ¡°Wolves you say!¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°How big?¡±


    ¡°What?  I don¡¯t know, large I suppose.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no matter.  What makes him think it was wolves?¡±


    ¡°He says he found bits of their fur or something in the wound on my head.¡±


    ¡°Oh really?  Let me see!¡±


    ¡°Just stay back and don¡¯t touch me.  I¡¯m only just feeling better and I¡¯d really rather not have rotten pirates fiddling with my head just now, thank you.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.  What¡¯s that about pirates?¡±


    ¡°Look, just who are you, sir?  Really, I mean.¡±


    ¡°Here and elsewhere, I am called Zachariah Gates, alternatively Zacharia the Hawk.  Further elsewhere I am called Falknir, while there is a tribe of Earth Gnomes who call me Birdie, a Parrot who calls me Stinker, and not a few people who call me Unwelcome.  And of course there¡¯s my mother, who calls me Bert.¡±


    ¡°What about ¡®Black Abraham¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Abraham?  Black Abraham, no less?  No, I don¡¯t recall¡­...that¡¯s a new one for me, and already taken, I believe.  Isn¡¯t there a pirate who goes by that name? Is that who they think I am?¡±


    ¡°Well, er, yes rather.  We, er, they, all rather think that you¡¯re Black Abraham the notorious pirate.¡±


    ¡°I thought they hanged the fellow.¡±


    ¡°He escaped a few months back.¡±


    ¡°I should pay more attention to your local gazettes, it seems.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re not Black Abraham?¡±


    ¡°Well, you have my word that I¡¯m not.  Whether that is sufficient for you is not for me to say.  So please tell me more of what happened, I think a more thorough account is in order.¡±


    ¡°Well what interest have you in affair, if you¡¯re not Black Abraham?¡±


    ¡°The exuberance of your community seems to have forced on me a distinctly intimate interest in the affair indeed, thank you.  Please, recount the whole of the unfortunate event, and spare no detail.¡±


    ¡°I have already done it about six dozen times.¡±


    ¡°But not to me, and I think I of all people am owed an explanation, given that everyone seems to think that I did it.  Please, begin.¡±


    Harlow again recounted the tale of Miss Watson¡¯s abduction.  At the conclusion, Gates stood thoughtfully, his fingers scratching in the recesses of his beard.


    ¡°Rum sort of adventure.  Not the sort of thing that frequently happens in quiet little places like Potham.  It seems too much of a coincidence to be credible¡­..¡±


    ¡°Coincidence?¡±


    ¡°Nevermind...for now.  Let¡¯s just say that I have business of my own here and it all seems rather...odd.  Look, what can I do to convince you that I¡¯m not Black Abraham, that I did not carry off Miss Watson, and did not wallop you on the cocoanut?¡±


    ¡°You could start by producing Black Abraham and Miss Watson.  That would be quite enough to convince me you¡¯re not him, I think.¡±


    ¡°Done.  Although, it may not be Black Abraham that I bring back for you.  I have a feeling you may be wrong on that score. Come, let¡¯s get going!¡±


    ¡°What?  Where?¡±


    ¡°To find your Miss Watson and her abductor, of course.¡±

 An Unlikely Clue

    Nightfall found the search parties in want of any progress beyond that garnered by process of elimination.  The principal leaders were gathered in the drawing room of Wingham manner, arguing over the results and their impact on the plans for the morrow.


    And to add further complication, it seemed that young Harlow Barnstabrake had disappeared.


    ¡°Blast the boy!  Leave it to Harlow to go wandering off on his own like that.  A real Barnstabrake doesn¡¯t go off on half cocked adventures and get themselves lost in a little bit of wood, no indeed sir!¡±


    ¡°I really regret having suggested that Mr. Barnstabrake was in sufficient health to participate.  In hindsight he really could have done with the extra rest.¡±


    ¡°Nothing can keep a Barnstabrake down for long, mark my words Doctor.  I¡¯m sure young Harlow will come back having discovered something or other, by Jingo!  Now, what of that damaged fence near the Hudson place?¡±


    Mr. Stokes sat in a corner of the drawing room listening as the banter shot back and forth, his legs propped gratefully up on a side table near where his pistols were piled up.


    It had been a thoroughly dreadful day.  If it weren¡¯t bad enough to be aroused at a deplorable hour to embark on a wholly distasteful enterprise in such bucolic company, his previous service to Mr. Barnstabrake Sr. over the past several days had apparently led the latter to conclude that Mr. Stokes was a ¡°damn steady fellow¡±, and had therefore requested of Sir Walter that the invaluable secretary might continue to accompany him, to which Sir Walter had completely assented.  For his part Mr. Stokes felt that he had already accrued a lifetime¡¯s worth of exposure to the profuse bombast of the elder Mr. Barnstabrake, but in deference both to his employer and to his own standing in the community he found himself wholly unable to extricate himself from the situation in any suitably graceful manner. The consequence of Mr Stoke¡¯s cultured propriety and refined consideration was certainly the most tiresome fifteen hours of his life.  Even now in the relative sophistication of Wingham Manor (however diluted it may be with the rustic bumbledom), with a solid glass of excellent port in hand, Mr. Stokes still found himself shivering over the whole ghastly experience.


    The conversation had rather devolved from a discussion about whether the damage to a fence near the Hudson place could be attributed to the work of Black Abraham or Mr. Wiggins¡¯s pigs to a heated dispute between the said Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Hudson over whether Mr. Wiggins was going to take fiscal responsibility for the larks of his wayward porcines or whether Mr. Hudson was just a shoddy fence builder who should jolly well pick up his game a bit, when a disturbance in the outer hall abruptly distracted everyone¡¯s attention.


    A tumult of male voices had arisen from outside the drawing room, over all of which a lone soprano sailed shrilly in confident assertion, demanding to speak to the Sheriff at once.  Even as many were still engaged in argument the drawing room doors were flung open with a jarring bang and Miss Bellingham swept majestically into the room in tattered and leaf strewn splendour.


    ¡°Bring me thither to the Sheriff, and hear you all what a tale I have!  I told you all before, and it¡¯s all true, I have seen it!¡±


    The Sheriff ran a distinctly critical eye over the bedraggled Miss Bellingham.


    ¡°Who is this young woman, and what on earth is she doing here?¡±


    ¡°This is¡­.¡±


    ¡°I am Abigayle Bellingham, a Supplicant of the Earth¡­¡±


    ¡°What the devil¡­.¡±


    ¡°...and I bring you tidings of the most Terrible Portend.  I know what happened to dear Agatha, for it has all happened to me as well, or nearly anyway.¡±


    ¡°What!  Explain!¡±


    ¡°Indeed yes!  It was Kobalds after all, just as I said all along¡­.¡±


    ¡°...oh for goodness sake¡­¡±


    ¡°....I didn¡¯t see them, mind you¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes, of course not¡­¡±


    ¡°I was blindfolded you see, but I am quite certain it was Kobalds, I¡¯m sure I could hear their little voices chattering in their queer language.¡±


    ¡°You had better explain, Miss Bellingham.  This is a deadly serious affair, and there is no room whatsoever for spurious fantasies.¡±


    ¡°I can assure you, Mister Sheriff, that I never bother with those, I am usually much too busy cultivating spiritual energies.¡±


    ¡°Oh dear.  Bring me a chair.  Please explain from the beginning, Miss Bellingham.  And please, don¡¯t exaggerate.  Doctor Ford, would you be kind enough take notes?¡±


    ¡°Exaggeration produces an impure miasma which oppresses the mind and sometimes gives good little Brownies a nasty chill (for they are ever truthful creatures).¡±


    ¡°Please, Miss Bellingham, kindly begin your narrative, and for goodness sake don¡¯t drivel.¡±


    ¡°I never drivel, Mister Sheriff, it causes¡­..¡±


    ¡°In heavens name, please!¡±


    It was a few more minutes before the combined efforts of the Sheriff and Doctor Ford could convince Miss Bellingham to lay out her narrative in an orderly fashion.  In the meanwhile, paper and ink were brought forth and extra chairs were drawn up. Miss Bellingham filled the center of the room in regal exaltation, and after taking stock of the whole company with a sweeping gaze of confident mastery, began her narrative.


    ¡°I have sensed for some time, gentlemen, that negative vibrations have been about of late and the earth beneath our homes has become permeated with dark energies of a most incommodious character.  At first I thought it was because of our thoughtlessness towards the Dryads or perhaps because of the farmers driving so many of the wee forest creatures from their little burrows.¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°I say!¡±


    ¡°Silence!  I will hear Miss Bellingham.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Mister Sheriff, where was I?¡±


    ¡°Vibrations, or something.¡±


    ¡°Ah yes!  Now then yes, about the vibrations.  One should always be very sensitive to the vibrations that circulate about one, as I always say¡­¡±


    ¡°Is it at all possible for you to remain on topic, Miss Bellingham?¡±


    ¡°I am on topic, my dear Mister Sheriff.  Anyway, as I always say¡­¡±


    ¡°Can you please just proceed to the salient facts?¡±


    ¡°I thought you said to spare no detail?¡±


    ¡°I have changed my mind, I think.  I should have asked you to spare no detail regarding the facts of importance.¡±


    ¡°But vibrations are important!¡±


    ¡°All facts of importance excluding vibrations, then.¡±


    ¡°Well then, you should have said so in the first place, Mister Sheriff.  Fickle sorts of fellows you public officers are.¡±


    ¡°You will address the His Lordship as M¡¯lord Sheriff, young lady!¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Please, just let Miss Bellingham continue with her narrative.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Mister M¡¯lord Sheriff.  Why don¡¯t I just begin all over again?¡±


    ¡°I think that would be advisable.  And please, do skip the bits about the vibrations and Brownies and all.  Why don¡¯t you begin with events since the Moot earlier this week?¡±


    ¡°Very well, if that will make you happy, Mister Sheriff.  I seek to be ever obliging, it produces positive vibra¡­..oh sorry, I forgot already.  No vibrations.¡±


    ¡°We would all be very much obliged, yes.  Please continue.¡±


    ¡°Very well.


    Now you see, gentlemen, after the Moot-thingies were all finished with I felt a very deep spiritual repression, as I knew it was really was Kobalds (but nobody would listen to me).  I therefore resolved that I at least would not remain idle while poor dear Agatha languished as the captive of a Kobald Prince. And so, I resolved to search Crickwood.¡±


    ¡°We already had a full two score men searching there.¡±


    ¡°But not for the right things.  You weren¡¯t looking for Kobalds, were you, and you were not keeping an eye for their tiny footpaths.¡±


    ¡°No, I should say we were not.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.  Anyway, yesterday I was quite sure I had found one (a Kobald path, that is), and was following it closely, when all of a sudden the Kobalds dropped a nasty gunny sack or something over my head, and I fell into an enchanted sleep.


    I don¡¯t know how long I remained asleep.  However, I awoke to find that I had been blindfolded, and therefore I couldn¡¯t see anything.  I knew the Kobalds were all about me though, they bade me arise and then they led me down some path or other, and when they at length stopped they removed the blindfold and I was presented in splendour to their prince.


    He was really quite a bit larger than I expected.  In fact, he might have been a Forest God, for he was quite tall enough to have been an ordinary man.  I saw no others except him and his immediate servants (who were all very large as well, quite as tall as common men) and his great hounds.  And of course there was also dear Agatha.¡±


    ¡°You saw Miss Watson!¡±


    ¡°Who?  Oh yes, dear Agatha.  Yes, I saw her.¡±


    ¡°Was she alright?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, I did not have the opportunity to enquire, my attention was most distracted by the Kobald Prince (or Forest God).¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°He was most impertinent.  He attempted to woo me in the most forward terms.  But I repulsed him! For his professions of love were most vulgar (and most unbecoming for a Kobald of his standing, as I told him at the time), and besides I have sworn myself to remain a Vestal of the Muses.  And so I fled¡­..¡±


    ¡°You what?¡±


    ¡°I fled.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying he just let you get away?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, I had to bite his servants quite forcefully, and then he sent his great hounds to pursue me, terrible black beasts possessing the most negative of energies.  But I eluded them all, and sped thither to bring you tidings of my great adventure and to tell you that I was right all along. I told you from the beginning it was Kobalds, and I was right!¡±


    An insecure sort of mutter spread from one end of the assembly to the other as Miss Bellingham finished her narrative, smiling grandly as her gaze followed the passing word with a look of regal and benevolent triumph.  From his vantage in the corner, Mr. Stokes wondered that the eccentric young woman didn¡¯t make grand curtsies to all the company after so grossly fanciful an exhibition.


    The Sheriff arose.  ¡°Well, thank you, Miss Bellingham.  A most...intriguing...testimony, to be sure.  I have quite a number of questions for you, however¡­.¡±


    ¡°Questions?¡±


    ¡°Indeed.  To begin with, where were you when you were¡­.accosted, shall we say?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t remember.  I was too busy following the Kobald footpath.¡±


    ¡°Do you perhaps know, then, where you were when you started following the, ahem, ¡®path¡¯?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I see.  Where were you, then, when the blindfold was removed?  Do you at least have any recollection as to the character of your whereabouts at the time?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes indeed, it was the Palace of the Kobald Prince.¡±


    ¡°Ah?  And what led you to suppose it was such?¡±


    ¡°Because the Kobald Prince was living in it, of course, along with his servants and hounds.¡±


    ¡°Oh dear.  Is that all?¡±


    ¡°Yes.  No. Actually, it was rather more damp and overgrown than I should have expected, but perhaps his servants had been busy of late and not tidied up properly.  All the stones were dreadfully mossy and slippery.¡±


    ¡°Stones?  What stones?¡±


    ¡°The flat ones on the ground, the walls, the ceiling, and of course the big square ones all about the prince¡¯s throne throne.¡±


    ¡°A Barrow!¡±


    ¡°I beg your pardon, Mister Sheriff?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s describing a Barrow, isn¡¯t she?  A pagan tomb. Barrow Heath is honeycombed with them, isn¡¯t it Doctor Ford?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes, they¡¯ve all been empty as long as anyone can remember.  I used to explore them quite a bit, looking for artifacts. A few bits of pottery, flints, and some bones are all the sort of thing that ever turns up, anything of value was looted centuries ago.  Do you think Black Abraham is hiding in a Barrow?¡±


    ¡°Based on Miss Bellingham¡¯s testimony, I am convinced of it.  How many Barrows are there in the heath?¡±


    ¡°Impossible to say.  Easily dozens, and not all of them above ground.  They¡¯ve never been really mapped. The farmers occasionally use them as storehouses, though, and they¡¯ll know a good many of the more usable ones.  And as Black Abraham is a stranger in the neighborhood, he is unlikely to have found one that is not already known.¡±


    ¡°To Barrow Heath then!  Now that Miss Bellingham has escaped to us, surely Black Abraham knows we¡¯re onto his scent.  We have not a moment to lose, I want search parties dispatched to the heath immediately. Get every torch and lantern you can lay your hands on.¡±


    ¡°Heavens above!  How ponderously silly you all are!  I just told you the whole story, and you still don¡¯t believe that it¡¯s Kobalds?¡±

 Crickwood

    ¡°Aha!  Another one!  For a moment there I thought we¡¯d lost him completely.¡±


    The noon sun cut its way through the foliage of Crickwood with the vigour of dawn still coursing it¡¯s rays, lighting upon a pair of sundry interlopers wading in a sea of bush and detritus.


    Harlow stood at one side, an impatient simmer of uselessness beleaguering his mind.  It had been building steadily since the day before, and Harlow felt at this point that he had quite probably reached the limits of his normally bountiful fortitude.  His own mistrust of the enigmatic Mr. Gates and the latter¡¯s assertions of innocence in regards to the abduction of Miss Watson combined in a manner quite readily combustible with the eccentricity and caginess with which Gates had led Harlow since their chance alliance the day before.  The man had a most deplorable way of charging about his business without ever quite giving a proper account of what he was about, leaving Harlow only to speculate on the omitted details while doing his best to keep pace.


    A few yards away, a stooped hump was all that was visible of Mr. Gates as he rooted about the ground, muttering to himself.  Harlow was not quite of a mind to provoke the fellow excessively, as he might indeed have knowledge that could save Miss Watson.  And likewise, should the man prove after all to have been an extravagant liar with regards to the current situation, it was far better that he should believe that Harlow was still parcel to his ruse.  But there was only so much obscurity a Barnstabrake disposition could cope with before either querulously demanding a proper explanation immediately or else quitting the matter entirely in favor of a shady hammock and a brandy somewhere or other.


    ¡°Look here, Gates.  I should like a word.¡±


    ¡°Marmalade.  Will that do?  It¡¯s a good word.¡±


    ¡°No, sir, it will not.¡±


    ¡°I rather didn¡¯t think so, but I¡¯m far too preoccupied to come up with a better one at present.  Aha! Another!¡±


    ¡°Another?¡±


    ¡°Footprint, of course.  Haven¡¯t you been paying attention all day?¡±


    ¡°Yes in point of fact I have, and I should like to know why.¡±


    ¡°So that you know what¡¯s going on and don¡¯t have to interrupt me with spurious questions, that¡¯s why.¡±


    ¡°No, I mean why waste all day following wolf tracks when you said yourself you don¡¯t think it was they who carried her off?¡±


    ¡°Ssshh!  Quiet. Hullo hullo, now what have we here?  Well now, Barnstabrake, what shall we name this one?¡±


    ¡°What ever are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a new set of tracks here, which has joined the one we¡¯ve already been following.  Our wolf has found a friend, by look of it. We¡¯re very lucky that it has rained so much, the ground is quite wet and the tracks are pretty clear.  Yes, definitely a second set of tracks here, coming from the west a bit to join up with the first. Let¡¯s see, the last one we named George, so this next one we could call¡­¡­¡±


    ¡°Never mind what you¡¯re going to call it!  Why bother with it at all?¡±


    ¡°Because, it is important to keep close track of each wolf.¡±


    ¡°But why!¡±


    ¡°You sound all of seven years old, always with the ¡®why¡¯.  Why this, why that..¡±


    ¡°If I were seven years old I might be content with an answer like ¡°papa knows best¡± or something in a similar vein, which to date is about the only sort of response you¡¯ve given me.  I for one would really prefer a more solid explanation as to why I¡¯m rooting about crickwood in the wake of a pirate.¡±


    ¡°I am not a pirate, as I told you before.¡±


    ¡°Yet you have offered precious little else in the way of elucidating your occupation.  I wonder that you are not playing me for a fool.¡±


    ¡°According to you the entire village is at this moment combing the district with an eye for stretching my neck from the nearest suitable tree; I am hardly in a vein for play.  Besides, if I were the desperate villain you suspect me of being, I would hardly be taking such a risk in trusting you, would I?¡±


    ¡°What trust are you referring to?  You still haven¡¯t given me back my gun, you know.  Nor my sword.¡±


    ¡°Quite right, and I¡¯m not going to either, not yet.  The trust I was referring to was letting you follow me and not having left you tied up somewhere to starve, or killed you outright the moment I found you.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Quite.  You may chew on that.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t mention chewing, I¡¯m very nearly starved as it is.¡±


    ¡°Fine.  We¡¯ll eat then.¡±


    ¡°Eat?  Eat what!  A thornbush?¡±


    ¡°I was thinking of salt pork and hardtack myself, but to each his own¡­.¡±


    ¡°Salt pork!  Where did you get all that?¡±


    ¡°From my bag.¡±


    ¡°What, do you always carry food with you?¡±


    ¡°More or less.  I always make sure I am prepared for unexpected journeys.  I usually have two bags and a skein each prepared, and wherever I stop off for a time I¡¯ll keep one wherever I¡¯m staying and I¡¯ll hide one somewhere else where I can lay my hands on it if society goes abruptly sour.¡±


    ¡°A peculiar habit for a gentleman, to be sure.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°But highly useful for one of my occupation.¡±


    ¡°Which is?¡±


    ¡°Not piracy.¡±


    ¡°So you have said.  Smuggling then, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Highwayman?¡±


    ¡°Is this a parlor game?¡±


    ¡°Spy?¡±


    ¡°No¡­..well¡­.yes, actually.  I suppose some would say I am a spy.¡±


    ¡°Aha!¡±


    ¡°I can assure you it¡¯s not at all what you think.¡±


    ¡°Enlighten me.¡±


    ¡°Well, shall we say that it is not the politics of Gandburgh or Ursiland which interest me.  It is the politics of the Hinterlands which carries me from place to place, and I venture into Ursiland only on the occasion that the politics of my own sphere have wandered hither to do mischief.¡±


    ¡°Mischief?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes indeed.¡±


    ¡°Hmph.  Well, I¡¯ll have you know we Ursilanders want none of your mischief here.  We have no interest in the machinations of Hinterlanders.¡±


    ¡°That is both a blessing and a dangerous weakness.  It is far safer indeed for you to have no involvement at all in our little domestic difficulties, but in the long run you are equally endangered by your neglect of the powers about you.  To remain insular is not to seek out and know the threat unknown, but to wait instead for it to surround you. It is folly to presume that by simply being a trifle to no one then no one will trifle with you.  Far to the contrary, in my opinion, for it is my experience that most villains do not so often meddle with one who appears courageous, but one who appears timid.¡±


    ¡°I can assure you that we Ursilanders are not at all timid.¡±


    ¡°That may be true, but the truth as such may not matter.  I have traveled extensively in your lands, I am acquainted with the peoples of Gandburgh, Brecia, Savaria and so forth.  You are not at all timid, you are every bit as querulous with one another as others are throughout the world. And you possess powerful and sophisticated weapons and armies with which to back up up your mettle.  But, confident in the strength of your forces and the advancement of your military sciences, you are particularly blindsighted by the illusion of your own security against ¡®barbarians¡¯ like us, and that itself is perhaps your greatest weakness.  I can assure you that there are forces not very far away who look to Ursiland with calculating ararvice. But for the moment they may not possess the power to take what they covet outright, nor do they find that they always need to. They would divide and confound you from within, until your kingdoms were reduced to chaotic embers, and then at last they would come and take possession of all that remained and build it all anew for themselves.¡±


    ¡°You seek to frighten me.¡±


    ¡°I most certainly do.  The truth as such should frighten you.  Have a biscuit?¡±


    A hard and salty lunch made palatable only by considerable fresh water was still a marked improvement on the condition of both gentlemen, and shortly thereafter Gates dove back to his tracking with fresh gusto, and even Harlow found his frustration alleviated a bit and would have whistled as he strolled in Gates¡¯s wake if the latter had not earlier bluntly informed him not to do so again if Harlow wanted to keep his nose in the same shape his mother¡¯s side had it.


    Nightfall found the pair on a wooded knoll near the forest edge, overlooking the downs of Barrow Heath.  Harlow at this point had nearly wholly resigned himself to having no idea whatsoever what was going on about him, peevishly content to live in the hope Gates knew what he was about and wasn¡¯t secretly planning to kill him as soon as it was convenient and that Harlow might one day return to a world where there were things a bit better to eat than stoney bread and briney meat.


    Gates was up a small tree at the moment, his own limbs tangled about the limbs of living wood as he gazed out across the downs.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on in the heath?  It looks like half the stars just fell out of the sky and are now milling about on the ground trying to find something on tap to calm their nerves.  Search parties?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know, I¡¯m not the one climbing trees.¡±


    ¡°Yes, lots of little lanterns out there I think.  Tell me, Barnstabrake, what could be in the heath that might be of interest to so many people?¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all.  Barrow Heath is consummately boring.¡±


    ¡°Barrow Heath?  Yes, I remember the name now.  So called because it¡¯s full of Barrows, isn¡¯t it?  Looks as though nearly the entire neighborhood is out there searching, I wonder if they were tipped off about something or other.  A Barrow would be a decent hiding place for one of his sort¡­.¡±


    ¡°Beg pardon?¡±


    ¡°...but if he were living on the heath, why is it then that everything seems to happen in the wood?¡±


    ¡°So far as I can tell, nothing at all happens in this wood except for fools rooting about all day in the underbrush following tracks.¡±


    ¡°What if there were a Barrow somewhere in the wood, I wonder?¡±


    ¡°There aren¡¯t barrows in the wood.  I mean, why would anyone build one there?¡±


    ¡°Drat it, Barnstabrake, but do you expect Crickwood to stay in one place?  A forest moves, inch by inch, year by year, ever extending its reach. It¡¯s fully twice the size it was a thousand years ago, so I¡¯m told.  I¡¯m sure there must be not a few Barrows that were swallowed up by the trees. Yes, it would add up, to be sure, assuming the little theory I¡¯m building up isn¡¯t a complete bootless errand at the bottom line anyway.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not making sense, you know, but I¡¯ve come to expect that from you.¡±


    ¡°Beg pardon, Barnstabrake?  Were you talking to me just now?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, just having a little chat with myself about the weather.¡±


    ¡°Good, it¡¯ll keep you from getting bored.¡±


    ¡°Oh Lord!¡±


    ¡°Shhh!!!  I¡¯m thinking.¡±


    ¡°Do tell.¡±


    ¡°No I won¡¯t, not until I¡¯ve worked it all out.  Now be quiet!¡±


    ¡°Right-ho, Gates!  What do I live for but to be useless and bewildered.  But it¡¯s quite alright, I am happy to serve by being aimless and to provide counsel by knowing nothing.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not being quiet, Barnstabrake.¡±


    ¡°A Barnstabrake seldom is.  Are we going to spend all night here?¡±


    ¡°Quite possibly, I have a lot of thinking to do.  Have a nip of the hardtack and then go find yourself a bed of clover or something.¡±

 Hunting on the Heathland

    A day and two nights ploughing the heath had as yet revealed nothing.  Nearly every able bodied man had tread its length at least once, and every Barrow that anyone could remember (and quite a few that everyone had forgotten) had been searched twice.  At the dawn of the second day of searching, popular opinion tended upon two theories: that either Black Abraham had ensconced himself in a Barrow yet unknown (or at least unremembered), or that Miss Bellingham was, after all, thoroughly batty as usual.


    The Sheriff was of the former mind.  He was convinced that while Miss Bellingham may have been of an eccentric and imaginative turn of mind, she was definitely not delusional.  He had no doubt that she was telling the truth exactly as she had perceived it. It was in light of this conviction that he had requested that the young lady accompany the search parties that day, to see if she came across anything that could jog her recollection further.


    Miss Bellingham was, of course, delighted to be of assistance, especially if it could convince people about all the vibrations.  She cantered about the fields between search parties on a spritely white mare, herself adorned in an ill fitting riding dress and a top hat copiously bedecked with wild feathers.


    Despite her enthusiastic and spirited intervention in every minute detail of their progress, by ten o¡¯clock or so it was the general conclusion of the searchers that the effusive Miss Bellingham was rather more a meddlesome nuisance of wholly equivocal utility to their endeavours, a conclusion to which the Sheriff was eventually obliged to acquiesce.  He advised Miss Bellingham to have a look about the heath on her own, while staying within sight of the search parties both for safety and to quickly deliver any intelligence which she may by some small chance come across. And as insurance, the Sheriff directed that she be accompanied at all times by a gentleman of steady temper.


    There were times, many times in fact, that Mr. Stokes regretted the fact that he was a gentleman of such impeccable standing and considerate reputation.  Mr. Stokes was not a romantic sort. He was a rationalist, and did not bemoan the petty histrionics of ages past. However, it was his feeling at the moment that if anyone were to epitomize the gallant self sacrifice and patient forbearance of ancient chivalric ideal, it was surely himself.


    If an obligation to endure Miss Bellingham¡¯s company were not sufficient onus in itself, being bound to follow in her wake as her attendant curator was simply a nightmare of the highest order for one of Mr. Stoke¡¯s refined sensibilities.


    In addition to her preposterously whimsical disposition, Miss Bellingham was also an appalling horsewoman, taking the most dreadful risks with the least possible refinement, and when she was not bolting off in some capricious direction or other she was entirely content to allow her mount to have it¡¯s way in nearly everything.


    ¡°Why fancy that, my dear Mr. Stokes, Edwina has found another thistle to her liking!¡±


    ¡°How¡­...splendid.  Yes, quite splendid I suppose, Miss Bellingham.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m so very glad you see it that way my dear Mr. Stokes.  Tell me, have you ever seen a Brownie?¡±


    ¡°What on earth¡­..I mean, no, Miss Bellingham.  I most definitely have never seen a Brownie.¡±


    ¡°A pity.  I saw one once.  It was away yonder near one of the barns at Wiggins Farm.¡±


    ¡°What in world would you be doing around barns¡­..oh nevermind.¡±


    ¡°He was such a wee little fellow, with a great brown cap over his white gown.  Of course, he was disguised as a mushroom, but I saw through it alright. I recognized the Signs, you know.  I do believe he left me with a Charm for not having disturbed him, the rest of the day was so splendid, you know.¡±


    ¡°Ah.  Yes I suppose it was, they do say that the most blissful are those of the most, well, shall we say, the most straightforward turn of mind.¡±


    ¡°You are quite right, my dear Mr. Stokes.  Happiness comes from a Proper Attunement, kindness to animals, and having sugar buns with breakfast, don¡¯t you think so my dear Mr. Stokes?¡±


    ¡°Er, I say, aren¡¯t we a bit far off from the others?¡±


    ¡°As I always say, sensitivity to the proper Energies will always¡­.EEEEE!¡±


    ¡°What in heaven¡¯s name!  What one earth are you shouting about?¡±


    ¡°Would you look at that, my dear Mr. Stokes!  A wee Cairn!¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes it is!  A Kobald Cairn!¡±


    ¡°Oh no¡­¡±


    ¡°See!¡±


    Miss Bellingham rolled off her horse in a most unladylike fashion and began prodding a small pile of stones in the brush.


    ¡°See!  See! It¡¯s a sign!  A Kobald signpost you know.  It¡¯s telling us we should go this way!¡±


    ¡°I really think we should not¡­..¡±


    ¡°Hurry, my dear Mr. Stokes!  We must follow!¡±


    Miss Bellingham rolled back up into her saddle with as blinding a speed as with which she had quit it a moment ago, and before Mr. Stokes had time to arrest her momentum or shout out to the roving searchers nearby, she was charging off in an apparently random direction towards the edge of the heath.  Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    There was nothing for it.  Mr. Stokes had to follow.


    Every few minutes Miss Bellingham would come to a jerking halt and examine a stone or a bit of wood, then charge off in a new direction at top speed.  It was with considerable difficulty that Mr. Stokes even managed to keep up. It appeared that Edwina was well accustomed to her mistress¡¯s peculiar methods of equitation and took considerable relish in the reckless liberties with which she was permitted to navigate.  There seemed to be no sense or reason in the trail Miss Bellingham followed, except that with each twist and about face they appeared to be brought steadily closer to the fringes of Crickwood.


    It was some time before Miss Bellingham and her grudging consort were missed.  The eventual discernment of their disappearance caused the Sheriff and the other leaders no small amount of consternation.


    But even this was little compared to the abashment that was shortly to follow, for nightfall had brought intelligence of the most confounding character.


    The Sheriff and the other dignitaries were gathered as was now usual in the drawing room of Wingham Manor.  That stoic apartment had over the last week turned into a topsy-turvy war room bedecked and piled with maps, charts, books, weapons, gear, half eaten breakfasts and many used glasses and tankards.  In the midst of all of this the leading citizens would analyze, debate, argue and blather over the progress of each day and night.


    At the moment there was a lively discussion in progress concerning the whereabouts of Miss Bellingham and Mr. Stokes, as well as the persistent absence of young Harlow Barnstabrake, and whether these sinister disappearances were a reflection on the questionable competence of somebody or other when all ceased abruptly upon the announcement that one of the groups of riders sent abroad on the first day of searching had returned.


    A bedraggled young man was brought forth.  He reported that he and his companions had ridden as far as Brackton on Moor when they encountered news of the most revolutionary impact on their mission.  With hardly a stop, they turned back immediately to bring these tidings to Potham.


    Two weeks ago, the naval docks at Edton were breached by an armed party of miscreants, who commandeered an important vessel currently interred there.  Although ships were immediately dispatched in pursuit, there had yet to be any trace of the raiders. These facts had been kept confidential for one week, until it became apparent that the news could no longer be withheld, at which point an announcement was made and a bounty was put on the heads of the perpetrators.


    And it was of the most profound significance that the identities of the perpetrators, or at least their leaders, were indeed known with confidence.  It was with positive identification that the Admiralty at last announced that the notorious pirate Black Abraham had emerged from hiding and taken possession of his former ship, the Ardent Fancy.  Although a general bounty had been posted as of Tuesday with a mandate that all salient news be brought to the Admiralty with all expediency, at last sighting it was confirmed that the Ardent Fancy was on a course southward out of Gandish waters.  It was the opinion of the Admiralty that Black Abraham was headed to the distant islands of the Ostraneses to escape the Gandish Navy and renew his career in the remote tropics. But whatever the destination of the terrible pirate may be, one thing was appallingly clear to the men gathered in Wingham Manor:  In total contradiction to all their conclusions hitherto, Black Abraham had in fact left Gandburgh before the May Day ball had even taken place.


    It was a cold night for mid June.  Fanny stood before her bedroom window gazing out onto the darkened lawns as the chill of the outdoors radiated through the glass.  High in the sky, a half moon shown with glacial foreboding.


    Sir Walter had returned home in an ill temper, full of the news of Black Abraham¡¯s escape and the subsequent confused turmoil the revelation had thrown the neighborhood into.  No one knew quite what to do next or where to begin again. Everything they had built their direction upon had now been cast into total disarray, and the entire enterprise was now locked in confounded immobility.  There was talk of holding another Moot. Some thought that perhaps the Admiralty was mistaken or was still hiding something (after all, they did wait an entire week before announcing their embarrassment). Perhaps it had not been Black Abraham after all who had commandeered the Ardent Fancy, that the act was merely attributed to him as a leap of speculation.  Others took the news at face value and concluded that their whole enterprise thus far had been a wild goose chase, and that nothing more could be done until a new theory could be postulated (this time with some actual proof to back it up).


    Fanny idly combed her hair with her fingers as she gazed upon the bleak landscape of this still yet unquiet night.  First Miss Watson, then young Mr. Barnstabrake, now Miss Bellingham (twice, presumably) and or course Mr. Stokes. The displacement of the latter perhaps was not so great a burden upon her mind, but Fanny was after all a woman of good breeding and such an attitude ought to be suppressed in favor of a charitable will.


    Fanny shivered.  The airiness of her summer nightgown notwithstanding, the chill of the night seemed to have a particularly penetrative power at the moment, empowered perhaps by the anxious chill that had settled within her.  There was no use in fretting. Sir Walter was here for the night, and the domestic servants had been on close guard all week. And if nothing else, the news that Black Abraham was in all probability well on his way to the tropics was somewhat reassuring, given that individual¡¯s established propensity (so to speak) of raiding country houses with an eye for abducting young women.


    Fanny examined the window:  Properly bolted. Wearily she closed the drapes and shut out the darkness, turning towards the light of the candle beside her bed.  The candle could just be left to burn itself out, she supposed. There was no particular necessity to abandon the slight sense of security the light gave her.  With a final glance about the room she mounted the bed and sank into the comforting volume of sheet and feather mattress.


    She lay there curled up securely in the mass of cloth and cushion, peering intently at the soothing fire of the sleepily diminishing candle, her thoughts drifting from one anxious subject to another.  No, there was no use worrying, but all the same she somehow couldn¡¯t help it.


    Still, she seemed to be falling asleep readily enough.  She felt her thoughts shifting peculiarly as they began to blend together in an exotic whirl.  Somehow, she couldn¡¯t grasp any particular thought, each idea seemed to slip away and melt into an unquiet background of fuzzy confusion.  She felt she ought to be breathing or something, yet her breast seemed heavy and motionless.


    She felt a vacant notion that she was dozing off, but not properly somehow.  Her mind continued to spiral into a strange sort of abyss from which there seemed to be no escape.


    As she felt herself slipping helplessly into dark unconsciousness, Fanny thought she heard a sound.  A muffled, nasty sounding laugh.

 Wolves in the Darkness

    Harlow awoke suddenly.  He felt rather like he¡¯d taken a short fall, and experienced a distinct sense of disorientation.  The last thing he could remember he had been feasting on roast mutton while sitting in a bath alongside Mr. Gates on the roof of Wingham Manor, while Fanny Howard stood daintily on the top of a nearby tree, laughing and calling out his name.


    Right, yes.  No mutton, no bath.  Harlow was lying on a prickly length of ground that had looked luxuriously comfortable when he collapsed on it after sunset.  Everything was darkish, the light of the half moon breaking through the treetops in phantom rays and wild shadows.


    Had someone been calling his name?  Was Harlow alone? Right, Gates must still be around somewhere.  Where the devil was the dratted blighter, anyway?


    Harlow looked about him.  No sign of Gates. There was the man¡¯s bag, though, propped against the tree Harlow had been sleeping under.  And there was Harlow¡¯s hunting sword and fowling piece. What was it about those two objects? Right, yes. Gate¡¯s wouldn¡¯t let Harlow have them before.  Well, Gate¡¯s wasn¡¯t around at the moment. Harlow yawned and wondered distantly whether it was worth bothering to get up and go take possession of them.


    A noise.  Why would there be a noise?  It was such a quiet wood. Harlow realized that his eyes had faded shut again.  With an effort, he propped himself up on his elbows and reopened his eyes.


    What was Harlow looking at?  Two red spots? No, four. Four little red embers peering out from the brush like terrible eyes.


    Harlow looked at the eyes.  The eyes looked back. Dash it all, they were eyes!  Harlow sat up with a jolt, wide awake now.  The eyes seem to stir. Then slowly, a dark shape seemed to form about one pair, then another.


    Two great, dark animals emerged from the wild scatter of shadows into the full light of the moon, each shaggy and black as the very soul of the Devil himself.  And the eyes! Eyes that burned red from within! Eyes with their own light and fire that bore down on Harlow with a savage look of death.


    In an instant, Harlow was certain of one fact in a way that he had never been certain of anything before:  He was about to die.


    Unless he did something quickly, that is.  Seconds suddenly turned to minutes. There in front of him were the wolves, already advancing.  There to his right were his weapons.


    Harlow rolled to his feet as the wolves howled.  There was the gun. The wolves leaped forward. There was the stock in his shoulder now.  The wolves were nearly on him. There, there was the trigger!


    The world exploded in a flash and bang that left Harlow blinded by a great purple haze before his eyes.  There was a terrible howl and scuffle which he could not see. Frantically he switch his grip to the barrel, ready to bludgeon with his gun butt the first thing that came near him.


    Silence.  Then there was a faint rustle in the trees somewhere.  Harlow stood blind, peering out into the darkness, his vision momentarily shattered by the muzzle flash.


    ¡°Barnstabrake!¡±


    ¡°Gates?¡±


    ¡°Well done, Barnstabrake!  That¡¯s one down and one run off.  What are you looking about for?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t see!¡±


    ¡°Eh?  Oh right.  It might have been better to shut your eyes or something just as you pulled the trigger, you know.  Splendid way to spoil the old night eyes. Give it a few moments.¡±


    ¡°Are the wolves still around?¡±


    ¡°One of them is, yes, only it won¡¯t ever be leaving either.  The other one ran off, though I¡¯m not sure if it got away unscathed.  I think the buckshot got them both. That took them by surprise, I think.  They¡¯re probably not all that used to guns, and don¡¯t know how to properly handle a man with one.¡±


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°What do you mean?  They¡¯re just wolves.  I mean, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°Not of the ordinary sort, I think.  Didn¡¯t you see the eyes?¡±


    ¡°Well then, if they aren¡¯t wolves what are they?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure yet, but I think I can guess.  Can you see yet?¡±


    ¡°Nearly, I think.¡±


    ¡°Good, come have a look.¡±


    Gates was crouched down beside the contorted body of the dead wolf.  It¡¯s jaws were open wide in a horrible grimace, the fangs nearly glowing in the reflected moonlight.  Several dark craters in the animal¡¯s head and breast were oozing blood. The creature was of prodigious size, and had it been even a little farther away when he had fired Harlow doubted that his slight fowling piece would have had much impression on it.  And even in death, the wide eyes still glowed faintly with an eerie red.


    ¡°What on earth is it?¡±


    ¡°Could be any number of breeds.  All foreign though. This creature was most definitely imported, recently I would suspect.¡±


    ¡°Where did it come from?¡±


    ¡°Impossible to say, but I think I could make a reasonable guess.  However, that¡¯s not really all that important right now.¡±


    ¡°The real question being why it¡¯s here?¡±


    ¡°Exactly, and who brought it.  You¡¯re getting better, Mr. Barnstabrake.¡±


    ¡°But why bring such a thing to Potham?¡±


    ¡°To do the bidding of the master that brought them, why else?¡±


    ¡°What bidding?¡±


    ¡°Terror, I should imagine.  And of course mundane things, scouting and so forth.  That¡¯s probably their main work, given the tracks we¡¯ve been following.  I¡¯m certainly glad I spotted them in time.¡±


    ¡°Eh?¡±


    ¡°I was up a tree, keeping watch.  It¡¯s a good moon tonight, and I saw them coming.  I called down to you as loudly as I dared, I¡¯m glad I managed to wake you in time.  Come on!¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Do I have to spell out everything for you?  We¡¯ve got a wolf to follow, one that is probably wounded.  Aha, see! Blood along the tracks. We¡¯ve not a moment to lose!¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because the wolf (George, do you suppose?) is probably returning to its master, that¡¯s why.  And in it¡¯s condition it will likely be leaving a splendid trail. Give me the satchel there! Oh, and by the way, you can take your weapons now.  I think you will be needing them soon.¡±


    Not a moment later Harlow was trailing madly behind a seemingly possessed Mr. Gates as the latter followed a trail of broken and bloodied underbrush deep into the riotous shadows of the moonlit forest.


    It was not long after, somewhere in a place removed from the whole of the world as the people of Potham knew it, that Fanny awoke.


    Her eyes opened to a warm humid air bearing a curiously earthy scent.  She felt a horrible ache in her legs and sting in her ankles, and her body was soaking wet.


    She looked about her surroundings as her mind gradually became adjusted to wakefulness.  She was in a dim chamber lit with several guttering candles stuck into earthen walls on small twigs.  The entire room was dug out of the living earth with many sinuous roots poking through the walls, floor, and ceiling.  It was very damp, and Fanny¡¯s saturated nightgown clung to her body like a second layer of skin.


    She was lying with her back to one of the walls.  All about various objects were strewn. Barrels, crates, sacks.  Most of them appeared to contain grain, ale, and other foodstuffs.  There were no tools, though, as Fanny noted with dismay, as she had also discovered that her ankles were tied together with stout twine.  To one side was a small, irregularly shaped door, which was closed tightly.


    And nearly directly above her, looking down from a sort of hole in the sloped earthen wall, was a small, brown, knobby face.


    Fanny looked into the face for a moment, not daring to think what she was seeing.  It stared back with dark inscrutable eyes.


    Suddenly, the face parted into a wicked looking smile, and the creature spoke.


    ¡°Shabang Shabaz!   Look and see, the human wakes!  Arise, Eveling, and mind yer manners, tee hee!¡±


    ¡°Ho ho, ha ha!  She wakes, she wakes!¡±


    ¡°Fetch ye the King, we shall present the Eveling to him.¡±


    ¡°Hey hey, ho ho!!¡±


    The face disappeared and slammed a small round wooden shutter over the hole in the wall.


    There was a sound of scampering and clamour of creaky high pitched voices.  Then, with a painful creak the door was unlatched and flung wide, and a strident voice announced:


    ¡°Hail to Brickus Brackus Brungus the Ninth!  All hail and all respect! May the soles of his shoes never fail, and his nose the light of day never burn!¡±


    All hail His Dreadful Majesty, the King of the Kobalds!¡±

 The Prisoner

    The grandiloquent announcement was followed by a tinny blast from a small horn.  A narrow shadow appeared through the dancing light that streamed through the door, and was in a moment followed by the shadow¡¯s noble owner.


    A small man, barely two feet tall, strode regally into the chamber occupied by Fanny.  His skin was brown and knobby, and his nose quite pronounced and sharp. His fingers were nimble and long and his feet, which were long also, were encased in pointed and heavily padded shoes.  He wore a cloak of snow white rabbit fur, and a copper cap about which was wrapped a crown woven with leaves, nuts, and shiny metal baubles, from under which he regarded Fanny with a pair of glittering black eyes.


    Two more creatures not unlike himself followed, though plainly dressed in hose and tunics of dirty reds, greens, and yellows, and wearing phrygian caps of the same sorts of color.  They bore with them a child sized chair made of polished brass, which they placed in the center of the chamber well out of Fanny¡¯s reach. With a grand bearing, the King took his seat.


    Up to the present moment Fanny had not time to be astonished.  Here she was, faced with something she had heard about all her life yet never believed existed.  In the shocked state of her mind, Fanny was capable of little other than to marvel mutely at what was unfolding before her.


    The King regarded her in silence for a while.  Then, in a rich sort of voice that sounded a bit like the comfortable creak of fine old furniture, the little King spoke.


    ¡°Look about ye, Eveling.  Ye are our prisoner. Do ye possess a tongue that works proper like?  For we would be holding discourse with ye.¡±


    ¡°I¡­..I beg your pardon...Sir?¡±


    ¡°Eeeeeek!  She calls him ¡®sir¡¯!  You will show respect!¡±


    ¡°Show respect!  Show respect!¡±


    ¡°Silence!  Miss Howard be in an unfamiliar burrow, and don¡¯t know one root from the other.  Know ye then, Eveling, where is your place. We are Brungus, King of the Kobalds!  And this, this is our domain! The roots and the bulbs, the warrens and the mines, and all the dwellings of the deeps.  All these are ours, and all Kobald-kind know us as their King!¡±


    ¡°Your¡­.Your Majesty, then?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll do.¡±


    The King clapped his long hands, and turned slightly towards the servants who stood to either side of him.


    ¡°You two, step outside and shut the door.  We would be speaking with Miss Howard in private.¡±


    ¡°As you command, Your Dreadfulness!¡±


    In a moment the door was shut and Fanny was alone with a preposterous reality sitting directly across from her, twiddling it¡¯s thumbs.


    Again the King spoke.


    ¡°We can speak more free like now.  As King I am always quite formal like before my subjects.  Have to be.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t¡­¡­..this isn¡¯t some sort of trick is it?  I mean, I suppose I¡¯m not dreaming, am I?¡±


    ¡°Ha ha!  Oh, you humans are too funny for words!  Always, always with your noses so high above the ground that you never see what lives in it!  You get all scientific like, and then you up and decide to forget all what your ancestors knew for centuries.  You put your big noses in your wormy little books and scoff at the wisdom of your forebears like such vain little children!  We, we Kobalds, we live, work, hunt, and steal right under your noses, and you, you don¡¯t just miss it all, you ignore it! We take a lamb, you blame the fox.  There¡¯s corn that¡¯s missing, you blame the birds. We steal us some ale and you blame the beggar. There¡¯s a spill on the floor, and you blame the dog. We dance on your roofs and sing songs down your chimneys and you, ha ha!  You blame the wind!¡±


    The little King doubled over in a fit of scratchy laughter.


    ¡°Ah yes, yes.  All too funny! Still, it works out quite well enough.  Not many of you really believe in us any more, which means you¡¯re laying far fewer hexes about for us, which is powerful helpful.  We are quite content for you to go on thinking we¡¯re a myth, we are. Makes it so much easier to do business, see? Yes, it¡¯s been such good business for so many years.  There¡¯s plenty about for the taking, and no one has been mindful for us for generations.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re¡­.you¡¯re thieves, then?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s good business that we do!  Good honest Kobald business. Nothing tricksy or crooksy, no.  We just collect our due and put hexes on things. Ah, ¡®tis a good life!  But things are more complicated like these days.¡±


    Shock was flowing into curiosity as Fanny was gradually gaining a grasp on this new reality with which she had abruptly been faced.  Years of reading was flooding back to her mind, and in this respect she felt an odd sort of identification with this alien creature that was now before her.  Still, there were some matters of urgency which required her attention.


    ¡°Do you really eat people?¡±


    The King nearly fell out of his little brass throne with laughter.


    ¡°Oh ho, aha!  Yes yes yes! I mean no.  No, we don¡¯t eat people, not really.  Too dangerous, and not honest business really.  But in the old days we liked to have the idea get about that we did, makes people stay away, and makes for hilarious sport!  Although, it did also get people to put more hexes on things, too, so it didn¡¯t always work out. It¡¯s better not to be believed in at all.¡±


    ¡°So why reveal yourselves to me?  Why kidnap me?¡±


    The King became abruptly sober and leaned back in his chair, twiddling his long thumbs.


    ¡°Well, see, that¡¯s where the stones are buried, if ye¡¯ll forgive a Kobald expression, Miss Howard¡­.¡±


    ¡°There!  I thought I heard you before!  How do you know my name?¡±


    ¡°We know you pretty well enough, we do.  We tend to do a lot of our our business around you more uppish humans, you got education you see, so you pay less attention to what¡¯s around you, while the peasants still put a fair bit of hexes about.  We know most of the folk here about, even though they don¡¯t know us, tee hee! We rather like your family in particular, you¡¯re good sorts for humans, after you own fashion mind ye. Which is why I wanted to have this little chat before...well, that¡¯s as may be.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Business.  And I haven¡¯t made up my mind about that either, not quite yet.  I¡¯m going to consult with my wives over the matter, if I can round up all twelve of them in time.  Nice ladies, although they don¡¯t take me half serious enough. They call me Walnut, which is not really respectful, as I am king and therefore have three names:  Brickus Brackus Brungus, like so, you see? If they¡¯re going to make up silly nicknames for their husband and king they should at least do it properly in threes.¡±


    ¡°So that is why you have kidnapped me?  To make me as one of your wives?¡±


    ¡°Of course not.  Among other things, I¡¯d be too afraid you¡¯d sit down carelessly one day and squash one of my subjects.  I¡¯m sure you¡¯re quite the discreet and thoughtful person, but we diminutive creatures do have our little anxieties.¡±


    ¡°Indeed!  I daresay I could throw you clear across the room if I had a mind to.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t think about it.  We may not have very grand magic, but it is powerful well suited to ourselves so to speak.  Small and nasty, if you take me meaning. So don¡¯t think about being foolish. Besides, one human wife might be bad enough, but to have all three of you on top of my own dozen dear Kobald maids... ¡±


    ¡°Three of us?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes!  You, Miss Watson, and Miss Bellingham...of course, even if we wanted you lot for ourselves we wouldn¡¯t have wanted her anyway, such a prying, pixi chasing busybody like that!¡±


    ¡°See here a moment, are you saying it was you who kidnapped Miss Watson?  And Miss Bellingham.¡±


    ¡°Not our business, I assure ye!  We¡¯re just trying to avoid as much trouble as possible.  It¡¯s a matter of which way the soil is shifting, to use another Kobald expression.¡±


    ¡°But what about Black Abraham!  Or the wolf tracks!¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, tee hee!  The sailor¡¯s tool! That was a clever one, I must say.  Of course, it was his idea to put the blame on the pirate, but we made the little stick and left it there for people to find.  As for the wolf tracks, well, you see, we always disguise our footprints, and we¡¯re very good at it.  It¡¯s all part of doing good business. And we thought we¡¯d make extra sure of things in case things went badly.  We made those..¡±


    The King pointed to a stack of cruel, studded clubs piled at the wall.  Looking at them for the first time, Fanny notice that each one had a bit of fur on one end.


    ¡°...we wrapped our cudgels in wolf fur and made sure we left only wolf tracks.  The real wolves belong to him, you see, and we¡¯d rather they get the blame than people should ever suspect us.  In case no one found or believed the pirate¡¯s club, see?  It¡¯s all good business. That, and we¡¯d rather like to be rid of those wolves anyway, see?  But of course, don¡¯t tell him any of that.¡±


    ¡°Him?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, it¡¯s not our business.  It¡¯s his, really.¡±


    ¡°But who is he?¡±


    ¡°Calls himself ¡®Kador¡¯, but we hear he presents himself to your kind as a certain Mr. Gareth Larch.¡±


    ¡°Mr Larch?.......Yes, I recollect the name, but I don¡¯t recall as I am especially acquainted with the man.¡±


    ¡°Not a surprise.  People tend not to notice him much, he¡¯s powerful cunning with the jinxes, and most people pay him no heed.  But we noticed him. Right from the beginning.


    He comes here about a year ago, see.  Finds himself an empty Barrow, and starts introducing himself around the neighborhood.  We knew he was trouble, from foreign parts, because no human ever takes notice of us unless he comes from far off, and we don¡¯t want any doings with their kind.  He makes himself at home amongst your kind too, but none of you ever paid him any heed, see, because he jinxes himself that way. You rather just say hello, let him buy you a drink or two, tell him gossip, and then never give him another thought.  That¡¯s how he works it.


    But that kind of thing doesn¡¯t work on us, we know about jinxes of that sort!  Once you¡¯re onto ¡®em they don¡¯t have any hold on you anymore, see? That¡¯s why it¡¯s harder to jinx children, they¡¯re too observant of the little things of the world, and get all curious and nosey about small things adults won¡¯t even notice.  You¡¯ve got to be mostly un-curious and unsuspicious like from the start for a jinx like that to hold ye. And to us, Kador was everything curious and suspicious.


    He comes by the front door one day and introduces himself bold as brass!  Him and his two lackeys. ¡°Ain¡¯t natural¡±, we say to ourselves. ¡°Only foreigners of the queerest sort would pay us any heed, and only a powerful nosey one would know exactly where to look for us, and only one that was up to no good would have that many jinxes on him at once like that¡±.  No, we don¡¯t trust him at all. So we says ¡°Howdeedo, and begone with ye¡±, and he went. But he came back. And he kept coming back.


    Polite, he was, always proper like.  He knew good manners he did. But he was queer and nosey.  And soon he starts asking for favors and droppin¡¯ all sorts of nasty hints about what will happen if we don¡¯t play along proper like.  And then he brought the wolves.¡±


    The King shivered.


    ¡°Terrible wolves they are.  Not proper, ordinary wolves at all, but true Verkas from the far south.  It¡¯s been surely a millennia or something since such creatures roamed anywhere in the Lands of Urse.


    He has powerful friends, that Kador does, friends of an evil sort.  And they have ambition. Great, terrible ambition. And Kador is their instrument.


    We Kobalds, we live quiet like, you see.  We collect our due and take our sport and don¡¯t molest nobody (except when we hex ¡®em).  We don¡¯t want trouble.


    So, as King I took counsel, I did.  We can¡¯t go about our usual business like this, not with Varkas about.  They¡¯d been stalking our requisition parties of late and scouting our holes, and if Kador one day up and decides to let his pets have a go at us, well¡­¡­.¡±


    The King shivered again.


    ¡°We¡¯re simple folk, but not that simple.  We keep an eye about for what¡¯s what, and we know the histories.  Kador¡¯s kind ruled here once, long ago. They never go away for ever, they always come back.  So I had to make a decision, I did. I decided that it¡¯s all a matter of which way the soil is shifting.  Kador¡¯s kind are getting powerful bold these days. Word is that even the Zard have been seen beyond the great desert, and that¡¯s a bad omen if ever there was one....Zard were supposed to be extinct, you know (actually, you probably didn¡¯t know, you humans don¡¯t pay much attention to the world around ye).  But it shouldn¡¯t surprise much, I suppose. Kador¡¯s kind, they always come back. Always. It¡¯s all happened before, it¡¯s in the histories.


    So, I say to myself, so it¡¯s better maybe to start being accommodating sooner than later.  They were our masters once, and we hated them. But we are not large, our magic is not large, and our numbers aren¡¯t large.  We can¡¯t resist them, not in the end. So, says I, we¡¯ll do our best. Give ¡®em what they want, I says. Much as I don¡¯t want to.  I¡¯m dreadfully sorry. It¡¯s not as if we have anything personal like against ye. We¡¯d much rather it didn¡¯t have to involve you.¡±


    ¡°Why does it have anything to do with me?¡±


    ¡°He asked for ye.  Special like.¡±


    ¡°But why!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to ask him that.  We¡¯ll be escortin¡¯ ye to him soon.  I¡¯m sorry, Miss Howard. It¡¯s been a pleasure speaking with ye in person like.¡±


    The King arose and clapped his hands.


    ¡°Ogno, Morgo, Bingus!  Attend!¡±


    Three Kobalds in phrygian caps entered immediately upon the command.  Two of them removed the throne, while the King spoke briefly to the third in muffled words Fanny could not understand.  Then, they all left, and sealed the door tightly behind them.


    Fanny was alone.

 Drawn Swords

    Most will acknowledge that a person of depressed mood can easily become a blight and a wet blanket on the spirits of everybody else.  Abjection and ill spirit can exude from the one like a cloud of pernicious germ to infect all else, reducing each in turn to a similar state of faded vitality and sapped cheer.


    So it was with the morning sun rising above the shades of Crickwood.  Like a maiden freshly arisen in the sunlight itself, full of a sensibility for her own youth and beauty and equally disposed to a prejudice towards the wellbeing of all the beloved world, she leaves her bed and goes out to share in the general goodness of life, only to immediately be met with her sister, who has slept horribly, has a headache, and can¡¯t imagine what nitwit would ever believe that life is something worth bubbling over.  The rays of light and cheer are abruptly diverted and dimmed, the warmth and vigour cool to tepidity, and the spirit falls unexpectedly under a shade of viscid desolation. Thus it was that as the morning sun rose ever higher in glory above the world, the abyssal floors of Crickwood remained in sorrowful oblivion.


    After three successive days of conducting the most squalid expedition imaginable under the imperishable morbidity of Crickwood¡¯s intimate recesses, it was Harlow¡¯s forgone conclusion that he thoroughly hated the place from the core of his very being.


    It was with an unlooked-for sense of astonishment, then, that the winding course of himself and Mr. Gates that morning abruptly opened into a secluded glade that was actually rather pleasant.  Here the sun frolicked about in golden rays upon a meadow of dancing grass while buxom flowers waved flirtatiously in the bath of soothing brilliance. A few berries could be found here and there whose plump succulence called out seductively to a stomach long since frustrated with an ever contracting ration of distinctly banal victuals.


    Harlow was absorbedly trying to remember all the childrens¡¯ rhymes he knew about which wild fruits were good to eat and which were deadly poison when at his side Gates surreptitiously touched Harlow¡¯s arm and directed his attention to a point across the glade.


    A man stood there, just under the shade of the brooding trees.


    He was a heavy set sort of man and wore a wide black felt hat pulled low over his features and a voluminous greatcoat of dank blue, which yet could not conceal the protrusions of a substantially proportioned backsword buckled at the waist beneath.


    Gates hissed something inaudible.  Meanwhile it occurred to Harlow that he was familiar with this man somehow.  Then he recognized him.


    ¡°Well hullo hullo!  If it isn¡¯t the Honorable Gareth Larch!  What-ho there, Larch, what-ho! What on earth brings you thus far into Crickwood?  Ah, searching I suppose. I was wondering the other day where you were, I hadn¡¯t seen you amongst any of the parties we¡¯d formed when I was last in touch.  Er, I say? Mr. Larch?¡±


    Harlow was being ignored.  This came as a bit of a shock, particularly as the wordless rebuff came from such as that masterful listener Gareth Larch.  Harlow was interrupted in his snubbed astonishment when he noticed how the man Larch was staring intently at Gates with a curious look of habituated hostility.


    An unpleasant and wholly unwonted sort of smile abruptly played across Larch¡¯s lips.


    Then he spoke.


    ¡°Well well well, The Hawk himself.  I suspected something was afoot with your lot in Gandburgh, but I didn¡¯t expect you.  Is your ever wayward self really the best your side could come up with?¡±


    ¡°You insult me, sir, but that is encouraging, as it reminds me once again what an abysmal amateaur you are.  For my part I didn¡¯t think your kind had any particular interest at all in these parts, and apparently I was at least partially correct.  The Black Speakers can¡¯t be all that serious about things around here, otherwise they would never have entrusted the matter to such as yourself.¡±


    Larch bristled visibly.


    ¡°You underestimate me, Hawk, you underestimate me greatly, and that is a deadly mistake.¡±


    ¡°If by that you mean that your vastly overblown perception of yourself is even more inflated than I already knew, then yes I would call it a deadly mistake indeed..for yourself.  You¡¯ve always been a vain sap, Kador, and the Black Speakers know it as well as I. A sensible spy would never do anything so silly and dramatic as kidnapping someone right in front of an entire village.  A grand spectacle to be sure, but as always your ego is your undoing.¡±


    ¡°You seek to irritate me, I think.¡±


    ¡°Always.  It¡¯s very amusing to irritate stupid witches, especially you, Kador.  It¡¯s marvelously funny, and gets people to make mistakes.¡±


    Suddenly, Gates drew his sword and brandished it aloft with the tip piercing the sky with a flash and a crack like thunder.


    Larch swore something terrible in a foul sounding language that Harlow had never heard the like of before.  Larch raised both his arms in response, limbs and fingers splayed out as another crack like sharp thunder shattered the air.


    Silence hung over the glade.


    Each man stood motionless, Gates with his sword aloft and Larch with his arms spread high.  Harlow suddenly thought he felt a ringing in his ears, bearing down on him and driving him into the ground like some great heavy hand.


    Gates was beginning to mutter something under his breath.  Larch was still holding his arms out, and the hum in the air was getting stronger.  Harlow realized he was now on his knees, feeling ever more pressed into the earth. Gates¡¯s muttering was now becoming rhythmic, and slowly he lowered his sword so it was held vertically directly before him with the flat facing towards Larch.  Larch remained immobile and the humming and ringing was becoming more intense.


    Gates¡¯s cadenced murmur was becoming an all out chant.  He began to advance slowly towards Larch, his sword held before him, each step taken cautiously like one walking on uncertain footing.  Larch still didn¡¯t move even as his body became visibly more tense. The ringing and humming continued. Gates was nearly within sword reach of Larch now.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Abruptly, it ceased.  Harlow collapsed exhausted on the ground, but the contest was over.  Larch had lost.


    In a second there was a flash of steel, and Larch¡¯s sword had whirled into his hand.


    There was a battle the like of which Harlow had never seen in his life.  Two broad blades sung through the air and glided across one another in a wheeling dance of looming death as sword arm orbited fighter in swirling arcs rotating and counter rotating which each cut, parry, and thrust amidst vitally timed step and lunge.


    Gates was getting the better of it, though, and Larch apparently knew it.  A few exchanges more, and Larch abruptly threw himself backwards onto the ground and raised his left arm, contorting his hand into a foul sigil.


    Harlow was slammed back into the ground as if a year¡¯s worth of wind had been unleashed all at once in a blast directly over his head.  For a moment everything went black.


    Harlow looked around, pushing himself sharply up on his elbows as one abruptly free from restraint.


    Across the glade, Gates was stretched out on the grass.  Larch was nowhere to be seen, and the air was still.


    Harlow leaped to his feet and blundered across the field to where Gates lay.


    Gates was lying flat on his back staring up at the sky, blinking occasionally.


    Gates sighed.


    ¡°He was well prepared.  Had to keep him talking and distracted before I could start counting off the jinxes.  Fortunately for us, Kador is a dolt. Always has been. He¡¯s only gotten away temporarily.  We¡¯ll get him yet.¡±


    ¡°What on earth was all that about?  What has gotten into old Larch, and what on earth was all that¡­..all that ringing and thunder, or whatever it was?¡±


    ¡°Apparently your acquaintance with Kador¡­.Larch, you called him?.....Apparently you don¡¯t really know him as well as you think you know him, or didn¡¯t you know he¡¯s a witch?¡±


    ¡°A what!  Surely not?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes indeed he is.¡±


    ¡°But I say, witches and all, that¡¯s all superstition!¡±


    ¡°Most of the time, yes.  Serious witches, the ones with real ambition and connections, don¡¯t bother with randomly hexing and cursing things anyway.  That kind of nonsense is really more the stuff of Kobolds and the like.¡±


    ¡°Kobolds, you say?  What next, are you going to tell me you talk to fairies?¡±


    ¡°Not very often, they don¡¯t approve of me.¡±


    ¡°Oh for goodness sake, Gates!  What on earth are we going to do?  Larch has run off.¡±


    ¡°Oh, he won¡¯t go far, I expect.  Back that way, you see¡­.¡±


    Gates waved vaguely in the direction of the trees as he lay in grass.


    ¡°...Back over there before we came out into this bit of meadow I¡¯m fairly certain I saw a mound of stones or something.  I¡¯d wager half a meat pie that it¡¯s a barrow. Not Kador¡¯s encampment, certainly, he¡¯d never have chosen to confront us this close to where he¡¯s holed up, but we¡¯re definitely in the right area.  And that wolf we¡¯ve been following can¡¯t have made it much farther, not in the shape it looks to have been in. If it weren¡¯t very close to home by now it probably wouldn¡¯t have tried anymore to keep going and we¡¯d have found the body.¡±


    ¡°At least it won¡¯t be in any sort of shape to give us trouble, when and if we do catch up with it.¡±


    ¡°Not so lucky, I¡¯m afraid, there¡¯s definitely more than two all told, judging by the tracks I¡¯ve seen over the last four days.  I¡¯d say Kador had at least four or five to begin with. Still, with two down that only leaves us with two or three more. Hopefully.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not liking this, Gates.  Not one bit.¡±


    ¡°Pity, I was hoping you had a bit more of a reckless thrill seeking spirit than that.  Somebody needs to feel secure in all this.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re worried Gates?¡±


    ¡°Unlike our friend Kador, I¡¯m not stupid.  Therefore I¡¯m positively shaking in my boots, or would be, if my legs could move.  I was closer to Kador than you were when he pulled that variant of a left handed Simon¡¯s Bottle back there, and I expect the effect will take a bit longer to wear off.  Let me see, how does the rhyme go?


    Simon cursed the wind, his crops it blew away


    He took an empty bottle, and cursed the wind to stay


    Corked inside the bottle, entrapped in glass or clay


    Each morning he would catch the wind, and add a bit each day


    Till full at last to breaking past


    The bottle burst at once.


    Once round and twice again through wind


    The thought of Notus in the mind


    Whose storms arise to seek and find


    To wear down hill and mountain grind


    A tower tall with window small


    So thread the thought of Notus


    Then raise one hand formed in this sign


    And say at once the word


    That¡¯s a Simon¡¯s Bottle.  Easy to remember, hard to do.  Kador¡¯s a big fool, but he¡¯s got skill.  That¡¯s why they put up with him, I think.  That, and I suppose that he¡¯s not all that different from the rest of them when all¡¯s said and done.  That¡¯s how they get to be what they are in the first place, I think. The thirst for power is always the bedfellow of ego.  Some witches are just smarter about it than others, that¡¯s all. Did you say something, Barnstabrake?¡±


    ¡°Oh nothing, I¡¯m just despairing of ever again feeling like I live in an ordinary, comfortable, predictable world where a chap can just sit down for a pint without ever having worry about having to conduct a conversation with the doormat.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the first step to being able to deal with the world properly: understanding its true nature.  Besides, I expect that were you ever to meet a talking doormat (never met one myself) it would have a quite a pleasant disposition, given that so many of them have cheerful things like ¡°welcome¡± scrawled decoratively into their bosoms, unless of course there were instead wholly bitter after a lifetime of being walked all over by everybody.¡±


    ¡°You, sir, are utterly mad.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯ve been told many times, but that¡¯s never stopped me.  I think I can feel my legs again.¡±


    ¡°I hope I wake up in a moment and find that this whole bally fortnight has been nothing more than a bally dream and that I really am just in my bally bed in my bally home.¡±


    ¡°This is the reality of the Fairworld, my friend.  Queer, unpredictable, and magic everywhere. It¡¯s always been that way, whether you knew it or not.  You might as well get used to the idea. Like when you first learned about the birds and the bees. You do know about that?  Right, yes, I thought so, but you seem to know so little about everything else in this sheltered little kingdom of yours that you can¡¯t blame me for uncertainty.  Right! I think I can stand now, if you lend a hand.¡±


    A few tangled and stumbling moments later and Gates was teetering unsteadily on his feet.


    ¡°Right, back to tracking.  I say, fetch me my sword, will you?  I¡¯m still a bit wobbly. Thank you. Now then, we came out over there, so...hmmm¡­.yes, there!  This way! Whoops! Steady there! Still a bit wobbly I think.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps we better wait.¡±


    ¡°No more than absolutely necessary.  Kador isn¡¯t through with us yet, not by far, and nor are we through with him.  It¡¯s only going to get more dangerous from here, and we¡¯ve not much time, I think.  Come on! I think you¡¯ll have to lend me an arm for a bit. Steady!¡±


    In a few moments, the two men were again swallowed in the gloom of the woods.  Somewhere in the distance, there was a blast of a small horn sounded from tiny lips.

 A Light in the Forest

    ¡°Fanny?¡±


    Fanny awoke abruptly.  She hadn¡¯t realized she¡¯d fallen asleep in her prison.  Perhaps it was exhaustion, or a hangover of some sort from whatever the Kobalds had used to bring her here unconscious in the first place.


    She looked about herself.


    Everything was much the same as it was, except the candles sputtered quite a bit lower in themselves than before.  And the door was open.


    And peering from around the door were the small, anxious faces of two boys.


    Fanny¡¯s own brothers.


    From there, everything happened as if in a whirlwind.


    Fanny was immediately pounced upon by the two young savages, piled high with a contradictory mix of hugs, kisses, tears, and triumphant exultation.  It took a brief and ponderously strained moment before Fanny could set her diminutive relatives to order and get some sense out of them. It was with no small amount of concern that she demanded to know what on earth they were doing here, in the tunnels of the Kobalds.


    ¡°We¡¯re here to rescue you, that¡¯s what!  And a jolly fine job we¡¯ve done of it too, eh Peter?¡±


    ¡°Swimming job!  Isn¡¯t it Fanny? We¡¯ve rescued you right out from under their big ugly noses!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know about that yet, we¡¯re not out of their keep yet.  Now be quiet both of you! Here, one of you untie my ankles. The knot is very stout, I haven¡¯t been able to work it at all.  You little savages usually have knives (at the very least) about you, don¡¯t you? Here, careful now! Don¡¯t cut yourself, or me either, for that matter.  Well done there! Now then, do either of you know the way out?¡±


    ¡°Of course we do, what sort of rescuers do you think we are?  We¡¯re not babies!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s right this way!  Turn that way...no, this way.  Careful Fanny! Don¡¯t knock over the little barrel on the left, there¡¯s a Kobald inside it.  We put him there.¡±


    Fanny crawled out through the low door into a tunnel about five feet tall and six across.  There were several barrels of varying sizes arrayed haphazardly about, and one them was shaking violently back and forth as an angry soliloquy of muffled curses came from somewhere inside.  Abruptly, it fell over and a Kobald tumbled out, tangled and tied up in the boys¡¯ coats.


    ¡°Help help help help help!  Invaders! Intruders!¡±


    One of the boys reached into his pocket and plucked out a small stone, which he hurled at the Kobald, who ducked only just in time.


    ¡°Terror and mayhem, murderous children!  Help, help! Alarm, alarm, all alarm!¡±


    The Kobald bolted off deeper into the tunnels, stumbling about with his limbs still entangled in a pair of adroitly applied jackets.


    ¡°Quickly Fanny, the entrance is this way!¡±


    Fanny crawled and stumbled faster than she would ever have thought possible.  Her prison was apparently not at all deep within the abodes of the Kobalds. A few dozen yards of winding passages later, and they were at a small dugout cave mouth.


    Several Kobalds were silhouetted against the bright afternoon light, peering alertly out in the woods beyond, without any regard to what was behind them.  Fanny was about to take charge when her brothers leaped forward before she had a chance to reign them in.


    Their tactics were winningly effective, however.  With a yell that would have terrorized most anyone caught unawares and likely driven a harried chambermaid to swooning, the boys hurled themselves forward while releasing a fusilade of small stones.


    The Kobalds scattered in all directions, squeaking madly as they fled from unexpected assault.  In a moment there was not a brown nose or phrygian cap to be seen, and the boys breached the outdoors with a shout of triumph.


    ¡°Ha ha!  Weren¡¯t we just splendid, Fanny?¡±


    ¡°Well done my loves, but we haven¡¯t a moment to lose!  Run quickly!¡±


    With a barbarian in each hand, Fanny fled into the woods with as much speed as her bare feet and stiff legs could manage.  All around, small horns were beginning to sound.


    An hour passed.  And then two more.  It was twilight now, the sun only shortly retired before the horizon, having yielded the sky not to the cheer of an argent moon, but to ill tempered grey clouds laden with cold rain, anxious to unleash their wearisome burden as soon as possible so as to be done with the business.


    Deep in the woods, Fanny and her juvenile charges huddled closely together under the dubious shelter and camouflage of a cavernous shrub.  Torrents of rain had left them all soaked to the skin, Fanny in only her thin nightgown and the boys without coats or hats. They didn¡¯t dare build a fire (even if they could have managed it under the circumstances) for fear that they should give themselves away to their fey pursuers who were no doubt looking for them.


    Still, the young boys were in fine enough spirits as they cuddled up to their beloved sister, and eagerly they related the adventure which brought them to the achievement of Fanny¡¯s liberation.


    Through a haze of excited interruptions, distracted deviations, and omitted details, Fanny eventually garnered the jist of this fortuitous exploit.


    It was the conclusion of the barbarians Howard that, despite their high regard for Black Abraham, abducting young women just wasn¡¯t all that sportsmanlike, all things considered.  They resolved that no young women would be permitted to be abducted from their domain, and with that in mind they determined to exert their protection over their beloved Fanny, as although she was a splendid sort she was still a girl and girls are not sensible about such things.  They just don¡¯t understand war, you know.  And this was going to be a proper war.


    The boys had therefore extended an unshakable vigilance each night over their favorite sister, armed with an imposing arsenal of pen knives, stones, small cakes stolen from the larder for emergency rations, and so forth.  Keeping watch turned out to be a bit of bother after a while though, and they usually wound going to bed earlier than later. Especially since in the general mobilization of the neighborhood most of the domestic servants of the larger houses had been tasked with guarding the families of their employers, so there was usually at least one of the male servants awake on watch each evening.  Although six eyes are still better than two, the boys usually concluded before the night was far gone that there was no need to triple the guard, especially when the boys were feeling sleepy.


    But last night they had noticed that the footman who was supposed to be on watch was asleep¡­.while standing, no less!.  The boys decided this was not a proper circumstance at all, and that something seemed to be rather afoot!


    It was then, from the vantage of their usual guardpost behind an urn outside Fanny¡¯s room, that they witnessed her abduction.


    It was a profound tactical error on the part of the Kobalds which gave them away.  Whether they had come in through the window, the chimney, or some other eccentric route was not known.  But upon entering Fanny¡¯s bedroom one of their number had been sent to inspect the hall outside, and it was then that the boys saw the queer creature in a pointed cap peering out from their sister¡¯s bedroom door.  This gave the boys a start, to be sure, and for a moment they were a bit bewildered at the circumstance before them. However, if nothing else it was clear that there was an intruder of markedly dubious character trespassing within their sister¡¯s bedroom, a situation which demanded prompt response indeed.  The two striplings tumbled into Fanny¡¯s room only in time to see that their revered sibling had been maneuvered out the window (presumably drugged or something), and was just now being carried across the lawn by a veritable horde of small beings in pointed caps. This, they immediately perceived, was a wholly unacceptable circumstance, and so the boys grabbed their sacks of supplies and gave chase!


    The boys were stoutly unanimous in their assertion that they are jolly good at tracking, of course, and contrary to the strenuous criticism of not a few in the household can manage to keep dreadful silent when the need arises.  In addition, the Kobalds (for that is what the boys deduced that these creatures must be) seemed over confident and weren¡¯t watching their rear flank properly at all. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Furthermore, the Kobalds apparently did not frequently absconding with objects as large or cumbersome as a twenty seven year old Gandish woman, for at first they did not employ any of their usual tunnels, but instead carried their fair hostage across the surface of the land, keeping to the shadows as much as possible until they could reach a tunnel big enough to fit her.


    The boys followed as the Kobalds traveled in this fashion for some distance.  How far Fanny could not ascertain with certainty, other than it was ¡°simply miles and miles¡±, although the boys were fairly certain they were somewhere deep inside a forest (Crickwood perhaps) before the Kobalds at last took the sleeping Fanny into a great hole at the base of a dead tree.  It was quite clear by now that the Kobalds were wholly confident in the stealth of their enterprise. They didn¡¯t even bother to leave a rear guard! Shoddy work that, the boys felt. The Kobalds must not be very good at kidnapping (like Black Abraham was). It was a simple matter to follow them into the tunnel.


    Although the boys still didn¡¯t dare follow too closely, it wasn¡¯t until they had locked Fanny in a nearby side room that the Kobalds finally bothered to leave a proper guard; some half dozen of them milling about the sealed door.  At this point the boys were a bit stumped. What to do about the guards? The boys sat there in hiding for ¡°simply ages¡±, watching. Fortunately, the Kobalds had plenty of empty barrels lying about, which the boys knew from experience to be splendid things for hiding in, especially when you want to scare the servant girls.  How long they remained ensconced in the receptacles they weren¡¯t quite sure, as they rather fell asleep actually, being so dreadfully tired and all. But they woke up when someone abruptly blew on a nasty horn. They watched as a big crowd gathered about the room and a pompous tick in a metal hat went in to the room where Fanny was a prisoner.  He came out a little while later, and then most of them left. There were still plenty of guards though. Again, the boys watched.


    After a time, another Kobald came around looking rather a bit concerned (at least so far as the boys could tell).  He spoke urgently with the guards and then left, taking most of them back with him towards the entrance of tunnel. In hindsight, the boys conceded that they had probably left evidence of their presence outside, such as tracks and other such things (to say nothing of the colored handkerchief they had tied to a tree to ¡°mark the way home¡±).  Upon seeing this, the Kobalds had perhaps finally begun to suspect that they might possibly have been followed, and hence immediately transferred the substance of their guards back to the entrance, in the erroneous assumption that any threats would likely be coming from the outside.


    Meanwhile, the lone remaining guard had taken a comfortable seat, and in the absence of his superior promptly closed his eyes for a nap.  The significance of this gross tactical error was not lost on the barbarians Howard, and they reacted with swift and expert precision, creeping up softly and then throwing their coats over him, wrapping him all up and stuffing him in a barrel before the fey creature knew what was upon him.  They then opened the door, extracted their sister, and now here they all were sitting under a tree in the rain.


    It had not been raining very long, and the boy¡¯s spirits were as yet undamped even as their bodies were in a markedly opposed state.


    ¡°This is splendid!  We could live positively forever out here!  There are so many roots and plants and things, and we could build wigwams!  We¡¯d have no lessons at all and hunt small animals all day and you would cook them for us, Fanny.¡±


    ¡°Except of course we¡¯re all wet, but that¡¯s what wigwams are for.  Have you ever made a wigwam, Fanny?¡±


    ¡°In point of fact yes, and I¡¯d much rather live in a proper house, thank you.¡±


    ¡°But out here in the wood is so much better!  There are no rules, and no punishments.¡±


    ¡°Not if I don¡¯t make them, you mean.¡±


    ¡°You would never be so rotten unsporting like that, Fanny!¡±


    ¡°Sh!  We can talk all about living in the woods later.  But right now we must all be very sensible, and very quiet.  You may have easily fooled the Kobalds once, but I doubt you will be so fortunate twice, and they surely know this wood much better than ourselves.  They are undoubtedly looking for us this very moment, and I for one do not at all wish to be their captive again.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll not have any of that!  We¡¯ll throw stones at them until they run away squawking, just like before.¡±


    ¡°I pray it were only as simple as that.¡±


    Hours passed.  The wind was had picked up a cruel edge of cutting chill, and the downpour continued unabated and without mercy.  Fanny and the children remained huddled ever closer; cold, fearful, and utterly lost.


    And out in the wood, somewhere out of sight, small beings crept persistently through the brush, peering into the deepening night with eyes suited best to searching out the darkness, stealthily combing every tree and fern for their prisoner who would be restored to their grasp yet.


    Misfortune has a way of being shared over long distances in a perverse way that denies beleaguered people even the blessing of commiseration.  So it was that in another part of the forest, Harlow and Gates were likewise crouched under a large shrub which formed a remarkably inadequate umbrella.


    ¡°Mr. Gates, I think I am not being overly critical in observing that this is positively miserable.¡±


    ¡°Indeed yes.  Though where on earth has that good cheer of the Barnstabrakes gone?  I feel I could use a ration of it at the moment.¡±


    ¡°The good cheer of the Barnstabrakes is at home in bed, I should suspect, right there with all my worldly thoughts and desires at the moment.¡±


    ¡°How dreary.  I was hoping you¡¯d kept it about you for a bit longer.¡±


    ¡°Hang it all, Gates, must you always be so flippant?¡±


    ¡°In point of fact my life has been rather starved for lighthearted diversion for many years, so I tend to be aggressive in embracing as much of it as comes my way and can be exploited sensibly.  But hullo, what is this?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my foot you¡¯re stepping on, or at least it was last I checked; it might have dissolved in the mud by now.¡±


    ¡°No no, that dashed light up there!  Looks like it¡¯s on a hill or something, or else hovering in mid air.  Bless me if someone hasn¡¯t managed to light a fire in the midst of all this downpour.  A nice trick that, and all the easier with a bit of magic at hand¡­especially if I was wrong about being on a hill and it really is floating in the air or something.....do you think it might be the work of our nefarious friend?¡±


    ¡°Why the deuce should he light a fire?  He knows we¡¯re looking for him.¡±


    ¡°A sound observation, Barnstabrake, there is hope for you yet.¡±


    ¡°Bah!¡±


    ¡°But indeed, as you say, he knows we¡¯re looking for him.  Who could it be, then? Or if it is Kador after all, then what could he be up to?¡±


    ¡°Well, we might as well have a look at it as not.  You lost the trail hours ago.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no need for recriminations, I think.  I am not an owl, I don¡¯t see any better in the dark than the next man, and contrary to the unkind observations of some, neither I am a dog nor do I smell like one, in either sense of the expression.¡±


    ¡°That indeed might be debatable.¡±


    ¡°Oh dear, you really have misplaced you good cheer, haven¡¯t you?  Anyway, so why not have a look at our mysterious little campfire?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I just suggested!¡±


    ¡°Correct, and I¡¯m speculating as to why or why not.  Who else would be in Crickwood besides ourselves and our adversary?¡±


    ¡°Other search parties.¡±


    ¡°True.  Tell me, if we were to come upon another search party unexpectedly, I suppose they wouldn¡¯t shoot me on sight if I told them I was with you?¡±


    ¡°They would if I likewise told them to go ahead and shoot anyway.¡±


    ¡°Now you¡¯re just being flat out ill tempered.¡±


    ¡°Well, suppose it is another search party, what then?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps they¡¯ve run across some sound intelligence that has hitherto eluded ourselves.  I am fairly confident we¡¯re in the right area. Perhaps pausing to combine our knowledge with that of others would be worthwhile at this point (assuming they don¡¯t shoot me that is).¡±


    ¡°Fine.  Let¡¯s go then!¡±


    ¡°Not so hasty.  It may be our friend Kador after all, in which case, what is he up to?  Is he just being his usual idiot self, or is he attempting to be clever?  Is he setting us up for a wild goose chase I wonder? Or trying to draw us into an ambush?¡±


    ¡°What sort of wild goose chase?¡±


    ¡°Putting up a fire somewhere irrelevant to distract us.  Still, that might not hold us for very long in the end, would it?  I wonder if he has gone and conjured up a wisp that will lead us away bit by bit until we are wholly lost and far away from wherever Kador is really hiding?  No, I can¡¯t be sure, but I have a mind that¡¯s not what it is. The light looks very much to be a natural fire, and that wouldn¡¯t be his style anyway. Too circumspect, and far too discreet.  Kador rather prefers the spectacular.¡±


    ¡°As does yourself, or do you think stepping through the front window of a public house in sight of the whole neighborhood to be the inclination of the bashful?¡±


    ¡°And what if it is a trap, I wonder?  What if he is deliberately baiting us to some doom or other?  He probably won¡¯t try to face us alone again, not after this morning.  He¡¯d bring help. But then that would leave his encampment unprotected, mightn¡¯t it?  And him with a prisoner to guard. Unless that hill really is his encampment, and he has chosen to set the trap there so as not to divide his forces.  Would he take such a risk, I wonder? Indeed I wonder.¡±


    ¡°I for one wonder how many angels there are in heaven who are assigned to forever minister to the inventor of the umbrella.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing else for it but to take a chance, I suppose.  And to keep our wits firmly about ourselves. You did manage to keep your wits, I hope, even if you¡¯ve misplaced your optimism?¡±


    ¡°As you say.  I¡¯m heartily tired of this whole bedratted escapade.  I¡¯ll be as witty as it takes to catch that rat, and then I¡¯ll make him eat his own tail and swallow himself whole in the process.¡±


    ¡°Oh dear.  Is see Kador has rather earned your distinct displeasure.  Still, that¡¯s a good thing, really. Better to know a witch for what it is than to mistake it for what it isn¡¯t.  Just do try to keep a cool head about it all and avoid doing anything preposterously foolish? That¡¯s a good fellow.  Come on, Barnstabrake! We have a fire to follow, and a fate to be met. Let¡¯s hope it¡¯s a good one. The fate that is, although a good fire would hardly be amiss either.¡±


    Through the soaked detritus and weeping trees, the two men pulled themselves wearily onward into the night, ever towards the distant ember that beckoned to them across the darkness, while somewhere in the distance the clamour of the wind was mixed with the howl of wolves.

 The Brigands Lair

    Fanny awoke suddenly.  The rain had stopped, and high in the domed sky the moon was breaching the clouds here and there.


    How long had she been asleep?  Close by either side of her the boys were still slumbering.


    What had awakened her?  Her thoughts turned immediately to the Kobalds.  Had their pursuers discovered them?


    Fanny peered out through the branches into the woods beyond.  All seemed quiet and still. As stealthily as possible, Fanny disentangled herself from her somnolent siblings and crept out from under the vegetative shelter.


    She was stiff, aching, and wet to the bone.  And dreadfully hungry besides. Still she stretched gratefully as she stood under the trees.  It must be at least two miles or more back to the house, whatever direction it lay in. Or perhaps even more than that, as Fanny began to realize just how wholly lost she and her siblings really were.  She really had no idea whatsoever as to their whereabouts.


    Yet even so there were matters of more pressing urgency.  What was it that had awakened her? Furtively she looked to her surroundings, first around, then about, and then straight up.


    A shock of horror tore through her being.


    There, up in the tree limbs, were dozens of pairs of yellow, faintly luminous eyes staring down at her.  Here and there, they were backed by the dark silhouette of a crouching Kobald.


    Fanny opened her mouth to shout, to warn her brothers to run.  But it was too late.


    ¡°Karaz!!!!!!!¡±


    Upon the command the whole mass of the Kobalds began to move at once.


    As Fanny began to run back a dark prickly net was dropped on her from above, and immediately she was tripped up in its tangle and fell hard upon the ground.  The boys had awoken and came rushing out to their sister¡¯s side, only to be themselves immediately pinned under another net. In another moment the Kobalds were scaling down the trees like so many brown spiders and surrounded their victims.


    ¡°See the nasty Eveling and her nasty cubs?  See, see! They cannot defy His Dreadfulness!¡±


    ¡°Eeee!  Yes! They shall see their folly, they shall!¡±


    ¡°They shall see, they shall see!¡±


    A series of triumphant horns were sounded.  Fanny lay struggling against the clinging net as she was poked and prodded by the gleeful Kobalds as they danced about.


    Meanwhile, the Kobalds were a bit more circumspect in approaching the barbarians Howard.  The two boys sat enclosed in their net in total silence, hands deep in their pockets. Whether or not they could have managed to hurl any projectiles from where they were was dubious to be sure, but the Kobalds did not appear to have any desire to put the question to the test.  They milled about the boys at a distance, crouching and muttering petty curses. Eddy stuck his tongue out at one.


    Another set of horns sounded, and Fanny lay still as from the crowd of Kobalds the king himself emerged.


    King Brungus approached Fanny with a sad sort of look on his small brown face.


    ¡°We are unhappy.  It is profoundly sorrowful to us that things should be coming to this.¡±


    ¡°Then why do this to us!  Surely, what have I and my brothers ever done to you and your people?  Please¡­..Your Majesty¡­..please, just let us go!¡±


    ¡°We are afraid we no longer have any choice like, even if we be so inclined.  For behold!¡±


    The diminutive king waved a grand arm towards the crowd, which gave way in a hush.


    There under the trees, as the nearest Kobalds trembled visibly, were two great black wolves with gleaming red eyes.  A sense of sheer terror swept over Fanny at the sight of the fey creatures as they bore down on her with their uncanny luminous stare.  Right there the last of Fanny¡¯s hopes sank as if swallowed up by the saturated earth beneath her.


    The king turned again to face Fanny, his expression even sadder yet.


    ¡°See?  There¡¯s nothing we could do, not now, not even if we wanted to.  We are sorry.¡±


    The king turned to his people and began to issue commands.


    With their victims still entangled in nets, the Kobalds began to wrap them round and round with stout and bristly rope.  Fanny could hardly breath under the press of the winding bonds, and the poor boys were tied together back to back as one.  A short while later they were carrying their immobilized prisoners aloft on makeshift litters. Escorted by the two great wolves, the whole of the assembly began to process into the woods with their captives totally helpless in their power.


    Across brush and bramble went the malign procession, their forlorn prey jostled and shook and torn as they were rocked over uneven ground and through rending branches.  Fanny couldn¡¯t keep track of how long they proceeded this way, other than it seemed a torture wholly without end.


    The moon had quit the stars and taken refuge below the horizon, unable to bear anymore to shine callously on the injustice of the earth below it.  In the final darkness of the night the Kobalds seemed tense and subdued, and now and again one of the terrible wolves would alter its course to walk beside Fanny, boring into her with its harrowing eyes and searing breath.  Nothing in her life had ever been so horrid before, and at length Fanny¡¯s mind could conceive of nothing but hopelessness, anguish, and fear.


    The suddenly, the ghastly procession stopped.  There was muted chattering, and it seemed as if a few of the Kobalds had been sent ahead.


    It seemed a lifetime that they remained there, motionless.  Suddenly, Fanny was aware that King Brungus was standing close beside her head.  He looked down at her with his yellow eyes, and despite his alien features Fanny could read perfectly well a look of guilt and sorrow.


    Abruptly, the king¡¯s brown hand snapped out from nowhere and into her face, and before she could jerk or bite or anything he had stuffed a small wad of some sort up one of her nostrils.


    In the shock of the assault Fanny nearly cried out, but the just as quickly the king leaned close and whispered urgently in her ear.


    ¡°He¡¯ll try to enslave ye, see?  Dominate yer very spirit, he will.  And he¡¯ll use powerful black magic to do it.  I don¡¯t want that to happen, not again, not to anyone else.  Keep breathing through yer nose, even if it¡¯s hard, and don¡¯t breath with yer mouth at all if ye can help it.  Take care as best ye can, Miss Howard!¡±


    With that, the king was gone as abruptly as he had appeared at her side a moment ago.


    Fanny sniffed cautiously.


    The strange little bundle was uncomfortable in her nose, and it was a bit hard to breathe past it.  But when she did, there was a wholesome sort of smell, like pine trees and hearty wood fires. And with it, Fanny felt a sharper sense of alertness.  Deeply, she felt a peculiar sensation that whatever this peculiar bit of matter so rudely thrust into the latter end of her sinuses was, it was there for her protection somehow.


    Somewhere ahead there were anxious voices, and a tramping footstep very unlike that of a Kobald.  A new voice joined that of the fey creatures, deep and accented. Fanny could not crane her neck at all see anything beyond the treetops above her, but she was certain that they had been joined by a man.


    Abruptly, she was lifted up again, and she had the sense that she had begun the final leg of the journey to whatever fate the Kobalds were abandoning her.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    In a moment they were out of the wood, proceeding a little distance over a patch of smooth grass.  All about, the dark was fading to an oppressed twilight as the dread night at last withdrew. Suddenly a darkness loomed above, and Fanny realized that she was being brought inside a structure, its stone vaults towering above her.  She recognized the manner of stonework at once.


    She was being brought inside a barrow.


    First came a dark path, then a turn, and then the light of lanterns.  Fanny was set on the ground, and Kobald hands began to work over her, undoing her bonds and liberating her from the ropes and net.  When they were finished, the Kobalds withdrew.


    Fanny sat up on the mossy stones, and blinked in the flickering light.


    She was inside an enclosed chamber, the walls, ceiling and floor composed of flat, slate like stones.  In the center there was a group of four upright megaliths about the size of an adult man each, surrounding a rectangular depression that probably constituted a tomb when the cairn was first erected eons ago by a people long forgotten.  Before this, there was set a collapsable chair of the sort employed in military camps. All about lanterns were set haphazardly, filling the chamber with an erratic dance of wicked red light.


    There were also other signs of recent habitation.  Bedding, trunks, barrels, tools. In fact, it looked in every way like the barrow had been the had been the permanent home of several persons for quite a number of months at the very least.  The disposition of articles had a distinctly settled and ordered appearance that bespoke long weeks of sustained encampment.


    And there were voices.


    From somewhere back down the tunnel from whence she had just been brought Fanny could hear a discussion underway.


    ¡°You have done well, Brungus.  I had not expected you to bring her to earth this quickly.¡±


    ¡°As ever it pleases ye, sir!  We Kobalds are ever helpful and obliging to our friends as they be needful.¡±


    ¡°You have my thanks.  However, I was not quite ready to receive her, and I have other plans underway which I am now obliged to modify.  I shall require your services further.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    ¡°You will dispatch your Kobalds to keep watch in the clearing.  I am preparing a little reception, and your forces will supplement my own while I attend to the girl.¡±


    ¡°Now look here...¡±


    ¡°No arguments, Brungus!  Not if you know what¡¯s healthy for you and your people, and I think you do.  You wouldn¡¯t have dared serve me thus far already if you didn¡¯t. You are in deep with us, Brungus, just as your people were long ago.  We are fated to be allies. Go now, my servant will give you the rest of your instructions.¡±


    ¡°But!¡±


    ¡°Go, little goblin!  Do as you are bidden!¡±


    There was a shuffling and then a few more voices that were more subdued and this time inaudible.  Then, a sound of approaching footsteps.


    Two men entered.  They looked like gentlemen, or at least men of education, who had been living quietly under primitive conditions in the outdoors for some time.  They were dressed in greatcoats and were fully bearded, yet their clothes were neat and clean and of good quality, if showing signs of wear and weather, and their skin appeared to be naturally swarthy like those from the south.


    And they carried with them a tangled bundle of rope and net which they set in a corner.  It was Fanny¡¯s brothers, tied together and lying limply on the cold floor. Fanny cried out in anguish to them, but there was no reply from the children, and the two men merely fixed her with an impassive stare.  One then left the chamber the way he came, while the other stood on guard near where the boys lay.


    The chamber was again filled with silence, yet there was an air of expectancy as though something important was to occur momentarily.  The guard stood silent and motionless, and soon he was rejoined by his compatriot.


    And then, he entered the room.


    There was no question in Fanny¡¯s mind that this was the man King Brungus had spoken of so fearfully.  He was a heavy set sort of man, dressed much as any proper Gandish gentleman would, though his coat and breeches were of a peculiar shade of dirty green.  His face was certainly familiar to Fanny, though she was certain she had never been introduced to the man. But from her conversation with the subjugated King of Kobalds, she knew his name.


    This was without a doubt Gareth Larch, known otherwise as Kador.


    Larch was not alone.  He entered regally like a little king in his own domain, with a delicate accessory clinging primly to his left arm.


    To Fanny¡¯s astonishment, there promenading at the side of her captor, thin, shaky but smiling grandly, was Agatha Watson.


    Agatha was dressed in the same revealing gown in which she had disappeared so many days ago, albeit somewhat the worse for attrition and worn with even more abandon and exposure than ever.  She smiled when she met Fanny¡¯s eye.


    ¡°Why, my dearest Miss Howard!  How good it is that you are here with us!  Soon you shall see what a good fortune it is that we share!¡±


    Fanny was dumbfounded before this extraordinary greeting.  She watched in consternation as Larch and Agatha proceeded to the center of the chamber within the circle of upright stones.  Larch grandly took a seat on the field chair there, while Agatha reclined fawningly on the floor beneath him.


    For a moment Larch sat there without speaking, lustfully stroking Agatha¡¯s hair while gazing penetratively across at Fanny.  Fanny met his offensive scrutiny with an even gaze and a sudden sense that she hated this man above every other scurrilous creature she¡¯d ever come across.


    At last Larch spoke.


    ¡°Welcome.  Welcome, my dearest Fanny Howard.  I have long been desirous to have you here.¡±


    Fanny breathed deeply through fury clenched teeth.  As she did so she nearly inhaled the peculiar wad in her nose as the scent of pine washed over her, and at this point she experienced a curious sensation that besides hating this foul being, she also had no fear of him.


    ¡°Oaf!¡±


    Larch paused in his lascivious caress of Agatha as he stared across at Fanny with his eyes just a bit wider than before.


    ¡°....What?¡±


    ¡°Oaf.  Cad. Disgusting rotter.¡±


    ¡°What are you¡­.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m rattling off words and phrases with which you inspire me, Mr. Larch.  Filthy scoundrel, pernicious louse, shameless bounder¡­¡±


    ¡°How¡­.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but there is so much more!  Do you realize, Mr. Larch, that you bear a remarkable resemblance to a grubworm?  Not physically, no, on the outside you¡¯re rather just a common, plain, overweight and overwhelmingly uninteresting man.  No, it is your inner spirit with which I find the similarity, as displayed excellently by your depravedly boorish conduct.  I wonder that you can ever manage to contemplate yourself without feeling violently ill¡­.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have you know¡­.¡±


    ¡°And furthermore!  Do you realize that the whole village is out looking for you?  You may have fooled them with your cowardly wiles into believing that some pirate did it, but it won¡¯t work forever.  They¡¯ll find this place soon enough, and when they do I¡¯d really hate to be in your shoes. They¡¯ll be dangling a bit too far off the ground for my taste, sir.  And while I¡¯ve never fancied myself a bloodthirsty sort of woman, I think I shall take a certain satisfaction in witnessing your hanging even as I pray for your miserable soul, whatever there may be of it that¡¯s worth salvaging.¡±


    ¡°Silence, wretched woman!¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯ve hardly even begun telling you all about what a worthless odor you are!¡±


    ¡°Beelzebub, but you¡¯re as intractable as Miss Bellingham was!  But you will not escape me so easily as she did, and I¡¯ll soon sort out your rebelliousness¡­.¡±


    ¡°La-di-da, but don¡¯t you wish you could?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll break your very soul!¡±


    ¡°To break a thing you need another thing that¡¯s stronger, and I don¡¯t think you have anything within a lifetime¡¯s grasp of yourself with which you can make a dent in my soul!¡±


    ¡°You are a vain, silly girl, Fanny Howard.  You will soon know who is your master.¡±


    ¡°Pish tush and falderal!  You ring loudly sir, but you are as empty and toneless as a miscast bell.¡±


    Larch arose with strained dignity and made his way over to some stacked crates.


    Fanny looked at Agatha.  The latter was following Larch¡¯s actions with an impassive gaze of unreserved admiration.


    ¡°Miss Watson, speak to me!  What has this monster done to you?¡±


    Agatha looked at Fanny, an expression of vacuous geniality on her supple features.  Yet she shivered and sniffed when she spoke, and her voice was taut.


    ¡°Why, Kador is perfect!  He is truly the greatest person I have ever known or will know!  It has been such an adventure! You can¡¯t imagine! I¡¯ll admit, I was a bit frightened when I was first carried off, but Kador!  Kador was so strong and gallant! I have never heard anything explained to me more clearly before. He is on a great mission, and I shall be at his side through it all.  I belong to him, and I am his loving slave. And you will be too, you¡¯ll see!¡±


    ¡°Agatha!   Don¡¯t be a little fool!  Listen to reason! Larch has kidnapped you, torn from your friends and family against your will, and how he¡¯s managed to dominate you this way I can¡¯t guess, but for God¡¯s sake think!  Think Agatha!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to.  Kador, dear Kador, he does it for me.¡±


    ¡°Agatha!!¡±


    ¡°That will be enough!  Be silent now, pet, while I deal with Fanny Howard¡¯s temerity.¡±


    Larch was approaching now, holding a brass bowl embossed with evil looking designs, containing what appeared to be a wine of peculiar hue and unwholesome texture.


    Fanny leaped to her feet, but was immediately seized by the two other men who had hitherto been motionless.  Larch¡¯s servants held each of her arms in a crushing grip as Larch set the bowl of wine at her feet. He looked up at her with a wicked sort of smile on his face.


    ¡°Now you will learn who here is the master, my bumptious little girl!¡±


    Fanny did not reply.  She kicked the bowl, which struck Larch very nicely in the shin.


    Larch was still cursing when from outside there came a frenzied chorus of wildly baying wolves.

 A Trap Gone Awry

    ¡°Well, Barnstabrake, if nothing else we were right in the end about all this being a trap.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not at all convinced we were right in springing it on purpose for ourselves, though.¡±


    ¡°No time to ponder the choices of life.  Look sharp! Keep your sword in front of you and whack with everything you¡¯ve got if one of them rushes.  Careful now!¡±


    Gates and Harlow stood back to back with naked blades shining red in the dawn as three great wolves slowly circled them, howling and snarling and darting forward now and then in snapping feints as they probed their victims¡¯ defense.


    The two men had tracked the mysterious fire all night, winding their way through night washed brush and murky bramble as they pressed ever towards the enigmatic glint in the dark.  Their course had gradually led them to the base of a substantial hill, and it was not until twilight that they reached the summit. There they found at last the smouldering remains of the elusive flame, which proved to have been a large bonfire built atop a grassy knoll that crested the hill.


    And midway or so up the face of the knoll, was the gaping mouth of a barrow.


    Scattered about were also signs of prolonged habitation; stumps both fresh and weathered, a large store of firewood, stores of tools, and a well built firepit.  Gates was immediately convinced that this was indeed Larch¡¯s principal base of operations, to which he and Harlow had been deliberately lured as part of a trap that was no doubt waiting for them this very moment.


    It was Gates¡¯s opinion that the best course would be to attempt to spring the trap prematurely, whatever it was.  It was Harlow¡¯s opinion that he would have no part of such a foolhardy thing, and wouldn¡¯t it be better if they repaired back to the village to bring back a larger and better armed body of men?  This was, in the opinion of Gates, a rotten idea as Larch¡¯s decision to prepare an ambush at his camp rather than elsewhere meant that he was very much afraid to divide his forces at present, which might suggest that something rather interesting indeed was occurring at this moment.  Larch seemed to have bitten off more than he could chew, for he hadn¡¯t even laid any simple jinxes about that Gates could detect. If Larch were sufficiently overwhelmed that he would neglect even basic precautions such as laying a latent Imbroglius or a spread of Dopplewisps then he was very preoccupied indeed, which gave Gates and Harlow an opportunity that could not be afforded a miss.  It was then Harlow¡¯s observation that perhaps they should hold off for a bit anyway, just to have a look at what Larch might have in store for them. It was then that Harlow observed that Gates was not listening and had already started off out into the clearing, and Harlow saw nothing for it but to catch up and pray for the best, and hope Gates knew what he was doing.


    Whatever the wisdom of his resolution, Gates¡¯s scheme to spring whatever trap lay before him did not fall short of expectations.  The moment he and Harlow we far enough into the clearing to exclude a quick escape back into the woods there was a tremendous howl, and three great black wolves bounded out upon them from all sides.


    Harlow fired a wild shot which went wide as the wolves closed in, still howling.  And now here he and Gates were, back to back with a ring of wolves about them and heaven knew what else waiting for them.


    From somewhere on his person Gates had produced a long, wicked dirk nearly as large as Harlow¡¯s own painfully diminutive hunting sword, wielding it with in tandem with his great sword.


    Round and round the wolves circled, darting forward now and then to snap between the whirl and jab of blade as they patiently wore down their victims, their crimson eyes only a bit more faint in the fiery light of the blood hungry dawn.


    Again and again the wolves attacked and retreated, each lunge only half a feint as they tested for openings through which to inevitably charge and crush their prey in their great slavering jaws.


    Gates let his guard drop for a moment and one of the wolves lunged forward with a ravening snarl as it¡¯s splayed jaws flew to Gates¡¯s throat, only to have its head neatly split in a shower of blood as Gates clove the monster¡¯s skull nearly in two as he brought his blade back from the deceptive invitation with which he had baited the creature.


    ¡°Ha!  There¡¯s one down!  See, you beasts? See what¡¯s in store for you!¡±


    The two remaining wolves howled in feral rage as their eyes blazed garnet.  They circled more carefully now, slavering and snarling with the fire of Hell smouldering in their eyes.


    And then, from the entrance of the Barrow only just above them, Kador emerged.


    When the clamour of the wolves had reached an abrupt and frenzied zenith Kador had abandoned his hitherto abortive assault on Fanny and rushed out of the Barrow into the waxing sunlight.  Whatever was going on outside, it had caused her assailant no small amount of disturbance, and Fanny did not tarry any longer than it took her mind to keep up with the turn of events spinning around her.


    Of the two men still gripping her like pythons she delivered a kick to one and a bite to the other, and then proceeded in a similar vein of biting, kicking, scratching and screaming as the startled men struggled haphazardly to gain mastery over their prisoner.


    Suddenly first one released her, and then the other, as each was struck in turn with one or more passionately projected stones.


    ¡°Run aside Fanny!  We¡¯ve cut ourselves free!¡±


    Fanny dropped to the floor and rolled over and aside as from the mass of cut rope and shredded net in the corner arose the barbarians Howard like two genies possessed of uncontrollable fury, stones and knives clutched in tiny white knuckled hands. Fanny was barely out of the way when the two boys commenced a well directed and wrath fueled volley of rocks and pen knives at the confounded guards.


    Their ammunition was limited however and the guards were quickly collecting themselves, and Fanny wasted not a moment in leaping to her feet and battering both of them with the insidious metal bowl Larch had abandoned in their midst.


    ¡°Hurry boys, one of you seize Agatha and we¡¯ll run!¡±Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Both savages scurried forward and seized the limbs of the petrified Agatha Watson as Fanny administered a last salvo upon Larch¡¯s minions.  Together with Agatha pliantly in tow Fanny broke and ran for the passage to freedom with her brothers as the two battered villains were sorting themselves out from the Barrow floor.


    Meanwhile, Larch stood at the mouth of the Barrow, looking down at where Gates and Harlow stood against the orbiting wolves.


    Gates brandished his sword in Larch¡¯s direction.


    ¡°Come on out, knavish idiot!  Your dogs are one short and they need a replacement.  Come down and join the other animals, and share the fate we¡¯ll give them!¡±


    Larch glanced in either direction.  Then he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.


    ¡°Now Brungus!  Strike now with your people!  Now!!!¡±


    But there was no reply.


    The wolves surged forward and Gates and Harlow fended them off yet again.  Larch ran frantically towards the treeline and shouted again.


    ¡°What are your waiting for!  Curse you, Brungus, tell your people to attack!  Brungus!¡±


    But from the trees came nothing.  Larch ran back and forth before the line of woods, shouting and cursing as he stood alone with his back to his enemy.


    Gates swore an oath and then hurled himself forward at the nearest wolf, striking the surprised animal down as he charged over the wolf¡¯s body and headed straight for Larch.


    The last remaining wolf roared to its master and Larch turned to the warning from behind as the wolf then galloped for Gates¡¯s back.


    But the wolf had barely begun its charge before Harlow stepped in its path with sword arm outstretched.  With an inhuman scream both went tumbling down the hillside in a mass of man, fur, and splashing blood.


    Gates uttered a fanatical cry in a peculiar language and lunged for Larch.  Larch turned and bolted for the woods with Gates close on his heels.


    Inside the barrow, Fanny ran with every strand of her spirit, arms full of her brothers as Agatha trailed behind in confusion.  Down the tunnel she could hear the terrible curses and oaths of Larch¡¯s men as they stormed in pursuit.


    But Larch had prepared in advance for the possibility of escape.  Abruptly the prisoner¡¯s mad flight was arrested as they encountered a trip cord set just a few feet from the cave entrance, snaring the fleeing prisoners and throwing them into a broken tumble in the floor as Larch¡¯s men closed in.


    The two men were running headlong towards them when there was a terrific double blast like thunder.


    Both men toppled to the floor in a shattered and bloody mass as the passage filled with acrid smoke.  Fanny twisted herself about to look back at the Barrow¡¯s threshold.


    There, standing just outside the door, was Albert Stokes, a smoking pistol in each hand.


    And from around the corner peeked the curious face of Abigayle Bellingham.


    ¡°Why, whatever have you done, my dear Mr. Stokes?  Such a dreadful noise and smell, I feel sure the vibrations they produced are of the most deplorable¡­.eeeek!  Why, my dear Fanny! My dear Agatha! My dear Little Boys, my dear¡­.oh dear me look at those two fellows, they do look dreadfully unwell¡­..¡±


    Mr. Stokes had stepped past where Fanny and her charges still lay entangled and was engaged inspecting Larch¡¯s fallen servants, satisfying himself that the hoodlums would never again be of concern to anyone.


    ¡°Are there any more pirates inside?¡±


    ¡°.....Pirates?  I mean, no, Mr. Stokes.  There were only the two¡­and Mr. Larch.¡±


    ¡°Kador!  Kador! What has happened?  What has become of everything?  What...what am I¡­¡±


    Agatha collapsed into sobs on the ground, he hands tearing violently at the grass outside the Barrow.


    ¡°Dear me!  I¡¯m afraid dear Agatha is most unwell!  Have cheer, dear Agatha, have cheer! For the dear sun brings forth his rays upon the morn and the Sylphs do tend the flowers¡­..oh my, but this is the palace of the Forest God, is it not?  I simply knew we were following the right signs!¡±


    ¡°Miss Howard, pray explain what you meant in reference to Mr. Larch?¡±


    ¡°It was he who abducted Miss Watson, Miss Bellingham, and myself.  He and¡­.well¡­..his associates.¡±


    ¡°These two here?¡±


    ¡°Yes, and...well, er¡­¡±


    ¡°Why the Kobalds, of course!¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, quite right Miss Bellingham, the Kobalds.¡±


    Mr. Stokes prodded the bodies of Larch¡¯s accomplices with his boot.


    ¡°Well, there¡¯ll be nothing more from these two, at any rate.  So it was Mr. Larch, was it? That¡¯s quite astonishing, I never would have thought the man was such a desperate character.¡±


    ¡°As indeed was the case with all of us, it would seem.¡±


    ¡°It certainly would never have occurred to me that he was a pirate, to be sure.¡±


    ¡°A pirate?  Ah, well¡­.I suppose you could call him that, in a way.  In fact, I don¡¯t really know how else I could possibly explain him to the neighborhood.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s definitely not a Forest God, I think I was wrong about that after all.  See, my dear Mr. Stokes, I can be reasonable!¡±


    ¡°Indeed, very considerate of you I¡¯m sure, Miss Bellingham.¡±


    ¡°But there were Kobalds, I¡¯m sure of it!  I¡¯m sure there was a Kobald prince involved somewhere along the way, Prince Ardent Fancy himself, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°...Oh dear Lord.¡±


    ¡°Fanny!  Fanny! Come here quick!  We found Harlow Barnstabrake just down the hill, and he looks to be in a terrible state!¡±


    The blackness pulled away like so many clinging cobwebs and Harlow was beginning to feel aware of his own existence again.  That, and of a peculiarly pleasurable sensation from somewhere about his head.


    The red bloodstain of dawn had been washed clean, and the sun shone through the crystal blue of a pure sky.


    Harlow was lying stretched in the grass, bruised, bloodied, and aching most everywhere.  A few feet away his sword was buried to the hilt in the carcass of a great wolf. Neither Gates nor Larch were anywhere to be seen, and the air was still.


    And to his astonishment Harlow realized that he was being cradled against the otherworldly softness of a woman¡¯s body, his head resting scandalously through thin rain soaked cloth against a silken breast while slender fingers massaged his head anxiously.


    He looked up astoundedly to meet the eyes of Fanny Howard.


    He features bore a distinctly peculiar and inscrutable expression.  Harlow gulped as he stared back.


    ¡°Er¡­.I say.  What has happened?¡±


    Fanny replied in neutral tone with no change to her countenance.


    ¡°Miss Watson, myself and my brothers are liberated.  Larch is still at large, but we are free and safe. Larch¡¯s henchmen are dead, as are the wolves.¡±


    ¡°Miss Watson free, eh?  I say, I¡¯ve rather been looking for her, don¡¯t you know.  Didn¡¯t know he¡¯d gotten you too. So sorry, don¡¯t you know.  Glad I was here, I suppose, for whatever little good I¡¯m worth.  Oh dear, I¡¯m feeling a bit dizzy again I think.¡±


    Fanny held Harlow just a bit more closely to her person.


    ¡°Well done nonetheless, Mr. Barnstabrake.  Well done indeed.¡±

 On the Streets of a Great City

    It was a grey afternoon.  A damp sort of chill hung about everywhere like so much invisible moss, clinging and draping off everything in general.  The clouded sky was like a grey-white dome of textureless marble, perfect and seamless in its oppressive enclosure of the world beneath it.  Here and there a gull darted through the still air, vagabonds of the sea who had wandered inland to cadge freely in freshwaters.


    The seagulls¡¯ chosen place of vagrancy was the Dwinmere, the great ribbon lake fed from the east by the many tributaries of the River Shene, and emptying through many miles more of the river Dwinn to the sea itself in the west.  For all practical considerations the Dwinmere was the slender beating heart of Gandburgh, for along either side of it¡¯s pronounced length were the two greatest cities of the kingdom: On the north shore was Winskep, nearly as ancient as the nation itself but only recently grown to rival her sister Hemhold on the south shore, which was the kingdom¡¯s capital.  Together with the snaking Dwinmere between them these two cities formed the great metropolis of Gandburgh.


    As the gulls and other birds flitted about their business in the air above the water, so too did men plough its surface.  Watercraft of every description plied the length of the lake, from rickety ferries scurrying from one shore to the other to great tall ships in stately procession making their way to or from the sea, past the steadfast cannon of island forts and under the brooding spires of the Winnol, the ancient citadel of the capital.  Along either shore men and women went about their affairs in the haphazard discipline with which their race always manages to get by from day to day. And presently among these, gazing thoughtfully out onto the lake¡¯s vista from the vantage of a cobbled promenade upon the Hemhold side of the Dwinmere, was Harlow Barnstabrake.


    Harlow leaned heavily on a walking stick which was sturdy, plain, and quite new.  Ever since his adventures he had experienced periodic bouts of dizziness, which Doctor Ford attributed to his having received two rather severe concussions within the space of a week.  The vertigo could be quite bad at times, and Harlow had found the delicate and fashionable canes of his previous inventory to be rather inadequate. But really, the fashion and noteworthiness of his accessories seemed rather unimportant to Harlow lately.


    Harlow returned his attention to the letter he still held in his hand.  He had read it and reread it time after time since receiving it ten days ago.  The curt and enigmatic summons specified a date, a time, and the place. The date was today, the place was only a few streets away, and the time was nearly upon him.


    In the distance the shrill tempo of fife and drum had been building steadily up the waterfront.  A procession of soldiers was approaching bit by bit, disturbing Harlow¡¯s reverie and recalling him to his errand.  Harlow folded his letter and made his way to join the flow of humanity along the wharf as the people were making way in advance of the column.


    A drum major in a high fur cap led a corps of fife and drums arrayed in bright tail coats and cocked hats.  Behind this came a troop of armored heavy cavalry, followed by a detachment of fusiliers equipped in uniform of reverse colors to that of the musicians.


    Harlow watched the spectacle from his vantage point in the crowd.  Each mounted trooper was clad head to foot in steel armor painted in a green and black diamond check with an enclosed helmet topped by a white plume.  A great sword was fastened to each man¡¯s waist while a warhammer and brace of pistols hung from each saddle, and each trooper carried a lance with a white pennant bearing the legend ¡°V.L.¡± in prominent script.  It was a grand and unusual sight to be sure, for armored cavalry such as this was something of a rarity. Firearms were the mainstay of warfare in Ursiland, and although armor was still considered to be useful in close quarters the expense of equipping troops in this way was by far an excess for all but a few sections of crack mercenary regiments with many wealthy contracts.  The nobility themselves could certainly afford to armor fully, but they rarely ever took to the field in modern times, and likewise most officers found anything beyond a cuirass or less to be more or less superfluous. Such a sight as Harlow now witnessed was therefore one which never failed attract an amount of curiosity and admiration, inspiring many with a sense of nostalgia for the chivalric romance of a bygone era which no one alive in Gandburgh today had ever seen or known.


    Soon enough though, the splendid procession had passed Harlow by.  As the crowd began to disperse, Harlow moved to follow in the wake of the receding soldiery, for he happened to be headed in the same direction.


    It was September, and nearly three months had passed since the night of the May Day ball.  It is surprising how quickly a place can be turned so thoroughly upside down, only to sort itself out soon enough and subsequently toddle along with the daily humdrum as if nothing at all had happened.  Of course, there were the initial adulations and celebrations throughout Potham once the missing persons had at last been restored to the bosom of the hearth. And there was the rage and fury directed at the infamous way in which all had been so treacherously deceived by the now defamed and distinctly dis-Honorable Gareth Larch.  No small effort was made to hunt down the man, but the energies of the neighborhood waned rather more quickly than not, with most becoming satisfied enough that the wretched man was reduced to a desperate fugitive who would likely be brought to earth eventually.


    Of Black Abraham few words were ever spoken.  Rather, it was the scheming cynicism and apparent double life of the now renegade Mr. Larch which occupied the speculation of the public.  In that curious way in which people tend to hold fast to those assertions to which they have previously given their public support, it was the opinion of the neighborhood that besides being a turncoat of the most lecherous character, Mr. Larch was in all probability also a brigand in his own right, perhaps a former member of Black Abraham¡¯s own band.  It would, after all, explain the presence of the inscribed belaying pin, and more importantly it demonstrated that everybody really wasn¡¯t all that far mistaken after in all in thinking it was Black Abraham.


    Of course, no one paid any bother to Miss Bellingham¡¯s persistent insistence that it was Kobalds all along that had helped Mr. Larch in his vain attempt to become a Forest God.  But of their own knowledge on the matter neither Harlow nor Fanny ever spoke. Neither did the Barbarians Howard, for they had long ago learned that grownups are in general only satisfied with explanations which tend to fit their expectations.  And as always, no one ever saw any sign of the Kobalds, though perhaps some noted absently that there were fewer mishaps and fewer missing articles of late.


    No one said anything at all about the vagrant Mr. Gates, except perhaps to mutter now and then about what a trouble the man was, loafing about in respectable villages and getting himself mistaken for pirates and all, to the inconvenience of everyone.  He probably was a miscreant of some sort or other anyway, and it was quite to the satisfaction of all that no one had seen or heard anything of the man since the beginning of the whole episode. To all appearances the man had disappeared completely, and so much the better for it.


    Beyond the outrage of Mr. Larch¡¯s astounding perversity, the only way in which the neighborhood really permitted itself to be otherwise astonished was in the form of that unlikely person who proved the illustrious hero of the whole adventure.  Most had hitherto found him standoff-ish, even objectionably uppish, and all had confidently discounted him as mostly bookish. But the events of June had revealed a hidden strain of steadfast persistence, iron determination, and reckless bravery in the person of that valiant gentleman, Mr. Albert Stokes.  For a whole week never once was a glass raised that it did not toast the good health of the heroic rescuer who had liberated the captive women and children, slew the brigand¡¯s henchmen and drove the traitor himself to flight. Mr. Stokes could not go anywhere without being exuberantly received wherever he came, slapped on the back and prodded and bought more drinks than he could ever consume at once.  Even now, a petition signed by the Sheriff himself was in circulation at the College of Arms which if all went smoothly would see Mr. Stokes knighted by the end of the year (much to the dumbfounded consternation of Mr. Barnstabrake Sr).


    Not much notice was really taken of Harlow.  All agreed that he¡¯d done well enough, considering his condition, even managing as usual to insert himself at the last moment to share a bit in the glory.  It was the usual sort of thing he did. Though he did manage to get himself knocked out again after foolishly entangling himself with one of the villain¡¯s feral guard dogs; a wiser man would have stood back and shot straight and true (like Mr. Stokes had) and not get himself all tangled up like that.  All in all Harlow had shown himself as always to be a good enough sort. Hardly the stuff of heroes, though. And for his own part, Harlow didn¡¯t much care that anyone thought so. He found tremendous satisfaction in the fact that his skin was rather still intact and his bones rather still in one piece and his volume not especially sapped of its lifeblood.  After the second concussion it was a few days again before he could walk without assistance, and even now three months later he depended heavily on support of some sort.


    There was a rattle on the cobblestones as a carriage rolled to a stop alongside where Harlow was walking.  Harlow paused and lifted his hat to the occupant, and then upon invitation mounted the step and took as seat inside to finish his brief journey in pleasant company.


    Taking the carriage rather lengthened the course than not, the vehicle being obliged to rumble slowly some feet in the wake of the parading soldiery.  Nonetheless Harlow found nothing at all to object in this, for it afforded him ample time in the private company of its passenger.


    Fanny had insisted on accompanying Harlow to the metropolis, despite Harlow¡¯s strenuous objections to the contrary.  Over the past few months the pair of them had spent considerable time in one another¡¯s company, and through the experiences they related to one another in confidence it was only they two who knew the full scope of the adventure which had befallen their quiet hamlet.


    Yet in expansion to this they had developed a kind of mutual conviviality that struck not a few as ill suited, if not unseemly.  That such a bookish woman of her age should manage to associate herself with any man other than the most musty of vintage clergymen was quite inelegantly unexpected for a woman of her position.  Likewise, Harlow having found attachment in anyone at all was catastrophe enough (or would have been in the old days, at any rate), but that he should stick himself with such as Fanny Howard¡­.well, the popular young ladies of the neighborhood could not fathom what could have possessed the fellow that he should suddenly make of himself such a dreadful bore.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The carriage was now slowly approaching a large house before which the parade had stopped and stood now at attention as the band began a stately air.  Outside the great entry was an array of fusiliers arrayed in green and black and led by officers in partial armor of the same green and black check of the cavalry.  A ceremonial changing of the guard was in process.


    The carriage took a turn down a tidy ally to a side door of the great house.  Two more fusiliers stood guard there and saluted professionally as Fanny and Howard alighted.  Above the door hung a gilded sign:


    ¡°The Variburg Lictors¡±


    Upon alighting Fanny and Harlow were greeted by a well groomed young officer who had a bit more of the bearing of a patrician salesman than that of a soldier.  They we genially escorted to an elegant drawing room set with plenty of tea and pastries and lushly decorated with assorted military decor highlighting the various glories and achievements of the regiment.  Harlow had always had the impression that mercenaries were grim sorts who lived off the land and drank whole taverns dry, and perhaps this was at times true. But here at least in their business headquarters they tended to foster a refined impression of doughty respectability.  To Fanny, the whole thing seemed just a bit foppish and amusing, in a tiresome sort of way. Rather the way she¡¯d once felt about the younger Mr. Barnstabrake. Their defferential host smiled and bowed and promised that mister and miss would not be detained long and would they please feel free to help themselves to some refreshments, and then departed with a well practiced if distinctly burgess salute.


    Fanny and Harlow were indeed not kept long, for the solicitous officer was shortly replaced by another, a taciturn individual who entered at a brisk step with an unaffectedly crisp salute and deportment, who bade them follow him to another room.  They were then led to a small inner office which was plainly decorated and nearly empty save for a clear desk and a few chairs, one of which was occupied.


    Gates sat with his feet propped up onto the desk and a modest plate of food in hand.  He did not arise as Fanny and Harlow entered, but he did motion them to sit down with a magnanimous wave of a chicken leg.


    ¡°Mph¡­.Barnstabrake!  Do have a seat. I see you brought Miss Howard with you, that¡¯s good, it makes three of us.  Shut the door behind you. We haven¡¯t much fear of spies here, Colonel Drakenheart is a man I trust fully, but shut it all the same.  So¡­.¡±


    Harlow formally drew up a seat for Fanny and then took one for himself.


    ¡°....it would of course be ludicrously obvious for me to observe that you received my letter, given your presence here on schedule and so forth.  And you do recall, I should certainly hope, the purpose for which I asked you to come?¡±


    ¡°You were rather vague actually, but I gathered that you have been in pursuit of Mr. Larch and have at last run him to ground.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.  I shall elucidate.  But first, how are things in Potham?¡±


    ¡°Rather returned to normal a bit, actually.  People seem to have recovered rather well.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re using a new cane though.  Brain took a shake?¡±


    ¡°A bit, yes.¡±


    ¡°Head clear though?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes, I just get a bit dizzy now and again.¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­.well, I hope it doesn¡¯t happen at some dreadfully inopportune moment, for we may very well have quite a few of those before we are yet finished.¡±


    ¡°Oh dear.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Gates!¡±


    ¡°Miss Howard.  Forgive me, I had not enquired as to your well being.  I shall proffer the excuse that I was intent upon business, althoug the excuse as such is over worn, as I am always intent upon business.  Pardon me again, but I am interrupting you. But don¡¯t take it personally, I also always interrupt people.¡±


    ¡°As is indeed apparent.  However I am quite well, as you may observe by my presence here.  Others, however, have not been so fortunate.¡±


    ¡°I should imagine not.  Tell me, how fares the other young lady, you know the first one Kador took, Miss¡­..¡±


    ¡°Miss Watson.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Watson.¡±


    ¡°She has been very unwell.  Indeed, she cries most of the time so I¡¯m told, and seems hopelessly confused for much of rest.  She appears to recollect very little of her experience, but has had a poor recovery otherwise.¡±


    ¡°Blast that witch!¡±


    Gates set his plate down rather forcefully with a deep scowl on his features.


    ¡°Kador and his kind are truly dregs, no matter how much they may cover themselves with dark glory.  Miss Watson has been violated by magic of the most foul sort, the kind which strips away a person¡¯s very will and bodily liberty.  You can¡¯t just walk away from an assault on the mind such as that, it takes a long time to heal, and even then the scars are permanent.  The young woman deserves far better than to be left to put herself back together in isolation, but I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s the best she¡¯ll get in this part of the world.  The trouble with living in a place that¡¯s largely free of witchcraft is that nobody really knows how to deal with it when it at last turns up. There are those who could do much indeed to help Miss Watson heal, but they¡¯re not around here.  She¡¯ll have to be sent to the Hinterlands. When we¡¯re all finished with this business I think I¡¯ll take a quiet trip back to Potham and address myself to her family. I can put them in contact with persons who can help her. They can tell the neighborhood that she¡¯s gone to the South to heal in the warm climate or something.¡±


    ¡°What was it all about in the end, though?  What did Larch really want to achieve in doing all that he did?¡±


    Gates leaned forward, stroking his chin thoughtfully.


    ¡°Kador...or rather Larch...is not his own agent.  While he indulges himself grossly at every turn he does so within the scope of his mission, the work that he and his fellows all bend themselves to.  You see, powerful witches though they are, they are really not all that different from any other low brute that stalks the earth; in the end what they really want is power.  Power and dominion over everything they can possibly manage. All of their black magic, all their assorted and demon craft and diabolism, it all comes back power. Power to do whatever they will, and power for sake of power itself.


    Witches are trouble wherever you find them, but whenever they manage to come together for some common purpose (without devouring one another in the process that is) they are a terrible thing to reckon with.


    Long ago, there was a coven of witches that managed to do just that.  Their goal was to found a kingdom for themselves, and they succeeded most diabolically well.  Indeed, at its height their empire spanned the breadth of the continent and beyond. Well nigh all of Ursiland was once a part of their dominion.


    The changing nature of life is a burden that ever vexes the human spirit, but it has its advantages.  Nothing lasts forever, and the great empire of witches was no exception. Various fragments of it remain to this day, and there are those who seek to restore what once was.  That is Kador¡¯s business, to spread the influence of his masters like a cancer. For centuries they have not been in a position to assert themselves openly beyond their own strongholds (though I believe that to be changing now).  For nigh on a millennia they have instead worked to conquer nations from within.


    I believe that Kador was sent to Gandburgh for just this purpose:  To build or perhaps to expand upon a network of trusted agents and informers within the upper echelons of Gandish society.  Kador, of course, went about it in his usual vile, aggrandizing and risky way of doing things. Instead of attempting to make slaves of wealthy and attractive young women he would have done better to try and blackmail a butler or two.  As it is, the whole enterprise hasn¡¯t turned out well for him at all, certainly not in Potham, and nowhere else either, I believe. ¡±


    ¡°He seems to have been very foolish.  Even had he succeeded in bending both Miss Watson and myself to his purpose, what was he to do then, after having kidnapped us?  We could never be returned to society without eliciting considerable remark, to be sure.¡±


    ¡°One can only guess, though I fancy that his ultimate plan involved some kind of elaborate mock rescue.  I suspect that the much publicized adventures of Black Abraham inspired Kador to execute his mission by way of a similar crime, laying the blame on Black Abraham while simultaneously setting himself up to be the hero.  I thoroughly ransacked his apartments in Potham back in June and I found information suggesting that he was in the process of acquiring a ship, a fast and well armed vessel of the sort which are often used pirate hunters.  My theory is that once he was confident that he had total control over the minds of his prisoners he would depart from the neighborhood on the pretense of searching for the missing women. He would then return a few months later with the ladies in tow, claiming to have secured their release (probably in some spectacular fashion).  This would serve both to re-introduce the ladies into the community and to ingratiate Kador to the whole neighborhood, setting him up for future advancements. All very risky, theatrical, and stupid, exactly the kind of thing I should expect of the man. Men of his stamp always do things in such a uniquely grand, obnoxious way that leaves all sorts of interesting little loose ends about for people like me to to start pulling at and tying together to our own amusement, to which occupation I have been merrily engaged these last three months with most satisfactory results, if I dare say so myself.  For you see, I have tracked him down.¡±


    ¡°So you have found him!¡±


    ¡°Almost.  I know his whereabouts down to the neighborhood.  The particular apartment I as yet do not know, but that will soon be remedied.  Which is why I sent you the letter. I¡¯m going to get him, and I am not foolish enough to believe I can do it without help.¡±


    ¡°But what has he been up to all this time!¡±


    ¡°Well, I may be flattering myself, but I do believe that back in June we managed to thoroughly discommode him.  I think he was wholly overconfident in his security at Potham, and when everything came falling down about his ears he panicked and fled to what little he had prepared for himself elsewhere, and he is quickly going broke.  I¡¯ve become well acquainted with a number of his various creditors (he hasn¡¯t managed to put jinxes on all of them). He¡¯s running out of money fast, and that¡¯s not his only problem. His superiors can¡¯t be happy with him either.¡±


    ¡°But we are going to get him?¡±


    ¡°Of course we are.  But first, another round of chicken is in order, I think.¡±

 A Brigands Last Stand

    ¡°I really do wish you wouldn¡¯t come with us.  Mr. Larch is an extraordinarily dangerous man, don¡¯t you know?  I would never forgive myself if anything were to go horribly wrong.¡±


    ¡°Fiddlesticks, Mr. Barnstabrake.  You and I are the only two in our acquaintance who know Mr. Larch¡¯s true capabilities.  Who else was there who could have come with you? And while Mr. Gates has hitherto proven himself trustworthy he has likewise proved unpredictable.  I esteem you far too highly to permit you to undertake such a dangerous enterprise without me.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­..I see.  Miss Howard, do you really esteem me so highly?¡±


    ¡°My statements on the matter should stand for themselves, as always.¡±


    ¡°Oh I say¡­.rather jolly, that.  But hullo, what¡¯s Gates up to now?¡±


    Gates stood a ways ahead, peeping inelegantly around a corner.  The narrow avenue opened into a canal, on the opposite side of which was a neat block of row houses and shops.


    Gates appeared to have satisfied himself for the moment and returned to where Harlow and Fanny stood.


    ¡°That¡¯s Wimple Street across the canal there.  At the point where the canal takes a sharp turn eastward Wimple becomes Coster Street.  There are several boarding houses there, and my information indicates that Kador makes his abode in one of them.


    I am quite wary of entering the street openly.  If Kador¡¯s at home he could spot us at any instant.  But we need to make inquiries to precisely ascertain his address, so there¡¯s no avoiding the matter.  Barnstabrake and I will go. Miss Howard will make inquiries here on Wimple Street. We will regroup here in two hours.  If after three hours anyone is still missing, whoever is here will repair at once to the office of the Variburgs and inform Colonel Drakenhart.¡±


    ¡°I beg your pardon, Mr. Gates, but are you attempting to be chivalrous by asking me to search Wimple instead of Coster?¡±


    ¡°I am being sensible.  Coster is the most dangerous street, so no one should go there alone and I as the only one who knows any counter jinxes should be one of them.  My face, though, is the most well known to Kador. Next to mine is likely yours, and least of all is Barnstabrake¡¯s. So I¡¯ll go with him.¡±


    ¡°Well, I for one am quite content that Miss Howard should remain as safe as possible, in fact, I really rather wish she would return to the Variburgs¡­..¡±


    ¡°You are very kind, Mr. Barnstabrake, but you know my mind.¡±


    ¡°I do, and I¡¯m very fond of it, which is precisely why I don¡¯t want to give Larch any opportunity whatsoever to fiddle about in it.¡±


    ¡°The concern is mutual, I assure you, and if you do really value the integrity of my mind then you will accede to its inclinations, which are rather towards your own welfare as much as my own.¡±


    ¡°Can you two birds kindly cease pecking and cooing at each other so we can get on with things before we manage to lay ourselves an egg?  We still have a witch to catch, you know.¡±


    One would never have suspected that such a villainous personality as Mr. Larch would be found in such a tidy and placid locale as Coster Street, unless of course one were the sort to find suspicion always in that which is the most innocent.  Cheerful red brick and white window boxes overflowing with flowers were to be found everywhere, while the shops and merchants were all of the most buoyant and accommodating character.


    In point of fact, the sunny folk of the neighborhood were entirely amiable and open to the polite enquiries of strangers, and gladly conversed freely on any subject.  And all were quite adamant that they had never heard of anyone matching the description of Mr. Larch.


    After two hours of the most tiresome and unfruitful of pleasantries Harlow felt wholly morose about the whole business.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose he could have jinxed every last one of them.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure he laced himself with enchantments at every turn, and no doubt has outright bewitched a few.  But I had expected a bit more of the old velvet than this¡­..Kador has done quite well in forging a shelter for himself, it would seem.  If he weren¡¯t running about everywhere else accruing debts, I think we¡¯d have found it wholly impossible to locate him even thus far. All goes to show that one can never be too careful in how much one puts by for a rainy day.¡±


    ¡°Bother and drat the whole business, I say.  I¡¯m heartily sick of it all. The way things have gone Larch might just as well be anywhere at all in the whole of the Fairworld, even as we are practically on his doorstep.¡±


    Harlow leaned upon a breast high wall of mossy stone overlooking the canal, gazing thoughtfully as the sunlight darted among the ripples like so many flashes of enchanted gems.  Nearby a small stairwell led to a tiny unused stone landing, the still waters beside which were overgrown with a miniature forest of flowering lilies. Deep among the vibrant flowers dragonflies darted blissfully to and fro, while between the floating leaves fish could be seen now and then, foraging contentedly in the mysterious deep of a tiny cosmos between the lily pads and the muddy bottoms.


    ¡°Why do they call it the Fairworld, I wonder?  I don¡¯t suppose you know...or rather, of all people I suppose it would be you who did.¡±


    ¡°As a matter of fact, I do.¡±


    Gates leaned upon the stonework as he too looked out over the water.


    ¡°You see, it¡¯s called the Fairworld because of who it belongs to.  This world, this is the world of the Fair Folk, the Good Folk. The Ancient Faerie.  It is they who built it. It is they who sustain it. And in the end, it is they who rule it.  None of us, we the human race that is, none of us were here to begin with. We were all of us brought here from the Old Earth, as some are wont to call it.  Every last race of mankind, from the Remans to the Greeks¡­.every one of them was brought or enticed here by them, through the many doors and paths with which they have linked this world to the other.  All of our bloodlines and all of our civilizations have their roots somewhere in the Old Earth.¡±


    ¡°Fairies, you say?¡±


    ¡°Not just any fairies or elves, but the Ancient Faerie, the first and greatest of all fey creatures, to whom they say this world was given.¡±


    ¡°By whom?¡±


    ¡°For their own part the Good Folk attribute the matter to an entity which they call Udar.  Who or what Udar is is a bit more complicated, and everyone has their own pet theory. Personally I¡¯m not convinced that even the Good Folk really understand it.


    In any case, legend has it that in the beginning when the Earth was first forged the Ancient Faerie were directed by Udar to tend and nurture it.  But soon enough the Faerie came to conflict with one another. It is said that only a minority of the Ancient Faerie remained loyal to their task as tenders of the earth.  The others either abandoned their duties altogether or else became corrupted. A portion of them sought to seize control of the planet for themselves and do with it as they wished, and a terrible war rent the surface of the Earth as the spirits of nature itself did battle with one another.  In the end, it was the faithful races who won. The irony of the legend is that when it was all over, the winners were rewarded with the very thing their enemies had sought to take for themselves: Their own earth. A copy, if you will, a separate world unto itself for them to shape, mould and rule.  You see, at heart they are creative creatures. They love to build, to grow, and to form, but they really weren¡¯t permitted to all that much, not on the Old Earth. It was not theirs to shape, only to tend. But by being faithful and doing the right thing and so forth they got what they wanted most in the end, a world of their own.  I believe there¡¯s supposed to be a moral in there somewhere.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­..quite a story...and a vaguely familiar one, at that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been around quite some time, you probably heard it in some nursery or other.¡±Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°And you take it for truth?¡±


    ¡°I rather do, yes.  At least in part. I like happy endings, but the cynic in me likes to believe that the Good Folk were put in a separate world primarily in order to keep them out of any further trouble.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll pardon me if I¡¯m a bit skeptical.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not alone in that regard.  These days the Good Folk deliberately conceal their existence from most people.  Long ago the Good Folk ceased to directly intervene in the affairs of men, preferring instead to meddle behind the scenes through intermediaries and leave mankind to its own devices for the most part.  Personally I find it quite frustrating, I would prefer it if they came crashing down on men like Kador and his kind with lightning bolts and things. But they don¡¯t. Instead they often recruit humans like you and me to do their work for them.  I myself have served them from time to time, but nowadays I tend to ignore them and operate on my own, and so far they seem to be content to put up with me. The Good Folk are well humored creatures, in their way.¡±


    ¡°This is all most extravagant!¡±


    ¡°The universe is a marvelous and extravagant place, my friend.¡±


    The speculation that Larch had managed to bewitch all of his neighbors on Coster Street may well have been true.  But a minute attention to exhaustive detail in one place can often lead to oversights further afield, with disastrous consequences.  In any case, while Gates and Harlow had been fruitless so far in their quest, merely one street over Fanny had found intelligence of the most precise nature:  An address, an apartment, and even a solid outline of the man¡¯s comings and goings. And still more urgently, she had learned that at this moment Mr. Larch was in all probability not at home.


    It was risky, to be sure.  Quite dangerous, in fact. But the knowledge that a thing is urgent and that an opportunity presents itself fleetingly can lead even the most level headed to seize the moment with abandon.  Larch was absent at present, and though her efforts had now established the precise location of his apartments, a bit of inner knowledge as to the disposition and general character of the domicile could prove invaluable, even absolutely essential, if one were daring enough to take the risk of entering while there was a chance.


    The landlady was quite civil, if a trifle weak eyed and slow of reason for her age, characteristics which Fanny suspected might well have been arcanely cultivated by her insidious tenant.  It didn¡¯t take much convincing at all to persuade the feeble woman to permit Fanny to have a look about inside on the pretense of being a prospective renter. The pliability of the woman was extraordinary, and in short work Fanny even prevailed upon the landlady to permit her to wander on her own.


    The apartment was shut, and the door was locked.  However, there were many reasons why the Barbarians Howard held their sister in such high esteem.  Quickly satisfying herself of her privacy, Fanny extracted a small pair of scissors from her reticule.  One indoor Gandish lock was really very much like another, and back in the days as a spirited little girl Fanny had prided herself on her ability to open any door in the house in defiance of all obstacles.  With a bit of fiddling and a frighteningly indiscreet click Fanny swiftly passed to the other side of the door, shutting it breathlessly behind her.


    There was an eerie sort of quiet about the room.  All in all Fanny felt very much as if she had just stepped into a tomb.


    The room was quite bare, almost painfully so.  Fanny was a woman who possessed a keen sense of place.  Men may tramp blithely through their familiar halls for days and never notice that the floor or walls have changed color, but a woman such as Fanny will take notice if an object is even a few inches removed from where it is ordinarily wont.  And even in an unfamiliar house, Fanny could often sense when something was out of place or not properly cared for.


    Everything about Larch¡¯s apartment was wrong.  And with a jolt of dismay Fanny realized that the place had been abandoned.


    Nothing at all on any shelf or dresser.  Nothing at all on any tables. A bed stripped to its ribbings, every candle dusty, and every drawer empty.


    Yet this was not all.  It had so far been a warm September, yet the fireplace was piled high with fresh ash and soot.  And extraordinary volume of ash, in fact. And no sign at all of any wood.


    Fanny was about to depart when she observed one last curiosity that piqued her attention.  As bereft of adornment as the room was, there was as yet a lone circular mirror at the far end, convex and with a dull gilded frame, purely an element of decoration.  Yet the glass was strangely dull. Fanny crossed the room and looked deeply at the glass.


    It reflected nothing.


    Yes, it shone like a mirror.  It was polished like a mirror.  Yet no images formed within it at all.


    Fanny¡¯s mind felt a little numb as it bent itself around the inherent contradiction of this extraordinary object.  On instinct she touched it.


    The moment her skin met the smooth surface the mirror burst forth in ripples of light.  With a squeak Fanny snatched away her hand as she stared at the wonder unfolding before her.


    Images were at last forming in the mirror.  She could see the room reflected now, though in a markedly different state.  The fire was burning, the bed was made, a trunk lay open to one side, a table was strewn with papers and bits of half eaten food, and there were books and other assorted objects on the shelves.  The room was filled with a red glow streaming through the tiny window, as if it were near either sunset or dawn.


    Fanny watched this extraordinary scene with wonder.  Obviously this was some exotic device of Larch¡¯s, left behind in his haste, perhaps.  Inside the reflection, the door of the apartment was now opening, and Larch entered the room.


    He had a haggard and tense expression on his face.  He looked quickly about and then bade way for a small, shrunken, wholly inoffensive and helpless looking old man.  Larch attentively proffered a seat and offered refreshments, the latter of which the old man declined kindly, and Larch took a seat opposite him.


    Fanny could hear their voices quite distinctly, even as they were quiet and curiously distant.  Larch was speaking animatedly.


    ¡°What news do you have for me?  Have the Speaker¡¯s given you an answer, will they provide the money?¡±


    The elderly man coughed lightly and spoke in gentle tones.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid things are rather a bit complicated, my dear Kador.  The Speakers, you see, are rather concerned.¡±


    ¡°It will be alright, so long as I can get enough money quickly.  The ship I was to charter is still unsold, it can be had yet. All I need is for them to deliver the money as quickly as possible.¡±


    ¡°You misunderstand, my dear friend.  But that has always been the way with you.  Your safety is nothing of concern at this point.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good news.  But the Speakers needn¡¯t be worried about the mission, not in the long term.  That blasted Hawk may have ruined things at Potham, but I shall return to the country soon enough.  I still have a few resources here and I can begin again in another village, within the year I should think.¡±


    ¡°Yes, The Hawk¡¯s involvement was not something that was foreseen.  The man is a nuisance, but hitherto he hasn¡¯t been taken into as much account as he perhaps should have been.  He is an agitator, a conspirator, and an interloper. He is very much a loose cannon, fighting a war on his own, and up to now I suppose we really haven¡¯t taken his antics all that seriously.  There are others, much more powerful, who have commanded our attention. But that is beside the matter at hand. As I said, the Speakers are concerned.¡±


    ¡°I already told you I have everything arranged, all I need is the money.¡±


    ¡°I am afraid¡­..¡±


    Here the older gentleman stifled a yawn.


    ¡°...I¡¯m afraid we are rather past that.  The Speakers are, in point of fact, unhappy.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°The Speakers, as I said, are unhappy.  With you.¡±


    ¡°What you getting at, old man?¡±


    ¡°The Speakers are most distinctly disappointed with the way you have utterly bungled your task.  This was your last chance, my dear friend, your very last. And you have failed completely.¡±


    ¡°No!!!  No, no! I haven¡¯t failed yet, it¡¯s just a setback!  Please, no! I can do this yet, I can¡­.¡±


    ¡°There is no need to become excited, my dear Kador.  The Speakers have made their decision. It is done. It has only to be finished.¡±


    Suddenly, a wicked blade appeared as out of nowhere.  Then, it was over.


    Larch lay stretched across the table, his throat cut so deeply that he was all but decapitated.  The elderly gentleman stood by Larch¡¯s corpse, wiping down a bloody dagger while humming bemusedly to himself.  He poked about the room, examining various objects and papers. He appeared to be in a hurry, though, and never so much as approached the place where the mirror hung.


    Presently he came to the fire and emptied a dark sort of powder into it from a vial.  The flames roared into a great inferno of purple blaze. Still humming to himself the little old man dragged the body of Larch to the fire and lurched as much of it as would fit into the flames.  The whole of Larch¡¯s body caught fire and in a few seconds was reduced to only a black ash scattered across the floor. The old man began gather up Larch¡¯s belongings, tossing each into the inferno as every piece of paper, porcelain, wood or metal burned to a powder within a moment of touching the violet flames.  In a matter of minutes there was not a trace of Larch¡¯s occupancy left in the room, even the bedding the old man burned. Yet in all he seemed to have missed the mirror, perhaps owing to some enchantment laid upon it, or perhaps because of a perfectly ordinary lapse of attentiveness. When all was at last destroyed and the ashes swept into the fireplace the old man poured another vial of powder into the fire, and the blaze died to an ember.  With a last look about the room the old man departed, still humming to himself.


    Time passed.  The mirror seemed to have a way of accelerating the passage of time when it was not witnessing anything particularly interesting.  The room darkened and lighted and darkened again with what appeared to be the passage of quite a few days.


    Suddenly the mirror showed the door open again, and Fanny saw herself enter.  She watched herself rummage about the room, at last reaching up to touch the mirror itself.  The moment her reflected finger reached the glass, the mirror went dark again.


    Fanny drew away from the mirror in stunned amazement.  She stared at the dark inanimate glass, trying to press into memory everything she had just seen or heard.  Then, after a moment¡¯s hesitation, she snatched the mirror from the wall and fled the room.

 Epilogue

    It was nearing the end of November.  There had yet to be any proper snow, but frost was indeed everywhere, and there was a chilly sort excitement in the air as the merry inhabitants of Potham on Heath prepared for the Christmastide holidays, which as one might expect were done with quite a lot of thoroughness in Gandburgh.  There were costumes to be made, gowns to be sewn, fireworks to be ordered, parties to be planned, toys to be made, and countless other activities of joyful anticipation.


    Neither Fanny nor Harlow had heard any word of Zacharia Gates.  He had listened attentively to Fanny¡¯s account of the events she saw in Larch¡¯s mirror, and then taken the mirror himself for examination.  He said that he suspected Larch had kept it there to keep watch whenever he was absent, and although such an object tended to forget what it had seen after revealing its memories to someone there may yet be something that could be withdrawn from it, but he would have to travel far to find trustworthy individuals with sufficient art to discover if this were possible.  Fanny and Harlow returned to Potham satisfied at least that Larch had passed on to his eternal commitment.


    A month or so ago, Agatha Watson had departed on a journey to the tropics.  This struck many as peculiar, but it was the assertion of the Watson family that on the advice of certain reliable experts in Hemhold that their daughter should take her recovery in the warmth of the southern climate for the remainder of the winter at least.  The departure of Miss Watson was not especially noticed however, for there was much excitement in the neighborhood over the recent knighthood of the daring and eligible Mr. Stokes.


    Sir Albert Stokes had gradually become accustomed to finding a delightful entourage of amiable persons gather about him wherever he went (young ladies in particular).  He had come to appreciate that there was much indeed to the peaceful and rich atmosphere of the Gandish countryside, far away from the stuffiness and self important rubbish of the self styled intellectuals of the city.  Sir Albert was keenly aware of how he¡¯d always longed for the majestic serenity of the country where a man could truly make his own place and name in the very heart and soul of the nation. Those dreary bookworms of the city could never appreciate the splendour of the country and the humble glory of the ancient regimen, probably because they were really such jealous, bourgeois fellows at heart.


    Mr. Barnstabrake Sr. had been in a foul mood for ages.  Not only had he received a polite notice from the College of Arms informing him that his suit was yet again being returned, but his eldest son Harlow had become thoroughly infatuated with that dreadful girl of Sir Walter Howard, and there was positively no reasoning with him.  He could not even be prevailed upon to hold off on the engagement for a bit, and the wedding was to be just after the New Year.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Abigayle Bellingham was becoming frustrated in her failure so far to convince anyone in the village that there really were Kobalds about.  This was perhaps due in no small part to the efforts of the Barbarians Howard, who after their adventurous summer had decided that they should always be prepared to deal with the creatures should ever they come upon one.  Being children and therefore observant of many things that adults tend to overlook, it could soon be said with assurance that not a phrygian cap nor brown nose would ever dare show itself about the Howard estate for fear it should be cheerfully met with a rain of small stones and a prolonged chase.


    Far away elsewhere in Ursiland, in a respectable apartment in a quiet neighborhood of a great city, a small, inoffensive old gentleman was at his desk writing letters.  His was a curious hand, flowing in a unpleasant sort of spidery script, and his communication was a jumble of banal details about the weather, crops, noisy street children, odd folk tales about clever foxes and foolish hens, silly jokes and worthless gossip.


    Yet the old gentleman had a peculiarly intent look upon his face, as a craftsman working on some particularly delicate piece.  When he was finished, he took up some curious looking herbs and set them aflame with a candle as he scattered them across the newly dried ink.  The ink turned deep red and twisted through the fibers of the paper as it formed itself into a strange, evil looking script containing a message entirely different from the innocuous ramble it was hitherto.  The old man smiled to himself as he shook away the smouldering leaves, stamping them out carefully on the floor.


    The old man arose.  Taking up the candle in one hand and the letter in the other, he stood and held both high over his head as he set the letter itself alight.


    In a burst of noxious flame, the letter disintegrated as a black raven shot forth from the smoke and flew circles about the room shrieking madly with an unnatural voice.  Then without warning it darted out through the open window and disappeared into the blackness of night, a shrill infernal wail fading away in its wake.


    The small, inoffensive looking old man smiled an evil smile to himself, and sat down to begin another letter.


    The End