“You are lucky that the king sent me your way. It seems as though you might be amongst the dead if it weren’t for my imminent arrival,” said The Rat, a smug look spread across his face.

“Couldn’t the lord King have just sent a raven? Why travel all this way?” asked Lord Aymon.

“The last raven the king sent out was shot down. Those free folks don’t like no birds flying through their hills, you know,” The Rat pursed his lips and paused. “But aye, at least none of your kin were harmed before I arrived. You lost over half your guard, but aye, your captain lives.”

“He’s of naught to me if he’s on his death bed,” Lord Aymon had not even desired a cup of ale as he sat. Crenjor had survived but was flirting with death.

“Aye, that much is true,” said The Rat, pausing briefly to gather his thoughts. “I always knew there’d come a day that you’d need me. It’s only a surprise it has taken this long.”

“It’s only happened that way because the king sent you. Otherwise I’d have fought them off myself.” Alaric Aymon stood sullenly along his terrace, a dwarfed space in comparison to the terrace he stood upon days earlier in his king’s chambers.

“Ha! I’d have loved to see it.” The Rat tossed his dagger down onto a table where a flagon of ale sat, untouched. Lord Aymon sent his squire away for some bread to gnaw at and dried herbs for the pain. His arm had been scathed through his chain mail, but he did not feel it. He only wished for the blood to stop so that he would not stain his floor any further. He gripped his arm, grimacing, and reflecting on the man who had shrivelled into a nightmare made of bone. Blood black as a crow. He cannot be real.

“Why have you come, Rat? I would not have you in my chambers if you do not bring a message from the king. Besides, I’ve had enough death shown to me for one day.” Lord Aymon was still overlooking the view from his terrace, which differed greatly from the view offered upon King Eyowen’s terrace. Trees littered the landscape far below, but they were small dots from this distance.

There was a knock at the door before The Rat could begin. Frustration drew upon his face. A third set of ears would lessen his demeanor.

“Who goes?” asked Lord Aymon.

“Brackos Troisten, my lord.”

“Let him in,” came Lord Aymon’s reply to his guards.

Brackos stumbled in the door, still bloodied from earlier. He wore no smile upon his face now, and his hair was a tattered mess of tangled black hair. His pupils were still wide as a cat.

“This is not a place to drink ale and make jests. I am in council with a messenger from the king,” Lord Aymon was in no mood to make light of earlier.

“No doubt, milord,” said Brackos, shooting a glance towards The Rat. “I came to warn you that the high priest means to visit you soon. He doesn’t seem happy. Seems his lost his mind a bit after what he saw earlier.”

“I imagine we are all a bit on edge after that. Send him away. See to it that he and all other priests are banished from this keep. I will not have them cramming their religion down my throat. I need a clear mind.”

Lord Aymon still stood at the edge of his terrace. He had not turned to face Brackos yet.

“Yes, milord. It shall be done.” Brackos exited, the guards barring the door shut again behind him.

The Rat had a smirk upon his face, striding forward to stand beside Lord Aymon along the railing.

“You are wise beyond your years, Alaric. I wonder who it is between the two of us that has grown to become the better man.”

Lord Aymon turned his head, still staring sullenly amongst the valleys and hills that swooned and dipped below them. The stars were beginning to appear overhead.

The Rat continued, “Indeed, it was you who had me beat by sword when we were young. However, at the time I believe it was only wooden swords we had used. I should fancy my chances all these years later. With real steel. Here. In the fields down below. Later, of course, once all of this has died down. I figure by tomorrow you’ll have need of blowing some steam after today’s misfortune.”

“Why does it always come to this, Rat? The King has obviously sent you here for a reason besides squabbling with swords out in the yard. I am in no mood for pleasantries.” Lord Aymon gave The Rat his full attention, staring him in the eyes. The Rat dropped his gaze, fiddling his fingers together awkwardly.

“Well, erm, yes, you would be right, Alaric. The King sends me with important news, although, I hope it is not obscured by the day’s work—”

“—the day’s work. Is that what you call that? A man walks into my hall, in my keep, melting into charred flesh and bone. I’d say there are greater issues at hand then mere busy work.” Lord Aymon had his face inches from The Rat’s face now. “You want to talk of sword play? I will gladly slide my steel through your stomach. Tell me what it is you mean to tell me, or I will have you banished from this keep. Speak quickly, Rat.”

The Rat was trembling anxiously, stammering as he spoke.

“The King wanted me to send word that he means to host your wedding to the Dalrind girl. He wants to host a great gathering and give a toast in your name.”

Lord Aymon’s face softened. His squire, Qavrin, shifted nervously a few paces away.

“Get out of my castle.”

“Lord, I was instructed to get a response so that the King can plan accordingly.”

“Well you can bloody well tell him the answer is yes, now leave my bedchambers before I hoist you over this ledge.” Lord Aymon’s voice had risen for the first time that evening.

The Rat was being shoved towards the door by two of Lord Aymon’s guards. His body was halfway out the door before he yelled.

“One week, milord! The King is hosting you in one w—”

The door shut behind him and Lord Aymon was left to his lonesome bar his squire who had prepared the herbs and bandages for his arm.

The squire approached with a tray of various bandages, herbs, medicines, and other accessories. The squire worked in silence, just as he knew his lord preferred. He stitched up the gash in the arm, dabbing at the blood lightly with cloth and pouring a stinging solution over the cut as he sewed.

When the squire was done needling, Lord Aymon sent his squire to fetch his sister before sending him to his own quarters—a small room aside from his own bedchambers that was connected by a small door. The squire had to duck as he entered, as the ceilings were not high enough for him to stand despite being a short, stout man of no taller than five feet.

Sarin entered his chambers, her hair wild and eyes full of fear. Lord Aymon stared a while, before Sarin ran to him and jumped into his arms.

“I miss father.” Said Sarin, wiping away more tears from her eyes.

“I know. I do too.”

“What was that—that…thing?” The question prompted more crying, so Alaric waited until she had finished weeping.

“I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”

“What do you mean, Alaric? You don’t mean to—”

“—Yes, I must go. I have to.”

“So soon though?” she trailed off and began to cry again, burying her head in Alaric’s chest.

She cried awhile until she had no more tears left to cry.

“You’re a good lord, brother,” said Sarin, eyes red as the bed curtains.

“Time shall tell. I am still young.”

“But that is the point. I smile when I remember all those days you spent reading, and others would laugh and call you names. But, look at you now. You are already a better lord than father ever—” the words trailed off, realizing she might begin crying again if she continued. Lord Alaric spoke in place of her tears.

“Tomorrow I will send a host of men—Crenjor included if he’s recovered enough—off to Eysgadra. If those creatures were able to make it all the way to my Keep, and get inside my walls, past the guards…then I can only begin to imagine what they may have done to Eysgadra. Their main keep sits right on Splitter’s River where the first reports of their kind came from.”

“Okay…as long as you are staying here.” Sarin and Alaric sat on the edge of his bed.

“We were fortunate to not lose a lot of men today. As much as I despise The Rat, he saved us.”

Sarin sniffled.

“Well, who did we lose then?”

“Half of my guard, a few common folks who happened to be in the way. Ser Trademorth, although he is well into his seventies and he had a dreadful cough, so he will not be too missed. It could have been a lot worse,” Alaric took a breath to steady himself before continuing.

“There is one thing that I am still trying to figure out.”

“What?” asked Sarin.

“If lord Caidhan was able to remain disguised as he was before turning into one of those walking corpses…how many others are the same?”