It was mid-morning when Jack awoke. His mouth tasted like a sewer and his throat was dry, like he’d spent the night inhaling sawdust. Someone had stripped off his tunic, folded it, and placed it atop the chest at the foot of his bed.

He rose and shuffled out of his room. He proceeded to the back door and stepped barefoot into the daylight. He winched some water from the well, drank, gargled, and spit, until his mouth felt less rank. He stood for a moment on wobbly legs and breathed the fresh air. It was about nine o’clock. What time had he returned home? Somewhere he'd lost track of time.

He yawned, and stretched. With a night’s sleep and the birds chirping around him, the events of the previous evening lost a bit of their edge. Wild animal attacks were unusual in Farstead, but not unheard of.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of strangeness. He thought about the dog-fight with cool detachment. He lifted his arm and winced at the memory of Meryn’s needle. Neither explained the tendrils of dread that still clung to him. Kara’s face flashed from his memory; that cold, mirthless grin beneath dead eyes. A corpse grin. He shuddered.

He returned to the kitchen and foraged the pantry. Holt had left a pot of porridge on the now-cold hearth. The stuff had congealed into a waxy clump. Instead of the porridge, he liberated a few dried apricots from a jar. He tore a hunk of bread from a loaf, slathered it with butter, and sat at the table shoving food into his mouth. Holt was probably off sweating somewhere, and Jack was perfectly content to leave the old man to his labors.

He was taking the day off. He needed to check on Kara and he wanted to see the dog. They wouldn’t have left it lying dead in the square, but maybe he could get a look at it before Oren put it in the ground. Surely, it would look even bigger in the daylight.

Hiss chest swelled as he thought about his conquest. He’d done what needed to be done, faced down a fearsome beast, and everyone had emerged with skin intact. He rubbed the bandage on his forearm and winced. Mostly intact.

After breakfast he pulled on his boots, snatched his walking stick from the doorway, and started out the front door. An image of snapping jaws flashed into his memory and he halted. He returned to his room, opened the chest at the foot of his bed, and drew out his short sword. The weapon was sheathed in a black leather scabbard. Oren had made it, and Jack assumed it had run Holt a fair few pence. He trained with it often but rarely carried it with him. It seemed foolish in a place like Farstead.

It no longer seemed quite so foolish. He loosened his belt and threaded it through the loop on the scabbard, then belted it to his waist. He yanked out the sword a few times, positioning the scabbard so it was more comfortable. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, but he’d feel safer carrying something more effective than an old tree branch.

The scabbard slapped his thigh as he headed down the trail towards the village. A little more than half an hour later he crossed the long stone bridge over the Erialle.

He knocked at the door to the Steward house and waited.From inside came the pounding of small feet on the wooden floor. The door swung open and Bobo smiled up at him. “Hi Jackie!” he sang. The little boy’s eyes fell immediately to the scabbard. “Is that a sword?”

“Your Papa made it for me. Is Kara home?”

“Kara’s not feeling well,” Sara answered, coming up behind Bobo and placing her hand on top of the little boy’s head. One of her eyebrows shot up when she noticed Jack's sword, but she didn’t comment. “She’s been that way since the party.”

Sara then waved her finger over the top of Bobo’s head and dipped her eyes conspiratorially.

“Oh, I see,” Jack said, taking Sara’s cue. “Bobo’s birthday was very exciting. I’m sure Kara is just tired.”

So, the children hadn’t been told about the vicious dog that had snuck into the village and tried to kill someone. Of course they hadn’t been told.

“She was crying at breakfast,” Bobo said, his face crestfallen as he turned to look up at his mother.

“She’ll be okay.” Sara rubbed Bobo’s head affectionately. “Why don’t you come in, Jack? Let me check your arm.”

“Jack got hurt?” Bobo asked.

“Only a little.”

“Is that why Kara was crying?”

Sara smiled. “Bobo, why don’t you finish picking up your clothes and toys so Mama can take care of Jack’s hurt, alright?” Bobo was unhappy with that suggestion, but he nodded his head and complied. As Jack stepped into the house, Bobo climbed disconsolately up the ladder to the loft. He felt a pang of sympathy for Bobo, whose big party had been cut short for some reason no one would explain.

“Bobo,” he called. The little boy turned to look at him as he crested the top of his ladder. “I’m sorry I left your party early. I got hurt and your Mama had to help me.”

Little wheels churned away in Bobo’s head. His expression brightened, if only a little. “Alright. I’m still glad you came.” He disappeared into his room.

Jack followed Sara into the pantry. There she directed him to sit on the same small stool at the same table. She unwrapped his bandages and dabbed his stitches with a moist towel. “Not bad. Ygana said riverroot speeds healing. You might not even have a scar.”

“That’s good. Why was Kara crying?”

“Because she’s fourteen?”

Sara seemed to find that answer satisfactory, though Jack was mystified. She must have noticed his look of confusion. “She’s being a bit dramatic, if you ask me. She seems to think it was somehow her fault.”

“That’s silly. I’m the one who wanted to go for a walk, and I don’t blame myself.”

“No one’s to blame.” Sara sighed as she squinted at his arm. From her tone, he surmised this wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation. “I think she saw someone she cares about get hurt and she can’t stop thinking about it. She’ll be alright.”

Sara wasn’t aware of all the details of the fight, such as how the dog had been completely fixated on her daughter, or about Kara’s very strange reaction to the animal’s death. Again he shuddered as Kara’s chilling smile flashed from his memory.

“Are you okay?” Sara asked. “You were shivering.”

“I’m fine. Thinking about the dog, is all.”

Sara finished cleaning his cuts and spread some fresh unguent on his arm, then wrapped it with clean bandages. “Come see me tomorrow and we’ll do this again. We don’t want this to fester.”

“Thank you. I think I’ll go see Kara now.”

Sara regarded him somewhat sadly for a moment, then shook her head. “Why don’t we give it another day? She’ll get tired of moping around eventually, but for now she seems to want to be alone.”

“If you say so.”

Sara sent him on his way with a fresh honey cake, which he ate without much of the usual pleasure. He didn’t like being barred from Kara for such a ridiculous reason. Why in the name of Myr would she blame herself?It made no sense. He wanted to sneak through her bedroom window and talk some sense into her, but something in the more rational part of his mind advised him that plan was certain to go poorly.

He wandered aimlessly around the edge of the square near the smithy. Oren was nowhere to be seen. The dead dog had been removed and the old stone fountain burbled away as if nothing unusual had occurred there. Several villagers went about their morning business. None of them prostrated themselves as he passed, though a few cast curious glances at his sword. Over by the Mercantile he saw Meryn, who acknowledged him with a happy wave, inquired briefly into his wounds, and walked off towards the smithy, forgetting to mention his valor.

As he gazed around the village and took in the goings-on, he began to feel a bit foolish with his sword belted to his waist. No one else was wearing a sword.

He sat at the edge of the old fountain. He hadn’t expected a parade, had he? The dog’s head mounted to a pike outside the village gates? It was only a dog.

“Morning, Jack!”

Jack twisted on his stone seat to see a young man with golden hair approaching.

Alfie walked up to Jack and gave his shoulder a playful shove. Jack responded to Alfie’s happy face with a languid expression.

“What happened to your arm?” Alfie asked.

“Dragon.” Jack already wished this conversation was over.

“On you go then!” Alfie laughed. “Where you been, lad? Haven’t seen you ‘round.”

“Working,”

“Expecting trouble?”

“Not really, why?”

“Never seen you runnin’ about with a sword on. Know how to use it?”

“A little bit. Holt gives me lessons.”

Alfie’s eyes lit up. “Think maybe he could teach me? My Dad don’t teach me nuthin’ ‘cept how to swing a hoe or an axe.”

Jack suppressed a groan at the thought of having to endure months of being Alfie’s sparring partner. Then he remembered Alfie adventure in the ruins with Kara.

Jack had been training weekly for three years. He’d progressed well enough to make Holt sweat, at least a little bit. Alfie would be starting from scratch. Suddenly the idea of being Alfie’s sparring-partner seemed much more appealing.

He fought back a self-satisfied grin. “Tell you what; when I get home, I’ll ask Holt about it.”

“Brilliant!” Alfie exulted, slapping him on the shoulder again. “Oi. Did you hear about the officer?"

"Officer?"

Alfie smiled. He enjoyed knowing something Jack didn't. “There’s a royal guardsman stayin’ at the Inn.I hear he came into town late last night with a platoon.”

Fascinated despite himself, Jack twisted to look at the Inn. Everything seemed normal. Then his eyes drifted to the stable next to the red barn.

A little investigating would be far better than sitting there trying to hold a conversation with Alfie. Jack slid off his perch and strode toward the stable. Alfie galloped forward to walk at his side. He’d grown at least three inches over the spring and summer and now stood as tall as Jack, despite the fact Jack was a year older. Apparenlty, Alfie had also spent the summer in hard labor. He’d once been slight and frail-looking, but his shoulders had broadened, and the summer had made him wiry. Did Kara have eyes for this dimwit? Jack strangled the thought.

Within the stable they counted twelve horses, filling all but a few of the stalls.Four of them were in full steel barding without saddles. The other eight were similarly armored, though in leather rather than steel. Those were saddled for riding.

They skirted the edge of the stable to see what was concealed behind it. There, parked off the main road, was a large armored coach, painted a blue-green color. Standing at the four-corners of the coach were men in black leather jerkins with swords strapped to their waists. Each of them wore a head wrap made of black fabric, tied at the base of the neck, with the crest of Sevestal emblazoned in white on the left temple.

Apart from the jerkins and swords, they were dressed normally, though uniformly; grey riding pants, black boots, and white, long-sleeved shirts beneath their jerkins. They stood rail-straight with their hands folded across their abdomens and their feet slightly spread.

“Stay back,” the nearest of them ordered as the two boys approached. They came to an immediate halt. Jack waved solicitously and smiled, then turned towards the inn.

He felt the soldiers’ eyes on him until there was a building between them. “Whaddya think’s in the wagon?” Alfie asked.

As the two boys stepped up to the Inn, the double doors swung open in front of them and a tall, grey-eyed man stepped out. He was dressed in that same black-and-grey uniform as the guards behind the stable, though wore nothing on his clean-shaven head. He glared at them. “What’s that for?” he demanded, pointing at Jack’s scabbard.

Jack sighed. He now deeply regretted his decision to step into the village armed. “I’m sorry, sir?” he asked, adopting something of a dense expression.

“The sword. Don’t see no one else wearin’ one.”

“Oh!” Jack exclaimed, pretending he had forgotten about the weapon. “I brung it over to the smithy fer ol’ Oren to sharp it up. It belongs to my Dad. Isn’t it nice?” He clumsily started to pull the sword from the scabbard, as if aiming to show it to the soldier.

“I don’t need to see it,” the soldier said curtly. “Take it off. Leave it with me and you can have it back on your way out.”

“Alright, sir,” Jack said, an exaggerated tone of trepidation in his voice as he began to loosen his belt. “You’re gonna give it back though, right? My Dad will thrash me good if I go back home without it.”

“I said you can have it back when you leave,” the soldier replied gruffly.

After handing the sword with its scabbard over to the guard, Jack and Alfie stepped into the Inn's common room.