Chapter Text
ALDRIC’S LETTER BRIGADE - The Sheriff's Jewels
ACT I - In which Aldric, the King of Outlaws, plays a dangerous game with the bounty hunters after his head, and he drags Sheriff Zephaniah into his mischief.
In the seaside city of Saint-Flora, there was no greater King of Outlaws than Aldric.
How he gained the title was by no machination of his own. He’d simply taken a liking to the Enchanted Forest nearby and wanted to live amongst the trees. The fact that he was banished from town for robbery, coercion, and treason was beside the point. He thought himself a good person, and most of the townspeople agreed. Therefore, he considered himself exonerated in all matters that counted, except for the law.
Now, Saint-Flora was a holiday destination for aristocrats, and rightly so. Lush in foliage with air as fresh as ocean spray, how lovely it was in Saint-Flora! Officially, it was a part of Princess Celandine’s Principality of Chelidonia, but the estates within belonged to different aristocrats. These aristocrats had a heavy hand in writing the property laws, which resulted in the levying of equally heavy taxes for the upkeep of their marvelous summer homes.
Aldric didn’t like that. In his travels, he had grown to become the type of man who despised such injustices and inequalities. He also happened to be a man of action. If a nobleman’s carriage drove by, filled to the brim with coins, Aldric and his Letter Brigade never hesitated to liberate some of those riches for the poorer folk in the area.
(Upon examining the situation at face value, one could argue that Aldric did indeed hold some responsibility in gaining his noble thief title. In any case, he was the King of Outlaws in Saint-Flora, and he bore his reputation with the utmost humility. Sort of.)
As Aldric proceeded through life in this cavalier fashion, he was unfortunately captured and hanged by Saint-Flora’s newly appointed sheriff, Zephaniah Gallanthus. Aldric, however, lived quite happily through his execution. Upon seeing this insubordination, Princess Celandine personally put an arrow through his chest. Aldric decided to survive that as well, the plucky guy, but he did lie low after that—until he was sure the princess had left the city.
(See Aldric’s Letter Brigade: The Golden Apple* for the full story of this rollicking adventure.)
Aldric plotted his glorious return with relish. He had planned a public reunion with his nemesis, the surly but handsome sheriff, and it was to be a legendary reunion that would grace the lips of bards for decades to come.
This, however, inconvenienced all the bounty hunters who’d come to Saint-Flora in a bid for Aldric’s bounty. There had been at least two dozen at the time. They all thought Aldric dead but feared the Enchanted Forest of Mists too much to search for his corpse. They were rightfully afraid. The fairies that dwelt there loved to tease humans to oblivion.
Thus, many bounty hunters left in defeat, but there were some who remained.
These few men had borne witness to Aldric’s successes in Saint-Flora, and they stayed to replace him. This resulted in a sharp rise of criminal endeavors, and that raised some hackles.
Aldric let a lot of disagreeable crimes slide when it came to his lawbreaking peers, for he trusted Zephaniah to deal with them. But he, too, drew his line in the sand when these newly minted bandits began to target the good and decent commonfolk of Saint-Flora. He set aside his plans of a surprise reunion with the sheriff in town and rallied his Letter Brigade.
It’s said that Aldric called the former bounty hunters to his secret hideout within the Enchanted Forest of Mists. There, Aldric and his followers lived in a marvelous treehouse that could not be found, except through invitation: the World Tree.
It was beneath these generous branches that the men gathered in a circle around Aldric, with his Letters behind him and the Hunters in front. Murmurs rippled through the guests:
“It’s really him!”
“So, the Outlaw King lived after all!”
“Then, I’ll claim his bounty and his throne.”
One man stepped forward from the Hunters. They say he was a giant, thrice as wide as Aldric and nearly twice as tall. He was called Nordlea. Part of his head was shaved, per tradition from some English village lost to history, and he had a slash across his nose from when he and Aldric last crossed blades. That, too, made it into the bardsongs.
(When they first met half a year ago, Aldric had thought Nordlea a fool. He’d underestimated the hunter and was nearly ensnared by his traps. Afterward, Aldric had to concede that Nordlea was as clever as himself, or nearly. He was a formidable man, nonetheless, and built like a tower.)
“First you come for my head, and now, my crown,” Aldric said amicably. “But if you continue to steal from the peasants and murder everyone that you rob, the sheriff will put you down.”
“I’ve hunted the most dangerous criminals in Jardinia,” said Nordlea. “That boy you call sheriff might as well be a snowdrop beneath my boot.”
“He is Zephaniah of the Gallantheae March. You’d have a death wish to fight a fellow from that lineage.” Aldric smiled with all his teeth. “No, no. A wise man would forget about the bounty on my head and join my Letter Brigade instead.”
He extended his hand in peace, but Nordlea rejected it. He grabbed Aldric’s wrist instead and said, “I like prey that fights back.”
Aldric’s men drew their arrows, outraged that Nordlea should disrespect their leader, but Aldric raised his free hand to quell them. A peace offering had been made and rejected. Aldric held no qualms in dealing his mischief now. He leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowed, with a sly menace in his voice.
“Do you like contests, sir?” he asked. “Games, perhaps?”
“What are you, a child?” replied Nordlea.
Undeterred, Aldric continued, “The target is Zephaniah’s necklace and the jeweled belt around his waist. At the end of the week, whosoever has them shall be crowned King of Outlaws. The others must accept his fate as pronounced by the winner.”
“And what is to stop me from cutting your throat right here?” asked Nordlea.
“We are all criminals by law. Brothers of the trade, you might say, now that you’re as wanted as the men you used to hunt,” Aldric reasoned. “Let us not fight each other when our true foe is the sheriff. Besides, I know for a fact that Zephaniah’s jewelry are family heirlooms.”
“I’ve seen them, the belt and the necklace. Each piece could sell for a small fortune,” Nordlea mused.
“If it were me, I’d ransom them,” said Aldric. “I’m certain his father, the Marquis of Gallantheae, would pay handsomely to have them back whole.”
The men laughed at Aldric’s gall. Their mirth drained the tension, enough for Nordlea to genuinely consider Aldric’s proposal. It was not long before he found the terms agreeable, and he returned Aldric’s arm.
“I accept your challenge,” he said, “but we will acquire the jewels by any means necessary, even if it ends in death. It could be yours, mine. The sheriff’s.”
Aldric smiled back fearlessly. “May victory bless the merriest band of thieves.”
-
Unbeknownst to Princess Celandine, Nordlea, and the denizens of Saint-Flora, Aldric survived both the sheriff’s and princess’ attempts on his life precisely because Zephaniah was the sheriff. He and Aldric shared a long history at the University of Cambridge, and Zephaniah had come to Saint-Flora to keep Aldric out of trouble.
Aldric knew this and spent his free time devising more ways to get into trouble.
Aldric also knew from firsthand experience that Zephaniah was a swordsman unparalleled. The man lived for a good fight, so Aldric thought his deal with Nordlea would be a fun little way to entertain all three of them for a week.
Aldric hurried to pay a visit to Zephaniah's fortress. He’d give his old friend a head’s up as to what was coming his way, for Zephaniah would be very cross with him otherwise.
That evening, as Aldric scaled the magic beanstalk up to Zephaniah’s window, he heard Zephaniah in discussion with their former classmate, Roscoe.
They say that red-haired Roscoe’s only redeeming quality was his talent with numbers. Otherwise, he was nothing but trouble. It was back in Cambridge that Aldric had a lot of fun with him at Zephaniah’s expense, so Aldric found it a bit jarring to see Roscoe on Zephaniah’s side instead of his own.
But Roscoe had chosen to stay at the university when Aldric left, so perhaps his loyalty had always been to Zeph.
Now, they were all reunited in Saint-Flora, and Aldric pondered where he fit into Zephaniah’s life. If he and Aldric were not clashing marvelously over the breaking of laws, then when would they ever see each other?
Zephaniah had not bothered to seek him out after the princess’ departure. Aldric knew this because he’d followed the sheriff around like a silent shadow. It was simple reconnaissance, but he’d been disappointed to learn that Zephaniah had an awful lot of boring conversations that didn’t concern him. Most weren’t even worth eavesdropping on, including this one.
“I don’t see why we should also be taxed so viciously,” Roscoe was telling Zephaniah. “We are paying more in taxes than we are being paid from taxes!”
“Oh.” Zephaniah was intrigued. “How does that work out for us?”
“Zeph, it does not!”
(Zephaniah was like Aldric in this regard: good at many things, but not mathematics. Roscoe had tutored them in vain back at Cambridge. By the end of their second year, he’d thrice-thrown himself into the River Cam in frustration. His two students, laughing and unrepentant, had hopped into a boat and fished him out each time.)
“Oh, we ought to burn down every one of those villas in the Lilyvale district,” Roscoe said, pacing, “for they are the ones sucking out Saint-Flora’s very marrow!”
“Quit hopping about like you’ve an arseful of sparrows,” came Zephaniah’s dry reproach. A shuffle of papers. “Listen, I’ll have a word with the taxman. If the situation is as dire as you say, I shall write to Princess Celandine. She seems to respond to letters, and surely she will not want her citizens to suffer.”
“And while you’re at it, do ask if she wouldn’t mind funding the renovation of this dreary fortress, pretty please,” Roscoe added facetiously. Then, he sniffed, “Stronger gates, for example. If the taxes for the commoners are high as well, then the people will eventually pick up their torches and pitchforks.”
“I do love a good harvest fest.”
“Jest now, but mark my words, Zephaniah: the aristocrats in Lilyvale will throw us in front of the mob, and we’ll need to be prepared!”
“We will sort it out. In the meantime, I beg of you to behave. Do not burn any bridges—or villas—during our stay.”
Roscoe scuffed his shoe against the floor. “Well, that depends on how long we’re staying. What is your plan, O Fearless Leader? Are we bringing the Letter Brigade back together? It seems to be Aldric’s intent.”
“Forget Aldric,” said Zephaniah, to Aldric’s dismay. “You are following me, and I intend to make a name for myself in Chelidonia, Plaqueminais, and the rest of southern Jardinia. I will be to Princess Celandine what my father is to the king.”
“Ahh, a new Gallanthus dynasty in the south,” Roscoe said thoughtfully. “Of course, it can’t be as large as the Gallantheae March near the capital, lest it spark a power struggle within the royal family…”
“Who do you think I am? Of course, my ambitions are in check. I do not care that my domain will be small, only that it is my own. My brothers can have the north.”
“Very well,” said Roscoe with dignity. “Tax grief aside, I shall behave myself until we are firmly entrenched in this region, and then I shall go drinking and whoring like no man before me.”
“And I’ll break your legs a day in advance to keep our reputation intact,” said Zephaniah. “Now, go help Oliver with the damn horses already. If you keep wasting my time, I’ll have him ride you into town tomorrow.”
“And that’d be worse for our reputation,” Roscoe laughed.
Aldric peeked over the window ledge to see Zephaniah’s heavy door close with Roscoe’s departure. He turned to see Zephaniah’s gaze on him.
“I thought I saw a Red Fox at my window.”
Aldric grinned. He climbed into the room, which was homelier than the last time he’d been there. “My Snow Fox has been nesting, I see,” he said.
“Sure, whatever.” Zephaniah drained the glass of wine on his desk. He poured himself another and did not offer Aldric any.
Fair enough, thought Aldric. Zephaniah had a fresh bruise on his cheek and a busted lip. Rough housing with his constables again, or so Aldric hoped. Otherwise, it meant Zephaniah had a very bad day. If it was the latter, then Aldric had come to make it worse.
“The bounty hunters at the edge of my forest,” he began, but Zephaniah waved dismissively.
“Yes, yes. I’ll deal with them this week.”
“You will indeed,” said Aldric, “for I am sending them to you.”
Zephaniah promptly refilled his glass. He looked very tired. “How’s that now?”
“I made a bet,” Aldric said innocently and gestured to Zephaniah. “Told them they could take over the Letter Brigade and claim my bounty, if they managed to steal your necklace and pretty belt by the end of the week.”
Zephaniah stared at him wearily over the rim of his cup and then scratched his chin. “Fine. I’ll deal with them sooner.”
“Really?” Aldric had expected more of a protest. He’d come to warn Zephaniah, but he’d wanted to tease him a bit, too.
“Well, everyone from the baker to the shoemaker has complained of them, so this works out,” said Zephaniah. “Now, then, if that is all…” He set his glass back on the desk and gestured to the window—not even the door.
“I knew you’d understand!” Aldric cheered, undeterred. He made his way to Zephaniah’s bed. “And worry not, for I shall stay with you during the nights, so that you are not ambushed in the dark—”
“Ah-ah,” said Zephaniah, rising and grabbing Aldric by his ponytail. “I noticed you failed to mention whether or not you were participating in this little contest that you’ve devised.”
As he turned around, Aldric made sure to look extra hurt. “Why, Snow Fox, you think I would disappear into the night with your family jewels?”
“I think you just sent an entire gang of headhunters after my head,” said Zephaniah, refusing the bait. He led Aldric to the window. “And now, you expect me to trust you?”
“You hanged me,” Aldric said defensively, and Zephaniah let him go with a sigh.
“Fine. We’re even now. Speak of it no more and leave.”
Aldric allowed a heartbeat to pass before patting Zephaniah affectionately on the cheek.
“You mustn’t kill them,” he instructed. “Just thrash them around a little to frighten them. Oh, and arrest them, rattle their dungeon bars, and then run them out of town.”
“What?” Zephaniah balked. “Why would I do all that? It would be easier to kill them.”
“You hanged me,” Aldric complained again.
Zephaniah picked him up and threw him out the window.
As Aldric clambered down the beanstalk, he collected enough beans to fill his shirt. He even hummed a ditty on his way back to the forest, for his heart was in high spirits.
Zephaniah would rid him of his Nordlea problem, and there would be bean pudding for the Letter Brigade that week!
-
At their secret base, Aldric slept in a loft overlooking the common area of the treehouse. He liked waking slowly to the smell of breakfast simmering in the canteen below.
Although considered unusual by their contemporaries, the Letter Brigade prided themselves on providing two large meals for its members every day. Garrick took care of breakfast at sunrise, and everyone loved that. Aldric handled supper anytime between the late afternoon and midnight because he didn’t believe in rigid schedules. The Letters understood the importance of snacking in the meantime.
If Aldric woke early, he’d climb down to help Garrick cook, too. He was very much like a fox in that way, poking his nose into tasty situations. He loved the hiss and crackling of bacon rashers, and he was careful about whether he cooked eggs on the same slab as the bacon or on a different one, since it mattered to some.
It was hard to keep count of all the religions practiced within their little brigade, and each seemed to have their own rules for eating. They had a system for that, too: Garrick remembered most of them, and Aldric remembered the rest.
(As for Aldric—oh, there was nothing in the pantry that Aldric wouldn’t eat. And he loved a morning graced by delicious smells.)
On this day, however, Lizi shook him awake before breakfast.
“What will you do if Nordlea actually kills the sheriff?” he asked.
Aldric squinted at him blearily from his blanket warren. The sun had not yet risen, Garrick was cursing their lack of firewood, and the porridge was still cold in its pot. What a terrible way to start the day!
“Balls,” said Aldric, and he burrowed back into his bedding.
Lizi began peeling the blankets off.
“Suppose Nordlea and Zephaniah mortally wound each other and then crawl away to die in their respective holes,” Lizi persisted. “What then? We might finally run out of luck with our next appointed sheriff. All because you just had to have some fun.”
Miserably, Aldric reached for his red-orange tunic and pulled it on. He knew what he had to do, but he would do it with complaints: “So, you are sending me to Zephaniah with nothing but sop ‘n wine in my belly? Me, the leader of the Letter Brigade!”
“And the sheriff is your friend, is he not?” Lizi continued in exasperation. “Nordlea was not bluffing at the meeting. His men call him the Headhunter of the North. Does Zephaniah know?”
Aldric paused in tying the green sash around his waist. “Nonsense. I heard local tales about the Headhunter back when I was in Cambridge, and that’s all the way in England.”
Lizi tossed him his boots. “I asked around, and it sounds like the Earl of Peonies hired him to catch a bloke last winter. He’s been in Jardinia ever since. Even joined the Bounty Hunters’ Guild in Gallantheae.”
“Why? Lost his mark, did he?” Aldric chuckled.
“No, Aldric, he got him,” Lizi said, aghast. “Nordlea cut the man’s head off with a hunting knife, while the man was alive and screaming.”
“I can’t imagine Zephaniah screaming and begging for his life,” Aldric said with an airy yawn. “I should like to see it.”
Lizi threw up his hands and left Aldric to his daydreams.
-
Speaking of dreams, Aldric had high hopes of cajoling a better breakfast out of Zephaniah and his kitchens.
Unfortunately, he took too long to enjoy a beautiful sunrise and arrived to find he’d missed his dear Snow Fox. A skeleton crew manned the sheriff’s fortress that morning, but they were all well-armed against intruders. Aldric tucked that tidbit of knowledge behind his ear as he sneaked around. He would use it another day.
It was Roscoe who discovered Aldric on the premises. They were delighted to see each other, of course, for they used to be thick as thieves. It did not take Aldric long to convince Roscoe to accompany him to town, for old time’s sake, and to play a prank on Zephaniah.
They took the shortcut into the heart of Saint-Flora. Roscoe watched Aldric climb up the ivy covering a building and followed him in curiosity. Traveling by rooftop was Aldric’s preferred method of moving around the city. He liked the view, and he was technically a wanted man.
He was also supposed to be dead.
Fortunately, the houses in the city were close, each only a candlestick’s leap away. Few people looked up while going about their day, and Zephaniah certainly couldn’t, since he wore a hat that blocked his view of the sky.
It was not long before the two spotted their sheriff on his favorite horse, Sir Truffles. Roscoe got back onto the ground first and ran over to greet his fearless leader. Aldric waited until Zephaniah’s attention was good and spoken for before he dared to make his own approach.
Aldric had the nimblest fingers in all of Saint-Flora, so he had every reason to think he could unclasp the silvery belt from Zephaniah’s waist before Zephaniah noticed. Unfortunately, Aldric did not account for Truffles nipping him.
“Ouch!” said Aldric, and Zephaniah nearly leapt off the saddle in alarm. When he regained his balance, he peered down at Aldric in suspicion.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, you know me.” Aldric drummed his fingers along Zephaniah’s leg. “Annoying your horse, admiring your thighs, stalking you from afar…”
“You do not have permission to touch me.”
“I do not, sir,” Aldric said as he rested his cheek against Zephaniah’s leg. He gazed up at him with his most earnest expression, for Zephaniah was always a sucker for that. “There’s been a change in plans, dear Snow Fox. Nordlea the Headhunter is after your jewels. You should entrust them to me for your own safety.”
“Oh, but of course,” said Zephaniah, motioning to his jeweled belt. “Please, help yourself.”
Aldric beamed, only for his hopes to be dashed as Zephaniah struck him on the forehead with the heel of his hand. Aldric hobbled backwards and whined, “Zephaniah…!”
“Stupid bastard thinks I’m stupid,” Zephaniah muttered as he rode away. Aldric ran after him. Roscoe followed on Zephaniah’s other side.
“I tell the truth, Zephaniah!” Aldric cried. “I did not know who he was when I made the deal! The Headhunter is sending all his men your way. What harm would it do you to believe me?”
“It doesn’t matter who he is. I will kill anyone who lays his hands on me, including the Headhunter,” said Zephaniah. “And if you keep running behind me, Truffles will kick you.”
Aldric dodged a horseshoe and doubled down in his pursuit. Zephaniah noted this and urged Truffles into a trot.
Aghast, and feeling the absence of breakfast, Aldric shouted, “If you give me the necklace and belt, I will return them to you next week, I will!”
“Liar!” Zephaniah shot back, “I am more likely to receive a letter from my father, gleefully reprimanding me for losing my valuables to a scoundrel—who then ransomed them back to him!”
Aldric tripped over his own feet but recovered quickly. “W-what makes you think I would do that?”
“Because you have done it before!” Zephaniah shouted and left Aldric and Roscoe coughing in his dust.
Yes, of course, Aldric remembered the ill-conceived prank back in their second year together, even going so far as to brag about it to Nordlea. Now, in hindsight, Aldric also realized that Zephaniah had seen it as a very cruel prank.
And here, Aldric thought he’d gotten away with it, too. Drats.
If only Roscoe hadn’t switched allegiances, that snitch.
And yet Aldric couldn’t blame him for tattling to Zephaniah, for Aldric only had himself to blame.
Drats, indeed.
-
The sun was but a golden glow on the horizon when Zephaniah finally arrived at the Floral Tavern for his evening meal. He saw Roscoe and Aldric sitting in the corner, and so he made his way over to their table.
He dropped his hat on Aldric’s head and took a seat. “A wanted man should wear a disguise in public, especially if he’s supposed to be dead.”
“I think I am rather more conspicuous with the disguise,” Aldric chuckled as he brushed the hat's giant feather out of his face. Zephaniah had somewhat of an ostentatious sense of fashion.
“You don’t suppose someone will report you to the sheriff, do you?” said Zephaniah, and it took Aldric a moment to realize it was a joke. His heart lightened. Perhaps Zephaniah was not as angry as Aldric had feared. Suddenly shy, Aldric hid behind the hat.
Roscoe, who had been complaining of starvation from the moment he sat down, called over the bar maiden for food and drinks. When mugs of ale arrived, Roscoe asked Zephaniah, “I almost forgot—was the taxman home after all?”
“I’m afraid he is ill.” Zephaniah reached for his drink. “He won’t be making his rounds any time soon.”
“If you have brought the plague back to us,” Roscoe said warily, but Zephaniah laughed.
“I do not think old age is contagious.” He took a thoughtful sip. “In any case, he did say the policy has driven many a good man to robbery in order to provide for his family. You should help me draft that letter to the princess, Roscoe. You understand the math better. We will explain to her why the taxes are a problem. Perhaps she’ll rewrite the law.”
“Oh, yes, and perhaps we will demand a raise as well.” Roscoe snickered, lifting his cup.
Zephaniah smirked and nudged it with his own. “That and the renovations, friend.”
Aldric lifted his cup too late and was left out of the cheers. He frowned into his drink. He knew the princess would not be swayed so easily, but he did not wish to start another fight with Zephaniah that night.
Aldric had composed several apologies for his university misdeed during his afternoon with Roscoe, but none felt passable. And Roscoe—damn him—if he’d only take a breath between his yammering about numbers, then maybe Aldric would actually have a chance to apologize!
Aldric waited with impatience until their bowls of beef and barley soup arrived. Then, he ate in frustration, for the two lawmen were still deep in their conversation about taxes.
As he passed Aldric the basket of bread, Zephaniah said to him, “You’re quiet tonight. Have you truly nothing heroic to say regarding aristocrats and taxes?”
Aldric immediately lost his nerve and forgot his apologies. Instead, he began to babble on about the bean pudding he made for the Letter Brigade; it was hearty but would’ve been perfect with some pepper, had the spring storms not scared away the spice traders sailing north, what a pity, such a pity…
(For Zephaniah, this misdirection was not nearly as obvious as it reads. It was a historical fact that Aldric enjoyed talking about food. Many firsthand accounts described him eating one thing while going on about an entirely different recipe altogether. Like in this case.)
Aldric was waxing witticisms over how he and his men had caught a great hart when Zephaniah sighed and buried his face into his palms.
“Oh, Aldric,” he said plaintively, “hunting deer is punishable by death in Jardinia.”
“The royal family won’t miss a stag or two,” said Aldric. He helped himself to the rest of Zephaniah’s soup, for Zephaniah had complained it was too buttery. “You can add that to my tally of crimes, or you can join me in some delicious venison steaks tonight.”
Zephaniah snorted. “Are you telling me you intend to have a second supper? What hedonism.”
“Is it too late to rejoin the Letter Brigade?” said Roscoe, and Zephaniah pinched him. Roscoe pinched him back. While the two of them were distracted, Aldric reached over and stole Zephaniah’s bread as well.
“I always cook supper for the lads,” he said conspiratorially, “though I would never miss a meal with my favorite sheriff, especially on his purse.”
“Indeed,” said Zephaniah, and he seemed happy about that.
-
Zephaniah had come to dinner prepared for Aldric’s wheedling about his necklace and belt, but Aldric had bounced from one topic to another, and not a single conversation had to do with his jewelry or Nordlea the Headhunter.
It was still early, though. Aldric would surely pester him to madness by the week’s end, if not sooner. Zephaniah would enjoy this brief peace while it lasted. It was a temporary truce, after all. And a nice meal.
After eating, they parted ways. Aldric blew them a cheeky kiss before disappearing into the dark. Zephaniah smiled in spite of himself. He left the tavern feeling nostalgic for Cambridge.
As for Nordlea and his bounty hunter bandits, civilians reported sightings of their camp near the meadow north of the Enchanted Forest. Once his men confirmed this tomorrow, Zephaniah would eradicate the nuisance once and for all.
He wasn’t worried. In fact, he was as Aldric had predicted: thrilled at the prospect of dueling a proper menace. Aldric would surely spectate from afar with his bow and arrows, and Zephaniah liked the thought of that, too.
Perhaps if Zephaniah had had a little less ale that night, and if his thoughts hadn’t been on Aldric’s cheerful countenance, he would have kept his guard up as he rode back to the fortress with Roscoe, who was falling asleep on his horse.
But the night breeze felt distractingly good, and it whispered through the trees above them:
“Snow Fox. Snow Fox. Snow Fox.”
Truffles snorted, its ears tense. Roscoe’s horse huffed nervously as well. Zephaniah looked around them and then up to the dark leaves overhead.
“Aldric?”
But it wasn’t Aldric’s voice. He knew that.
Before Zephaniah could urge his horse to run, Nordlea’s men fell upon them.