It had been years since Balor had fought Aurie so heartily. The last time they had fought this badly was when he had slapped Maud for dropping a bowl of stew when she was still a twig with arms. Gods, how he missed those days. If he could go back, he would have begged the gods to keep her just like that. A little twig that didn’t eat half his earnings. And when he comes back with something that not only was worth those earnings and then some, but also feed that blasted girl…no, woman’s…appetite, he ends up sleeping on the table with the heat of the hearth keeping him up all night. At least the roasting venison smelled good. Not better than Aurie, but it was a small comfort to those crooked boards.

  How was he supposed to know she didn’t know how to cook meat? Never crossed his mind when looking at something that would fill their bellies without flour to thicken the broth or small bones that had to be scooped out every other bite. She could cook rabbit like a royal chef, what was so different about cooking a deer? He thought she would appreciate it more. Not complain about how it smelled when he tried his hand at skinning it. Which, to be fair, he knew less about than she did cooking it, but still. He tried. And with it being poached…now, that was what really should have been the fight. That, he had considered how to defend the entire walk home with the thing on his shoulder. But that only led to the cooking. She had no one to ask except maybe Coralin, whose brother Balthazar had the permits to hunt once a year. Which didn’t sit well at all. In fact, that only made her angrier than her garden getting trampled, which made her murderous.

  Balor let out a yawn that stretched his jaw and only made the crick in his neck hurt more. He should have taken his shirt with him when she kicked him out. It would have been better than an overturned bowl for a pillow. And his shoulder, the gods, it was sore. His knees ached, too, which became more noticeable with each step toward the oldest building in the village and the furthest from his own. Trying to keep up with Balian’s haughty pace was making everything hurt worse and trying his patience.

  He was uneasy with the idea the homesteaders came up with. The man had paid more than a thousand times his debt for the dumb horse pissing Aurie off, even if it was illegal. There was no reason in his mind to take it further, offlander or not. The man was injured. Anyone could see that. Probably from riding so hard from them. He didn’t know much about riding horses, honestly never seen one before, but he imagined that was what did it. It was taller than he thought. But his boot bulged twice the size of the other and the man walked as if he were unphased long enough that he noticed. He could admit to himself, though not to anyone else, that he would’ve cried like a child if in the offlander’s place with how much it must have hurt.

  Balor stopped his brother with a tug of his arm when they got to the door of the old concrete building with brick squares where the elders said there were windows long ago. “Let me do the talking. Pierre is a lordsman now. Don’t want to piss him off.”

  Balian had half opened the door, already chimed the bell hanging above it, but let it slam closed to glare at him. “This is our best chance. The more we make a stink, the more likely he is to revoke the land and let us parcel it. I know you couldn’t care less, with the majority of our land, but for the rest of us, it’s life or death. And all you do is make everyone soft. Like a woman.”

  “I’m fair, which is more than you’ve ever been. That’s why they listen to me and it is always for the better.” Balor gritted his teeth at him, “All you’ll do is make him kick us out and never speak to the Steward.”

  “No,” Balian threw the door open hard enough to nearly shake the bell from its mount, “they listen to you because you were pushed out first and have the majority of pa’s land and our house.”

  As he stepped in, Balor followed, muttering, “And my answer isn’t always bloodied knuckles, you unappreciative shit.”

  Inside the building was a large, decorative wooden desk surrounded by shelves of dusty old books that filled every wall. A large portrait of Lord Taggerty, in that pompous pose that every uppity Lord made, sat on the top half of one of the shelves behind the desk.

  Pierre sat behind the desk with a quill in hand, scribbling his nonsense on a paper in front of him, stacks of more books and papers on either side of him. The man was a bit younger than them, with a round face that was too plump for his wiry frame. He was as much a twig as Maud had been as a child and nearly as feminine. They all had their suspicions he preferred men as women did, but never the proof apart from him never taking a wife.

  Curly red hair poked from under the ridiculous round red cap of the Cathols, the crazy cult that had once insisted on converting the villages. Of course, their gods prevailed over their ‘Father and Son,’ which came as no surprise to any of them. The old Abbey in the forest across from the Kelger Farm was abandoned more than hundred years ago because they got tired of trying to convince them that their heretical God was better than their many. One God to rule the harvest, fertility, the moon, the sun, and the rains? Pah, fools all of them. If He was so all-powerful, then why did He need to take all the able-bodied farmers’ sons off to some land at the edge of the world to fight His wars? The wars would be over in a moon if they would only lower their chins and beg Bonaparte, the god of war, to aid them.

  Pierre looked up and looked from one to the other. “I wondered when one of you would show at my office. If this is about you and the others’ display in the street three days ago, I assure you no charges have been brought against you.”

  “Against us?” Balian stomped toward the desk. “Now, see here, you little sh…”

  Balor shoved his chest with a glower. He looked to Pierre, “We’re thankful for that. Lord Taggerty has always been magnanimous to us low folk.”

  Balian rolled his eyes. He knew it was for his sucking up to their Lord, but pa taught him that one should always butter up a lordsman with feigned loyalty before making any demands. ‘They’ll put you in stocks and raise your taxes for as little as a dirty look if you’re not careful,’ he’d say.

  “The offlander…” Balor began.

  “What about him?”

  Balor huffed. Pompous prick always wanted to be in charge. Since they were scrappy boys, he had that condescending way of talking to them, some unhinged air of superiority they all tried to beat out of him, but it never worked. When he went off to join the cult, they taught him to read and write, gave him his post as administrator, which only encouraged his arrogance.

  “The offlander,” Balor repeated, “made an offense against me and mine yesterday morning. His horse trampled my garden and ate of our crops. Now, I did no harm to his horse, but I think something should be done. It is only proof that he’s no neighbor and needs to have something taken as compensation. And since I know that taking of his arms would take him from the good Lord Taggerty’s service in his wars, the others think that it’s only fair to revoke his land and parcel it properly, as it should have been when Sadie died.”

  Pierre leaned back in his cushioned chair, setting the quill in a small cup the size of a shot of schnapps. “Is that so?”

  “It’s pure shit that it wasn’t done in the first…”

  “It was a terrible offense to us homesteaders that it wasn’t at least promised to our future married sons,” Balor cut Balian off with a quick glare. If he wasn’t so sure his brother would sock him and start a fight right there in front of the one man who could order them to the hanging tree, he would have shoved him out the door.

  “I see. And I assume you have tallied the worth of the crops destroyed?” Pierre raised a brow at them.

  “If you add in the tilled field it trampled through to get there, which cost me an extra weeks’ labor, then I say more than the land alone. If I could rightly do so, I’d ask for the horse as well. The others want me to. And you know how they get when they don’t get their way.”

  “He should be hanged for the labor, in me mind,” Balian growled. “The worth of what that horse did is far more than any man’s worth. You give the word and we’ll gladly do it for ye. Won’t have to call on the Baron’s men, save the coin. Not to mention that he poached the good Lord Taggerty’s deer and offered it to pay compensation. That be stealing, if I remember correctly.”

  “What are you doing?” Balor whispered to him. Balian grinned as maliciously as he would whenever he won a fight or a game. Balor wanted to wallop him. How could he be so careless? Doesn’t he realize that could get him thrown in the stocks, or even hanged, for accepting it?

  “How big was it?” Pierre raised a brow. “To gauge the worth of the theft properly.”

  Balor’s eyes blazed beyond the burn of his exhaustion. Don’t you dare tell him that it was stag. Don’t you dare, you little ungrateful shit.

  Balian straightened proudly at his victory, smiling enough to reveal his yellow teeth. “Tall as a house and had antlers the size of a cart. Twenty points at least!”

  Lying bastard! Balor gritted his teeth. It barely had four points between the two antlers and was barely taller than a cart. Though it was bigger than most deer he had seen skulking in the woods in recent memory. His wide eyes shot to Pierre. He quickly lowered them, hoping he didn’t implicate himself with them.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “Quite the accusation,” Pierre narrowed his eyes and leaned over his desk on his elbows. “Have you proof? And,” he turned to Balor, “did you accept it?”

  Balor shut his already heavy eyes in frustration. After a long sigh that didn’t quiet Pierre’s dismissive hum, he shot a glare to his brother and pointed at the door. “Will you just go outside and let me handle this?” To Pierre, “It wasn’t that big. Maybe two points a piece at most.”

  Balian’s jaw tightened, but Balor insisted by crinkling half his nose. Balian might be a known brawler, but Balor was the one who taught him, and he knew it.

  Balian huffed and walked out with a slam of the door.

  “Thank you,” Pierre said as Balor turned back to him. “He’s always been hot-blooded and brash. Yet, that truly is a serious accusation that would normally warrant action.”

  “I know,” Balor drew a breath with a hand raking through his hair. “Look, I only came here because the others pressured me. I don’t think that he should be hanged for the offense, but the land…”

  “Did you accept the offer? You never answered.” Blast Pierre and his knowing everything! Of course he wouldn’t let it go. He already regretted bullying the boy, even before he became administrator, but sometimes he wondered if he should have been harsher in those beatings.

  “No,” Balor swallowed dryly. He already felt the noose tightening on his neck.

  “Pity,” Pierre adjusted in his chair and plucked the quill from the small glass to continue scribbling on the paper.

  Balor crinkled his brow. Pity? The River of Souls’ did that mean?

  “The offlander committed no crime,” Pierre dipped his quill in a jar of black ink and returned to his writing. “As for his horse, I suggest you see if you can get a fair amount for compensation. Speak with him, he’s quite reasonable.”

  “What do you mean he committed no crime?” Balor shook his head. He must be more tired than he thought. No way did he hear that correctly. “He poached the Lord’s deer.”

  “Balor,” Pierre regarded him with a hint of sympathy, “Stewart Olivier is aware of what you and the others did to the last tenants he brought to work unowned fields. Their complaints didn’t go unnoticed, mind you.”

  Balor shuffled with guilt. The others burnt their house to the ground and thumped the man and his two sons to the point of breaking bones. He had tried to convince the poor souls to leave before, stayed home when they all went with Balian leading them, but he knew he could have done more. Deep down in his pulsing chest, he knew he was a coward when it came to what the others wanted.

  “I know you’ve never thought much of me,” Pierre continued with a sigh, “but heed to caution and communicate to the others that it would behoove all of you to let the offlander be.”

  “I don’t speak your noble dribble, speak plainly,” Balor huffed. He hated feeling so small. And he felt that way every time Pierre said anything.

  “Plainly? Fine,” Pierre straightened, leaving the quill in the ink cup this time. “I give Balthazar the permits to hunt. He has the privilege of hunting for furs and meat that I tax each year. The offlander, mind you, was given the right to hunt wherever and whenever he pleases. Now, I know you’re wise enough to understand that.”

  “The right? As in you can’t charge him? He no be a poacher?”

  “As in I’m being summoned to retrieve certificates for our records sent from Utrecht itself.”

  “From King Charles?!”

  “I don’t know yet, not about him or the land he has except that he has the right to all he needs, properly, and his land cannot and will not be sold or parceled under any circumstances.” Pierre drew a breath with a look to the ceiling. “As in…it can never be sold or seized, by anyone.”

  “What about the King or Lord Taggerty?”

  “It was plainly written, ‘Not anyone,’ and that’s how I’ll take it,” Pierre shook his head sympathetically. “You and the others should get used to him and treat him as if he were born here.”

  “But he’s a bastard, isn’t he? One of Sadie’s bastards, right?”

  “No. That I know for sure. Just, let the others know. If the man wanted, he could have the lot of you hanged for what you tried to do. Consider it a…how do I say this…proof of his kindness that he hasn’t. Might want to butter him up and make him feel welcome so he never does.”

  “The plowing rivers is he, then?” Balor’s tone was deepened, less in offense and more in shocked curiosity.

  Pierre’s lips thinned at the phrase, but he continued without regarding it, “I told you, I don’t know. But I have been summoned to Utrecht by the King’s council to get seals, if that says anything.”

  “By the gods,” Balor let out in a breath, a hand to his beard in thought. That could only mean one thing, if he knows right. The man is nobility. They almost attacked a noble!

  “You should see if you can get that deer, if I were you.”

  Balor only nodded, keeping the truth to himself. But his mind was wrapping around something else entirely. He pursed his lips, “He wouldn’t be married, would he?”

  “If he were,” Pierre was back to his scribbling after wiping the quill with a cloth and dipping it again, “He likely would have brought her with him, so I’d say no, he is not. Why?”

  “No reason,” Balor said quicker than he meant to.

  A noble? A noble. And right next to him. It may take some doing, but he might be able to convince Aurie with that alone. She had hinted at it before, if he remembered right, and she could help him get Maud to agree. A noble daughter! Now, that’s a match, if ever he seen one.

  “Thank you, I’ll let them know,” Balor nodded at him and rushed out the door.

  He just won’t let them know he was eligible for marriage. Now, if he could get him married to Maud before the Ribbon Pole at the Harvest Festival, then he didn’t have to worry about her casting it off and one of the others getting him. Of course, if he were certain she wouldn’t renegue herself from taking a ribbon, then he would be certain she’d win. Aurie was unrivaled in the Ribbon Dance and she had taught Maud all the tricks to beat any girl contending against her for the man bound to it. Blast those shaky hands. His poor windleaf never can hold onto those ribbons for longer than a few seconds. No, there was only one way…

  Outside, the others had gathered along with Balian, glowering expectantly at him as the door shut behind him. Balor hid his wide eyes and ambitious smile behind a fa?ade of disappointment with a hanging head.

  “Well? Can we string him up or no?” Preston was the first.

  “He’s a poacher and thief, that should be enough, if you ask me,” Gregor was, of course, next.

  “I could get some sheep from Alcer for my portion. They’ll take any price with all the talk about Lord Mueller’s mines being seized last summer,” Morrin grinned greedily.

  “What did he say?” Balian narrowed his eyes.

  Balor hesitated with a glance over his shoulder at the door. “He’s not to be charged. I guess he’s here to stay.”

  All of them grumbled, throwing their hands in disappointment.

  “Come on now, what did you say?” Soran yelped.

  “Probably that he’ll offer him a hard plow in his ass for the difference of your compensation,” Gregor growled.

  “Shit on you, Greshon!” Balor stomped with balled fists. “He’s here to stay and has rights we don’t have. Something about the King himself sending him. So don’t go and wheedle that I would do any such thing.”

  “The King?” Echoed through the group.

  “Then that must mean…”

  “The King knows what you did to the ones in the hills,” Balor growled. He wasn’t going to tell any of them that the man was nobility. No, that would make Maud’s own rivals amongst the girls emerge in force. Instead, he growled at them, “I told you not to do it, to be reasonable and just threaten the man, but you had to go and raid them! I’ll say this, and hear my words, I want nothing to do with any of your shitting on him. He’s my neighbor and I’ll treat him as such from here on, you hear me?”

  “You do that,” even Frieder was there, with a glare that could kill, “You’ll no a drop from me.”

  “Not a grain, I won’t buy a single grain from ye,” Morrin’s fierce glare was darker. “We’ll drive you out along with him.”

  He looked to his brother, hoping he would see reason. Or stand by his blood at least. But Balian only balled his own fists with a sneer. Not a loyal or honorable bone in his body. Balor should have known. His eyes moistened as he swallowed back the tears at the realization that his own brother would abandon him so easily.

  “And you’ll hang, promise you me,” Balor met their glares through the wound of betrayal. “I’m done with this. I’d rather keep me neck as it is than risk it for the lot of you bastards.” With a huff, he shoved past them. His loyalty will be rewarded by a noble, after all. Aurie may not like it, but she’s an Alcrois by birth and will come around. His pace slowed for a step.

  I hope, he rubbed at the back of his head and then squeezed his shoulder, the gods, that table hurts.

  “Hope your precious Windleaf finds a husband elsewhere, cause she’ll be a hag before one of ours touches your bitch, you traitor!” Preston shouted after him. Of course he would, he had the most sons out of all of them.