When the exhausted remnants of the escort party were admitted to the grounds of the dark castle without resistance, Grasswhistle extricated herself from the group to climb an external ladder carved into the side of the stone keep. Upon entry to the bailey, the sharpshooter had assessed the property for the likeliest vantage points to which she might escape as soon as her companions were accounted for.
The castle rose to three stories with what appeared to be two small attic chambers on either side of the structure. Although moving guards were on duty atop the outer wall, no sentries were posted to the castle fortifications. There was a taller, cylindrical tower behind the stables that creeped of magic: a wizard’s tower. Grasswhistle had chosen to stick to the castle parapets with a full-body shiver.
Her mount and the boss’s stallion Plucky were left in the care of Jessup, their demolitionist. The Redsnouts’ equines were spent from the sudden combat encounter. In Plucky’s case, Grasswhistle suspected the boss’s destrier was in poorer condition due to his more enthusiastic participation in combat. The only thing essential about Grasswhistle’s mount, decidedly nameless, was that the indolent mare maintained the same affectation in the presence of treats, various weather conditions, cannon fire, or the sharpshooter that rode her.
Jessup had been all too happy to shower the steeds with attentions in an effort to make his tempestuous fey pony jealous. Besides perpetuating a foolhardy attachment to the uncanny creature to mask his astute observation skills, the demolitionist was simply charmed by her. Most of the other Redsnouts were overly attached to equines.
Tucked into the joint where the right-side attic’s gable roof met the castle’s main roof, Grasswhistle could see over the tall, iron-wrought gates at the front of the grounds. Crowned with curling dark ironwork, they were the only vulnerable point in the thick, dark stone of the walls surrounding the property. Dark was the theme, and without much care for the matching of colors: parts of the walls were pocked with various shades of gray, indicating a past with much activity. The newer sections of repair were the lightest shades. Somehow, the general dreariness of the area sucked all light from the very stone. At least, that’s how it seemed to Grasswhistle.
My, I’m gloomy today, thought the grumpy hare.
There was a light wind that caused Grasswhistle to pull her tattered, gray Lion Guard cloak tighter around her shoulders. The air carried traces of salt, indicating a nearby coastline. Considering the Taverand job led the Redsnouts west and north, the sharpshooter hypothesized that the nearby ocean was further north still. Perhaps if she walked round the parapet of the castle, she might view the foreboding body of water from the north side of the structure.
She winkled her nose as her snout was met with a blast of mist. She twitched her whiskers and clenched her teeth at the moisture. Her mood continued to depreciate as she scanned the horizon in the direction of the Dark Forest. The boss, Chicrose, and Gloria had yet to return after staying behind to stall their ghastly attackers.
Optimism was not in the sharpshooter’s nature, but unfaltering belief was. Her boss, the only beast to whom she would answer, was not the type to be bested by evil. She hoped he arrived with all his remaining pieces (limbs, et cetera) attached with due haste. If Orrik came back with even more of him left behind, it would be also mean he would be returning without Chicrose or Gloria.
Grasswhistle glowered at the dark mass that was the distant Dark Forest from under the extra wide brim of her hat. A depressing land of perpetual cloud cover like this one would arrive at dusk sooner than the open plains where the Redsnouts started the accursed job. She was sure the ash ghasts, or whatever the old feathermage had called them, would be more active at night. She decided to hold her faith until duskfall. Then she would take her nameless steed back to the forest to search for the boss and her missing companions.
Down in the bailey, the client’s granddaughter Miss Taverand was overseeing the dispersal of injured and the few steeds that returned to civilization of their own accord. The sleek, brown mink miss had the gray squirrel carriage driver at her side. The teamster took control of the much larger equines without fear of trampling. Grasswhistle could appreciate an experienced tradesbeast when she saw one.
Big Jessup managed to dress down the Redsnouts’ mounts without taking them to the stable. Good. The beaver demolitionist also kept his wagon of explosive delights tarped and behind the equines, out of public view. He knew to keep them ready to go back to the forest. He sensed her attention and gave a nearsighted squint up to the rooftops. Grasswhistle knew he could not see her, but admired his perception. The sharpshooter had the longest eyes in the Redsnouts, but Jessup could sense beyond what his eyes perceived. He really was just as uncanny as his bratty fey pony.
In addition to Jessup, Martu would be essential to a search and rescue. The pine marten was the Redsnout’s primary scout. Big for her size, Martu was the closest thing to vanguard since the group’s second-in-command had died in the line of duty three jobs ago. At present, the scout was hovering near Miss Taverand, rubbing her right shoulder and ignoring how her strength might be useful to the process of carrying the injured into the keep. Grasswhistle did not recall the pine marten taking damage during the chase.
Everything about the gloomy castle set Grasswhistle on edge. The property’s liege, one Lord Nobaran, was indisposed, they had been informed by the haughty Steward upon their arrival. Mister Eisen, the Lord’s heir and Miss Taverand’s intended, was away from the keep, seeing to some matter of state in the dreary fiefs to the west of the forest’s border. The Steward, a thin and rangy mink with an oily disposition, was unhelpful. In the absence of rightful leadership, he delegated the brutish weasel-beasts and mink peasants to see to the arriving party’s needs and vanished through the main doors of the keep. They were simple beastfolk and it fell to Miss Taverand to take command in her new home. None opposed her with Martu hulking behind and the surly squirrel teamster, bushy tail undulating, puffing up at her side.
Grasswhistle resumed her sentry of the boss’s return. Without taking her eyes off the horizon, she checked her armaments with sure paws. Her metal powder case was tucked into a belt pouch, behind her right hip. Right-pawed, she did most of the shooting with her left-side pistol, since she needed her dominant paw to reload and do other various actions during a shootout. She hoped the mist would ebb enough that she might replace the ammunition in her rifle and pistols.
There was a scuffling sound on the opposite side of the roof, near the left-side attic gable. Grasswhistle’s gaze followed the sound. It was the younger blue heron feathermage attempting to scale the roof. The hare’s ears twitched as his talons scrabbled for purchase on the shingles. What was it with feathermages and not using their functional wings? The sharpshooter knew for a fact that the magic paws did not inhibit flight in any way. The trappings of their office were another story, however, though she knew Gloria the Redsnout feathermage could fly in her habit if necessity dictated. Perhaps the heron, although long past fledging, still had the awkwardness of youth.
The way the heron avoided eye contact suggested that she was the reason he was on the roof. Whatever for? Grasswhistle did not care for mages of any species, Gloria excepted. He also seemed intent on keeping his distance. Good. Once he settled into a perch on the apex of the gable, he made no extraneous noise and was easy to ignore. She could resume her watch.
A small, white flash over the forest caught her attention. She flipped the eyepatch down over her right eye and pulled a collapsable spyglass from a front pouch on her leather vest. Through the device she spied the tiniest wisp of white smoke drifting back over the forest, as if carried by wind. Grasswhistle knew better. It was one of Gloria’s message spells. Had the hare been closer, say halfway between the castle and forest, she would have been able to discern the distinct outline of the dove-shaped will-o-wisp flapping back toward where the job began.
Beyond the forest, the Redsnouts’ quartermaster waited at the tavern where Orrik first struck the deal with Lord Taverand. And beyond the tavern, the Redsnouts’ treasurer, brother of the quartermaster, waited for Gloria’s reports on the status of the present job from the warm and cozy hearth of a master suite in the nearest settlement large enough to support a Guild bank.
If the situation in the forest were dire, Gloria’s message spell would have flown to the Redsnouts waiting at the castle. Grasswhistle took solace from this and strained her eye in the approaching twilight for a second avian message spell to fly in her direction.
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“See somethin’, do ya?” came a voice too close.
Only the jerky twitch of Grasswhistle’s black-tipped ears under her hat indicated the hare’s surprise. She flipped the eyepatch up and turned to see the squirrel teamster lounging on the castle’s main roof, the long, fluffy tail showing some matting from the precipitation. She had been so focused on the spell that she missed the intruder’s approach. Grasswhistle clenched her teeth in annoyance at being caught unawares.
The squirrel grinned with a twinkle in her dark eyes. It grated on the hare that the squirrel was aware of the jump scare.
After an indignant pause, Grasswhistle grunted, “I do.”
“Mmm,” mused the squirrel, and offered a compliment as apology. “You were a crack shot back there.”
Uncomfortable with praise, deserved or otherwise, the hare shrugged. “It’s what I do.” She collapsed her spyglass and returned it to the vest pouch under her cloak.
The squirrel maintained good humor. “Liena.”
“Grasswhistle.”
Liena’s tail rolled once and her ears twitched. “That’s a lowlander name.”
“’Tis,” Grasswhistle agreed. She did not know the origin of ‘Liena’, and had not heard it before. The Redsnouts did not often take jobs so far into the northlands.
“I wondered if you lowlanders would be any good, but Ole Ridgeback vouched for you. Your captain, at least.”
Grasswhistle kept her distaste for military titles to herself. Orrik was always ‘the boss’ to her. She suspected the squirrel was somehow aware of her inner disgruntlement and amused by it.
“No offense given,” said Liena, reading the hare’s mind.
That the squirrel could remain in good spirits despite the weather was as annoying as Jessup. Rather than perching atop the shingles, she was reclining, her back against the slope of the roof. Her white underbelly was revealed through the splash of white fur under her chin to the rounded neckline of her leather jerkin. The jerkin and short breeches, the sleeves cinched below her knees, were all that protected her from the elements. Northlanders were so strange about dressing inappropriately for their weather.
Grasswhistle was not inclined to conversation and watched the horizon. This did not disturb Liena in the slightest, the squirrel watching the goings on below with companionable silence. Why was she up here anyway?
“One of my brothers was among those left behind,” Liena explained without prompting. She seemed to have that annoying way of appearing to know what Grasswhistle was thinking. It was also very Jessup. Great. Grasswhistle would have taken ten screeching, teeth-grinding Chicroses over another Jessup.
Grasswhistle grunted acknowledgement.
“My other brother is hurt from the fight,” Liena added, with much less cheer. “I am hoping Vern is alive and uninjured.”
“The boss leaves no beast behind,” Grasswhistle said, her heart softening. “When our feathermage returns, she can see to your brother.” Would that a feathermage of Gloria’s caliber had been around when her own brother was injured so many years ago.
In her periphery, Grasswhistle saw the squirrel nod with lips pursed in silent worry. It was hard to stay irritated with a suffering that came so close to the wounds of her own heart. In this, the teamster was not like a certain beaver given to excessive drinking and dirges for grief.
Time passed and the hubbub in the bailey died down. As Grasswhistle stifled a yawn, she caught a mirage of movement along the edge of the distant forest. The hare arched upright and flipped down her eyepatch, retrieving her spyglass in the same motion.
The rolling wave of straining equine heads became distinct through the spyglass. Grasswhistle held her breath as she waited for the mass to get close enough to distinguish the proud, erect posture of one tuft-eared feline. She exhaled and waited longer. When a white will-o-wisp flew upward from the remains of the caravan, she sighted the mourning dove and a smaller rodent beside.
Grasswhistle tilted her head, chest surging with a great intake of breath. She pulled back her lips to let out an ear-piercing whistle, the air whooshing past her long incisors. The muted activity below halted and was then followed by an exited whoop from Jessup.
“That’ll be the rest of the train,” deduced Liena, springing to her feet with little care for the height, her five-toed foot-paws splaying for balance with ease. “D’you happen to see a squirrel among them?”
Grasswhistle squinted through her spyglass and scanned the horizon. The returning party moved with an insistent haste that made her hackles rise. She had to look down the line twice before she caught a small burr of fur clinging to the back of one of the equines. The long tail was a giveaway.
“Aye, there be a squirrel on mount,” the sharpshooter said.
Liena’s shoulders slumped and she exhaled her tension. “That’s Vern. We are the only squirrels in Miss Odette’s party.” She dashed to the inlaid ladder with two reckless bounds. As she mounted the top of the ladder, she waited for Grasswhistle’s attention. When the hare looked at her, she said, “My thanks, Redsnout.” Without waiting for a reply, she dropped from the ladder, catching herself once she was near the ground in a hazardous feat of acrobatics.
Grasswhistle allowed herself another look through the spyglass before she made a much more sedate way down the ladder. Heights were a necessary hazard of her occupation but that did not mean she had to enjoy them. She did not register that the rain picked up again, even when her large feet squelched into the mud on the ground.
Jessup was saddling the equines under an awning next to an empty pen that might serve for armaments training for the keep guards. Martu had managed to peel away from Miss Taverand and was assisting with Plucky. The boss’s war mount, well used to the call to action of the sharpshooter’s whistles, vibrated with energy. The swishing, black plume of his tail’s tuft was silky again from recent brushing.
“How’s ‘e look?” inquired Jessup, his focus on checking each of the stallion’s hooves.
“Noble,” replied Grasswhistle, going to her mare. The equine nosed the sharpshooter for a treat with forceful shoves of her long face. Not now, Grasswhistle thought. She would never allow herself to be caught speaking aloud to an equine in the company of the Redsnouts.
The answer was pleasing to Jessup. “Good.”
“Gloria and Chicrose?” asked taciturn Martu.
The pine marten had retrieved both saddles from the wagon, one hefted on each of her shoulders. As she passed Millie, the fey pony bared her teeth. Jessup remained on one knee and used his flat, leathery tail for balance as he shoved his pony’s shoulder to prevent the blocky teeth from taking a piece out of the marten. Curious. Grasswhitle would have said Millie was fond of Martu, although fondness from a fey pony could be akin to harassment most of the time.
“They ride steady,” answered Grasswhistle. “She has sent two messages to Hugo in the past half hour.”
Martu snorted at mention of the Redsnouts’ solicitor and treasurer. She was almost as slow to trust as Grasswhistle.
The reptile Collaris brothers were the most recent additions to the Redsnouts, joining up a year ago. It was an unpopular decision to most of the Redsnouts, but Orrik would not brook their protests. Grasswhistle had been among the complainers, but kept her silence in the face of Orrik’s foresight. The Redsnouts did need someone to manage their funds as their successes and notoriety grew.
Coming from a large and prosperous trading family, Hugo used the prestige of his family name to open financial doors to the Redsnout Mercenary Company. He even filed the group’s name with the multinational Continental Chamber of Commerce. His younger brother Umar was much less savvy, but served as a dutiful albeit craven quartermaster. Despite his brawn, Umar fled combat scenarios. He had a feral and nervous mien about him that Grasswhistle found more favorable than the crafty and downright predatory behavior of his aristocratic older brother. Still, Orrik trusted them, and the sharpshooter trusted that she would put a bullet between either’s eyes before they could stab the boss in the back.
“Now, now,” went Jessup, setting down Plucky’s hoof and standing, “I’m sure ole Hugo needs somethin’ to do round that cozy hearth. A beast can only count pennies so many times.” The large beaver was not threatened in the least by the reptiles, but one who carried explosives on his person would have other concerns.
Martu passed Plucky’s saddle to the demolitionist and moved to Grasswhistle’s mare. The mare almost butted her saddle from the pine marten’s paws, insistent for a treat. Grasswhistle pulled a half a carrot from her pocket and obliged the equine. She did not have much of an appetite once a job started anyway.
After saddling the boss’s stallion, Jessup stepped back to cosset his fey pony, making no move to board the wagon.
“You’ll stay?” Grasswhistle asked.
The beaver nodded. “Aye. We haven’t been paid yet, an’ I’m most likely to get out of here should they withhold payment.”
The scout and sharpshooter exchanged a look. Stonework, even the advanced kind of the keep walls, was not blast proof. Still, Grasswhistle was ready to be done with this unsettling place. She would have been fine leaving without getting paid. She resigned herself with a sigh. The sinister air was exactly the type of thing that would ensnare the boss.
As the pair led the equines to the front gate, Miss Taverand appeared from the big front doors and approached. The mink was already changed out of her traveling cloak and wore a stylish half-cloak, nice quality, short-sleeved tunic, and linen breeches. She even had matching gloves going up to her elbows.
“You leave?” she asked, throwing back the embroidered hood of her cloak to reveal brows upturned with concern. Her attention was focused on Martu.
“We ride out to meet the boss’s return,” Grasswhistle explained.
Martu nodded once in agreement. Although she often did not keep eye contact with strangers, the pine marten was staring at the mink with a strange intensity. What about Miss Taverand had sparked their scout’s slow temper?
The heron feathermage strode over with wide strides, stopping a few paces from the mink, dwarfing her with his stretched height even at the distance. His small huffs indicated a lack of fitness in his descent from the roof. His long wings would have been more practical and efficient.
Miss Taverand stepped back, standing in line with the feathermage, and hailed two burly weasels to open the front gates. She clasped her paws together, not quite wringing them, as she watched the two Redsnouts exit the grounds.
Grasswhistle mounted her mare and slung her rifle into her lap. Martu remained on the ground, leading the boss’s steed. The sharpshooter did not need her spyglass to see the remains of the escort party. Even in the rain, her mood was elevated at the sight of her companions unharmed.
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