The Choosers and the Chosen: Chapter 4

The Choosers and the Chosen

Part 1: Chapter 4 - The Hero of the Common Man

Jack

The breeze was soft like a maiden’s arms, and Captain Jack Brand could almost feel the wind’s loving kiss on his face.

He looked out over the land ahead. Green grasslands on one side of the road, sheep grazing in gentle hills beyond them. Golden fields of crops and hard-working men and women on the other, dotted with farm houses and stalwart scarecrows defending the dwindling harvest from feathered fiends wishing to steal it. Jack sighed. The great tragedy, of course, was that the farmers’ food would be stolen from them anyway: as long as they were locked in the chains of Feudalism, they would never be safe from hunger.

Jack shook his head, then looked up at the patchwork sky of blues, greys and whites. The sun was behind some clouds, adding amber to the white, and the grey, and the gold, and the gold, gold, gold...

He pulled the coin out of his pocket; the one that Sails had tried to steal from him. He’d found it hard not to think about it, if he was being completely honest. He knew he'd ruin the gold if he touched it too much, but Jack couldn't resist. The dragon, each big wing spread out along a third of the coin’s face, had a thin body and horned head just like the dragons of western Indosiil. A beat of their wings had the power to knock a full-grown man over if they were close enough to feel the force in the air. And the ruler on the other side of the piece of hypnotic metal...which one was he? Which emperor of old wore a crown of thorns? They all had their mark, the ancient emperors of the Dragonblood Kingdoms. They took their mark from their own clan names: Dragonheart, Dragonclaw, Dragoneye, and so on. Dragonbloods, they were. “The worst kind of people,” Jack’s father told him once, “in fact, only half people. They look like humans, eat like them – well, Jacques, that’s just the thing. I’ve sat across from a few myself in...other times. They have a hunger in their eyes that just...isn’t human. I can say one thing for certain about that look, Jacques: never be alone with a Dragonblood. They may be half-man, but they’re also half-monster.”

So, this emperor must’ve been from Clan Dragonthorn. Jack didn’t know such a clan existed, but to be completely honest he hadn’t studied the Dragonblood Kingdoms too in-depth before he found his father swinging from the thickest tree branch near Brandywood Farm.

Still, this was no time for Jack to reminisce on old times. He had to hurry back to his hideout, to see what had become of the rest of the Brand Band. He strolled down the road, up a small rise, crested a hill and saw the lands stretch out ahead of him. The Duchy of Achilles was a very pleasant area. Smallest of all the kingdom’s duchies, and named after the great Prophet himself, it made up in beauty, fertility and wealth what it lacked in size. It had a few nice woodlands as well, including one that sheltered one of Jack’s hideouts. The Honeywood, it was called, with tall, wide, green-leaved trees and many glades and streams, like some sort of paradise. It was filled with bees, which is how it got its name, but the bees rarely became a nuisance for Jack, who’d come in and out of the Honeywood for years. He’d only been there once with his father, when the former baron decided to show him one of the few lands they had left, but like any of the remaining Brandyville estates Honeywood Hall was forgotten to the world; now it was just an empty reward from a grateful, mad king.

Jack reached the decrepit manor house after a good half-hour or so of walking through the woods. The left wing had collapsed into the trees, wooden walls shattered into the decaying pieces of a jigsaw, snapped and splintered planks scattered across the ground. The right wing was in far better condition, and it was where Jack would stay whenever he had to spend the night here. At the front of the manor were three wooden steps with bannisters, leading up to a faded blue door with a patch of brown in its centre where the silver knocker used to be. It was a door that Jack had found on the hinges of an oppressive overlord’s house, and he’d managed to take it for his more noble purposes while he sold the silver for money which he would, eventually, give to the poor. Planks were nailed over the windows, the wooden roof had a couple of holes in it, while there were a few cracks and nooks in the stone base of the manor, but overall Jack couldn’t complain.

Jack stepped a little closer to his house, and then he heard someone call out to him.

“Who goes there?!” the voice roared out. Will Boar, Jack could tell already.

“Who but me?!” Jack called back with a smile.

“Jack! It’s good to see you!”

“Likewise, my friend!” Jack made his way up to the house. The blue door opened before him, revealing the fourteen-year-old face of Perkins, the youngest member of the Brand Band.

“Good tah see you, Cap’n Brand!” piped Perkins. His eyes were big and brown, his hair fair, his chin developing somewhat of an arse-shape. He was growing a small beard as well, Jack was pleased to see. He was becoming a man now, after all, and as Jack’s father used to say, “a man without a beard is just a woman without tits.”

“Good to see you’re still here, Perk!” Jack exclaimed to the young man.

“I’d never leave you, cap’n,” Perkins chirped gleefully, “I love you like everyone else! An’ the cause is too just!” His smile dropped slightly as he continued, but he was clearly still happy. “You were right about not getting’ me family involved, cap’n. I’ll never try to get ‘em involved again, you ‘ave me word!”

“Pleased to hear it. It’s for their own good, remember.”

“I’ll remember, cap’n.”

Jack ruffled the boy’s hair before moving on. He entered a hall, in which there were two sets of stairs; one going up to the left, the other to the right. Will Boar came down the right one, short but stout body covered in a big grey gambeson, large jaw locked, big mouth twisted into a smile. “Good to see you, Cap’n Brand!” he declared again, his deep voice booming with warmth.

“Likewise,” Jack repeated with a smile, then asked, “now who else made it back?”

Will’s face darkened. “Rust’s gone,” he said, “An’ Gronn, Ullardsson an’ Jorey. Seven others as well, an’ Sails is still missing.”

Jack’s smile slowly faded as Will named each loss, feeling as if a dagger was slowly pressing into his chest, and he showed Will his own dark look as Sails’ name was mentioned. “Sails is dead,” he told the other outlaw, “and it’s even worse than that. Gather everyone that’s left. I need to tell ‘em something.”

Will Boar frowned. “Right y’are, cap’n. I’ll get the other lads together in the main hall.”

“Hmm.” Jack sighed. Thirty men he’d had when he attacked Fogpool, not including himself. Now he only had nineteen. His father wouldn’t have been proud of such heavy casualties, he was sure. Raymond Brandyville, Baron Midris, was a notable commander. He’d crushed the Reaper of Cutney by the then Prince Lucien’s side, winning fame and glory for his family. He’d shattered the forces of Lucidon the Fourth, bringing a swift conclusion to the Lions’ War and putting King Lucien the Second on the throne of Edainia. He’d beaten back the Carnian invasion by Edgar the Fierce; the only war that king had ever lost. He’d taught his son everything he knew, and Jack should’ve done a better job. Well, Jack mused as he wandered into the corridor that led to the main hall, I suppose I can’t be perfect all the time.

He smiled as he continued to the hall, thinking about what he was going to say to the men.

...

“Sails betrayed us,” Jack told the others, “he tried to kill me.”

The walls of the old hall were bare and rotting, the stench foul and decrepit. The Brand Band were gathered around a long table in the centre of the room while Jack himself stood on top of it, addressing his loyal followers.

“The bastard!” shouted Sickle, shaking his weedy arm in anger.

“I shoulda known!” Old Bastard reckoned with a deep growl.

“I was as shocked as all o' you,” Jack said in his most sincere of voices, “but not for long enough so that I wouldn't kill 'im for it!”

There was a small cheer, though not a very enthusiastic one. A third of their number was gone in a single raid. Jack had feared that he’d aimed too high with a walled settlement. Although…

“It may have been Sails who told the guards,” Jack suggested, “so that they were ready for us.”

There were murmurs of agreement. “Who knows what 'e's told 'em?” Sickle said.

“Sails was one o' the oldest members,” grunted Will Boar, “could he really of done this?”

“Why didn't 'e do it earlier?” Perkins said in his recently broken voice.

“They probably offered him enough gold this time.” Jack inferred. He crouched down to make himself closer to them, looking each of his men in the eye. “You saw what they all had in Fogpool. A king's ransom, no doubt. They'd taken so much from those who had very little, and now they've got vast sums of wealth, see?”

“Vast?” asked Hammer, a barrel-chested giant of a man.

“Very big.” Jack explained. The giant nodded.

“Feudalist pigs!” Sickle shouted in passionate rage.

“It all serves the powerful!” Jack encouraged. “The injustices and corruption of Feudalism are rife in this land! Wrongdoing is present in the lives of all who must hand over their crops and earnings simply for the ‘privilege’ of scraping through a miserable life! It’s all evil; it’s all a system of chains that keeps the common man locked into the dirt! But one day, Feudalism itself shall fall, when we cast it down together! Down with Feudalism!”

“Down with Feudalism!” another member of the Brand Band declared with zealous gusto.

“Down with Feudalism!” others began to shout. Soon every man joined in with the chorus.

“Down with Feudalism! Down with Feudalism!”

“An' long live Cap'n Brand!” Will Boar roared in his unusually loud voice.

“Cap'n Brand!” Old Bastard called. “The ‘ero o’ the common man!”

“Cap'n Brand!” the others joined in.

“Down with Feudalism! Long live Cap'n Brand!”

“Here, here.” Jack muttered contentedly to himself, smiling while they cheered his name. After the cheering had subsided, he said to them all: “Now let us drink in honour of our fallen comrades!”

They cheered again to that.

And so, they left Honeywood Hall to find a tavern. Two men stayed behind to guard the Band's main supplies that they rescued from the Feudalists' clutches: Old Bastard, the oldest member of the Band, who couldn't drink anything other than water without vomiting it back up; and Perkins, whose voice was far too high for Jack to let him drink properly – the boy was fourteen, and although Jack understood that most started drinking much earlier, he wasn't going to let his father's advice get trampled to the dirt like his military career had been. Baron Midris lost his place in the nobility because of something he drunk. He'd always warned Jack to be careful of such dangers as a result.

The Brand Band followed Jack’s lead as they headed towards the nearby town of Grisney. There was a tavern there, and an old friend he needed to see on some very urgent business.

...

The Brand Band came upon Grisney a few miles from Honeywood. It had wooden walls and four wooden towers, encircling a hill full of wooden thatch-roof housing. There was a stone tower at the top of the hill: the keep, the oldest part of the town and once merely a watchtower built by King Lucir the Labourer. Jack had been to Grisney before, and he had influence with the town's mayor; strong enough to keep his men safe from the evil Feudalist law that hunted them at every turn.

The gates of Grisney were open, letting the Brand Band enter without difficultly. The dirt road grew gradually steeper as it wound up the hill, and Jack intended to go right up to the Mayor's house beside the keep. He needed a couple of men to go with him, and he picked the ‘Half-Twins’ – Ulfbett and Alfbett Alunsson, who were born to the same father from different mothers on the exact same day. The rest of the band headed straight for the tavern, which fortunately wasn't far from the gate. Jack and the Half-Twins would re-join them there, but for now they headed to the Mayor's house, the Half-Twins carrying a sack between them, full of the loot they'd taken from the rich and powerful in the surrounding lands.

Jack felt his legs ache as he ascended the hill. The original builders of Grisney had done their best to flatten the land, but the higher up the hill he went, the worse the builders' best seemed to become. However, when they finally got to the top, with the closed portcullis of Grisney's keep straight in front of them, Jack enjoyed a sigh of relief as he felt the land almost completely flatten out. He saw the Mayor's abode just to left of the stone tower.

The house – ‘mansion’ would have been a better word – was stone-based, and the largest building in Grisney besides the keep. It had glass windows and titled roofing, making it the only place in the town to have either. The front door was large and made of dark wood, with a big golden door knocker in the centre. There was a guard clutching a halberd and standing by the side of the door, wearing a tabard bearing the arms of the town: a black line diagonally separating two black eagles in a field of green and yellow checkers.

Jack walked up to this guard. The man frowned at him, but didn't say anything. “Excuse me,” Jack ventured, “but I wish to see the Mayor.”

The guard's eyes narrowed. “Why?” he asked.

“My business is my own, fine sir.”

“Well you can't see him unless it's urgent.” the guard sneered with sudden hostility.

Jack was taken aback by the man's tone. He was hurt, wounded, shocked beyond measure. “Well, I am sorry,” he said, perhaps too apologetically for such an irrationally hateful man, “but I must see him over a matter I cannot discuss with–”

“Tell me,” the guard interrupted with little mercy to manners, “and I'll tell him, then he'll send for you if it's urgent. Otherwise, clear off.”

“‘Clear off’?” Jack was utterly at a loss. “‘Clear off’? I have been nothing but polite and courteous to you, despite being chained to the burden of bearing a most urgent and delicate matter that simply must be taken straight to the Mayor by me, and all you can say is that it isn't urgent enough, and that I should ‘clear off’?”

“If you won't tell me about it,” the guard said firmly, heartlessly, “then yes. Clear off.”

“No,” Jack declared, “for I am bound by honour and duty to see the Mayor of Grisney! The fate of this entire town may depend on–”

“Go away,” the guard barked, “or I'll be taking your head to the bloody Mayor!”

Jack sighed. He leaned a little closer. “Five Lambs and you'll let me in?”

“Ten.” said the guard.

“Seven.”

“Ten.”

“How about four,” Jack offered, “and perhaps this as well?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bronze necklace a follower of his had taken from a jeweller – one of the most greedy and selfish types of salesman there was. “I can tell you are a married man…”

“I'm not married.”

“Ah, if you'd let me finish,” Jack continued, as he'd certainly always planned to, “I can tell you are a married man…to be.”

The guard looked at him quizzically. “How would you know that?” he asked.

“Because I've always believed that nothing inspires such strict attention to one's duties as love for another.” Jack explained sincerely, “I, for example, do love this town of Grisney, and wish to see her prosper. Much like I would want any woman I loved to prosper. To see her happy. To see her glow and grin. To see–”

“Yeah, whatever,” the guard said, “four Lambs and the necklace, and you can go in.”

“Very well.” Jack handed over the bronze necklace, then reached into his pocket and counted three coins in it. He took them out. “Just one moment, I beg you…” he rummaged through his other empty pockets. He was sure he’d touched some gold metal once or twice, but not quite sure enough. He kept pointlessly searching, until he heard the guard sigh and say, “Fine, just give me three and go in.”

“Thank you.” Jack said as he handed him the three Lambs. “You are most kind.”

“Whatever.” the guard replied, fingering the bronze necklace.

...

When Jack and his men entered the Mayor's residence they were confronted with a large room with chairs lining the walls. The room otherwise looked mostly bare and empty, save the large blue square carpet, made of fine-quality wool, that covered much of the floor. This room was where the men would wait for the Mayor to call them, as Grisney didn’t have a town hall. However, Jack's business was too important to wait here. There was a door on the other side of the room, and he made his way straight towards it, his companions behind him. Through it was a long corridor with other doors along the edges. This was another part of the house that wasn't particularly extravagantly decorated. The Mayor, after all, preferred to be close to his people.

Jack proceeded straight to the end of the corridor, where he entered the Mayor's office.

The office had an old-looking tapestry displaying a man in a blue cloak casting down a man in a red one from a black throne, hanging on the wall behind a wooden desk at which the Mayor of Grisney was seated.

The Mayor was busy writing, focusing intently on his work. “Yes?” he asked.

“My gracious mayor,” Jack said, causing the man to look up at him suddenly, “I greet you.”

The Mayor had a pale, wrinkled face that was beginning to droop somewhat in his mature age, with large wobbly jowls under a gaunt, hairless pate. He had a large nose that stood out like a sore thumb, and his thin body was dressed in a grey robe with a golden chain of office around his neck.

The Mayor of Grisney eyed Jack with completely undue and unnecessary suspicion. “You're here earlier than expected,” he noted, “you said you would be here on the thirteenth of Last Flare, yet it is the seventh. That's six days early – an entire week. Why?”

“Because I have been more successful than I’d thought I’d be...” Jack declared with triumph, then added with regret: “...and less.”

He clicked his fingers. The Half-Twins came forward and placed the swelling sack on the floor in front of the Mayor's desk. The Mayor dropped his quill and stared at it with an open mouth.

“Friends,” said Jack with a smile, “you may leave now.”

The Half-Twins grunted in harmony, bowed their heads and exited the room.

When Jack's loyal companions had left, the Mayor sat back down at his desk. “So, what do you have for me?” he asked.

“Oh,” Jack answered, “many a fine gift, for the right price.”

The Mayor sighed a bored, irritated sigh. “What exactly do you have?”

“Well,” Jack said, reaching into the sack, “in here we have…just…ah, this.” He pulled out a circlet made of copper that Jack had taken from a travelling gentleman after the Brand Band had ambushed his convoy. “A circlet of purest copper, worth a pretty penny.”

“There are buyers who may be interested,” the Mayor said thoughtfully, “and it appears to be in good condition.”

“Indeed. Worth at least two Lions, I'd say.”

“You'd say a pinch of dirt is worth a king's ransom if you could get a fool to pay you,” the Mayor chided, “I am no such idiot. Forty Lambs, no more.”

Jack reached into the sack. “Could I persuade you to make it fifty Lambs,” he said, “one Lion, I daresay, in exchange for the circlet and this pouch of salt from the Isle of Labour? I've heard the King is always looking for such a delicacy.”

“That’ll certainly do.” The Mayor nodded. “His Majesty does have somewhat of an obsession with the luxury.”

“And perhaps I can interest you in these…” Jack suggested, taking out seven books, which he stacked on the Mayor's desk.

“Which books are they?”

“None other than all seven works of the great Rous Quillynn.” explained Jack with a smile.

“Ah,” said the Mayor with interest, “the great voice of Feudalism himself.” He pointed at Jack. “Perhaps you should have a read of these. You may learn something, once you've learned to read, of course.”

“Thank you for your suggestion, my good mayor, but I already have, you see.”

The Mayor looked at him quizzically. “I've never known an outlaw who could read.”

“Well,” Jack confessed, “I’m a very special outlaw.”

“Hmm.” The Mayor looked back at the books. “How much, then?”

“For all, I would say at least seven Lions.”

The Mayor raised his eyebrows. “Seven?”

“Why, yes.” Jack swept a hand over the top of the pile of books. “These are copies of the foundation of our society. Quillynn's influential hand gave us our order, our place in the world, our structure and peace in society. There has truly never been a greater thinker, and these here make up the entire arsenal he used to bring about such great civilisation!”

“It seems we have a scholar in this cutthroat before me.” the Mayor said with a tired smile. “Very well, seven Lions it is.”

Jack bowed. “Thank you, my good mayor,” he said gratefully, “you are most generous, indeed.”

They bartered for every righteously-confiscated good in the sack, disagreeing over prices until they reached a compromise that they could both be satisfied with. Jack managed to squeeze three Lambs out of the mayor for an iron locket; he secured an impressive twelve Lambs for the head of an axe that had been made with low-quality steel; he wrested half a Lion into his hands by giving the Mayor a silver necklace that Jack assured him would please his daughter; he won over a Flock (twenty Lambs) for a set of silver cutlery; and he flogged a whole group of varying-in-value junk for one Lion and forty-nine Lambs. One of the last few items from the bag was very dear to Jack's heart: a golden tiara with three large rubies on the front, which he had been handed by a gorgeous young woman.

“A beautiful item.” the Mayor of Grisney said with wide eyes.

“Indeed,” Jack said in passionate memory, “it was a gift from the most illustrious and serene Lady Kirstenna Meltan.”

“A gift? You didn't steal it?”

“No, my good mayor. It was many months ago now,” about three, just after we last did these deals, “and I stumbled upon her alone,” bathing in a lake, “and was overcome by her divine beauty,” which is how any honest man would describe such extravagant clothing and jewellery she'd left lying on the bank. “When our eyes met, I saw her blush,” as any young woman would do when she's been caught in the nude, “and approached to speak,“ which we did while I stood by her clothes and bargained them back to her, “and after a long and impassioned conversation,” in which she passionately fought for her modesty and I for her gold, “we rode out into the woods,” to find her father's hunting lodge so that I could steal the goods there, “and after a night together,” since it was so bloody dark when the business was done, “she gave me this as a token of her esteem,” as well as the rest of her finery and her father's valuables, such as the silver necklace I've already given you, “and we went our separate ways.” And the lady managed to keep some basic clothes so that she would not be further humiliated. Next time, I'm sure she brought a few guards with her to protect her while she bathed.

“That’s an unlikely tale.” the Mayor said bluntly.

“But no less true.” From the right perspective, anyway.

“Alright, well,” said the Mayor, evidently not convinced, “let's talk about price.”

“Of course.”

“For this, I shall be happy to offer you eight Lions.”

“Eight?” Jack pulled the tiara closer to his heart. “My good mayor, this is a token of love from a dear fair lady, which only out of desperation must I sell. It is priceless to me, yet you offer me eight Lions? It’s worth at least twelve.”

“I will offer ten,” the Mayor replied sternly, “but no more, lest my money grow thin before I’ve seen the rest of the bag.”

“Could I stretch you to ten Lions and a Flock?” Jack offered.

The Mayor sighed. “Ten Lions and ten Lambs.”

“Deal.”

The next few items were cloth of silver sashes, for which the Mayor paid six Lions. A velvet hat was handed over for a further three. Four pairs of Sunset Silk braes were very profitable: for the four, the Mayor paid ten Lions – half a Pride.

And finally came the last item in the sack, and the one which Jack suspected would be the most profitable. He revealed a bright, clear-coloured stone that was somewhat crescent-shaped. It was like a pebble made from a mirror. Jack could see his own reflection in it: his fine bronze-coloured hair; his perfect jawline, his high cheekbones and his small beard and moustache, and his honest blue-grey eyes.

“What’s that?” The Mayor looked at the item quizzically.

“Why, it’s a Charm, my good mayor.”

“A Charm?”

“For enchanting. Enchanters need these things for, well…”

“For enchanting. I know what a Charm is, Brand, but I’m surprised you’ve managed to find one.” The Mayor sat back in his seat and gave Jack a cold look of suspicion. “How did you obtain it?”

“From an enchanter.” Jack smiled his most casual smile. “He was very secretive, of course, as he wasn’t part of the Wizardry. Of course, I had no idea of his treachery until he decided to show me the true extent of his malice, and I–”

“I don’t need to know the details,” the Mayor cut in abruptly, “only that you haven’t taken this from the Wizardry.”

“Fair enough. You can never be too careful.”

“Indeed. So how much do you want for it?”

“Well, my good mayor,” and Jack’s smile widened in friendliness and reason, “I only wish for how much we both know it must be worth: three Prides.”

The Mayor’s look was incredulous. “How much, you treacherous barbarian?!”

“Just two Prides, my good mayor, as I said.”

“Hmm…” The mayor eyed the Charm with concentration. “I doubt it is worth two thousand Lambs.”

“How many Enchanters in Edainia?” Jack asked him. “How many in Indosiil? In the world? Must be one in ten thousand at best. Two thousand coins?” His voice warmed. “Surely, my mayor, this is likely to get you far more than what I am asking for it.”

“But you’ll make a profit, whatever you sell it for. You took it for free.”

“I took it for blood. I diced with death to win it, as I have done with every other item I’ve sold you. This is by far the most expensive thing I’ve found,” save one, “and I’m willing to give it to you for at most half of what the Wizardry would pay for it.”

The Mayor considered this. Jack expected him to nod his head, but the Mayor shook it instead. “No,” he said firmly, decisively, “you shall have one Pride, nothing more.”

Jack sighed, but he kept smiling. “Very well,” he said, “but how about I knock off ten Lions for that?” He pointed at the tapestry above the Mayor’s head. "I'd like to hang it on one of my hideout walls."

The Mayor craned his head round to look up at it. “The tapestry? You’d accept a Pride and a half for that? Why? I was offering you far more.” He stood up and looked at it closer. “This is a basic depiction of Lucidon the Legend throwing Freidon the Foul down from his throne. What makes it so valuable to you?”

“Oh, just...the picture,” Jack lied, “and the…traditional craftsmanship, imagination and art that culminated in such a…memorable image.”

“Tell me the truth,” the Mayor snapped, “or you'll have nothing.”

Jack sighed. “This piece is one I've come across in books before,” he said, “displaying it on the wall of an Eden king's throne room.”

The Mayor looked surprised. “Which book?” he asked. “Which writer? Which artist made the tapestry?”

“It was in The Shadow of the Lion,” Jack explained, “by Tygillon, and it was made by the artist Riddion. It was one of the Ten Tapestries that Lucius the Lustful boasted of to the Duke of Achilles when he held him prisoner. These tapestries, all created right after the Legend’s victory, were all thought destroyed, but this appears to be a perfect copy.” He pointed down at the sack. “I’ll now give you all of this,” he said, “in exchange for that tapestry. Give me no money whatsoever, even for our past deals – I'm happy with that.”

“No.” The Mayor shook his head. “If it is so valuable, I won't merely hand it over to you.”

“You will get no better deal–”

“Don't try and weasel this out of my hands, snake!” the Mayor shot back quickly. “I shall give you the two Prides you first asked for in exchange for the Charm, and then you will leave!”

Jack sighed loudly, frustrated. “Very well.”

“Good. Now leave the sacks here, and I'll have your gold ready in the usual place. Four Prides, overall. Well done you.”

“Yes,” Jack said with a scowl, “well done me.”

He was smiling as he walked out of the Mayor's house, his loyal men behind him. Fool, he thought to himself, to think anyone would boast of that shitty piece of wall-carpet. He decided not to risk coming to Grisney again after he got his gold.

...

“Four Prides, Jack!” Alfbett Alunsson, the more talkative of the Half-Twins, chirped excitedly. “Four fucking Prides!”

“See, my friend,” Jack said, “I told you I could make us some money.”

“I’ve never seen so much in me life! An’ I’ll be able to hold it soon!”

“You ain’t able to ‘old it, Alf,” Ulfbett grunted, “not all of it. Too much tah carry.”

“‘Ow much is it again?” asked Alfbett.

“Four Prides, you fuckin’ idiot.”

“I know that! I mean ‘ow much coins? Lambs?”

They stopped by a lone house with a sign above it that Jack couldn’t be bothered to read.

“Well,” Jack explained, trying to use this as an opportunity to educate his fellow heroes, “it’s fifty Lambs in a Lion, and a Pride is twenty Lions. So how many Lambs must that be?”

Alfbett looked dully at Jack and scratched his head. Ulfbett just snorted and stared into the window of the house they were standing next to. Jack sighed. “A thousand,” he said at last, “it’s a thousand Lambs in a Pride. With four Prides, that’s four thousand gold coins.”

“Caw...” Ulfbett Alunsson breathed out slowly, still gazing into the house’s window.

“Caw indeed, my friend. Caw indeed.”

“What?” Ulfbett snapped out of some sort of daze and looked at him. “What were you on about, Cap’n?”

Jack looked at the window, though from his angle he couldn’t really see into it. “What were you looking at?” he asked.

“Just the prettiest woman I think I ever seen.” the Half-Twin answered with a wide grin.

“Let me see.” Alfbett said, shoving his half-brother out of the way and peering in himself. “Caw...”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Step back,” he commanded, “remember the golden rule.”

“We’re only lookin’, though,” Alfbett protested, “we ain’t doin’ anythin’ to ‘er. She’s too busy workin’, anyway.”

“What’s she doing, out of interest?”

“I dunno. Somethin’ strange to a man, looks like.”

Jack’s curiosity got the better of him. “I’ll see for myself, then.”

The Half-Twins respectfully stepped aside as Jack looked in through the window. There was a woman there, dressed all in white, with long copper hair and pale skin. She had red lips and a very, very fair face, and pale doe eyes, the colour of a pale summer sky, which, despite the innocence that Jack could see at first glance, contained behind them something as arousing as it was completely, utterly unsettling.

Lying on a bed in front of the woman was a man stripped down to his waist. There was blood on his chest, yet no mark. Shaking, he looked white enough to be a corpse. The woman rubbed her thumb over his forehead, smiled a sweet smile and said something to him, and then he started glaring at her. He got to his feet slowly, took his shirt from her hands and left promptly while he was putting it back on. He was muttering furiously as he stormed out of the door near Jack and the Half-Twins, throwing a jacket on as he walked away.

“Hmm...” Jack certainly hadn’t expected that. It seems we have a healer in our midst.

When she suddenly looked at him, his blood froze. He quickly stepped away from the window. “Well,” he said, as casually as he could, “I-I suppose it’s time we got a move on. Places to be and all that.”

…

Soon, they reached the tavern, The Cornmaker’s Rest, and entered to find the merriment of the Brand Band in full swing.

The dozen members of the Brand Band already present were gathered around two tables, tankards in their hands. The money that was confiscated from the evil Feudalists had been put to good use in the Rest over the past couple of years. Tedd, the innkeeper, was a friend to the Band, especially the more money they brought with them.

“Jack Brand!” Tedd called out, elated, when Jack entered the tavern. He had a fat neck and a stocky body, a dark grey beard under his chin, and dark hair that hung just below his shoulders.

“A pleasure to see you again, my old friend!” Jack replied. “I hope you still have something to drink; I’m awful thirsty!”

His men cheered nearby. “Of course!” Tedd called back warmly. “Of course! Plenty thanks to your wonderful work, my dear friend!”

Jack approached the bar, looking around at the other guests. At one corner of the room sat three hard-looking men. One had several scars on his chin, another was missing an eye and the third man, though not externally marked with old wounds, had a weathered look in his eyes that suggested he’d seen, heard and done things that would never heal him inside. They could all make fantastic recruits, though they’re probably mercs of some sort.

On another table sat some nervous-looking lads huddled together, staring down at their drinks. Some were quite pale. Broken the law, perhaps? I could use a few new men or boys to help deliver justice and equality and all that.

On the only other table in the tavern, and by far the longest, were two large-looking fellows cloaked and hooded, as well as a smaller but certainly not small man, also covered in wool. There were others gathered around them, though they were at least showing their pox-scarred faces. Some sort of rejects from our unjust Feudalist society, no doubt. Those three hooded men are likely hideous in appearance, or scarred beyond recognition, and have seen themselves forced from their homes and loved ones for their suffering. And if they join the mighty Brand Band, they can find a new life, and will be able to fight back against this system of wrongdoing. Jack decided, perhaps prematurely, that this night was going to be a very successful one.

When he reached the bar, however, he could already tell that something was wrong.

“No barmaids?” Jack asked Tedd, looking around for them. “No gorgeous women to hand us our drinks?”

“Er, no, Jack, there ain’t.”

“Hmm...” Tedd passed him a tankard. As Jack took it from the innkeeper’s hand he noticed a slight tremor in Tedd's fingers and wrist. He glanced into the innkeeper’s eyes, then looked away. He’s nervous, Jack realised, and not because of the extraordinary company.

Having looked away from the innkeeper, Jack’s gaze had instead ended up on the three veterans in the corner. The one in the middle, who was as of yet unscarred, beckoned him over.

Jack approached slowly clasping his tankard tightly, with the Half-Twins either side of him.

“So you’re Jack Brand?” the middle veteran asked.

“I am indeed, sir,” Jack said curtly, “leader of the finest band of men in the kingdom.”

“Right,” the veteran scoffed, “the finest. Course.” Then he called out to another table: “You wouldn’t agree with ‘im, would you?! The finest band in the kingdom?!”

Jack turned to see the three hooded men rise from the table. They pulled down their hoods, and Jack’s blood froze. By the Gods...

Rust stood in between the larger men. His rust-coloured beard for which he was known was thicker and shaggier than normal, and above it was a very grotesque nose that was twisted to one side and was missing its tip. On the left side of Rust’s pale, freckled face was a large dent under his skin, covered by many scars and stitches. The eye on that side of his face was half-closed, while the other one, brown, glared at Jack accusingly. The two men on either side of Rust weren’t much better off: one was without most of his teeth and had scars all over the lower half of his face, and the other had a bandage over one eye and a large cut across his forehead.

“‘Ello, Jack.” Rust greeted icily as the room fell silent.

“Er...” What could he say? “Rust! My old friend and comrade, alive and returned to us!”

“Don’t fuckin’ start!” Rust retorted. “You left us to die, you prick!”

“I needed to save the others!” Jack reasoned. “I had no choice! You knew the risks! I had to look after my other men–”

“Look after ‘em?!” Rust laughed a bitter, mirthless laughter. “I saw you runnin’ away, you coward! You hit a beggar, an’ ran!”

“I wrestled with a spy, if that’s what you mean, and I escaped only after I was sure that as many of my men as possible were heading to the gate as well. Then I reunited with Sails, who tried to kill me, and probably warned the Feudalists of the raid. It was all a cunning trap!”

He span round to face the veteran after hearing him laugh. “What?” he asked.

“D’you all believe this liar?” the veteran asked the Band members around the room. “Feudalists? Cunnin’ trap? What a bunch o’ shit!”

“How else do you expect the societal order to be maintained,” Jack asked him, “if not by some clever cohesion of the most diabolical genius?”

“Co...dia...what?”

“As someone orphaned at fourteen,” Jack declared to all the tavern’s occupants, “I have witnessed hardship and injustice first hand. My own father was hanged, don’t you know? He didn’t do anything wrong, but nonetheless...” This has gone too far. “Anyway! Is it not clear that this system is corrupt, unjust, and purely evil? Should we not fight against this system with every fibre in our bodies?” He looked to Rust as the friend he once was. “Was this not why you fought, my old friend?”

“There’re plenty others who’re doing a better job then you!” Rust snapped back. “People servin’ the people, an’ not ‘emselves!”

“Nevil O’Liberty’s the real ‘ero!” the veteran called out behind him. Jack turned to glare at him. This really hasn't gone well now, has it? “‘E stands up for the common man an’ that! An’ ‘e doesn’t take kindly to you stealin’ all the men!”

“A-ha!” Jack pointed accusingly at him. “So your true motives are revealed! You just want to steal my men because your own leader isn’t just enough in his cause! I knew it!”

The veteran looked at him quizzically. Then, his eyes hardened. “Nah,” he said, his voice a lot more threatening than it was before, “nah, you ‘ave no idea. ‘E’s comin’ for you, ‘e is, an’ soon everyone’s gonna go join ‘im. A real revolution’s ‘appenin’ ‘cos of ‘im. But you?” He looked at the Brand Band, now all stood and looking nervously about them, hands rested on their weapons, all of them swinging gently from side to side. “This sorry lot ain’t gonna stand a chance. Not when we finally destroy all those royals and aristos. The Republic’ll rise, an’ all that.” He leant closer in, and whispered: “We know yer secret, Jack.”

Jack quickly glanced around him. Then he leaned in himself, now able to smell the veteran’s rotten breath, and asked: “Which one?”

His hand slowly crept towards a small knife he had just for these close encounters.

The veteran smiled. “Brandyville.” he whispered.

Jack grabbed his knife.

He was able to draw it out and slash before the veteran had managed to get a safe distance away. He cut his foe across the face, from right cheekbone to left eye, and the veteran shouted in shock and anguish. Jack still had a tankard of ale in one hand, so he splashed that over the veteran’s face, causing him to scream from the contact of liquor on his wound. Then Jack jumped away from the table, just as the other two pushed it over and rose with weapons in their hands. While the Half-Twins came forward to fight the veterans Jack turned to the other men in the Cornmaker’s Rest and cried: “Every man for himself!”

That seemed to confuse a lot of them, so that it took them longer to spring into action. Jack’s own men were already fighting with Rust’s group. He saw Will Boar, falchion in hand, hack into Rust’s side, causing the other man to scream in pain. It didn’t take a second for Jack to remember his father’s teachings: find a place of safety and observation.

He bolted for the exit. His men had pushed the enemy back from it, so after brushing past some of the Brand Band he was able to get there. Then, before he left the tavern, he ordered to his men: “Quickly! Away with you, my loyal brethren, to safety!” Then he left as swiftly as he could.

Outside, there were guards approaching. One of them was the man Jack had given the bronze necklace to, wielding his deadly-looking halberd. “Guards!” Jack called to them. “In there, there’s...”

Oh, fuck me. He noticed they were all looking at him with an...undesirable intent.

“There he is!” The guard with the bronze necklace called out.

The tapestry? Jack wondered as his mind raced. Yes, he decided quickly, probably the tapestry. The Mayor must’ve discovered the ruse earlier than Jack thought he would.

Jack could hear his men rushing out of the tavern behind him. Safety in numbers, I suppose. “Charge!” he yelled at the top of his voice, even startling the guards in front of him. He drew his sword – a very basic thing, but well-made and good enough for the task ahead – and ran towards his enemies.

There must’ve been a large reward offered to whomever killed Jack, as all the guards ran directly towards him when he charged their centre. There were about seven of them, far too many to fight, but they were letting their flanks down all the same. When Jack got close, he dodged to the right and slashed to the left, causing the two men in front to stagger and slow the guards behind them. One at the back of the group of guards was able to rush out in front of him, but Jack, still holding his empty tankard in one hand, threw the metal cup at his opponent, hitting him in the head with a clank! and causing him to stumble backwards and fall.

Jack dashed away, towards safety.

And he felt a sharp sting across his back.

“Argh!” It was all Jack could do to not fall to the ground in pain there and then. Were it not for his desperation for self-preservation, he was certain he would’ve been in the process of getting chopped into tiny pieces of red meat by that point. But instead he rushed forwards, trying to forget the searing pain in his back. His sword fell out of his hand, but he didn’t care. He heard his men fighting valiantly behind him, and hoped they’d distract anyone who planned on following him. He saw a side passage ahead of him, and stumbled into it. He came out the other side of the passage and ran up the road, steeper and steeper, passing the odd startled onlooker as he made his way up to where he knew he needed to go. His lungs began to burn and heave with effort, his legs ached, his back...his back...

He reached a lone house, with the sign hanging from its wall. The healer’s house. The pain in his back was beating on him like a drum, his wound felt cold, then numb. His head was starting to spin, the world shaking. He was so tired…

He shambled up to the healer’s door, and fell inside.