Content Notice: This chapter of Brightleaf, Or, The Hillcrest Affair contains mild depictions of violence, and brief interpersonal conflict.
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The bailiff wasn’t wrong; the road to Woodfall was no further from the south gate of Duhnspik than the distance from Matua’s cabin to the cliffside caves. She didn’t mention the complete lack of security or care given to the path once turning off the main southern road.
Ruins of ambush littered either side of the roadway; half demolished carts and scattered remains of unlucky travellers had begun to sink into the unkempt weeds. He kept himself alert, the mix of tall grass and ramshackle cover made excellent staging grounds for the next ambush. If this is what Hillcrest represents, he thought, even bandits is too structured a term for them.
By the time Woodfall was in their sights, the sky had fallen to a colour Matua could only compare to rotten salmon. The air was thick with rot; Matua finally felt breath come easily as the palisade came into focus.
“That’s close enough,” a voice commanded from behind the wooden wall. “Who are you, and what is your business here?”
Matua looked at Sven expectantly. He had been lost somewhere in his memories since they left the Bailiff’s. After a prod, he snapped back to the present day.
“Sorry,” Sven said quietly as he stood. “Good evening,” he belted, “we come on business from the City of Clearwater. I would be happy to tell you more, but I would prefer not to shout it. We do have weaponry, but we mean you no harm. If you allow me to approach on foot, I swear on my life to do so unarmed.”
A silent deliberation transpired behind the wall. Then, slowly, the wooden gates opened. “You may approach.”
“This is unwise, Sven,” Vala cautioned.
“Yeah,” he replied, hopping off the bench, “well, as my uncle used to say, ‘the wisest decisions come decades too late.’” Sven walked toward the gates without a quiver of doubt.
“That’s a terrible saying to let guide your life choices,” Vala shouted in vain.
Matua could hear Sven plainly as he spoke to the gate guardsman. He told an honest summary of the events thus far; at least the ones most relevant to the Willem situation. Eventually, Sven returned, followed by a blond, poorly equipped dwersh man.
“Everyone,” Sven beckoned, “meet Uthor, Mayor of Woodfall. Uthor, this is Matua, Vala, and Wilbur. Wilbur is the brother of the one we are searching for.”
Wilbur stood and bowed his head. “That’s true. I am Wilbur, Son of Wilmutt, from the Family Frosthilt. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means, lad?” Uthor questioned, clearly unimpressed. “You’re almost a week’s travel from Clearwater. I don’t know you or your people. But Master Brightleaf here has made an interesting case. Please, come into my town. There is much we can discuss.”
Uthor walked back to town while Sven resumed his place at the reins.
“What were you thinking back there?” Matua scolded him. “You had no reason to walk up there without some way to defend yourself.”
Without a word, Sven returned Matua’s dagger to its casing on his thigh.
“When did you take that?”
He shrugged. “Either way,” Sven responded, “I’ve seen how fast you can draw and loose.”
Matua stared at Sven as he steered the cart through the walls. Something had shifted behind the half-man’s eyes. The spark of mischief that normally caught the light had been replaced with something else. Something more primal.
He couldn’t dwell on it long, though, as the interior of the wooden walls pulled his attention six different ways. Farmers’ fields were blighted, the sound of axe strikes was barely present, and the drone of the sawmill he expected was missing entirely. There were no bleating animals, no laughter of youth nor conversation between neighbours. Tension suffocated the villagers they passed. Some gave a false, half-hearted smile, but the majority stared scornfully. What Matua found most glaring was the lack of guards.
Sven kept Mercy at a respectful pace behind Uthor, who led them to a timber-and-stone longhouse near the middle of town. To either side of the double doors were hitching posts; Uthor helped Sven fasten the reins. Before long, a meagre crowd had begun shuffling around them. Matua was surprised by how cosmopolitan the villagers were. He scanned the crowd, finding humans, wystri, goblons, and titans interspersed with the dwersh residents.
Wilbur had noticed the crowd as well. “Don’t get many visitors ‘round here, huh?”
Uthor held up a meaty hand to the gathering townsfolk. “Come,” he spoke to the four of them, “we should discuss things inside.”
The longhouse served at least three roles Matua could identify. First, it was a gathering hall for feasts or community discussion. Next, it was where the mayor conducted his affairs. Third, it housed Uthor’s family.
Uthor led the group through the main hall, down a passageway into an open room about the same size as Matua’s entire cabin. Matua was growing tired of offices and studies; this one was no different. He walked across the room and looked out the window to a barren patch of tilled soil. “Bad harvest this year?”
“No,” Uthor sighed. “One of our best seasons. We should have been able to send one vendor to the mountain’s market this season.”
“You’ve lost everything to the raids, then.”
The mayor nodded. “Not just crops. They started taking our herds after the fields grew thin, then the villagers.”
Matua felt Sven stir, but he continued on before the bard could cut in. “Sven told you we’re looking for the Hillcrest Company, yes? Do you think they are the ones behind the raids?”
“There’s no doubt in my mind. They may not bear banners, but it’s been the same shoddy armour and ragged clothes each time.” Uthor rubbed his wide brow. “You may call me crazed for this, but I’m almost positive they have some kind of alliance with the local wolves.”
“Wolves?” Vala repeated.
“Aye. It’s almost a guarantee at this point that if we see a small pack outside the walls, there will be a raid before the week is through. And after they leave, a lone howl rings out through the valley. The folks have started calling it the Howl of Hillcrest.”
“Wait on,” Wilbur entered the conversation. “I’m confused. If you’re being raided so often, why haven’t you sent word to Duhnspik? As far as the bailiff is aware, this has been a few isolated incidents.”
Uthor looked at Wilbur with a measured calculation, as if he was weighing the comment as earnest. “Every courier we have sent returns to us the next morning a pulp, pinned to the walls. After the third attempt, I couldn’t stand to risk any more of my people.”
Matua understood the instinct immediately. He said nothing and instead turned to face Uthor directly, waiting for him to continue.
“Ever since Twin Moon’s ore dried up, we’ve been struggling, but we were still able to make things work.” He sighed. “It feels certain we are facing the end of Woodfall.”
“At the gates,” Sven spoke up, “you said we might be able to help each other. What did you mean by that?”
Uthor pulled on his face and nodded. “I’ve learned our people are still alive, and I know where they are being kept. Highly likely this brother you’re looking for would be there, too.”
Matua could smell Wilbur’s adrenaline spike. “Where?” The boy asked.
Uthor turned to the wall behind him, where a large map of the duchy was proudly affixed. “Back in the prime of Twin Moon’s mining, the Duke built a castle in-between the two of us. Fort Harroning provided protection and ensured trade was fair in the region.
When the copper was depleted, the mine shut down, and Duke Rubahn decided the fort was no longer essential.” He jabbed a thick finger onto the map. “This is the place they’ve set up in. I’ve seen it. But I’m just one old dwer.”
“Okay,” Wilbur responded. “Let’s get going.”
A mix of relief and disbelief washed over Uthor’s face. “Are you certain lad?”
“No, he’s not,” Sven cut in. “Look, Uthor, we understand your plight, but we are four people. We can’t siege a castle.”
“Willem’s in there.”
“You don’t know that, Wil. All we know for sure is that there’s a castle in the woods and it has an unknown number of soldiers in it. Even I know that’s fucking lunacy to attempt.” Sven turned back to Uthor. “We can go back to Duhnspik and speak to the Bailiff. Get her to send a contingent, alright?”
“Seriously, Sven?” Wilbur began to shout. “It’s going to take them weeks to read a Mother damned letter, and you think they will send soldiers on the word of some stranger?”
“Wilbur is right,” Vala joined in. “This city does not have weeks to wait. And neither do the captives at the fort. We have a rare opportunity to act. A responsibility, even.”
“No,” Sven responded emphatically. “No fucking way. We didn’t sign up to do this. We are looking for a guy, not waging a secret little war!”
“Well,” Matua decided it was time to join in. “We haven’t found him yet. And this is the lead we’ve got. Wilmutt is more likely to have us at the bottom of Stormbreak Bay if he learns we had the chance to rescue Willem and chose not to.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Sven pulled at his golden locks. “Fine,” he spat. “Good luck storming the castle, kids. I’m going for a smoke.” He tore out of the room, the sound of slamming doors announcing his departure.
An uneasiness swam through the air. Uthor was the first to break the silence.
“I’m sorry for causing a rift between you,” he began.
Vala walked to him and took his hand. “This was not your fault. You have done exceedingly well through insurmountable odds, and we will make sure you are recognised properly.” She smiled at him, the same smile she greeted Matua with that first night. “But first,” she continued, “we need to liberate your people.”
“What about Sven?” Wilbur asked, looking down the corridor.
“I’ll handle him.” Matua answered. Something was wrong with the bard, that much he knew. Now he needed to be sure Sven was still a reliable partner.
“Let me,” Vala interjected. “At least, let me come with you.”
Matua nodded. “Wil, stay here until we come back. Learn about the fort from the mayor. We are going to need every advantage possible to make this work.”
The two wystri left the study, back out into the great Hall, and beyond into the hazy dusk of evening. Sven was right outside, pacing. The overly sweet smoke punched Matua directly in the sinuses. Sven looked up at the sound of the doors.
“No,” he said flatly. “No, you aren’t going to convince me to attack a dwarf fortress.”
A scoff came from the surrounding villagers at Sven’s word choice.
Vala took charge immediately. “Let’s take a walk, Sven.” Without waiting for an answer, she began walking toward the beach.
Sven looked at Matua, confusion thicker than his beard. Matua just shrugged and nodded after her.
The three of them walked silently, Vala at the lead, Sven kicking dirt between them, and Matua far enough to give them privacy, but close enough still to hear them.
She stopped at an artificial bank. Bricks and mortar built up to help get the cut lumber in the water and off down the river. Matua hadn’t been this way in centuries, he reasoned. The water was a deep blueish green, waves moving lazily. He could not see the other side of the water; the lake usurped the landscape as far south as he could see.
“You’ve been very kind to me these last few days, Sven.” Vala’s voice carried effortlessly across the sand. “I appreciate what you’ve done and how readily you’ve accepted me. I want you to know that you are right. We did not sign up for this.”
“Thank you,” Sven started.
Vala held up a hand to stymie his interruption. “But I want to remind you of what you said to me that first night before bed, when you asked me to join you. You asked me if I wanted to join you on a ‘potentially fucked up adventure.’”
Sven laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Well, hear it again,” she carried on. “You were right. This entire thing has been completely fucked up. Wilbur is missing an ear. We are hunting for clues across an entire duchy. I watched a half-eaten Titan receive a mercy killing inside the kitchen his pieces were being cooked.”
“So why should we plunge into more?”
“Because we have to.” Vala paused. She pointed across the water. “Do you know what’s beyond this water? My home. Hundreds of kilometers south, maybe more. There was a saying in our home: ‘Liberty Through Duty.’ I never understood it growing up, I thought it meant to do as we are told to find fulfillment. But that never seemed liberating.”
She turned back to Sven. “I think I understand it now. When we help others, when we uphold our values and virtues, we are truly free to be ourselves. I know something is bothering you. You need not tell me what. But think back on it all and tell me this: can you live with yourself letting innocent people be subjected to this fucked up adventure? I know I can’t.”
Sven began to answer, but Matua’s attention was pulled to his left. A young goblin child, still unmarked, stood staring at him. “I’ve seen your face,” the boy said, awe struck.
Matua glanced back to his companions; they were walking toward him. “Sorry kid,” he replied. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Nuh-uh,” the boy protested. “You look s’zacly like you’re ‘upposed to.”
Matua narrowed his eyes. “Say more.”
The boy grinned devilishly, as if the next words would invoke some ancient eldritch pact.
“You’re Kéikéi.”
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