Content Notice: This chapter of Brightleaf, Or, The Hillcrest Affair contains reference to familial death and dysfunction, explicit racism, and sexual harassment obscured through foreign language.
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“So tell me again, from the beginning.” Wilbur’s morning was not off to a good start. His head ached like nothing he’d experienced before. He woke up outside, with no memory of getting there, just the memory of being cruel to his new friends. The sky was still in recovery from its dusky bruising, and Sven didn’t pack supplies to make Kala on the road. On top of all that, he had just learned he was almost eaten while he slept. “How did the wolves sneak up on you?”
Matua puttered around the campsite, picking up stools and bedrolls; preparing the carriage for them to get moving. Sven and Vala stood with Wil, having the same conversation for the third time.
“Like I said,” Vala began, exasperation tugging on the fringes of her voice. “They kept their distance, at first. As soon as one of them snapped a twig I found them immediately.”
Wilbur pressed at his brow. “And then they came sauntering up to the fire, like to have a chat? And you didn’t think to wake us?”
“She said she tried,” Sven defended, “she froze. Have you ever faced down a pack of wolves-”
“Dozens of times,” Wilbur interrupted.
“-by yourself?” Sven finished his question sharply.
Wilbur went quiet.
Sven dug in. “Do remember your first time doing a watch shift? Do you remember the first one you did alone? Vala did both last night. We are all still alive, and in as many pieces as we were when we went to sleep. Cut her some slack, for Mother’s sake!”
Wilbur felt the hot itch return where his ear should have been. Before he could respond, Matua’s hand was on his shoulder.
“We’re all set,” the wyst ended the conversation for everyone. There was something different about his tone, but Wilbur couldn’t place it. “Horse is fed and happy, and everything is stored away. Vala, climb in the far back; try to get some rest. Sven, keep her company. I’ll drive. Kid, can I count on you to be my lookout?”
It took Wil a moment to realize Matua meant him. “Really? Yeah, for sure.” The itch dissipated.
Sven’s travel supplies were not the standard fare he was used to. On hunting trips with his brothers, they had attendants with fresh rolls and cheeses, cured sausage, and fresh fruit. The carriage had some Daslandic mix of oats and nuts similar to the muesli he knew (and detested), a few apples past their prime, and very tough venison jerky.
The morning was not getting better.
He sat in silence beside Matua, looking out at the hills, trying to chew on some jerky. Matua handled the carriage very well; he drove better than Willem on their joyrides.
“How are you doing,” Matua asked with the inflection of a fact.
Wil wasn’t used to being asked his feelings. He especially didn’t expect it from Matua. “Um, fine, I suppose.” He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. “How are you?”
Matua scoffed. “I’m not making conversation. I’m checking your faculties. Does your head hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That means we don’t have to be too concerned about brain damage. Your leg, where you got cut. Any heat radiating?”
He reached down to feel. “No. It’s tender, but not hot. No infection.”
“Glad to see you knew that one. Do you need to take the edge off the pain? The apothecary gave us another vial of extract.”
Wilbur thought for a moment. He could use some numbness. “No, thanks,” he decided. “I’m not proud of how I act on it. I can manage.”
“That’s quite introspective for you. Has Vala’s good nature rubbed off on you so quickly?”
Wilbur looked at the copper-skinned hunter. Matua’s eyes stayed focused on the road. “No, I think it’s something else.”
“Well whatever it is,” Matua replied, “keep it up. You’re far more palatable this way.”
Wilbur looked at his feet and smiled.
Matua continued his survey. “How are you feeling about your brothers?”
Wilbur shifted in his seat. “I’m worried about Willem.”
A beat.
“And I’m furious at Willard. He had no right being at Father’s desk. The gatemen would have sent word of our return, and Father would have been there. Willard intercepted the message. He wanted to send us off. He also knows more than he’s letting on. I know how my little brother lies, and that whole interaction was full of tells.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Matua’s tone was gentle, not the interrogative tone he expected, like the one he used on Vala earlier.
“I was exhausted and barely conscious. I’m surprised I remember it to be honest.”
Matua nodded. After a moment, he spoke again, a little more softly. “The last two days have been brutal, even for my taste. It was your first sapient kill, wasn’t it?”
Wilbur let the question hang in the air a moment. “Yeah, well, it’s not like a soldier’s life is full of brandy and daisies,” he deflected.
“I disagree,” Matua replied. “Most soldiers are famous for pulling down the former and pushing up the latter.”
Wilbur laughed. “Fair point.”
For a moment neither said anything. The trotting of the horse and creaking of wheels provided ample conversation; a bird interjected with its song.
“Road travel is strange,” Matua muttered. “Especially with a group. On one hand, you have people with you to experience new things—share in the awe. On the other, there’s this.. thing you start to notice. Inside you. Some thing that tries to kick it’s way out of your chest.”
“What do you mean?”
Matua shrugged. “Regrets. Grudges. Grief. It’s not out of the ordinary to come back from a long trip changed in more ways that one.”
The wheels creaked again.
“Except for merchants,” Matua added. “They’re always dicks.”
Sven cackled from the back of the carriage.
Wilbur smiled nervously.
“I miss Wilgoth. He used to joke that way. He was my other older brother.”
“I knew him.”
Wilbur was blindsided. He had no idea Matua even knew about Wilgoth’s existence. “You did?”
“Yep. He apprenticed at the butcher’s guild for a while. Always gave me the fairest commissions for my hauls. He was a good kid. He would have been a good man.”
Wil’s heart brightened to hear praise for his brother.
“He was the least like Wilmutt out of the four of you, that’s for sure.”
Wilbur couldn’t disagree. In fact, it was quite a topic of discussion at family dinners, before he died. Wilbur looked up. The sky had caught up to them, now alive with a blue not unlike his family colour. He took it as encouragement. “I miss Wilgoth more than I’d like to. He was only a year older than me. I suppose I’m the older one of us now. That feels wrong.”
“I know that feeling.”
Something clicked in Wil’s mind. He looked at Matua again, a new lens of context he was inferring. “Back in the cave, you said ‘we’. And your tattoos. Those aren’t Gadrian, are they?”
“No. They’re the markings of a Clan Protector.”
“You grew up there?”
Matua nodded.
“Is that why you say goblin weird?”
The elf let out a surprised laugh. “I don’t say it weird. I say it correctly. You’d be surprised just how many words have been stolen and warped from goblon’i to fit into other languages.”
“Really? Give me some examples.”
“No,” Matua refocused the conversation. “We can talk linguistics when we’re back home. You were talking about Wilgoth.”
“I don’t like talking about Wilgoth,” Wilbur said quickly. He took a breath. The hot feeling was back, this time in his nose and brow. “It was five years ago but I swear it feels more fresh than this Saints be damned hole in my head.”
“That’s fine,” Matua said coolly.
Wilbur took another mouthful of jerky. He chewed with a purposeful aggression, punishing his jaw.
Ahead of them, Duhnspik loomed. It became larger and more imposing with each passing minute. A haze of blueish-white began to settle in the air, diffusing the sunlight into vague brightness.
Wilbur hadn’t been to Duhnspik since the summer, when the faint sulphur in the air was neutralised by the lilac blooms that dotted the path. He and Willem had gone to watch a tourney in the Pit. Willard didn’t approve of such outings. He was always trying to position himself as better than his older brothers. Wilbur snorted angrily. Even when he was trying to remember something pleasant, Willard’s smug block of a face continued to crop up.
Matua nudged his knee. “You alright?” An actual question this time. The wyst was far more perceptive than Wil was prepared for.
“I’m fine,” Wil sighed. “I just really want to be done with this. I want to find Willem, bring him home, and punch Willard in his fucking nose as soon as I learn what he actually knows.”
“Ah, yes,” Sven chimed. “That’s what being fine sounds like.”
“Oh shut it, you ass.” Wilbur reached behind in an attempt to hit Sven in the shoulder. All he could reach was a sack of apples.
By the time they had come upon the outer walls, the sun had settled into the caldera; it reminded Wilbur of a massive flaming hard-boiled egg in its cup, waiting to be cracked open. The contrast it created made the crop fields look like they were out to the torch. Wilbur kept his eyes forward, at the massive walls the approached. Angular and smooth, the pale walls looked like the bare canvas of an unfinished painting against the dark charcoal rock of the mountain proper. Metal the colour of a roast turkey coursed horizontally through the wall like a painting of a breeze, only to transform into squared-off, angular fretting as it framed the gate.
Large polished obelisks of silvery white barred their entry to the Duhnspik outer city. Engraved and painted thereupon was the arms of the House of Harroning: two blue rams leaping forward, their golden horns about to clash, all on a brown field, with a vague silhouette of jagged mountains in blue along the base.
Matua slowed Mercy into a walk as they approached. A guard by the gates lifted his tasseled halberd to signal their stop. “Don’t suppose anyone speaks Dwerish passably? My accent is more likely to insult the guard than be useful.”
Wilbur shook his head. “I can understand a bit, but multilingualism wasn’t high on my education roster.”
“Why should it matter?” Sven asked. “I’ve never had any issues using common around here.”
“Yeah,” Matua replied. “But you’re less obviously wystish compared to me or Vala. Let’s hope this one is more open-minded than normal.”
Wilbur’s brow furrowed. He attempted to put on his most intimidating face while he sized up the approaching guard. He —well, Wilbur assumed the guard was masculine. There’s no great differentiator from this distance. The guard was burly, even for a dwersh. They looked like a cube of steel and auburn wool. As they came closer, more details were etched out of their steely facade. The armour was a solid suit of articulating plates folding and sliding beneath one another, like a second set of skin. Wilbur couldn’t figure out how it all stayed connected. A cloak of brown and blue flapped behind the guard in the breeze, gently blowing the three thick braids in their chest-length beard. The ruddy brown beard traced up their wide face and blended into the short coarse fur covering his face.
“Itir!” The guard shouted from six meters away with a hand in the air, signaling Matua to come to a full halt.
Matua straightened and raised his hand in response. “Ixboronado!” He called back. Even Wilbur knew that was an overly formal greeting.
A smile tickled the edges of the guard’s flat mouth. They waved their companion over. “Wotdwa doad lant dron?” They asked. Wil recognised it as something similar to asking their business.
Matua began a staggering answer, but he was cut off by Sven, standing up from the back and and stepping onto the bench. “Let me give it a go,” he said quietly to his companions. “Well met, noble guard,” Sven’s cadence had shifted, as if he was emulating a Lord Mayor. “My name is Steffon Brightleaf, Travelling Academic. I have recently completed an expedition into an ancient Taltii cave system, and wish to catalogue my findings with the record keepers of Duhnspik. May we have entry to your fine metropolis, please?”
Wilbur did his best to keep a straight face while Sven manipulated the facts in their favour.
The second guard had caught up to the first. The two exchanged hushed words, the first spoke up, in an artificially thick accent. “Mastor Brightleaf, akedemik, mha? We will needt to inspekt your wagen.”
The two didn’t wait for permission, and began roaming the perimeter. The second guard, with a darker, shorter beard, kept his brown eyes trained on Matua accusatorially. The first looked Wilbur up and down, calculating his risk, or perhaps his worth.
“Narboron, Konradt,” the first called to the second across the carriage, “kiat ina humanuit rotskal!”
Wil recognised the Dwerish term for human, and something else he needed confirmation on. He leaned slightly toward Matua. “Did he just call me your pet?” He whispered.
“Let it go if you can.”
Wilbur exhaled.
The dark one, Konradt, had made his way to the back of the carriage. “Darron, wotdoboron kwe skal priiti?” He laughed. “Narlait ina mino drala korpox!”
Whatever Konradt had said bristled Matua. “Okay,” he declared sharply. “We’re done here.”
Darron turned his attention back on the bench and repositioned his halberd. Sven placed a hand on Matua’s shoulder, in an attempt to steady the hunter’s tone.
“What my driver means,” Sven attempted to recover, “is simply that we are of no risk to your great city. As well, I believe curfew is still a few hours away, based on the beautiful golden sunset we are able to witness.” He flashed a brilliant smile. “Please, my friends, noble protectors, let us pass.”
Darron and Konradt conspired for a moment. “Fery well, Mastor Steffon. Your party may intor Duhnspik. We will alert the arkifist off your arrifal.”
“I thank you deeply,” Sven bowed. “Praise be to Duhn, may his light guide your path!”
Matua signaled a quick trot to Mercy, and the group entered the gates.
Once they were out of earshot of the guard’s, Sven clapped Matua lightly on the back of the head. “What in the Orange Acres was that about, hey? Couldn’t keep it together a few more minutes?”
Matua kept his gaze ahead of him. “I know,” he muttered. “I didn’t like what they were saying about Vala.”
“They were talking about me?”
“Yeah. Didn’t think you should be the focus of their ‘inspection,’ especially if you can’t defend yourself in their tongue.”
“Augh,” Wilbur shuddered. “Is that what ‘pretty beast’ was about? I thought they were talking about the horse.”
“Thank you, Matua,” Vala said, stamping over Wilbur’s building rage, “for saying something.”
Matua didn’t respond. Wilbur sensed the uneasiness between the four of them. He looked up at Sven, still standing, right foot on the bench back, left hand grabbing the canopy frame. Sven met his gaze and gave a subtle nod.
“I don’t know about anyone else,” Sven interrupted the silence. “But I’m famished. And I could do with some proper food. I’m pretty sure there’s a pub’ before the inner-city path. Why don’t we rest there tonight? My treat.”
“I suppose the bailiff won’t be in their office at this time anyways,” Matua noted. “Fine. Where is it?”
Matua led Mercy through blocks of barns and warehouses protected by the great white walls and up into the second tier of Duhnspik’s outer-city. The carriage weaved through the terraced village as the road inclined and turned. Wilbur watched little hairy children play in the small yards outside humble rowhouses as they trotted along, the road now a smooth and even pathway of the same liquid stone they loved to use for their city walls. He felt a sense of emptiness watching those children play. He couldn’t find a memory of his own to compare it to. They crossed a bridge spanning a cliff in the road up the mountain, which also seemed to serve as a delineator between the second tier’s residential and commercial districts. Wil felt uncomfortably small as they traversed the facade. The sun had sunken behind the caldera by this point, illuminating the steady plumes of smoke huffing from it. It also left this side of the mountain in stark shadow. A chill set in quickly as a gust rushed up the mountainside. Luckily, they had arrived at the public house.
Large but humble, the hub was a mixture of dwersh engineering and rustic hospitality. Wooden beams framed the corners and gables of the entrance, and a thatch roof rested calmly above the plaster walls. The remainder of the pub was set into the stone, as if it was giving birth to this dainty cottage. The stables were also carved into the mountain; a well lit cavern with a hay-covered floor.
Sven settled up with the stablemaster while the other three walked around to the entrance. Above the door hung a black wooden sign, Dwerish runes painted on in yellow.
“The Sleeping Anvil,” Sven announced, catching up to the trio. “Well, what are we waiting for?”
The interior greeted them warmly. The chill Wilbur experienced moments ago was banished at the threshold. Soft orange light pulsed steadily throughout the building, which extended farther than he expected.
“Praise be to Duhn! Welcome to the Anvil,” a peppy barmaid greeted them. “Find a place to rest and I’ll be by shortly with a fresh tankard for each of yous.”
“Free beer?” Wilbur asked Sven. He hadn’t been to an outer-city pub before.
Sven winked. “Oh yes, Wil. Only the first, mind. To get the taste in you.”
The group quickly found a table in a quieter corner of house, near the front window. Six great plush armchairs, easily wide enough for Wilbur to share, sat around an ample circular table. The four had only just settled into their seats when the barmaid set four foaming pints in the centre of the table.
“We’re happy to have yous join us tonight,” she began. “My name is Agneta, and I’ll be looking after your needs tonight. Are we just having a bite and a drink, or will yous be needing some lodging too?”
The group subtly looked to Sven for an answer.
“What a lovely welcome, Agneta, thank you,” he sang. “I believe we will be in need of some rooms, if you have any available tonight.”
“I’m sure we do,” she replied sweetly. “Let me go take a look while yous have a chance to look over what we’ve got to eat tonight.” Agneta hustled back to the bar lost quickly in the rising tide of patrons.
“It looks like we got here just in time,” Vala remarked. “Forgive me,” she continued, “but are all dwerish public houses so comforting?”
“Definitely not,” Wil answered. “The ones inside the city aren’t anywhere like this.”
“Where have you been staying, Wil?” Sven sounded perplexed. “Is that your nobility showing maybe?”
Wilbur hadn’t considered it. Willem or their father always looked after the arrangements. He decided to take a drink rather than answer.
“It’s not important,” Vala moved along. “This place is lovely.”
“Hang on,” Sven stopped the segue. “Did you just use a normal phrase?”
“Perhaps,” the girl replied coyly. “I suppose your foul language is a bit infectious. But back to my point, you’ve stayed here before, Sven, yes?”
“Mmm,” he agreed with a nod, mouth full of ale. “Just the once though, but the rooms were as cozy as the dining room.”
“Good,” she exhaled, sinking into the deep green chair. “My poor back is surprisingly sore from one night on the ground.”
At that moment, Agneta resurfaced from the throng. She was deceptively graceful for her size, but perhaps that was Wilbur’s own experience talking over what he was able to see. Agneta was around the same height as Vala, but twice Vala’s width. He figured the general stoutness of dwersh came from scaling mountains and valleys, surviving the inevitable falls, and laughing at the fun of it all. It was strange for him, though, seeing one this close and not in some sort of armour. He realized he found her beautiful. Her blockiness was sanded down and softened into faint curves. The blonde-brown fur on her flat, broad face was decorated with green dye that flowed down into her short, wispy beard and beyond until the motif was concealed by the cut of her dress. Her hands —this was the first time Wil had seen dwersh hands so closely. They were at least as wide as his own, possibly larger. Her leathery palms held a natural resilience that extended into her three strong fingers. Wil had to count twice to be sure; he never thought to look before.
“All right loves,” she began with a spring. “I able to get yous one of our special group suites, on the second floor. I have a feeling yous won’t be staying more than the night, but yous can still enjoy your own rooms while being connected this way. Seems someone put word in earlier that a group a’ four would be coming by tonight. Your friend, whoever they is, has got good timing!”
The four exchanged a look.
“Thank you, Agneta,” Vala replied diplomatically. “We appreciate your work.”
Agneta smiled and set a room key down on the table. She took their food orders and expertly manoeuvred herself back to the kitchen pass.
The four of them sat there silently. Wilbur was trying to figure out how Willard sent a pigeon here. Did he send one to all the pubs in Duhnspik?
Sven was clearly also attempting to solve the puzzle; his face was buried behind a furrowed brow, eyes focused on the key.
Vala was looking toward Matua, and Matua was staring at the bar.
Wilbur turned, following Matua’s eyeline. A human man sat on a stool, back to the bar, observing the room. He had an elbow resting on the counter, a mug in his free hand to give the impression of being a drinking patron. His outfit was rugged, but clean. Leather armoured pants, an olive green tunic reinforced with leather strapping. His hair was a pale, dusty blond-verging on brown, tied back in a low ponytail.
“Sven,” Matua murmured.
The bard’s concentration was broken, and he looked to Matua’s focal point. “Interesting.” His voice carried no performance.
Vala said nothing, Wil could feel her stiffen with recognition.
The man at the bar did another scan of the room and locked eyes with each of them. He put on a knowing smirk, and pushed onto his feet into an effortless, unhurried stroll toward them. He was in his early thirties, if Wilbur had to guess, around the same age as Willem. His features were hawkish, with grey eyes taking stock of any personal inventory they allowed to be seen. A hunger behind his face told Wil the difference between charm and attack was only a well-controlled choice.
“Didja order tha pumpkin-stuffed noodles?” His voice carried over the sea of patrons, breaking against their table like a wave on a rock. “Absolutely to die fer.” He sat at the empty fifth chair as if his invitation was implied. “You all look like its been a rough coupl’a days,” He placed the mug on the table with a hollow thud. “Thoughtcha might need a cozy rest once ya got into town.”
“You’ve been following us,” Matua stated. No attempt at a question.
“Oh, goodness me, no,” he replied, feigning insult. “Far too busy for t’at, loves. I just noticed ya.” He took a breath, then continued. “Name’s Alastair. I do odd work for people who need things done discretely.” A smile crossed his face. “A Moonlighter, of sorts. I’ve been keeping an eye on ya since Clearwater, that’s true - Thought you might be findin’ need for someone like me before this situation is all finished.”
“What situation,” Wilbur prodded, reflexively.
Alastair’s eyes slowly moved over to Wilbur. He could feel the moonlighter’s eyes drinking him in. “What situation he says. Yer Pa’s not the most effective when it comes to clandestine plans, lad. People notice tings. Like when three strangers go along wit young local noble to a known goblin den on Duke Harroning’s land. Like when t’ose same strangers come back wit a badly bloodied young local noble carrying ‘is missing brother’s shield. Or like when t’at young noble sings at tha top of ‘is lungs while being carted out of town towards tha Duke’s capital. Tings like t’at, Wilbur.”
Silence fell.
Sven was the first to speak. “You’re quite observant -Alastair, was it?”
The man stood and took an unhurried sip from his empty mug. Wil wasn’t sure if it was performance for them, or the pub at large. “It was, and I am,” Alastair replied. “Look, I’m not askin’ ta join yer merry band a’ misfits. Alls I’m sayin’ is I’m around. And bein’ around can be useful.” He looked around the room again, taking it in from this vantage point. “I’m supposin’ you’ll be goin’ to tha Bailiff tamorrah. Her office opens at half-past nine; no need for ya ta rush t’ere.” He nodded slightly, as if he concluded a business meeting. “Rest well, I’ll be seein’ ya ‘round soon.” With a wink he turned and found a new perch at the bar to continue his observations.
Vala exhaled. Possibly for the first time since Alastair approached them.
“What’s the matter?” Wilbur asked, concern overtaking logic.
It took Vala a moment to respond; she looked at him as if his ear had grown back. “That is the gentleman from the barracks. The one who caught me on Port Day.”
Wilbur shook his head in disbelief. He looked back over his shoulder at the bar. Alastair caught his gaze and raised his mug toward the boy. “That’s not what I expected,” Wil replied. “He doesn’t look nearly as punch-able as you described him.”
“Big picture, Wil,” Sven refocused the conversation.
“He knows we’re looking for your brother,” Matua cut to the chase. “He picked us out of a crowd in Clearwater before we knew you were coming with us. Either he’s a savvy operator keen to get a slice of whatever work he can, or...” He didn’t finish the sentence. Wilbur filled the rest in himself.
“So do we grab him? See what he really knows?” Wilbur could feel the heat rising in the back of his head.
“No,” Matua answered. “Not here. Not safe.” He took a drink from his mug, wiping his thin mouth on his dark leather sleeve. “He’s also not wrong, either,” Matua continued. “I doubt your father even knows how to spell subtle.”
“Alright, enough,” Wilbur jumped to defend his father before he recognized he was doing it. Even though it was true: the man was a walking cudgel.
“For what it’s worth,” Sven attempted to smooth the tension. “This reeks of performance. Our man here’s probably friends with a guard, heard what’s gone on, and raced here to impress us with the strings he can pull. He wants in on the job and wants us to know how clever he is. I’ve done it enough times to know when I see it.”
“Are you certain?” Vala’s tone was filled with tension.
“No,” Matua answered for him. “The only thing we know for sure is the room is safe. He didn’t pay for it, he didn’t have the key.”
“Shit,” Wilbur blurted out. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Nothing free comes without hooks, Wilbur. It’ll do you well to remember that.”
“What about this?” Wilbur asked, then proceeded to gulp down the remaining three quarters of his lager in a grotesque display of fortitude.
“You ordered a full fried steak dinner plus another tankard when the server came back with the room key,” Matua answered. “Hooked.”
As if on cue, Agneta appeared with a serving tray filled with their dinners. Rich aromas danced through the air, pulling Wilbur out of his argument and into his plate.
There weren’t many words exchanged throughout the meal. The occasional “try this,” and discussion of portion swapping, but otherwise, the four ate heartily. Wilbur hadn’t realised how hungry he was. It had been at least two days since his last proper meal. All the while, he couldn’t shake this feeling at the back of his skull. A nagging pull of being watched.
