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The horse trough’s icy water turned vaguely pink as Matthias Warlock plunged his head beneath the surface, washing away the blood from his recent street battle. The elven gunfighter Viridian Swift, and the lady warrior Honour Pendragon stood by at the entrance to Harris’s Ale & Pie shop, along with their anonymous ogrun companion. Matthias sluiced off the excess water with his hands and then bent to recover his paired axes. The two Katrena’s hooks were even more bloody than he had been, but he did not wash them. Instead, he hailed a washerwoman as she passed with her basket of clothes. He offered the bent woman two galleons for one of the cleaned blouses in the basket. The woman accepted the sliver coins readily and handed over a shirt of course cotton fabric. The gunmage carefully wrapped the still bloody axes in the shirt so that none of the blood was on the outside of the wrapping and then motioned to his companions that they should repair to the pie shop.
The inside of Harris’s was a beneath the level of the street, patrons having to descend a flight stairs to find themselves among tables and benches and the mingled scents of simple cooking and rich Ordic tobacco. Glass windows at street level allowed some of the morning’s light to filter through above the patrons’ heads. Two serving wenches danced adroitly between customers with large trays perched upon their hips, maintaining a steady circulation of full tankards of ale and pastry cases stuffed with pork, lamb and onions.
Entering confidently, Matthias lead the others down the stairs and across to an empty table. Few of the other patrons cared to notice the two women with him and even the ogrun warrior bringing up the rear raised little attention from the jaded patrons of Harris’s. The waitress glided up to ask if they would like to eat or only to drink. A golden royal from Matthias purse bought pie and ale for all. The wench skipped away to fetch their order, sparing a moment to glance jealously at the two warrior women seated with the gunmage.
“I must thank you for your aid,” began Matthias as the serving wench vanished into the kitchen behind the bar. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“I served, with the Cygnar pistoleers, 1st regiment,” answered Viridian.
“Indeed,” said Matthias. “The King’s own?”
“That’s right.”
“So what is this business you wish to discuss?” the gunmage asked with a strange smile.
“You know Prelate Marsendat, don’t you?” asked Viridian.
“Aye…though it’s been several years since he and I last spoke. Last I heard he had been commissioned by the Church to preach in Corvis.”
“He died in Corvis,” announced Honour, flatly.
“The recent troubles, no doubt,” Matthias said. “A great loss to the Church and to Cygnar.”
“Yes,” agreed Viridian. “It is a great loss to us as well. It is because of his death that we are forced to seek you.” Silence followed this cryptic statement, as Matthias searched the faces of the two women.
“No,” he said at last, as if they had asked him a question. He looked over his shoulder to see if the girl was bringing their ales.
“What do you mean, ‘No’?” asked Viridian, looking puzzled.
“I mean, ‘No, I am not going to take you to that island’,” answered Matthias.
“You must! You are the only one living who knows the way!” blurted Honour, her patrician demeanor lapsing momentarily. The Warlock leaned in suddenly, fixing her eyes with an intense stare.
“Marsendat and I were shipwrecked on that island with nearly thirty others and we two alone escaped with our lives!”
“Morrow spared you for a reason,” said Honour. “Even a heretic such as you could see that!” Matthias glared at her but said nothing.
“Look, just hear us out, would you,” said Viridian quickly, trying to cover her companion’s ill chosen words. “I mean, as a brother veteran; there’s the honour of the swan between us, right.” Matthias chuckled and shook his head. Viridian and Honour looked at each other in concerned surprise. “How can you refuse?”
“There are three ways that I can refuse,” explained Matthias. “First, Marsendat and I swore an oath to Morrow never to reveal the island’s location; I may be a heretic but that doesn’t make me an oathbreaker. Second, it is precisely because of the events on that island that I was put out of the Order of Keepers, so you understand I have no love for the place; and finally, I’m not impressed by third rate con artists trying to play upon my loyalties.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Viridian. The ogrun who otherwise stayed silent, growled at the gunmage’s insults. Before anything could happen though, Matthias thrust his right arm across the table and pulled the sleeve up to the shoulder. On the muscle of his upper arm was a tattoo of a crown over crossed pistols.
“Second Pistoleers are the King’s Regiment. It’s the Homeland Loyalists who’re the First!”
“I thought you served with the First,” said Viridian.
“I can’t, I’m Scharde,” explained the Warlock with a sneer. “Loyalists are all native born. They wouldn’t have taken me; neither would they you, like as not.” Viridian looked away, ashamed by having her ruse so easily torn away. From the moment she’d opened her mouth about service with Cygnar, Matthias had known she was a liar.
The gunmage stood to leave, pulling down his sleeve as he did so. With desperate speed, Honour reached out her gloved hand and grabbed his arm. All pretence of superiority left her and her eyes implored the angry gunmage to hear her.
“We are desperate and have no other hope,” she pleaded. “I would not normally try to play upon a service done, but we could easily have left you to the mercies of that treacherous dandy and his sniper ambush. You owe us your life!”
“Mayhaps,” agreed Matthias reluctantly. “But that is a small debt, I assure you.”
“We have a comrade, a beloved friend, trapped upon that island. The Prelate described you as a man of honour and loyalty. You would never have left your comrades to die; help us to show the same loyalty to ours!”
Listening to Honour’s words, Matthias wondered churlishly if she would be easier to ignore if she were not so achingly beautiful. Even begging, she was as fine a woman as had ever deigned to speak to him. “The Prelate would never have told you these things about me,” he protested.
“He didn’t have to,” agreed Viridian, reaching into her belt and producing sheets of fine paper. Neither vellum nor rough parchment, the paper was fine and expensive. Taking it from her hand, Matthias unfolded the sheets, noting as he did so that the folds were well worn and feathery at the edges; these sheets had been folded and unfolded, read and re-read many times. The pages were topped with the seal of the Church of Morrow and the sign of the Exarch of Caspia on the bottom. They were copies of high level church correspondence. Just holding them in his hands gave Matthias a chill, for these two women and their ogrun bodyguard were clearly more important and influential than he had imagined. He sank back down on the chair as he began to read the report detailed on the pages.
“Marsendat made that report soon after you both returned,” explained Honour. “He credits you with his survival.” Matthias shook his head in good natured disbelief.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” he said, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I keep my oath to Morrow and get expelled as a heretic; Marsendat breaks his oath and gets promoted to Prelate.”
“Our friend was with an expedition that was following Marsendat’s report,” Viridian said, ignoring Matthias’ comments about the dead Prelate. “They’ve been gone for too long and no divinations of the Church can obtain any word of them.”
The words on the page and the two women’s story was much to absorb in one sitting. Matthias looked up at the windows, trying to order his thoughts, when a flash of green cloth in the streets outside caught his attention.
“Speaking of reports,” he said. “Did no greencoats turn up to see what was going on while I was unconscious.”
“Only one,” said Viridian, a strange smile playing across her face.
“It appears that I owe you for that too, then,” said Matthias, his eyes tracking movement past the windows. There were a number of green clad legs visible from where he was seated.
“No debt there,” said Honour with pride. Her ogrun companion chuckled deeply, like gravel rattling and echoing in a large wine barrel. “We saw the little weasel off.”
“What?”
“We saw him off,” Honour repeated “The corrupt worm was demanding a bribe to prevent your arrest. I cuffed him for a cur and then Dokor chased him away with the butt of his cleaver.”
“Are you touched in the head?” Matthias asked, slapping his forehead in disbelief. The numbers of green clad individuals in the windows was rapidly growing and they were moving towards the pie shop’s front door. “Paying the fine is how things are done. You can’t just give the law a kick in the bum!”
“He was corrupt,” Honour protested. “I willingly face trial for my actions; no magistrate will convict me. My actions were perfectly just.”
“This isn’t Caspia, woman! There are no magistrates or courts here, not for commoners or foreigners. The greencoats keep order, not justice. You pay the fine and tug the forelock and are thankful when they go their way!”
The door to the pie shop swung open and four greencoated lawmen with chain coats and short barrelled muskets smartly took up position on the stairs. Honour was taken aback by the Warlock’s rebuke and Dokor the ogrun growled ominously. Conversation dropped to nothing as the clack of the musket hammers being drawn back echoed through the shop. There was a loud clattering thunk as the serving wench nearly dropped their order onto the table with surprise. From the top of the stairs an authoritative but unseen voice called out; “Matthias Warlock and companions, you are under arrest for the crime of violence against an officer of the law. Come quietly or we will shoot.”
Honour Pendragon spat a curse, but the words were lost as chaos suddenly erupted in the pie shop. Patrons and serving wenches bolted, scattering chairs and tables in desperation to flee the line of fire. Perhaps unnerved by the crowd or perhaps simply apathetic, the musketmen on the stairs fired their first volley. Members of the crowd fell wounded while two younger men in uniform quickly darted down the stairs and replaced the empty carbines with freshly loaded muskets. As the marksmen took aim again, Matthias wrenched up the table, flinging it onto its side and then diving behind it as cover. Viridian, Dokor and Honour swiftly joined him, crouching behind the heavy wood.
“They didn’t even give us a chance to surrender,” protested Viridian, both her pistols drawn and ready.
“Welcome to the Five Fingers,” quipped Matthias as the next volley of musket fire struck splinters from the table.
