It was a beautiful morning, all told. The autumn leaf colours were slowly spreading through the scattered forests and fruit orchards like a gently rising tide. A thick layer of dew glistened in the low angled morning sun that had found a thin gap between banks of low clouds who threatened rain but seemed unable to commit. The birdsong had lost its spring and summer verve, but there were still plenty of territorial squabbles and avian death-threats being thrown around to provide a pleasant backing track. If only Alter wasn’t currently lying flat on his stomach in said dew, surrounded by the fallen apples of said fruit orchard, and the half dozen bothersome wasps that thought he made a lovely bench. All this just to stare through the scope of his rifle at a small cluster of farm buildings in the vain hope that some random so-and-so will pop out holding a big sign that said ‘I’m a bad guy!’. He truly knew how to live.

  Alter hadn’t been granted his much-desired meeting with Oliver once they had left Kalaton’s temple. Unfortunately, Lucille had arrived with great fanfare and enthusiasm during the tense exchange within. This was a fact he wouldn’t discover until he was apologetically denied entry to the main house, and was told that the young lord likely wouldn’t be available for meetings for a few days. He was at least allowed to submit a written report, with the vague promise that Oliver would get to it when he could. He guessed that it was a small blessing that a hastily scrawled note was delivered the following morning, expressing vague interest in his theory with the promise of action being taken soon. At least Victor hadn’t come barrelling in with threats of hostile action, though Alter later heard whispered reports that a large military camp had appeared on Masserlind’s border with Auserre.

  A couple of dull days passed by quietly and without any events worthy of note. That was until the Silver Wolves finished their preparations and commenced their raid on the book binders Richard had tipped them off about. The operation was a great success, and several captives were brought in practically unharmed. Having worked off his moral debt for the Pebble Maze incident, Winslow was allowed to return to his more usual duties. Soon enough he was achieving significant results as he weeded information from his new guests. As it turned out, one of the fresh captives was a member of Richard’s agitation crew that had been lucky enough to avoid previous capture attempts. While this man didn’t know exactly which farm was being used to harbour Bertrand’s agents, he had confidently stated that it would be one of the handful of farms whose workers made up the small village of Marsdale. Sitting roughly an hour and half by foot away eastward from Jestriff, it was also situated on almost the opposite side of the city from the summer estate where Bertrand had based himself. A simple trick which wouldn’t have prevented their eventual discovery, but it would’ve certainly placed it lower down the list of targets to check.

  Regardless of the imprecise nature of the information, this was too good an opportunity to pass over, and the order to move out and begin whittling down the options was quickly given. The initial excitement of being one step closer to victory and the thrill of the chase coming closer to the end was short-lived. The elements made sure of that. As did the fact that there were six farms surrounding Marsdale, and none of them had put up giant billboards declaring their nefarious activities. They were a week into their reconnaissance at this point, they were cold, wet, and miserable. Their small camp that had been thrown together a twenty-minute trudge away from the village had slowly transformed into a muddy mess. But now, finally, they believed that they had narrowed it down to one specific farm, and as of last night they finally had permission to commence more active operations.

  Yellowood Farm was a cluster of four large buildings, two of which were homes while the other two were livestock barns. The main focus of the farm was a herd of dairy cows, though they also kept a small herd of goats, a modest stable of three horses, and an assortment of fruit trees planted in long, neat rows. On the surface it all seemed completely normal and innocent, business as usual. In fact, the squad had initially marked the place as non-suspicious, only returning once it became clear that a second round of investigations was necessary. By luck or sheer coincidence, they had witnessed a cloaked figure arrive on horseback and speak to one of the dairy workers, who then gave the rider a crisp, military salute as they departed. Odd behaviour, not damning to the point of an immediate raid, but certainly enough to warrant closer observation. As time passed, the clues continued to add up. The squad witnessed more meetings with cloaked visitors, individuals with the faintest silhouettes of weaponry hidden beneath their outer clothing. Wagons filled with produce would be taken to remote, wilderness stockpiles rather than the city or some other settlement. The workers that had taken up residence in the smaller of the two homes were not who they claimed to be. They were too precise, too uniform. The work they undertook was inefficient and awkward in comparison to the drabber workers that walked in from Marsdale proper. It was these ill-fitting men that would be the squad’s first targets, starting today. As he lay motionless amidst the windfallen fruit, Alter heard the gentle sound of footsteps disturbing the grass behind him.

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  “Any sign of our man coming out yet?” Boozehound asked as he knelt down beside him, using the nearby tree to mask his outline.

  “Not yet, but there’s been some movement in the windows, so he’ll be heading out before too long.” Alter murmured in response.

  “Everyone should be in position by now, here’s hoping they don’t have a sudden change of schedule.” Boozehound frowned as he also sighted the house with his weapon.

  Every morning of their vigil, regular as clockwork, one of the suspected soldiers made a circuit of the farm to ensure nothing bad had happened overnight. Part of this patrol was to examine the rough fences that surrounded the orchards, a task that would take them nice and out of sight. The only issue was that there were four orchards surrounding the farm, and they didn’t know which one would be the first to be checked. Alter wanted to ensure the patrolman was in their custody before anyone else emerged, so he’d split the squad evenly to cover each potential route.

  “Remind me what the excuse is if we grab this guy and he turns out to be completely innocent?” His medic asked with a thin smile.

  “That we’re hunting a fugitive that fled Jestriff and was last seen heading in this direction. Whoever we’ve collared fit the bill and we’re very sorry for the mistake but we couldn’t take the risk of not grabbing him.” Alter intoned dryly.

  “Right. Ahh, movement.”

  “I see it.” Alter tightened his focus as the door he’d been staring at for the last eternity began to creep inwards and a hooded figure stepped out with a discontent huff.

  “It’s Green,” Boozehound whispered, referring to the colour of the man’s clothing which they used as a rough identification system. “He tends to start with the northern orchard, doesn’t he? Who’ve we got up there, Two and Four?”

  “Yep.”

  “Poor bastard, he’s headed straight for team violence.”

  “I’m sure they won’t do anything stupid.” Alter clenched his teeth briefly after that statement as sure enough Green began meandering their way towards the northern treeline and disappeared from view.

  Just under a minute later there was a crackle as the radio came to life.

  “Team Two, one target in the bag, currently unconscious.” Riptide reported triumphantly, causing Alter to smile to himself as he responded.

  “Good work, Two. Keep the perimeter tight, let's see if we can’t catch any more fish in the net.”