Five days had passed since the squad had been eventually worn down into agreeing with Oliver’s more direct line of thinking. Their preparations had been thankfully minor, Oliver had managed to dig out an old architect’s plan for the summer estate Bertrand had commandeered, it was forty-seven years old and certainly out of date but it was still better than nothing. In the middle of the night following the third day, the Silver Wolves slipped out of the city. Any overly curious souls who may be compelled to investigate would find orders to respond to a series of cattle burglaries in the outlying villages to the north. This was, of course, a misdirection. The Silver Wolves instead moved to set up camp within striking distance of the estate, their numbers bolstered by two new members who kept their hoods up and tight at all times. These new members being Oliver and the priest of Sirrithae who had agreed to take on the challenge of a solo banishment. Everyone acknowledged that the young lord’s absence would be noticed sooner or later. Thankfully, Lucille was more than capable of managing the affairs of the land for a couple of days. So long as the messages were worded the right way, delivered at the right time by the right people, no one would realise the truth until the mission was already complete.

  On the morning of the fifth day, the squad geared up, retrieved their horses, and left Jestriff through their usual side gate. They made no attempt to hide their departure, nor were they challenged as they did so. Anyone who did ask where they were going or what they were doing would’ve received no response beyond stoney silence. The northern wind had died down over the last forty-eight hours, resulting in an admittedly picturesque, sunny morning, but there was an uneasy stillness that clung to them. Glancing back before they disappeared into the hills, Alter could swear that the city was watching them go accusingly. ‘Go then, see if I care’, it was saying, likely pouting like a spoiled child as it did so. Smiling to himself at the mental image, he turned back to face the wider world. The hills would not last long, soon enough they would descend down into yet more forest. Maybe a thirty-minute ride deeper into the greenery would see them arrive at a large lake. Built on the shores of which was the summer retreat of the Masserlind family. A trio of houses, made from the same stone, surrounded by walls on three sides and the lake on the other. It truly was a faithful copy of their Jestriff holding, only slightly smaller.

  As with all large noble properties in this place, the road leading to it was long and arrow-straight. Oliver had told them that it was to make it harder for a hostile army to approach unseen. Alter was fairly certain it was to annoy visitors into giving up halfway along. His musings on the nature of passive-aggressive road construction were soon interrupted by an unusual sound. A bird call, high and lilting, drifted through the trees towards them. But this was no feathered flier, it was a signal used by the Silver Wolves to communicate between scattered groups. They were nearby, and ready to move once the signal was given. Another piece of the puzzle falling neatly into place.

  “Six guards covering the gate. Seems a little paranoid, don’t you think?” Riptide nodded towards the estate.

  “I couldn’t possibly imagine why.” Alter answered sarcastically, “I can’t see them clearly, how fancy do they look?”

  “Pretty damn fancy. Got big feathers sticking out of the top of their helmets and all.”

  “Charming. What are they armed with?”

  “Halberds, unnecessarily long ones. Winslow would’ve chucked them out for being too unwieldy within five minutes. Swords at the sides, those are probably what they’d actually use in a fight.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Halberds? That’s a full-on pike, what is this? Macedonia circa three hundred BC?” Boats laughed.

  “Hey, I mean, if we were to draw steel and attempt a cavalry charge down their throats, I’d certainly want a phalanx to hide behind.” Boozehound pointed out.

  “Alright gents, enough casual chatter. We’re mercenaries possibly about to go turncoat. Less jokester, more ‘stab you for money’.” Alter reminded them firmly, and the rest of the straight line was made in silence.

  As they drew close to the gate, two of the pompous looking guards used their long halberds to bar entry. A third, who wore a yellow sash covered in medals and rosettes, stepped forward and eyed them all up and down.

  “You must be the RGS mercenaries.” He asked. There was a pertinent growl behind his words, a tightness born from a deeply held grudge.

  “That’s us. We are expected.” Alter confirmed, matching the man’s tone with an underlying menace of his own.

  “That you are. You are free to enter the estate, please bring your horses to the front door where you shall be met by the staff of the house.” The armoured figure stepped closer to him, Alter could barely make out a pair of grey eyes staring daggers at him through the slit of the visor. “Try anything stupid in there, and I will rip your guts out and feed you to the lake trout. Are we understood?”

  “Perfectly so.”

  After another couple of seconds of aggressive eye contact, the man spun on his heel and ordered the others to make way. Resisting the urge to aggravate the man further, Alter guided Tarikell into a trot. Perhaps having sensed his rider's suppressed desire to cause a little mischief, the horse gently reached over and nibbled off the top of one of the guard’s plumes as he passed. He got a hearty pat on the neck for that, and responded with a smug, conspiratorial whinny.

  The interior of the estate was strangely devoid of life. Of the three buildings, only the largest had any windows or curtains open, the others were completely shut up as if abandoned. However, a practised eye could tell that this was not the case. The pathways to both were flat from treading feet. Pebbles of the white gravel that made up most of the floor could be seen near the sides of the doorways, a sure sign that they were in frequent use. How many men did Bertrand have squirrelled away in there that he didn’t want the squad to see? Just how large was the hornets’ nest that they were about to kick?

  There was a surge of movement from both the main door of the larger house, as well as one side of it. Men and women in butler’s and maids' uniforms lined the steps up to the house, while several young men in stable hand’s gear moved to take hold of their horses' reins. Alter wasn’t at all certain about allowing Tarikell to be led away by men who would soon be enemies, but keeping up their cover held sway over personal concerns. Besides, he was sure Tarikell was more than capable of keeping himself and his kin safe. He was a little surprised that no one had attempted to take their weapons away as they were ushered into the house. Perhaps they realised that such a request would be denied outright, and had decided to simply not mention it.

  He did his best to keep a mental image of the architect’s plans as they went. Fortunately, the greater floorplan had remained unchanged, though he could tell that several rooms had been repurposed over the years, and that a small number of internal walls were missing. The squad was led up to the first floor, along a wide corridor which wrapped around to the side of the property. There they were met by a pair of ornate, dark wooden doors. If he remembered correctly, this would be the master living room. Sure enough, the doors were opened with great reverence, and they were led into a spacious room filled with leather sofas, armchairs, small tables and an impressive carved stone fireplace. Sat on one of the chairs, but rising to greet them, was the targeted man himself. Bertrand gave them a huge, joyous smile, spreading his arms wide.

  “My friends! I knew you would see sense eventually!”