“My Lord, you look quite fabulous indeed!”

  Belfort and Hemsley both gushed over their liege with shining eyes and youthful enthusiasm, even as the subject of their shared excitement hung his head, his shoulders sagging in a most pitiful and haggard display.

  The elderly seamstress, in her dedication to her craft, had kept a tight hold on Niklas until the wee-hours of the morning, manipulating his body this way and that into various poses, and postures. She had toiled at seemingly inhuman speeds, stitching together intricate masterpieces with only the finest of materials… only to scoff at her finished creations, tossing them dismissively to the bewildered Niklas, who she had stationed at a table with a seam ripper and a pile of rejected garments.

  “No, no! This will not do!” She would declare with a disapproving shake of her head.

  Each time this cycle repeated Niklas’ face fell into an expression of hopeless dread, knowing that he would again be forced to sit through several more hours exactly like the dozen he had already been forced to endure.

  An eternity later he was finally allowed to stumble out through those large wooden doors which had been his prison cell, falling tiredly into the waiting arms of his servants and his wife. At first they had all worn grim expressions, resembling a group of knights watching as their charge went forth alone into danger somewhere they were not allowed to follow. However, the sight of the Count in his dapper new apparel blew all of that dour atmosphere away, as if a curtain of foul smoke was swept from the sky by a refreshing sea breeze.

  From Belfort and Hemsley, Niklas had expected this sort of traitorous joy. They were nothing if not excitable. But as he looked up at the Countess, he was startled by the expression she wore as she looked upon him wearing his new regal attire. Her cheeks and her ears were flushed bright pink, her eyes gleaming and opened as wide as her deformities would allow, and she had cupped her hands over her mouth in a futile attempt to mask her obvious beaming grin. What he had failed to understand or consider was that, for a woman whose only friends and companions had been little dolls for many years, having a wealth of finery to drape over her new diminutive husband had awoken a warm and powerful nostalgia in her chest, one that would never be fully satisfied for the rest of her days.

  The door creaked open behind Niklas then and out popped the head of the old seamstress.

  “My Count and Countess, I realize now that I had previously failed to consider or ask after a matter of import,” She said with a curious expression. “Will her ladyship be participating in the Grand Tourney?”

  All eyes then turned to Uldred, who returned their gazes with a wide, empty stare, an expression which was not unlike a startled deer.

  “...I do not believe that our dear Countess is familiar with the event, my Lord.” Belfort whispered to him while moving his lips as little as possible.

  Turning back to the old woman, Niklas shrugged nonchalantly and shot her an apologetic smile. “Would it be a tremendous imposition to ask you to create for her some suitable attire for the occasion, just in case?”

  “Not at all, my Lord!” She replied with an excited grin. “Though I will need to borrow the Countess in that case, so that I can take measurements for her trousers.”

  “I’m sure that would be fine–”

  Niklas began to reply only for the words to catch in his throat, for as he turned back to Uldred he saw that her expression had become pale and haunted, as if something about this old crone inexplicably terrified her. It was an expression he had never expected to see her, of all people, wear.

  “Uldred..?” He asked then, hesitantly.

  As if snapped out of a stupor by the sound of his voice, Uldred startled at first, and then nodded hesitantly.

  “Mm. Yes. Okay, I can do that.”

  The seamstress extended a hand to her, which Uldred reciprocated by reaching out two thick fingers for her to take, which the smaller woman was only just barely able to take a hold of. Then the old woman led her young client inside her workroom, shutting the door firmly behind them. As the two made their exit, Niklas had studied his wife’s surprising, sheepish demeanor with great curiosity.

  It almost seems as though being alone with such a frail and elderly woman worries her… Like the seamstress is made of something fragile like glass and she is terrified that, in her great strength, she might accidentally break her.

  As this analysis formed in his mind, Niklas began to stroke his smooth chin with his finger, falling deeper into his contemplation.

  I wonder if she fears such an outcome while interacting with anyone so elderly…

  “My Lord, is something wrong?” Asked Belfort, interrupting Niklas’ thoughts.

  The sound of his voice suddenly conjured in the Count several vivid memories wherein the monstrous mistress had foisted Belfort’s small, wizened form up high and then driven him down with such a great force it shattered the furniture and stone beneath him, and even left a smoking crater behind. Not even a knight van der Leigh could possibly survive such a traumatic blow unscathed, and yet this small, hunched-over old man would be up within the hour, happily dusting and polishing as though nothing had occurred in the first place.

  Niklas stared at the old Butler intensely, causing the other man to startle a bit.

  …Well, he is an anomaly, I suppose. Niklas concluded, and with that thought he abruptly turned and made his way down the hall and back towards the library.

  “What was that all about?” Hemsley asked confusedly while scratching the back of his head.

  Belfort could only shrug in reply. “Our Lord and Lady are so strange. How could normal folk like us possibly understand them?”

  “What is this?!” Nayantara cried.

  Along with Niklas and Thomas, the three were stood together before a noble carriage which had just been delivered to the open gate of the castle. The thing was simple, yet elegant in design, while it was somehow also the most fanciful and boisterous piece of work that the craftsmen of Tuk had ever produced. While it would undoubtedly appear humble when compared to the grand vehicles which carried the Nobles of the capital to-and-fro, for anyone who lived in the remote, impoverished lands of Petrice, it was as pompous and extravagant a carriage as they were capable of imagining.

  It had been carved from dark, varnished wood and accented with an inlaid silver trim. Inside its cabin were benches with cushioned seats and cloth drapery made with fine fabric which had been dyed a rich scarlet hue. Meanwhile, externally it had been furnished with a sturdy blackened leather which gave one observing the vehicle the distinct impression that it was wearing a winter coat.

  However, the carriage’s most distinctive and peculiar feature was simply its incredible size, for it had been crafted with the express purpose of housing the Countess, who was well-known for being both too tall of head and wide of shoulder to comfortably fit inside any standard vehicle.

  At first Niklas had gazed upon the carriage wearing a proud expression, standing with his head held high and puffing out his chest while his hands rested upon his hips. However, after a few moments of actually taking in the thing with his own two eyes, his true folly finally dawned upon him.

  … Wait a moment. Whenever I use this, I am going to be the one who looks the most ridiculous!

  Indeed, as his commission request had been made with the sole purpose of maintaining the dignity of the Countess as they travelled together for many days to the celebration at the capital, he had not taken into account that there was a balance to maintain between their greatly opposing statures. In his lack of foresight, he had indisputably swung that balance too greatly towards her, and had therefore doubly condemned himself.

  “Are we transporting a Noblewoman or an elephant?” Nayantara giggled, causing Thomas to look about nervously, for such blasphemous humor could prove to be deadly if the subject of their mockery lingered within earshot.

  “Natty, you cannot joke like that, especially not at present.” Hissed Thomas in a chastising tone. “The last time Ully heard you joke at her expense we couldn’t get her to leave her room for a fortnight!”

  Paying no heed to their squabbling, Niklas began to tentatively ascend the stepladder which led up to the carriage door. The first foothold was so high that Niklas could barely reach it with his boot. Despite this he refused to be forced to scramble up the ladder upon his hands and knees like a toddler, and so with a grim, defiant glare, a great effort, and several unbalanced near-falls, the little Count finally hoisted himself up to the next rung with his other foot.

  A stifled snicker rang out across the courtyard.

  In an instant Niklas’ head snapped over to his two companions, but by the time his eyes reached them they were already pretending to not be paying him any attention. Their faces were red and their chests heaving with repressed laughter, yet they steadfastly refused to meet his eyes.

  After a glare he returned to his challenging climb. A few moments later he had taken another step up the ladder, which was soon followed by another badly-smothered laugh.

  He once again turned his glare back towards the Hunters. Thomas, who was undoubtedly the better actor between the two, simply smiled back up at him in a warm expression of encouragement. Nayantara, however, was forced to resort to leaning over so she could hide her face behind her companion’s shoulder.

  With a roll of the eyes and a huff which rivaled even Missy the Mule in exasperation, Niklas returned to his task, doggedly making the rest of the way up the wooden steps to the door of the carriage. Thankfully, the rest of his climb was not as harrowing as that huge initial step, although it still took a good deal of effort and balance for him to achieve. Nonetheless, he finally reached up to pull upon the gleaming silver door-handle. First he did so with one hand, but then he was forced to use both as he fought against its weight, as it was entirely constructed of thick, solid wood and metal. When he finally managed to pull the portal open with a loud, groaning creak, Niklas was nearly sent toppling back down to the dirt below, a fall that would have been more harrowing than it first appeared.

  Once he had steadied himself and entered the cabin of the carriage his irritated expression melted away, for the interior was exactly what he had requested: it had plush and comfortable cushions, a good deal of leg room, wide windows, and heavy curtains capable of blocking both light and sound in case one of them wished to get some shut-eye. There were even a few shelves for books built into the walls, with hinged latches to hold the contents in place during travel over rough terrain, and there were several built-in cupboards to hold provisions or other items of leisure.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Now beaming with satisfaction, he turned back towards his companions outside of the vehicle. He was even about to ask them to take a peek inside as well, but no sooner had he whirled back to face them then he was met with a chorus of deep belly-laughs at his own expense.

  Nayantara had fully doubled over, heaving in labored and wheezing breaths from the strength of her merriment, while Thomas had covered his entire face with both of his hands and was trembling terribly. His ears, which he had not thought to cover, were beet-red. Niklas’ face fell once again into an expression of disapproving annoyance as he regarded them from his hard-earned perch at the top of the carriage steps.

  “I-I’m sorry, sir!” Nayantara stammered out once she had recovered enough breath that words finally became available to her again. “It’s j-just that… you look- you look like-”

  She did not need to finish her thought, for Niklas was already aware of how his diminutive size, combined with his struggle to achieve the otherwise simple tasks of climbing the steps and pulling open the door must have made him appear like a clumsy, fumbling infant. That knowledge did not mean he enjoyed the situation, nor did it mean he would take such treatment from his subordinates, and so this exercise in ridicule brought a great fire welling up inside of his belly.

  “That’s. It!” He cried, spitting out the words like a gout of dragon’s fire. “I’m going to kick your asses. Come here! Consider it your duty to your Lord and accept your punishment..!”

  Niklas then leapt all of the way back down to the earth while hissing like an enraged cat, and immediately upon landing he had begun to sprint towards the two Hunters with an alarming focus and swiftness. Thomas and Nayantara both cried out in alarm as he approached, turning tail as one to flee back through the gates, across the courtyard and into the safety of the Castle, wherein they stood a chance of shaking off his pursuit.

  From the second-story window which looked down upon that very courtyard, Uldred and Belfort both watched the Count as he hunted the Hunters in a mad and feral display of agility.

  “...Are we sure we should be so worried about my dignity?” She asked, both her voice and her expression remaining stoic and unimpressed.

  Belfort merely sighed and shook his head in reply.

  Meanwhile, far away from the land of Petrice—yet in an equally distant fringe of the kingdom—within a castle hall a posse of men, furnished in chain shirts and tabards, pressed desperately against a pair of tall wooden doors. They were all to a man haggard, beaten and battered, sucking in ragged breaths from their exertions as they held the door against whatever malevolent force lay on the other side.

  A pair of clattering footfalls approached them from behind as a young man of fine breeding arrived to command them.

  “Do not let them through! We must protect the Lady until help can arrive!” he barked with a calm and steadfast demeanor despite the dire situation, reassuring his men.

  The fellow was handsome, with a youthful face crowned with light-brown hair cut in a bowl sort of shape. His body was protected within a suit of fine steel plate not often seen in such a poor province as this, and he carried a longsword he had drawn from a scabbard at his hip as he prepared himself for the coming conflict. While it was not quite gilded enough to be called opulent, his blade was nonetheless of remarkably fine make, and its base was emblazoned with a house crest depicting a charging buffalo.

  The young man bit his lip—revealing a rare crack in his otherwise immaculate composure—and he turned his head back to look over his shoulder toward the woman who stood behind him.

  She stood with her butler and her head maid at her side, who both wore pale and fearful expressions as was fitting for such a situation. However, their mistress, a girl with a head of strawberry-blonde hair, instead stood with her shoulders back, her head raised, and her chest puffed out slightly in a show of Noble defiance. This hall was a territory her heart had laid claim to, for at the far end of it was a slightly elevated stage, upon which sat the chair where her father sat in judgement over his Barony. However, for many days now the chair had stood empty. She did not move to fill its vacancy, but she stood at its side, resting a single hand upon it to steady herself and give her strength.

  She had need of its solid presence for her father, the Baron himself, was gravely ill. He had been in dire straits ever since a glass laced with subtle and deadly poison had been set before him months prior. Although he had survived the terrible drought, he had yet to recover fully from its effects, and he was currently bedridden. His Barony, which was already poor in wealth and manpower alike, had been thrown into chaos by the sudden loss of their figurehead. Only the arrival of the second son of a Marquis from the capital—sent by the new King’s decree a year prior—had helped to halt any further degradation.

  Unfortunately, not even that Noble newcomer, nor the considerable amount of coin and soldiers that he had brought with him, could stand against the massive hoard of Northmen tribes that had recently descended upon their hamlet.

  With neither warning, provocation, nor declaration of war, these savage barbarians washed over the crumbling walls and gates like a rogue wave. Garbed only in crudely-worked leathers and furs and adorned in the horns of slain beasts, they nonetheless mowed, down the Barony’s guardsmen like wheat, invading their villages, setting fire to homes, and raiding what meagre foodstocks remained in their storehouses.

  None in the Barony could fathom how this army of brigands had then managed to break through the outermost gate without the use of rams or siege engines. Perhaps they had been empowered by rituals to their pagan gods. Regardless, whatever methods they had employed to reap so deadly a harvest, all too soon they had set their sights upon the Castle proper.

  The men and women of House Watercress were more native to these lands than even the King’s bloodline, and they fought these invaders like cornered animals, showing not a hint of fear or a thought of retreat. Even so, their courage and loyalty had not saved them, and they had quickly been whittled away and pushed back until only the dozen that lingered in this hall, braced against the doorway, remained.

  Crack!

  Suddenly the reinforced door, their last defense, was smashed inwards by some monstrous force, caved entirely in upon itself! The men-at-arms who had leaned all their weight against it stumbled back lest they be crushed beneath it as it fell, and within that open doorway stood a figure which caused even the eyes of these brave souls to widen in horror.

  The man who stepped forward into the room was so large that, even with a hump upon his back that forced him to stand hunched over, he still stood a full head above even the tallest man anyone there had ever met, and his shoulders were similarly unmatched in their width. He wore a thick, simple breastplate that could’ve fit around the chest of a large horse beneath a ragged, filthy drape of cloth, while on his head was a rounded helm of brass which appeared almost featureless except for a barred porthole in the center through which peeked a single eye.

  As the men-at-arms faltered, stunned by the sight of this monstrous warrior, a gaggle of more average, yet similarly rough-looking men and women crept out from behind the giant and through the shattered door. They did not hesitate to engage the soldiers with their axes and roughborn clubs, attacking with clear excitement.

  Despite their enthusiasm, their meager skills were no match for the well-trained veterans; the Lordson in particular dispatched his assailant with ease, turning a blow aside before swiftly cutting through the man’s neck in a single fluid motion. The men and women of Watercress had never been lacking in terms of their quality, but rather their weakness lay in their quantity; by the time they had cut through the vanguard of crude fighters, another wave had already crept through to replace them.

  “Stop!”

  A cold, smooth female voice cut through the noise of combat like scissors gliding through velvet.

  “Stop.”

  The giant, who had not moved since he had first stepped through the shattered doorway, lumbered over to one side and allowed for a pair of distinctly noble-looking guests to make their way inside the once-fortified hall.

  They were a man and a woman who appeared similar enough to be siblings; their skin was nearly paper-white in its paleness, their hair was entirely silver-gray, and their eyes an odd pinkish-red hue. The pair wore finery befitting a Lord and Lady with at least the status of a Duke, if not actual royalty. The man’s extravagant image had been blemished slightly by a spattering of blood upon the sleeve and glove of his right hand, as well as on one leg of his fine, tailored trousers.

  In his bloodied hand he clutched a tangled mass of hair, from which swung a fresh, still-dripping severed head.

  Young Watercress, the Lordson, heard a shriek emerge at his back, and he turned to see his charge, the young Lady, with her hands clasped over her mouth and her eyes welling with tears. Her face had gone almost as pale as the pair that stood before them.

  “Father!” she cried hoarsely, the overwhelming horror, shock and grief of that moment sending her falling to her knees, which caused her two servants to rush in to support her.

  The albino man tossed the head forward without even the care one might use for a bag of apples. The gruesome object bounced and rolled a few paces further so that all of the soldiers within could make out its identity. It was indeed the head of the Baron, and his death mask, at least, remained solemn enough to retain a shred of dignity. He had met his end with the heart of true Nobility.

  “So as you can see,” the albino woman began, finally addressing her foes, “the Baron’s chambers have fallen. All within them fought valiantly to the last.”

  The men-at-arms of Watercress grit their teeth with rage as they learned of the fate of their fallen comrades. Their Lord, however, extended a gauntleted hand to bring them to heel.

  “What is it you want?” he asked in an even and steady voice, even as a nervous bead of sweat dripped slowly down his brow.

  “It was the Baron’s final request that his daughter’s life be spared,” said the man, his voice flat and void of malice, or any emotion at all for that matter. “Lay down your arms, and no further harm shall come to you.”

  “And if we persist…?” Watercress asked, for his people were not the type to surrender.

  “Then you all shall die, and the non-combatants along with you.”

  Young Watercress looked to his remaining men, who returned his gaze with expressions of equal unwillingness. But then, as one, they looked back at the Lady, who was still weeping where she had collapsed earlier, comforted by her aides, and they sighed with frustration.

  “...It is cowardly to take hostages,” Watercress said aloud.

  Despite a reluctance which seemed to permeate every fiber of his being, he turned his fine sword over and tossed it by its hilt to the male albino, who raised his bloody hand and caught it from the air with impressive dexterity. The men-at-arms, too, let their spears fall to the ground and loosed their sheathed swords from their belts.

  The pride of Watercress warriors was no small thing, but to save the last remaining person they had sworn to protect, they would cast it aside.

  As this Barony fell to a ruthless invasion of the Northern tribes, so too had most of the territories that previously made up the borderlands of the North. Those few realms which had managed to resist the tide of savages wielding axes and fire now stood vulnerable and salient—peninsulas surrounded by an unfriendly sea—and the next day they each desperately called upon the capital for aid and relief.

  Currently, however, two figures marched back across the length of the smoldering hamlet. One of them, the albino woman, stretched out her arms and yawned as if this violent and bloody event had been dreadfully boring to her.

  “At least these lot were sensible enough to surrender,” she said once her yawn had finished. “I hear the county of Carrowicks chose to fight to the last. It took our dear Manqoba twice the time and men to finish them all off.”

  The albino man cast his pale-red gaze down to rest upon the fine, bloodstained sword which he now carried in his hands. “We cannot afford to lose any additional manpower. If we can bring a conflict to a close with diplomacy, then there is no reason for us not to,” he stated flatly in reply.

  The woman smiled, but it was a small, pained thing, like she was recalling a bitter memory.

  “Aye. We won’t be like that old bastard. We will give quarter when it is requested; we won’t slaughter whole families from the simple fear of reprisal.”

  The man finally tore his gaze away from the sword, turning it forward without focusing on any one thing. Instead of taking in the ruined, scarred battleground around him, he instead stared ahead into the future that he had envisioned.

  “But we will take back our homeland,” he stated with grim determination. “By any means.”

  While he spoke and cast his gaze towards unseen horizons, the woman at his side looked up to where the sun hung in the gray, overcast autumn sky. She reached out a hand and clasped it, as if she were attempting to claim the very sun itself.

  “And we shall pay them back for all that was taken from us.” She announced, finishing his thought.