Conspiracy

Book 1: Wahrheit Series

by AC Cobble

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; epic fantasy; action adventure

Synopsis

For six hundred years, the kingdom of Wahrheit was ruled by an unbroken line. It rose on a wave of technology and magic and stood alone—a bastion of stability built on pillars of economic and military might. The nation and her people thrived due to the strength of soldiers and the protection of dragons.

But the line has ended—the king is dead.

Noble houses vie to carve out their own domains. Foreign armies march across Wahrheit’s soil for the first time in memory. Without leadership, the king’s army watches helplessly. The fae, a source of enchantment and treachery, work unseen to secure their share of Wahrheit’s blood. And far beyond the kingdom’s borders, a growing threat looms—an empire built to right a bitter wrong.

Only a small band of conspirators stand between the kingdom and chaos: Otto Tilly, captain of the king’s Dragon Knights, the steel fist that shields the weak. Gerhard Fisher, a spy and assassin, who owes more than his life to the former king. Ilse Brinke, the quartermaster, the keeper of the kingdom’s secrets and magic. The wizard, an ancient soul who understands the cost of failure. And by fortune’s curse or fortune's favor, two orphans from the growing war must carry the kingdom forward. As has always been, the burden of the future lies across the shoulders of the young.

Release date: August 12, 2022

Publisher: Cobble Publishing LLC

Print pages: 568

Sample

Ulrik bounced a rock on his palm, feeling the uneven weight. It wouldn’t fly true, but the stone was smooth, and it was the one he had. He spit on it and worked the moisture over the surface, rubbing away some of the dust that drifted constantly from the grain bins behind him. Gripping the stone tight, he waited.

Back in the trees, twenty paces away, he saw a flicker of motion, and he whipped his arm, sending the stone spinning into the brush where it cracked against a tree trunk.

There was a flurry of light, like he’d tossed a log on the embers of a fire. Sprites swarmed furiously, zipping around in stilted, erratic patterns. He’d irritated them, but after several moments of frantic activity, they drifted back into the cover of the bushes, and all motion stopped. He sighed.

“You hit one?” asked his friend, Jaime.

“Nah, that was a tree.”

Jaime grunted. He scratched his head, his fingers getting lost in his thick curls of auburn hair. His nose was tilted up, like he was trying to smell the sprites. He narrowed his eyes, looking suspiciously at the wall of vegetation.

“You see ’em?” asked Ulrik.

“I think so, maybe.”

Ulrik glanced back behind them at the ranks of grain bins and the hulking brewery on the other side of the bins.

“My pa will strap our hides if he thinks we called those things here,” worried Jaime. “It’s not good, Ulrik. They’re already playing their little tricks. Johann’s pants fell down yesterday when he was stirring the mash. My pa thought it hilarious. He was laughing so hard when he told my ma that he had tears in his eyes. How long ’til he realizes what did that? How long ’til he starts wondering how they got there?”

Ulrik reached over and shoved the other boy’s shoulder. “You did call them here, Jaime. What if you just told your pa? You were trying to do the right thing, weren’t you? He’d understand, if you told him the truth.”

Jaime flushed, his cheeks matching his hair, his freckles disappearing in the rosy glow. His lips pressed into a pout that would have been cute on a girl but earned him grief from the other boys in Hof. It didn’t help that Jaime seemed to do an unusual amount of pouting for a boy his age.

“My pa’ll strap me if I tell him.”

Ulrik shrugged. “Aye, you might take a beating, but then it’d be over, and you wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Jaime stared morosely out at the forest, like he wondered if the sprites were still flitting about, mocking him.

Aside from the occasional strapping—which in truth he deserved more often than he didn’t—Jaime had it good. Most of them in Hof did. Roofs over their heads, food in the larder, enough friends and rivals in the village to keep them occupied. Girls. That was a new one, the last couple of years. Not that there hadn’t been girls before, just none of the boys wanted much to do with them. Now, that was all the boys wanted.

Ulrik had kissed one of them a couple of times. Gisela, the milkmaid’s daughter. Her family didn’t have much, so Ulrik hadn’t told his pa, though he suspected the old man had heard. The other boys in the village weren’t quiet when they were teasing. It was jealousy, mostly. Gisela’s family might not have much, but she had skin as pale as the milk her ma sold and hair the color of butter and soft as flax. She had breasts, too, which some of the younger girls didn’t have yet.

But most of all, she had an intelligent twinkle in her eyes that Ulrik couldn’t stay away from. He’d liked talking to her even before she’d gotten breasts, and he believed that was the only reason he was the one she let kiss her.

Half the girls in Hof were as dull as the cows that waddled about the fields south of the village. Almost all the boys were. Ulrik sighed and glanced at Jaime out of the corner of his eye. Jaime still had the pout on his lips. He wasn’t as dull as a cow exactly, but he managed to get his head stuck in the fence often enough.

“You can see ’em, Ulrik. You have the fae-sight,” said the boy, gesturing toward the trees where the sprites were hiding. “Think you can talk to ’em, get ’em to go somewhere else? I can’t take another strapping from my pa. I’m getting too old for that.”

“Trying to talk to them is what got you here in the first place,” reminded Ulrik. He shook his head. Jaime had gotten too old for a strapping years ago, but he didn’t seem to learn otherwise.

“What are the sprites doing now?”

“Nothing,” replied Ulrik, watching the edge of the wood.

The sprites weren’t doing nothing, but they weren’t doing much. Every now and then, he could see one of their little lights flicker back in the shadows. They were buzzing around in the cover, like midges, waiting for some fool to come walking by. If you got close enough, they would all come out swarming and pester whatever victim they could find, but they wouldn’t venture far from cover while you had your eyes on them.

How they could tell he was watching them, he didn’t know. Most in Hof couldn’t see the tiny fae, but Ulrik could. It was the fae-sight. He supposed some other folk might have it, too, the way they would look toward the shinning lights in the evening, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you talked about in the open. Dealing with the fae wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to be known for.

Hof’s priest considered the fae to be evil creatures, even the mostly harmless little sprites. He’d spend weeks at his narrow pulpit, condemning the things and, from time to time, anyone he suspected might have interacted with them. Dealing with the fae wasn’t illegal, not the sort of thing you would get dragged in front of a magistrate for, but the way the priest stirred up the villagers in Hof was even worse trouble than dealing with the king’s law.

Jaime hadn’t let that stop him from concocting his mad plan, and worse, because he couldn’t see or communicate with the fae, he’d drawn Ulrik into it now. Ulrik had known it was a terrible idea as soon as Jaime explained the situation, but Jaime was his friend, and you helped your friends.

Jaime’s father was a foreman at the brewery, a good job in the village of Hof, and he was good at it. Hof’s beer was prized all across the province of Untal. Some said it was famous throughout all of Wahrheit, though Ulrik did not believe that. Surely elsewhere they made their own beer, and they probably thought it the best in the kingdom too.

Maybe they all had some part of the truth. By the time Hof’s barrels would reach the far side of Wahrheit, they would have turned. Maybe the local stuff would be better, then, but whether because of pride in his pa or because he dreamed of taking a wagonful of Hof’s beer to the capital or even the other provinces beyond it, Jaime insisted it was the truth.

Either way, they had more immediate problems. Three of the brewery’s tabbies had fallen pregnant at the same time, and they weren’t doing their job keeping the rats from the grain. Jaime’s pa had tasked Jaime with it, which meant Ulrik was going to get involved one way or another.

He would have told Jaime it was foolish, but the boy had gotten in his head that sprites were the answer. Another cat might mean another pregnant cat, Jaime had deduced. The fae could perform small wonders, everyone knew that, but most sensible folk also knew getting them to perform the wonder you wanted was nigh impossible. Fickle creatures, the fae. Worse than cats.

But chasing the rats himself and guarding the bins was work. Jaime would rather spend his days mooning about the girls in town, asking Ulrik what it was like to kiss Gisela, or hounding the wagon drivers for stories of the world beyond Hof. He’d insisted the sprites would do the work of scaring off the rats for him.

It was rare an idea got into Jaime’s head, but when it did, it was a chore getting him to let go of it. Paul, the blacksmith’s son, had told Jaime that sprites would be in your thrall if you laid out bread, milk, honey, and cinnamon for seven nights plus one.

Jaimie had done it, and Paul’s recipe had attracted a storm of the fickle little bothers. In the last few days, it seemed all the sprites in Hof had taken up residence in the trees back behind the brewery.

Too late, Jaime had told Ulrik what he’d done. Apparently, he hadn’t believed Paul and didn’t want to embarrass himself saying he’d tried it. After seven days plus one, he’d brought Ulrik around, hoping he could confirm if the sprites were there then talk them into chasing off the rats. Ulrik had the fae-sight, but he had no clue how to speak to the flighty little monsters.

For a day, Jaime had been excited. He was convinced the fae were in their thrall, but if so, they weren’t listening to any instructions Ulrik was giving them.

Instead, they were getting up to their little tricks. It was only a matter of time until Jaime’s pa realized the source of the strange things that had begun to happen all around the brewery. Wouldn’t be long after that until he guessed who had called the sprites. He’d strap Jaime and maybe Ulrik as well. Odds were, when Jaime found trouble, Ulrik was somewhere nearby.

Ulrik could take the heat from Jaime’s pa. It would be worse if the priest got word of it.

Seeing the sprites clustered in the area and not able to command them, they’d ran to Paul and asked him how to get rid of the things. The older boy had hardly stopped laughing long enough to claim that they couldn’t, that the sprites lived there now, and everyone was going to know who’d called them. The blacksmith’s son was a good lad, for the most part. He hadn’t told the priest or Jaime’s pa what had happened, but he seemed pretty eager to watch for when they all found out.

Ulrik had quickly laid our bread, milk, honey, and cinnamon on the other side of town, but something had eaten the bread and the honey. It’d been another day until he rigged up a box to keep it safe, but then they had to wait seven nights plus one. The sprites were already tormenting the men in the brewery. They had to find a quicker way to get rid of them.

“Suppose we ask the priest how to run them off?” questioned Jaime.

Ulrik turned to his friend, blinking slowly. “Ask the priest?”

Jaime nodded eagerly. “He must have some spell, right? A way to, I don’t know, banish the things back to hell?”

“Priests don’t cast spells,” mumbled Ulrik. “You’re thinking of witches, and the fae didn’t come from hell, so they don’t go back there.”

“Maybe we can find a witch, then.”

“Witches aren’t real. And even if they were… Bah. The priest is the last person we want hearing about this, trust me. There are a few around Hof who know fae-lore. One of ’em ought to be willing to help us. I’ll think on it, Jaime, but promise me you won’t go running off to the priest. I’d rather face your pa, my pa, and anyone else who can lift a switch than that pinch-faced grouch.”

Grinning at his friend, Jaime nodded eagerly. “I won’t talk to the priest. That’s a promise. Help me out of this, Ulrik, and I’ll owe you.”

Ulrik couldn’t help a smile from curling his lips. If he bothered to keep track, he didn’t think he had the numbers to count how much Jaime already owed him, but one thing about Jaime, his smile spread like butter, and when he was in a good mood, it wouldn’t be long ’til you were in a good mood too.

Half a league away, back in the center of Hof, the chapel bell rang, and Ulrik brushed his hands off on his trousers. “I got to go. Pa was doing a bit of work in the village this morning, but he wanted me home at midday to help him cart a load of lumber out to Gunter’s farm. Pa’s framing Gunter’s new barn tomorrow.”

Jaime nodded, his eyes on the shadows of the woods, as if he could see the sprites flying around in there. Those eyes widened, and he turned to Ulrik. “You helpin’ your pa tomorrow with the barn?”

Ulrik nodded.

“Tell Gunter’s daughter I said hello. She’s been doing a lot of growing up recently, you know. I wouldn’t mind spinning her around the square next month at the autumn festival.”

“Dancing, eh, that’s what you’d want to do?”

“At first.”

“Which daughter?”

Jaime frowned and pushed his thick curls back from his face again. He chewed on his lip a moment then offered, “Both of ’em?”

Rolling his eyes, Ulrik turned to go.

“Ulrik, you’ll think about the lore, right? Another day or two, and my pa…”

“Aye, Jaime, I’ll think about it.”

Ulrik started trotting toward Hof, bouncing lightly along the worn road, jumping from the shoulder to the center carved out from the heavy wagon wheels, then to the other shoulder. He let Jaime’s problems with the sprites and, more than likely, the coming problem with Gunter’s two daughters slip from his mind.

Gisela lived on the west side of the village, on the path toward Gunter’s farm. Had to be a way he could convince his pa to stop by on the way out or maybe on the way back. Ma would like some fresh milk in the evening, wouldn’t she?

* * *

The next evening, Ulrik reclined in a deep, wooden chair in front of a crackling fire. The chair was a luxury in Hof. Most folk had benches and stools, and if they did have a chair, they would have it around their table. They couldn’t afford the wide, angled monster placed in front of the fire that Ulrik lounged in. It wasn’t good for much other than sitting back and relaxing, really. That was impractical, and the people of Hof were nothing if not practical, but for Ulrik, there were advantages of your pa being the most skilled woodworker in the village. Ulrik sipped his small beer, laid back his head, and stretched his legs toward the fire.

Beside him, his father, Franklin, rubbed a polishing cloth over a delicate viola. It wasn’t likely anyone in Hof could play the stringed instrument, but Ulrik’s pa would display it in his shop as a testament of his skill, and you never knew, the count or his people might pass through one day and buy it. Franklin claimed a peddler could purchase the instrument in Hof and sell it for twice the price in Stafford, the seat of Count Royo, or even more in Chemenberg, the capital of Untal and the seat of Landgrave Bohm.

It sounded too incredible to be true to Ulrik. He had insisted he and his pa travel to Stafford and sell the instruments the woodworker fashioned, but Franklin declined.

“Men in those cities would take advantage of a man like me, Ulrik. Besides, you’re not thinking of the cost of it all. Travel to Stafford’ll take two days there and two days back. Inns on the road are expensive, Son.”

“We could sleep outside.”

“Inns in the city are even more expensive, and if you sleep on the streets there, you’re going to be robbed, but even if we weren’t robbed, there’s also a week of lost work. If we weren’t careful or ran into a bit of ill Fortune, we’d lose money instead of making it. There’s much to be said for a simple life filled with simple pleasures. We have what we need here in Hof, and there’s as much pain as there is pleasure for those who seek more.”

Ulrik had frowned but conceded the argument for the moment, though he’d never forgotten it. One day, he would go to Stafford and even Chemenberg to sell his pa’s instruments or just to see the cities, but he wouldn’t go now. Franklin was stubborn like that, and a small part of Ulrik admitted, his pa might be right.

The older man sat down his cloth and the viola and picked up his own beer. He sipped mightily, then let out a sigh, stretching his socked feet toward the fire in a motion identical to Ulrik’s. A tankard in hand, a comfortable chair beneath your bottom, and the fire warming your toes. A simple life filled with simple pleasures. You couldn’t argue with Franklin about the value of that.

Behind them, Ulrik’s ma, Jess, worked in the corner of the space they called the kitchen, though most of the cooking was done on the fire, and Ulrik had already helped put away the dishes from their supper.

Neither his ma nor his pa liked being idle. He’d only earned the quiet moment in front of the fire with the small beer because of the progress they’d made that day at Gunter’s farm. With Ulrik’s help, his pa figured they would finish tomorrow, a day quicker than he had expected, making it a day the woodworker could devote to his special projects. The old man glowed with the thought of it.

Franklin sipped his beer again, then sat down the mug and took up the viola, peering at it closely, looking for any tiny imperfections in the wood before he lacquered it. He would do the work tonight, if Ulrik had to guess, and would let the lacquer dry overnight so he could paint on another layer soon after he woke and before he stared the day’s paid work. They weren’t idle in that house. Never idle.

“Ulrik,” asked Jess, “are you going to work on your letters this evening?”

He coughed, twisted around, and raised his small beer to show her. “After I finish this, Ma.”

She snorted. “You’ve been nursing that beer like you mean to raise it and give it a name. What’s on your mind, Son?”

“Ah, nothing.”

She came to stand over his shoulder. “Not Gisela?”

He spit half a mouthful of beer back into his mug. “Who?”

“Fresh milk for supper, and we didn’t have to pay?”

“The milk isn’t the only thing that was given away freely,” drawled Franklin, his eyes fixed seriously on the viola but a hint of a smile on his lips that he couldn’t quite hide.

Ulrik flushed furiously and busied himself tipping up his beer. Better his letters than the inquisition.

“If you mean to court the girl, I need to tell her mother,” said Jess. “After her father… It’d be good for that family, I think, to have her courted, but I won’t have my son playing with the lass. If you like the girl, show her your respect. There’s a way of doing things, Ulrik, and they ought to be done right.”

“Be easy on the boy, Jess,” chided Franklin. “He’s young. She’s young. They’re just having a bit of fun.”

Ulrik stayed resolutely silent.

“He’s young, aye, and he can have a bit of fun, but after Gisela’s pa… It’s been a hard time for the family. I won’t have us making it worse.”

“I won’t—I wouldn’t, Ma.”

“Have a think, Ulrik, and tell me if I ought to be talking to Gisela’s ma.”

“I don’t think he’s been doing much except think about it.” Franklin guffawed.

“It doesn’t help, you encouraging him,” declared Jess. “You ought to be showing him how to treat a woman. How to speak polite and give her respect.”

“Not sure it’s respect that Gisela is looking to be treated with,” said Franklin with a grin. “We’re not so old, are we Jess, that you’ve forgotten—“

Jess took a threatening step closer, and Ulrik’s pa held up his hands in mock defense. She rolled her eyes at her husband and instructed, “Now, out of the way, Ulrik. You’ve been sitting long enough. Work on your letters. Maybe a note for Gisela.”

Ulrik cleared his throat and replied, “I don’t believe she can read, Ma.”

“You can read it to her—after I talk to her ma about the pair of you spending time together.”

He flushed again but stood so his ma could take his place in front of the fire.

“Letters are good but perhaps a bit of lore tonight,” said Franklin, his attention still seemingly on the viola.

“Lore?” queried Jess. “Fae-lore?”

Franklin did not respond, so she turned to Ulrik.

He stared at his pa, wondering what Franklin had heard and how he’d heard it. The woodworker made a show of being a simple man who just wanted to work with his hands, but his mind moved as constantly as his fingers. He hadn’t heard anything, Ulrik decided, but he’d seen enough clues to put it together himself. Were any of Ulrik’s secrets safe in this house?

“Well?” demanded Jess.

Fiddling with his empty tankard, Ulrik admitted, “Well, Jaime, ah, he called a few sprites over behind the brewery. He didn’t mean to, you understand. Well, no, he did mean to. He thought they’d help scare off the rats. The cats are—“

Jess held up a hand. “Jaime thought, did he?”

Ulrik didn’t respond. Sometimes you had to grit your teeth and hope for Fortune’s Favor.

His ma pressed him, turning around in her chair to stare at him. “What did you think, Ulrik?”

“Thought it was foolish,” he admitted, staring at the foam at the bottom of his empty mug.

He considered explaining how by the time he found out, the snare had been set, and all he’d done was try to fix the mess, but even in his head, it sounded like a weak excuse. His ma and pa believed if something was to be done, it was to be done right, and when you were in something, you were in it all of the way. It wasn’t Fortune that had gotten him into this, it was Jaime, and he couldn’t talk himself out of trouble without talking his friend into it.

“Let me guess, Jaime figured out how to call the sprites on his own, and when he called you in for help, you actually tried to help him rather than doing any reasonable sort of thing?”

Ulrik nodded.

“Like your pa, you are.”

“Hey now,” protested Franklin.

Sighing, Jess stood back up. She rubbed her back and said, “Maybe I’ll dip one of those beers as well. Sprites was it? And they aren’t leaving? Tell me how he called them.”

* * *

“Wine?” queried the innkeeper.

She was a big woman, almost as wide as she was tall. Her dark hair, streaked liberally with silver, was pulled behind her head in a tight braid. She wore dark woolen skirts and a plain cotton blouse with the sleeves rolled up. Her arms were thick from hefting stewpots and foaming tankards and maybe a little bit from tossing drunks out of her door.

Ulrik was becoming concerned he would be flung out that door at any moment. He fished a quarter-silver mark from his pocket and held the clipped coin up to show her.

“Your ma have company coming? Her aunt down from Stafford?”

Shrugging, Ulrik held the silver mark toward the innkeeper. His ma’s aunt had passed two years before, but better the innkeeper think it was her than what he was actually doing. Eyeing him suspiciously, the innkeeper retreated back behind her bar, ducked down, and then came up holding a glass bottle filled with dark, crimson liquid. Ulrik scurried closer to the bar and took the bottle.

“I don’t think Gisela has much of a head for wine, lad, which I mean as caution, not encouragement. That was her ma’s favorite, though, back before… when she could afford it.”

“No… it’s not, I, ah…”

“Go on, lad, but if I hear you gave her that entire bottle, I’ll strap you ’til you can’t sit for a week, and you’ll be lucky if your ma don’t whip you down to the bone.”

Babbling an apology though he hadn’t done anything and didn’t even have plans to do anything like what she was suggesting, Ulrik backed out of the inn then turned and started trotting toward the brewery, the bottle of wine clutched carefully in both hands. How had the innkeeper heard about him and Gisela? Someone around Hof had a big mouth, but that was a worry for another day.

In a pack on his back, he had a small pouch of salt, a hunk of ham, and two bowls. One, he would fill with the wine. The other, he’d been instructed by his ma to urinate in. Why sprites would be driven off by wine, salt, and ham, he couldn’t figure, but he supposed the urine made enough sense. He was confident it would work. His ma wasn’t a Mother Grimm, a learned woman in the ways of the fae-lore, but her grandmother had been, and Jess had heard enough lore she could prescribe a remedy for driving off a handful of sprites.

Fae-lore wasn’t something she talked about and certainly wasn’t something Ulrik talked about either, even to Jaime. His ma had told him it would make the others in Hof uncomfortable, knowing what she knew, but more than that, Ulrik was a bright boy, and he knew you didn’t throw out meat in front of starving dogs unless you wanted them to eat it. The other boys would torment him day and night, calling his ma a Grimm. Wouldn’t be long until the priest heard it as well, and then, they’d never have peace.

He would have to tell Jaime he’d heard the remedy somewhere else. That wouldn’t be hard. Jaime was a great friend, but he wasn’t a great wit.

Ulrik paused and slipped the bottle of wine into his pack, as he didn’t fancy explaining why he had it to anyone who might see him walking through the center of the village, and he didn’t want to consider that if the innkeeper figured it was for Gisela, who else would think the same thing?

He scratched his chin. Would Gisela like to share a bottle of wine with him? That would be courting, if they did, but not the sort of courting you told your ma and pa about. He shifted his pack, feeling the glass bottle against his back. Maybe… He shook himself and started trotting across the green again. He had other matters to spend his thoughts on today. He angled toward the brewery, but he didn’t make it past the edge of the village.

Standing on the backside of the cooper’s workshop, where the long, windowless wall hid them from eyes in the rest of the village, were a dozen boys. Most were close to Ulrik’s age, though a few were younger. His heart fell. That time of day, there were only so many reasons the boys would gather—

“Ulrik!” cried Jaime.

Ulrik sighed and trotted over to see what sort of trouble his friend had found this time. At the center of the circle were Jaime and Paul, the blacksmith’s boy. Paul was shirtless, though Jaime was still wearing his sleeves and a woolen vest. A dark smudge marred one cheek. A bruise or dirt?

Paul nodded at Ulrik and gestured for the other boys to let him into the circle. The blacksmith’s son explained, “Gunter’s daughter was in town this morning, picking up some hinges from my pa for that new barn of theirs. I caught Jaime talking to her. He was leaning in for a kiss it looked like. I been courting her almost a week now. Everyone knows it.”

Ulrik took off his pack and placed it carefully at the edge of the circle. “Which daughter?”

“The elder.”

Ulrik glanced at Jaime, and the other boy shrugged. “He didn’t know.”

“He did know, Ulrik,” declared a thin, dark-haired boy from the opposite side of the circle. The baker’s son. It figured he would be in the middle of this. “Told Jaime myself when I saw him at the granary three days ago.”

Ulrik looked at Jaime again. This time, his friend had the decency to look ashamed, and he mouthed, “I forgot.”

“I been courting her almost a week,” repeated Paul, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. He balled his fists. “He knew about it, Ulrik, and was still talking to her this morning and hoping for a kiss right outside my pa’s forge. It ain’t the way things are done in Hof.”

Ulrik slipped off his vest, laying it atop his pack, then tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it down as well. “My pa and I’ve been out working on Gunter’s barn. I told his daughters that Jaime said hello. Both of ’em. It’s my mistake, Paul. I shoulda just told the younger.”

“Aye, Jaime said hello to both, did he? I can believe you didn’t know I was courting her, Ulrik, but Jaime did.”

“It was my fault, Paul.”

Shaking his head, the big blacksmith’s son replied, “I don’t know why you let him drag you into these things, Ulrik. I won’t go easy on you. Step aside while you can.”

“It was my fault,” repeated Ulrik.

It wasn’t. He knew it. Paul knew it. All the boys knew it, but when you were in something, you were in it all of the way, and he wouldn’t step aside now.

Because the boys also knew Paul would pound Jaime into the ground like a fence post. The smaller boy had been talking to the girl he was courting. Paul had to stand up for his intentions. He’d done it three months back, when Jaime had tried to fetch a kiss from the miller’s daughter. She’d laid a slap across his cheek that had burned red for three days, but Paul had kissed her two days before Jaime, so he’d met Jaime out in the fields and laid some bruises on the brewer’s son that had lasted weeks.

With split lips and a swollen nose, Jaime had tried to spin a tale for his pa about what had happened, but halfway through a fantastical account of a donkey and a small child walking behind it, Jaime’s pa had lost his temper and whipped the boy so hard his ma had taken him to see the healer.

He’d complained bitterly to Ulrik that he was too old for that, for getting a whipping from his pa like that. It was the truth. Not that it mattered.

Jaime’d been told if he couldn’t stay out of trouble, his pa was going to put him to work in the brewery, and dawn till dusk, he would be hauling carts of grain and tending fires. It was why he’d been so desperate to call the sprites to scare off the rats. It was why Ulrik had been talked into helping his hapless friend.

Paul knew all that, and he might be a little sympathetic in different circumstances, but Jaime had been talking to a girl he’d been pursuing, and it was the second time. The blacksmith’s son was a fair lad, but unfortunately for Jaime, fair in this case meant he was going to get it worse than he had before.

And Jaime, despite Fortune’s own knack for finding trouble, was Ulrik’s best friend, and Ulrik always stood up for his friends. His ma and pa told him that if you do something, do it well. He was doing the best he could.

“Last chance. You sure about this, Ulrik?” asked Paul. “He’s not worth it.”

Ulrik stepped farther into the circle and raised his fists. His ma and pa would listen when he told them why he was scrapping. They would roll their eyes when he mentioned Jaime and give him that resigned look, and with a little luck, they would think the beating Paul was about to hand out was punishment enough. Ulrik’s parents had taught him to stand by his friends. They couldn’t be too upset when he did it.

Paul began to walk sideways, his feet crossing back and forth, his fists rising in front of his face. He was a big lad, bigger than anyone had a right to be at their age. Nature had given him a sturdy frame, and work in his pa’s forge had layered on a heavy slab of muscle over it. He was the peacemaker amongst the village’s boys, which meant there wasn’t a nose in Hof within a few winters of his age that hadn’t been bloodied by those heavy fists. He had the size and the experience. It’d been two or three years since any of them had gotten the best of him.

But Ulrik had been taught if you’re in it, you’re in it all of the way.

He charged.

Paul was caught off guard.

Ulrik smashed into the other boy’s gut, leading with a shoulder, hoping to take the bigger boy down so he could gain some leverage and get a few punches in before the blows started landing on his own face.

Paul grunted, wrapped his arms around Ulrik, and flung him away.

Ulrik planted a hand on the dirt, scrambled, and miraculously kept his feet. Paul was coming after him, fists raised back up. Ulrik retreated, skirting the edges of the circle, but he didn’t try to slip past the line of shouting and cheering boys. These things required a certain amount of honor, and fleeing from a fight only meant you would get it worse when they all finally caught you.

Pursuing him relentlessly, Paul tried a jab, which Ulrik ducked away from. The bigger boy’s face was serious, his steps confident. Ulrik grimaced. At Paul’s next jab, he ducked under, slammed his fist into Paul’s stomach, and then brought his left hand over in a cross that connected solidly with the other boy’s cheek.

He got rocked by an uppercut that sent him flailing back to be caught by the boys at the edge of the circle. He blinked, breathing deep, until the two Pauls resolved themselves into one. Then, he attacked again.

Paul absorbed a strike on his forearms, returned a jab to Ulrik’s nose, bloodying it but not breaking it, then kicked, smacking Ulrik’s feet from under him and dumping him in the dirt.

Ulrik scrambled up, knowing getting trapped on the ground beneath the blacksmith’s son was the worst position one could find, but the bigger boy wasn’t advancing. Instead, he was looking curiously over Ulrik’s shoulder.

Keeping his shoulders squared, his fists up, Ulrik waited. The boys weren’t above cheap tricks, but why Paul thought he needed to pull one was a mystery. Had that cross hurt him more than it seemed?

One by one, the rest of the circle turned, looking down the deep-rutted dirt road toward the brewery.

“Fortune’s Curse,” bellowed Jaime, and he started running.

Paul lowered his fists, his brow creased, his jaw set.

Ulrik turned and blurted his own curse. Down the road, around the bend that took it out of sight, and where it dipped down toward the river, was a thick column of smoke. It had to be the brewery.

“Some fool dropped their lantern,” barked the baker’s son. “Lit the whole place up. Come on. We ought to get down there, help with the buckets, if there’s anything left to put out.”

Paul was tugging his shirt on. Calmly, he instructed, “Ulrik, chase down Jaime. Meet us at my pa’s workshop.”

“What?” questioned Ulrik.

“We’ve got to get to the river,” protested the baker’s boy. “The buckets…”

It dawned on Ulrik that Paul understood something the rest of them did not, and with that knowledge, it hit Ulrik like one of the big lad’s fists. It was bright daylight. There would be no lanterns lit in the brewery. There would be fires beneath the kettles boiling the mash, but two dozen men worked in the building. They were good at their craft and careful. They wouldn’t let a fire get out of the designated areas, but if it did, the whole building was filled with vats of water, barrels of ale, and kettles of wort. This time of day, a fire breaking out accidentally and growing out of control wasn’t just unlikely but impossible.

Ulrik took off running after Jaime.

Behind him, he heard Paul growling at the others, telling them to get to the forge to find weapons.