The old bear of a truck slipped easily beneath the harvest moon, reflecting the high profile shine, brown with a green outline, rolling down the kingsway. Chris drove and the Caddy rode shotgun and slept. Chewie was kicked back in the middle jump seat and Socks, the beagle, the legend, sat on his haunches at the intern's feet and leaned with the curves of the roadway. The radio played a mellow tune and those awake sang along" Karma police, arrest this man, he talks in maths"he buzzes like a fridge, he's like a detuned radio. They could just as easily be lords on the kingsroad, surrounded by forest and caught up in steel" For a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself"

Ser Christopher of The Mark rode atop an old bear of a warhorse; his heavy brown cloak surfaced barely a ripple even against a strong wind, the length of it falling well below the horse's hindquarters. He was clad in full plate mail the color of moss that reflected the sun and painted his face, pouring more color into the emerald of his eyes until they burned like pools of green fire. His hair was a crows black, long and straight, spilling well past the shoulders from a visor less helm. Wiry and athletic, he lost none of his swiftness even beneath the weight of armor, wearing it with the ease of a second skin. On his back, beneath the heaviness of the cloak, the hilt of Confusion's Prince peeked over his shoulder. Its handle was wrapped in black leather, the pommel a carving of a skull with roses for hair, and the guard that of two souls in communion extending out and staring back at each other from a distance. The blade itself dipped in the same color of moss so that it might bleed into the armor and hold its edge eternal.

The Caddy McDoodles was to his right, slumped in the saddle, eyes closed, and snoring. It was a gift the man had to sleep anywhere and he surely used it whenever he could. It made no matter whether it was on a horse or a rocky ground in the dead of winter, he slept easily when and where others could not; made even easier now after the long days of traveling the kingsroad beneath the plate that weighs heavy on an ageing man and cooks him beneath an unforgiving sun. Once he was known throughout the realm as The Caddy, gallant and beholden. Now old, the hair no more than a few wisp of retreating white that lingered near the temples and envied the fullness of the beard that covered his chubby face. Old and in the way is how he refers to himself now, his friends still call him The Caddy.

Chewie, squire of The Mark, rode a few paces behind on a light mount and wore a cheery grin. He always had the look of knowing a secret, a funny secret that no one else did. It had gotten him some beatings in his young life, the smile, but still he wore it. On his saddle was tied the lead rope of a pack mule that clopped along behind, it was weighed down with their belongings including the one parcel still left to deliver.

"Where is the dog star" Where is the moon?" Chewie was looking up at the sky when he sang the question of the sky itself.

"It is day still Chewie. Barely past noon now, can you not see the sun?" Chris brought a gloved hand up to shadow his gaze from the light then wiped at the sweat on his brow. "Or Feel it?"

"Forgive any confusion my lord, I was just singing out loud the song I heard back at the Dragon. Lost Sailor the man called it' did you not hear it?" The squire loved music and would have been a bard had he not been highborn; had his lord father allowed it.

"On my way out, yes. A good tune from what I heard of it." Socks announced his arrival from playing in the woods with a bark and fell into a trot next to the old bear who regarded him with a horse's glance and a whinny. Chris leaned over in the saddle with a smile for his returning friend then eased the gaze back to the squire. "What happened while I was up in the room' Or were you too busy with wine and music to take notice?"

"No my lord, I did not partake in the wine and I only listened to the music while I watched." "And?" "Just like you said my lord, a man went up to the room you had entered and stood there at the door as if he was trying to listen from the hallway." "You are sure it was the doorway of the room I entered. Room nineteen?" "Positive my lord, room nineteen. Then he left shortly before you came out, he must have heard you coming" Who is he?" "He is the one that wants we have and follows us now."

"Paradise waits!" The Caddy leapt from his sleep with a shout and spurred his horse to a gallop even before he was fully awake and knew where he was or where he was going, charging right into the teeth of the forest where he was immediately swallowed up. Silence followed.

"Shite." Chris reigned up his horse and stared at the tree line where The Caddy disappeared into wood. "The old man is getting worse at waking from his dreams."

Chewie turned in his saddle to untie the pack mule's lead rope. "I will get him this time my lord. "

"No. I will get him. Stay here and watch the horses." Ser Christopher of The Mark climbed from the horse and handed Chewie the reigns. "Do not worry of the one that follows, he is weary yet and will not take this chance." That said he stepped off the road and disappeared into the woods with Socks tagging along at his heels.

Chris had taken a knee and was staring at the ground in anticipation, playing out the next few hours in his mind's eye and hoping to live them well. He had stepped from the road into a forest and ended up in hell. Gone was the plate mail, replaced with a torn buckskin shirt tied at the waist with a wampum belt of brown and green beads, calico leggings, and moccasins covered his feet. His head was now shaved bald except for a scalp-lock and he was tattooed with the symbols of his family, The Mark, a phantom and a fly. Two pistols were holstered in a sash around his chest.

He was kneeling just inside a smoke filled sally-port tunnel on the eastern side of the fort. The fort was Fort Prince and it was under siege from cannons that never went silent and moved closer by the day. Three more days and the fort would be taken or destroyed with all those left in it. The crash of cannonballs sent up explosions all around him, littering the air with splintered wood and shrapnel. The world smelled of death and the sound of anguish from the dying sent a cold chill down his spine. Soon I will be among them, Chris thought, as he lifted his gaze from the ground over to a heavyset man with a bushy-gray mustache, the Sarge, who barking out orders and keeping down the fort as it were.

"Courier?" The Sarge had moved to where Chris was kneeling and took a hunters crouch beside him where he began drawing something in the dirt with his finger. "Are you ready to run?"

Chris said nothing, only nodded. He was looking down at what the Sarge was drawing but his mind was on the run ahead. It was a run like to kill him, as it did for most chosen for this duty, a frontiersman courier. On side with this time there were no phones to call for backup with, no ravens with a message requesting reinforcements. No. With this time there was just a man, his speed, some courage, and hopefully a little luck. Chris had been lucky enough a few times now, though he would argue that it was his speed that created the luck. Either way, his luck was sure to run out.

"This tunnel is pointing due east so just run and keep straight until you hit the river. Here." The Sarge tapped his finger next to the river he had drawn on the crude dirt map. "That is about two miles from here so once you find yourself on its banks, turn north and follow them to the kingsroad then strike east for the Keep." That was a good five miles, a hard run.

"The Keep?" Chris glanced over at the Sarge with a look of concern.

"Aye"the Keep," the Sarge's brow furrowed with a heavy frown as he spoke and Chris thought he might have seen a hint of fear in the man's eyes. "We are lost. Gone nineteen we have. Only they can save us now"from the wicked." But who will save us from them the Sarge wondered as he stood and wiped the dirt from his hands, wished Chris luck, and then started barking orders again. "You! Look alive there!"

Moments later Chris was standing in the shadows at the end of the tunnel looking into a dark wood, the orders he was to carry tucked safely away beneath the sash. Above him, on the top tier of the fort, two snipers sat with a stack of loaded rifles resting against the casement, two other men were there at the ready to hand the snipers already-loaded rifles and reload the ones just shot. They were all waiting on the signal, a single volley of all the fort's cannon on the west side. When the thunder rolls"run! When the cannons boomed, Chris did not hesitate. He was full speed two steps out of the block and would stay that way until he reached The Keep, or he died. There is no stopping or slowing down to look around or gather ones bearings. No stopping to fight those coming for blood from the trees. No, there is only a dead run or death itself.

He had just broken the tree line when two of the wicked appeared out of nowhere on either side of him; both fell away back into darkness as the snipers found their marks and Chris ran between them without even a glance. At least ten more met the same fate, including one that fell from Chris" pistol when he stepped in the courier's path and took a bullet just above the right eye that exited out of the back with a flap of skin and tuft of hair. He was still standing, dead on his feet with a hand over the wound above his eye and the most surprised look on his face when Chris passed him by. He never broke stride even as the woods grew darker or when his body began to shake and the adrenaline poured away. He kept east until he reached the river then turned north to follow it, but he never slowed, nor did one that still followed.