From the Edict of the 26th of December, in the 2008th year of the Common Alignment, by the Honorable Elected of the Baronial Council...

"...and any in the possession of slaves, if it can be determined they have been made aware or ought to have been aware of the law, shall be fined ten pounds and four ounces of High-standard silver per each slave for each infraction.

"Furthermore, once any escaped slave, defined as any person no longer under the control or in the custody of the alleged slave-holder (he or she who claims ownership of the escaped slave), upon passing into the territory of the Barony, will be automatically granted asylum and is to be afforded all the rights, except for voting, of citizens, and is to be promptly made aware of their eligibility for citizenship, and is to be made a citizen should they request it with all due haste.

"As a de facto citizen, escaped slaves are to be afforded the full protection of the Holy Order of Saint Ouen, the Baronial Guard, and the Guards of the Confederated Councils; furthermore, any citizen or guest of the Barony will be pardoned of actions in the defense of escaped slaves.

"Parties in pursuit of escaped slaves within the sovereign territory of the Barony are subject to the same legal treatment as bandits under the Caravans Protection Act."

Sir Seamus had been following the group codenamed Tamarin for twelve hours, until they had left the 'safehouse' monastery ten miles south of Grenmarsh Bend. Since then, Roland had followed them on horseback from the edge of the woods, and then from the hilltops, right up to the final stretch of road to Grenmarsh.

The group Tamarin consisted of three women, one man, and two children, what remained of a large family that had conspired to and succeeded in escaping from slavery while in RhyDin City. After a violent attack in the city, they had found their way into the arms of the anti-slavery movement, and were set along the 'underground railroad' towards the Barony of Sainte-Ouen. It had been a long road with many stops to attempt to throw off one stubborn bounty hunter who, the last the Order of Saint Ouen had been informed, had closed to within a league before Tamarin left their last stop.

Roland watched the group from a mist-wreathed hilltop overlooking the village, his horse remaining steady, almost rigid in place, while he looked through binoculars at the escaped slaves. They were better-dressed now than when they had first been found, and the reasons were two-fold - they had been in rags before, and they had hoped that maybe, this would throw off the party pursuing them.

He couldn't help but smile when one of them pointed to the village ahead of them and they begin to jog... but frowned when a horseman clattered onto the road behind them. He was a tall, imposing figure, carrying several bladed weapons and wielding a menacing, studded club.

"Hyah!" the hunter said as he urged his horse into a gallop, and the group ahead of him broke into a run. The children couldn't keep up, though a man who appeared to be the father of the family urged them along, even lingering to pick one up. The rider was closing fast, and he would be upon them before they reached the village. With a blow from the club, any of them could be killed, especially the children...

The choice to kill a man was never easy for Sir Roland Gravois, but he knew the laws of the land, his obligations... and his honor. An innocent was threatened, and he knew, if it came to that, he would trade his life to save one of theirs. It was more than a job; knighthood defined who he was. He placed the binoculars into a saddlebag and slipped his rifle from its holster. The butt was pressed to his shoulder, and he began the steady turn Wong had taught him weeks ago.

He found the hunter in his sights and eased into a lead. Once he found his speed, he sustained it while counting to three, and then fired.

The bullet whistled through the air and the hunter jerked when it cut through his chest. The horse became unsteady, and when it stopped, the rider toppled to the ground.

The slaves stopped, stunned, and squinted at Roland on the hilltop, who was already busy putting the rifle away, his pistol out now in its stead as he worked his way down to the road to check on the fallen bounty hunter. The man who was probably the father approached timidly, and began, "Sir...?"

"Go on to the village, monsieur," Roland said, lifting his head to look at the man. The bounty hunter was very dead, and the knight collected the reins of the other horse. "You are under our protection now. Tell the Guard what you have seen - that Sir Roland has killed a bandit."

From the Caravans Protection Act...

"...Any bandit within the Barony of Sainte-Ouen, as a threat to the commerce and welfare of our nation, may be stopped from perpretrating violence or theft and/or prevented from perpretrating further violence or theft with lethal force by any legal authority of the Barony, any citizen of the Barony, or any guest acting in the interests of the Barony."

Oh, the foxes have holes in the ground
And the birds have their nests in the air
And ev?rything has a hidin? place
But us poor sinners ain?t go nowhere


Back when I was young, when Gabreal was still a prince and his father was dying on the throne, everyone had slaves. They were prizes of war, things to be traded when the king had no more land and gold to give to his knights and soldiers. My father kept one, a hyacinth girl who bore his third son; I remember her and the sounds of her crying like a lamb to slaughter when they branded her as Kesina's. If she's still alive, the scar of the hawk will always haunt her. Us poor sinners ain't go nowhere, little girl.

The sky and the lay of the land is unfamiliar. I'm trying to figure out how that boy Alain managed to get a whole damned barony under the heel of his boot so swiftly, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that I've seen younger kings with half as much sense. Some of the knights around here, they've explained the region, but there's not much to hear; words can't paint the same understanding of a place until you've walked it yourself. They ask me if I want to borrow a horse, but there's no point -- I've got Baron with me, and he'll likely spook the thing or eat it before I get halfway down the damned road.

The sun's rising slow today, though the night sky has gone gray in anticipation. Baron's at my heels as I walk, the chimera-hound snapping his teeth at every blade of grass that moves the wrong way. He's riled and so am I. Some of these boys here, they might have a problem with killing -- I don't. Death is a path older than slavery and I court it willingly.

There's a deer trail that cuts off the road and down a piece toward a creek. Whoever's down there doesn't seem to think their voice is carrying the way it is, but the wind has a funny way of working against people like that; I can't pick out the words, but I can pick out the tones, and they're filled with anger and fear. Resignment. Familiar things. Baron goes still and picks his scaly head up, long tongue of his lashing out and tasting the air. Whoever thought to put a komodo and a wolf hound together, they're all right by me. I slip into the shadows of the deer path and he follows at my heels.

There's glimpses of fading moonlight and gray sun pushing past the fresh foliage of Spring. One man, but he looks as broken as a doll, two women and a girl that reminds me of hyacinths. There are two others, men as dark and old as I am, and I can see the dull reflection of steel coming back at me. They're all curses and intimidation, but I know the game; slaves are money and they won't cut them down unless they can't get a good price. The man, he might not be worth too much, but the little girl will fetch more than a few bright coins to the right buyer.

I don't know the land, but I know how to make it work for me. I keep myself downwind and patient, one hand curled at Baron's shoulders where fur meets scale -- he's waiting and so I am. Roland, he said something about there only being a fine when it comes to the possession of slaves, but I know what men do to hyacinth girls.

They turn their backs to the trees and I step away from an old oak, shadows lapping at my heels. Baron's already gone, a whiplash of teeth and claw; one of them was too busy getting their hard-on staring at the girl to notice the chimera-hound launching for his neck. His loss. The other -- he's a little smarter and he starts to bolt like a deer right quick.

I let Baron enjoy his kill while I play wildcat. He's heading toward the creek and I can see the whites of his eyes when he looks over his shoulder to mark me. Foxes have holes, but us poor sinners ain't go nowhere. It's only when he's stuck between the creek and me that he realizes he's out of places to run and lifts his steel.

That was his mistake right there.

The thrust he starts with makes me think that he's got some training with the bastard blade, but it isn't enough; I am my sword and I know it better than I know myself. I lock my sword against his, pushing forward until I can see the fear in his eyes; he smells like sex and sh*t. He fumbles the break, but I take a step back all the same. I got what I wanted and now I'll give this barony what it wants. I parry his next move and step in, enough to slide the line of my sword neatly between his ribs. I swear, I can feel his heart convulsing through the metal.

His dying throes are spent face down in the creek as I pull my sword out from him. He'll make a fine meal for some animal, no doubt. By the time I make it back to Baron, the adrenaline has gone down some; the women are fumbling with their collars and chains, half expecting me to steal them for further work, maybe. Stepping over the corpse of the other slaver, they go still as a pause before the girl. There's a desperation in their eyes that I recognize.

When I reach for her neck, they expect the worst. In truth, it takes me more than a few moments to work the collar and chain off, as much as the craftsmanship is a piece of sh*t. "You ever see a hyacinth before?" I ask the girl as I move on to the women. There are tears in their eyes as I pull the chains away. I can see the girl shake her head silently from my periphery. She's watching Baron with wide eyes, bloody from the kill. Probably should wash him up in the creek before I head back. The last slave, the man -- I'm not sure if he'll survive. Something inside him looks broken, and it's not just the physical. I'd rather him take the death than the girl, though. Maybe that's the last of my morals talking.

"You should have your ma show you some, when the summer's full. Pretty things." I help them onto their feet, brush them off some. The girl clings to her mother's skirt hem and they all keep a wide berth from Baron as I lead them back up the deer trail and to the road; by then, sunrise has almost hit and I can see the village down a ways. They look halfway between thanking me and running for high hell while they have the chance; surely I don't look like any knight of this barony and that's fine by me.

They head back toward the village and I watch them awhile, make sure everything's right; once or twice the little girl looks back, but eventually I turn back up the road.

The world's got enough hyacinth girls, I figure. One less is fine by me.

She struggled and strained against those shackles, those bonds. A dainty woman of chocolate waves and honey kissed flesh, warm almond eyes. Defiant those almond eyes smoldered and burned, planting her feet as she was dragged along like a part of a chain gang. A new slave acquired.

The road was rough upon her bare feet. Sweaty and grimy she missed her home lands. She missed her people. When they made camp there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes that seemed as wary regard as she looked around.

This was the expected place to stop. She had learned well of the borders and these lands. The little wren was a smart bird.

She served them with her normal haughty, defiant way. Watching with wary eyes and seething hatred as she listened to them discuss how delightful it would be to break her.

The wren only would fill their wine glasses higher. Waiting and watching till they were deep in their cups. They never recognized when the axe was taken and the dagger slid into the side of her skirt.

She had all the time in the world. She was ever patient and precise. There was time when the moon would be full and bright. The final cups were laced. An untraceable poison she had filled the wine with. It had a delayed reaction but it served its purpose well. Paralyzed when the moment came, there would be no protest. They wouldn?t have that sweet option.

The wren waited until she heard snoring. She smelled of sandalwood and dry leaves set aflame. The keys had been taken with nimble fingers. In those hushed quiet hours she would hunt. Quick in slaver?s tent her small hand slapped over the mouth of the first slaver, the dagger slit his throat so there was no worry of warning cry of death. But if dying eyes left open could offer a visual imprint there would be no confession of wren seen? but tiger.

The next slaver had the same death. The axe used to slice and sever those men into bits and pieces. Her delicate features, the avian will of expression was brutally savage then in the smile it offered. Hardly so demure, hardly so defiant was that smile. She was satisfied with her results, that tent the slavers kept was the bag that their remains would be packaged in. Shipped back to slaver?s market.

There was their pound of flesh. She had to wonder as she set the slaves free how well that pound of slaver flesh would sell on the market.

Tiger delights deep in the night? deep in the shadows she was gone again. Untraceable in a drifting sweet aroma of sandalwood and burning leaves

Months of hard work, long trails, and often bloody combat had given the "Great North Road" some well-deserved peace - that part of the slave catching community in the habit of local capture and export, and the bounty hunters they hired, learned that the closer they came to the Barony, the more perilous the road became.

And crossing the borders of that new promised land was a death sentence. When it felt threatened, the Barony delivered swift and terrible justice and offered no apology.

Canaan was the name of the village that sprung up on the road west from Esp?rance. As the Forgotten Layers drifted further from the rest of the Barony, the paths through and borders of the land became more defined, less mysterious, and the twisted way south to RhyDin seemed the only one that retained its strange magick. Almost all in the new village had spent some part of their lives as slaves - those free the longest helped the newly escaped in settlement, education, and what therapy they could offer to heal their scarring ordeals.

Men and women from the Barony helped however they could, too.

"Steady... steady, now!" Seamus was grinning ear to ear, locked in 'combat' with a girl of sixteen, wooden training swords forming a broad X between them. "Ye wanna keep your feet, 'specially now, of all times."

The freckled girl giggled and nodded. "Ya remember what 'appened last time? Yeah?" She nodded again. "Now I break and..."

Seamus knocked her sword away in a broad sweep and brought his overhead, and this time she was ready. He was not as fast as he could be, trying to be as fast as what he felt would be an 'average' swordsman... which might have been a mistake. She blocked his blow and let out a cry as, caught up in the moment, she struck out, catchimg him in the nose with the weapon.

"Doof!" The knight stumbled back, clutching his face while the girl covered hers and gasped, but he was laughing and shaking his head, dropping his weapon to the dirt. The gaggle of Volunteers and children that surrounded them in a loose half-circle giggled and chuckled also, and Seamus put a hand up to keep her at bay as he dabbed at his slightly bloodied nose. " 'M okay, okay..." He wiped with the 'kerchief and then grinned at her. "Ye got me good there, see? You can do it. Got a knack for it, even."

She giggled and nodded, then bent to gather up their swords and clean the mud off of them.

"Hoo... think I need a break." The crowd began to disperse, the girl with them, waving cheerfully over her shoulder at Seamus in parting, but a similarly freckled old man lingered nearby, gnarled hands wrapped around his cane. He was only fifty... but a life in chains had taken its toll. Lucky to get away when he did, for what few years he had left.

"You know, I haven't seen my grand-daughter smile like that... ever, I don't think." The man seemed pleased; serene with this new world, and their new lot in life.

"Beck sure seemed happy, di'n she," Seamus agreed as he moved to get his horse, untying the reins.

"Almost as if she'd speak again."

"She may yet, gramps." The knight grunted as he mounted his horse. "You remember now... the Lord works in mysterious ways."

The old man bowed his head. "You've done us a great kindness, sir knight. I hope we'll see you again." Then he turned and left, descending the small hill with feathery green grass towards the bright, cheerful houses gathered along a little dirt way and a single wrought iron spell-lamp. Everything seemed to glow in the sunlight as dusk approached, and the wildflowers glistened with the raindrops from a hard afternoon rainshower...

Mysterious indeed. Seamus turned his horse, and with a single cry, they disappeared from the hilltop, headed east to Armand's.

Here I dreamt I was a soldier
and I marched the streets of Birkenau

And I recall, in spring
the perfume that the air would bring
to the indolent town

Where the barkers called the moon down
the carnival was ringing loudly, now

And just to lay with you
there's nothing that I wouldn't do
save lay my rifle down



I close my eyes and see the fields of war: bodies scattered of men I knew and did not knew, women screaming and beating their chests in primitive mourning, blood caked in the joints of my armor (it was the last time I wore plate, the sh*t was too constraining), Taine bearing down on me, saying something I couldn't hear while one of the healers pressed a burning iron to seal the wound on my shoulder shut, but I didn't feel it because the nerves were already dead and shot--

"Miss Eleanor?"

I open my eyes and I'm staring at the warmth of summer in the scrunched up face of a man-child, his first attempts at a beard sitting awkwardly on his jaw. Peach fuzz. Gods. What was I thinking?

"Are you all right, Miss Eleanor?" He frowns and his nose wrinkles up. He looks like he's twelve when he does that, gods damn me.

"Right as rain, kiddo." I find my smile as I look back at him and the few other children gathered around. I've no idea where my head is; all I hear is the battle cries of foreign men on opposite fields. "Where was I?"

"You were tellin' us about the dragon."

"Oh, aye. Dogal the Dragonslayer." My smile feels more natural now, and whatever confusion was born of my slip into memory drifted away as I continued my store. "Now Dogal, he was a beast of a man. Big as the tallest tree and twice as thick with armor that shined in the darkest of caverns." That much was true, as I remember him; what I won't tell them about his cruel stare, his craving for power. I won't tell him about the way he took women in his chambers, how I could hear them screaming down the hall at night while Taine slept. I never knew how he could sleep through that sh*t. "And his sword, it was known through-out the land as the Dragon's Claw."

"Was it really made outta a claw?" One girl asks with half curiosity, half skepticism. Good for her. It'll keep her alive, and maybe it has so far. The children, the ones who've seen slavery -- they seem to be doing better these days.

"I couldn't tell you, lovely. But I know it struck as hard and fast as one." I can feel myself grinning now. Gods, I hate children, truly I do, but there's something about their ability to suspend disbelief -- even after the sh*t they've seen. "So when the Good King sought his court, back when Dogal was a young man, he proved his worth to the King by venturing into the woods and coming back with the head of a dragon dragged behind him on his horse." I found myself pulling an imaginary rope as if there really was a dragon's head on the end of it. I never saw the damn thing, but I saw the skeleton of it -- a wyrm at best, but still impressive enough to my people, who saw so little magic that anything Dogal did was akin to a god.

"So the Good King brought Dogal on his court and Dogal helped him build a kingdom while he sat on the King's counsel."

"Was he a good knight?" The man-child's got the same look as the girl. He's clever enough to see that there's a lot of fluff to this tale for the younger ones. Probably a lot more than he knows. I smile at him and he doesn't question.

"Oh, aye. The very best. Now--" I rise from the short stone wall where I've been sitting for hours entertaining them, feeling my joints complain. Gods, I'm getting old. It's almost a blessing I've only got five years left. "Your folks are probably all wondering where the hell you've been all this time." Reaching, a ruffled up a street rat's patch of dirty blond hair. "Off with you." I waved my hands at them and they scattered with laughter.

All except one. The man-child -- Robert, his name is Robert, I finally remember -- he looks hard at me while I stand. He'll be a good man one day. "You're coming back, right? To finish the story?"

"Mm. I'll be back soon." It's a lie. Looking around, my work in this place is all but wrapping up. I'm not a knight any more, and these people now have better rolemodels in place than I ever was. Gods bless them. "You keep an eye on them kids, aye? Watch it -- if you're not careful, the knights here will wrangle you into learning the sword soon enough." The compliment pleases him and he stands a little straighter while I turn away.

What I don't tell him is that the story hasn't ended yet. That Dogal the mage-knight has my name written in Death's book with all intents of taking it nice and slow. But that's a sh*t end to a fairy tale, so I'll let kids like him rewrite it to their own ends:


And they all lived happily ever after.