Bastion let his jaw relax and said, “Thank you,” his tone more gentlemanly.
He wove through the thinning crowd, passing an empty fountain as his steps took him to a more utilitarian part of town.When he reached the smithy, it was dark and quiet but still smelled sharply of coal and hot metal.It mingled with the damp air, and the lamplight softened as a sea fog settled over the town, giving the streets a hazy, dream-like quality.
Bastion took a right, disquiet nipping at his heels.He passed several darkened shops, including a carpenter, a farrier, and a ropemaker, before the reinforced garrison gate materialized before him.
He strode up to the small door off to the side and banged on it with the flat of his fist.The fog dampened the sound, and when no answer came, Bastion banged again, harder.
The grille opened, and a curmudgeonly eye crowned by a wild eyebrow glared out at him.
“Bastion of the Royal Guard,” he said to the eye, “here to report an attack on the village of Windwick.”
The eye widened, and the grille slammed shut.The scrape of metal on metal followed, and the door swung inward to reveal an aging soldier with a curtain of limp white hair hanging around his shoulders.
“Shut yer fool mouth and get in here!”He ushered Bastion into the narrow gatehouse.In such a tight space, the smell of lamp oil assaulted him.Beside the door, a rumpled blanket and ceramic jug sat on a narrow bench.
“Ye said Windwick?”the man asked.“When?”
“The night before last, by pirates.”
“Goddess’s tits!”
“Where is your commanding officer?”Bastion asked.“Lord Kyrith needs to be informed of the attack.”
“He’s aware of the threat!”the man grumbled, hobbling forward to glare at Bastion.“Windwick ain’t the first we’ve heard of!”
“Then he’ll need to adjust his strategy!”Bastion exclaimed.“Windwick was burned to the ground!”
“What do ye know about strategy?”the old man asked.He stepped back and looked Bastion over, scowling.“You look barely old enough to be blooded!”
Bastion swallowed a cutting retort.Fatigue was catching up with him, thinning his patience.He didn’t need to explain where or how he’d learned, nor did he need to prove his skill.He simply swept his cloak aside, flashing the pommel of his sword in the smoky lamp light.
“Aye, so yer truly a Royal Guard.Seems strange that yer alone.Who‘re ye guarding?”
“I’m on leave,” Bastion said, bitterness leaching into his words.He hated that he had to resort to using the sword this way, a reminder that he was nothing without the weapon or title of knight.He asked again, “Where is your commanding officer?”
“Yer speaking to him!”
Bastion couldn’t contain a scoff.The guard considered him coldly, settling back onto his heels in a way that suggested, sword or not, he’d been humoring Bastion up to this point.
His seriousness sent a trickle of dread down Bastion’s spine, as cold as water under dry clothes.It spread across his body and settled in his stomach, setting his heart off like a startled bird.There was only one reason an old man would be the commanding officer.
“You look like ye seen a ghost, laddie,” the soldier said, his bushy eyebrows pinching together.
“The garrison is empty, isn’t it?”Bastion asked.
“Shhhhh!”The man used his hand to make a hard cutting motion between them.“I already told ye to shut yer fool mouth.The last thing we need is the townsfolk in a panic!”
“Where is everyone?”
“I already told ye, Windwick ain’t the only one to be attacked!”
Which meant Lord Kyrith had divided the garrison’s forces to deal with other raids.
“The town is vulnerable,” Bastion said, alarm rising.“You have to send a message–”
“I dinnahaveto do nothing!”The soldier cut him off.He moved into Bastion’s space, circling around to back him towards the door.“Ye city boys think you can come in here and boss us around, like some kinna knight escort.Lord Kyrith commands us, and we’re handling the situation!”
“But-”
