(41) What A Failure

Baron Bernard Buchanan crouched in the tall grass, staring intently at the dried viscera. The stench was nearly unbearable, but his face did not so much as twitch. This was not a sight he was unfamiliar with, though he was grateful it was only animal gore this time.

“My lord,” a soldier greeted with a salute.

“What news?” Bernard asked, rising to his feet, observing the crimson stains darkening the ground for hundreds of feet in all directions.

“Nothing remains, my lord. Records indicate there should be a home and at least one barn, possibly a coup, but we have found only charred ruins. There is no sign of the occupants, either living or dead,” he reported clinically.

“If there are no corpses, we should assume they are alive until proven otherwise. It is fortunate they were able to flee,” the baron said, glancing in the direction of the ruined home.

He opened his mouth again, but his head snapped to the east before he could get any words out. A tear in space appeared mere feet from him, manifesting as a gateway of glowing purple. It was wide enough for men to walk three abreast, and it was at least ten feet tall.

Without a verbal command, his scattered soldiers formed a circle around the gate, spears pointed inward. He cursed himself for bringing only about a dozen men, but he had only discovered this attack while out on a routine patrol. He had to remind himself that he could not see the future and should not hold himself to a standard as if he could.

Drawing his own sidearm with a grimace, he took his place next to his soldiers. Things were not looking good. If the killer was coming back to the scene of the crime, wielding unbelievable spatial magic, he was not confident his men would even be distractions—nor himself, for that matter.

The first to emerge was a pair, a man and a woman. They were perhaps just beyond middle-aged, and their features spoke of labor under the hot sun. Most importantly, Bernard did not detect any threat from them. That, by itself, did not confirm that they were safe, but it was a factor that reinforced what his eyes told him.

The second pair to emerge was a woman of medium stature and a child, perhaps in her early to mid-teens. Despite the girl being a nuarch, which would have immediately interested him, the woman instead drew his eyes.

There did not seem to be anything notable about her. She was of average height and build, with long black hair and white eyes so uniform they almost looked like cataracts. If anything was noteworthy, it was her robe, made of a luxurious fabric with elaborate, intricate designs.

Her plain appearance, clothing aside, contrasted with the warning in his head. His instincts screamed that she was dangerous. He could not nail down a basis for that instinct beyond the fact that she was clearly responsible for the portal, yet he gripped his hilt so tightly that his leather gloves creaked.

“Oh!” the first woman squeaked, stopping in her tracks after nearly running into a spearpoint.

“What the—” said the man next to her.

Bernard barely heard them, though. His eyes were locked on the white-eyed woman, and hers on his. They stared, unblinking, for several long seconds. Eventually, a drop of sweat ran down his reflective crown and along his face, where it dripped from the tip of his nose.

As if that was some sort of signal, the woman broke eye contact, turning and gesturing toward the array of spears leveled toward her, the portal closing behind her.

“I am an adventurer assisting these two in investigating an attack on their home and property. Unless you announce yourselves, I will have to assume that you are brigands attempting to rob us, at the very least, and the perpetrators of this crime, at worst,” she said with a voice so neutral and unbothered that Bernard thought she might follow up with a yawn.

The words comforted him slightly, but he did not lower his guard.

“I am Baron Bernard Buchanan. I am here investigating an attack on my land, spotted during a patrol,” he explained, making sure to enunciate clearly.

“I see. Well, Baron Buchanan, it seems our interests are aligned. I would ask that your men lower their weapons now that we have established that neither of us is a threat to the other,” the woman said, turning toward Bernard.

Before he could answer, a low growling filled the air. The soldiers gasped, and Bernard felt his eyes widen, despite his years of training to maintain a diplomatic expression.

Beside the teenager was a huge cat, with dark fur that seemed to glow as it ruffled. It was the size of a wolf, and its muscles rippled with barely-restrained predatory instincts. That neither he nor any of his soldiers had even noticed it spoke of either powerful stealth or high levels, and neither was good.

“This is Aka, my summon. I have asked her to protect my apprentice, Tara. She means you no harm, but I imagine she does not like threats,” the woman explained, motioning toward the cat and Tara in turn.

Only now did Bernard notice that the teenager, Tara, was close to the adventurer, clinging to her robe with both hands. She seemed timid, but he did not see fear in her eyes. Instead, he saw a fire smoldering beneath a wet blanket, as if she viewed every person as a potential threat, and only her sense of civility kept her aggression restrained—barely.

A shiver ran down his spine as a realization dawned on him. Bernard glanced at Aka, who stood next to Tara protectively and stared straight at him. She was not angered by the spears pointed at her. She was angered by Tara’s demeanor, her fear.

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The spears and the soldiers wielding them did not even register with Aka. She knew they were no threat.

“Sheathe,” Bernard said, sweat running down his back.

The soldiers raised their spears, planting the butts into the ground. They glanced at each other, as if wondering what to do next.

“As you were. Secure the perimeter. Inform me of any abnormalities, both external and internal,” he barked.

The soldiers took off at a jog, quickly reestablishing a secure perimeter—as secure as it could be with only a dozen men.

“Baron Buchanan!” the farming couple shouted simultaneously, bowing their heads.

“Rise. You owe no deference to the man who failed to protect your land and property,” Bernard said with a wave of his hand.

“Sir, we would never—” the man started as they both raised their heads.

“Please stop. A lord failed to protect the land he owns. That is all there is to it. We need not waste time with trivialities and formalities,” Bernard said, looking to the adventurer, who was staring off toward where the house used to stand. “I am more interested in what Ms. Adventurer thinks of this situation.”