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  Chapter 2 – Strangers in the Fog...

  Asguard's gray eyes darted from one guard to another as the dog listened to the troubled whispers shared between the men who wore armor. After so many years training and breeding the Stonebrooke line of war dogs, Gareth still marveled at his canine companions' vocabulary. The guards shared troubling words that morning as they walked through the fog, and Gareth repeatedly reached downward to scratch Asguard's ear, hoping he gave his dog a little comfort.

  “Does Markus send the fog as rumors say?”

  “He does, and the fog is only the first curse he'll level upon us.”

  “What else could follow?”

  “His army will come next. They will shroud themselves in the fog.”

  “How does he have an army? I thought we shattered all our rivals when we rode beneath King Harold's banner.”

  “King Harold's killing only increased Markus's army. Markus will send the dead against us, ghouls and wraiths covered by the fog. We'll be lucky to see them coming.”

  Gareth would still have recognized the group's anxiety had they kept their thoughts to themselves. Though they wore so much armor, and though they carried such terrible weapons, such iron and steel could not conceal their fear. Gareth's dog training demanded that he effectively, quickly, determine from a dog's posture if that animal's defensive drive made it quick to anger and bite, or if the dog was driven by a desire to chase prey, to pounce and play. A dog driven by prey might require sterner command. A dog driven by defense might need more encouragement. Reading any dog incorrectly could cost Gareth a bite, and his missing fingers on his good, right hand testified to the harm a Stonebrook war dog could inflict.

  Gareth noticed how quickly each guard's neck snapped towards the sound of a bolted village door or clasped window. Gareth saw how deeply the guards' steps stomped into the muddy street. Gareth saw how tightly each guard gripped their pole-arms. He saw how closely the soldiers kept to their formation.

  “Easy, Asguard. Easy.”

  Asguard drew closer to Gareth's side. Asguard also sensed the soldiers' unease, and it put the dog on alert. Asguard's nostrils flared and smelled at the air, his gray eyes swiveling upon his surroundings.

  “Easy, Asguard. Easy.”

  Gareth's words were more for assurance than for command. His words promised Asguard that he was looking out for the dog's welfare, that Asguard could trust and depend upon his human master.

  “I can't believe you don't even have a leash on that creature.” Wren made sure to keep Gareth between herself and that massive war dog.

  “I won't offend Asguard with the leash,” Gareth answered. “He is no lap dog kept in front of a fireplace. To Asguard, the leash is an implement of war. It would tell him we prepare for fight. It would heighten the tension he is already feeling around him.”

  Wren peeked at Asguard. “You can hardly blame me for my unease.”

  Gareth chuckled. Asguard trotted a step forward.

  “Nor can you fault me for mine, Wren. You've put so much iron and steel on your soldiers that they step to their knees in such mud. Why walk through the streets with such an escort? Why didn't you use a few of King Harold's horses in delivering me to the keep?”

  “The horses have betrayed us,” Wren sighed. “The horses do nothing as long as the fog hovers everywhere. The fog maddens them. They bite at whoever attempts to throw a saddle over them. They kick at anyone who tries to mount their backs. The keep is troubled, Gareth. Without the horses, we are weak. Without the horses, all our armor means nothing on the field.”

  Gareth frowned. “The fog is cruel. Father sacrificed so much for his horses. He spent such treasure in his collection of those mounts and lances. The fog makes so much sacrifice empty.”

  Wren pulled her vermillion cowl against her ears and shuddered. “We have found that the fog carries the most bitter cruelties.”

  “Do you believe there is an intelligence behind the fog?”

  Wren's eyebrow raised. “You ask if I believe Markus sends the fog.”

  Gareth nodded.

  “You will see, and you will know.”

  Wren folded her arms around herself to seek warmth from her vermillion robes. She turned away from Gareth and stepped ahead as Asguard's gray eyes followed her.

  Gareth withdrew into his thoughts. It was well past the middle of the morning. Yet the fog still refused to dissipate. It lurked above the streets. It nuzzled against the village's homes and shops. It gathered above the village wells. Each night, the fog rose from the earth to haunt the new morning, thickening each day, wrapping around arms, constricting around necks. The fog shrouded the glow of burning home fires in village windows. The fog lengthened the chill's fangs.

  Villagers grew as agitated as the animals. Villagers remained walled within their crooked homes as long as they were able, sneaking through the streets in search of food only when their growling stomachs turned too painful to bear. Small blades glimmered wherever crowds gathered at butcher and cheese shops. Many blades did not flash at all as they cut both purse strings and skin. Soldiers retreated into the keep, leaving the village to fend for itself so that the bodies of victims and thieves fell beneath the hovering fog.

  Foul rumors thickened as quickly as the fog. Midwives shrilled that the fog was unnatural. Apothecaries and alchemists hinted dark magics swirled in the mist. Farmers sought refuge in village homes and told stories of scratching, shambling noises the fog carried to their country homes.

  Gareth feared those rumors as much as he feared the fog. He knew how debilitating fear was to a dog, and he knew fear was more paralyzing to man.

  “Gareth Stonebrook!” A voice shouted through the fog. “Bless the Maker it's you!”

  A short figure, whose thin arms and narrows shoulder appeared to struggle beneath the weight of a torn cloak, approached suddenly through the fog. Asguard barked sharply to warn the man that threat would be answered by his bite.

  The soldiers showed less restraint than did Asguard. One solider delivered a gauntlet-ed punch to the man's midsection, and the stranger crumpled beneath a heap of cloaks. The soldiers instantly surrounded the slumped figure with raised pole-arms.

  “When has it become a crime to walk streets ruled by Stonebrook kings?” Gareth growled at the soldiers. Asguard's hair bristled. “And when did the king's soldiers become such fools?”

  Wren defended her escort. “Any stranger in the fog must first be considered an enemy.”

  Gareth's gray eyes burned. “Your guards leave us exposed, sister. Who covers our flank? We were lucky that, truly, this man was no enemy. We were fortunate he was not a diversion, that he did not have friends ready to sneak upon us from behind and open our throats before we thought to peek over our shoulders.”

  Wren squinted behind her into the fog. For a moment, she imagined she felt the scrape of a blade across her neck, but it was only the touch of the gray mist.

  “Stay Asguard.”

  The dog's gray eyes never left Gareth as he stomped to the soldier who had punched the man.

  “You'll surrender your weapons to me.” Gareth snarled.

  The soldier paused. Asguard growled.

  Wren's gray eyes flashed when she saw the soldier peek towards her for support. “How dare you hesitate before an order from your King!”

  The soldier meekly surrendered his arms.

  Gareth looked hard at the man. “You will report to my dog field first thing tomorrow morning.”

  The soldier blinked. His stunned mind stammered.

  “And you will report to trainer Eldrich and place yourself beneath his command.” Gareth smiled. Eldrich would be terrified when he learned he commanded a king's soldier. “You will follow Eldrich's instruction and learn discipline from the Stonebrook dogs.”

  Asguard growled, and the sentry looked upon the dog with troubled eyes.

  Gareth extended his left hand, complete with all its original fingers, to the man in the mud and helped the stranger to hi
s feet.

  “A bad omen when the king's men meet those in the streets with violence.” Gareth brushed some of the dirt from the man's shoulder.

  The man's eyes teared. “The fog turns the streets wicked, Gareth Stonebrook.”

  “You know me?”

  “I know your dogs,” the stranger smiled. “There are none finer beneath the Maker's sky. I remember when such dogs ran free through the keep's old woods.”

  Gareth's gray eyes then recognized the man. The years had turned the man thin and left him in rags. But Gareth's memory placed weight back upon the stranger.

  “Thorn Edgeton,” Gareth shook Thorn's hand with three fingers. “My father's favorite huntsman. You helped the old king crowd the halls of his keep with mounted tusks and antlers.”

  “Forgive me, Lady Wren,” Thorn bowed to the vermillion robes, “but you were only a babe the last I looked upon your gray eyes.”

  Wren returned a short curtsy.

  Gareth grinned as Asguard bounded to huntsman. The dog's welcome pleased Thorn, who forgot the pain delivered by the soldier as he stroked the war dog's ear.

  “As I say,” Thorn spoke, “the finest dogs anywhere.”

  Gareth whistled and Asguard returned to his side. “Times are cruel when my father's best huntsman is left to the cold.”

  Thorn stared at the ground. “Hard times indeed. And the fog worsens ill fortune. It's no better outside the village. The fog chases away any game. Crops are ruined. Hunger cripples our families.”

  “We know nothing with which to fight the fear.” Wren sighed.

  Gareth wondered if they were as helpless as Wren feared. Swords could not bleed the fog dry. Soldiers destroyed what little trust the village gave them when they retreated into the keep. Gareth suspected he needed a new weapon with which to combat the fear that fell with the mist and snow.

  Gareth patted Asguard's side. Eldrich would be very surprised tomorrow morning. Eldrich had only started to believe he could command the Stonebrook war dogs, and Gareth prepared to send a second man to his command.

  “Would you be afraid to run with my dogs, hunstman?”

  Thorn grinned at Gareth's question. “It would be an honor to run with such beasts.”

  “That can be arranged,” Gareth winked. “Be at my kennels tomorrow at dawn and my man Eldrich will introduce you to a dog you might call your friend. I doubt it will take a huntsman long to gain a dog's respect.”

  Thorn's eyes sparkled. “You given me a new hope, Gareth.”

  Though the soldiers gripped their pole-arms tightly, Asguard trotted around his master as Thorn, overcome with emotion, embraced Gareth in the street. Gareth did not flinch from the affection. Let Thorn learn of his ascension to the throne tomorrow. Today, let Gareth be a simpler friend. Wren withdrew deeper into her vermillion robes while she waited to continue their march. Thorn bowed as he departed and disappeared into the fog.

  The soldiers remained tense as they continued. Yet Gareth suspected they would show better discipline. He doubted any more of them desired to report to the dog fields the following morning. Gareth smiled. The soldiers did not understand the Stonebrook dogs, and so they feared them. Asguard trotted beside his master, his smell doing far more to anticipate what lurked in the fog than any of the soldiers' sight.

  “You mark the start of your rule with hope, Gareth.” Wren's voice condensed in the chill. “I wonder how many other Stonebrook kings have done so. But it has been long since a man has smiled in the street. It speaks well of your dogs that they offer such strength.”

  Gareth smiled. How long would it be before Wren chose a Stonebrook war dog for her own?

  “My dogs do more than lift spirits.”

  Though she did not turn to Gareth, Wren's steps slowed.

  Gareth leaned to scratch Asguard's ear. “I breed and train war dogs.”

  “Do think Markus is behind the fog?”

  Gareth did not respond. He dreaded to think it, feared to believe it. But Gareth, better than anyone else in the village or keep, had reason to suspect that Markus's hand hid in the thickening fog.

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