Rolf hesitated, staring at the basket dangling from the wall. "Larry, if I give you the silver, you give me the books. You have my word on that?"
Larry scowled, his expression darkening with feigned offense. "Of course, Septon. We've known each other for... what, four years now? Do you think so little of me? I swear by the Mother's mercy—as soon as the coin hits the basket, your things hit the dirt!"
"Fine. For the sake of the gods, I'll trust you." Rolf placed the two silver stags—warm from his own skin—into the basket. He watched Larry haul the rope up, the wooden pulley creaking in the silence.
A moment later, an old wool blanket was tossed over the battlements. It fell with a soft, hollow thump in the mud.
Rolf frowned at the sound. He rushed over and shook out the blanket. It was empty. His face twisted into a mask of cold fury.
"Larry! My books! The Book of Prayer and the Rites of Purity! They were right there on the chest. You couldn't have missed them!"
Larry leaned over the edge, shrugging with lazy indifference. "Look, monk, I searched every corner. There was nothing on the chest. I even asked Brother Cole; he said no one touched your cots. Maybe you took them yourself and left them in a ditch somewhere."
Standing beneath the high palisade, looking up at the longbow in Larry's hands, Rolf realized the truth: those books were gone. Whether Larry had burned them for heat or sold them for a cup of wine, they were beyond his reach. He glared at the guard, who was busy triumphantly blowing the dust off his new silver stags, spat a curse into the mud, and turned to leave.
Caden Storm stepped up beside him, his hand heavy on Rolf's shoulder. It looked like sympathy, but his eyes were dancing with a sharp, cynical amusement. The knight turned toward the wall.
"Larry! I am Ser Caden Storm, out of the Marches. Tell the Lady Jeyne that for a modest fee, my steel is hers to command!"
Larry spat over the side. "The Lady's orders are clear, Ser Caden. No one enters Oxhorn. Especially not 'knights' with hungry eyes and sharp swords. The world is too full of wolves as it is."
Caden's jaw tightened. "Perhaps you should ask the Lady herself before you play master of the house."
"No need," Larry snorted. "The order was 'anyone.' No exceptions. Not even for a pretty cloak."
Caden's anger flared. He leaned in, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "Is that so? Tell me, Larry—is the gate between the Lady's legs kept just as tightly barred against the help, or is that the only door you're allowed to open?"
A second later, an arrow hissed through the air, thudding into the dirt an inch from Caden's boot.
"Piss off!" Larry roared from the wall. "Don't think a title makes you special. I've seen a hundred 'green' knights like you end up as crow-feed. Move along before the next one finds your heart!"
Rolf, watching Caden's stunned and livid face, couldn't help it. He let out a dry, hacking laugh. He patted the knight's shoulder. "A bit of a pity, isn't it?"
Caden stared at the monk, then his own face cracked into a grin. "Seven hells, Rolf. Stopped at the gate by a hound guarding a scrap of gristle. What are the gods playing at?"
Rolf looked up at the sun hanging in the west. "The Seven are too busy with the Great Lords to care for us, Caden. Only the Sun shines on everyone alike."
"Aye," Caden replied, "but your Sun is going down. You're the local—is there a place nearby to rest before the dark takes us?"
Rolf looked back at the barred gates of Oxhorn. "Follow me. An hour down this track is Deepwell. I'll see if anyone there has a spare bit of floor."
Caden didn't look like a monster—monsters usually wore better silk these days. Rolf decided the knight's company was worth the risk.
They walked the rutted track for an hour until the small hovels of Deepwell came into view—a village of twenty chimneys. It was Kartz land, named for a well dug a century ago by a knight who wanted to save his kin the two-mile walk to the river.
By the time they entered the square, the chimneys should have been smoking with the evening fire. Instead, the village was a tomb.
Rolf pushed open the door of the first house. It wasn't locked. The interior was stripped bare; grain, blankets, and pots were gone.
"Empty," Caden noted, peering over his shoulder. "They fled."
"No woods or hills to hide in nearby," Rolf mused. "They've likely crowded into Oxhorn. That explains why Lady Jeyne barred the gates—the town must be bursting with refugees. A cage of wood, but better than the open field."
He checked three more houses. All were empty.
"We stay here tonight then," Caden said. "But what of the grain? We passed miles of wheat just starting to turn gold. If the Lannisters come, they'll burn the lot."
Rolf sighed, remembering the height of the stalks along the road. "It's nearly ripe. To cut it now is to throw away a year's labor. Lady Jeyne is gambling that the Westermen won't swing this far inland."
"A gambler always loses in the end," Caden said, spreading his tattered blanket over a bare bedframe. "When we passed King's Landing, the King's lands were guarded by peasants with pikes. I tried to pluck two ears of corn for the boy's dinner, and five of them came screaming out of the stalks with scythes. Cost me two copper stars just to keep my skin. Madness everywhere."
Rolf shook his head. "The world has lost its mind."
"Aye," Caden smiled, a sharp, hungry look in his eyes. "But as the fishermen in the Stormlands say: the higher the waves, the dearer the fish. I'm looking for a proper post in the Riverlands. Any ideas?"
"You have a unique mind, Ser Caden," Rolf said. "Most knights want the glory of the vanguard. You want a wall to stand on."
"Vanguards get you killed. Walls get you paid. I want the gold, not the song."
"Then come with me to Stoney Sept," Rolf suggested. "Ser Wilbert Wilum is a man who knows the value of a steady guard. If you have the skill, he'll find you a place."
"I have the skill," Caden said confidently. "I took seventh in a tourney back in the Marches."
"Let's hope we never have to test that. Do you have food?"
Caden pulled a small bag of salt beef from his pack. "Not much. Sharing?"
"I have hard bread and we can find some turnips in the garden," Rolf said. "Soak them in a broth. It'll do for three."
The next day, they continued south toward Stoney Sept. The road was a ghost of its former self. Prosperous villages were now silent. When they encountered a hamlet that was still inhabited, the tension was thick enough to taste. Men stood at the gates with pitchforks; women hid the children. No one offered a bed to a knight and a monk. They bought scraps of food at the roadside and slept in the "watch-huts"—small lean-tos of stone and thatch built in the middle of the fields for guards to rest during the harvest.
It was damp, cramped, and miserable.
"My apologies, Rolf," Caden said as they huddled in a hut that smelled of wet straw. "My presence makes the peasants jumpy. You'd be in a warm bed if you were alone."
"We chose the path together," Rolf replied. "Don't dwell on it."
Caden couldn't sleep. The hut was too narrow for his frame, and the damp air chilled his bones. He lay awake, listening to the night, until a rhythmic crunch-crunch-crunch echoed from the dark field outside.
Caden's hand found his sword. He sat up, his heart hammering. Thieves? He didn't care about the crop, but a thief in the dark might want the boots off a sleeping knight. He woke Rolf and Jasmine with a gentle shake, pressing a finger to his lips. He took up his shield and eased out of the hut.
In the pale moonlight, he saw a shadow. It was massive, bristling, and low to the ground. A mountain of tusk and muscle.
A Great Boar was rooting through the grain, not ten paces away. Man and beast locked eyes in the silver light. The silence grew heavy with the promise of a kill.
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