The Iron Hound

5.1

Slender and lithe with a coat of curls, the Omerian river dog responded eagerly to the calls and whistles. So named for its love of water, the breed originated from the lakelands surrounding the Bluestone Tower in central Tirgodh. The purebreed's handler blew a sharp note and the splashing ceased, the stream settling about its legs.

Quin, propped on a folding stool, scratched a few words into his daybook. The past week had seen milder weather blown in from the north and the mist that perpetually clung to the surrounding hills had dissipated, leaving a clear view for several leagues.

Below the notes, he scribbled a sketch of the scene. The sodden animal frolicked in the water, its handler skipping down the hillside, shouting and whistling as the excitement became too much and the beast forgot he was even there, the clouds rolling in off Ebron Crag. It would make a fine painting.

Up above, below the patchwork bundles of clouds, a solitary sparrow flitted homewards. It passed overhead and Quin craned his neck to follow its course. It disappeared behind the first of The Dincroft's taupe walls, diving abruptly.

He wondered if this was the bird that would bring word from his wife. He snorted, shutting the book. She was quite glad to be rid of him, he was sure. Perhaps when the end of winter neared she might start to miss his presence in their small home, when the wood stores grew low, and the nights lonely.

With a groan, he swung off the stool, tottering on his feet for a moment. The downward slope played havoc with his sense of balance. Trundling around the stool, he reached down and bundled the compact seat under his arm, heading for the fortress looming at the top of the rise.

As he neared the gated gap in the wall, hidden from all but the keenest of eyes, the third bell heralded the change of watch. The smell of manure mingled with the crispness of the air this close to the stables.

He rattled the iron gate, catching the attention of the guardsman who deigned to open the barrier for him, under his own perception of efficiency.

Quin grunted an acknowledgement and made for the north arch into the inner ward. He caught the attention of a serf scurrying past with two heavy pails of water, and added to the boy's load with the travel stool. He seemed most happy to be of use, a pleasant attitude when compared to the usual offering from his charge.

The inner ward bustled with unusual activity. A hefty cart horse, tail swishing wildly, clattered the cobblestones as two stableboys attempted to reattach a wagon.

Quin spied the tutelar at the far end of the courtyard amidst a group of men clad in thick cloaks and furs. He recognised one face, a gnarled, wrinkled thing, topped by a long forehead and receding hairline. Marshal Venadue Prothro, proud bearer of the military title, had long been a staunch supporter of the Menhyr tutelary and before that, the Dow tutelary. Unable to attain mastership as a boy, he'd risen as high as he could. It was a shame in many ways. A talent like his went to waste shackled within the confines of social propriety.

Prothro's lands lay outwith the tutelary, so why he might be lingering mid-winter could be anyone's guess. Tutelar Menhyr kept his plans close to him. Quin had surmised that the man might suffer from a degree of paranoia, an affliction that wouldn't be completely unreasonable in his position.

Eyes flicked his way. His staring perhaps extending to unnecessary levels, he shuffled onwards to the tower in the north-east corner.

He paused outside, considering waiting. The last time he'd done so had left him cold and stiff without seat or overcoat to ease the passing of time. He grumbled and walked onwards. If he left it down to the Ashiiri woman, supper would be come and gone before the boy saw civilisation again.