Shouts of rage and terror collided into one another, swallowed by a rising wall of sound. Hundreds of voices, none distinct, none lasting. Vision was unclear, blurry, hazed, muted colors flooded by. There was a sense of being pulled—dragged, hoisted and then held upright. A glance left—men on stools. A glance right—more of the same. A tightness came as something cold and rough settled around the neck. Familiar, but not familiar there. The world was spinning, mouth dry, ears ringing with a sharp shrill noise, then silence. A voice spoke on for only a breath and then came the sound of things snapping from both sides. The men were no longer standing. They were dangling. A pause and then an abrupt sense of falling.

Renold shot up into a seated position covered in a cold sweat. He brought his hand up and touched his throat where a subtle scar ran the length of his lower neck. His silk sheets, damp now, draped over his lower half, revealing his bare torso and the scars on it. His back had its own markings: more than a dozen long thin faded lines in every direction criss-crossing its entirety. His breathing was labored, and for a moment he just sat there, before slowly, ever so slowly, he began to take deep breaths and ground himself. He was in his manor now—not on a platform, not amongst his ghosts, and not in the past.

"How many times must I relive that?"

He laid back and exhaled, turning his attention to the window. Sunlight filtered weakly through a thin curtain; it was dawn. This nightmare was over but it was time for Renold to deal with a world full of waking terrors instead. War was never far away and it only continued to creep closer.

As dawn became morning Renold sat upright at his desk, his blue eyes fixed on the open ledgers before him. One hand rested along the page, index finger dragging over the rough parchment, the back of his hand visibly lined with old scars. He wore simple, practical clothing, free of bright dyes or ornament, the sort he preferred within his own walls. The pageantry of rank held little appeal to him in private, though he could adopt it well enough when occasion demanded—silks, color, and silver thread worn not out of pride, but expectation.

His frame was muscular but lean and maintained, shaped by years of service rather than courtly leisure. Dark hair, cut short and kept high without sideburns, showed no indulgence in fashion, and the beard he wore—trimmed, close, and marked with strands of silver-grey—did little to soften the severity of his features—a sharp jawline and narrow eyes. What marks time had left upon him were not displayed openly; most were hidden beneath cloth and hair, save for those carried on his hands, where use and hardship had long since erased any trace of softness.

The desk itself bore the markings of constant use, its surface lightly scratched with ink stains settled in the grain. Reports on military movements, financial records, lists of the influential families, and other important matters were written within, each page containing notes in the margins.

Two men stood in front of him at the foot of his desk. "Thank you for coming," Renold stated without looking up. His voice sounded as tired as his eyes looked.

There was a pause as the two men remained silent. One was dressed well in smooth linen fabrics and a beret while the other was dressed as if he were going to war, the contrast between them immediate and unambiguous.

"Gregory, what is the state of the treasury?"

Placing a ledger on the table in front of him, Gregory, the one dressed for scribery, was a middle-aged man with a lean frame who wore spectacles. His clothing was neat and well-kept, absent of ornament but carefully chosen.

"Stable for now, my lord." His voice was calm and deferential, yet confident, it was the tone of a man accustomed to speaking facts without embellishment.

Renold looked up to scan the contents presented to him, his eyes moving steadily across the figures and notes. The taxes and tariffs had been modest in amount despite being considered low in their rates. He was not one to tax frivolously for every bridge or service, nor did he seek to extract more than what could be reasonably given. Low taxes encouraged immigration and would not cause riots or rebellion if they had to be raised for a season or two. It was a balance he had maintained deliberately, allowing growth to come gradually rather than through force.

Nonetheless, they looked plentiful enough to do what Renold had in mind. The totals were not excessive, but they were consistent, and consistency held more value than sudden abundance.

"We'll need to begin projects to increase our food production," His eyes shifted from the parchment to Gregory. "We need to maintain our surplus for export trade. If we can stay ahead of our population growth then we can prevent issues with poor harvests."

"Did you have anything specific in mind?"

"Yes. I want to expand the growing fields in Wheattonvale. Calculate the cost of clearance, seeding, and construction costs for at least five new families."

"Enough fields for subsistence, taxes, and surplus?"

"Correct. Last winter was tighter than I liked," Renold stated in a tone that radiated displeasure. "For everyone."

"Will that be all?"

"No. We need more sheep too. Increase the herds at Woolsville—specifically the older families. I want to purchase credit with them this season. The extra mutton, wool, and hide should improve the village trade and stabilize local prices for the shops."

"So you want to strengthen our ties with certain families by increasing their herds. I understand, but may I recommend increasing the numbers of families who herd sheep as well?"

"Can you?"

"Of course." Gregory flipped his ledger's pages. "I will just need some funds for homes and pastures in addition to the sheep."

"Done. See if you can get tailors and other craftsmen who specialize in like goods too while you're at it."

"More hands to work the fruits of the shepherd's labor. It may cost more silver than you like, my lord, but I will arrange it."

"The silver will flow back in one way or another, but we need more craftsmen now."

"Shall I budget for paid labor?"

"No. Not this time. I'm still owed labor and those who couldn't afford to pay in coin or goods will pay me in sweat. Gather men from the villages—check with the reeves. They should know who's behind on their taxes and labor dues."

Gregory nodded and stepped back after retrieving his ledger, carefully closing it to keep its pages ordered. "I'll see to that immediately," he replied, already committing the sequence of tasks to memory.

Renold looked back to his own ledgers and turned a page, the parchment giving a soft rasp beneath his fingers.

"Roger, please tell me we weren't still dealing with that wolf." His tone implied he was growing weary, the repetition of the issue wearing thin. He looked up at the man who was in armor.

Roger wore a chainmail hauberk over a long-sleeved gambeson that covered his arms. They both hung low and draped over his knees, the layers shifting slightly as he moved. The armor was tightly fitted, well-maintained, and showed signs of frequent use rather than ceremonial wear.

He was slightly taller than Renold, but with the same lean muscular frame. He had similar scars too, but not only on his hands. A few were prominent on his face: one ran down the edge of his right cheek and another was faintly across his left eyebrow, where it didn't regrow fully. There were many more unseen beneath the metal and cloth.

A derisive snort escaped from Roger as he fought back a scowl, his expression tightening with clear irritation. "She's persistent. That's doubly so for that fool nephew of hers. They burned down another cottage at the border. That's the second one since the spring thaw. They continue trying to edge closer to Thorton's and Cuttersville. We're always running around at her heels."

Renold sighed in exasperation, the breath leaving him slowly as he leaned back slightly. This had been a prolonged issue for years and despite his warnings, not every new settler listened, some choosing opportunity over caution.

"Were there any deaths?"

Roger shook his head. "Not this time. I took them to Cuttersville and had the reeve take over. They'll figure it out."

"You need more hands to deal with her." He turned his attention back to Gregory and asked to be reminded of the current funds in the treasury.

After a few pages were flipped in Gregory's ledger he stopped and traced his scrawl with a finger. "Eighty pounds and at least a few silver pieces worth in copper."

"Assuming no issues arise as you go about my expansions, could we accommodate an increase in soldiery?"

Gregory set his ledger down and borrowed the nearby quill to write several notes. He looked over the numbers and stood upright. "Yes, to a degree. It will take some weeks, but once the land is tamed and the cottages are raised then it will be easy to motivate the destitutes and malcontents from neighboring lands. Additional families at both villages will lessen the impact of more soldiers, but it will not negate them. Higher taxes, higher upkeep, but not a perfect fit."

"I understand," Renold replied before returning his attention to Roger. "I want you to round up five able-bodied and willing men from the villages. Start training them as proper soldiers."

These aspiring soldiers would receive a basic wage of three copper daily in addition to their meals and shelter.

"It's not much, but it's something more than what we had already," Renold stated.

"You could always make it ten soldiers," Roger said.

"No. Five—for now. We'll expand their numbers later when I know what's going on exactly."

It was one thing to train a few peasants in the basics, dress them up in armor, and call them soldiers. It was another thing entirely to do it properly. A proper soldier was not only well trained, but formidably outfitted, able to hold formation and endure. That, however, was an expensive thing to teach, it required time, resources, and discipline—which was another thing needing to be taught.

"You and the housecarls have been doing the bulk of the heavy lifting. I hope this helps," Renold offered apologetically.

Roger shrugged and crossed his arms, the motion causing the rings of his mail to shift with a faint metallic rustle. "It is what it is, Renold. We're why Matilda's been avoiding a direct scuffle. It doesn't matter if she has twenty riders or a hundred if they can't meet us head-on."

A hum followed as Renold thought, turning his gaze to the ceiling as he slouched slightly. "Small mercies that Crawford is a coward then. We'd have a rough time of it if we had to deal with them both."

A dry chuckle escaped from Roger as he smirked, the tension easing for a moment. "Aye. Bright sides and all that. His son plays at soldier, but the fens aren't a threat."

Renold stood and cracked his knuckles. "Alright then. Not much else we can do in the meantime. Tell the reeves and constables to keep the village watch alert. Once you're comfortable with the new soldiers I'd like them at Cuttersville." It was important to Renold that the peace be kept and he assisted his law keepers to that end.

Roger gave a curt nod. "Will do," he replied.

Renold raised a hand toward the door. "Then that'll be all, gentlemen. Unless Matilda attacks or something else comes up, then I have nothing else at this time."

The two men excused themselves; Gregory with a formal bow, measured and precise, and Roger with a quick fisted salute to his chest. They turned and exited to go about their duties, their footsteps fading into the corridor beyond.

Renold pushed in the chair to his desk, leaving his ledgers open and unattended, the ink still fresh on some pages. He walked to the window and looked through it. The fog was thick and the morning passed slowly, the light unchanged in its dull persistence.

There was nothing to be considered a view outside the window; stone walls and cobblestone roads robbed the area of any greenery, the space enclosed and practical rather than scenic.

He turned his eyes inward to the interior of the room. There was a scantily filled bookshelf, his desk, chair, and the annual calendar—a circular thing with the months separated into four seasons. Pinned in the blank center was a parchment with this month—August, and like for every month of the year, there was thirty-one squares denoting each of the days. Everything in the office served a purpose. Nothing was decorative, not even the pewter candelabra with three half-melted wax candles on the desk. He got that as a form of tax payments and it was arguably the most expensive thing in the entire room.

"Almost five years and I can hardly tell the difference." He observed in a dry whisper. "Maybe I do need to decorate... perhaps a few more books or a letter opener."

After a moment of contemplation, Renold exited his study. He noticed a female servant sweeping the floor outside his chambers. He turned and walked the opposite direction, moving through the short hallway towards the great hall. Within were two other female servants, quietly going about their duties, their movements quiet and practiced. He employed four servants in total—three women and a man, all of which worked under a head butler. The five of them kept the entirety of the estate orderly and functioning smoothly.

Exiting the manor he entered into his courtyard. The manor's well was centered in the middle with aged planks covering it, the wood worn smooth from years of handling. Beyond the courtyard was the gatehouse, flanked by a single stone tower to its left, both structures bearing the same weathered solidity. He gazed around at the old stone walls that were three meters high and just as thick. The tower was only three meters taller. They had all been there long before he or anyone else had set foot into these wild lands, their endurance a silent reminder of what came before.

The sound of iron and wood clashing echoed across the courtyard as warriors trained along the eastern wall, the rhythm steady and unbroken. The barracks, which housed his retinue—his housecarls, his bodyguards—were built into the stone walls themselves, merging defense with function.

Renold walked over to spectate briefly. Young men and old, in gambeson armor with chainmail hauberks worn over, were engaged in a series of bouts as they trained in sword and shield. A weapon rack filled with spears sat nearby. Their chainmail coifs and solid iron nasal helms hid most of their faces, but their focus was clear in their movements, each strike measured, each block deliberate. These were the men who kept the raiders at bay, and now more of them were going to be needed to keep it that way.

There were two youth amongst his warriors that stood out—they were out of place, armed with heavy wooden swords, shields, and dressed in gambeson and thick arming caps. Renold recognized them. He knew them both. They were Roger's sons, the eldest being fourteen and the youngest thirteen. Roger was there now, ensuring they practiced with proper form and technique, correcting their posture with short, direct instruction.

Renold stepped away and walked toward one of the stone stairways that ascended the ramparts. Reaching the top of the walls he looked out beyond his manor.

The ground gradually sloped down to flatlands, and a dirt road led away from the fortified manor. It snaked around a copse of trees and vanished, its path worn into the earth by repeated travel.

Without any hurry he turned and walked to the tower, climbing the tight narrow spiraling staircase to the roof and peering once more outward from a greater vantage.

Wildemere Lake, the landmark that his province was named after, was less than two miles away and was visible even from there, its surface muted beneath the lingering fog.

"How long will this peace last?" he wondered aloud, glancing west to the mountainous ranges, their outlines softened by distance and haze. Nothing good ever came from the moors... except copper, bogiron, and salt. Otherwise it was all hassle and hardships.

This uneasy peace was preferable to war, but even that was beginning to overstay its welcome. "I need to get out there and look around..."

Answers never came easy and he had learned to think strongly on the ones that did. For now, however, there was work to be done, and there wasn't enough time for him to dwell.

He turned back toward the stairway and began his return to the courtyard, his pace steady and measured, but his thoughts chaotic as his mind began shifting to what came next. What needed to happen next. It was only summer and things weren't going to get any easier moving forward.

"It's time to go looking for problems instead of waiting for them to introduce themselves."

Barony — Chapter Six: The Lord of the Fens

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