The icy rain fell in sheets, washing the mud over Arthur Pendelton's boots. Above him, the heavy iron Executioner's Cleaver caught the flickering, unnatural light of the pitch torches. Bartholomew "Barto" Thorne, his massive face twisted into a mask of drunken, violent fury, held the weapon high. The air seemed to leave the courtyard entirely. Arthur did not blink. He stared death in the face with the quiet dignity of a man whose conscience was entirely clear.
The blade began its lethal descent.
"Hold! Master Thorne, hold your hand!"
The voice ripped through the sound of the torrential rain. It was not a plea from the condemned, but a desperate shout from the shadows of the courtyard.
Barto flinched, his drunken concentration broken. The heavy cleaver halted mere inches from Arthur's neck, the sudden stop jarring Barto's thick shoulders. He turned, his piggish eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and explosive rage, spitting rainwater from his lips.
Standing at the edge of the torchlight, gasping for breath and soaked to the bone, was Elias. He was an older man, serving as the head gatekeeper of the estate. Unlike the thugs and sycophants who flocked to Barto, Elias was a remnant of the old guard—a fiercely loyal servant to Barto's honorable older brother, Liam "The White Stallion".
"What in the blazes is the meaning of this, Elias?!" Barto roared, lowering the cleaver slightly but keeping it dangerously close to Arthur. "Give me one good reason not to take your head alongside this spy's!"
Elias bowed deeply, ignoring the mud that soaked his trousers. "Master Thorne, forgive the intrusion, but a situation of the utmost urgency has arisen. Deputy Lawrence of the Oakendell Courthouse is standing at the main gates. He is demanding an audience with you immediately."
Barto froze. The alcoholic courage that had fueled his murderous intent suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, sobering dread. The timing was too perfect. It was incredibly suspicious.
To understand how the Deputy of Oakendell arrived at the iron gates of a tyrant in the dead of night, one must turn the clock back just a few hours, to the quiet, tension-filled borders of Thornfield Village.
Earlier that evening, young Simon had been pacing relentlessly outside the small roadside inn where Arthur had left him. The sky, which had been a brilliant, bruised purple, was rapidly bleeding into pitch black. The promised hour of Arthur's return had come and gone. The cheerful, idyllic facade of Thornfield Village now felt sinister, as if the quaint cottages were watching him with dark, hidden eyes.
Simon pulled his wool coat tighter around his shoulders against the biting wind. "He said he would be back by sundown," Simon muttered to himself, chewing nervously on his thumbnail. "Master Arthur is never late. Not when it comes to the law."
As he paced, an old man carrying a heavy bundle of firewood on his crooked back hobbled down the dirt path. Simon, desperate for any information, rushed forward to help the man steady his load.
"Good evening to you, grandfather," Simon said, forcing a polite smile. "Might I ask you a question? What exactly is the name of that massive estate sitting at the north end of the village? Who lives there?"
The old man, whose face was as weathered as old leather, leaned heavily on his walking stick and looked at Simon with suspicious, milky eyes. "You ain't from around here, boy. That's the Thorne Manor. Home to the wealthiest family in the Eastern Shires. It's the domain of Liam Thorne, the one they call the White Stallion."
Simon's heart skipped a beat. The White Stallion. The heroic vigilante from the festival. "Is Master Liam at home?" Simon asked, a glimmer of hope rising in his chest. If Arthur had encountered Liam, surely the honorable vigilante would treat a Magistrate with respect.
"Nay," the old man wheezed, shaking his head. "Master Liam rode out to Riverbend Village for the festival days ago. He's a guest of William Croft. The only one holding the fort at the manor right now is his younger brother. Bartholomew." The old man spat into the dirt at the mention of the name. "A vicious, cruel boar of a man, that one is. If you have business at the manor tonight, boy, turn around. Naught but misery waits for strangers there when Barto is drinking."
The old man hobbled away, leaving Simon standing frozen in the gathering dark.
The pieces fell into place with terrifying clarity. Arthur had walked right into the den of a tyrant, stripped of his official protection, disguised as a lowly mystic. If Barto Thorne discovered his true identity, Arthur wouldn't just be turned away; he would be slaughtered.
Panic, raw and electric, surged through Simon's veins. He didn't bother returning to his rented room. He sprinted to the inn's stables, threw a saddle onto his gray mule with trembling hands, and rode out into the night. He whipped the poor animal relentlessly, racing down the treacherous, muddy roads toward Oakendell, praying to the heavens he wouldn't be too late.
When Simon finally reached the Oakendell Courthouse, the building was mostly dark, save for the flickering light in the guardroom. He threw himself off the exhausted mule, bursting through the heavy oak doors, covered in mud and gasping for air.
"Guards! Wake up!" Simon screamed, startling the three men playing cards at the table. "Where is the Deputy? I need him immediately! And fetch the Captain of the Guard! Now!"
The sheer terror in the young servant's voice propelled the guards into action. Within twenty minutes, the dusty, neglected war room of the courthouse was lit by a dozen candles.
Deputy Lawrence hurried into the room, hurriedly buttoning his tunic. He was a nervous man by nature, his face pale and lined with years of turning a blind eye to corruption. "What is the meaning of this shouting? It is past the evening bell!"
Moments later, the doors opened again, and Captain Carter stepped into the light. Carter was the exact opposite of Lawrence. A veteran of border skirmishes, he was built like a brick wall, standing broad-shouldered in his polished leather armor. He possessed a thick, graying mustache and eyes that had seen enough bloodshed to remain perpetually calm. He was an honest, hard-headed man who despised the criminal elements of the Shire but had lacked the political backing to fight them until Arthur arrived.
"Speak, boy," Captain Carter commanded, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. "Where is the Magistrate?"
Simon didn't waste a second. He spilled everything the disguise, the infiltration of Thornfield Manor, the absence of Liam Thorne, and the terrifying reputation of Bartholomew.
Deputy Lawrence collapsed into a wooden chair, burying his face in his hands. "Heavens above... he walked right into the jaws of the beast. If Barto Thorne realizes who he is, the Magistrate is a dead man. What are we supposed to do? We can't just accuse them without proof!"
"We don't need proof to knock on a door, Deputy," Captain Carter growled, slamming his heavy fist onto the table, making the candles jump. "This is exactly what is wrong with this Shire. We cower while the wolves feast. If the Magistrate is in danger, we march."
"March?!" Lawrence squeaked, looking up in horror. "Are you mad, Carter? The Thorne estate is heavily fortified. They have dozens of private guards. And if we attack them without cause, and Liam Thorne returns... he will rally the entire underground against us. It will be a bloodbath!"
"So we do nothing?" Carter sneered, his hand resting on the pommel of his broadsword.
"No, no," Lawrence stammered, his mind racing to find a middle ground that wouldn't result in an all-out war. "We must be tactical. Liam Thorne is a man of honor; he has no criminal record with the Crown. But his brother is a snake. If Liam were home, I wouldn't worry. But Barto is unpredictable."
Lawrence stood up, nervously pacing the room. "Here is the plan. We gather a hundred of our best men. Captain, you will lead them. But you will not storm the gates. You will hold position in the dense woods just outside the village border, completely out of sight. I will take a small detachment of five men, carry lanterns, and approach the gates under the guise of a routine night patrol. I will ask to see Barto, claiming I just wanted to pay my respects while passing through."
"And if he refuses?" Carter asked, his eyes narrowing.