Chapter 1

Jefferson was a terrible shot with a pistol.

A ringed, circular target three feet in diameter stood at shoulder height only 10 yards away. Most bullets never made the target at all, yet it was those rare flukes that hit an inner ring that made Jefferson bite his lip hard in frustration. Why must my marksmanship be that of luck? he wondered. Worse than the souring of his pride was that of his father's; the old iron derringer was a gift, passed down as far back as his great-grandfather.

Conceding that his practice was over, the young lordling holstered the beleaguered old gun and marched away from the target range behind his home. Reaching the back porch of his family's estate, he sat beside his father, Willem, who Jefferson felt fortunate for being unable to see his incompetency through the copse of lush evergreens. But Willem still knew, for he was a gunman of especially well-trained ears that could judge where the bullets hit, or didn't hit.

The gristly middle-aged man appeared old beyond his years, now especially that he wore a pained grimace after judging his son's ability with the derringer. He had given up teaching the boy months ago. He'd even passed on his right to criticize, finding nothing new to contribute or berate as the case may be. All that was left was the sorry look on his face every time he heard gunfire coming from the woods behind his home.

Such was his shame that he often tried to avoid Jefferson.

"I'm going down to the mill," Willem declared just as Jefferson collapsed in the rocking chair beside his. "Plenty of work to be done now that the harvest is starting. Workers need their foreman."

Bullshit, Jefferson thought, but he wouldn't argue. Maybe his father wasn't an unloving one at all times, but when he chose avoidance over bonding when it came to guns there was nothing he'd rather accept than privacy. A father kept stationary against his will was a cold conversation indeed, and the bitterness only dissolved more rapidly if he was allowed to abandon the scene as desired. Jefferson finally conceded that any attempt at talking in these moments was no more than a passive argument.

He said nothing, tucking his lips and nodding as he forced his rocking chair into its natural sway. Willem's rocking continued a few seconds more in delay until he stopped himself suddenly and launched to his feet to leave. Anyone unknowing of the man would assume his long, lanky strides were exaggerated for frustration, but Jefferson knew they were natural. They still left him to wonder how exactly he expressed himself sometimes – if not for childlike ruinous behaviors, most folk would never be able to communicate their less proud temperaments.

Jefferson sat alone for some time, spending mere minutes pondering the subject before feeling content and able to enjoy the natural sounds of the outdoors. When the day reached high noon he left his estate and sauntered into town, the humble Burrwitch, even more pleasantly taken by the sounds of windmill sweeps, industrial thumping and clanging, and the sweet din of a hundred and more townsfolk in conversation.

His path seemingly aimless, Jefferson carefully directed his leisurely stroll until the head constable called him from his usual post.

"Lad! 'Ere Lad!" the casual sheriff hollered from under the aging wooden awning of his favorite bakery.

Jefferson struggled to hide a grin as he took the invitation with haste. He sat beside the square-shouldered man, excited to be recognized once again by someone of import. More still, he knew their conversation would be regarding a manner of initiation that even his father wouldn't have the means – or desire – to organize.

"There's a good lad," his host, Deacon, said to the young man while breaking a hunk of potato bread and offering it with a saucer of thick honeyed cream. "Share a brunch with me; we need to discuss the coming hunt!"

He said it with a certain joy, the word "hunt." It was that giddy anticipation that one had discovered a mythical white stag and sought to bring its hide and antlers home for all to admire. That feeling of youth when a simple squirrel blown clear in half would not provide meal enough for a toddler, but the thrill of a first kill still brought its ugly corpse home with pride. This was the projected vision for Jefferson, a boy of 17, and not for Deacon himself.

Deacon was normally a well-composed man, reasonably proper, or at least professional when his station demanded it so. Yet he took a liking to this young man, if only at first for a bit of recognition with one of the more important land-owners. The Shodrick family was a small dynasty by most reckonings, but they were perceived as infinitely greater when the county needed its grain. Farmsteads were few in the family; they instead capitalized on refining and distribution. When one thought of flour and the barrels it comes in, they never fail to notice the branding of a stonetusk's head, the family sigil.

But having powerful friends became less important over time. Following his first meeting, the boy only 9 years old at the time, Deacon steadily became complacent with his lot in life. Power, he noticed, maintained a delicate grey area between the points of being under everyone's boot, and snowballing into greed and corruption. When he rose from a constable to the township's recognized sheriff, the world seemed right as rain; he wielded power and the naturally stringent responsibilities made him feel human still.

Jefferson was soon a good friend, in the honest sense, as he grew into his teens. Once the boy started using curved branches as imaginary pistols and rifles, Deacon embraced a juvenile delight that he would soon be bonding with an equal of interests.

And he too knew the lad still couldn't fire a pistol worth spit. But unlike Jefferson's father, Deacon only laughed in enjoyment, free of condescending.

"When are we setting out?" Jefferson asked, his expression making obvious that this conversation was his entire reason for leaving the house.

"That's hard to say," Deacon said, shrugging. "We can't very well do it on our own, and it's been hard getting other worthwhile folk to commit." He tore a small piece of his bread and consumed after dipping it in the saucer of sweet cream, his lips smacking heavily while chewing the viscous glaze. "And then we need to put together the supplies. Can't get everything ready without being sure the food won't spoil and the water turn musty before we set out!"

Jefferson nodded with an even face, understanding the precautions despite his boyish impatience. "Who do we want to come along?" he asked after some inactive thought to eating his own bread.

"Not too many folk," Deacon answered immediately, "can't scare away the prey like a thundering stampede now, can we?" He took another bite of his bread, dry this time. "I know I can wrangle two of my best constables up easily enough – it's our business anyway." He pondered while swallowing his food. "I asked the harbormaster's brother, Harris, and he seems interested. Good with a gun, better with an axe. Then there's Ol' Cullen Duprie, but only out of necessity – couldn't wait for the old badger to retire as sheriff so I didn't have to hear his shit anymore!"

Jefferson laughed at the remark. But he also knew that, despite the old policeman's gnarly temperament, Cullen Duprie was still a masterful fighter despite his age and could prove a valuable companion.

"Matilda would be a good choice – I should ask her today," Deacon continued with a spry voice. "Sure, she's an archaic wench that likes to use bows an' arrows, but the woman can probably hit a sparrow a mile in the sky. Think of how easily she could put one of them arrows between a man's eyes."

"Any others?" Jefferson urged, pausing only to cringe at the deadly imagery.

Deacon thought for a moment and perked. "Ah! The blacksmith, Bondrey. He's volunteered to come along and bring his bear traps. Anyone charging at us would meet a messy affair with that man in tow."

The sheriff thought on it some more, shaking his head after he found no more names to give. "I think that's all. The hardest part is arranging the day. It's hard when you don't know whether it will last an afternoon or a week."

Jefferson nodded again, this time only slightly. And gravely. The talk reminded him that this hunt was for no animal. There had been a prison break down south in Devil's Crossing, two dangerous men free in the wilds. Since then a handful of townsfolk had gone missing, but none due to capture. A band of six or more bandits had formed in the last month, opportunists looking for easy coin. Thus far they were succeeding, flexing their muscles and flashing steel as according to their simple plan. But although their activities were few and relatively nonviolent, a member of their group attracts too much attention to be left alone, and that man made this excursion a "hunt" in the true character of the word.

"Might you have a word or two for Will?" Deacon asked, sensing that this young comrade's thoughts turned sour.

"No," Jefferson replied coldly, dropping the food offered to him on the table with no interest of eating. "Just a bullet to the knee and a swift bludgeon to the head to get his senses back."

"He's still your cousin," Deacon reminded.

"I know," the now-defensive teenager snapped. "Doesn't save him though. My father won't vouch for him – wouldn't be able to keep him out of prison if he tried."

"We can keep him here, though," the sheriff proposed. "We have three unused jail cells beneath the town hall. Sure as hell would keep him from being shanked in that institution, though he'll scarcely get to stretch his legs."

Jefferson's face contorted, a manner of cold indifference about it. "Doesn't matter to me either way. I don't have respect for him anymore."

Deacon didn't say any more on the matter, but gave an exaggerated nod in attempt to break the tension. He hoisted from his seat and left the remainder of his bread alongside the piece he offered Jefferson. With a stretch of his back and rolling of his shoulders, Deacon fastened his sheathed sword back to his belt and turned to leave. Looking over his shoulder, he had one more thing to say to the boy.

"Time to head out on patrol. I'll make sure to talk to your dad again. I know he'll come around today."

Jefferson's mood eased as he let free a small chuckle. "Father's not defensive," he said straightforwardly, assuming his friend's rationalization of why Willem was hesitant to let him go. "He just doesn't think I'm capable enough."

Deacon smiled. "Aye, but you are, lad," he encouraged. "That old gunslinger just doesn't realize you have great talents otherwise. You ought to show him someday."

"It'll be a surprise," Jefferson said, eyeing his friend to urge conclusion and parting for the day.

He stood and left the food behind half an hour after Deacon left, only nibbling on the hardening bread. His path home led him through the waterfront where the bustle of business was at its peak for the day. There was a strange calm, he noticed, and the arrangement of the workers and travelers seemed definitive in his periphery. He carefully looked by the docks to see the interruption, catching sight of a small group of stern men.

"Inquisitors," a small elderly man said, noticing Jefferson's interest. "They come from Malmouth, setting sail northbound I reckon."

"Something wrong on Frostleaf Isle?" Jefferson wondered aloud.

"Doubtful. Methinks they'll turn east out of the bay. The towns that way are more their concern." They both pondered why they wouldn't have sailed out of Malmouth itself, the old man offering a thought first. "Must want this to be a quiet affair. Word spreads strangely fast in Malmouth Harbor."

They didn't speak to each other anymore, watching intently at the grim sight of the Imperial agents. One of them was overdressed, a heavy grey cloak and cowl concealing his – or her – entire form. Damn hot today for such heavy dress, Jefferson thought. Though the burdening clothes amused him, he also couldn't help but feel an instinctive dread. The person accompanied the Inquisitors, after all, and what more terrible than an Inquisitor would be so secretive? The concept knotted his stomach, only knowing that the group would be sailing soon brought comfort.

Upon reaching home Jefferson inspected the grounds. His mother was away, presumably at the market, and his father hadn't returned from supervising the mill. Siblings had already grown out of home, none poking around to visit today.

Confident that none of his family was present, he exited the estate and returned to the back porch. Grasping a flat stone, he pried a specific board loose from the deck and lifted it, revealing a splendid rifle, hand-made from aged oakwood and steel. Jefferson brandished the weapon, left its stubby magazine in the hiding place and loaded a single round into its chamber. With a quick and sure slap of the bolt to close its chamber, he spun around and aimed the barrel toward the woods.

Jefferson exhaled slowly, envisioning the moment he would look down its sights on his first hunt, the faint smell of its wooden stock richening his senses. "Longbow," he called the instrument, and often took as an alias in his imagination.

The scene was before him in his mind, and minutes seemed to pass in the space of a second as he squeezed the trigger and received the recoil. Satisfied, he packed the rifle away and went back into the house, unsurprised that if he examined the target, more than 50 yards behind the concealing branches of evergreen, he would have found the round's resting place precisely at its center.

As it truthfully was.