Gold in the Wood, Chapter 3
Cairn Realplay Literary Adaptation
The Year is 880 B.
The King in Rutne is Demodias.
The Duke of the Northern Reach is Arrud Yog.
It has been 1 year since the Redhorn Rebellion was crushed at the Lakefort.
It has been 57 years since the last Torstian Invasion.
It has been 540 years since the Old Goat unified the Reaches.
It has been 846 years since the Witches of Sun and Moon founded Rutne.
It has been 880 years since the Great Hero ended the Dark Age.
The Valdwood is in the farthest corner of Rutne's Northern Reach. Farmers and trappers eke out meager livelihoods on the edge of the great forest, nothing else between them and the endless Wilds of Torst. Liort Darvel is the Sargent at Fort Lune, responsible with the general safety and overall welfare of the borderfolk.
The blacksmith’s face was a ruin under closer inspection. Liort did not like how the crunched cheekbone and unseeing eye made him difficult to read. She felt like he was hiding something.
Liort sighed. In her many years cleaning up the borderfolk’s messes, she had learned that they responded best to direct inquiry, though it was still better to use a light touch. You could not beat them at being coy.
“A shorter woman, dark skin, dark hair? Wearing ranger’s gear like this?” She gestured to Katonk, standing at her side. She was dismayed when her assistant took this opportunity to contribute to the interrogation.
“She stole a cart. You can’t miss it.”
“That’s not confirmed,” interjected Liort, hiding exasperation with her winning smile, “A cart has been stolen, and perhaps this fugitive stole it and perhaps they still have it. Or perhaps not.”
The blacksmith said nothing. The rangers and the blacksmith stood facing each other in silence, them on the dusty road, him on the sackcloth behind his anvil. A faint breeze stirred the Nimickin leaves as the hot day cooled off. It had not rained in a week, and Liort and Katonk had been unable to identify anything resembling cart tracks in the dry, crumbling dirt, though they had searched the stretch between Fort Lune and here exhaustively for over a day and a half.
“I’ll remind you- Borrid was it? Well Borrid, I’ll remind you that harboring fugitives, outlaws, exiles, and traitors of the realm is a crime punishable by death. So, I’ll ask again. Anybody come down the road lately?”
The blacksmith moved to respond, seemed to decide against it, and then tried again. “Nobody,” he offered in his stony growl. Liort sighed again. Why were the borderfolk always so damn laconic?