Chapter Ten: Northward Garrison
The first thing Arlo noticed was the smell.
Woodsmoke, baking bread, damp stone. A welcome change after two days of open road and old snow.
The Northward Garrison rose from a low ridge, its outer wall patched in mismatched stone, the Charter marks above the gate bright but a little faded. A carved Charter bell sat in a niche over the entry — a reminder that here, at least, magic still held.
Callan spoke to the gatekeeper, a woman in weathered chain with the red-and-blue badge of the King’s Road Guard. She gave Arlo a small smile as she swung the gate wide.
“Best get inside before night,” she said. “Dead things’ve been sniffing further south than they should.”
The garrison’s courtyard felt busy in a way Arlo liked. Guards sparred in the corner. Someone chopped wood. A boy about Arlo’s age darted past with a basket of kindling.
Callan steered them toward the longhouse that served as barracks and hall. The air inside was thick with the smell of stew. Benches creaked, and laughter rose from a group of off-duty guards rolling dice.
They found a spot near the hearth. Arlo set Doggy on the table, running his thumb over the carved tail.
A Charter Mage approached — young, his robe hem frayed, but the marks on his hands neat and steady.
“I’m Torren,” he said, setting down mugs of warm cider. “We don’t see many travellers from the north this time of year.”
“We didn’t plan to be here,” Callan replied. “Road trouble.”
Torren’s brow furrowed. “Dead?”
“Three, and something… worse,” Callan said, glancing at Arlo.
Torren didn’t press. Instead, he nodded toward the door. “We’ve had reports. Odd flare of Charter-light in the ditch south of here. Sent a runner to Nestowe for word.”
Arlo kept quiet, but his hands tightened on Doggy.
They stayed the night.
The garrison bell rang for curfew, a deep, reassuring sound that seemed to settle the whole outpost. Arlo lay in a cot near the back of the hall, the crackle of the fire lulling him toward sleep.
But sometime after midnight, he woke to a sound.
Not the bell. Not voices.
A scraping, slow and deliberate, on the stone just beyond the wall.
He slid from bed and crept to the narrow window.
At first, there was only the frost-silvered yard. Then something moved in the shadow of the wall — not walking, not crawling, but… sliding.
A pale shape. Two spirals where eyes should be.
It tilted its head toward the window.
Doggy, on the cot behind him, began to glow.