Sabela knew why Trestlebridge had never been as vibrant as Bree. It wasn’t just orcs. The town itself was poorly laid, crammed into the outcrop at the edge of the Brandy Hills. Most of the wind came from the north across the Fornost plains where a great, creaking wood had in ancient days stemmed the breeze. Now, the land barren, there was no shelter from the gusts that swept down from the higher hills of Evendim and Forochel’s frozen steppes. The wind beat against the gorge, chipping away the land, opening a wider gullet for the increasingly meager river. The protective pocket the town had been nestled in had been forced to expand into near impassable hills years ago. The tannery west, the launderers east, and everywhere the scent of shite-cured leather and piss-washed wool.
Once upon a time, there may have been avenues, gardens. A poulterer and a fletcher may have shared the same street-space with a shop, its wooden window sign brightly painted with a bird, arrows, and feathers. Instead there was a sole man with a cart, fowl carcass hanging from its awning, blood running down the wheels from the hatchet with which he butchered his goods. Most knew to give the merchant a wide berth lest he bedeck their garments with patterning from his knife, but some didn’t care. What was a bit more blood to coat the mud, soot, and grime that clung to every townsfolk?
She understood why her family had clutched so desperately to this region’s salted earth. They had built their estate out of ancient stone, pilfered from ruins they had cleansed of orcs, wargs, and other, haunted foes. They had rationed their bloodline, distilling it through the centuries. It was potent, her mother had been convinced, sifted through the years and the trials until only the strong were left. That meant, in her lifetime, her family had been a dwindled horde of gems, and now, she was all that was left. Her, and her homeland.
A gust blew the ash from a half-burnt refuse pile, and she pulled her hood down to shield herself from the spewage of grit.
Ashforde was different. It was not perched on a precipice, its singular artery to its farming and hunting grounds the vital, precious Trestlespan. Its own bit of river was gentle, meandering, as if it had nowhere to be in any hurry. Most of the waterfall was swallowed up in the deep pool beneath the watermill, and what little leaked out across the ford smoothed its pale pebbles and lapped at the ankles of children splashing past.
Yes, Ashforde was different. There was money there, the man had promised, as he’d tossed her a coinpurse of gold. Money, she needed. As she’d walked the town’s rolling streets, not a single cobble out of place, she knew that was true. The estate halls and houses were expertly kept. The yards were planted with maple, elm, and Shire oak. The trees had been spared the woodman’s axe, allowed to mature and thrive. The watermill promised fresh wheat, and the baker in the market—a jovial fellow with a fondness, she’d observed, for families—had even thrown her a wink.
It was peaceful, but that did not mean it was protected. She would not be fooled by the quaintness of hedgehog burrows or snow-piled picnic tables waiting for spring.
As she rode the West road out of Trestlebridge into the Wildwood—the only road that led to her family’s decayed estate, she made up her mind. The proprietor of Ashforde might be an arrogant, goading, cunning old man, but he was interesting. She liked interesting. If there was property available in Ashforde, if that meant a doorway to trade and a chance to renew her family’s legacy, well, she had at least one fresh gold coin for it.
