Book 5: Chapter Twenty-Five

Shavala crested the ridge to find a wide blackberry bramble spread out before her, stretching for acres and growing across the Hightower branch of the Old Road. She’d found the right place.

In anticipation of an oncoming army, Sarette had asked Kevik what he remembered of the route between Hightower and the keep, then scouted it out from the air herself, looking for spots where she or Shavala could make the road conditions even worse than they already were.

Shavala had completed her first task that morning, hiding a dangerous, rocky downslope under a thin layer of vegetation in the hopes that the mercenary army’s scouts would report the route was clear without testing it first.

Now, after five hours of hiking, she’d reached her second target. She sat cross-legged in the dirt and balanced the staff over her legs, concentrating on the changes she wanted. The staff didn’t raise any objections. It liked growing things, and it didn’t have enough intelligence to question why she was asking for so many more blackberry bushes.

While the existing growth already covered the road, the mercenary army would be able to bypass it by going around on the south side, a small detour that wouldn’t cost them much time.

Shavala’s job was to eliminate that detour.

Blackberry grew rapidly under the right conditions, choking out other plants in the area. It would be easy to take advantage of its natural inclinations. As she concentrated, barbed vines sprouted upward out of the ground, more and more of them extending the bramble south until it reached a natural ridge line that was too steep for wagons to climb.

With the way blocked, the enemy commander would have to decide whether to cross the river here or send scouts out to look for alternate routes. The banks weren’t steep, but the water was deep enough that fording the river would be difficult for heavy wagons. The safest shallow-water crossing was twenty miles back west.

There was an easy way up the ridge just seven miles back—Shavala had passed it during her hike—but going that way would take them longer to scout. They’d have to make sure they could get back down again.

Corec hoped that rather than backtracking, or taking the time to build ramps and winches to pull the wagons up the slope, the commander would attempt to cross the river here, likely losing a few supply wagons in the process, and then losing more when they had to cross back again to rejoin the road. Whatever option they chose, even if it was to try to burn out the blackberry bushes, they’d lose at least half a day of travel.

To Shavala, it didn’t seem like the effort would have much of an impact, but Corec insisted that every little bit would help swing the odds in their favor. He had no desire to kill his own countrymen, and instead wanted to make their invasion more trouble than it was worth, hoping they’d be willing to talk by the time they arrived at the keep.

Done for the day, Shavala found a comfortable spot near the river to wait. Leena would return for her late in the evening, taking her to her next target.

#

Ten miles west of Hilltop Village, the southern bank of the ravine gradually sloped down to lower land before swelling back up to form one last hill, overlooking a spot where a wide creek flowed into the river.

The location offered a lot of possibility. If they dug out the creek bed to make it wider and deeper, then continued digging around the rest of the hill, it would allow water from the river to surround the whole thing with a free-flowing moat. By adding a small dam just downriver to raise the water level, the moat—the lake—would be wide enough to only be traversable by boat or bridge, preventing any attacks by siege towers and tunneling.

The hill offered a good view of the Hightower branch of the Old Road, and was large enough for a town five times the size of Hilltop. With enough time, perhaps they could even encircle it with a stone wall.

“Corec?” Sarette asked. “Did you hear me?”

Corec pushed the fantasy from his mind. Even with Ellerie’s help, a project like that would take years to complete. He needed to focus on the tools currently at his disposal.

“Hmm?” he said. “Oh, the watchtower. You’re sure we’ll be able to see it from the keep?”

“This close, I’m not sure we’d even need to be up on the lookout towers to see a signal. It would be better if it was farther away so we’d have a longer range, but the ground is lower after this and there just aren’t any good spots—not unless we’re ready to set up a chain of towers.”

Corec nodded. A single watchtower wouldn’t provide much extra warning, but they couldn’t afford to crew a whole series of them.

The real scouting would come from Sarette and Leena, but Corec had learned from the battle at Tir Yadar not to design a plan that depended too much on any one person. If Leena was unavailable for some reason, a watchtower here would provide an extra half-day’s warning. A full day, if the watchers kept their spyglasses trained to the west.

In some ways, it was an experiment for the future. Larso made use of fire beacons from time to time, but a beacon could only relay a limited number of messages. The stormborn had an entire language for their signal codes. Weather permitting, Sarette’s people could pass information quickly across their entire territory—faster even than Larso’s royal messengers, who switched horses every four hours.

But, like a new town and fortress, that idea would have to wait.

“I hate to station a group so far away on their own,” Corec said. “I suppose they can just evacuate when they see Rusol’s troops coming. Can we put the tower back in those trees so the mercenaries won’t see it and tear it down?”

Sarette eyed the spot. “Maybe,” she said. “It needs a clear view of the road to the west and the keep to the east, but we can try.”

Corec nodded. “All right. Have Boktar hire the woodcutters and some of the builders and send them out this way. The ones who aren’t working on the weapon platforms.”

“I’ll let him know as soon as we’re back.”

They returned to their horses.

“How’s the training coming along?” Corec asked.

“We managed to find a few decent archers, but most of the new men are green. We’re up to five full squads now. Georg’s starting everyone on crossbows first, since that’s the easiest thing to teach and it’ll do the most good from up on the walls.”

“I don’t understand why we’ve got more men signing up. I was expecting to lose the few we had.”

“Ezra and the others have been telling everyone about the fight in the tavern. You were unarmed, unarmored, and outnumbered, and you still managed to win the day.”

Corec frowned. “The red eyes were almost as unprepared as we were. It was hardly a fair fight once we added magic to it.”

“I don’t think that would change anyone’s mind. In their eyes, we’ve already defeated a dragon. They don’t think a human army will be any harder than that.”

Corec shook his head. “We might be able to handle the army, but how are we supposed to fight mages if we don’t know who they are or what they can do?”

She gave him a serious look. “You’re thinking of agreeing to Razai’s plan, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure we have any other choice.”

#

“Here. Read this.”

Bobo looked up from his desk, startled. Ariadne had barged into his study without warning, thrusting out a sheet of paper. He took the page.

But no empire lasts forever. The demons could not defeat us, but in time, the Chosar split apart and went their separate ways. They became the stoneborn of Cordaea, Stone Home, and Sanvar. They became the stormborn of northern Aravor. They became the seaborn of the western oceans, and the sunborn of Vestath.

At the beginning of this story I referred to myself as The Last Chosar, but that is not true, for my people live on in our children.

Bobo had to reread it three times to make sure it said what he thought it said. The passage was written phonetically, as if from someone who’d never seen the words spelled out before. Finally he looked up, not sure how to respond.

“It’s for the end of the book,” Ariadne stated unnecessarily.

“This is … is it real?” Bobo asked. “I’ve never heard anything like this.”

“The Lady told me herself.”

“Which lady? Wait—The Lady? When did you talk to her? How?”

“A vision, like priests get,” Ariadne said. “And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Will you add this to the book or not?”

Bobo looked back down at the passage. “Are you sure? What are the stormborn going to do when they hear about it? And the others?” The scholars he’d spoken to in Snow Crown had seemed certain that they weren’t descended from the first peoples.

“Sarette wants to send a copy to her people before we print the book. Boktar’s not sure how the dwarves will react, but they deserve to know the truth.”

“I’m not sure including it in a fable is the right approach.”

“You said that was the best way to get the word out. And now I know where to send the books once they’ve been printed.”

The intensity of Ariadne’s gaze was unsettling.

“I’ll do it,” he said, and she relaxed her stance just a bit.

Bobo was already rewriting the passage in his mind. Yet no empire can stand forever …

#

“Toman Tarwen, Your Majesty,” Captain Tark announced, showing the young man into Rusol’s study.

Rusol looked up but remained silent until both men began to fidget. “I was expecting your father,” he finally said. Couldn’t Tark handle the simplest of tasks?

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Toman replied. “Father’s busy this time of year, but when you requested our presence, we thought it best to respond without delay.”

Rusol had intended to learn whatever Lord Ansel could tell him, then cast a minor compulsion spell. If the hunters failed in their task, the father could lure the son back to the kingdom, separating him from his bondmates. With any luck, Corec would be dead—one way or another—before the mercenary army even arrived at his stronghold.

Could Toman take his father’s place in that plan? Why had he really come? Was he working for his brother? Rusol’s warden senses indicated Toman wasn’t a mage.

Rusol stood abruptly. “Let’s visit the trophy room,” he said. His study was where Corec’s assassin had tried to kill him. Talking to his brother in the same place seemed like a bad omen.

Rusol’s two bodyguards took position at the front of the procession, while Captain Tark and his two guardsmen brought up the rear. Five guards seemed excessive inside the palace, but mage or not, Rusol didn’t trust Toman Tarwen. There was something about him that seemed off.

“Is your father well?” Rusol said to fill the silence. He hated small talk. What was there to discuss other than the obvious?

Toman must have felt the same way. “Your Majesty, to tell the truth, I had another reason for coming,” he said, his voice just a little too loud. “I felt I would be a better choice to answer any questions you had about my brother.”

“Is that so?”

“My father is … overly sentimental about Corec.”

“I take it you are not?”

“I see him for what he is.”

“And what is that?”

“Someone who’s spent his whole life always getting his way. After his mother died, my father never wanted to discipline him. He let him join the knights, and when they kicked him out for being a wizard, Father acted like it didn’t matter. Oh, sure, they had words, but in the end, Corec got his way again. We follow Pallisur, but we let a wizard back into the house!” Toman’s voice had grown even louder as he spoke.

Had the man come all the way to Telfort just to go on a jealous rant, or did he actually know something useful?

They reached the trophy room, and two of the guards went in first to check for threats. Rusol gestured for Toman to follow them, but stopped Tark at the door.

“Has he been drinking?” Rusol hissed.

“I apologize, Your Majesty. I found the bottle on him just before we arrived. He must have bought it last night when the guards weren’t watching.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

There had to be a longer story there, but this wasn’t the time for it.

Rusol rejoined Toman and tried again. “I’m more interested in what he’s like now. Have you spoken to your brother recently? Has he mentioned why he would set himself against the throne?”

“What did he do?”

“You said it yourself—he’s a mage, an enemy of the Church.” Rusol figured he might as well take advantage of the man’s own biases.

But it drew a sharp look from Toman. What did he know?

“The Church …” Toman started. “He hates the Church. I thought he was going to kill our old priest once.”

When he didn’t continue, Rusol had to prompt him again. “Why was that?”

Toman shrugged. “Because Corec’s a mage? Because his mother was a whore? I don’t know. I didn’t catch it all.” He met Rusol’s gaze as he spoke. Was he trying to goad him? He had to know Rusol’s mother had been a concubine too.

Rusol struggled to keep from losing his temper. “Let’s talk about something more useful,” he said. “What sort of magics does he use? What are the defenses like at the keep he’s claimed in the free lands? How many men does he have?”

“What does any of that matter? He’s gone. He never comes back except to brag.”

“It matters because he tried to kill me!” Rusol snapped.

Toman stared at him. “You … you think Corec wants to kill you?” He sounded truly puzzled.

“He sent an assassin! He knows I’m a—” Rusol cut off what he was about to say.

“I … I apologize, Your Majesty. I don’t think Corec would …”

“He did!”

“The … the punishment for treason. It’s …”

“Just tell me what you know, damn it!” Rusol shouted. A red haze settled over his vision.

Toman’s expression hardened. “What I know is that at least he had the decency to leave the kingdom when he found out he was a mage! Unlike you, you son of a demon whore!”

At the sudden change in tone, one of the bodyguards grabbed Toman’s shoulder. Toman twisted out of his grasp, but before he could do anything else, Rusol thrust his hands forward, lighting cackling outward in an arc and striking both men. Their burned bodies collapsed to the floor.

Breathing heavily, Rusol forced the rage down. Captain Tark, who’d been standing out of the way, stepped forward to join him.

“Another assassin,” Tark said. He and the other guards were under such heavy compulsion that they didn’t seem disturbed by the death of their comrade. “He must have been. I’ll take two squads to arrest the father.”

“What?”

“Two of his sons have tried to kill you now, Sire.”

Except Toman’s attempt—if that’s what it was—hardly seemed premeditated, and if Rusol was being honest, he was the one who’d struck the first blow against Corec.

Did that justify arresting Ansel Tarwen? The baron was one of the few nobles who’d treated Rusol with genuine respect. Others spoke fancier words, but Ansel had meant his. Had it all been a ruse?

“Wait! We need to think. What if there’s an army waiting to ambush you in the mountains? If Lord Ansel is behind it all, two squads won’t be enough. We need to kill Corec first—he’s the real threat. The border barons don’t have any power.”

Tark frowned. “Let me send scouts, at least.”

“Yes, fine, send scouts. Once we’re sure there aren’t any hidden surprises, then … then we can figure out what to do next.”

The problem with invading the Black Crows was that the mercenary army was preparing to head into the free lands. Rusol could deploy the regular army, but if he did, word would get out that there’d been another attempt on his life. Everyone knew there’d been two already. The first because Rusol had insisted that Samir be heralded as a hero for saving his life, and the second because too many people knew of the incident with Razai to hide the truth.

How would the lords react if they believed there’d been a third assassination attempt, and that Rusol was sending soldiers after one of their peers? He barely trusted the peerage even at the best of times. If they sensed weakness, they might move against him. Before he could act freely, he would need time to put each and every one of them under compulsion.

More worrying was what Toman had said. He’d known Rusol was a mage and demonborn, even if he’d been wrong about which side of the family it came from. He could only have gotten that information from Corec.

Rusol’s secret was already out. He had to stop Corec before the Church learned of it.

#

Trentin wasn’t prepared for the number of people he saw going about their day around the keep, nor for the wary looks they directed his way.

He rode through the busy little village, dismounting as he approached the gatehouse. The huge gap in the wall had been repaired, with the new stonework appearing to be all one piece. Magic. It had to be magic. Had he made the right decision?

The guards at the gatehouse stopped him.

“Name and business?” the older one asked, no welcome in his voice.

“That’s Sir Trentin,” the other guard told his partner. “Look at his armor—he’s one of us.” He turned back to Trentin. “Welcome back to Warden’s Keep, sir. Kevik and Corec are up on the wall if you’re looking for them.” It was Aldin, a young man who’d served on Sir Cason’s ballista crew.

Trentin blinked. “Kevik’s here?” It made sense in a way, though. Where else would he have gone?

“Yes, sir. Been here since before I got back.”

“Is there somewhere I can stable my horse?”

“I’ll take her to the grooms for you,” Aldin said. “It’ll have to be the outer stable—the inner one’s full. Anyone can tell you how to find it.”

Trentin nodded his thanks and handed over the reins, then waited as another pair of guards inside the fortress cranked the dual gates open so he could pass through the tunnel. He didn’t recognize either of them.

In the courtyard, a dozen men were practicing sword work under the watchful eye of … was that Georg? The grizzled knight nodded to Trentin in recognition, but continued shouting out instructions to his students. They all seemed new to the weapon.

Following Aldin’s suggestion, Trentin found the nearest stairwell and climbed up to the ramparts. More soldiers were there patrolling the walls, these ones with familiar faces.

Trentin found Corec and Kevik on a large, sturdy wooden platform anchored to the interior of the curtain wall, showing a work crew how to reassemble one of the ballistae from the dragon expedition. The weapon platform hadn’t been there the last time Trentin had seen the fortress. Several others were dotted around the wall, and there were additional mounting structures atop some of the taller buildings.

“Trentin!” Corec said, clasping his forearm and thumping him on the back, then making way for Kevik to repeat the gesture. “What brings you out here?” His voice was welcoming, but his expression was guarded.

Trentin eyed the workers, who were close enough to overhear. “I’ve got some news from Hightower,” he said, keeping his tone casual and gesturing down the length of the wall. “Do you want to show me what you’ve been up to while we talk?”

Corec agreed, seemingly just as interested in keeping the conversation private.

“I’m not sure how to say it,” Trentin started as they walked. “The king is sending an army after you—they’re gathering at Fort Hightower. Sir Barat is in command.”

“Do you know how many men they’re waiting for?” Corec asked. He didn’t sound surprised.

“You already knew?”

“We’d heard a few things.”

“What the hell is going on? Barat said you tried to assassinate the king!”

Corec frowned. “That’s the story he’s peddling? I promise you, Trentin, it never happened. Rusol’s the one who keeps sending assassins after me, and when a friend of mine tried to talk to him about it, he almost killed her.”

“But why? Why is any of it …” Trentin trailed off.

“Because I know he’s a mage? That’s our best guess, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s killed a lot of innocent people to get at me.”

Trentin stopped and stared at him. “King Rusol is a mage?” The idea was crazy, but why would Corec make up something like that?

“He is, according to someone I trust. I wouldn’t have told anyone, if that’s what he’s worried about—I’m a mage too—but he’s the one that chose this war.”

Trentin peered down over the parapet at the village. “What are you going to do, then? You’ll have three thousand soldiers here by the end of the summer.”

The other two men exchanged glances.

“Three thousand?” Corec asked.

“More than that, I think—every mercenary the king has, plus four hundred knights.”

“Where’s he pulling four hundred knights from?” Kevik asked.

“Three hundred from Hightower, a hundred more from Northtower.”

“That would leave Hightower almost undefended,” Kevik said.

“We’ve still got extra men there who were dealing with the refugees. They never went back to Telfort.”

“Most of the mercenaries were up at Northtower, right?” Corec said. “That’s why they won’t make it here for another two months?”

“Yeah, Barat was grumbling about it. The siege weapons are coming from Hightower, but the supply wagons are coming from up north, and the mercenaries are foot soldiers, not cavalry. It’s going to take a while.”

Corec nodded. “That’s more information than Razai was able to get,” he said.

“Razai?” Trentin asked.

“She’s a … scout,” Corec said. “Leena helped her get to Hightower and back, so we knew Barat was waiting for reinforcements, but we didn’t know the full numbers.”

“You knew that much? You knew about Barat too? I rode all the way out here and you already knew? I threw away my oaths to warn you!”

Kevik shook his head. “No, you didn’t,” he told Trentin. “You followed your oaths the only way you could, just like we did with the dragon. Don’t worry about what the priests will say.”

“It’s not the priests I’m worried about, it’s my father.”

Kevik shrugged. “Maybe it’s time to stop worrying about what your father thinks, too.”

Trentin leaned back against a merlon and put his head in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

“Trentin, I’m glad you came,” Corec said. “You’re a good friend and a good knight, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told Kevik—you’ve got a place here if you want it.”

“I could use the help,” Kevik added.

“I’ll think about it,” Trentin said. He still had a chance to save his knighthood if he lied about where he’d been and why he’d left without warning, but was it worth it? His career had been in tatters even before he’d disappeared.

They were silent for a moment before Corec spoke again. “Do you suppose Barat’s on our side?” he asked. “He did send that note.”

“Note?” Trentin said.

“Pigeon message,” Kevik replied. “It came in just before I left Hightower. But I wouldn’t count on it to mean anything. It was just a warning to an old friend. That doesn’t mean he’ll disobey the king.”

Corec nodded. “Then I’d better go tell everyone what we’re facing.”

#

Sarette hovered far above the enemy encampment, hidden by the clouds and the darkness. Her attack for the night would be limited in scope, but she’d been planning for this day for over a month.

The mercenary army and accompanying knights had reached the free lands that morning, having taken fifteen days to pass through eastern Larso and hillfolk territory. They’d been slowed down by the siege equipment and supply wagons they hauled with them, a tactic that avoided the risk of vulnerable supply lines being cut off to their rear, but also meant they would have a hard time resupplying if the campaign took longer than expected.

Corec had argued against striking at the enemy soldiers directly, preferring to demoralize them and overextend their resources without hinting that the battle had already begun. His feud was with Rusol. The soldiers themselves were innocent, or as innocent as mercenaries could be. Allowing the army to arrive at the keep was a risk, but if Sir Barat realized he was under magical attack too soon, he could simply turn around and go back, returning with greater numbers.

Plus, of course, Razai might have reached the army by now and Sarette didn’t want to hit her by accident. The demonborn woman had her own role to play.

Sarette’s role for the night was simply to manipulate the weather. She’d been gathering her storm for hours, ensuring the slow buildup would look natural.

Now, she let loose with a torrential downpour.

The soldiers might welcome the rain at first, after weeks of marching through the late summer heat, but when it continued for days on end, soaking through everything and turning the roads to mud, they’d change their minds.

Corec was betting that Sir Barat wouldn’t turn back to Larso if he thought all he was facing was bad weather. He’d push through even if the storms slowed his progress and exhausted his soldiers. By the time they arrived at the keep, they’d be tired and miserable, while Corec’s forces would be fresh and alert.

Sarette had suggested one change to the plan. At this time of year, thunderstorms were common, and she could get away with a lightning bolt or two without rousing any suspicion. She dropped out of the clouds to find a target, trusting to the night to keep her hidden from view.

Siege towers had been her first thought, but there were none to be found. Corec had suggested they were too unwieldy to manage over long distances, and would instead be built on site.

Catapults were the next best choice. They were arranged together with the ballistae at the rear of the camp, mounted on carts like the ones Sarette and her friends had used when hunting the dragon.

She found two of the weapons close together and called down a massive lightning strike on their position, strong enough to melt the metal and splinter the wood. The resounding boom of thunder startled the entire camp. A nearby picket line of mules hadn’t been secured properly and the animals escaped in a panic, running off in different directions. Grooms and soldiers shouted back and forth to each other, attempting to chase the animals in the dark.

To add to the chaos, Sarette sent heavy winds whipping at the camp. After weeks of good weather, the soldiers had grown lazy with their preparations. Waterproof coverings flew off several of the supply wagons, exposing the contents to the rain, and a dozen empty tents caught enough wind to rip their stakes from the ground and go tumbling away.

For good measure, she laid down a series of three lightning bolts just outside the temporary pens the knights had constructed for their horses. Even a warhorse would be startled with that much noise.

As the first attack of the war, it felt inadequate—there were a dozen more catapults waiting nearby—but it was a start, and it was unlikely to raise any suspicion. It was also a test to see if the commander would wait for replacements or press on.

For now, it was time to return to her own camp and get some sleep so she’d be rested enough to renew the storm once it started to fade. She planned to keep it going at full strength for a day or two, until the road was deep with mud. After that, she and Shavala would trade off—with Leena’s help—doing just enough to annoy the soldiers while saving most of their strength for the real battle.

Before Sarette could leave, she felt someone attempting to grasp at the wind and the rain—an elder mage who’d never learned how to manipulate weather. The fumbling attempts wouldn’t make much of a difference against Sarette’s storm, but it seemed the priests weren’t the only mages traveling with the army.

#

“All right, let’s practice,” Corec called out. “First squads, up front!”

Nedley’s squad, the First Infantry, was armed with pikes, while the First Defenders, under Aldin’s command, had crossbows. Like Nedley, Aldin was too young for the position, but he showed some promise.

The new squads were the result of another reorganization. The groupings Corec and Sarette had intended for patrolling the region wouldn’t work for fighting a war.

The two infantry squads were made up of the soldiers Corec thought might be able to face a melee without getting themselves killed. Of the remainder, Ral got half for the siege weapon crews—he commanded both Weapons squads. The rest went into the Defenders, who were focused on guarding the fortress itself and who’d spent most of their time learning to use crossbows. They’d had some training with sidearms and pikes, but not enough to stand up to an enemy charge.

The Second Infantry and Second Defenders didn’t have squad leaders yet, and so were reporting to Kevik and Trentin for now.

Rather than having a scout embedded in each squad, Corec had separated them into their own unit of six men. They unofficially reported to Sargo, simply because he was the scout that Corec and Sarette knew best.

Corec turned his attention back to Nedley’s and Aldin’s squads, who’d lined up waiting for orders.

“Crossbowmen, three to a side!” Corec said.

There were three arrowslit embrasures to either side of the gatehouse tunnel, each alcove giving the defender room to aim while the narrow opening protected them from counterattack. Aldin remained outside as backup. During a real attack, if one of his men fell, he would take their place.

“Infantry!” Corec said. “If the outer gate’s still working, you can raise it yourself once you’re in position. Let the enemy soldiers fill the tunnel, then drop the gate behind them and trap them there. If we’ve already lost the outer gate, you can’t trap them, but the inner gate will still hold them in the tunnel. If they’ve got bows, hit them fast, and make sure to keep your face guards down.”

Nedley arranged three of his men in front of the gate so they could practice jabbing their pikes through the bars.

While they were doing that, Boktar showed up. “Those riders are almost here,” he told Corec.

The riders he was referring to were the reason the two of them had been wearing armor all day. Sarette had seen the group during a scouting flight the day before—over a dozen armed men approaching the keep via the Matagoran branch of the Old Road.

“Let’s meet them out front,” Corec said. “I don’t want a bunch of soldiers in the village unless I’ve spoken with them first.”

Boktar nodded, and they ordered the pikemen to raise the gates.

Kevik joined them just outside the village, and the three of them waited as the riders approached. Like Kevik, Boktar was now clad in silversteel plate. Ellerie had begun work on a suit of armor for him as soon as she’d heard about the approaching army.

A gust of wind announced Sarette’s presence above, hidden within the dark clouds. Ariadne would be out of sight nearby, close enough to teleport to Corec’s side if the encounter turned into a fight.

The oncoming riders drew close, stopping at a respectful distance. They were carrying a Matagoran standard, which suggested it was an official visit. Either that or Sir Barat was attempting some sort of subterfuge. There were sixteen men in the party—judging by the uniforms and insignia, an officer, an official, and two squads of soldiers. The soldiers were lancers, though. Heavy cavalry. Not the sort someone would send if their intentions were peaceful.

The official, a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, nudged his horse forward. “Lord Alastair, Baron of Far View,” he announced with the slightest dip of his head.

“Corec Tarwen,” Corec replied. “And this is Marshal Boktar and Sir Kevik.”

“Mr. Tarwen,” Alastair said with a smile, “just the man I’m looking for.” He dismounted and strode forward. “His Majesty King Orlin sends his regards, and hopes his letters have found you in good health. He’s named me Viceroy of the Matagoran Free Lands Trade Territory. I’m here to supervise the handover of the trade keep and surrounding areas.”