THE RAVEN’S CRY

Daniel E. Olesen
The Raven’s Cry
The Chronicles of Adalmearc
© 2020 Daniel Egehoved Olesen
Publisher: Books on Demand GmbH, Copenhagen, Denmark
Press: Books on Demand GmbH, Norderstedt, Germany
This book was created with the on-demand process
Readers: Sarah Bech-Lodahl, Mads Berggreen, Mads L. Jensen, Jacob E. Olesen, Vagn O. Olesen
Cover illustration: Shen Fei
Typography: Toke R. Nielsen
Cartography: Francesca Baerald
 Table of Contents
Fourth Chronicle of Adalmearc............................................................................... 10
1. Dreams........................................................................................................... 11
2. Flesh and Spirit .............................................................................................. 18
3. Salt and Swords.............................................................................................. 26
4. Winter Play .................................................................................................... 33
5. The Words of a King ...................................................................................... 38
6. Walking in Shadows ....................................................................................... 43
7. Walking in Flames ......................................................................................... 50
8. Final Prayer.................................................................................................... 55
9. From Copper to Crown ................................................................................... 62
10. The Weapons of War .................................................................................... 67
11. Pawns........................................................................................................... 75
12. Shadow War................................................................................................. 80
13. Changing Guard ........................................................................................... 87
14. To the Spear Be Bold.................................................................................... 96
15. Solstice Gifts .............................................................................................. 102
16. We Pray ..................................................................................................... 107
17. Sins of a Father........................................................................................... 113
18. Where the Songs Are Made ........................................................................ 118
Fifth Chronicle of Adalmearc ............................................................................... 126
19. Falling Sands.............................................................................................. 127
20. Beyond the Price of Gold............................................................................ 138
21. Cold Quarter............................................................................................... 144
22. Ill Fate........................................................................................................ 154
23. The Heart of a Hero .................................................................................... 159
24. The Long Path ............................................................................................ 164
23. Quenching the Thirst .................................................................................. 167
23. Cards on the Table ...................................................................................... 172
27. Seal and Sign.............................................................................................. 176
28. A Bloody Welcome .................................................................................... 180
29. Slow March ................................................................................................ 185
 30. Playing Blind ..............................................................................................190
31. Joining the Play ..........................................................................................196
32. Snake Pit ....................................................................................................202
33. Brothers Three ............................................................................................206
34. Who We Are...............................................................................................212
35. When the Raven Calls .................................................................................219
36. No Greater Honour .....................................................................................223
37. Descent.......................................................................................................229
38. Master and Thane .......................................................................................238
39. Flour and Turnip .........................................................................................247
40. The Solace of Spring...................................................................................252
41. Knives at Night ...........................................................................................255
42. The Wolves of Isarn....................................................................................261
43. A Bloody Mark ...........................................................................................264
44. Blighting the Song ......................................................................................270
45. The Last Prince ...........................................................................................278
Sixth Chronicle of Adalmearc ...............................................................................283
46. The Raven’s Shadow Falls ..........................................................................284
47. The Justiciar ...............................................................................................289
48. The Heretic .................................................................................................295
49. Court, Keep, and Castle ..............................................................................299
50. Veiled Chains .............................................................................................307
51.The Brevity of Fate ......................................................................................315
52. Blood, Water, and Wine ..............................................................................320
53. Hraban........................................................................................................327
54. Adeline .......................................................................................................333
Seventh Chronicle of Adalmearc ...........................................................................336
55. The Price of Bread ......................................................................................337
56. Highland Hospitality ...................................................................................343
57. Arn Alone Sword Hilt Held.........................................................................350
58. Hand, Head, and Heart ................................................................................359
59. Two Reasons ..............................................................................................364
 60. People of the Stone ..................................................................................... 368
61. Northern Men, Northern Steel ..................................................................... 374
62. Broken Quills ............................................................................................. 377
63. Negotiations at Night .................................................................................. 382
64. Promises..................................................................................................... 388
65. Allies ......................................................................................................... 394
66. Home ......................................................................................................... 398
67. Kingmaker ................................................................................................. 404
68. What the Future Holds ................................................................................ 409
Appendices .......................................................................................................... 413
Sigvarðarmál .................................................................................................... 413
The Nobility and People of Adalrik .................................................................. 422
The Nobility and People of Ealond ................................................................... 425
The Nobility and People of Heohlond ............................................................... 426
The Nobility and People of Hæthiod ................................................................. 427
The Nobility and People of Korndale ................................................................ 428
Map of Middanhal ............................................................................................ 429
In the year one thousand and ninety-seven, the Seven Realms were struck by several disasters. The
first calamity was the death of High King Sighelm. Due to the young age of his heir, Prince
Sigmund, the Adalthing convened to elect Sir Reynold, lord marshal of the Order, to be lord
protector of Adalrik.
Soon after, the savage outlanders of the Reach invaded Hæthiod in great numbers. In response,
Sir Reynold marched all available Order forces in the heartlands to Hæthiod while leaving rule of
Adalrik to the knight marshal, Sir Roderic.
Tragedy occurred next as Prince Sigmund was slain in a manner most foul on the Kingsroad by
brigands. The murderers were not apprehended.
Displaying the utmost lack of honour, Jarl Isenhart of Isarn seized Middanhal in a bid to usurp
the throne, but failed to capture Jarl Valerian of Vale, who escaped and raised his armies to fight
Jarl Isenhart.
In an attempt to force Captain Theobald to surrender the Citadel, Jarl Isenhart executed Sir
Roderic. Despite this, the jarl was without success, and Captain Theobald repulsed every attack to
seize the Citadel.
Led by the jarl’s brother Sir Athelstan, the Isarn forces cowardly ambushed the remaining
Order army at Lake Myr. Under courageous leadership by Sir Richard of Alwood, the Order troops
crossed the Weolcan Mountains and joined forces with those of Jarl Theodoric of Theodstan. After
several battles, and assisted by his first lieutenant Lord Adalbrand of House Arnling, Sir Richard
liberated Middanhal and defeated Jarl Isenhart’s armies in several battles.
Sadly, both the pregnant wife and the son of Jarl Raymond of Ingmond, while being held
hostage, were slain by thanes of Isarn. As for the members of the House of Isarn, Jarl Isenhart was
forced to retreat to his jarldom, and his brother and two sons, Lord Isenwald and Sir Eumund, were
both taken captive.
In Hæthiod, the outlanders defeated the Order army in the field, killing Sir Reynold. After a
vicious siege, Tothmor fell to the savages. Fortunately, Queen Theodora escaped with a few other
members of court, notably her husband, King Leander, her mother, Lady Beatrice, her aunt, Lady
Irene, and the leader of the Queen’s Blades, Count Hubert of Esmarch.
They were found by Sir William, leader of the remaining Order forces in Hæthiod, who escorted
them to safety across the border. The Hæthians eventually reached sanctuary in Korndale, seeking
the protection of the queen’s relative, King Adelard.
In Adalrik, the Adalthing assembled again to choose Lord Hardmar of House Hardling as heir
to the realms. Due to the prince’s young age, Jarl Valerian was chosen as lord protector. He sent
his own forces north under leadership of Sir Richard to besiege the rebellious lords in league with
Jarl Isenhart, seeking to bring an end to the civil war.
In response to the outlander occupation of Hæthiod, Sir William with Lord Adalbrand as his
first lieutenant returned with a contingent of knights and infantry to liberate the realm. As the
winter of this year gripped the land, the Order prepared its campaign while encamped on the
border to Hæthiod, waiting for requested reinforcements from Korndale.
Thus write I, Quill, the king’s scribe

9
 Fourth Chronicle of Adalmearc
Part of the Annals of Adal

This volume begins in the year ᚿᛜᚦᚿᛚ

The events unfold in the realm of Korndale
as well as the realm of Hæthiod

10
 1. Dreams
Plenmont
The great hall of the palace in Plenmont was bustling with activity. It was only a few days before
winter solstice, and servants were flitting around, busy with preparations. Twigs and branches from
pine trees with their green needles were being hung everywhere, serving as a reminder that spring
would return with its blossoms once the dark winter was over. Furthermore, the tables by which the
court dined were being rearranged. This allowed for a large, open space in the centre of the hall. By
the walls hung already banners with the royal emblem of Korndale upon them, but new banners in
blue and silver were being raised as well, adding a pale dragon next to the black bull.
Standing in the now open centre was the man directing the movements of the servants, like a
commander ordering his troops about. He was not clad in armour, nor the modest garb one might
expect of a steward or other such overseer; instead he wore a silken robe of deep yellow with many
other colours in the rest of his garments, and upon his head rested a golden circlet with heavy stones
of great value. He was about thirty years of age, perhaps a little older, with a neat, thin beard. “A little
higher,” he demanded of the servants balancing precariously on ladders while draping the new
banners on the walls.
“Your Majesty,” a voice spoke softly nearby. It belonged to a man dressed in more humble
clothing compared to the king, though still of finer cut and fabric than what the common servants
wore.
King Adelard turned towards the speaker. “Aurelius,” the monarch frowned, “what do you think?
High enough?”
“Perfect, Your Majesty,” Aurelius replied with a half glance. “I was just speaking with your
cousin, the queen Theodora,” he began to explain.
“Anything the matter? Her accommodations not to her liking? Such is for you to handle,” Adelard
said dismissively, waving his hand while keeping his gaze on the preparations around him.
One of the servants almost lost his balance on a ladder and grabbed hold of a pine branch tied to a
shield on the wall. The result was that while the servant regained his balance, the shield and branch
both fell to the floor with a loud clang. “Good grief,” Adelard exclaimed frustrated, “must I start
executing people before you realise the severity of the situation? Solstice is but a few days away!”
Some faint, nervous laughing could be heard. “Oh heavens, it was a jest,” the king continued. “There
will be no executions this close to a feast. Honestly, you people have no sense of merriment.”
“Your Majesty,” Aurelius interjected, “Queen Theodora wished to press you for an answer
concerning her request that you aid Hæthiod.”
“Did I not tell Flavius to give her an answer already?” Adelard frowned before his attention turned
towards the servants attempting to return the fallen shield to its position.

11
 “Prince Aquila did, Your Majesty.” Aurelius nodded a little. “A delaying answer. He said that
there was little point in making plans while winter lasted and even the Order camp was in winter
quarters.”
“So what does she want now?” the king spoke with an impatient voice.
“The queen desires to have your guarantee that once winter ends, you will launch a campaign to
liberate Hæthiod,” Aurelius explained.
“Ask Flavius and give his answer to Theodora,” Adelard replied absentmindedly.
“Your Majesty, maybe this is not a matter that should be left to the prince of Aquila,” the king’s
servant said pointedly. “Given the consequences should Korndale become involved in the war in
Hæthiod, Prince Aquila’s decision may be influenced by other concerns than what is best for the
realm.” Seeing no light of understanding in his master’s eyes, Aurelius continued. “Many of your levy
forces would be drawn from the principality of Aquila, Your Majesty. The prince is unhappy with the
thought of departing Tricaster with his army.” Adelard continued to stare with a frown, and Aurelius
spoke again. “If Your Majesty’s armies marched into Hæthiod, Tricaster would be vulnerable to an
assault from Ealond.”
“Ealond,” Adelard snorted. “They have not been that bold in centuries. Why does that old beak
worry about the rivermen?”
“The duke of Belvoir is an ambitious man,” Aurelius admitted, “but that should not rule Your
Majesty’s decision concerning the war in Hæthiod. Or what else is taking place in the realms,” he
finished, emphasising his last words.
“Aurelius,” Adelard said a little weary, “just tell me what you want.”
“It is Your Majesty who informs me on what is to be done,” Aurelius said subserviently, “not
reverse. Might I suggest you call a council of your advisors soon? That should allow Your Majesty to
reach a decision.”
“Fine,” Adelard agreed, his mind elsewhere. “No, no, we need the woodwork over here,” he
exclaimed, yelling at servants while his steward retired from the hall.
~~~~
After he left the king, Aurelius walked through the palace until he reached the area recognisable as the
royal quarters. He knocked on the door to one of the chambers.
“It is the seneschal, milady,” said the maiden opening the door.
“Let him pass,” came a voice possessing a certain age.
As Aurelius entered, he found a scene of several women inside. They were all in their forties or
fifties, clad in rich garments and jewellery. Some of them had been sewing, while one had been
reading aloud from a book. She stopped as Aurelius came into view. There was a fourth woman seated
on a couch, neither sewing nor reading, for whose pleasure the handmaiden had been occupied with
the book. This lady had the attention of all the other women, and she dismissed them with a simple
gesture; they in turn seemed used to it, quickly gathering their things to leave the room.
“Lady Sigrid,” Aurelius greeted her.
“Sit,” she bade him, beckoning to the empty seats surrounding her. “Speak.”
“I convinced the king to hold council to settle the matter of intervention in Hæthiod,” Aurelius
explained. “So far, I have used Prince Aquila as an excuse to keep the Hæthian queen without answer,
but she is persistent. Once she realises our armies will not intervene in Hæthiod, she will cause a stir.”
“Let her,” Sigrid said disdainfully. “All she can do is complain to the marshal, and the Order
forces are not going anywhere.”

12
 “Even so,” Aurelius spoke cautiously, “she might cause problems for us if the princes or the guilds
are on her side.”
“Unlikely. I wish this matter resolved soon regardless of this crowned child.”
“Very well, my lady,” the seneschal acquiesced. “I do fear that until the solstice feast is over, his
majesty is too – preoccupied to handle affairs of the state.”
“Delicately put,” Sigrid remarked, pursing her lips. “Have it held the day after solstice. I will use
the time until then to plant the seed into my son’s mind.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Aurelius hesitated briefly. “There is another matter I should inform you
of, should you not already have heard.”
“Speak.”
“Lady Isabel of Hæthiod arrived some hours ago, shortly after noon.”
“Has she stated the reason for her unannounced appearance?” Sigrid asked sharply.
“Officially, to visit her distant cousin, King Adelard,” Aurelius explained.
“Unofficially?”
“She has mentioned nothing, but she enquired as to when she might meet the king.”
“Ensure she is given a chamber maiden with an attentive ear,” Sigrid commanded.
“Very well, my lady,” Aurelius said subserviently.
“You may leave,” Sigrid told the seneschal without looking at him, her gaze growing distant with
thoughts. Silently, Aurelius left her alone.
~~~~
Elsewhere in the palace, Theodora entered a room guarded by two Queen’s Blades; another pair had
been following her but stayed outside. Inside, she found Leander lying on the bed, which caused her to
stand still.
“You need not be quiet,” Leander spoke with eyes closed. “I am awake.”
“I can leave,” Theodora offered. “Let you rest.”
“No point,” Leander claimed, sitting up and planting his feet on the ground.
“Does the sleeping draught not help?”
“Only for a brief while. Besides, I emptied it last night.”
“You should seek out the physician,” Theodora suggested. “Perhaps he has something stronger.”
“I suppose,” Leander replied with little enthusiasm.
“I spoke with the seneschal,” Theodora ventured to say. “He only said as before that I should
speak with the prince of Aquila.”
“Why is that?” Leander frowned. “Why should you speak with him in the first place?”
“The king relies on him as his counsellor in military matters, apparently,” Theodora explained.
“But since Aquila lies in the west of Korndale, Prince Flavius does not seem to consider the
outlanders much of a threat.”
“What about the marshal?” Leander suggested. “He is the one who should have come to our aid
during the siege.” Bitterness found its way into his voice.
“He claims he does not have the authority to decide,” Theodora said frustrated. “I sent Count
Hubert to pester him, one way or the other, until he changes his tune.”
Leander snorted in brief laughter as a response. “The count will have the marshal marching to
Hæthiod while there is still frost in the air.”
“Let us hope so,” Theodora remarked. “With enough reinforcements, I am certain Sir William can
drive the outlanders back to whatever Heldale they come from.”

13
 “I am not convinced there are enough soldiers in all of Korndale to ensure that,” Leander
muttered.
“Have courage,” Theodora chided him. “Did Troy not write that many of the outlanders had
retreated beyond the wall again? Victory is closer than we think.”
“Retreated for how long? They may return any day,” Leander retorted. “Besides, I doubt Troy is a
reliable source of military intelligence.”
Theodora was quiet for a moment. “You miss him, I take it.”
“There was no reason for him to travel to the encampment already,” Leander complained.
“He is a bard,” Theodora commented. “He needs stories to sing about, and what better story than
the liberation of our homeland?”
“It’s not even solstice yet. They will not be doing anything all winter but lie in camp,” Leander
exclaimed. “I told that crowing moron as much, yet still he went.”
“At least his letters bring us some news,” Theodora pointed out. “The fact that the full force of the
outlanders is no longer present will help convince these dalemen to intervene.”
“I suppose,” Leander admitted grudgingly.
“You should try to rest,” Theodora suggested. “I will go see my mother.” Leander gave a shrug but
moved his legs back up on the bed.
~~~~
At first evening bell, the court of Korndale moved towards the hall to take the meal, as did the
Hæthian exiles. Besides the queen, the king, and their staunch protector, Count Hubert, their number
also counted Beatrice and Irene, the queen’s mother and adopted mother, respectively. This state of
affairs had caused some confusion among the Dalish courtiers, who as a response avoided familial
terms. Leander’s mother, Diane, was still in disfavour and not invited to any table shared by the
queen.
The meal was already underway when another person of note arrived. It was a woman whose look
could be pleasant or haughty according to its owner’s whim. To arrive at the meal after the king was a
breach of etiquette, and she attracted the attention of every person in the hall, nobleborn and
commonborn alike. The late arrival wore a blue dress with golden threads, which awoke further
whispers; to the few with superior knowledge, it revealed her identity.
Those with inferior knowledge on the heraldry of Adalrik were aided by the seneschal, who rose
from his seat by the king’s side. “Your Majesty, may I present Lady Isabel of Hæthiod,” he
announced.
The king did not seem to mind the dramatic entrance. “Be welcome to our halls,” he said cordially.
“I am grateful to His Majesty,” Isabel replied, giving a slow bow before the king.
“Aurelius, let her have your seat,” Adelard commanded.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the seneschal acquiesced, stepping away to let Isabel take his place. Once
she was seated, servants quickly brought her food and drink.
Raising her cup, she nodded towards Adelard. “To your health, Your Majesty.” Graciously, the
king returned her gesture.
Further down the table, Theodora sent her mother a confused look. “Did you know she was
coming here?”
“I had not the slightest idea,” Beatrice professed. “Nor can I guess her purpose, unless it is to
reunite with us? We are her sole remaining family, after all.”
“If so, she would have sent word in advance,” Irene declared. “Whatever reason Isabel has for
being in Plenmont, I doubt she is concerned with us.”

14
 “I do not see how it matters,” Leander muttered. “It changes nothing for us.”
“She is still my aunt,” Theodora told him in a reproachful tone. “It matters to my mother.”
“Count Hubert,” Leander continued in a louder voice, “I hear you have spoken with the marshal.”
“I have,” the count replied in his typically brusque manner. “Both today and the last two days. He
is a decent fellow, Sir Ferdinand, though lax in discipline.”
“As always, you offer valuable contributions to the discussion at hand,” Irene remarked with
disdain.
“What is his attitude towards intervening in Hæthiod?” Leander asked with a hint of exasperation.
“Is he at all amenable towards it?”
“Unlikely,” Hubert replied, emptying his cup. “He is sheep and shear with the prince of Aquila.”
“He is what?” Beatrice asked.
“He means they are close compatriots,” Leander explained impatiently; his attention had returned
to his cup, which had already been filled several times.
“Is that problematic? I thought Prince Flavius was advising you,” Beatrice spoke, looking at her
daughter.
“Avoiding me, rather,” Theodora corrected with a grim tone of voice. “We cannot expect support
from the prince.”
“Aquila is too scared the rivermen might try something,” Hubert declared before stuffing meat into
his mouth. “Rumour has it that across the border, the duke of Belvoir is gathering his forces.”
“Like a crow hoping to pick through the corpses after a battle,” Theodora remarked.
“Let us be practical,” Irene interjected. “Neither Prince Flavius nor Sir Ferdinand can be expected
to be of service. The king himself understands less of warfare or politics than these actress harlots he
adores.”
“How dare you!” Leander exclaimed violently, slamming his fist onto the table and causing
everyone nearby to stare at him. “Oh, you meant the king of Korndale,” he corrected himself. “Carry
on,” he added mildly, returning to his cup.
“I believe the king can be swayed whichever way the wind blows,” Irene continued after sending
Leander an angry glare. “We need to find the right people to sway him,” she finished, glancing
towards the middle of the high table where Adelard sat between his mother and Isabel; the king was
enjoying lively conversation with the latter while the former watched with a tight-lipped expression.
~~~~
Every court in Adalmearc had a physician appointed to it, trained by the norns at the great lorehouse
of medicine in Fontaine; Korndale was no exception to this. Late in the evening, Leander stepped into
the quarters that served as the physician’s apothecary. Herbs were drying as they hung in the air, and
numerous bottles filled with liquids and powders lined the shelfs.
“Brother Raul,” Leander spoke, gaining the other man’s attention. “I need more,” he grunted as he
presented an empty flask to the lay brother. “And I need it stronger.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” came the reply subserviently. “Did it not have the supposed effect?”
“It made me fall asleep well enough,” Leander explained, “but dreams woke me soon after. I need
a draught of such strength, I will sleep dreamlessly through the night.”
Already the physician had begun collecting ingredients, searching them out amongst his stores.
“That may be more than I can deliver,” Raul admitted, ceasing his efforts momentarily. “I tend to
maladies of the body, but as Your Majesty no doubt knows, dreams are of the spirit, either one’s own
or not.”
“Are you saying you cannot help?” Leander asked disgruntled.

15
 “I will of course prepare a tincture for Your Majesty,” Raul said quickly, resuming his activities. “I
merely advise that you seek counsel from someone, who is as well-versed in what troubles the spirit as
I am in what ails the body.”
“Who would that be?”
“In the past, when a patient of mine has been beset by ill dreams, I have advised them to seek out
the priests of Egnil here in the city.”
“Priests,” Leander sneered. “I would rather trust my wealth with thieves than my health with
priests.”
Raul gave an uneasy smile. “Nonetheless, dreams and spirits fall within their grasp of knowledge,
not mine. If Your Majesty feels such discomfort as described, surely he should seek out any remedy
available.”
“I came here for a remedy,” Leander spoke displeased. “I expect you to give me one,” he declared
and turned to leave.
“I shall deliver the strongest draught my art can create,” Brother Raul promised, watching the
king’s back as the latter left his apothecary.
~~~~
The Order had its own keep in Plenmont. While the king’s palace was exactly that, a palace built to
please the eye, the Order’s keep was built for war. Grey walls of stone, tall and difficult to scale, with
heavy towers positioned everywhere from which the garrison kept watch. In the courtyard, scores of
men could be seen training formations, learning to wield the heavy shields and spears of the Order
infantry.
Several men rode through the open gate, their passage unhindered due to the clear marks of
nobility upon their leader. He did not wear armour for battle, only a leather tunic with a surcoat; upon
it was the emblem of an eagle spreading its wings. The same coat of arms was worn by his men, who
dismounted as their lord did and followed him closely with a protective stance. “Sir Ferdinand,” called
out the nobleman, gaining the attention of a knight watching the soldiers.
“Prince Aquila,” the knight responded with a nod. His black Order surcoat was in stark contrast to
the prince’s, which had the red and blue of Tricaster in bright arraignment. “I was not expecting you.”
“I thought we should talk,” Flavius replied, lowering his voice. He had a long scar across the
bridge of his nose, continuing to cleave his cheek in twain. The prince had many more on his body,
most of them gained in battles and skirmishes by the border between Ealond and Korndale; his
exploits as a warrior had earned him the ekename of Ironside. “I told the Hæthian queen not to expect
any intervention until winter ends, but I think she suspects we will never send troops to Hæthiod.”
“Those dreadful heathmen,” Ferdinand spoke with a light shudder. “One of them, a Count Hubert,
has already been here twice. He keeps challenging every man he sees to a fight.”
“It is the queen that concerns me,” Flavius declared. “Our king is a man often gripped by
emotional states. If her constant tales of woe moves him, he might make promises to the detriment of
the rest of us!” The last sentence was spoken with increasing noise.
“I agree, but what do you expect of me? I am not at court,” the knight pointed out. “You are.”
“Only until the solstice celebrations are over. When I return home to Tricaster and make
preparations against Belvoir, you will be the king’s advisor in matters of war.”
“If you need assurances that my advice will be in line with yours, you need not worry,” Ferdinand
claimed. “As marshal of Korndale, it is my foremost duty to keep it safe. The king knows to trust my
counsel.”

16
 “Unfortunately, he also seems to trust his mother’s counsel,” the prince spoke darkly. “That old
spider is spinning her own webs.”
“I am sure the lady Sigrid has the king’s best interests at heart,” the marshal said, looking a little
uncomfortable.
“Maybe, but not the interests of the realm. In this case, the king is not Korndale. Keep recruiting
more men and expanding the garrisons,” Flavius told the knight. “We are going to need them in every
city of the dale.” Nearby, the soldiers broke formation and dispersed, having finished the day’s
training.

17
 2. Flesh and Spirit
Plenmont
At night, the palace in Plenmont was quiet; only the guards disturbed the silence, making their rounds.
In the hour before dawn, the servants would rise, preparing for the day. Hearths were lit where
needed, so the chambers would not be cold when their masters and mistresses woke, which, depending
on the person, could take place at any time between dawn and noon.
There was one exception to this. In the chambers he shared with his wife, Leander sat on the edge
of their bed, although sunrise was hours away. On the table by the bed stood the sleeping draught
prepared by the physician; its contents were mostly gone. The queen stirred in her sleep, and Leander
turned to look at her face, his own wearing an inscrutable expression. As she acted restless even while
in the clutches of sleep, Leander moved out of her reach by standing up.
He walked over to the window, gazing at the city outside. In the dark and despite being built on a
flat plain, it looked much like Tothmor did. Rooftops, the streets weaving in between them, and the
occasional tower or tall building rising among them. In the distance, the keep with its seven-pointed
star banners. The main difference was that people in Plenmont slept peacefully, whereas none could
know how the citizens of Tothmor fared. Sinking to the floor and turning to sit with his back against
the wall, Leander sat in silence through the remaining hours of the night.
~~~~
The morning passed with little incident among the residents of the palace, and the servants spent it
with idle talk of the new arrival from the north, the lady Isabel. The object of the conversation had
remained in her chambers until the noon bell rang. When she finally stepped outside her door, Isabel
was dressed with an elegance evoking envy, and the colours of her lips and cheeks indicated recent
purchases from a sun peddler. Roots of certain lilies mixed with rose water made her skin pale as
befitted a noblewoman, sheltered her whole life from the sun, while beeswax melted with oil and
crushed berries gave her lips a red, glistening colour in contrast.
She was headed towards the royal quarters, led by a servant. As the decorations on the walls
increased in opulence, the servant’s breathing quickened until he finally stopped in front of a specific
chamber door. After knocking, he opened the room for Isabel and stepped aside as she confidently
strode past both servant and door. Her self-assured stride came to an abrupt halt when she found the
chamber occupied by Sigrid, the queen’s mother, and her various attendants.
“Lady Isabel, how good of you to join me,” the elderly woman said with a smile that did not reach
the eyes. “Allow us some seclusion,” she told her handmaidens, who dutifully left the room, fluttering
past the immobile Isabel. “Please, have a seat,” Sigrid spoke, extending her hand in an inviting gesture
to the chair opposite hers.
“Thank you,” Isabel replied in a demure fashion, sitting down. On the table between them were
plates with meats and greens as well as bread.

18
 “When I heard you wanted to dine with my son, I profess that I thought it an excellent idea,”
Sigrid explained, “and so I had the servants bring you to me. A bit of audacity on my part, but I hope
you would not mind my jest.” The old woman spoke in a pleasant tone, but her confident manner did
not suggest that she felt she needed Isabel’s forgiveness for the duplicity.
“I do not mind in the slightest,” Isabel told her companion, finally relaxing her features into a
smile that mirrored Sigrid’s. “Who could ever complain about having the pleasure of your company,
especially when unexpected?”
“Quite right,” Sigrid agreed. “The same may be said for you, as your presence here was also
unexpected.”
“There was nothing to tie me to Middanhal anymore,” the Hæthian princess explained. “As my
home is occupied by rabble, I decided to waste no further time but immediately join my remaining
relatives in Plenmont.”
“Yes, your sister and niece have been here for quite some time now,” Sigrid remarked in a neutral
tone.
“Not only them,” Isabel elaborated, regaining some of her confidence. “After all, the king’s
grandmother was sister to my grandfather.”
“My son has many blood ties,” Sigrid replied, stressing the familial term, “though sadly none are
left now in Middanhal after your departure. It is a pity what the savages did not only to my nephew,
but also his son.”
If the mention of her dead son unsettled Isabel, the sun-peddled wares on her face concealed any
such effect. “A terrible truth indeed, which extends to you, my lady. The House of Adal is gone,
which begs the question of who should sit on the Dragon Throne.”
Sigrid took a sip from a cup, glancing down. “The Adalthing has elected an atheling of Sigvard,
which surely you must also have heard. The question has been resolved.”
“Has it?” Isabel leaned forward. “This atheling seems little more than a pawn in the hands of the
true ruler of the realm, Jarl Vale. As King Sighelm’s sister, as someone born into the House of Adal
yourself, that must concern you, surely.”
“I am but an old woman,” Sigrid deflected. “Queen mother, but not queen. Such concerns are the
privilege of the young and the powerful.”
“A mother’s concern for her son never grows old,” Isabel countered, her voice quiet for the
briefest of moments. “Your son is a proven king and with the same blood as this Hardling boy.”
“Descended through his mother, not his father,” Sigrid pointed out.
“Blood is blood,” Isabel argued. “Though a woman, my niece is ruler of Hæthiod.”
“The laws may bend easier on the heath,” Sigrid retorted, “but not in the land of the dragon.”
“You would concede that your son has no claim upon the Dragon Throne, simply because he is
descended from Sigvard through a woman and not a man?”
“I will concede that those are the laws of the Adalthing,” Sigrid smiled coldly.
There was a moment of silence. “Thank you for the meal,” Isabel spoke abruptly and rose from her
seat. “I feel the need to rest a while. Pardon me.” Sigrid did not rise herself, but simply inclined her
head. With a short bow, Isabel left. The plates of food remained on the table, untouched.
~~~~
It was early in the afternoon when several canopied carts were pulled by old horses into one of the
open squares surrounding the palace. Not near the front, but to the side where the servants had their
goings. Despite the tattered state of the canopies on the carts, the newcomers provoked great
excitement among commonborn and nobleborn alike. Due to the inauspicious location of the arrival,

19
none of the nobility would demean themselves to witness the spectacle in person, and they sent their
personal attendants instead, whose numbers were added to those of the palace servants. Before long, a
crowd was standing outside, ignoring the cold this late in the month of the Moon.
Although worn, the carts and canopies were dyed in bright colours and patterns. The contents were
equally colourful, both people and cargo, though not all; some members of the caravan were clad in
ordinary, undyed clothes and quietly began to unload the carts. The rest wore garbs as vivid and eye-
catching as those of the nobility or rich merchants. One of those dressed in this manner, upon seeing
the throng of people, jumped to stand upon the driver’s seat of the nearest cart.
“Good people of Plenmont!” he called out with a flourish while the golden domes of the palace
provided the background for his improvised stage. “Today, the Seven and Eighth smile upon your
shining city. Prepare for tales that plunge into deepest tragedy and soar unto highest comedy. Your
magnanimous king sent out the call for artisans of the greatest craft to journey hither to his capital,
and the call has been heard. Across mountains and valleys, through field and cities, travelling on
Kingsroad or hidden paths in the deep forests, hitherto only touched by beasts of the wild, we have
come.”
There was not a sound stirring among the scores of people listening in rapture to the speaker, who
continued, accentuating his words with expressions and gestures of woe, wonder, and wit. “Many a
king or lord, queen or lady have showered us with praise. In Dvaros, after seeing ‘The Dwarf and the
Maiden’, the chancellor wept with eyes that had not wept in a decade! In Hareik, upon our
performance of ‘The Brothers Swordsmen’, the king offered us a bow of gold if we would stay in the
city of the oak! In the playhouses of Fontaine, ‘The Hat of Holgast’ moved the audience to such cries
of laughter, it became known to cure the deepest states of melancholy that even the wisest of lay
brothers could not heal!”
As the name of each play was mentioned, all eyes in the audience lightened up in anticipation.
“Yet for Plenmont, none of these will suffice. A new play of entirely new fashion must be performed,
for nothing less will satisfy.” Murmurs began to mingle with the excitement. “Good folk of Plenmont,
this winter solstice you shall have art as the realms have never seen before. That is my promise to you,
for we are no common troupe. We are the finest actors, the merriest band, the deepest souls, handsome
as Rihimil, beauteous as Austre.” He paused, taking a deep breath and exhaling. “We are none other
than that illustrious company, known through all the Seven Realms as the Harps of Egnil!”
Wild cheers and loud applause followed this announcement, although it was doubtful that any of
the servants gathered had heard the name of the acting troupe before. With another flourishing bow,
the speaker leapt down from the cart, allowing one of the workmen to drive it away; while the crowd
had been introduced to the company, the carts had been emptied. With many more bows, smiles, and
gestures, the last remaining actor made his way through the people and entered the palace. The
servants stood aimless for a moment until it sank in that there was no further performance to be had,
and they hurried back; some to their duties, others to their masters and mistresses to relate everything
they had heard.
~~~~
Not all the nobleborn of the palace had any interest in the arriving actors. Sigrid was once again
entertaining a visitor alone in her chambers; it was Aurelius, the seneschal.
“I had to pressure and play coy a little, but she revealed her intentions,” Sigrid stated.
“What are they, my lady?”

20
 “She wants my son to march north, into Adalrik. What she hopes to achieve specifically, I cannot
be certain of. If she wants revenge or to be restored to power…” Sigrid’s face became wrinkled in
thought.
“If the latter, her best path is through your son,” Aurelius pointed out.
“Obviously,” Sigrid said curtly. “She will no doubt continue her attempts to ingratiate herself with
him.”
“I can deny her access, of course,” the seneschal claimed. “But is she necessarily our adversary?
Her goal of Adalrik aligns with ours.”
“The question is what the price will be. She will seek to control my son, pushing me out of the
way. That is not acceptable,” Sigrid declared with a thin-lipped smile.
“I will keep her from gaining an audience for the time being,” Aurelius promised.
“Let her be seated next to him at evening meals,” Sigrid ordered. “Their conversation will be
within my reach. We might as well use her to our advantage, as long as I can control how much
influence she gains.”
“As you command.”
~~~~
Apart from the royal palace, Plenmont had two other impressive buildings. One was the hall of the
guilds, and the other was the temple of Egnil, the largest in service to this deity in all the realms.
While it was especially bustling with activity on Nilday, there was generally commotion every day of
the week. It had a dome in the likeness of the great Temple in Middanhal, but golden in colour rather
than silver. The temple grounds were delineated by tall columns rather than walls, supporting
engraved slabs of marble that ran the entire square.
The open square inside the columns was empty apart from a limited number of vendors. Each of
them sold something of religious importance and had special permission to hawk their wares at this
location. Some were smiths or craftsmen, offering idols and talismans for protection or health. One
sold bulls to be given as sacrifice to the temple, though the cattle were not kept here; instead, the
supplicant received a slip of parchment, gave it to a priest, and was taken to their ritual sacrifice.
Barrels of beer brewed by the priests of Egnil themselves were also for sale, known to be of the
highest quality. Naturally, countless yellow-robed priests could be seen crossing the square, coming
and leaving in every direction.
All manner of people mingled at the square of Egnil’s temple, both commonborn and nobleborn,
which meant that Leander and his three guards did not stand out. They might have if people knew he
was not simply some lord but a king, but since most ordinary folk were unfamiliar with the emblem of
Hæthiod, he was not recognised. Walking at a swift pace across the square, Leander moved towards
the actual sanctum of the grounds.
It did not have the splendour of light as the Basilica in Middanhal did, but was dark and too small
compared to the number of people inside. In the far end of the hall was a tall statue of a man with a
bull’s head, representing Egnil as the god of fertility. Right in front was a round and deep pit, almost
like a well, though it was covered by a metal grid to prevent anyone from falling down. The walls of
the hole were smeared with blood, which in a few places had managed to reach high enough to stain
the statue of the god. In the pit, bulls were sacrificed and their blood used to sanctify the worshippers.
Leander looked around with an irritated glance until he gave one of his Queen’s Blades a quick
command. The guard approached a geolrobe and made enquiries. Whether helpful of nature or
intimidated, the priest offered to show the way and led the king and companions out of the sanctum.
Instead, he guided them to the buildings placed in the far end of the temple grounds.

21
 They passed by several temple guards wielding fearsome-looking flails, keeping watch by the
entrance and at intervals inside. Although the visitors were armed, the guards did not view them with
any suspicion, only bored disinterest. The geolrobe took Leander and his Blades through a few
corridors before finally showing them through a door.
The room inside was luxurious and reminiscent of the palace chambers, except it contained several
idols and various trappings of the faith. It was occupied by an elderly man, dressed in a yellow robe
with the patterns of a high priest.
“The king of Hæthiod, Reverend One,” said the geolrobe who had been guiding the way. Leander
glanced around the room, his gaze avoiding the high priest whereas the guards took position behind
him.
“Thank you, brother,” spoke the man leading the Order of the Bull, dismissing his subordinate. “I
am Brother Benedict,” he introduced himself to Leander, inclining his head. “How may I serve?”
The king looked at his guards. “Leave us.” The Blades glanced at the unarmed priest and did as
ordered. “I came at the suggestion of the palace physician,” Leander ventured to say, still looking
elsewhere than at the priest.
“I understand,” Benedict nodded. “You seek help.”
“He told you?” Leander exclaimed, jerking his head around to finally look at the priest.
“Not at all, Your Majesty,” the priest responded, raising his hands in a disarming gesture. “But
Brother Raul has sent patients to us before, who could not be healed by his arts.”
“I do not need help,” Leander muttered. “I am just here to make enquiries.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Benedict agreed in a calming voice. “Will you not take a seat? I am an
old man,” he smiled, gesturing towards a chair. Once Leander sat down, he did as well. “Tell me what
you wish to enquire about.”
“I have on occasion heard that ill dreams are caused by spirits,” Leander said in a mumbling tone,
his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “Is there truth in this?”
Benedict nodded. “Most assuredly, Your Majesty. Evil beings may choose to torment people in
this way, though in my experience, it is most often the restless spirits of the dead.”
“Why are they restless? Why would they haunt the living?”
“Harder to say,” Benedict admitted. “Usually depends on the spirit and the manner of its death.”
“I am having trouble sleeping,” Leander confessed with a hesitant voice. “The physician said it
might be a malady of the spirit. Either mine or someone else’s.”
“That is often the case. Some inner conflict troubles the soul, and the gods interfere with our rest
to show displeasure. Or,” the priest continued, “for one reason or another, the conflict is with outer
spirits plaguing us.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” Leander burst out. “I have done my duty as king over and over!”
“That leaves the second option,” Benedict pointed out. “Who are these spirits that trouble you?”
“When I dream, and sometimes even in my waking state,” Leander spoke, his voice fumbling for
words, “I see the dead soldiers from Tothmor. Guards, soldiers of the Order, all of them. Sometimes
even the scum outlanders,” he added with spite. “Why are they haunting me? I fought on the walls
every day, I bled beside them!”
“You speak of the siege of Tothmor, I surmise.”
“Yes.” Leander gave a slight shiver. “These spirits, they cannot blame me, can they? I did all I
could to defend the city!”
“Perhaps they are angry that you live when so many others died.”
The king looked shocked. “The city was lost! If I did not flee, I would be a prisoner now. Unable
to do anything more.”

22
 “I did not mention flight. Your actions, to me, seem reasonable. But the dead might still be angry
that you were spared their fate.”
“What, was I supposed to stop defending myself?” Leander asked with anger. “Let an arrow pierce
my heart?”
“The dead are not reasonable,” Benedict explained calmly. “They know only that they cannot find
rest. They feel the cold of Hel pulling at them, and they are desperate to find peace. If any one of us
were to die and not see the eagle that leads us to the Sapphire City, would we not react with similar
despair?”
The explanation seemed to mollify Leander a bit, but only briefly. “But why me? I am not even in
Tothmor anymore. Why are they not tormenting the outlanders, who did this to them?”
“You are the king,” Benedict retorted. “The people look to you in life and in death. Justified or
not, they seek you out that you might bring them peace.”
“But what can I do?” Leander complained. “I am no sibyl or priest. I cannot command the spirits
to rest any more than I can turn day to night.”
“Whatever reason there may be for the disquiet of these lost souls, it must be rectified.”
“How?”
“I can think of a few reasons that would disturb a soul to such a degree, it would not find peace,”
Benedict speculated. “The most obvious one is that they were not buried with the proper rites. A raven
feather to banish Hel and the eagle idol to summon the guide to the afterlife, without these things no
spirit can be certain of safe conduct.”
“What else?”
“These men died in the defence of Tothmor. As long as the city is held by the outlanders, their
deaths must seem in vain. The city must be liberated.”
Leander’s face became distorted with various emotions. “Is that all?” His voice carried a touch of
scorn.
“Some no doubt left behind wives and children turned into widows and the fatherless. Despair
over what will become of one’s family can be powerful force.”
“But what I am to do?” Leander asked, his voice unsteady. “If I could retake Tothmor, I would not
be sitting here!”
“True, none of this can be rectified at present. You must look to these things once the Order has
defeated the outlanders and you are restored to your kingdom,” Benedict told the king.
“That could take years! Am I to suffer until then?”
“Not necessarily.” Benedict raised a hand to assuage the king’s concerns. “Until then, protection
may be given to Your Majesty to ward off the spirits and allow you rest.”
“What must I do?”
“Go the merchants of the square,” Benedict instructed him, “and buy a raven pendant made from
silver. Take it to the sibyls at their temple and have it sanctified. Wear it around your neck on a silver
chain at all times, even during baths. The symbol of the Raven Lady, sanctified and further amplified
by the silver, will keep the spirits at bay.”
“Thank you,” Leander spoke. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure to serve,” Benedict smiled.
~~~~
Ahead of the evening meal, there had been much idle speculation as to whether the travelling troupe
would perform. All hopes were dashed, as the actors were not in sight once the meal began. Their
spectacle was to be saved until the solstice feast, and food was served without entertainment.

23
 Conversation flourished in its absence. Isabel had been placed by the king’s left hand; by his right
sat his mother, occasionally leading his attention away from the Hæthian princess. The remainder of
the exiles from Hæthiod were at the end of the high table, huddled in hushed speech as usual.
“I sought her out earlier today, but she was not in her chambers,” Beatrice told the others, glancing
down the table at Isabel, her sister.
“Is she deliberately avoiding us, or simply too busy hatching schemes,” Irene pondered.
“Irene!” Beatrice exclaimed. “That is not in Isabel’s nature.”
“It is in everyone’s nature,” Irene scoffed.
“Regardless of what Aunt Isabel wants,” Theodora interjected, “it is immaterial to us. We have our
own goals to reach.”
“Quite right,” her mother assented with a nod, while Irene continued to watch Isabel with a
thoughtful expression.
Across the table, Leander was engaged in conversation with Hubert. “Troy has not written in
weeks,” the king complained. “What is the cause of this idleness?”
“Your Majesty,” Hubert spoke with unusual patience, “while winter persists, do not expect any
news. The Order cannot campaign during these months, nobody can. Frankly, I am surprised that they
even maintain a camp rather than having retreated to Inghold for winter quarters.”
“Why not use this cessation of activity against the outlanders?” Leander questioned. “If they are as
idle as we, there must be some way to surprise them.”
“The outlanders will have packed themselves tightly in our cities,” the count of Esmarch pointed
out grimly. “Each of their garrisons outnumber the Order army in Hæthiod, I would wager.”
“Outnumber the Order,” Leander mumbled. “There is the problem in a nutshell. We are left to fend
for ourselves. So much for the Alliance of Adalmearc.”
“Perhaps,” a voice spoke with emphasis on each word, “His Majesty forgets the complexity of the
situation.”
Leander and Hubert, sitting closest to the centre of the high table, turned towards the speaker.
“Prince Aquila,” Leander spoke coldly. “We have never been formally introduced, I believe.”
“Your Majesty,” Flavius replied in greeting, inclining his head. Unlike most others, he dined
without gloves, showing it was not only his face that held gruesome scars from battles. “True, I rarely
dine at the palace. I have many concerns keeping me occupied, which could be said for every fighting
man in the realm.”
“I have seen little cause for concern during my time in Korndale,” Leander replied, his voice still
touched by chill. “Unless you mean whether the cows and corn grow sufficiently fat.”
“Until this year, I believed the concerns of Hæthiod were similar,” Aquila retorted, his voice no
friendlier than Leander’s. His eyes, one whole and one scarred, gave the king a chilling look. “We will
not be caught unawares, our cities turned trophies for our foes.”
“Once spring arrives, there will be black boots in Korndale. Aware or not, your cities will fall if
the outlanders are not stopped,” Leander claimed darkly.
“Then we will stop them,” Flavius declared confidently. “The men of the Dale have kept our
watch at the Langstan since it was built. We will not falter like Hæthiod did.”
“You question our worth as warriors?” Hubert exclaimed.
“I merely state the facts,” Flavius replied coldly.
“You may state them with your blade,” the count demanded. “Prove your prowess and your
words!”
“Count Hubert!” Theodora all but yelled as the would-be combatants stared each other down.

24
 “A sparring match,” Irene quickly spoke. “A courteous comparison of your respective skill with
the sword.”
Everyone was silent for a moment. “Nothing would please me more,” came the reply from Flavius,
relieving some of the tension. “Tomorrow in the hour after dawn, the Order castle. I shall await you
there.”
“Not if I arrive first,” Hubert muttered, inclining his head towards the prince of Aquila in
acceptance of the terms. Close by, Isabel’s laughter in response to a jest from the king could be heard.

25
 3. Salt and Swords
Plenmont
Before sunrise, Leander lay awake in bed. He glanced with envy to his side, where Theodora slept
peacefully. The flacon provided by the physician was empty, providing no further sleep. He got out of
bed only to shiver as he left the warm covers; this close to winter solstice, even Plenmont was cold.
Pacing around the room in circles, he soon abandoned his march without a destination. Returning to
the covers, he dug out the silver raven hanging around his neck and clasped it tightly.
~~~~
In the hour after dawn, the sun was too low on the horizon to send its feeble rays inside the courtyard
of the Order keep, which subsequently was gripped by shadows. Despite the cold and early hour,
several scores of men were gathered outside. Every rank was represented from footman to marshal,
and they formed an uneven circle. Inside stood Flavius, prince of Aquila, scratching the scar across his
nose. Dismounting a small distance away was Hubert, count of Esmarch, followed by a yawning
Leander and a few Queen’s Blades.
“You did not have to come,” Hubert told his king, “but I appreciate your presence.”
“I have no better plans today,” Leander replied indifferently. “Though I am unconvinced this holds
much purpose. If you want to train, any of the Blades will give you good fight.”
“You think I challenged him on a whim, boy?” Hubert shook his head. “He is the loudest voice
speaking against Korndale intervening in Hæthiod. When I put a few dents in his armour and his teeth,
his voice will count for less.”
“I see,” Leander frowned. “That is actually clever.”
“I will disregard the surprise in your voice,” Hubert muttered, striding towards the informal circle
of men awaiting him.
Both combatants had removed the sword scabbards from their belts, accepting a blunt blade
instead. They had retained their customary surcoat and shield, emblazoned with their respective
heraldry. As this was but a training bout, no courtesies were exchanged, no declarations spoken; they
simply nodded to each other and assumed stance.
The two men watched the other like a hawk. Whenever one stepped forward, the other mirrored it.
Still the distance between them was too great that either’s blade could reach the other. Impatient
shouts from some of the spectators could be heard, spurring the warriors on. Elbow jabs from the
veteran soldiers, who better understood what each move meant, silenced the eager voices.
A sudden lunge from Hubert was followed by a swift thrust, crossing over to strike at Flavius’
sword arm below the shoulder. The prince brought his shield up, knocking Hubert’s sword aside. A
few encouraging yells erupted only to quickly die down.
Once more the careful circling around. Again Hubert stepped forward, pushing his shield up high.
It was not close enough to strike the prince, but it blocked his field of vision, preventing him from

26
seeing Hubert’s sword strike against his knee just above the greaves. The blade hit, twisting Flavius’
leg, making him stumble. Loud cheers were heard, especially from the few heathmen present. Before
Hubert could follow up on his advantage, the prince regained his footing and pushed upwards, shield
against shield, forcing the count back.
Both retreated a few paces, leaving Flavius near the edge of the circle. Gripping the hilt of his
sword tightly, Hubert’s mouth curled in a sneer, and he leapt forward. He launched a series of
assaults, forcing Flavius to defend. The prince’s back was against the circle, limiting his movements,
but his expression remained cool. He denied each attack, letting his opponent wear himself out.
Only the clash of metal, wood, leather, and fabric was heard until Hubert at length stepped back
with a snarl.
No longer beleaguered, Flavius moved forward, and the fighters began circling each other again as
they had in the beginning. A few groans could be heard from somewhere in the crowd.
The sun had managed to rise above the walls, shining down into the courtyard. As both warriors
exchanged blows continuously, their sweat blended together with the smell of leather and weapon oil.
The circle surrounding them became a little wider.
With the onset of fatigue, their movements grew less careful, less precise. Each man attacked
whenever he saw an opening, only to be denied. Beads of sweat trickled past their eyebrows to hinder
their sight. Their hands were growing numb from the hard grip on their sword hilts. Each had tears in
his surcoat. Both were muttering curses under laboured breathing.
Eventually their weariness led to mistakes, blows hitting marks. Due to their armour and blunted
weapons, little more than bruises would be the result. Although appearing worn, Hubert attacked with
his customary impetus, striking and receiving strikes in return. It did not matter how many times
Flavius punished the count for his aggressive behaviour; nothing seemed to dampen his desire to be
offensive.
Finally, the prince of Aquila retreated a step. “Enough,” he spoke hoarsely. “I believe we have
both learned what could be gained.”
Hubert had been on the verge of another assault, but he halted himself; after a moment’s
consideration, he nodded slowly. “I thank you for the opportunity to hone my skills,” he told his
opponent, clearing his throat several times.
Servants with cups of lukewarm, diluted wine offered the beverages to the exhausted men, who
afterwards each retired from the already dissolving circle; with the entertainment gone, the interest of
the spectators had evaporated.
The Queen’s Blades were quick to compliment their leader as he joined them, while the king had
less to say. “He was good,” Leander remarked briefly.
“They do not call him Ironside without reason,” Hubert growled; the wine had done little to soothe
his parched throat.
“I suppose nothing gained, nothing lost.”
“This might have been a draw,” the count of Esmarch admitted grudgingly, “but we will continue
whittling these dalemen down until they acquiesce.”
“Let us return to the palace until then,” Leander declared. “I am cold.”
As the king of Hæthiod departed with his countrymen, Flavius took another cup of wine in the
courtyard. By his side stood the marshal of Korndale, who had witnessed the fight. “Well fought!” he
told the prince.
“I could not beat him,” Flavius muttered in between quenching his thirst. “I thought for sure his
aggressive style would leave him tired soon, but he was relentless.”
“It was an impressive display of skill,” Ferdinand nodded to himself.

27
 “He may be the best I have ever fought,” the prince admitted, handing his cup to a servant and
removing his helmet to wipe his brow.
“You held your ground admirably,” the marshal continued.
“I did nothing,” Flavius grumbled, leaving without further words.
~~~~
Plenmont had its share of palaces and majestic residences. Many belonged to the nobility; of those
commonborn, the grandest home was owned by the richest merchant in the city, who also served as
alderman of Plenmont. Inside one of its stately halls sat two men by a large table, richly decorated
with carvings. Each man wore a golden chain around his waist, signalling that they also held the title
of alderman, albeit in other cities. One wore the green of Florentia, and the other wore chequered red
and blue, common in Tricaster.
One of the many doors in the room opened, allowing entry to the master of the house. Unlike his
peers, dressed in jewellery and with waistlines that stretched their golden chains due to an affluent
life, the alderman of Plenmont was lean and clad only for warmth, not wealth.
“Master Rufus, Master Aldo,” the alderman in yellow spoke. “Welcome to my home.”
Rufus nodded in response as their host took a seat by the end of the table. Aldo did not share his
quiet attitude. “Master Fabian,” spoke the green-clad man sourly, “I am in no mood for pleasantries.
What is the reason you made us travel here? I will miss the solstice feast at home,” he complained.
“My pardons,” Fabian replied with an affable smile. “Time is short.”
“What is amiss?” asked Rufus, wiping his brow with a chequered sleeve.
“I have been summoned to a council of the king to advise him on the ramifications, should or
should he not intervene in Hæthiod,” the alderman from Plenmont explained. “It takes place the day
after solstice, so it was necessary we meet now.”
“About time,” Aldo grumbled. His fingers picked at the threads forming the crest of Florentia on
his stomach. “We need the outlanders kicked out of Hæthiod at once. Our salt stores are dwindling.”
“How long will they last?” Fabian smoothened a yellow crease in his clothing but kept his eyes on
the other man.
“Enough for this winter,” came Aldo’s reply. “It will not last past the next.”
“If you lack the salt to cure the meat, can you not sell the animals before slaughter?” Fabian asked
next.
“With the recent ravages of war, southern Adalrik will be in need,” Rufus pointed out. “There is
little risk either with peace restored. Ideal conditions.” He drank from a cup of wine, and a few drops
spilled to cause a stain, expanding the red colour into the blue on his garment.
“With the outlanders in Hæthiod and barely any Order armies to hold them back, I can’t tell my
merchants to send their wares to Ingmond,” Aldo argued. “The black boots are sure to raid. It’ll have
to be in Ealond instead.”
“I cannot support that,” Rufus quickly declared. “There is word that the duke of Belvoir is
gathering troops, most likely to launch an attack upon Tricaster.” The alderman from that very city
looked at his companions. “We should not allow him to feed his troops with our meat.”
“How certain is this attack?” Fabian questioned. “To break the peace of the Alliance… the duke
must have the support of his king, and even then it seems a dubious plan.”
“The Order is stretched thin,” Rufus argued, raising his finger. His chequered sleeve slid down his
arm, making the wine stain worse “Hæthiod is in enemy hands, and the garrisons of Adalrik and
Ealond have been emptied to retake it. With no basileus and the Order weakened, who will punish
Ealond for attacking us?”

28
 “Even if there isn’t a basileus, Adalrik still has a ruler,” Aldo from Florentia argued. “The jarl of
Vale, isn’t it? He will have to act.”
“He has no authority over the Order,” Fabian from Plenmont spoke contemplatively. “Only the
Order can punish the duke for attacking Korndale. It will be years before there is a king in Middanhal
again, and by then, much may have changed.”
“We cannot keep the duke of Belvoir from gaining arms or soldiers,” Rufus from Tricaster
admitted. “But an army without provisions is no army at all. We must cease all sale to Ealond.”
“Agreed.”
Aldo hesitated a moment. “Agreed,” he grumbled, and the crest of Florentia on his gut seemed to
rumble. “But that makes it all the more urgent that Hæthiod is liberated. If the salt mines are not soon
returned to our control, we will starve.”
“That seems an anxious statement,” countered Rufus. “We may not be able to cure our meat, but
there will be plenty of other food to eat. Sending our soldiers to Hæthiod leaves Tricaster open for the
duke to attack.”
“If he attacks,” Aldo pointed out. “Without salt, starvation is guaranteed.”
“It will only be hastened by intervention in Hæthiod,” Rufus argued. “If the king is to mount a
campaign and send his soldiers abroad, they will need provisions, which the cities will be required to
provide.”
“Provisions including cured meat,” Fabian continued.
“It will not matter if we empty our salt stores,” the alderman from Florentia claimed, “if Hæthiod
is retaken and the supply of salt restored.”
“If,” Rufus replied with an annoyed look at Aldo. “It seems highly unlikely the outlanders can be
defeated for good in but a single year. Why waste not only our salt stores but also our soldiers?”
“They need not retake all of Hæthiod,” Aldo argued loudly. “Strike from Ingmond and take
Polisals, all our concerns are at rest.”
“Fail in the assault, and our concerns have only just begun,” Rufus said quietly.
“Thank you,” Fabian from Plenmont interceded quickly before Aldo could reply. “Let us take
some time to consider it all and meet again tonight. My servants will have prepared rooms for you
both, and naturally, you are guests of the guilds for solstice.” The other aldermen mumbled their
gratitude, after which the men dispersed.
~~~~
In the afternoon, Beatrice made her way towards the chambers occupied by her sister. After she was
admitted, Isabel rose to meet her, and there was a moment of silence before either spoke.
“I am glad to see you well,” Beatrice finally uttered.
“As I am glad to see you,” Isabel replied in a neutral voice.
“It has been many years.”
“Over a decade,” Isabel pointed out, her voice still toneless. “You came to Middanhal to celebrate
the birth of my son.”
“Right,” her sister mumbled. “Strange circumstances that we should meet again in Plenmont.”
Isabel sat down again, gesturing for the other woman to do the same. “No stranger than so many
other events of late.”
“Still, we were all surprised when you arrived. We had no word in advance.”
“I did not know you were in Plenmont,” Isabel explained.
“Then what brought you here?” asked Beatrice.

29
 “The king is our kinsman. I had no desire to remain in Adalrik, and I obviously could not return to
Tothmor,” her sister pointed out. “Where else should I go?”
“We are merely surprised you did not seek us out after your arrival,” Beatrice elaborated. “You
spend the meals in the king’s company, avoiding ours.”
“I avoid nothing,” Isabel replied with dismissive laughter. “We are speaking now, are we not?”
“If you intend to continue seeking out the king’s company –”
“He seeks out mine,” Isabel interjected.
“Of course,” Beatrice conceded. “Since you have his ear, could you measure his intentions towards
Hæthiod?”
“I do not discuss such matters with Adelard.”
“Surely he would not mind,” Beatrice argued.
“I will be forthright with you,” Isabel told her sister. “I have no interest in Hæthiod or its fate. The
outlanders are welcome to it for all I care.”
“You cannot be serious,” Beatrice exclaimed aghast. “It is your home as much as mine!”
“It was,” Isabel corrected her coldly. “It has not been for twenty years, and it never will be again.”
“How can you care so little? We spent all our years as children there, together!” Beatrice argued.
“And then I turned twenty-one, and I was sent to Middanhal as if I were a crate of salt,” Isabel shot
back.
“You were sent to marry the future high king,” Beatrice countered. “It was an honour shown to
you.”
“Let me tell you of the honour shown to me,” Isabel sneered. “Ten years spent trying to conceive,
three miscarriages and one stillborn child. Ten years with every sibyl and lay brother in the city
examining me, studying me, and prescribing their vile methods for ensuring my children’s health. Ten
years of my father-in-law hating me, the ladies at court scorning me, and my own husband seeking
any excuse to avoid me!”
“I am deeply grieved to hear that,” her sister spoke faintly.
“As if I were the problem when everyone knew that the old king had just as much trouble
conceiving an heir,” Isabel continued. “But they could never accept this truth concerning their
precious blood of Sigvard, so all blame fell to me. And when I finally had a healthy boy, when my
husband finally began to appreciate me, what happened? They took them both from me,” she finished
with her face twisted into a hateful expression.
“Isabel, my heart bleeds for all you have suffered,” Beatrice began to say.
“Perhaps, but that does me little good. Twenty years at that court have taught me everything I
need, and that does not include sympathy.”
“Isabel –”
“I consider it best if you leave now, Sister.”
Beatrice was on the verge of speaking again, but looking at Isabel’s face, she remained silent and
left the room instead.
~~~~
Elsewhere in the palace, the remainder of the Hæthian exiles were gathered in the chambers of their
queen.
“I can make a second attempt at duelling him, Your Majesty,” Hubert suggested.
“I think we have exhausted our possibilities with the prince of Aquila,” Irene said pointedly.
“Indeed. There does not seem to be any chance of changing his mind,” Theodora agreed. “We will
have to sway the king by other means.”

30
 “Such as?” Leander asked in a tired voice.
“King Adelard has other counsellors. Failing that, we appeal to him directly,” Theodora declared.
“The seneschal keeps him inaccessible,” her husband pointed out. “We are running out of
options.”
“If you are quite done assuming defeat,” Irene told him sharply, “we should look elsewhere. The
seneschal may have the king on strings, but someone else is pulling those strings.”
“Who?” asked Theodora.
“I have been told the seneschal holds meetings with the queen mother,” Irene explained with a
satisfied expression.
“Another old hag gripping power tightly with her gnarled fingers,” Leander muttered. “We should
have expected as much.”
“As we should have expected yet another useless king,” Irene sneered.
“Enough!” Theodora exclaimed. Swallowing his reply, Leander drank deeply from a cup of wine
instead. “If the queen mother can be persuaded to help us, we must explore that possibility,” Theodora
declared.
“How might we persuade her?” asked Hubert. “We have no ties to her, no cause to call upon her
aid other than what virtue and nobility proscribe.”
“She will not help us out of the goodness of her heart, no,” Irene said dryly. “But Queen Sigrid is
dragonborn, and while the drakonians may not admit it, her son could be counted as one. With the
Dragon Throne vacant, I imagine her eyes have turned north many times of late.”
“It is not empty,” Leander interjected, his voice a tad slurry. “They put that boy on it.”
“He may sit upon it, but it will not be his for several years,” Irene retorted. “The Adalthing gave it
to him, and they may take it back.”
“Regardless, how might that help us?” asked Theodora. “We are hardly in a position to aid the
queen or her son in achieving this.”
“I have an idea,” Irene declared, her expression satisfied once more. “Leave the queen mother to
me.”
The conversation was interrupted by Beatrice arriving. She took seat next to her daughter while
shaking her head. “Isabel would not listen to me. She could not care less for the fate of Hæthiod or
us.”
“Disappointing,” Irene replied, “but to be expected. She did not come to Korndale for our sake.”
“Are there no others we might rely on?”
“The alderman,” Hubert suddenly spoke. “If Korndale goes to war, the cities will have to pay for
the campaign.”
“Yes, the king will tell the cities to pay,” Irene said dismissively. “He will not ask this
moneygrubber for permission or whether they can pay.”
“It is not merely a question of coin,” Hubert argued. “Weapons, supplies, food. The king might
very well rely upon the alderman’s information to make his decision.”
“If so, we should ensure that information is friendly to our cause,” Theodora declared.
“Should I speak with him, Your Majesty?” Hubert suggested hesitantly. “It may appear unseemly
for any member of the royal family to have dealings with this – merchant.”
“Let us use that to our advantage,” Theodora replied. “We will see how the alderman deals with a
queen.”
“Very well, Your Majesty,” Hubert nodded. Next to him, Leander emptied his cup.
~~~~

31
As night fell, activity in the palace gradually declined. The remaining holdout where light and
conversation still continued was in the kitchens. This was not merely due to servants carrying out
chores but also caused by the presence of the acting troupe.
“What I want to know is,” said one servant, “when are you actually going to play on a harp?”
“All in good time, my friend,” replied the leader of the actors with a smile. “You shall be well
entertained. Alain of Egnil’s Harps gives you his word.”
“Yeah, see, because with a name like that,” the servant continued, “I reckoned you were here to
play the harp.”
“We have planned a most magnificent play,” Alain told his audience. “It will be spoken of for
years to come, and any who will hear that you were in attendance this particular solstice feast shall be
green with envy.”
“But I haven’t even seen a harp among all your gear.”
“If you will forgive me, I should see to our preparations.” Standing up from the benches, the actor
let his smiles and winks flow freely as he passed through the servants, leaving the kitchen.
Entering the courtyard, Alain walked over to the assembly of carts and wagons belonging to his
troupe. Climbing into one of them, he moved a few items around until finally pulling a blanket away.
This revealed a small crate with bars, keeping a handful of pigeons imprisoned. The creatures cooed
as he opened the small hatch to grab one of them. Docile, the pigeon patiently allowed Alain to tie a
strip of paper to its leg. This accomplished, he released the pigeon into the air, and it quickly beat its
wings flying west towards Ealond.

32
 4. Winter Play
Plenmont
Just as summer solstice, its counterpart in winter was a feast celebrated all over Adalmearc. No work
was carried out that could be delayed, and as soon as the sun set on the shortest day of the year,
merriment began. Despite the cold, long, and dark night, or perhaps because of it, winter solstice was
a feast without bonds on revelries of any kind in Plenmont. Drink flowed as freely as it could, games
of all sorts took place, and many children would be born nine months hence.
The mood was likewise inside the palace on solstice night, although the entertainment took other
forms. Food from every corner of Adalmearc and beyond was served, allowing the members of court
to gorge themselves. The meat of bears stuffed with exotic fruit and sweetened by honey, vegetables
both common and unusual, wine and ale and mead in cups and as ingredients for dishes; there seemed
to be no end to this display of gluttony.
When the meal was finally done, a choir of geolrobes entered. For a moment, this made the
gathering more sombre, though it lasted a short while due to the amount of drink consumed already. A
deep hum began to sound from the priests, using their voices as instruments, and only as it grew
louder did the revellers grow quiet.
“Hear now all with heart to understand,” came the song, “the tale of boldest man to breathe.”
Other voices joined in. “Hear what by his hand alone was wrought.”
“Great deed begets but honour great,” the full choir sang, “and makes name immortal.”
Soon, the audience listened in rapture to the Song of Sigvard.
Many eyes turned towards King Adelard as the song began; along with his mother, he was the only
descendant of Sigvard in the realm. The performance was in homage to him and a recent tradition at
the court of Plenmont; Sigrid had brought it with her from Middanhal, introducing it the year that her
son had been born.
“Sigvard, bold and brave was born in days,” the song flowed, “when oft the crows would feed in
full.”
“A magnificent performance,” Isabel whispered by the king’s side. “Truly befitting the honour
worthy of Sigvard’s blood.”
“I can only agree,” Adelard replied graciously.
“I merely regret the surroundings,” Isabel added, almost as an afterthought.
“You do not think my palace worthy?” the king questioned with sudden displeasure.
“War, the first and greatest of its kind –”
“I meant no such things,” she quickly said. “I was merely thinking of past winters spent in
Middanhal, hearing this very song performed before the high king. For a moment, I imagined Your
Majesty seated upon the Dragon Throne. Forgive my ill choice of words.”
“All is forgiven,” Adelard declared magnanimously, frowning his brow in thought.

33
 “I suppose that Hardling boy is given such honour tonight,” Isabel continued, looking ahead at the
choir while speaking. “A pity, since he seems hardly worthy the title of king, let alone to take
Sigvard’s place.”
“A pity,” Adelard mumbled.
“– with harvest to wither.”
~~~~
While Sigvard climbed Wyrmpeak in the song, there was hectic movements going on outside the hall.
The Harps of Egnil were preparing their act, dressed in colourful costumes and masks, while their
helpers were hauling in great tapestries and assembling wooden constructions. The servants were
crowding nearby to catch any glimpse they could, which caused some obstruction and a good deal of
curses to be uttered.
As the Great War ended, the last notes of the song hung in the air momentarily. There was no
applause, for the Song of Sigvard was not that kind of spectacle; instead, the geolrobes marched out in
silence. It lasted briefly before the leader of the actors burst into the hall, occupying the empty space
vacated by the priests.
“Gracious king, good noblemen, gentle ladies,” Alain spoke with numerous gestures, “we are on
the eve of the longest night.” Behind him, the workmen set up the tapestries as screens, unfolding
them to reveal the setting of a tranquil forest painted upon them. “As all learned people are aware,
tonight is when spirits roam the lands, eerie sights can be seen, and the veil between the waking world
and the dream is thin.”
He had the attention of all, except the seneschal whispering in the queen mother’s ear. “She is
planting the idea in the king’s head.”
Sigrid nodded. “Very well. We will have to separate them soon, but let her do our work for
tonight.”
“It is on this night that our lands are visited by fae beings,” Alain continued. “Elven spectres and
sprites, and all manners of creatures that dwell in the air. Whereas they roam only field and forest on
other occasions, tonight they are emboldened to enter the homes of decent folk in search of mischief.”
Behind him, the forest had been set up and the stage was ready. Several of the actors were moving
about in front of the painted trees, dressed in odd clothes with bright colours, laughing silently and
making toasts without words.
“Tonight, it is our pleasure to show your noble eyes this mischief played upon mortal Men,” Alain
spoke again, “and more than that, we invite you to partake!” This sent waves of whispers through the
audience, wondering what was meant. “Our tale begins as the sun has set and the longest night begun,
in the deep forests of Florentia, where the Elven king holds court.” A gilded throne appeared between
the trees, pushed forward by some clever contraption. “Yet where is the faery majesty?” Alain asked;
the throne was empty. The actor turned towards the high table, approaching it until he bowed deeply
before the king of Korndale. “There is but one with the august presence to play this role. I beseech His
Majesty to take his rightful place.”
With a flattered expression, Adelard rose from his seat and walked onto the area turned into a
stage. Immediately, he was surrounded by a few dainty women, dressed as dryads, who covered him
in flowing robes and put a mask upon him.
The play could now take its beginning. Alain set the stage as the storyteller, extolling the virtues
and splendour of the Elven king, who was brought to life by Adelard. With each gesture made by the
king to accompany the speech from Alain, the court responded with appropriate mirth. Even the

34
Hæthian exiles, unused to such spectacle, soon found themselves engrossed. Sigrid alone, the queen
mother, was not caught up by the story unfolding; pensively, she studied her son instead.
~~~~
The play continued with this novelty of involving the audience. Never before had a performance in
Korndale made use of spectators to fill its roles, and the king was only the first. An Elven queen, a
paragon of grace and beauty, was needed as well, and Isabel was chosen for this; like the king, she
was swiftly dressed in robes that easily fitted onto her existing attire and placed upon a throne amidst
great cheer and laughter. As for Isabel, none present seemed more agreeable or swift to smile.
Other members of the court were given various roles as the story progressed and demanded it.
More sprites to fill the Elven court, mostly, and other such flattering positions. The actors retained the
parts of the villains, who were savage warriors, mortal Men confounded by the Elven mysteries
surrounding them. When confronted with wonder, these brutes reacted with fear; they saw threats
where none existed and rattled their swords a great deal to the amusement of the audience.
“What a spectacle!” Theodora exclaimed. Her companions agreed, most of them as enraptured as
her; even Leander had let go of his wine cup. They had rarely seen such before, as plays and actors
were scarce in Hæthiod. The heathmen did not put on performances themselves, and travelling troupes
rarely ventured east beyond Korndale or Adalrik. “We must invite this merry band to perform for us in
Tothmor,” the queen declared.
The mood grew sober for a moment at the reminder of their lost homeland. “Quite right, my dear,”
Beatrice spoke. “We have not had such amusement since before you were born, I dare say.”
“With good reason,” Irene spoke with a slight sneer. She was one of the few not in the throes of
laughter.
“Is anyone surprised that she would be the one to object,” Leander asked without seeking an
answer.
“These actors are rivermen and clearly in the service of such,” Irene continued, throwing a sharp
glance at Leander. “Notice the names of the Elven court are names from Ealond,” she pointed out.
“Whereas the brutish savage has a Dalish name. Does his ragged costume not suggest a certain
plumage, only blue and red in colour? Like the feathers of a bird?”
“An eagle,” Theodora realised. “The prince of Aquila.”
“This piper may be paid by the king of Korndale, but the tune was written by the duke of Belvoir,”
Irene finished.
“Be that as it may,” Hubert interjected with his eyes locked on the performance, “I have never
been so entertained before in my life.” To this, Leander raised his cup in salute.
On the stage, the play was reaching its end. “By the grace of the gods, whose light shine in the
visage of our noble sovereign,” Alain declared while gesturing towards Adelard, still wearing his
guise as the Elven king and basking in the flattery, “we arrive at the conclusion of our tale. Let it serve
as a lesson to all, whose minds are clouded by the fog known as fear. Only the illuminating rays of a
wise monarch may pierce the mist surrounding lesser minds to dispel cowardice masquerading as
bravado. Indeed, thus may we all remove our masks,” he ended, removing his own object of disguise.
The other actors, both those professional and those improvised, did likewise, while the remaining
audience cheered and applauded loudly.
The stage was quickly disassembled while those involved returned to their seats; the king gallantly
offered his arm to Isabel, his companion both at the table and during the play. They were quickly
engaged in mirthful conversation, as were most of those present in the hall. The king’s mother was an

35
exception; she had watched her son’s involvement with and reaction to the play with a contemplative
gaze.
“That was quite a funny play,” one of the servants remarked to another, “even if they never played
the harp once.”
~~~~
Once the stage had been dismantled, the vacant space was left empty for the final piece of the
evening’s festivities. Musicians with lutes and flutes, but no harps, took position, as did the courtiers
on the open floor. It was time for the chain dance to begin. Once the dancers were in place, the
musicians started playing their instruments, and one of them began the song.
“A boy who came from where the river flowed through vale,”
“Now sing till sea shall cover hill,” the dancers sang in unison.
“With cheeks so red and legs so strong, his body hale,” came the next line.
“Now sing till sea shall cover hill!”
“The maiden fair he came to court with flowers full,” the troubadour continued, “while bearing
many gifts and cloth of finest wool.”
“While land is dry, the song shall sound, if but a sigh to tallest mound,” the revellers exclaimed.
Most of the court was walking the steps of the dance; only the eldest with the excuse of old legs
remained sitting. Although Irene stood up, it was not to join in; instead, she walked up the high table
to reach the king’s mother. “May I be seated?” she asked.
Sigrid glanced in her direction and gave a brief nod. “You may,” she granted, and the other woman
sat down next to her.
“How pleasant to experience winter solstice at your court,” Irene began to speak while a servant
fetched her cup of wine. “I did not expect to hear the Song of Sigvard. In Middanhal, certainly, but not
in Plenmont.”
“The dragonborn are found elsewhere than Middanhal,” Sigrid remarked curtly.
“Indeed, there is yourself,” Irene assented.
“And my son,” the queen mother replied with an edge to her words, her eyes on Adelard.
“Is he counted as such? From what I recall, the drakonians only care if the lineage passes from
father to son. The Adalthing does not recognise Sigvard’s blood born of the mother,” the Hæthian
dowager queen carefully spoke.
“Blood is blood,” Sigrid spoke sharply. She turned to look at her companion again, and this time,
her gaze lingered. “You are not known for idle talk or the desire to exchange pleasantries. I care as
little for dancing with words as I on the floor,” she added while throwing her head towards those
dancing, “so speak.”
“It will be years until the Hardling boy is crowned king of Adalrik,” Irene began her explanation.
“If you want to strengthen your son’s claim, you need two things.”
“They are?”
“Legitimacy to make the lords of Adalrik bow willingly, and military might to make them bow by
force if necessary,” Irene argued.
“You happen to have both in your pocket, I am sure,” Sigrid spoke with disdain.
“I know how to procure both,” Irene claimed.
“Your price for this?”
“None. Our goals will align. I require nothing from you,” she smiled.
“Continue,” Sigrid commanded.

36
 “Your son is unmarried. There is one woman with blood as noble as his. A union with her and
children born of that union will make the Adalthing far more amenable towards King Adelard.”
“You speak of the Hardling girl,” Sigrid said dismissively. “I already considered as such, but tying
my son to House Hardling will only cause complications.”
“Not Hardling,” Irene corrected her with satisfaction. “There is a young woman in House Arnling
as well, rumoured to be quite the beauty, even.”
“Arnling,” Sigrid muttered. “I forgot about them. They were always so insignificant when I lived
at my father’s court.”
“Not anymore. You must have heard the tales, surely, of the young knight who led the armies of
the Order to defeat the traitors of Isarn?”
“I would hardly call Richard of Alwood young,” Sigrid scoffed. “Are you speaking of the other,
his lieutenant –” Abruptly, she stopped speaking for a moment. “Adalbrand. Of course, it was in his
name all along.”
“Trained under the old wolf, Athelstan, I am told,” Irene told her, “before beating him on the
battlefield. They say that as a commander, young Adalbrand is unmatched by any in the Seven
Realms.”
“An alliance with Arnling would net us the girl and her claim along with a commander to lead his
armies,” Sigrid described. “I see your point. I fail to see your interest in this.”
“Young Adalbrand is not free to do as he pleases. He is on assignment from the Order that might
tie him down for years, or worse, lead to defeat. He would surely be grateful towards any that brought
him aid and allowed him to complete his mission,” Irene argued. “His reputation is enhanced by
victory, which he would owe to your son.”
“What assignment is this?” Sigrid asked, frowning.
“He leads the Order army on its campaign to liberate Hæthiod,” Irene smiled.
“I see,” was Sigrid’s only reply.
“Thank you for indulging my idle talk,” Irene replied, returning to her own seat. Once back, she
snapped her fingers a few times until her cup of wine was returned to her, allowing her to take a deep
draught.
At length, the music ended, the dance was done, and winter solstice had been celebrated. It was
late with sunrise only few hours away as the courtiers stumbled towards their chambers. A handful of
servants lingered to remove the food and drink, saving it from spoil and helping themselves to some of
it. The longest night of the year was done; now the days would grow in hours, and the Seven Realms
had brighter times ahead.

37
 5. The Words of a King
Plenmont
After the long night, nearly all in the palace at Plenmont slept past dawn, excluding the servants.
Today, the king would summon his advisors to counsel him concerning Hæthiod, though it was clear
from the king’s deep slumber that the council would not be held any time soon. In contrast to her son,
Sigrid had woken not long after sunrise, forcing her handmaidens to do as well. Once she was suitably
attired, she dismissed her attendants and waited in solitude in her room, drinking only a little wine and
eating a few white cakes as her breakfast.
There was a knock on the door, and the actor Alain entered. He walked with his usual confidence,
though his pace was slower than usual. Spotting Sigrid, he made a deep bow as refined as any
courtier. “My lady,” he greeted her, to which she replied with a nod.
“You are no doubt wondering why I have summoned you,” Sigrid declared.
“I am happy to serve,” Alain simply told her with a charming smile.
Sigrid cast him a scrutinising look. “You hide the fact that you are nervous very well. Must be the
actor in you.”
“My lady,” Alain replied, “what in my appearance would ever give you cause to believe I am
nervous?”
“Nothing,” Sigrid admitted with a sardonic smile, “but all men are nervous when summoned by
me. Even my son.” Alain’s lips parted, but no reply passed through them, and after a moment of
silence, Sigrid continued. “You need not be worried on this morning. I require your assistance.”
Alain seemed to regain his footing, and he inclined his head with a slight flourish. “As said, happy
to serve the queen mother.”
“I need your skills as an orator,” Sigrid elaborated. “I need a speech to convince a king.”
~~~~
Around noon, the alderman of Plenmont was preparing to leave for the king’s council. He was dressed
in his finest garbs, fur-lined and with the golden chain of his office around his waist. A servant entered
just as another was placing the alderman’s yellow-coloured cape on its owner. “There is a royal
carriage from the palace for you, master,” the servant explained.
“Very well,” Fabian nodded. “Tell the driver I will be out in a moment.” While the servant left to
do this, Fabian collected some papers from his desk, each filled with rows of numbers. Emptying a
small cup of wine, the alderman glanced around and walked outside.
He gave a brief nod to the driver of the carriage, who opened the door for him. Stepping inside,
Fabian saw that the interior was already occupied. A young woman, whose appearance signalled
nobility of the highest rank, awaited him. This left him in an awkward position, stooping inside the
carriage; he was unable to bow properly, yet courtesy also prevented him from sitting down.
“Please, alderman, be seated,” Theodora said graciously.

38
 “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Fabian replied, inclining his head and taking position opposite her.
Outside, the driver set the carriage into motion.
“You know who I am,” she remarked.
“Although the palace is not my usual haunt, Your Majesty would be recognisable to anybody who
has seen you but once,” he told her, which made her smile.
“I see that words as well as numbers are your strength.” Theodora cast a look outside their carriage
as she spoke, where the city of Plenmont passed them by. Moving from the merchants’ quarters to the
royal residence meant they drove past one palace after another. In the horizon, the domes of temples
and palaces lay scattered with gold and silver reflecting the weak sun. On the streets walked many
citizens with the wealth to wear clothes of vivid colours. Even servants, if their masters were counted
among the affluent merchants of the city, often wore splendid garbs. All in all, the city was a
marvellous spectacle of colours, even in pale winter.
“May I ask what has brought Your Majesty to grace me with her company?”
“I wished to speak with you in private before the king’s council was held. But you could no doubt
guess as much,” Theodora declared.
“It was the most obvious answer,” Fabian admitted.
“You can also guess what my intentions with this meeting are, perhaps,” Theodora suggested.
“You wish for me to counsel the king in support of military intervention in Hæthiod,” the
alderman lay out.
“The guilds are well served by you, alderman,” the queen flattered him.
Now it was his turn to glance out of the window onto the streets; the royal insignia on the carriage
meant that none dared to slow their progress or hinder it in any way. “I must advise the king to do
what is best for Korndale. From the perspective of the guilds.”
“I understand,” Theodora nodded. “That is why I bring you an offer. To change that perspective.”
“What offer?”
“Once this war has ended, trade needs to resume, including new commissions on salt trade.”
“Sold primarily to Hæthian merchants,” Fabian remarked, “and only at a steep price to dalemen.”
“Not if the dalemen march to war in Hæthiod,” Theodora promised. “Half the commissions will be
sold to Dalish traders, at the same price as what any Hæthian trader must pay.”
Fabian hesitated. “I have your word as queen?”
“In writing,” Theodora added, pulling out a small letter and unfolding it. It bore the seal of
Hæthiod. She handed it to the alderman to read. “If Korndale comes to Hæthiod’s aid, my written
promise to the guilds of Korndale takes effect.”
Fabian’s eyes ran over the document before he folded it and put it with his other papers. “Thank
you, Your Majesty. I will keep this in mind.”
Shortly after, the carriage reached the palace in Plenmont, issuing its passengers.
~~~~
The alderman was the first of the advisors to arrive at the council; a servant for pouring wine and also
the seneschal Aurelius were already present. He took a seat, placing his papers on the table and sorting
through them while waiting. The marshal of the Order came as the second; he greeted Fabian with a
gruff sound and sat as well. Flavius, the prince of Aquila came third, sitting down next to the marshal;
they exchanged a few glances and hushed sentences. Sigrid was next to arrive, prompting all the
others to rise as she entered. They had only just sat down when the king finally graced them with his
presence, making all of them stand up yet again.

39
 “Let us proceed,” Adelard declared impatiently, holding out his cup to have it filled. “What are we
discussing today?”
“Whether to send our armies into Hæthiod in support of the Order, Your Majesty,” Aurelius
helpfully explained to the king, who gave a slight groan and began to massage one of his temples.
“Your Majesty,” the prince of Aquila began, scratching the impressive scar on his face. “In these
uncertain times, we must look to our own defences first. The outlanders might march on Florentia
next, Adalrik is engulfed in war and cannot be relied upon, and the rivermen are ever eyeing Tricaster
with a lustful gaze.”
“Surely they would not dare,” Sigrid interjected. “There has been peace for decades, and Korndale
is strong. Those cowards only attack if they smell weakness.”
“Precisely why we must keep our troops at home,” Aquila countered. “Sir Ferdinand agrees with
me, I am sure.”
The marshal cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable as all eyes fell on him. “Prince
Flavius speaks the truth. The soldiers of Order are meant to keep the peace, and they can only do so
while remaining in Tricaster – Korndale,” he finished haltingly.
“As marshal, as a knight, you feel no obligation to aid your brothers fighting in Hæthiod?” the
king’s mother asked acerbically.
“I am certain they are up to the task,” Ferdinand answered, though his voice conveyed little
certainty if any.
“Until commanded by a higher authority, the marshal is simply doing as he was charged,” Flavius
spoke brusquely. “Protecting Korndale and its borders from being violated.”
“Neither of you were present at our feast last night,” Sigrid suddenly exclaimed, changing tune.
“You did not hear the Song of Sigvard being sung. Yet you are familiar with my son’s illustrious
ancestor, no doubt.” The last sentence was directed at no one in particular.
“What are you saying, Mother?” Adelard asked, though he did not sound particularly interested in
the answer.
“Would they sing songs of Sigvard a thousand years later if he had stayed behind? If he had been
deaf when the call to arms was sounded?” she asked sharply, rising to her feet. “One man, alone, he
braved the enemy beyond our borders, defying death and danger! For his valour, the people bowed to
him from every corner of the world, and still they bow to his descendants!”
“My lady, this is no song or a play in a stage house –” Flavius’ objection was not allowed to reach
conclusion.
“Is there any king or man more worthy to be the saviour of the realms than you, my son? You, the
dragonborn king, in whose veins the blessed blood of Sigvard flows!” Sigrid continued.
“Dragonborn king,” Adelard repeated, his voice acquiring a dreaming undertone.
“One day, the song at solstice will begin with words such as these,” his mother carried on. “When
all the lands beset by foes, when hope was lost and wept in night, with every realm in deadly throes,
one king alone was shining light, burning bright in all his might.”
Silence followed Sigrid’s declaration, which was the only reason why Fabian’s quiet words could
be heard by any. “My lady, I never knew you were a poet.”
“War requires more than willing hearts,” Flavius pointed out with a sour expression. “It requires
men, weapons, and provisions. With all the disruptions in trade, we are sorely lacking, not to mention
that the heavy expenses that our cities must bear for such a campaign might leave us in ruinous
conditions. Is that not true, master alderman?”

40
 Eyes turned towards Fabian. He spoke slowly, but with deliberate, careful words. “The guilds will
do what the realm demands. The Realms of Adalmearc depend on each other. As they have need of us
in Hæthiod, so have we need of them in Korndale.”
“You put the matter into words with excellence,” Sigrid exclaimed satisfied.
“Or his tongue is simply moved by greed,” Flavius all but roared. “That is what matters to these
coin counters, stacking every petty they can find! I do not know what wealth you think awaits –”
“Prince Flavius,” Adelard spoke with unusual determination; the king’s voice silenced his vassal.
“Your opinion is known. Sir Ferdinand, if I commanded the armies of Korndale to march abroad,
could I safely entrust the defence of the realm to you meanwhile?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” the marshal replied quickly before receiving a harsh glance from
Flavius. “I mean, not that I advise you to. March your armies abroad, that is,” he stammered. “You
can certainly rely on me,” he finally said, before any remaining words turned to mumble in his mouth.
“Prince Flavius,” Adelard said mildly, turning to look at the lord of Aquila. “I place military
command in your experienced hands. We will gather the forces of the three principalities, and you
shall lead them to Hæthiod to liberate the realm in my name.”
“As you command,” Aquila replied with bitterness inscribed on his features.
“Glad that is settled. I am hungry,” the king declared. “Aurelius, have something brought to me,”
he ordered before he left the chamber. The others present hurried to rise as the king did and left after
him, each wearing a different expression.
~~~~
The news quickly spread through the palace, including to the Hæthian exiles.
“Finally,” Theodora sighed. “Maybe this nightmare will reach its end soon.”
“All our nightmares,” Leander muttered.
“I wonder what swayed the king,” Hubert contemplated. “It is hard to imagine what reasons would
weigh so heavily to persuade him.”
“Hard for you to imagine,” Irene said with a slight sneer, but even her voice had little edge to it in
this moment. “What matters is that he was swayed. Next solstice we may celebrate in our own home.”
“As long as we celebrate in different ends of the palace,” Leander added, though his scornful
remark seemed made out of habit rather than genuine disdain.
“Poor Isabel,” Beatrice spoke. “All she had was revenge, and now it seems she has been robbed of
that as well.”
“Her scheme was hare-brained,” Irene scoffed. “As if the king of Korndale would enter war with
Adalrik, even under present circumstances. The jarls would tear him to pieces.”
“Poor Isabel,” Beatrice reiterated. She was alone in her sentiments; the remainder of the company
were gripped by feelings of exuberance alone.
~~~~
Later that day, after having procured a meal for the king and seen to his many other needs and wants,
the seneschal met privately with the queen mother in her chambers.
“Have the king isolated from the lady Isabel,” Sigrid told Aurelius. “There is no need to let her
gain any further influence over him.”
“As you say, my lady,” the seneschal bowed. He hesitated for a moment. “I was surprised by the
council held today.”
“There was always great risk waiting for us in Adalrik,” the queen mother admitted. “How would
the Order react, the southern jarls, the northern jarls? A better opportunity presented itself.”

41
 “You would know best, my lady.”
“Another thing before you go,” Sigrid suddenly continued. “One of the travelling actors is a spy.
Have them all thrown in the dungeons until we can sort out who it is.”
“Yes, my lady.”
~~~~
Although the decision to mount a campaign into Hæthiod would carry many consequences, barely any
activity ensued in the following days. The year was still deep in winter, and little would be done
before spring approached other than couriers sent to the other major cities of Korndale, Tricaster and
Florentia, instructing them to prepare for war. The Order had many posts along the roads of
Adalmearc, allowing their missives to be swiftly carried to their destination, and at times personal
letters from military camps were also transported by their couriers.
It was through this that a message from the Order encampment in Hæthiod, near the border to
Ingmond, travelled to the keep in Plenmont. From here, it continued to the palace and found its way
into Leander’s hands. The king opened the letter eagerly and read its contents; his eyes widened, and
he turned quickly towards his wife.
“Read this,” he urged her, shaking the paper at her.
“A letter from Troy?” she enquired with a frown, taking it from him.
“Read it,” he reiterated.
As her eyes skimmed down the page, she suddenly threw her head up to look at her husband. “Can
this be true? What does this mean?”
“I am not sure,” Leander admitted, “but I cannot wait to hear Troy explain.” A grin began to
spread across his face.

42
 6. Walking in Shadows
Tothmor
Under the shadow of the mountain, the long nights held Tothmor in their grasp. After last bell had
rung, the streets were all but deserted; the outlanders had forbidden the inhabitants from leaving their
homes after dark. Thus the only movement outside came from the patrols of the red-robed Anausa,
keeping watch on each of the districts. Most patrols were made in the lowest circle, as it was the
largest and most populated. Across the district, the outlanders had seized the larger buildings, evicted
the residents, and turned the places into guard stations. Several times an hour, each of these bastions
of subjugation spewed forth ten red-clad soldiers, moving through the fifth circle.
Although it had been months since Tothmor was seized by the outlanders, they had not managed
to strangle the city entirely. A man in ragged clothes walked along the edge of the street, sneaking his
way forward. It was a cloudy night, which aided him until the moon suddenly found an opportunity to
shine its light down. As fortune would have it, a patrol was on the same street, and their vigilance
found the ragged man. They yelled in their own tongue and sat into motion, running forward. He
shouted back in his own speech and bolted; while it was doubtful that either part understood what the
other had said, intentions were clear.
The fugitive crossed into the winding alleys, away from the larger streets; although encumbered by
spears and small shields, the outlanders were hot on his heels. Finally, he ducked in between two
looming buildings, still closely pursued. The path ahead was blocked by a cart, turned sideways and
taking up as much space as possible. Large crates and jars surrounded the wagon, allowing only a
small space between the wheels to remain open. The runner fell to his stomach and pushed himself
through; moments behind him, the first of the Anausa soldiers did as well.
The remaining nine warriors began looking for ways to circumvent the cart, restless from their
running and the rush of pursuing their prey. A scream reached them suddenly, coming from the other
side of the obstacle; it was their comrade who had gone through first. Gripping their shields tightly,
the outlanders glanced up at the tall buildings enveloping the alley, and the truth dawned on them.
From the rooftops, arrows began to fly, sent by powerful Hæthian longbows. The relatively light
armour worn by the Anausa did not offer full protection against such a danger, and several of them
fell before the remainder raised their shields and pressed up against the building walls.
Their heads turned towards the way they came. A shape had appeared, blocking their escape path.
Fuelled by despair, the outlanders launched themselves against the solitary warrior hemming them in.
Armed with a sword against their spears, his task was daunting, but he was aided by a large shield and
being a veteran of many fights. He was Glaukos, one of the few Queen’s Blades to have survived the
siege without fleeing the fall of the city. He made no offensive move against the outlanders, but
simply kept them at bay until one by one, the arrows caught up with them.

43
 As soon as the last man fell, Glaukos stepped forward and stabbed each of them through their
unprotected necks, ensuring none would survive his wounds. Some of his compatriots joined him,
retrieving arrows or looting the fallen for their daggers and short swords.
“Time to leave,” Glaukos told the others while glancing around; the death screams of the
outlanders had caused considerably noise in the otherwise quiet city. “Stow your weapons and get
home. We meet tomorrow in the usual place.”
The others nodded briefly, and the men scattered, leaving only the fallen behind as evidence of
what had transpired.
~~~~
Once the outlanders discovered what had happened, they quickly secured the area. All were kept away
from the bodies, and none could enter or leave the vicinity of where the ambush had taken place. Most
of the locals had no interest in approaching either: only a few street children were curious enough to
draw close before being driven away by the blunt end of the outlanders’ spears.
“All of them butchered like animals,” one of the outlanders remarked with a shiver. “Not one of
these drylanders dead.”
“Only because they took their own dead with them,” another soldier snorted. “You don’t honestly
think the dustmen could kill ten of ours and suffer no losses?”
“Quiet, you!” barked a third soldier. “Here comes the fravashi.”
Now all of the outlanders shivered. Down the street walked a solitary shape, wearing armour and
attire of a dark nature. It was a strange sight to see any of the outlanders walking alone on Tothmor;
usually they travelled in groups, and with good reason as evidenced by the latest ambush. This
particular character was given a wide berth by everyone; even daylight seemed to shy away from him.
Black cloth was wrapped around his helmet and extended down to cover his face as well, allowing
only room for his eyes; they burned yellow.
The Anausa soldiers quickly stepped aside, opening a gap in their line to let the shadow warrior
through. He did not glance or otherwise acknowledge them, but simply continued into the alley to
examine the dead.
“It feels like a spider creeping down my spine whenever they walk by,” one guard muttered.
“Be quiet,” another hissed. “Don’t you know they hear every word spoken?”
“Spiders, I tell you,” the first one mumbled.
Inside the alley, the shadow warrior bent down to inspect the wounds on each of the dead. He
compared where each of them had died, including the first of the soldiers who had climbed under the
cart and been killed on the other side. Finally, he also checked the condition of any weapons left
behind.
It did not take long before he was satisfied, and without a word, he left again. Some of the Anausa
watched with trepidation as he walked down the street, while others did not dare to even look at his
back.
“Enough standing around,” yelled the senior guardsman brusquely. “Clean up this mess!” With
some grumbling, the soldiers began the instructed work.
~~~~
There was unusual activity in the third district as well. Outside the temple dedicated to Disfara, a pile
of broken furniture was growing. The temples had been shut down and their residents imprisoned after
the siege, but for the first few months, nothing further had happened. That changed with the arrival of
the woman who now emerged from inside the temple. In her hands, she held the sacred statue of

44
Disfara that had adorned the altar; with a powerful throw, she threw it onto the pile, smashing it into
pieces.
Red-clad soldiers were assisting her, throwing away tapestries and anything else that could be
interpreted as having religious value. When this task was done, the woman took a torch from one of
her companions. Her dress was red much like their clothing, but of a far brighter hue, and its colour
changed up the hem subtly, giving the impression of a living fire whenever she moved. It possessed
no power to burn, however; only the torch in her hand did, which she cast onto the pile, setting it
ablaze.
She gazed upon the flames with a smile, as they ate their way through everything that had once
been holy in the house of Disfara. The soldiers watched with disinterest, though they suddenly
straightened up with nervous expressions. A shape stalked past them; his attention towards the guards
was the inverse of theirs towards him.
The flame-robed woman was too captivated by the dance of the fire to notice the shadow warrior
until he spoke. “Mistress Daena.”
“Yes? What did you learn?” She did not turn her head to look at him.
“They were killed by arrows. Their weapons were clean. It was a slaughter.”
“The situation is dire. These people should be in awe of our lord, yet they dare murder his soldiers
with impunity.” The more she spoke, the more she became incensed; contrary to this, the shadow
warrior seemed entirely placid and did not respond. “The name of the Godking must be on every
tongue. Every knee must bend. Blood must flow. Blood must flow,” she repeated and turned around to
stalk back into the temple.
Inside the stripped hall, only the naked altar stone remained. Two soldiers were also present,
holding a blue-robed priestess between them. Besides their rough grip on her shoulders, her legs were
bound, and her hands were tied behind her back. Daena nodded to the soldiers, who placed the silrobe
so that her head rested upon the altar stone; after that, they let go and retreated several steps. Before
the prisoner could make any movements, Daena took position above her, taking hold of her hair to
force her head up and expose the throat. Pulling out a dagger, the fire-clad woman cut the prisoner’s
throat, spilling her blood over the altar stone.
It flowed quickly at first, darkening the white slab and spraying onto Daena as well, who did not
seem bothered. She gestured for the soldiers present to assist her. One brought her a small bowl, with
which she trapped some of the blood. Two others placed a statue chiselled from the finest marble onto
the crimson altar. It depicted a king in the greatest splendour; eyes without irises sat underneath a
mask of eerie beauty wearing a heavy crown.
“Awake, my lord, my king, my god,” Daena whispered as she slowly began to pour the blood from
the bowl over the statue, dying it dark red. “Let end the endless sleep, arise from your throne. Let the
mountains part asunder that your magnificence may issue forth.” She paused as the final trickle of
blood fell. It landed upon the crown and found a way down the cheek of the statue, finally dripping
onto its feet. “All for the Godking.”
Around her, the soldiers repeated with varying fervour, “All for the Godking!”
From the entrance of the temple, the shadow warrior watched with eyes devoid of expression.
~~~~
The highest circle of the city had seen the most changes. The Order keep was filled to the brim with
Anausa soldiers, and their different banners flew from its towers. One was a black, armoured fist on
red, while the other was a red-golden fire on black. As for the palace, nearly all its inhabitants had
been removed, except for some of the servants and a few unlucky people whom the outlanders had

45
thrown into the dungeons. The new lord of Tothmor had taken up residence in some of the vacated
quarters, using them to run affairs in the occupied city.
The council chamber, where Theodora and Leander had once anxiously waited while the
whiterobes were being arrested, had been turned into an office. Philon, the steward of the palace, was
one of those allowed to remain that he might assist the man sitting behind the table.
Rostam had commanded the Zhayedan cavalry during the battle of Sikyon, and with the conquest
of Hæthiod completed, the charge of subjugating Tothmor had been placed in his hands. Tall and with
the obvious signs of an experienced warrior upon him, he seemed ill at ease in his administrative role.
Behind him, barely noticeable at first, stood a shadow warrior. He did not move or seem to need
anything, standing so still that he resembled a statue. The cloth around his head was wrapped in a
mask, hiding all but his eyes.
“My lord, the family of Count Lykia requests an audience. Again,” the steward said.
“Denied,” Rostam muttered, using Mearcspeech; though he had a clear accent, he spoke it
otherwise flawlessly. “Tell them not to expect the count released until he agrees to cooperate.”
“Very well, my lord,” Philon replied, almost restraining a sigh. He glanced nervously at the
shadow warrior, who did not seem to take notice. “The latest inspection of the reservoirs is complete.
Here is the list.” He handed a small book to the outlander, opened in the middle where numbers had
last been added to a page. Rostam did not reply, but simply frowned as he inspected the list.
“Jenaab,” a voice called out; it was one of the guards posted by the door. “The priestess –”
There was not time to finish the sentence before Daena strode through the doors, accompanied by
her own shadow warrior. “Rostam,” she spoke curtly with little courtesy.
“Mistress Daena,” the commander replied, unable to hide the strain in his voice. “For what reason
do you grace me with your presence?”
“Ten of your soldiers were butchered last night,” the flame-robed priestess pointed out. “What are
you doing about it?”
“I have doubled the size of the patrols,” Rostam explained. “My men will not have time for
anything other than patrols or sleep, but it is preferable to death.”
“That is all?” Daena exclaimed incredulously. “You will not punish the city for its insolence
against the soldiers of our lord?”
“As soon as the rebels are found, they will be dealt with,” Rostam declared.
“These filthy heathens spit in the very face of the Godking,” she claimed.
“As soon as the guilty are found, they will be executed. I cannot punish the entire city,” Rostam
argued.
“Perhaps you cannot,” Daena retorted, “but I have been given a holy charge of converting these
blasphemers and disbelievers by any means necessary.”
“You will find none of them here,” Rostam said sternly, “so I suggest you return to the lower
circles, where your work lies.”
“Trust me, I shall,” the priestess promised with narrowed eyes. Abruptly, she turned on her heel
and marched out, followed by her shadow warrior.
From the corner of the room, Philon emerged; he had not been able to follow the conversation, as
it took place in the outlander speech. “Shall we continue, my lord?” he asked meekly.
Rostam gave a barely audible sigh and gestured for Philon to bring the next item to his attention.
~~~~
Late in the day following the nightly ambush, there was sudden commotion in the fifth circle. Anausa
soldiers were kicking doors in and dragging people out. They were directed by a few blackboots, who

46
pointed out houses and gave them descriptions; all was supervised by the priestess Daena,
accompanied by her usual shadow.
Most of the people seized were men of various ages; the youngest would be around fourteen. A
few women were grabbed as well until the number reached twenty. Twice as many as the number of
slain guards. Satisfied with this first step, Daena nodded to the shadow warrior by her side, who
unsheathed his sword.
Two soldiers held the condemned wretch still, placing his or her head against a barrel. With a hefty
swing, the shadow warrior swung his sword. It took him several blows to sever the head each time,
but he did not seem to grow tired. His face was hidden, but his eyes seemed full of life as he hacked
away savagely.
Outbursts and cries of indignation were heard, but none dared interfere or even approach the
outlanders. One after the other, twenty people were decapitated. The blood flowed eagerly to cover the
dry, cobbled streets, which could not absorb the red liquid; it lay like rain puddles up and down the
road.
The headless bodies were removed by the Anausa soldiers, while the blackboots gathered the
heads. Soon after, they adorned the top of the gate between the fifth and the fourth district with their
dead eyes gazing upon any who passed near.
~~~~
A few hours before nightfall, a group of men were gathered in one of the many taverns of the lowest
circle. Although drinking plenty of the local ale, there was little mirth in their conversation; their
spirits were subdued, and they spoke with caution. This described nearly every gathering taking place
in Tothmor since the beginning of the occupation, however; nothing about their behaviour, or their
garments and appearance for that matter, seemed out of the ordinary.
“Did anyone have trouble getting away?” Glaukos asked quietly. The rest of the men shook their
heads. “Good. I have another strike in mind.”
“Is it really worth the risk?” complained another. “We killed ten of them, but you said they have at
least four thousand men in the city.”
“It’s a start, Andreas,” interjected a third man cheerfully. “We keep killing ten every night, and we
will be done after –” he paused, his head wrinkled in thought.
“Four hundred,” Glaukos said mildly.
“After four hundred nights,” he finished his sentence. “We can manage that, as long as they keep
falling in our traps.”
“They won’t,” Andreas claimed gloomily. “I just saw another patrol on the way here. They were
twenty instead of ten. You can bet they’ll take other precautions too.”
“He’s right,” someone declared. “We won’t lure twenty men as easily as we did ten.”
“Which is why we will change strategy,” Glaukos informed the others.
“About that,” the cheerful man spoke, his cheer now gone. “I talked to my cousin. The salt-lickers
are worried about water, it’s true. They keep taking measure of the reservoirs. But they are guarded
more jealously than a peddler’s pepper. My cousin said he saw soldiers everywhere, and we can’t
storm the place. They’ll butcher us.”
Several others gave their assent, murmuring their refusal, and Glaukos was quick to silence them.
“Quiet. I do not plan for us to attack the reservoirs either.”
“Best we don’t,” another agreed. “It’ll only be our own people that grow thirsty as well. We need
water as much as them.”

47
 “War demands sacrifice of us all,” the brusque Blade remarked. “At any rate, I have a target for us.
Philemon, you alone bring your bow tonight. Nikolaos, bring a lamp filled with oil. The rest of you
will serve as lookouts only, so let your weapons stay in their hiding places. We meet at the usual place
before heading out,” he commanded, and none objected this time.
“It’s not long till sunset,” Philemon remarked. Soon, the ban on being outside after nightfall would
take effect.
“Get home. We meet when the moon passes over the mountain,” Glaukos instructed the others.
They all threw some copper petties onto the table for Guy, the tavern owner, to collect before they
dispersed out onto the street.
~~~~
It was another cloudy night, which helped to conceal the gathering of five men in the lowest district.
“Did you see the gate?” one hissed. “Twenty heads!”
“They’re savages, what could we expect,” Andreas proclaimed bleakly.
“But twenty innocent people, chosen at random,” the first objected.
“I don’t think it was random,” Philemon argued. “Those accursed blackboots chose the victims.
I’ll bet your mother’s salt they chose people who spoke out against them.”
As the sixth man, Glaukos joined them. His gaze quickly swept over the others, noticing the bow
in Philemon’s hands and the lamp in Nikolaos’. In his own, he held a tinderbox. “Let us not idle.
Follow me.”
He led the group through the streets, choosing those that were smallest and darkest. On occasion,
they heard the heavy footsteps of outlander boots on patrol, but after the previous nights, the Anausa
kept to the wider streets. Because of that, the heathmen reached their destination without hindrance.
They came close to the outer walls, forcing them to step more carefully. Patrols were more
frequent here, both on the strip of open land between the fortifications and the city, but also on the
actual walls. Some of the heathmen dispersed to keep watch, while the rest helped each other scale
one of the buildings. Thanks to the haphazard way that houses were erected in the fifth district, they
had little difficulty finding footing until they reached the rooftop.
“We can only risk the one shot,” Glaukos warned Philemon.
“Then it’s good you chose me,” the latter replied with his usual cheer.
“If you miss and we went through all this for nothing, I swear, I’ll stick the next arrow up where
you salt yourself,” Nikolaos threatened him.
“I am shooting a target that doesn’t move, literally the size of a building,” Philemon brushed him
off.
“Just don’t take too long either,” Nikolaos muttered. “As soon as the fire lights up, they’ll be on
us.”
“Enough,” Glaukos uttered. He took a small piece of cloth and tied it around the shaft of the arrow
near the tip. After that, he poured the oil from Nikolaos’ lamp onto the rag and finally opened his
tinderbox. Picking up the flint, it took several strikes before the cloth ignited. Once it did, the oil
burned brightly and was clearly visible in the dark night.
Philemon pulled the bowstring back with the flaming arrow. He took aim for just a moment and
released. The arrow flew in an arc, leaving a trail of sparks behind that died quickly in the cold night
air; this changed once it reached its destination. It was a lean-to, built against the wall. These had
initially been cleared away in preparation for the siege months ago, but the outlanders had seen fit to
rebuild many of them; made from wood with thatched roof, it was an easy way to create quick storage
room for items best kept out of the rain. It was also flammable, and the fire quickly grew.

48
 This particular lean-to was being used to butcher meat and cure it. In itself, no great loss to the
outlanders. However, other improvised buildings were nearby, also made of wood. Quickly, the
guards realised the peril, and many cries of alarm were heard. Some began to tear down the
endangered shacks, but this was too slow work compared to how swiftly the fire was spreading. They
had no choice; nearby water barrels were fetched and thrown onto the burning lean-to, quelling the
fire.
The rebels had long since scattered, except for Glaukos. He waited until he saw that the outlanders
were forced to use water from their dwindling stores in order to combat the fire; with a satisfied smile,
he turned and fled from the rooftops, following his companions. In the darkness, none of them noticed
the outlander in black boots watching the scene.

49
 7. Walking in Flames
Tothmor
The dungeons underneath the Order keep in the first circle were humble in size. They were only
intended to keep the rare prisoner of political importance or those guilty of particular crimes such as
treason, and usually only for a short time; they either ended up on the executioner’s block or in the salt
mines. With the outlanders in charge, this had changed; the cells were full of not only insurrectionists,
whether confirmed or merely suspected, but above all occupied by robes of every colour. Black, red,
yellow, blue, green, and a single white. Every priest and priestess of the city the outlanders could find
had been rounded up and imprisoned. The largest number of robes were brown, as they included all
the novices from every order, the youngest being seven and the oldest fourteen.
The torture chamber had at first been in use by the blackboots, extracting information to root out
the resistance in the city. This changed with the arrival of the priestess Daena; with her helpers, she
had assumed command of the racks, and those placed upon them were not ordinary citizens or rebels,
but men and women in robes.
“They found another,” one of the tormentors informed Daena, pointing to where two blackboots
dragged in a priestess of Austre. The mistress was busy watching another of her aides turning the
mechanisms that stretched the body of the unfortunate blackrobe on the rack. “One of those wearing
green.”
“Those don’t last long,” declared the torturer turning the wheel, sounding disappointed. “Those in
white hold out longest. It’s a pity there were so few of them.”
“Remember your purpose,” the flame-robed priestess spoke sharply. “This is not for your
amusement.”
“Of course, Mistress Daena,” mumbled her helpers.
“In fact, I am dissatisfied by your efforts. Barely any of these filthy blasphemers have denounced
their false gods. I am inclined to believe you are being too gentle with them.”
“Never, Mistress Daena!” The torturers looked abhorrent. “We do our very best.”
“See that you do,” Daena told them with a harsh voice, “or you may find yourselves taking their
place if you continue to disappoint me.”
“Yes, Mistress Daena,” they said meekly.
“This one is done for now,” she declared, looking at the blackrobe, who had lost consciousness.
“Throw him back in his cell and let the woman take his place,” she told the others, who hurried to
carry out her orders.
Either because it served an unknown purpose or simply due to some penchant for arranging things
by colour, the outlanders kept the imprisoned clergy in separate cells based on the dye of their cloth.
All the blackrobes, the most numerous of the orders, were thus kept in the same place. As the guards
returned with the latest acolyte to have been tortured, they threw him into the cell with little regard,
fastened the chain around his ankle to the wall, and left again.

50
 “Brother Nikodemos,” whispered Dominic. The former court seer crawled over to where the
broken body of his brother lay, bereft of its black robe. Wearing only a ragged undershirt and pants,
nothing hid the signs of the severe mistreatment that the acolyte had suffered. He gave a groan as
Dominic took hold of him, helping him to a more comfortable position.
“Do not worry, Brother,” Nikodemos whispered hoarsely with the vaguest of smiles. “I did not
break.”
“My son, my son,” Dominic exclaimed with a thick voice, caressing the hair of his fellow
blackrobe. “What have they done to you?”
“They hurt my body,” the acolyte said with belaboured breath. “They cannot have my spirit. We
are all in Rihimil’s hands, are we not?”
“Yes, Brother,” the high priest told him. “One day, the eagle shall come for us and lead us to the
Sapphire City. The gates shall open for you, my son, and Rihimil himself will welcome you.”
“I remember as a novice, you told me this,” Nikodemos recounted with a dreaming smile upon his
bruised and battered face. “I kept your voice and words in my ear as they tried to break me, as clear as
I hear it now.”
“The streets are paved with silver,” Dominic continued, raising his voice and receiving the
attention of his remaining brethren. The last word made those who still had their robes touch the silver
dragon upon their chest. “The doors are made of gold. A seat of sapphire awaits each of the faithful.
There is no night, no travail, no suffering. Only peace.”
“Only peace,” some of the others muttered.
With some difficulty, Dominic removed his robe and used it to cover Nikodemos instead.
“Rihimil, your names are many,” he began to pray. “Ruler of heavens, we beseech you. Silver dragon,
we beseech you.” As he spoke, the other priests joined him. “Knight in black, we beseech you. Sword
of high, we beseech you.” The longer the high priest spoke, the stronger his voice became. In the
darkness of the cell, none could see his tears.
~~~~
Nearby in the council chamber, the lord of Tothmor was tending to the affairs of the city as usual. He
was not accompanied by Philon at present, but instead meeting with several blackboots. Behind him
stood as always his shadow.
“Jenaab, respectfully,” one of the blackboots said, “We are spread thin. Not only must we root out
these rebels, we must also assist the flame mistress in hunting down the worshippers of the false gods.
And in between this, several of our numbers are constantly leaving the city to scout the surroundings.”
“I will withdraw you from scouting, in that case,” Rostam declared.
“That might not be wise,” another hastily interjected.
“Yes, Kamran?” asked Rostam with raised eyebrows.
“There is still danger from the drylanders,” the blackboot replied haltingly.
“With winter approaching?” The outlander captain’s voice sounded dubious.
“They have not retreated beyond the border,” Kamran began to explain, recovering from his initial
stammer. “We will need supplies sent to us to last through winter, which will be easy targets for their
raids unless we remain vigilant.”
“That may be,” Rostam muttered, now contemplative.
“You cannot spare the Anausa to effectively patrol such vast areas,” Kamran continued, speaking
at a steadier pace. “Beyond the city, just one sāyag keeping watch is worth a hundred soldiers.”
“Enough,” the captain raised his hand. “Focus your efforts on finding the conspirators in our city.
We will resume our search for the blasphemers in the city once the rebels have been dealt with.”

51
 “That is well, Jenaab,” one of the other blackboots expressed, and they all nodded. “We will bring
the rebels to you soon.”
“See that you do,” Rostam demanded.
~~~~
The landscape surrounding Tothmor was dry heath. There were no trees or vegetation except for
heather and flowers stubborn enough to grow in such arid conditions. No hills or forests broke the
sight for many miles. The only interruption was the occasional rock formation; remnants of Mount
Tothmor that spread out like discarded leaves. The blackboots used these structures to divide the
landscape into areas for scouting.
That was not the only use the outlander scouts had for them. One of their dreaded company had
just reached one such formation, and he walked along the edge of the rock with a searching gaze. At
length, he found something that was not natural in origin. It was a series of scratches, made with a
tool. Upon closer inspection, it could be surmised that these were runes of a crude variety, the kind
that the Mearcians used as numbers.
The blackboot brushed away some brown vegetation to examine the numbers closely for a
moment. After that, he climbed onto the rocks and perched himself, keeping vigilance of the
surrounding areas.
As night fell, he abandoned his post, but only to position himself on the ground instead, leaning his
back against the rocks. With not even a cloak as shelter against the cold, he wrapped his arms around
himself and slept.
Morning came, though it brought no change other than daylight. Even the rays of the sun were
weak and without warmth. Waking up, the blackboot stretched his limbs and took a sip from his flask.
Returning to his place atop the rocks, he resumed gazing in every direction. He kept this up for several
hours.
Past noon, the outlander abandoned his purpose. Jumping down, he returned to where the runes
could be found, near the ground and almost invisible. Pulling out his dagger, the blackboot made a
few scratches at the end of the row of numbers. It was the current date in the Mearcian calendar.
Sheathing the blade again, the blackboot stood up, glanced around, and began walking back towards
Tothmor.
~~~~
A crowd had gathered in the third district, in the area between the gates. It was one of the only open
squares in Tothmor where people could assemble or, in this case, be commanded to assemble. By the
edge of the area, small fires burned outside the nearby public houses; usually it was for the sake of
allowing people warmth when drinking outside the smoky rooms of the taverns, though it served extra
purpose with crowds gathering at the square for the spectacle about to unfold. In the centre, a scaffold
had been built, though not to be used for executions. It served simply as a platform from which to
address the crowd. A ring of Anausa soldiers surrounded the scaffold, keeping people at bay.
Upon the wooden construct stood three people. One was a priestess in a green robe, shivering
either from the cold or due to her circumstances. Next to her stood a priestess in flaming garments
with a shadow warrior behind them both.
“This woman,” Daena called out in Mearcspeech, “was a blasphemer. She worshipped false gods
and led you to do the same. She and her ilk grew fat on your offerings while lying to you. Thankfully,
she has come to see the light. The light of the true god, the Godking. Speak,” she commanded,
pushing the greenrobe forward, “that these people may hear the truth.”

52
 “I am a blasphemer,” the sister of Austre stammered. “I worshipped a false god and led others to
do the same.”
“And now?”
“Now I have seen the light,” she uttered. “I have been cleansed in the blood –” Her voice faltered
at this point.
“Continue!”
“I have been cleansed in the blood of those who do evil,” she cried out, and those standing closest
could see the traces of this; dried blood stained her dirty clothing.
“What else?”
“I profess the name of the Godking as hallowed,” she shouted. “He is my lord, my king, my god. I
long for the day when he shall wake –”
Something was flung through the air, followed by several other objects. They looked like stones,
thrown at the women on the scaffold and the soldiers on the ground, until they hit their targets and
smashed into pieces. A certain smell quickly spread; the projectiles were small jars filled with lamp
oil.
From the small fires that had been burning outside the local taverns, a few men picked up burning
branches, ran forward, and hurled them through the air over the heads of the crowd.
The shadow warrior grabbed Daena around the waist, throwing himself and her backwards over
the edge of the scaffold.
One torch hit the oil-drenched clothes of the apostate greenrobe, who was quickly engulfed in
flames. Same fate happened to several of the nearest Anausa soldiers. Swiftly, screams and the stench
of burning flesh spread through the square along with ensuing panic.
~~~~
“Your concern is noted,” Rostam said with a firm voice.
“I am not concerned, I am furious,” Daena all but screamed. They were in the royal quarters,
which formerly had belonged to the queen of Hæthiod and where the captain currently resided. “They
sought to burn me alive!”
“That is what the fravashi is for,” Rostam remarked with a nod towards her silent shadow.
“An assault on me is an assault upon the Godking himself!” the priestess continued. “Do you
expect Shahriyar to accept this insult?”
“Those responsible will be caught and punished,” Rostam promised.
“Failure to repay this insult against Shahriyar means complicity,” Daena threatened. “Take care
that I do not decide your blood is needed to purify the new temples to our lord.”
“Jenaab Sikandar placed this city under my command,” Rostam defended himself. “It is not your
place to question me or his authority.”
“If I deem you are guilty of blasphemy, I need no further authority,” the priestess declared.
“Obedience to the Godking goes before all else.”
“I am loyal to the very depths of my being,” the captain claimed.
“Yet you withdrew every sāyag from my service,” Daena spat.
“In order to catch the very rebels that attacked you,” he countered.
“They will be returned to me at once,” the flame mistress demanded. “Since your methods have
failed, I will employ my own. If you hinder my efforts in any way, I will consider it an obstacle to my
holy charge of cleansing this city of blasphemy with the appropriate punishment to follow.”
A lengthy moment followed where Rostam was silent, until he lowered his gaze. “Very well.”
The priestess turned on her heel and marched out, followed by her shadow.

53
 Looking up, Rostam directed his sight at his own shadow. “It is late. I retired to this chamber in
order to sleep.”
The shadow stared at him with its black-clothed face. The yellow eyes revealed no emotions. “I
will be watching.” The words came monotonously, but they still caused an expression of unease to run
across Rostam’s face. Without further words, the shadow left the chamber, positioning himself outside
the doors.

54
 8. Final Prayer
Tothmor
The following morning, the priestess Daena marched down to the dungeons and issued several brief
commands before she disappeared again. This spurred a flurry of action from the soldiers, who
entered a cell and began dragging people out.
“What is going on?” Dominic demanded to know, getting on his feet.
“Not your concern,” one of the guards responded in heavily accented Mearcspeech, adding an
insult in the outlander tongue and pushing the priest in the chest so that he fell.
“These men are my brothers,” Dominic explained, standing up again. “If you are taking them
somewhere, take me along.”
“You don’t want to go,” the guard laughed coarsely. “Besides, we only want robes, not naked
men.”
Looking down, the high priest located his robe that was covering Nikodemos like a blanket. “Help
him,” Dominic told one of his brethren while nodding towards Nikodemos and retrieving his robe
with its unique patterns. Putting it on, the blackrobe turned towards the guard. “I am ready.”
The guard gave a shrug, unfastened Dominic’s chain from the cell, and pushed him along with the
other prisoners.
~~~~
At the gate square in the third district, a crowd was once again gathering. After yesterday’s attack,
people were not keen on this, but scores of Anausa soldiers were driving anyone on the streets in that
direction. Another group were busy erecting wooden structures, though they were not scaffolds this
time; they were pyres.
Three soldiers had died or been burned to the point where death was likely; now, six blackrobes
were being marched onto the square, and one by one, the outlanders tied them to the six pyres.
In the crowd, crying could be seen and heard. There were a few outbursts, but they were solitary
and carried little resonance. The sheer number of soldiers present lay like a suppressing fist on the
spirits of the spectators.
In front of the priests stood several of the Anausa with torches along with Daena and her shadow.
The priestess was facing the onlookers as she began to speak. “The Godking is just. He punishes those
who would lead his people astray. The sins of these blasphemers are many, and they shall be cleansed
in fire.” A few cried out in shock, but Daena continued undeterred. “For each of his children harmed,
the Godking shall exact retribution twofold. There is no escape from his blinding light except under
the shadow of his wing. If you do not wish to perish in flames, throw yourself before him and beg for
his mercy. Beg though you are undeserving,” she proclaimed, her eyes shining with purpose.
The flame-clad priestess turned to face the blackrobes, each of them bound to a pole on the pyre.
“You, preaching the names of false gods while suckling like leeches upon the people, you are guilty of

55
the greatest offence. Yet even to you the mercy of the Godking extends. Denounce the god you have
served and admit he is nothing but an idol made by your own hands!” she called out. “Profess the
hallowed name of the Godking, and you may yet live. Refuse and face the flames, in this life and the
next,” came the final threat.
“I confess,” one of the blackrobes called out. “Don’t let me burn!” he yelled desperately.
“Me too!” cried another. “Get me down from here!”
“And me! Save me!”
“I’m sorry, forgive me!”
“My sins are many, it is true.” Dominic’s words cut through the sound of his brothers’ voices. “I
sought power and riches. I do not deserve mercy, yet I will pray for it nonetheless.” The other
blackrobes fell silent, as did the onlookers. He threw his head upwards, his eyes seeking the sky.
“Rihimil! Forgive me my frailty. I place my spirit in your hands.”
“Burn them,” Daena yelled to the soldiers holding torches. “Burn them all!”
“Mistress?” asked one of the outlanders.
“Burn them all!” the priestess shrieked.
“The night has come,” Dominic prayed, his voice strong, “yet I shall not fear, for your light guides
me.” Beneath his feet, the wood drenched in oil was set ablaze. “The dark has come, yet I shall not
fear, for your strength protects me.” He coughed as the smoke began to rise. “Though death has come,
I shall not fear,” he yelled. “The eagle brings me to your halls.” His fellow blackrobes could be heard
crying or screaming.
“The night has come,” Dominic repeated, shouting as loudly as his voice would allow, “yet I shall
not fear, for your light guides me.” One of the other priests heard him and joined the prayer. “The dark
has come, yet I shall not fear, for your strength protects me.” One by one, his brothers added their
voices to his. “Though death has come, I shall not fear. The eagle brings me to your halls.”
They continued until they could no more; until the smoke filled their throats and eyes, the heat
wrapped itself around them, the flames licked the cloth and skin of their bodies, until they were
silenced forever.
~~~~
At a rooftop overlooking the square stood Kamran the blackboot. He was intently watching what was
transpiring below. He had an expression of distaste upon his face as the screams reached him along
with the stench. He put a gloved hand in front of his nose. “You are back,” he suddenly spoke, though
he made no movements.
Behind him, one of his black-clad brethren walked up to stand by his side, having made no sound
in his approach. “Just now. After waiting at the meeting point, I went to Dariush and spoke about our
investigation.”
“Javed was not there?” Kamran asked, looking at his companion.
The other man shook his head. “He left no sign either.”
“I will go as the next and wait.” He turned his gaze back on the square.
“Dariush said that we know their informants.” There was hesitation. “With this,” the blackboot
said while gesturing towards Daena and the tortured blackrobes, “we will have everything we need.”
“I would not put a dog to this fate,” Kamran spoke, gazing at the pyres that were still burning
brightly.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know, Arman,” he admitted. “I wish Javed was here to tell us.”

56
 “He is not. There is only you, me, and Dariush to decide.” Arman waited a moment before he
spoke again. “It may very well be us or them.”
Silence reigned for a long moment. “I will tell the captain. Let us be done with it.”
~~~~
In the first circle, Rostam stood in the tower of its keep. There was barely any trace that it had once
been headquarters to the Order; where the seven-pointed star had once been displayed, a black,
armoured fist was shown instead. The keep was bursting at the seams with Anausa soldiers, quartered
everywhere available. There was constant activity as patrols were issued from here to guard both the
second and third district; the two lowest circles had outposts of their own for this purpose.
Rostam was standing in the only room that was otherwise not occupied. It was the top floor of the
tower, formerly the chambers of the marshal of Hæthiod. Apart from sparse personal belongings, the
rooms primarily contained maps, correspondence and missives, lists and similar pertaining to the
Order. The outlanders had sealed the room to preserve its knowledge, eventually carting most of it
south for the benefit of Sikandar, supreme commander of their forces. In case anything had been
overlooked, the room remained restricted to anyone but Rostam. Lately, ever since the arrival of the
priestess Daena, the outlander captain could be found here increasingly often.
He was standing by the window with its superb view of the city. Down the slopes of Mount
Tothmor, the five circles flowed like a frozen waterfall. At such distance, all that was ugly faded
away. Even the smoke rising from the gate square in the third district was barely visible.
“Jenaab,” Kamran spoke. Rostam turned from the window to look at him. “We are ready.”
“Proceed,” the captain commanded, looking back at the city.
~~~~
News quickly spread across Tothmor of the six blackrobes and how they had met their end; within the
hour, it was the only topic of conversation in every watering hole, including in the lowest circle.
“Burned alive! Such savagery,” Andreas shook his head.
“They did it because we did it,” Nikolaos pointed out. “Everything we do, they revisit on us.” This
sparked a murmur of agreement from the others.
“It is necessary,” Glaukos claimed harshly. “We need to keep pushing these bastards until they
break.”
“Last time was close,” Philemon mumbled. “They nearly caught me.”
“Maybe we should lay low for a while,” another argued. “They’re on high alert right now.”
“You heard same as me, the court seer chose death over surrender,” Glaukos reminded them while
his eyes pierced each of his companions. “Think how many will be inspired by that. Now is the time
to press on.”
“I’m not going to burn on the stake,” Andreas declared. Several others assented to this.
“Then avoid capture,” Glaukos simply said. “You all have a knife on you.” His words were met by
silence. “Philemon, you said your cousin had news.”
“He found out who gave up the greenrobe we were hiding,” Philemon told the others. “One of our
own, a traitor.”
Nikolaos spat on the ground. “Filthy scum.”
“Georgios doesn’t know the name, but he saw the spy talking to the blackboots and followed him
home. He lives in the third circle. Gave me a good description too,” Philemon explained.
“Does he live alone?” Glaukos asked.
“Doubt it. It’s a small house, but not that small.”

57
 “You think the others in the house will fight back?” someone questioned.
“Not necessarily, but we cannot leave any witnesses,” Glaukos declared with a grim look.
“What if there are children?” Andreas argued.
“Pray there are not,” Glaukos replied. Before further arguments could be made, he continued
quickly. “We do it tonight before this spy can do any more harm.”
“It’s in the third circle though,” another pointed out. “We can’t get our weapons through the gates,
and we won’t be able to go home after it’s done.”
“No need to worry,” Glaukos assured them. “I have a sword inside already, just bring your knives.
When it is done, we go to The Pork and Pepper and wait there until daybreak.”
“What’s that?”
“A tavern where I used to work.”
“We’ll have an ale to celebrate,” Philemon declared cheerfully.
“We need to go before the gates close,” Glaukos told them. “Let us meet at The Pork when we
leave here. We stay there until nightfall and get it done.”
The other men nodded with varying enthusiasm and dispersed.
~~~~
Around midnight, half a dozen men were sneaking through the third district. As the streets were wider
and better patrolled compared to their usual haunt, their progress was slow with numerous
interruptions. It took them more than an hour to reach their destination, a small house touching brick
with both its neighbours. It had an unassuming front door to the street, which lay quiet off the main
thoroughfares.
“You keep watch in that end of the street, you in the other,” Glaukos commanded quietly, pointing
and gesturing. “The rest of you with me.”
They scattered according to purpose. Glaukos and his followers crossed the street and reached the
door. From his pocket, the Blade took out a small vial while the others looked with curiosity.
“Better stand back,” he whispered. “You do not want this on you.” The other men shied away
several steps while Glaukos poured the contents of the vial onto the door where the handle was
attached. The acid did not have much immediate effect on the iron handle, but it greedily corroded its
way through the worn wood surrounding it. There was a tense waiting period while the acid did its
work; restless, several of the men were unable to stand still. Their heads kept darting back and forth,
examining either end of the dark street; all was quiet.
After a brief while, Glaukos placed his gloved hands on the door, above and below the handle. He
began to push, slowly at first. The wood creaked as it splintered, and he stopped until the sound
subsided. Then he made another careful push, paused, and another. It was a slow procedure, and his
companions gritted their teeth, but Glaukos was unperturbed.
Finally, the door splintered all the way through and opened up. The handle suddenly fell the
ground, no longer being supported, and Glaukos almost had to dive to catch it, fumbling a bit. The
men breathed sighs of relief, and Glaukos placed it carefully without a sound on the ground. Finally,
he drew the short sword by his side while his companions drew their knives and daggers.
“First room to the right, second floor,” Philemon reminded Glaukos. The latter nodded and entered
the house as the first. As they progressed, the men separated to stand by the different doors, ready to
strike should anybody appear.
Glaukos continued up the small stairs to the second floor. He cautiously took hold of the door
handle, pressed down, and pushed the door open slowly. In the complete darkness, neither he nor
anything inside the room could be seen. He took a step forward, using the sword as a cane to feel what

58
was in front of him. In this way, he located the bed in the middle of the room. Raising his blade, he
thrust down repeatedly. There was no sound, no scream; the steel clearly pierced only cloth and the
hay of the mattress, not flesh.
The shutters of the window in the room were pushed open. This sent a gust of cold wind inside,
but it also allowed the moon to send light into the space. It was faint, but enough. Glaukos could see
the other man present, standing by the window. He also held a sword in his hand, and the blade
glittered in the light.
“You,” Glaukos exclaimed, raising his sword in front of him.
“Yes,” Hugh responded. The son of Count Hubert had a satisfied smile on his face. “In here!” he
yelled. “The Blade is in here, he is the one you want!”
Sounds burst forth everywhere in the small house. Blackboots appeared from every room, and the
screams of dying heathmen soon followed.
Glaukos immediately shut the door behind him and met Hugh’s advance. With a shorter blade than
his opponent, he could do little more than defend himself. His short reach did not allow him to come
close to wound Hugh, who pressed his advantage, and quickly, Glaukos found himself pushed up
against the door. From the other side, someone was trying to force it open.
Trapped, Glaukos bent down to grab the mangled blankets on the bed and threw them at Hugh.
The latter raised his sword, catching the fabric while stepping back and outside of Glaukos’ reach. For
a moment, Hugh’s vision was obstructed before he sliced through the obstacle. The next thing he saw
was Glaukos jumping past him. The Blade threw his sword through the open window before jumping
onto the latch and following through, landing on the ground beneath.
He cursed upon impact but got up, locating his sword and grabbing it. Looking up, he saw Hugh
staring down at him. Wasting no further time, Glaukos began to limp away, his stride eventually
becoming more sure-footed until he could start running.
He gave a final glance behind him and dismay overtook his face. A dark shape had jumped after
him without being slowed down even momentarily; already, his pursuer was running and gaining on
him.
Gritting his teeth and wearing a pained expression, Glaukos sprinted forward. Shouts could be
heard in the outlander tongue; they came not only behind him but also ahead from the main streets of
the third district. Everywhere, footsteps hounded him.
Running deeper into the third circle, Glaukos sought the small alleys and crooked roads. The tall
buildings shielded him from the moonlight, and the sharp corners obscured his flight.
Something whistled past his ear. As it struck the stones of the house ahead, sparks flew; it was a
throwing knife. Looking behind him, Glaukos could see that his initial pursuer had caught up with
him, readying another knife. Stopping abruptly, he turned around, brandishing his short sword in an
arch.
His opponent stepped back, out of reach, and drew his own sword. Dropping the throwing knife,
he pulled out a long dagger instead to wield in his other hand. Only now could Glaukos see that his
foe was not a blackboot as the black clothing suggested; he faced a shadow warrior. With a sneer and
disdain glowing in his yellow eyes, the shadow lunged out in attack.
With every aggressive move made against him, Glaukos was forced to retreat. His blade could
only parry one of his opponent’s, meaning he had to constantly evade the other. When he finally went
on the offensive, his sword was stopped by its counterpart while the dirk in the shadow’s second hand
gave him a rift. Ignoring this, his fist struck against the shadow’s face, covered as it was. The cloth
fell away to reveal a ghastly sight. It was a face that seemed frozen in anger and with the features of a

59
demon. It took a moment for the moonlight to reveal that it was a mask, made from metal to cover the
shadow’s face. Only the eyes were untouched by mask or cloth.
Reeling backwards, Glaukos attempted another aggression, but received only a gash for his
troubles. As this repeated a third time, he was slowly bleeding from several wounds.
Glaukos returned to purely defensive manoeuvres, and the shadow eagerly took advantage of this,
launching a series of strikes. Moving back step by step, the Blade constantly evaded, but nothing
more. Only when the shadow made a deep lunge did he react; as the sword reached the end of its
momentum, Glaukos gripped it with his gloved hand while thrusting forward with his own sword. The
unexpected move disrupted the shadow’s balance, and his dagger could not avert the assault; cutting
through leather, Glaukos’ sword embedded itself into the shadow’s thigh.
He did not allow himself even the brief moment it would require to recover his sword; letting go of
the handle with one hand, his enemy’s blade with the other, Glaukos turned around empty-handed and
sprinted away.
The shadow pulled the sword from his leg and gave a loud yell, shouting orders to his compatriots.
Sheathing his dirk, he wiped some of Glaukos’ blood from his sword onto his fingers. He manoeuvred
his fingertips under his mask to press the blood against his lips.
Two blackboots appeared in the alley. “Fravashi,” one of them spoke, “where did he go?”
The shadow breathed in deeply through his nose. “Follow me.”
Like a hound on the trail, the shadow led his companions unerringly through the maze of
alleyways and passages until they were back on the main street, where they met Hugh standing in
front of a tavern.
“How did you know?” sneered the shadow in Mearcspeech.
“He used to work here,” Hugh nodded towards The Pork and Pepper. “After the Blades were
disbanded. It seemed likely he would hide here.”
“Why are you still out there?” asked the blackboot Arman in a derisive tone.
“He is a former Blade,” the young nobleman pointed out. “I am not charging into the dark alone.”
“He lost his sword,” the shadow said in his hoarse voice, touching the torn leather on his thigh;
whatever hurt had been caused to his leg, it did not seem to impair him. “He is near, I can smell him.
Inside!”
Kamran, the other blackboot present, aimed several strong kicks at the door until it broke open,
and they all hurried inside, finding themselves in the common room.
“Split up,” the shadow commanded.
A frightened tavern keeper appeared from a side chamber with a savage-looking knife in his hand;
behind him beyond the doorway could be seen his frightened family. The shadow punched him in the
face, making him drop his weapon, and stepped past him to ransack the room while the wife and
children of the owner screamed and pressed together in fear. Hugh went upstairs to the open second
floor, Arman went into the small courtyard and stables, and Kamran went to the kitchen.
It was small and without hiding places; Kamran barely glanced around except to find an oil lamp
and light it. Further search quickly revealed results; there was a hatch in the ground that led to the
storage cellar typical of a place like this. Opening the hatch, the blackboot descended down the stairs
into the darkness.
Along the walls were shelves with many goods, preserved in the cold room. Cured or dried meat
hung from the ceiling, a barrel of apples stood by the stairs, and on the ground were several large
bloodstains. Bending down to examine them, they lay in a straight line; they might as well have
formed an arrow pointing towards the wine barrels. Crouched together behind them, out of sight,

60
Glaukos sat with his teeth biting into his lower lip; he did not even have a knife to defend himself
with, and his pale complexion suggested blood loss.
The blackboot let his gaze follow the stains along the floor towards the wine. Taking a deep
breath, he extinguished his lamp, engulfing the basement in darkness. Next, he poured some of the
lamp oil onto the floor to cover the spilled blood; the stark smell of the oil quickly permeated the
room. Finally, he turned around and walked back up the stairs, closing the hatch behind him.
In the common room, the outlanders and their ally gathered after their search. “Nothing,” said
Hugh. “I checked everywhere.”
“The gate to the courtyard was open,” Arman told the others. “I think he entered that way, but I
saw no sign of him.”
“Or that is how he left,” Kamran suggested. “He came through here to make us lose track of him,
knowing he could escape out the back.”
The shadow gave a growl. “I was sure I had his scent. With me,” he ordered them and left
speedily, going through the courtyard and its gate to enter the streets of the district again.
In the cellar, Glaukos remained crouched. His breathing was laboured, and despite the cold, beads
of sweat were forming on his brow. His companions were dead or captured, most likely, and he had
nothing to defend himself with. “The night has come, yet I shall not fear, for your light guides me,” he
mumbled, his prayer barely audible.

61
 9. From Copper to Crown
Western Hæthiod
Many miles west of Tothmor lay the encampment of the Order. It was located close to the border to
Adalrik and the jarldom of Ingmond, near one of the tributaries of the river Sureste to ensure fresh
water. Serving as winter quarters for the army, the camp was well situated on elevated terrain and
fortified on all sides by palisades. The open landscape gave the sentinels an unobstructed view of their
surroundings, and sharp vigil was kept; the Order army counted only two thousand soldiers and three
hundred knights, and they were outnumbered by nearly five times as many outlanders in all of
Hæthiod.
Inside the defences, the camp was laid out in the typical, disciplined fashion of the Order. The
commanders’ tents lay one in each half of the camp as was custom, and all the tents belonging to the
soldiers and knights were placed in even rows, allowing quick movement down the paths and
preventing disorder. One section of the camp served as rudimentary stables for the many horses of the
army as well as a small number of cattle, and another had a collection of workmen. There were several
smiths to maintain both weapons and armour but also to shoe the horses, replace tent pegs and nails,
butchers and bakers to keep the soldiers fed, tanners to make leather and cobblers to turn it into boots,
and many other occupations. In short, the camp was a small town of its own, nearly self-sufficient in
every way except one; no women were allowed inside the palisades.
From the heath, appearing from the east, a man came walking. He was of ordinary height, clad in a
traveller’s cape and hat; a staff in his hand gave him support as he strode forward. He was still more
than thirty paces from the gate, but well within the range of arrows, when the guards hailed him.
“Who goes there?”
“Just a traveller,” came the reply. “I bring news of the outlanders that I thought your captains
might wish to hear.”
The guard who had spoken looked at his comrade. “You ever heard of that before?”
The other shrugged. “Got to be a first time for everything.”
“Can we let him in though? What if he’s a spy?”
“Then I reckon they’ll hang him.”
“Right,” the first guard nodded contemplatively. “So that’s more his problem than ours.”
“I’d wager so.”
“What kind of news?” the sentinel shouted over the palisade.
“A column of outlander soldiers travelling to Tothmor, bringing supplies. An obvious target,” the
traveller explained, “though if we wait too long, they will reach the safety of Tothmor before you can
act.”
“You got any weapons on you?”
“A sword, that is all.”

62
 “This is really unusual,” the first guard remarked to the other. “I’ve never had this happen before.
Should we let him in? If he’s telling the truth.”
“Let the lieutenant’s thanes decide,” the second guard recommended.
“Right, right, make it their problem. Open the gate,” he called down. “You can enter,” he shouted
to the wayfarer, “but any sign of trouble, you’re done for.”
“Much obliged,” Godfrey muttered and walked forward to enter the Order camp.
~~~~
One of the larger tents in the southern part of the camp belonged to the first lieutenant. Apart from the
typical necessities that a knight and his sergeant might require on campaign, it contained a few
additions. Curiously, the customary map with troop placements was in this tent rather than the one
belonging to the captain of the army. There were also a few stools and other pieces of primitive
furniture. Baldwin and Matthew, squire and sergeant to the commanders, respectively, were sitting on
these while playing chess; Egil, apprentice to the King’s Quill, was watching and occasionally
commenting on the game.
“It does not matter how many cunning plans you make, Brand,” declared the captain. He was in
his early thirties, average of height and appearance. His expression revealed little about him, but his
voice was calm and hinted of a man self-assured and poised. “You will not be able to lure the
outlanders into open battle while winter lasts. And after that, we will need reinforcements to stand a
chance against them.”
“You wound me, William, with your quick dismissal,” replied the lieutenant. He was much taller
than his superior, though this was less obvious as they were both sitting down. There was a tone of
gentle mocking in his voice accompanied by a sardonic smile on his face. “If we appear vulnerable,
would they not march out to seize the opportunity and destroy us?”
“We would not only appear vulnerable,” William retorted brusquely, “that would be the very truth.
If we move against Lakon, even if we should miraculously take the city, an army twice our size would
march against us from Tothmor. Whether on open field or through siege, they would destroy us.”
“We need to act,” Brand claimed. “Any forces they have withdrawn beyond the Langstan will
surely return as soon as it is spring. If our situation is pressed now, it will be doubly so by that time.”
“I will grant that we must assume their armies to grow in size,” the captain admitted. “All the more
reason we must repeat our requests for reinforcements.”
“From where?” asked the lieutenant. “The Order has no further soldiers to spare and no lord
marshal to expand our numbers. The jarls of Adalrik? They are too busy fighting each other. We are a
stone’s throw from Ingmond, but we have not received the least aid from there.”
“Because the jarl hates you,” squeaked Matthew from the other end of the tent, looking up from
his game of chess.
“Thank you, Matthew, that was necessary to point out,” Brand muttered, and his sergeant looked
away. He was about to speak again when commotion outside the tent caught the attention of everyone.
~~~~
Sometimes, an Order commander would surround himself with a personal retinue of the best warriors
in his army; in battle, they served both to guard him and to act as a final resort, the last troops to send
into the fight should it be going ill. In this way, they fulfilled much the same purpose as the thanes of
a nobleman. While having such a retinue typically applied to the captain of an Order army, in this case
it was the first lieutenant who surrounded himself with a select few warriors. When riding out to
survey the area, they protected him during skirmishes with outlander patrols; when in camp, they

63
alone guarded his tent. Because of this, the common soldiers referred to the lieutenant’s attendants as
his thanes, and during the day, these warriors could always be found circled around a fire outside their
master’s tent. One among their number stood out, being armed not with blade or bow but a lute.
“Himil’s balls, can’t you play something else,” exclaimed Geberic. The former sergeant to the jarl
of Theodstan put down the knife and whetstone in his hands. “Listening to that bloody Sorrow is
giving me a headache.”
“It’s the only one I know well,” Troy defended himself. “But I have been practising another.” He
strummed his instrument a few times.
“I like it,” Nicholas interjected. “Have you ever played it for Sir Adalbrand? He is dragonborn too,
he might enjoy it.”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” the bard explained. “To be honest, I thought more would be happening
here. There would be battles and that sort.”
“Welcome to war,” Geberic laughed coarsely. “It is one month of waiting for every day of
fighting.”
“Not always during a siege,” Troy mumbled, which ended the laughter.
“Was it a bad one?” asked Quentin. The grim-faced archer sat inspecting the fletching of his
arrows, but he looked up as he asked the question.
“It’s the only siege I have experienced,” Troy began to say. “I can’t compare. It seemed bad to me.
Too bad that I want to sing about it.”
“Don’t worry,” Geberic told him with an encouraging tone of voice. “When it comes to war, Lord
Adalbrand is one of those people you give a copper petty, he’ll turn it into a gold crown.”
“Wouldn’t mind some coin,” Troy spoke with a half-hearted grin. “Even if there’s little to spend it
on here.”
“Don’t you have a king for a patron?” Nicholas asked. “You won’t find sympathy here for your
empty purse.”
“I suppose some call him king,” the bard admitted reluctantly. “But if you knew Leander, you’d
cry rivers of tears for my plight.”
“Playing that lute makes me cry,” Geberic muttered, eliciting laughter.
“If you need coin, just promise for a few petties you won’t play,” Quentin snorted. “You’ll be the
only bard in the realms paid not to play.”
“If this is how I am appreciated,” Troy retorted with an offended expression, “I am sure there are
plenty of other campfires where they would be grateful for my presence.” He made as if to stand up
and leave.
“Peace, peace,” Geberic told him. “Play that new song you have been practising, and I’ll make a
share of my meal tonight for you.”
Mollified, Troy prepared his lute, but he did not have time to begin before he was interrupted. One
of the sentinels posted at the gate appeared, accompanied by a traveller. As everyone looked at the
newcomers, Troy’s eyes widened. “You! Godfrey!”
“You know this fellow?” asked the guard. “He came up to camp and claimed he had important
information for the commander.”
With all eyes turned towards him, Troy’s reply came haltingly. “Kind of. We met in Tothmor. I
mean, he’s not a bad sort.”
“If I can be allowed to speak with your captain, I can explain my presence and purpose,” Godfrey
told them.
“We’re not in the habit of letting anyone just walk up and get entrance,” Geberic declared,
standing up.

64
 “In any case, that’s for you to decide. I’ve done my part,” the guard from the gate told them and
turned around abruptly, walking away.
“I bring valuable intelligence about the outlanders,” Godfrey claimed. “Your captain will want to
know.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Geberic spoke with a brusque voice. His eyes glanced between the
traveller and the other men. “You got any weapons on you?”
“My sword,” Godfrey replied and unbuckled his belt, extending it towards the other man.
Reaching to take hold of belt and scabbard, Geberic nodded slowly. “Fine. Nicholas, tell the
lieutenant.” The archer got up and entered the tent first. “You enter next,” Geberic told Godfrey. “I
warn you. Take one step too close to the lieutenant or captain, and I’ll gut you like a fish.”
“Consider me warned,” Godfrey smiled and stepped inside the tent, followed closely by Geberic.
Once inside, Godfrey’s eyes quickly swept across those present. His face remained expressionless
as his gaze passed over Egil, and he turned his attention towards the knights, inclining his head in
greeting.
“This man claims to have information for you, milord,” Geberic told them.
“And who might you be?” asked Brand, frowning.
“My name is Godfrey,” came the response. “Just an ordinary traveller.”
“Travelling in lands held by the enemy, swarming with their troops,” William pointed out, leaning
forward.
“The reason why I snuck out of Lakon and why I am travelling west,” Godfrey explained. “Before
I left, I saw something of great interest. The outlanders were preparing a supply train for Tothmor.
Arms, provisions, great barrels of water, and what else the city might need.”
“How do you know it was headed for Tothmor?” asked William sharply.
“Where else would they send it?” Godfrey replied.
“How long ago?” Brand’s eyes were no longer on the traveller but on the map.
“I left Lakon two days ago, as did the supply train.”
“You reached our camp in two days from Lakon?” William questioned with raised eyebrows.
“I assumed time was of the essence.”
“How did you know where to find our camp?” William asked next.
“It is no secret that there is an Order army in Hæthiod. I walked in the direction of the river,
knowing you would want to camp near fresh water,” Godfrey elaborated, “until I saw your camp.”
“What manner of guard do they travel with?” Brand asked.
“About a hundred men on foot.”
The lieutenant’s attention had been on the map, his brow furrowed in thought, but now he raised
his head in sharp movement. “We appreciate your news. For now, you will have to remain in our
camp under restraints until we can confirm you are reliable.”
“I expected nothing else,” Godfrey assented. “I only ask you take good care of my sword
meanwhile. It is my most valued possession.”
Brand did not reply other than a nod at Geberic, who placed Godfrey’s belt and scabbard inside the
tent. “Place him under lock,” he ordered.
“Though show him courtesy,” William added. “He is not a criminal.”
Geberic bowed his head and took hold of Godfrey, escorting him out.
“We should dispatch scouts at once to track this convoy down,” Brand pointed out, to which his
captain nodded.
“Baldwin, see to it,” William told his squire, who complied and left the tent. “If this intelligence is
solid?” he continued, looking at Brand.

65
 “I will take fifty knights and ride out tomorrow,” the lieutenant declared. “Meet the scouts and
destroy the train.”
“I’ll make sure our horses and equipment are ready,” Matthew interjected.
“Do so,” Brand instructed him.
“If it is a trap?” William asked.
“If any force too great for fifty knights to handle is this close to our camp, our patrols would have
discovered them by now,” Brand said calmly. “Just keep that traveller safely under watch. Something
about him seemed suspicious. A guarded behaviour,” the lieutenant frowned. “If he is a spy for the
outlanders, we do not want him returning to them with accurate knowledge of our numbers.” In the
other end of the tent, Egil said nothing.
~~~~
Some activity ensued in the camp, as scouts quickly readied themselves and rode out while the chosen
knights prepared to do the same the next day. Most sections of the encampment were quiet with only
the usual chores and duties being carried out, though. In the evening, the butcher found himself in
unusual company; he was busy hacking a pig into pieces when he looked up and ceased any
movement. “Sir,” he stammered upon seeing Brand standing in his tent.
The lieutenant wrinkled his nose at the overpowering smell of dead animals. “I have a task for
you.”
“Of course, sir,” the butcher was quick to reply.
“I need some twenty pieces of meat, each no bigger than a thumb nail,” Brand explained.
“Your pardon?”
“Twenty pieces, size of a thumb nail. I do not care what animal they are from, but it must not be
cured. Surely this is within your capabilities?” Brand glanced around the tent at the various slabs of
meat.
“Of course, sir,” the butcher responded with a confused look.
“Put the pieces in a small leather bag once you have chopped them,” the knight continued his
instructions. “Remember, they must not be cured in any way. Do not let the night frost touch them
either. I shall require them tomorrow morning.”
“Very good, sir,” the butcher said, “but it will start to rot very soon.”
“I expect as much,” Brand simply replied and left.

66
 10. The Weapons of War
Western Hæthiod
Early the next day, Brand led a company of knights and attendants out of camp, a hundred men in all.
They rode at a steady pace, raising heads and questions as to their purpose, though no answers were
given. A few speculated on a possible connection with the new prisoner kept isolated in a tent, but
since the soldiers were not allowed to speak with prisoners as a general rule, no information could be
found there either.
“What do you say to tell a woman she’s beautiful?” asked Nicholas. He was inside the tent he
shared with most of the lieutenant’s men, as they were known.
“You just used the words,” Quentin growled. “Unless she is deaf, she’ll get your meaning. If she is
deaf, other words won’t help you much.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Nicholas muttered, looking at Troy.
“You use a picture,” the bard told him. “One made out of words. You paint that picture in her
inner eye and compare her to it, and she’ll see what you mean.”
“I don’t follow,” the archer frowned.
“Think of something that’s beautiful, like a flower,” Troy explained. “You tell her she is fairer
than a field of flowers, and all the blossoms she has ever seen will come into mind, and she’ll know
what you mean.”
“That’s real clever,” Nicholas nodded thoughtfully. “You’re crafty.” The compliment was
accepted with a nod and a smile.
“It’s a shame you don’t know Song of Sigvard,” Egil said. “I would like to hear it on solstice.”
“Alas, my audience tends to be found in taverns rather than great halls. A ballad I can handle,”
Troy spoke regretfully. “Less so the high songs.”
“Isn’t there a song about Erhard?” asked the young scribe.
“Yes. On the Field of Blue, it’s called,” Quentin replied, checking his bowstrings for any frayed
threads.
“Do you know it?” Egil asked Troy with shining eyes.
“I think I learned it once,” the bard mumbled. “Maybe tonight. I’ll need to remind myself how it is
played…” his voice trailed off. Meanwhile, Egil had gathered some of his writing tools, and as the
other men busied themselves, he left the tent.
The young apprentice shivered in the cold and pulled his hands as much inside the sleeves of his
robe as he could without dropping quill, ink, and parchment. Walking at a brisk pace, he traversed the
camp until he reached the tent that had been drafted into service as a primitive prison.
“What you want?” asked the soldier standing guard brusquely.
“The lieutenant told me to ask some questions to the prisoner and write them down,” Egil replied,
holding up the utensils in his hands.

67
 “Lieutenant told you?” the guard questioned, scratching his beard. Egil gave a nod. “Get to it
then.”
Egil nodded again and walked past, entering the tent. Inside, he found a large, wooden pole
hammered into the ground. Around it was a metal ring, and sitting on the ground, chained to that ring,
was Godfrey. “I wondered if you recognised me,” the prisoner smiled.
“Hard to forget,” Egil muttered. “Thanks to you, I was attacked by murderers and brigands, and I
met – I met Elves,” he whispered almost feverishly.
Godfrey leaned back a little. “Ælfwine told you? I did not expect that.”
“He had to,” the young scribe explained. “I had to hide in the Alfskog to avoid being killed by
muggers.” Egil paused for a moment. “How do you know an Elf? Why is Ælfwine helping you?
What’s all this about?”
“I have no answers for you,” Godfrey told him. “But since you are here, I have questions of my
own.”
“I’ll answer yours if you answer mine,” Egil replied with a cunning look.
“No.” At Godfrey’s reply, disappointment replaced cunningness. “When Quill made you his
apprentice, he bound you to his service. That includes serving me. I believe that has been made
obvious.”
“Fine,” Egil pouted.
“First, why are you here?”
“Sir Adalbrand asked Master Quill to let me join him. He wanted to have this campaign recorded
by a reliable witness.”
“The lieutenant is Quill’s friend,” Godfrey commented with dawning realisation on his face. “I
thought he looked familiar.”
“You know him?”
“I have seen him before, that is all. Who is the captain?”
“Sir William.”
“Is he a good commander? How would you judge him?”
“They say he is unbeatable in combat,” Egil explained. “He seems honourable and trustworthy. So
say all the men.”
“He will need more than that as long as the outlanders have five times his numbers,” Godfrey
remarked dryly. “Is he a capable commander in the field?”
Egil hesitated. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about such things. I don’t know anything about
you.”
“You know two of my friends,” Godfrey told him. “Quill and the Highfather. Judge me by my
company. Would you doubt either of them?”
“I suppose not,” Egil admitted reluctantly.
“I walk in shadows, boy. Secrets keep me safe. But if you trust me, Egil, I will return the favour.
You are in a camp of war, and you might soon find yourself in danger again. Think of whom I
summoned last to protect you on your journey to the highlands. Trust me, and I will protect you in the
future,” Godfrey promised in a soothing voice.
“As you say,” Egil acquiesced.
“Now, Sir William. How is he as a captain?”
“He is suitable, I suppose, though Sir Adalbrand is the true leader. When winter is over and battle
can be expected, it’ll be him commanding the army,” Egil explained.
“Strange. He is the lieutenant and many years younger, is he not? He seems barely old enough to
be a knight.”

68
 “He is very young,” Egil admitted, “but he has proven himself. He defeated the Isarn rebels on the
field twice, even against Sir Athelstan.”
“That was him?” Godfrey raised his eyebrows. “I have heard stories of what happened in Adalrik,
but few details.”
“He crossed the Weolcans with an army,” Egil elaborated. “He took Middanhal from the rebels by
surprise and defeated both Jarl Isarn and his brother.”
“Maybe the outlanders need to outnumber him by more than five times,” Godfrey jested.
“Not all are fond of him, though,” Egil confided, lowering his voice. “They say Jarl Ingmond hates
him, and because of that, we cannot have winter quarters in Ingmond but have to stay in this camp
instead.”
“How do the soldiers feel about him?”
“The knights are spiteful towards him, I think,” Egil considered. “They don’t like being under his
command. Half the footmen, especially those who are new, seem to dread or dislike him intensely.”
“For what reason?”
“He likes to make inspections, especially at night. Anyone being lax in his duties gets flogged.
And as mentioned, they aren't happy that we are quartered in camp instead of a city in Ingmond.”
“Half the men feel this way? What of the rest?”
“They worship him,” Egil said after a moment. “Especially those that fought with him the longest
in Adalrik. They’d assault the gates of Hel if he told them to.”
Godfrey’s eyes examined Egil. “What do you think of him, this Adalbrand?”
The boy frowned before he gave his answer. “I feel uneasy knowing someone has such power over
the hearts of men. Who knows what he will use it for?”
“Indeed,” Godfrey assented, leaning back and closing his eyes. “How did they react to the news I
brought them?” he asked, looking at Egil again.
“Sir Adalbrand rode out this morning with a force of knights.” Egil hesitated a little. “What will
happen now? What do you plan to do?”
“Wait here for his return,” Godfrey smiled, rattling his chain.
~~~~
The Order army had not only chosen its camp with fresh water and defensive features in mind; if one
were to trace a direct line between Lakon and Tothmor, the camp was not far from such an imaginary
line. The outlanders were aware of the Order presence to some degree since their outriders clashed
with their Mearcian counterparts from time to time. Even if they did not know the precise location,
caution made their convoys and contingents march in a wide semicircle bent eastwards, keeping
distance to the Order camp. Coupled with the blackboots restricting the range and movements of the
Order scouts, this usually kept their supply trains hidden from detection.
On the other hand, when the scouts already knew such a train was on the move, discovery was
only a matter of time. Riding swiftly, they soon found revealing tracks and could return with certain
knowledge to Brand, waiting in the empty wasteland with his knights and their attendants; of his
personal retinue, he had brought Geberic and Matthew. As soon as information reached the restless
Order warriors, they acted upon it. A force of a hundred riders could not be concealed long in the
empty land of western Hæthiod, and the garrisons from either Lakon or Tothmor were sure to react
eventually.
Like a snake coiled through the landscape, the supply train moved through the heath. The terrain
was a little rough, but generally flat, allowing their wagons to move. There were about ten of them in

69
total, and each had several soldiers sitting on it or surrounding it; all in all, each wagon had an escort
of about ten warriors.
Out in the open, the Anausa soldiers were vigilant and tense; they spotted Brand’s company as
soon as it was within range.
“Half charge,” Brand commanded. “Squires and sergeants, ride down stragglers. Geberic, with
me.” The order was spread down the line. Leaving their followers behind, the knights alone moved
their horses to stand side by side and began a slow trot. Ahead, the outlanders were desperately
gathering, trying to form lines with their spears. In a display of discipline and horsemanship, the
knights spurred their horses to a gallop to close the distance, every man keeping perfect pace.
With a deafening sound, the longer spears of the Mearcian knights struck into shields, cloth, mail,
leather, and flesh. Nearly half the outlanders died where they stood, not even inflicting a scratch in
return. Chaos erupted as both lines disintegrated; most knights had released their spears as soon as
they struck target and drawn swords instead, or they were using the hooves of their war steeds to
trample their enemy.
The outlanders’ shorter spears had served them ill in the first clash, but now they struck back,
aiming for the knights’ horses. A few fell, but the knights had the upper hand in every way, and they
cut the outlanders down like wheat before the scythe. Some attempted to use the wagons to buy
themselves reprieve, but it was short-lived; within moments, the Mearcians outnumbered the Anausa
and surrounded those still fighting. About a score of the red-robed warriors dropped their weapons and
bolted; some ran north towards Tothmor, some south towards Lakon. The squires and sergeants
caught up with all of them, leaving not a single enemy to survive.
In practical terms, the skirmish was over shortly after it began. Some of the wounded outlanders
tried to continue fighting and were promptly dealt a deathblow. The remainder, too wounded to move
or too smart to draw attention, were left alone; it was against the Knight’s Codex to kill an enemy who
could not defend himself, and if any were taken prisoner, they were to be shown care and courtesy.
Since it was not feasible to drag any of the outlanders from this fight back to camp as prisoners, the
knights simply ignored them and thereby avoided any responsibility for them.
Instead, the Mearcians turned their attention towards the wagons. Some of them contained cloth,
such as uniforms, tents, clothing, and the like. One wagon had barrels of arrows, a few had food
supplies, and three contained large barrels of water.
“Sir Ewind,” Brand shouted, and one of the knights approached with a grin. “I will have Geberic
deal with the water barrels. See to it that the rest of the supplies are destroyed as best we can.”
“Consider it done!” The knight saluted with a fist to his chest and turned around to bark some
orders.
The lieutenant meanwhile turned towards Geberic. “Only half of them,” Brand instructed him
quietly.
“Understood, milord,” Geberic smiled, pulling a hatchet out of his saddlebag. He began striking
the water barrels with the axe, breaking the wood to let the contents pour out. Yet where half of them
received vigorous strikes to leave them all but destroyed, Geberic only inflicted minor damage on the
other half. A little of the water spilled, but most remained.
Pulling a bag from his own saddle and opening it, Brand’s expression became displeased as the
smell of rotting flesh rose into the air. Working quietly, Brand distributed the pieces of spoiled meat to
each of the water barrels still intact, throwing the bag away when done.
“Let us away,” Brand told his companion. At the other end of the wagon train, the knights had set
fire to supplies and carts with rising smoke that was sure to attract attention. The squires and sergeants
who had pursued the fleeing outlanders were returning by now.

70
 “Into the saddle,” Geberic yelled to the knights. “We’re back to camp!” Moments after, the knights
and attendants were riding west, leaving only gruesome remains for the outlanders to find.
~~~~
With firewood being scarce, the fires around the Order camp were of pitiful size, and the soldiers
typically sat huddled close around them. This evening was an exception; Since Geberic and Matthew
had gone with Brand, the remaining of the lieutenant’s men had more space than usual. Troy was
strumming his lute as always, while others were preparing food.
“Just one more time,” Nicholas pleaded. He shook a letter in his hand at Egil.
“You know how to read,” the young scribe protested. “Besides, I read it for you twice the other
day.”
“It takes me too long,” Nicholas complained. “I hack through the words. When you read, it’s like
watching an arrow take flight through the air, graceful and unstoppable.”
“Watch out, Troy, you have competition,” Quentin laughed coarsely.
“He’ll need to refine his verse before I feel threatened,” Troy grinned.
“Egil, please,” Nicholas reiterated his prayer, shaking the letter once more.
“Fine,” Egil grumbled and snatched the paper. Squinting his eyes and turning so that the light of
the fire could illuminate the words, he began reading. “Dearest Nicholas,” his voice rung out clear. “I
was happy to receive your latest letter. I am glad if nothing of note is happening in camp. If I had my
wish, you would spend the whole campaign in camp and then return to Middanhal without a scratch
on you.”
“Typical women,” Quentin scoffed, though he had ceased stirring the pot boiling over the fire,
listening to Egil reading instead. Nicholas did not seem to notice Quentin’s remark; his face showed
his rapture at every word spoken by the scribe.
“There is not much to tell here either. The city seems calm after all the awful events earlier this
year, and I hope it continues that way. I have prayed to Idisea for a peaceful winter solstice, just as I
pray to Rihimil for your safety. Pa has promised to slaughter the sow, so we will have solstice ham
with honey.”
“Ham,” Troy whined with the expression of a starving dog.
“You’re getting soup, and you’ll be thankful for it,” Quentin scowled at the bard.
“Old Hilda’s cough has worsened. I am worried the raven will find her come the Raven Days. I
make her some tea to help every chance I get, but yesterday I found it cold in the cup. She had
forgotten to drink it. I told Pa we should leave something at Idisea’s shrine to spare Hilda another
winter, but he said we had enough worries of our own to spend silver on an old neighbour whose time
had come. I told him that yes, Hilda is our old neighbour and has been our neighbour since I was born,
and she was always kind to me.”
“Every time you read that letter, I wonder if Hilda is clad in raven feathers yet,” Quentin said
coarsely. Nicholas made a shushing sound, still staring into the fire.
“That did not convince Pa, so I spent my own coin. I know you would approve. You are so kind
yourself. Write back when you can. Yours faithfully, Ellen.”
Nicholas blinked a few times, turning to look at Egil. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Egil told him, handing the letter back.
“Maybe tomorrow you would write a reply for me?” the Hæthian asked slyly.
“Yesterday Troy, tomorrow you,” Egil complained. “You realise that you would have to pay good
silver to a scribe if we were in town for this service?”
“We’re in camp,” Nicholas pointed out, making his companions laugh.

71
 “Don’t be so stingy,” Quentin admonished Egil. “We let you share in our food, so you don’t have
to cook any yourself.”
“Fine,” Egil grumbled.
“Food!” came Matthew’s voice as he found a place to sit by the fire.
“You’re back,” Troy pointed out. “How did it go?”
“It went well,” Matthew replied. “When’s the food ready?”
“Soon enough,” Quentin told him brusquely. “Where’s your master?”
“He had to talk with the captain,” the young sergeant explained.
“Isn’t it your duty to be by his side at all times?” Quentin questioned him, beginning to pour soup
for the others.
“He told me I wasn’t needed,” Matthew mumbled defensively.
“Let the boy have some rest,” Nicholas interceded on his behalf. “Weren’t you going to play
something new, Troy?”
“I was, but I only remember the tune, not the words,” the bard admitted.
“Play it anyway,” Quentin told him, finishing his duty as a cook.
“Yes, play it,” said Matthew.
Troy nodded with a gracious smile and began plucking the strings of his instrument. The melody
came in waves, washing over them, and to everyone’s surprise, a voice soon accompanied the tune.
“Sing to us, songs of old, valour’s flame burning bright,” Quentin sung with a deep voice as the
others stared with varying expressions. “Sing on the Field of Blue, night so dark turned to light.” Soon
the others were clapping along, their hands and laughter performing as the final instruments alongside
Quentin’s voice and Troy’s lute.
~~~~
While his men tended to their stomachs, Brand had gone to William’s tent. Leaving Geberic outside,
he gained admittance with ease, as the guards outside would not hinder the lieutenant of the army.
“What happened?” asked William, closing the book he had been reading. “What did you find?”
Brand cast a look at Baldwin. “I need to speak with you privately.”
William gave a frown but nodded at his squire, who left the tent. “What is amiss?”
“The report given to us by the traveller was accurate,” Brand informed him, sitting down. “We
found the supply train and dealt with it.”
“What was it carrying?”
“Provisions, arms, lots of water. They are getting thirsty in Tothmor.”
“It will rain sooner or later,” William contemplated. “Lack of water will not trouble them
indefinitely.”
“I agree,” Brand said, his voice growing hesitant, “which is why we should act soon. Prepare the
men for a surprise assault on Tothmor.”
William sat up straight, frowning. “Against a garrison twice our size?”
“I only destroyed about half the water that the train was bringing to Tothmor. The outlanders will
have recovered the rest by now. It should reach the city tomorrow,” Brand explained.
“Why did you leave any of the water intact?”
“Because once the outlanders drink it, they will get sick. Their garrison will be depleted of men
able to fight, and we can take the city by storm,” Brand told his captain, speaking slowly.
It took a moment before William’s frown turned to a scowl. “What did you do?”
“What was necessary.”
“You poisoned the water.” William’s voice trembled slightly.

72
 “Giving us an opportunity to retake the city with minimal losses,” Brand argued.
“We are knights!” William almost bellowed, rising up quickly to pace around the tent. “We follow
the Codex! We fight with honour!”
Brand leaned back in his seat. “No prisoners have been mistreated, no enemies have been denied
quarter. We will take the city in battle.”
“By dishonourable means,” William fumed.
“If a traitor opened the gates for us, would you disagree with taking advantage of such an
opportunity?” Brand asked. “When Sir Richard and I assaulted Middanhal at night, we took the city
through stealth and surprise, and it helped to bring our war to a swift conclusion.”
“This is different!” William exclaimed, constantly moving about inside the small space of the tent.
“Killing through poison is a woman’s weapon, unworthy of a knight.”
“I doubt many, if any, will die,” Brand argued, remaining calmly seated. “They will be weak,
unable to fight.”
“What of our own citizens in Tothmor?” William countered. “Your ploy may spread disease
among them. Even if by some miracle this does not claim any of their lives, you have tainted the water
supply. People in Tothmor will face death by thirst even if we liberate the city.”
“How many would die from thirst or starvation if we besieged the city?” Brand replied, his voice
growing harsh. “We have already been denying the outlanders all the supplies we could intercept.
How is it noble to make the city suffer through siege and skirmish, yet villainous to do so in the
manner I have done, which will allow us to free the city in days rather than months?”
William was silent for a moment, ceasing his pacing. “We fight our enemies with sword in hand,
giving them a chance to defend themselves. To surrender if need be. As they give us the same terms.
What will war become if we dare not trust the water we drink? How soon will we slaughter enemies
and innocents alike?”
“War has already become this,” Brand pointed out. “Both sides use spies. We have guards outside
our tents to protect against hidden killers in the night.”
“It can be much worse,” the captain muttered darkly. “I was your age when I fought in the
highlands. I witnessed what soldiers of the Order did, fighting an enemy with gruesome tactics,
justified by that enemy’s own methods.” He turned to stare at Brand. “Your own father died seeking
to stop this. I never thought I would find his son defending such tactics.”
“What I have done,” Brand spoke with a grim voice, “will hurt a few, but save hundreds of our
soldiers and remove the yoke of the outlanders from Tothmor. Is that not a bargain worth making?”
“I do not know.” William sank into his seat. “The price we pay for this could be much higher than
what you estimate.”
Brand licked his lips. “Were you present? When my father died.”
“I was not. It happened in camp while I was scouting the terrain with Sir Athelstan.”
“He does not deserve that title anymore,” Brand declared harshly.
“You are quick to cast judgement given your own actions,” William swiftly retorted.
“I have done nothing against the Knight’s Codex,” the lieutenant claimed. “Even if you disagree,
this act is upon me, not you. You have been presented with an opportunity to deal a devastating blow
to our enemy. As captain, what is your duty?”
William exhaled slowly. “I will free my city. Whatever sin we commit, let it be my burden to
bear.”
“Good,” Brand declared, standing up. “We should spend tomorrow making preparations and
march out the day after. I will see to the arrangements.”

73
 “I am sure you will,” William muttered. “Another matter. The traveller proved good to his word.
There is no need to keep him imprisoned.”
“Just to be cautious, I recommend we keep him under guard until we have departed for Tothmor,”
Brand advised. “If this was all a ploy to gain our trust, we do not want him warning the outlanders.
Once we have marched out, he may be set free.”
“Very well,” William assented with absent mind.
“Captain.” Brand nodded in farewell, striding out of the tent. He gave a brief nod to Baldwin as
well, who had been waiting outside.
Walking away, the lieutenant was joined by Geberic as they moved towards their own part of
camp. “Did it work?”
“We march out the day after tomorrow,” the knight told his attendant. “We have a lot of
preparations ahead of us. Before I forget,” Brand added, “the traveller who brought us news of the
supply train.”
“What about him, milord?”
“Arrange for him to be released after we have marched out, but he is under orders to remain in
camp. Make sure he is watched. If he attempts to leave camp, it can only be to warn the outlanders, in
which case he is to be killed immediately.”
“Very good, milord.”

74
 11. Pawns
Western Hæthiod
The day after the skirmish saw the Order camp transformed from drowsy winter quarters to frantic
battle preparations. Some tasks were almost superfluous; armour and arms were already polished,
oiled and in good condition, as tending to such tasks had been one of the only ways to keep busy
while wintering. Other matters were undertaken with hectic manoeuvres. The camp’s meagre supply
of timber for palisades was being emptied to make storm ladders of equal height to the walls of
Tothmor. There was no time to add the iron top piece, which let the ladders hook onto the battlements
without being pushed away by the defenders. Brand had declared this unnecessary, despite the
protestations of the resident engineer, who felt that the correct construction of siege ladders was a
matter of professional pride. Like most of his craft, he was a riverman, having studied at the guild in
Fontaine, and he was the only engineer that the Order had been given at its disposal for this campaign.
The siege equipment was the most critical part of the preparations being made, but that only
occupied a small part of the camp, as there was only one engineer to supervise the work. Elsewhere,
most soldiers were busy loading supplies onto wagons, checking harnesses and the condition of the
draught animals, or making sure that tents were ready to be packed away in the morning. Nearly the
entire army would depart, leaving only about a hundred men behind to watch the camp under Sir
Ewind’s leadership.
“Once the outlanders realise what we have done, I assume they will only care about Tothmor and
not our camp here,” Brand told the knight. “Should they dispatch forces to seize it, use your best
judgement whether to fight or retreat. Once we have the city, this camp is not worth losing every
soldier under your command to defend.”
“Understood,” replied Ewind. “I must admit, it irks me to be left behind, lieutenant.”
“I leave you behind because I trust you the most,” Brand explained.
“I know, I know,” Ewind reiterated, waving his hand in dismissal. “The measure of knight is not
that he obeys his will, but his commander,” he quoted from the Codex.
“Glory is found in fealty, not on the field,” Brand added with a smile and walked away, yelling
orders to the soldiers along his path.
“You are staying behind to guard the tents?” The question was spoken in a superior tone of voice,
coming from lips curled in a smug smile.
“I have that honour, yes,” Ewind replied stiffly.
The other person approached, his golden spurs signalling him a knight. “You are generous to call it
an honour. Every other knight is to assault the city, fighting the enemies of the Order,” came the
scornful response, “while you remain safe, protecting horse droppings.”
“There is honour in service, Sir Vilmund. Are you in need of being reminded?” Ewind turned to
face the other knight, resting his left hand casually on the pommel of his sheathed sword.
“Hardly,” Vilmund scoffed. “I admire your ability to accept serving the whims of a boy, though.”

75
 “He is our lieutenant and thus our commander,” the drakonian knight pointed out, clenching his
jaw.
“Sir William is our commander,” the islander corrected his peer. “As chosen by Sir Reynold. Not
this brat!”
“Sir Reynold is dead because he underestimated our enemy. You should not make the same
mistake with Sir Adalbrand,” Ewind warned the other.
“Keep barking, lapdog,” Vilmund laughed, walking away.
~~~~
It was not even dawn when the Order army prepared to march out. The soldiers took a hearty
breakfast as they were expected to march a long distance for many hours with few breaks, and tents
were swiftly disassembled and placed on the carts.
Weaving around the soldiers attending to the various tasks, Egil made his way to the tent where
Godfrey was chained up. This time, the guard did not question him but simply waved the boy inside.
“What news?” asked Godfrey in a hushed voice as soon as Egil was inside.
“We are marching soon,” the boy replied. “Towards Tothmor, the men say.”
“Tothmor?” Godfrey exclaimed. “How can that be?”
“I don’t really know,” Egil admitted with an ignorant shrug. “That’s what they told me.”
There was a rattling of chains as Godfrey scratched his cheek. His eyes were vacant for a moment.
“Is my sword still in the captain’s tent?” he asked suddenly, turning his gaze on Egil.
“I think so. No reason any would move it.”
Godfrey pulled his shackles a bit, making the iron links stretch out. “Do they intend to keep me
here?”
“I asked,” Egil told him. “You will be freed later today, once we’re gone.”
The prisoner nodded. “That should give me time,” he muttered, looking at his chains.
“Time for what?”
Godfrey gave a vague smile without looking up. “Nothing you need worry about.”
Egil let out a frustrated sigh. “I feel like a pawn.”
Hearing this, Godfrey raised his eyes to stare at the boy. “We are all pieces on a chessboard. You
may think there is a great difference between a king and a pawn, but in the end, we are all trapped on
the same board.” Smoothing the thin beard on his chin, he continued. “We think we are free in our
choices, but in truth, our every move is dictated by our circumstances. A pawn has but one direction to
travel. A knight has many, but still he moves as dictated by the Codex. A jarl may move backwards,
forwards, or to either side, but even he cannot escape the board. Once the game ends, once pawn and
king are removed from the board, we know them for what they are.”
“What are they?” asked Egil breathlessly.
“Pieces of the same dead wood.”
“What are you saying?”
“You may be a pawn, Egil, and your choices may be limited.” Godfrey gave a smile. “But at least
you are playing, and you know who your allies are among the other pieces. That is more certainty than
many others are given.”
Egil stood silent for a moment. “Still, I wish I was a king rather than a pawn.”
This evoked laughter from his companion. “I cannot begrudge you that.”
“What piece are you?” The question came with sudden sharpness.
Godfrey’s laughter turned to smile again. “I am not in the habit of answering such questions, but
you are free to speculate.”

76
 Egil frowned. “When we first met in Middanhal, I would have taken you for a thane, moving
across the board to protect others. I don’t think so anymore.”
“No?”
“Now I am wondering if you maybe you are the dragonlord, moving in every direction as you
please, much stronger than you look.”
Godfrey’s smile widened. “Maybe there is hope for you yet.”
~~~~
The weak winter sun was still early in its ascendance when the Order army left camp. A strong
company of knights had already set out to act as vanguard and intercept any outlander scouts ahead.
Most of the remaining knights and their attendants rode in front of the column as it snaked out of the
palisade gate with William and Brand at the front. Row after row of footmen marched behind, ten men
side by side; their shields were strapped to their backs atop their woollen cloaks, and spears served as
walking staves. A score of carts came near the end with another hundred infantry bringing up the rear
along with twenty-five knights.
“Two thousand men to take Tothmor,” William muttered under his breath.
“It was enough to take Middanhal,” Brand reminded him with a confident smile.
Behind them rode a squire, a sergeant, and a scribe. The first controlled his mount with grace, the
second was able to remain in the saddle, and the third gave doubts as to whether he or the horse was in
charge.
“Is it much longer?” asked Egil with an unpleasant expression upon his face.
“It’s several days,” Baldwin informed him, patting the neck of his war steed; the animal was more
costly than Matthew’s or Egil’s horses put together.
“Hammer and quill take me,” Egil mumbled.
“What does that even mean?” asked Matthew with a condescending frown. “Is that something
feather boys say?”
“It’s something highlanders say,” Egil corrected him defensively. “You’d know that if your head
wasn’t so empty.”
“It’s not,” the other boy protested.
“Then why do I always beat you when we play chess?” Egil pointed out triumphantly.
“What is its meaning?” Baldwin asked, interrupting their quarrel.
“What? Oh,” said the apprenticed scribe. “It refers to Hamaring. Improve your skills with both
hammer and quill, the whiterobes always say.”
“Strengthen your body and sharpen your mind,” the squire nodded.
“Exactly.”
“Nobody does that,” Matthew argued. “I train with weapons because I am a warrior. Feather boy
here trains with parchment and ink,” he added, nodding towards Egil.
“A knight does,” Baldwin countered. “We practise both riding and fighting, but also numbers and
letters, history and knowledge of the land.”
“Glad I am not going to be one,” Matthew replied, sounding comfortably lazy.
“So is the Order,” Egil mumbled, eliciting a smile from Baldwin.
“We all serve in different ways,” the squire declared with a tranquil voice.
~~~~
The camp seemed all but deserted once the army had left. A handful of soldiers stood guard by the
gate or dispersed along the stockade. A few craftsmen had remained in camp and were at work. The

77
sounds of a hammer striking an anvil could be heard ringing; elsewhere, the stench of leather being
tanned made its presence known.
A soldier entered the tent where Godfrey was chained up, wielding a key. Barely glancing at the
prisoner, he grabbed the shackles and unlocked them. “You’re allowed outside,” he spoke gruffly.
“What about my sword?” asked Godfrey.
“I couldn’t say. Not my problem,” the soldier replied dismissively. “Lieutenant said you can walk
around camp, but you’re not allowed to leave until told otherwise. Understood?”
“Understood.”
The footman left without another word while the freed Godfrey got to his feet. Walking outside, he
blinked a few times against the sunlight, narrowing his eyes as he glanced around. Having gotten his
bearings, he began to walk idly in one direction. From a distance, hidden between some of the
remaining tents, a pair of eyes kept watch.
~~~~
While there was still daylight, Godfrey seemed content with merely wandering around, making
occasional conversation or procuring something to eat. He stopped by the carpenter, admiring his
craftsmanship as the latter sawed planks for various purposes; when the foraging party returned with
fresh water from the nearby stream, a few jests and gracious words allowed Godfrey to drink his fill
from one of the barrels. All through these encounters, a soldier was twenty to thirty paces behind
Godfrey, never losing him of sight.
The former prisoner spent the last hours of the day in conversation with some of the soldiers seated
around a campfire, trading stories. Godfrey’s shadow had remained patiently in hiding behind a tent,
gnawing on some dried meat on occasion. He only stirred when he saw Godfrey rise and make some
form of farewell, though the words were inaudible to him.
The observer nimbly and quietly moved closer; the darkness made it harder to see Godfrey. In fact,
none noticed as the wanderer put his hand inside a pocket and withdrew a handful of soaked sawdust;
as Godfrey threw it on the fire, however, it caught everyone’s attention. The flames sputtered, ejecting
sparks in every direction and causing a burst of smoke. The soldier sent to watch Godfrey shielded his
eyes, looking away. It was only a moment before he returned his gaze to the same spot, but too late.
Panic on his face, he hurried forward with eyes darting in every direction, but to no avail; Godfrey
was gone.
~~~~
It was late the following day when a weary traveller approached a small rock formation many miles
south-west of Tothmor. He was still some distance away when a voice cried out, “Javed!” A shadow
appeared to spring from the stone and stepped into the sunlight to reveal itself as a black-clad warrior,
specifically an outlander of their blackboot company.
“Good,” Godfrey exclaimed. “I was worried none might be here.”
“We have kept a sharp watch,” replied Kamran. “You seem worn.”
“I have walked all night and day.”
“Trouble?” asked the blackboot with a concerned look, handing Godfrey a water skin to drink
from.
“I will explain as we walk,” his companion replied after some heavy sips. He began to walk north-
east, Kamran joining him. “The drylanders are marching towards Tothmor.”
“How so?” it burst from Kamran. “They cannot have received great reinforcements in the dead of
winter, can they?”

78
 “No,” Godfrey shook his head. “Something has given them courage to assault Tothmor. Has there
been any great change in the city?”
“None,” replied the blackboot. “There is some fatigue among the men as to be expected when
water is rationed so harshly. But our grip on the city remains strong.”
Godfrey took a few more sips from the water skin without slowing his pace. “Perhaps they hope
the lack of water has grown so desperate, they can besiege the city in a few weeks, but that seems a
foolhardy endeavour.”
“Winter rains will be on us soon,” Kamran added, looking up at the cloudless sky. “With the latest
provisions from Lakon, we will have enough until then.”
“What provisions?” Godfrey asked, coming to an abrupt halt as he turned to look at his
companion.
“A supply train arrived from Lakon shortly before I left the city,” Kamran explained. “It had been
attacked, but the drylanders were careless. Almost half the water survived.”
“How odd,” Godfrey mumbled, resuming movement. “Destroying the water barrels would be the
highest priority, you would think. Are you certain of this?”
“Completely,” the outlander replied. “I was going to fill my skin from the barrels, except they
would not let me. I watched them take it to the reservoir instead.”
“Strange,” Godfrey uttered, scratching the stubbles on his cheek. “First the drylanders allow this
water to reach the city, and now they march with haste – of course,” he suddenly spoke, interrupting
himself. “It is obvious. How do you kill an enemy that you are not strong enough to fight?”
A frown crossed Kamran’s face. “You stab him in the back. Or poison him.”
“When you return, you will find more than fatigue plaguing the garrison,” Godfrey declared.
“They poisoned the water and let your soldiers bring it back.”
“What do we do? Should we warn the commander?” Kamran asked concerned.
“I cannot predict the consequences of this, one way or the other,” Godfrey admitted. His face
spoke of deep weariness, but he increased his pace. “I think we must let this play out. Allow the
drylanders to seize the city if they can.”
“We do nothing?”
“You will get me into the city,” Godfrey commanded. He squinted his eyes at Mount Tothmor as it
loomed against the horizon. “Afterwards, gather your brethren and go on patrol. Whatever happens to
the city, be far away when it does.”
“Understood,” Kamran assented. They quickened their pace yet again.
~~~~
It took the Order army three days of forced march to cover the distance from their main camp to
Tothmor. Their commanders had judged the march well, making the final approach to the city after
nightfall. Hundreds of men, primarily the best marksmen among the archers, had been sent ahead to
catch any outlander patrols and silence them. This accomplished, the Order army poised its ranks on
the plain before Tothmor with moonlight illuminating their helmets and armour. The city was asleep
and its few sentinels unaware of what was about to unfold.

79
 12. Shadow War
Tothmor
The day preceding the nightly assault, a blackboot returned to the city from patrol. He had a prisoner
with him, captured and brought back for questioning. The guards waved them through, one district
gate after another; it was commonplace for the blackboots to move between the highest and lowest
circle. Furthermore, each gate was undermanned, and the soldiers that were present seemed
preoccupied with keeping their heads up and the food in their stomachs down.
Once inside the first circle, Kamran steered towards the dungeon. Thanks to the dedication of the
flame priestess, they were no longer as crowded as before, though they were by no means empty.
Kamran led his captive through corridors and down stairways until he reached a room containing a
few guards. They all seemed in good health, drinking water from the supply kept separate inside the
palace.
“I need to stash this prisoner for a day until he is to be questioned tomorrow,” Kamran explained.
One of the soldiers got up, eyeing Godfrey. “Why not ask your questions now? He’s right there.”
“That is not your concern,” the blackboot replied brusquely. “Put him somewhere isolated and
leave him there. I do not want him talking to anyone, whether they are drylanders or faithful.”
“All good, all good,” the guard grunted, getting manacles to slap around Godfrey’s leg. Kamran
glanced at Godfrey, standing idle for a moment, which attracted a few curious stares from the
remaining soldiers. Clearing his throat, the blackboot left.
“Isolated,” one of the seated guards scoffed. “Sarvar take him! What does he expect?”
“Careful,” cautioned the one slapping chains on Godfrey. “The sāyag has not only the soft tread of
a cat, but its ears too.”
“He is just a man,” his companion spoke with disdain. “He is not of the fravashi.”
“Still, you want to go against his orders?”
“He does not command me,” came the dismissive answer, though spoken by a voice growing less
certain of itself.
“Throw the dust-eater in the storage room, the one by the end of the hall,” a third guard suddenly
interjected. “It won’t matter what he says in there.”
The guard by Godfrey’s side lit up in a grin and began walking, pulling the prisoner with him.
They walked for a while, passing cell doors through which the occasional moan or pained sigh
could be heard. The guard showed no interest in those, instead leading Godfrey to a small door, which
opened to a likewise tiny room. Provisions had at one time been stored here. Now it was empty except
for hay strewn on the floor and a wooden beam supporting the ceiling; iron rings had been attached to
the wood, transforming it into a primitive cell. The guard quickly fastened Godfrey and left, closing
the door without a second glance. It left the room in complete darkness.
Godfrey raised his hands in front of him, still bound by rope. “Not much hospitality here,” he said
at the closed door in Mearcspeech.

80
 “No room at the tavern,” a voice called out in the darkness.
Godfrey started, staring in the direction of the sound to no avail. “I did not realise I had company.”
“No room,” the speaker repeated.
“He could have untied my hands, at least,” Godfrey mentioned.
“I miss my barrel.”
Godfrey gave a frown. “We have met before.”
“No,” the other voice spoke contemplatively. “No, this is the first time you are in here.”
“You are the mad prophet from the street. The one who awaited the return of the god in the
mountain.”
“You know of him? Have you seen him?” The eagerness was unmistakeable.
“Not since we last met, which must have been months ago,” Godfrey explained in a kind voice.
“So this is where you ended. They sent you as their thrall to make the land fertile, and for your
reward, you languish in here.”
“I tried to sow,” the madman replied. “I ploughed and tiled the earth, I sowed my seeds, but none
would take.”
“They did,” Godfrey argued. “Some listened, and others watched to find conscripts for their cause.
The poor and downtrodden, ripe to be recruited. You were merely the scare doll on the field, attracting
attention. And now they have placed you in here, in case they will need you again.”
“You think so?” The eagerness returned to his voice. “I will be called upon again?”
“I wonder how long you have been a prisoner in both body and mind,” Godfrey mumbled. “You
are beyond my help.”
“He has not forgotten me.” One could hear the smile as the madman spoke. “He will return and see
how I have served him. He shall call me faithful.”
“Do you think the sun has set yet?” Godfrey abruptly asked.
“The sun will only rise with his coming,” his companion rambled.
“I have places to be, you see,” came the explanation, “and I should neither be too early nor too
late.”
“All things happen according to the time he has set,” the prophet spoke blissfully.
“I suppose I will take my chances now,” Godfrey decided, speaking to himself. “I would have
preferred solitude, but you are hardly a reliable witness to anything.”
“I am a witness! That is my purpose, to bear witness.” The exclamation had come forcefully, but
the madman’s strength seemed sapped already, and his voice became a whisper.
“Stay here and wait,” Godfrey told him. “If my suspicions are correct, you will not be a prisoner
much longer.” With those words, he pulled his hands apart until the rope broke. Wasting no time, he
grabbed the iron ring around his leg that kept him chained. As if it were brittle glass, Godfrey broke
the ring apart with little visible effort exerted. Standing up, he left the room.
~~~~
The sun had set more than an hour ago when Rostam, commander of the city, entered the royal
chambers that now served him. The shadow warrior followed him all the way to the doorstep, staring
into the room with yellow eyes. A moment passed, Rostam standing restless, until the shadow seemed
satisfied and allowed the commander to close the door. With footsteps that barely made sound, the
shadow began patrolling down the corridor.
Rostam exhaled, removing some of his garbs and making himself more comfortable. He poured a
generous helping of wine into a goblet, immediately taking a deep draught.
“Pour me a cup. I am parched.”

81
 Rostam almost dropped the wine as he pivoted on one foot, his sword halfway out of the sheath.
“Rostam, it is me.”
“Javed!” he hissed. “Are you mad? What if I had stabbed you or alerted the guards?”
“Forgive me,” Godfrey said, though there was nothing apologetic about his voice. “I am
exceedingly weary.” He took the goblet from the outlander’s hands and emptied it.
“How did you get here?” Rostam asked, glancing around.
“What matters is why I am here. I have come to warn you,” the traveller explained.
“Of what?”
“Tonight, if my count is correct, the drylanders will attack Tothmor.”
Rostam’s eyes widened. “How is that possible?”
“They marched out of their camp some days ago.”
“But what chance do they have to take the city?”
“How many of your soldiers are in any condition to fight?” Godfrey asked. Rostam’s lips parted,
but no answer issued. “As I suspected. Nothing is certain, but I expect their assault will succeed.”
“There is a chance still,” Rostam spoke, eyes darting towards the door. “If I act now, perhaps I can
marshal the defences –”
“How will you explain your prescient knowledge? Besides, I do not think we want you to defend
the city.”
“You do not want me to defend the city,” Rostam said in correction. “These are my men about to
be slaughtered, men who trust me!”
“Speak quietly,” Godfrey admonished him. “Yes, that is to be endured. You are a traitor, Rostam,
which brings a bitter price to pay at times.”
“My men are not traitors, they do not deserve this!” Rostam argued fiercely.
“No, they do not,” Godfrey assented with a calm demeanour in contrast. “Neither do the Order
soldiers who will die tonight. None of us deserve any of this, but it cannot be any other way.”
Silence followed. “What must I do?” Rostam asked at length.
“Go to sleep.”
“What?”
“At some point, they will come to wake you with news of the assault. Lead the defence, but find
some reason to slip back here alone. I will show you a hidden way out of the city.”
“My shadow,” Rostam remarked, biting his lip. “If he notices my flight and brings word back, it
could be my head.”
“I will ensure that does not happen,” Godfrey promised. “Return to Sikandar, make up some story
about escaping, and return to his services.”
“If he will trust me,” Rostam argued. “I will be the man who lost this city. He might prefer to
make an example of me, or worse, I will be sent to Shahriyar’s mercy.” He swallowed, fingering his
neck.
“Sikandar knows your value. I feel confident he will prefer to make use of you.”
“You feel confident,” Rostam muttered.
“Would you rather stay and become a prisoner of the Order? Imagine your fate in this city after
what the Servants of the Flame have done to it.”
“Good point,” the commander mumbled. He began undressing himself, followed by his usual
routine before going to sleep; Godfrey retreated to a dark corner, allowing the shadows to swallow
him.
~~~~

82
At midnight, nearly two thousand soldiers crossed the plain before Tothmor. Soon, their approach
could not be concealed any longer, but it did not cause the attackers any hesitation. They spread out,
carrying storm ladders to assault the walls far apart. The outlanders scrambled to alert every available
defender and bring them to the fortifications. While few in number, most of them were Anausa,
trained with the bow and well suited for this task. They filled up every tower, raining down arrows.
The rest stood with spears, swords, and shields upon the walls, waiting as the ladders were raised and
Order soldiers began ascending.
It was a daunting task to climb up the ladders, getting onto the walls without being run through,
but the Order commanders had sent their knights to be the first wave of assault. While some fell, most
were able to get a foothold and begin pushing the outlanders back. Once the knights were on the walls,
the circumstances changed to combat in which they excelled. The outlanders were too few to hope to
hold them back; within an hour, the knights swept down the defences and conquered the gatehouse.
Once the gate was opened, a force of fifty mounted knights rode through, having been kept in
reserve for this purpose. Their horses thundered up the main street of the city, achieving their goal due
to surprise and speed. The outlanders were still sending reinforcements to the fifth district, and the
gate between the fifth and fourth was open; before they realised that the enemy was already inside the
city, the knights and their companions seized this gate as well. Battle erupted on the open square as
the knights pressed forward towards the third district while the outlanders were finally arriving in
numbers, pushing back.
At first, the skirmish was even. The knights were superior when counted one for one, but the
outlanders soon greatly outnumbered them, and the open area allowed them to fight with closed ranks,
assaulting the Order force from several sides. Constantly, the Anausa soldiers pushed forward, their
discipline asserting itself to allow them to gain ground; the knights, trained to fight until death, fought
with such ferocity that every gain made by the outlanders was swiftly lost moments after.
The stalemate was only broken by the appearance of a shadow warrior. In the dark of night, he was
barely visible in his blackened clothes and armour; his weapons shone coldly in the moonlight, and his
yellow eyes surveyed the fighting. Leading the Anausa forward, the shadow hurled himself into battle.
Armed with a sword and long dagger, he found weaknesses in the knights’ armour and struck them
down. One by one they fell, disrupting their ranks and turning their victory to defeat.
~~~~
By the outer gate and flanked by Baldwin, William stood assessing the situation. He had been fighting
to capture the gatehouse, and blood was upon his sword and armour. Now he had assumed the role as
captain again, directing his men. The outlanders were still arriving from every direction inside the
district, not knowing the outer walls were already lost or perhaps hoping to retake them. In response,
William was directing his troops as new enemies appeared, ensuring the gate remained on Order
hands and allowing his army to enter the city.
His attention was caught by a sergeant running down the hill, coming from the gate to the fourth
district. “What are you running from, man?” William yelled at him, stepping forward. “The battle is
that way!”
“The outlanders are retaking the upper gate,” the sergeant gasped. “Our men are being
massacred!”
“With me!” William shouted at the score of soldiers surrounding him, running with no sign of
weariness into the city.
~~~~

83
The knights had been pushed into the very gatehouse they had conquered, desperately holding onto it.
The difficulties in assaulting the inner walls of the city meant that victory would be costly, and the
price would increase over time as the outlanders could better prepare their defence. For now, the close
fighting conditions caused by the narrow gatehouse aided the knights with their inferior numbers;
rather than attempting to win the skirmish, they defended themselves as best they could.
Against them, the shadow warrior stood with not a single cut or wound upon him despite the fact
that he fought without shield; both his blades dripped with blood. He cut a daunting figure, striking
fear into even the battle-hardened knights as they could do naught but defend themselves with
increasing despair. Just as they were hardest pressed, just as the gate was nearly lost, the elated cry
went up from the men in the back. “He’s here! The Unyielding is here!”
Without hesitation, William flung himself into the fray. Several outlanders fell to his blade before
he stood face to face with the shadow warrior. Each paused, measuring their foe; then their fight
began.
At first, soldiers from either side continued to fight around them, trying to intervene; whenever
someone did, they fell swiftly as if a minor inconvenience to either of the combatants. Under the arch
of the gatehouse, there was little room for others regardless. Soon, the soldiers were reduced to
spectators, watching tensely and ready to spring into action as soon as their champion claimed victory.
William fought true to his name, refusing to yield ground and allow the gatehouse to be taken. He
wielded his shield in an offensive manner as expertly as was possible while making full use of its
defensive capabilities. The shadow warrior with his two blades, lacking the same protection, was
forced to defend himself with hardly any chance to strike back.
First blood was drawn by the knight. The shadow warrior did not wear greaves, only leather to
protect his lower legs; William’s Nordsteel blade cut a gash across the shin. His opponent snarled and
drew back defensively, but a moment later used his leg as before with no visible consternation.
A lengthy exchange of blows and parries ensued, culminating in the shadow slashing his sword
across William’s chest. It tore his Order surcoat, cutting tips of the star, but the mail below held true.
Having moved forward to strike William, the shadow had exposed himself, and the knight slammed
his shield into his opponent’s face. The cloth wrapped around him fell loose, revealing the steel mask
covering his face. The hideous sight carved into the mask did not cause William to hesitate, who
followed up with a violent thrust of his sword forward.
The shadow evaded at the last moment, retaliating as William was now the one to leave himself
exposed. The dagger came against William’s shield arm on the inside, cutting through the leather
straps that held it bound to his limb.
With a blow from his sword aimed at the edge of the shield, the shadow shattered William’s
tattered hold upon it, and it fell to the side. William quickly stepped aside, out of reach. Blood was
tricking down his left arm; the shadow’s dagger had also found his flesh where the mail was
weakened and bracers did not protect.
Emboldened by his enemy’s vulnerability, the shadow renewed his assaults. William’s sword
flashed in constant movements to protect him, though some blows had to be received by his bracers or
chain shirt; the shadow knew how to use his sword to put William’s in check while his knife struck
against the knight.
Finally, the fell warrior had luck. His dagger burst the rings of William’s mail, slicing through
fabric and leather to bite into flesh. With a gasp, William glanced down to see the blade in his
stomach. With his left hand, he grabbed the shadow’s wrist, preventing him from sliding the dagger
out. This left both warriors in precarious situations; their left arms crossed in front of them and locked
together, neither could defend against the other’s sword arm.

84
 The shadow raised his weapon for a deadly strike, but William brought up the pommel of his
sword for a swifter attack, striking it against his enemy’s face. There was a clash of metal as it hit the
mask. Before the shadow’s confusion lifted, William struck again, repeatedly smashing the pommel
against his enemy’s jawbone or temple where the mask did not protect. With a yell born of pain and
exertion, William finally hacked his sword into the shadow warrior’s neck. It took him another four
blows to sever the head. It landed on the ground, as did the fallen creature’s sword, soon followed by
his body. Blood pulsed upwards from the hole in the neck.
The Anausa watched the end of the fight with shock and horror; scarcely had the shadow’s head
landed before they cried out in fear and fled. The Order soldiers for their part roared in lust for battle
and gave pursuit.
William sank to his knee, keeping one hand on the knife in his stomach. Baldwin rushed to his side
to support him, two solitary figures standing under the shade of the gatehouse; a sudden eye in the
storm that raged around them.
~~~~
As the outlanders abandoned the third district, the Order soldiers took control of its main square while
pressing forward. The streets of the circle were empty save for a singular figure; while ordinary
citizens hid indoors, Daena the flame priestess stood outside, watching the city fall. She had been
occupied in the temples of the Mearcian gods throughout the morning until the sounds of battle alerted
her and her companions. The shadow warrior felled by William had been her protector; she was alone.
A score of Order soldiers began a slow march down the street in close formation, ready to form a
shield wall and repel any remaining enemies in this arm of the district. Some of them noticed the red-
robed woman standing in the streets, but as she did not appear threatening, they simply shouted for her
to leave the street.
As for her part, Daena stared at the Order warriors behind their great shields. Her right hand hung
by her side, holding a stained knife. Looking down upon it, Daena turned on her heel and entered the
temple behind her. It had once been dedicated to Rihimil; any sign of that was gone. The stone acting
as altar in the main hall was dyed red with fresh blood. On the floor lay the remains of a prisoner with
a slit throat. The result of Daena’s work this morning.
Walking up to the altar, Daena raised the knife. “In your name,” she whispered, placing it at her
own throat. “All for the Godking!” she declared. Her final words before the knife ran from ear to ear.
Both knife and priestess fell down; as the blood poured from her body, Daena convulsed. Soon after,
she lay still.
~~~~
Outside the city, the remaining Order infantry not committed to the battle stood arrayed along with a
mottled band on horseback. Chief among them was Brand, flanked by his young sergeant and his
man-at-arms. Besides them, a minstrel and a scribe were also present. The sight of Tothmor against
the mountain was in front of them; as the fighting had ceased on the outer fortifications, they could
not see any sign of battle. Even the sounds had trouble reaching them, muted by buildings and walls.
To the ignorant observer, the city might seem peaceful as the sun slowly began to rise on the horizon.
A runner appeared from the city, moving from the gate up towards Brand’s location. “I come from
the captain,” he panted.
“Report.”

85
 “Fighting remains in the first district,” the soldier recited. “They are entrenched. Sir William has
been wounded.” Looks and murmurs were exchanged among the listeners. “He does not consider it
severe, but it leaves him unable to assess the situation or fight.”
Brand turned towards the reserves and the knight standing by them. “Take two companies with
you all the way to the first district,” he commanded. “Order the rest to cleanse the lower districts.”
The knight nodded and barked some orders. The last five hundred Order soldiers set into motion.
Some followed their knight lieutenant up the city to finish the assault, while the rest split into smaller
forces to search through the streets of each circle and clear out pockets of resistance.
“Let us take a closer look at our victory,” Brand told his followers and was met by grinning faces
from some, troubled looks from others. Spurring his horse forward, the first lieutenant rode into
Tothmor. Despite the triumph of the moment, Brand’s face was passive as he entered, even when the
Order soldiers at the gate greeted him with salute and words invoking Sigvard’s blood. His man-at-
arms looked with dispassionate interest on the bodies that littered the streets and open square. His
sergeant glanced in every direction with great curiosity. The scribe likewise had eyes darting
everywhere, though his reaction was subdued. The bard, entering as the last, had sorrow chiselled into
his features.

86
 13. Changing Guard
Tothmor
“I shall always regret I never saw that duel.”
William gave a pained smile. “Baldwin will be happy to recount the tale, I am sure.” He was lying
on what had once been the marshal’s bed in the upper chambers of the Order keep, which was flying
the banner of the Star once more.
“Bards will be singing it soon, I bet,” Brand claimed, his smile unmarred.
“Gods spare me, I have suffered enough,” William jested, which made his companion grin.
“I will send Troy to keep you company,” Brand threatened. William let his rare laughter sound,
though quickly followed by a winced expression. “How is the wound?” Brand asked concerned.
“A trifle,” the captain declared. “I will be on horseback in a few days.”
“I have learned a new word in the outlander tongue,” Brand confided in him. “I cannot pronounce
it, but it means ‘Shadow Slayer’. Their name for you,” he added. “Their fear of you is more effective
than threats of torture.”
“This wound was not for nothing, in that case,” William said with a wry smile. “Is the city under
our control?”
Brand nodded. “Every circle. Our men have begun cleaning up. We have far too many prisoners.
We may have to send them to Ingmond to be guarded there. I will send an expedition today to fetch as
much water as possible, also.”
“The water!” William sat up suddenly, disturbing his injury and contorting his face in pain.
Brand held up his hands in a calming gesture. “I have already had the contaminated water removed
from the cisterns. We are very low, but I also sent a messenger to our camp, and Sir Ewind will bring
any water there to the city with speed.”
“Good,” William mumbled, lying down again with careful movements.
“I will start recruitment as well. We lost about three hundred men. I do not know the number of
wounded yet. Except one,” he added with the corner of his mouth curling upwards, looking at the
injured captain. “We need to replenish our ranks.”
“It will not be enough to keep the city safe,” William muttered darkly. “We cannot recruit enough
to match the outlanders’ numbers. Once they know what we have done, they will march on Tothmor
to besiege it, and the city is not in any shape to withstand a siege.”
“I am aware,” Brand declared. “I have written letters to the quartermaster at the Citadel and the
town criers in Middanhal, informing them of our victory and our need for aid.”
“The town criers?” William raised an eyebrow.
“The people should know of our success, should they not?” Brand asked, his sly smile showing
that his question needed no answer.

87
 “If we are fortunate, the outlanders will not move against us before winter’s end, which gives us a
few months. That is not enough time to expect aid or reinforcements from Middanhal. Not when there
is no lord marshal to give the order and see it done with speed.”
“You are right,” Brand admitted. “I doubt we can expect the lord protector to care about our
plight.”
“We cannot afford being trapped in Tothmor,” William began to explain, closing his eyes. “But if
we move against Polisals to the north, we risk being attacked by their army in Lakon and reverse. We
must avoid being besieged, and we do not have time to lay siege either.”
“The battlefield is our only chance, and we must do so before their armies link up,” Brand
assented.
“When they hold all the advantages, how do we accomplish this? And whom do we march against
first?”
“I do not know, and I do not know,” Brand confessed, though a smile played on his lips. “I will
have to find out.” He paused briefly. “You should rest. We will speak again later.”
William gave a barely perceptible nod. “Can you send the boy scribe to me later? If you are
sending letters to Middanhal, I should write to Eleanor.”
“Of course,” Brand promised, leaving the captain’s room.
As he walked out of the tower and moved towards the district gate, he was spotted by several
elderly men in rich clothing. “Sir Adalbrand,” they called out and stalked towards him with an abrupt
agility belying their age. They crowded around the young knight, who stood a head taller and gave the
impression of a kennel master surrounded by eager hounds. “Sir Adalbrand, we must speak with you!”
“Did you receive our request for an audience?”
“We have a petition you must hear,” claimed one.
“I implore your aid, my lord,” urged another.
“My lord counts,” Brand interrupted them, raising his hands. “I am but the first lieutenant. Your
questions should be directed at the captain.”
“Then we must see him as soon as possible,” someone demanded.
“Of course. As soon as his wounds are healed,” Brand smiled. “Now excuse me, I have matters
that require my attention,” he told them and pushed his way through the noblemen. Some of them
attempted to follow as did their clamour, but they could not keep the young lieutenant’s pace for long,
and he disappeared through the gate and into the city.
~~~~
Three boys stood on the great square by the city gate, looking around. There was a bustle of Order
soldiers moving in every direction, but the silver spurs on Baldwin’s boots gave him authority
whenever anyone yelled at them to gawk somewhere else.
“Over there, I saw Count Hubert stand on the crenellations while hacking a siege ladder to pieces,”
the squire told his companions. “Arrows flying everywhere with nothing to shield him.”
“That’s impressive,” Matthew granted with envy in his voice.
“Sir Leonard must have fallen somewhere around here,” Baldwin speculated, his eyes glancing
over the open area. “I hope they did not mistreat his body. He deserved the utmost honour.”
“Can’t expect these filthy dust-lickers to show any decency,” Matthew exclaimed venomously.
“Sir Leonard was the marshal? You saw him fall?” asked Egil.
“No, if I had seen it, I would not have to guess,” Baldwin explained. “But last I saw, he was
standing here, preparing his men to meet the enemy once they breached the gate. He knew death
would follow.”

88
 “He sounds like a brave man,” Egil mentioned.
“He did what an Order soldier should do,” Matthew declared, touching the star on his chest.
“Let’s begin to go back,” the scribe said to the other boys. “Troy asked me to write a letter for him
tonight, and I need to write something for Sir Adalbrand first.”
They began walking up the main street, soon reaching the district gate. Baldwin slowed his pace as
they walked under the arch of the gatehouse, eventually coming to a halt. “Right here, this was the
first time I was afraid for Sir William’s life,” he spoke quietly.
“I heard about the fight,” Matthew said eagerly. “Was it really what they say?”
“I don’t know what they say,” the squire replied. “I didn’t watch the fight for the spectacle, either.
Watching it was worse than when I fought on the walls during the siege.”
“But he will be fine,” Egil reassured his friend. “The lay brother said so, right?”
“Yes.” Baldwin started moving again. “Let’s get back.”
They continued walking through a city that, although liberated, still had an air of oppression
darkening its streets. Mostly soldiers were seen outside while the inhabitants stayed indoors; more
than the harshness of winter lay heavy on Tothmor still.
~~~~
The first lieutenant of the Order army walked down the road, reaching the third district. It was unusual
to see an Order commander unattended, but the lieutenant did not seem troubled, nor did any give him
trouble. The locals shied away from seeing a knight approach, and the soldiers showed him the utmost
respect; everyone knew that it had been Brand’s idea and plan to assault Tothmor.
At the gate square, he glanced east and west, deciding to follow the main district street as it led to
the temples for the male divines. The third circle was possibly the area most changed by the
occupation; where it once had been crowded by robes in all six colours, Brand barely saw any now.
He reached the temple for Rihimil. The building itself had seen little change, though its interior
was unrecognisable to any follower of the divines. The hall had been stripped almost bare. The
tapestries on the walls had been burned. The wall painting behind the altar in the custom of the great
Temple in Middanhal had systematically been demolished with a pickaxe, leaving only half-broken
stone behind. The same had been done to the floor tiles, as they had been coloured to depict a knight
in black armour surrounded by shining white. The statue that had adorned the altar had been smashed
to pieces. Only the altar stone itself remained; its white marble was stained dark red.
“Gods’ peace,” Brand called out, “to you and any of your house.” The walls threw back the sound
of his own voice.
There was a moment before any answer came. “There is only me,” a voice replied, soon followed
by a man in black robe appearing from deeper inside the shrine. “But gods’ peace to you.” His robe
was completely unadorned, showing him to be a mere acolyte.
“It is true what we heard? You are alone?”
“I am,” the blackrobe confirmed. Although he spoke and acted in a calm manner, his face seemed
perpetually haunted. “I have been doing my best to clean up, though progress is slow. I expect my
brothers in Middanhal will send aid once they learn of my plight.”
Brand gave moisture to his lips, his typical nonchalance gone. “Is the place suitable for prayer, or
should we wait until it can be cleansed?”
The acolyte looked at the stained altar stone. “Many of my brothers died there. The spilling of
lifeblood in a sanctified place is odious to Rihimil, but they were killed because they would not deny
him. No matter how much I may wash this stone, that colour will remain, as it should. I cannot think
of any places in the realms where Rihimil would listen as intently as here.”

89
 “Good,” Brand nodded. He took a purse from his belt, heavy with silver, and placed it in the
blackrobe’s hand. Being a victorious commander brought other benefits besides the respect of his
men. “Put this towards the restauration of the temple until Middanhal sends help.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the acolyte replied with a small bow. Despite the generous donation, he did
not seem overwhelmed with gratitude, nor did he seem disdainful. It appeared as if strong emotions
were simply beyond his grasp.
“I wish to pray,” Brand continued, and the blackrobe retreated out of the hall.
Walking forward, the knight knelt by the altar. He ran his finger over the reddened marble, his
brow furrowed in contemplation. Finally, he leaned forward to place his forehead against the edge of
the altar stone, mumbling prayers.
~~~~
Given the scarcity of supplies that Tothmor had suffered during the siege and the occupation
afterwards, finding an alehouse that served customers was a challenge. Wine was little more than a
legend, brandy and other spirits long gone. For those willing to pay an exorbitant cost for watered
down beer, a few establishments were still available to be patronised. With the promise of a spectacle,
Troy was even able to bargain the price down to a level where, as Quentin put it, it only gouged out
one eye instead of both.
A rendition of On the Field of Blue followed; there were a couple of times where Troy hummed
with closed eyes, hiding the fact that he did not quite remember the words to sing, but the audience
was not picky and rewarded him with generous applause. Some coins changed hands, and four mugs
of small beer were planted in front of the bard, Geberic, Nicholas, and Quentin. As if on command,
each man grabbed his tankard and raised it to his lips.
“It’s a far cry from Middanhal,” remarked Geberic, who was the only drakonian in the company.
“Mind you, it’s a lot better than the Crag,” he added with coarse laughter.
“I know what Hel is like now,” Nicholas declared dismayed.
“I’d sacrifice one hand for a decent mug of spiced ale. One of Nicholas’ too,” Quentin claimed
with a sour expression; the offered bargain elicited an indignant response from his friend.
They all looked at Troy, who emptied his cup in one gulp, setting it down on the table with a
satisfied sigh. Looking at the others, he was met by stares of disbelief. “What? This was my usual fare
before I met Leander.”
“How did a butter-fingered bard like you befriend the king of Hæthiod, anyway?”
“Yeah, what proof do we even have that you know him?”
“Anyone can send off a letter and claim it’s for a king.”
Before Troy could answer, a large fellow with the appearance of an experienced fighter
approached the table. As they noticed him, Quentin tensed slightly, while Geberic rested a hand
casually on his knife hilt. The stranger cleared his throat. “I hear you men serve the lieutenant of the
Order army.”
“What about it?” Geberic asked, keeping his voice neutral.
“I want to join.”
“They’ll take recruits soon enough,” replied the drakonian.
“Not the Order army. I hear you lot fight as his thanes. I want to be part of that.”
Quentin gave a quick, scornful laugh. “Anything else we can do for you? Cup of wine? New
clothes? Pay for your next visit at the –”
“If I join the Order army, I will be put on garrison duty with all the green boys. I want to fight the
outlanders.”

90
 “Admirable,” Geberic granted, “but we’re not in the habit of trusting the lieutenant’s life to any
fellow who walks up to us in a tavern.”
“I was a King’s Blade,” the stranger explained. “Queen’s Blade too. The lives of two sovereigns
were entrusted to me.”
“Yeah, and my mother is the Veiled,” Quentin mocked.
“It’s true,” Troy interjected. “His name is Glaukos. I remember him.”
Surprise coloured his companions. “You know him?” asked Geberic.
The minstrel looked up at Glaukos from his seat. “I do. When we fled the city, he stayed behind to
guard our escape. He must have done well, because we weren’t pursued.” Hearing this, the other men
exchanged looks.
“You’re the bard,” Glaukos exclaimed. “The king’s friend.”
Troy gave a big smile. “That I am.” He hesitated before speaking again, his smile faltering. “The
others assumed you died when the city was taken.”
Glaukos shook his head. “I disguised your escape and left the palace. With the city about to be
occupied, there were better ways to fight. I spent the next months ambushing outlander patrols,
harassing them as much as possible.” Grudging respect could now be read on most of the men’s faces.
“I fight as well as any man you will find. I fight until victory. I fight until death. Your lieutenant could
not be safer with my sword protecting him. I only ask for the chance to kill outlanders in return.”
Geberic scratched his beard. “Maybe we can find a place for you. How about you start by sitting
down and telling us what you did those months, fighting the outlanders here in the city.”
A chair was dragged from another table, and Glaukos took a seat.
~~~~
After sunset, Brand retired to the palace room he had claimed as his own, formerly belonging to some
courtier in low standing; it was small, but secluded and offered privacy. After Matthew had helped
him remove his armour, Brand dismissed the boy; once alone, he changed into clothes more suitable
for sleeping and turned towards his bed.
“I congratulate you on your victory,” a voice spoke. Brand spun around, grabbing his sword and
pulling it from its sheath. “I mean you no harm,” Godfrey claimed, raising his empty hands in front of
him. He was standing in the other end of the room, almost within sword length.
Brand took the candleholder and raised it above his eyes, letting its meagre light illuminate the
space between them. “You. I left you in camp.”
“Proper introductions are in order, I think. My name is Godfrey, if you do not recall, and I have
this as well,” the intruder explained, slowly taking a piece of paper from a pocket. He advanced a few
steps, placing it on the small table in the room, and retreated again.
Sword still pointed at Godfrey, Brand approached the table, put down the candle, and picked up
the paper. It was so worn, the writing upon it was barely legible. Squinting his eyes in the bad light,
Brand frowned. “You claim to be a servant of the Highfather?”
“I work with him, yes.”
“Are you here to investigate the temples?”
“I am here to lend aid as I can,” Godfrey answered. “Which has already served you well, I might
add.”
“Your information was appreciated, but it does not grant you leave to enter my chambers
unannounced at night.”
“Appreciated? You have turned the tide of this war because of it,” Godfrey argued.

91
 “We destroyed a supply train. Of little consequence in the grand scheme of things,” Brand said
dismissively.
“Ah, but you did not destroy it. You left the water for the outlanders, and a few days later, you
sleep in the palace of Tothmor.”
Brand’s brow furrowed deeply. “Take care, or your next conversation is with the hangman. The
rope around your neck will keep you from uttering false accusations.”
“I did not come to speak accusations, only information,” Godfrey declared. “To your benefit as
before.”
“Speak quickly, then.”
“You cannot stay in Tothmor, waiting to be besieged. You must move against the outlanders in
Polisals or Lakon. Here is what I know,” Godfrey told him. “The garrison at Lakon has three and a
half thousand Anausa infantry.”
“They are the ones in red robes?” Brand asked.
“They are,” Godfrey confirmed. “Another five hundred levies and two hundred Zhayedan, their
cavalry. Their commander is courageous, almost rash, but not a fool. The streets of the city are tense
with numerous clashes between the citizens and the soldiers, leaving the outlanders nervous and
hoping to be reinforced soon. They are well provisioned, being the destination for any supply trains
arriving from the Reach.”
“What else?”
“Polisals has a garrison of one thousand Anausa, one thousand levies. They do not have any
cavalry. Deemed the least important city to defend, it is under the command of the least trusted
lieutenant. He is overconfident in his own abilities. There were riots in the city some weeks ago,
which was brutally oppressed, and Polisals has been quiet since. The garrison is well stocked on food
and water, though less so in terms of equipment.”
Brand gave a slow nod. “Very useful information. If it can be trusted.” He raised the tip of his
sword slightly. “How do you know this? How can you know that Lakon is where reinforcements
arrive when the outlanders initially arrived from the east?”
“We will speak again, and I shall reveal more,” Godfrey promised with the corner of his mouth
curled upwards.
“You will reveal everything in time, I agree,” Brand muttered. “Guards!” he yelled. “Intruder!”
Godfrey’s only response was quickly stepping forward. Brand raised his sword in defence, but he
was not the target; reaching for the candle on the table, Godfrey extinguished it with his fingers and
plunged the room into complete darkness.
Brand struck out with his sword, using the flat of the blade, but hit only air. He advanced, finding
only furniture in the dark. As the door was flung upon, light streamed in from the torches in the
hallway.
“Sir!” shouted the guards, confusion erupting as several of them attempted to enter the small
space.
“Enough!” Brand commanded. “There is an intruder in the palace. Find him!”
The guards dispersed with alacrity, raising the alarm. As for Brand, he buckled his sword around
him and threw a cloak around his shoulders. Leaving the palace, he walked to the Order keep and
found an empty bed in the barracks. If any of the soldiers found it odd that the first lieutenant should
sleep among them, they did not raise any questions, and Brand slept soundly through the night in their
company.
~~~~

92
The next morning, Brand woke to Geberic standing over his bed with a scowl. “A word in private, my
lord?”
“You may have two,” Brand spoke magnanimously. “You can walk with me back to my
chambers.”
The two men left the keep to cross the palace grounds. They were barely out of earshot from the
barracks before Geberic began speaking. “When you told me I could go into the city yesterday, I
assumed you’d stay inside the palace walls,” he fumed.
“I am not responsible for your assumptions, Geberic,” his master said placidly.
“You walked around on the streets alone,” the man-at-arms complained. “What if you had been
assaulted?”
“I was surrounded by Order soldiers everywhere,” Brand countered. “I am quite safe in daylight.
Night time, on the other hand…”
“I heard from one of the men,” Geberic grumbled. “Just now as I woke up. Why didn’t you wake
me? I am supposed to guard your safety, and hearing about this from some foot soldier is
embarrassing enough, not to mention the implied laughter that I am not doing my duty.”
“You have my sympathies,” Brand spoke with a flat voice as they walked inside. “Yet I cannot see
what more could have been done to keep me safe deep inside the palace.”
“You will quit sleeping alone, I presume,” Geberic scowled. “I’ll get a room for you in the keep.”
“I slept quite well in the barracks,” his master replied.
“Like a common soldier?” There was uproar in Geberic’s voice. “And me, I suppose I should sleep
on the floor in front of your bed like a dog.”
“Geberic, it was a jest,” Brand said mildly. “Arrange it as you wish.”
“Very well,” he spoke, mollified. “There’s something else. A King’s or Queen’s Blade, both I
suppose, wants to join your retinue.”
“What is known of him?”
“The name’s Glaukos,” the soldier explained. “Troy speaks on his behalf and says he’s
honourable. I also tested his mettle, and I am not ashamed to say he beat me with little trouble. I had
one of the knights fight him afterwards too, and he held his ground with ease.”
“I trust your judgement. Have him equipped and find a place for him.”
“I will, milord.”
They reached the chamber where Brand’s belongings still lay scattered. Inside, they found a
confused Matthew.
“You, where have you been?” Geberic spoke brusquely.
“Here,” Matthew replied, looking around with a dazed expression. “Ever since I woke up.”
“You mean you just woke up,” Geberic growled. “You’ve been of no help to your master.”
“But –”
“Enough talk!” the man-at-arms yelled at the young sergeant, who almost jumped. Brand was
already busy dressing himself, looking elsewhere, though a smile played at his lips. “Help your lord
with his equipment, and stay by his side like a proper sergeant should! I’ll be back,” Geberic muttered,
leaving the room and the boy standing in a stupor.
“Matthew? Chain shirt,” Brand gently reminded him, making him snap to attention. Within
moments, the lieutenant was appropriately attired as a knight of the Order.
~~~~
Ascending the tower of the Order keep, Brand knocked and walked into William’s room without
waiting for an answer.

93
 “Enter,” William said dryly, lying on his sickbed. Brand gave a wry smile in reply.
“How is your health?”
“I will be ready to ride in a day or two,” the captain claimed.
“Liar,” Brand declared with another smile. “But at least you have the strength to lie, so you are not
at death’s door.”
“I never was,” came a grumbling response.
“I have given our situation some thought,” the lieutenant spoke next. “We should march against
Polisals, as soon as we can.”
“Their garrison has not been weakened as was Tothmor’s,” William objected. “We do not have the
men to storm the walls, and engaging in a lengthy siege will leave us far too vulnerable.”
“Agreed. Which is why we must lure them out of the city and destroy them utterly on the field.”
“Spoken with ease, done with difficulty,” the captain retorted. “Why would they meet us on the
open field? Since we cannot take Polisals by storm or besiege it for long, they need only wait us out.”
“They do not know that,” Brand smiled slyly. “All they will know is what we wish for them to
know. Trust me. The outlanders will meet us in the open.”
William sat silent in his bed before he leaned back. “Very well. We will march soon.”
“You mean I will march soon with the army. You will stay,” the lieutenant ordered his superior.
“Give me a few more days, and I will be ready.”
“William,” Brand said sternly, “we can argue for an hour that you should remain behind to regain
your full strength, also allowing you to handle matters here in Tothmor, or you can agree to it now and
save us both the time.”
Brief silence followed. “Fine,” came the resigned response.
“I will need a good lieutenant to lead the cavalry.”
“Sir Vilmund was first on the walls,” William coughed. “He is of the right mettle to spearhead a
cavalry charge.”
Brand nodded. “As you say. I will leave in a day or two, as soon as the new recruits can be relied
upon to garrison Tothmor.” He walked over to the window to gaze outside at the circles, as they
stretched out below.
“Tell me every detail of the battle once you are back.”
“You have my promise,” Brand declared, his attention still outside the window. He extended a
hand through the opening and began to laugh.
“What is it?” asked William, straining from his bed to turn and look.
“It rains,” Brand explained, glancing at William and laughing louder. “Can there be any doubt left
that our endeavour is blessed by the gods?” He turned his attention back outside, watching as people
flooded onto the streets with anything they could find to trap the precious liquid.
~~~~
The most arduous of all tasks after conquering a city was the disposal of bodies. Mearcian traditions
changed from realm to realm, sometimes from region to region, but they usually involved either burial
in the ground or immolation upon the pyre. In this case, both were employed. A number of citizens
were conscripted to dig numerous graves south of the city, far enough from the mountain that the soil
allowed for this. Under the care of the few norns that had survived the occupation, the Mearcian dead
were committed to Idisea’s embrace and sent to the afterlife.
None were inclined to dig graves for the dead outlanders, and fire was chosen for disposal of the
corpses. An actual funeral pyre was deemed more effort than the vanquished enemies deserved;
instead, the bodies were collected and carted far from the city before tossed into a pile and set aflame.

94
Despite the distance of many miles, the people of Tothmor saw the smoke rising in the horizon,
offering vindication to the heathmen.
Upon Brand’s orders, not all the dead enemies had been committed to the fire. Through the efforts
of the trusty Geberic, the body of the shadow warrior slain by William had been recovered and placed
in the vault underneath Idisea’s temple. Intended as a temporary resting place for the dead, the vault
was cool and delayed the decay of the flesh.
Flanked by Geberic, Brand entered the temple with a torch; while it was daylight outside, the room
beneath the temple had no windows. As his servant waited by the door, Brand stepped into the vault.
Upon a slab lay the dead shadow warrior, body and head; other than necessitated by moving him, he
had not been touched. He wore the dark armour and clothes of his kind, with a steel mask upon his
face attached to his helmet.
Brand carefully pulled the cloth around the helmet away, revealing the metal beneath. His hand
hovered over the mask for a moment before he took hold of it. With some difficulty, as the head was
not attached to anything, he pulled the mask and afterwards helm loose. Underneath, it revealed an
expressionless face. The skin was smooth with youth, showing no sign of beard growth. Yellow eyes
stared emptily towards the wall.
Brand looked at the head, returning the stare. Finally, he threw the mask back onto the chest of the
dead and turned away. “See that it is burned,” he commanded Geberic, leaving the vault.
~~~~
Two days later, Brand deemed the Order army ready. Besides replenishing the ranks and ensuring the
city would be properly garrisoned, other preparations had also been made. Ten prisoners among the
outlanders had been selected who knew the Mearcian tongue and thus would allow the Mearcians to
speak with the outlanders in Polisals if need be. The usual train of provisions was gathered along with
supplies for siege assaults. The storm ladders that had been used to conquer Tothmor were
disassembled and put onto carts in full view of the prisoners.
Like a coiled rope, the army began marching out from the first circle, uncoiling itself to become a
long, straight line down the mountain and through the city gates. Their progress was watched by both
the citizens as well as the recruits manning the walls. In the case of the former, their behaviour seemed
timid but encouraging with the occasional outburst of support at the departing soldiers. In the case of
the latter, the new soldiers stood on the walls and towers of Tothmor with muted expressions, openly
wondering when it would be their turn to march out and face the enemy.

95
 14. To the Spear Be Bold
Polisals
Twelve hundred Order soldiers marched west to circumvent Mount Tothmor, heading north
afterwards. In the far distance could be seen the Weolcan Mountains; under their shadow lay Polisals,
their destination. The army moved swiftly, being only lightly encumbered. Other than the most
necessary supplies, it brought only wooden logs to fortify the camp each night and to build siege
equipment with. Anything else that would normally have made the camp into a small town of its own
with blacksmiths, tanners, butchers, and many other craftsmen, had been left behind. There were no
horses either or knights, no fences or rudimentary stables raised for the night. This was the primary
reason why the army brought such few supplies, as feed was not necessary, and the need for water was
greatly reduced.
Apart from being scrapped for anything not deemed an absolute necessity, the army was
distinguished by another unusual feature. These were the outlander prisoners, knowledgeable in
Nordspeech. They were chained by the hands, allowing them to walk normally, and all of them linked
together and fastened to the supply carts. Each night, they were brought inside the camp and their
chains connected to a thick pole while kept under guard.
Geberic, known as the first lieutenant’s man, personally supervised the prisoners and the watch
kept on them. With William remaining in Tothmor, Brand was the acting knight captain, thereby
indirectly enhancing Geberic’s authority. Although the latter was not an Order soldier, the men
obeyed him readily, and any order spoken by Geberic concerning the prisoners was quickly adhered
to.
During the day, the pace was kept swift, preventing the outlanders from doing anything but focus
on the march. When break was held, they were forced to sit, restricting their view of the surroundings,
and they were forbidden from conversing with each other. At night, Geberic made sure their chains
were secure and no attempts of escape were possible.
Despite these precautions, it could not be prevented that the outlanders listened to the soldiers
talking, occasionally picking up bits of information. Geberic attempted to prevent such occurrences,
but useful drops of knowledge trickled through nonetheless.
Even worse were the events of the fourth night when Polisals was but a few days away. The army
was making camp, and in spite of Geberic’s vigilance, a fatal mistake concerning the prisoners were
made. The palisades had not yet been raised when the outlanders’ chains were removed from the carts
to be fastened to a wooden pole. As this was happening, Geberic appeared, inspecting the soldiers on
duty. This left a brief moment in which the prisoners’ chains were loose. They were quick to seize the
opportunity. Slipping the chains from the rings around their hands, the captives leapt into action,
rushing out of camp. As the fortifications had not been erected yet, there were no immediate obstacles
in their path. All ten of them ran north, pushing men aside and bolting towards the north. Cries of
alarm went up, and the chase was on.

96
 ~~~~
Some hours later, past midnight, Geberic sought out his master. “We captured three of them, and four
were killed. The remaining three must be making their way towards Polisals,” he spoke quietly, even
if none were present in the tent but a sleeping Matthew.
“Good,” Brand nodded. “That should do it. Tomorrow, send a message to Sir Vilmund. The
rearguard caught sight of one of his men yesterday. Tell him to keep greater distance.”
“Very good, milord,” Geberic acquiesced. He left, whereas Brand went to bed with a satisfied
expression.
~~~~
A few days later, a couple of outlanders reached Polisals. Their clothes were little more than rags, they
were exhausted to the point of losing consciousness, and their feet were torn and lacerated from
having run a great distance in ragged shoes. Once they had been given water, they were brought
before Jenaab Dalir, commander of the city. The news they brought was dire. They confirmed that the
lack of missives from Tothmor was because the city had fallen to the Mearcians. In a surprise assault
at night, they had seized the city. One of their knights had even slain a shadow warrior in single
combat, prompting fear to infect all who listened. Worse, the Order now marched against Polisals.
Their army was not great and did not even have cavalry, and they did not seem prepared for a lengthy
siege. Their only purpose could be a surprise assault such as the one against Tothmor, where the
Mearcians had succeeded against all odds.
Dalir summoned his advisors. Some argued in favour of preparing for a siege; if the garrison could
last the winter, reinforcements would surely be sent from the south eventually to attack Tothmor and
relieve Polisals. The fear of deception spoke against this; the Mearcians had found some way to take
Tothmor against a much greater garrison, using some manner of deceit. Polisals was their city
originally; what if they knew of some secret way inside?
Others thought that unlikely; there had been no sign of this so far, not even when the Hæthians had
rioted and there had been skirmishes in the streets. When the city had fallen to the outlanders some
months ago, there had been nothing to indicate secret passageways then either.
This was but one possibility; the city was full of traitors against the Godking. One man in the right
place, opening a gate, could be enough to let the Order flood inside and take the city.
Dalir spoke little, but his face conveyed many emotions. Confusion and uncertainty were chief
among them, followed by dismay, though occasionally, anger could suddenly flare up at the mention
of these deceitful Mearcians marching against him.
In the end, the call for resolute and decisive action took precedence. Rather than sit like cowards
behind the walls, risking some kind of subterfuge, Dalir would lead the Godking’s soldiers against the
Order army. Being half as many as the outlanders and with neither side possessing horsemen, the
Mearcians’ rash overconfidence would be turned against them.
~~~~
Two days later, the Order army stood arrayed on the plains south of Polisals. Heavily outnumbered,
none was kept in reserve. Behind the battle lines, Brand sat atop his horse with only a small band of
men surrounding him, two of which were not even warriors. The commander exuded confidence, even
in the face of the outlander army that took position opposite them. Twice their number, they held a
good number of Anausa infantry back to serve as reinforcements, and still their ranks stood deep and
heavy compared to the Order, whose lines were stretched thin to match the length of their enemy.

97
 Despite this, the knight captain showed no signs of uncertainty. With the advantage heavily in
favour of the outlanders, he had ordered his soldiers to stand fast and wait for the enemy to charge,
letting the outlanders suffer the disruption of ranks that inevitably would follow when rushing
forward.
To the north, Jenaab Dalir watched the Order army holding position. As the sun slowly began to
climb the horizon and there was no sign of change, he gave the order for his army to march forward.
Less than a mile separated the two forces; tension, anticipation, fear, and a myriad of other emotions
began to seep through the ranks on both sides.
At first, the opposing army was little more than blurred colours in the distance. All too quickly, the
image sharpened, and the individual soldiers could be distinguished. Their armour and weapons
became visible. The dust kicked up by their feet could be seen swirling around their legs.
The outlanders stopped. The Anausa took their bows from their backs and began shooting volley
after volley. In response, the Order soldiers raised their infantry shields and waited out the barrage.
Realising the futility, the captain ordered his men to put away their bows and close the distance.
The outlanders began a quick march. Soon, the individual features of each face could be
determined along with all the expressions that had not changed since the soldiers first began to
approach their enemy.
Less than three hundred yards separated the armies. The Anausa and their supporting levies broke
into a light run.
At a hundred yards, they began the sprint.
At fifty yards of distance, the Order soldiers responded by surging forward as well, adding
momentum to their defence against the outlander charge.
“For the Godking!” “For the Star!”
The clamour of voices was replaced by the sound of steel. Cries of war turned into cries of death.
Blood sprayed like fountains and was greedily drunk by the dust on the ground. Everywhere, men
suffered and died.
~~~~
Brand’s retinue as a commander of the Order consisted of an old greybeard, a former Queen’s Blade,
two longbowmen, a sergeant too young that he should ever have been allowed into the Order, a bard,
and a scribe’s apprentice. The only person who did not seem out of place other than Brand was the
Order soldier acting as his ensign and horn blower. Had the location been different, they would have
been mistaken for an acting troupe.
Each man was in his own state of mind. Geberic sat passively on his horse. Glaukos watched the
battle with eyes that were narrowed, containing suppressed anger. Nicholas was idly commenting on
the battle as it unfolded to Quentin, who gave only muted responses. Matthew was eagerly watching
everything and loudly remarking on all that he noticed. Troy was whispering different lines,
constantly rearranging the verses, looking for anything with particularly heroic or tragic quality that
he might turn into song. Egil, bearing the brunt of Matthew’s remarks, was keenly observing the
fighting, doing his best to understand the game of tactics playing out before him. The bannerman was
eating a pear.
As for Brand, he constantly shifted his attention between looking behind him and inspecting the
spectacle in front of him. The outlanders had put their levies to the east, so despite their fewer
numbers, the Order infantry easily held the right flank and was even gaining ground. Inferior in
equipment, training, and experience, these peasant soldiers were simply no match against the
professional warriors fielded by the Order.

98
 The left flank to the west was a different matter. Before Brand’s eyes, the Anausa were pushing
forward. With the terrain affording neither side any advantages and both types of soldiers being equal
as warriors, it was a question of who had the heavier armour and the greater numbers. With their great
shields and Nordsteel chain shirts, the Order could claim the former, but it was not enough to
outweigh that for every soldier of the Star, two were fighting for the Godking. Constantly, gaps were
threatening to appear in the lines of the Mearcians, and the men-at-arms in the back ranks were hard
pressed to plug them. Defeat was slowly, but surely approaching for the Order army.
An hour of fighting passed. Hundreds on both sides had already fallen; although the battle was not
in their favour, the Mearcians made the outlanders pay for each step taken towards victory. With the
fighting being this hard, it promised to last all day and into the night, whittling both sides down until
none would be left standing.
A sigh of relief escaped Brand, breaking his confident expression momentarily. Gazing back, a
cloud of dust could be seen approaching from the south. Soon, a new sound joined the noise of steel
breaking and men dying; hundreds of horses were riding north, their hooves thundering against the
earth.
~~~~
All eyes in Brand’s group turned back, watching the progression of the cavalry. Led by Sir Vilmund,
known for his impetuousness in battle, the hundred and fifty knights were riding as swiftly as they
could without exhausting their mounts before joining the fight.
The flat plains meant that the riders’ approach was hidden behind their own soldiers, shielding
them from the outlanders. Only when they veered to the right, describing a semi-circle to allow their
assault into the flank of the enemy, could their arrival no longer be concealed. There was not time for
the outlanders to shore up their ranks in preparation; the wedge of knights rammed deep into their
lines, all but disintegrating them. The peasant levies, already under pressure from the Order infantry,
broke and began to flee.
With a smile, Brand watched the battle turn in his favour; around him, his companions exchanged
excited remarks.
~~~~
Although it was too late to stop the charge of the knights, the outlander captain sent his reserves to the
eastern lines. The Anausa speedily moved into position, keeping the entire flank from falling apart.
Faced with enemy soldiers superior to those before, the advance of the Order infantry was halted, and
bitter fighting erupted once more. Meanwhile, the momentum of the knights had ended, and their
disciplined charge had turned into chaotic skirmishes, especially as some of the horsemen began to
chase the fleeing levies.
“Captain,” Geberic spoke quietly, nodding towards their left.
“I see it,” Brand spoke curtly.
After sending his remaining troops into battle to support one flank, the outlander captain had
realised his enemy’s weakness on the other and decided to exploit it. Riding forth, Jenaab Dalir and
his personal guard swiftly reached the battle lines westwards, acting as shock troops against the weary
Mearcians. Their ranks threatened to collapse; they were already straining under the relentless assault
from the Anausa, who in turn were encouraged by the presence of their commander. In resplendent,
gilded armour and astride a black stallion, Dalir was an imposing sight, and with his retinue, they were
cutting their way through the Order soldiers.

99
 “Signal the cavalry to pull back,” Brand ordered his ensign. The latter nodded and took the horn
hanging around his neck, blowing two short notes. Nothing happened except that more of the knights
broke away to pursue the fleeing enemy. “Signal again,” Brand commanded impatiently. The
bannerman sounded the horn, but it did not appear to have effect. “Matthew,” the young captain
barked, “find Sir Vilmund and tell him to reinforce the left flank. Now!”
Matthew nodded and gave half a salute at the same time, galloping away.
“Geberic, Glaukos, stay on my flanks. You,” Brand continued, looking at the archers, “clear a path
for me as best you can once we are in the fray.” His men gave curt nods, preparing their weapons.
Grabbing tight hold of his shield, Brand placed the reins in the same hand and drew his sword. His
spurs sent his horse into a slow trot, soon followed by the others, leaving only the bard and the scribe
behind.
~~~~
It was afternoon. The battle had lasted several hours, and with both armies carving slowly through the
other, the slaughter promised to continue many more.
Reaching his men, Brand saw that the left flank was all but torn apart. The lines were broken or
simply gone in most places, and only pockets of resistance remained on the extreme left. Spurring his
horse into a gallop, the captain charged directly into the enemy, followed by his guards.
The first couple of outlanders fell swiftly, but the shock of his assault wore off, and a spear took
his mount, making Brand tumble to the ground. Quickly, Geberic and Glaukos dismounted as well,
taking up position on either side of him. The longbowmen leapt to the ground also as their bows were
too large to be handled on horseback. They sent their arrows flying, thinning out the horde of
outlanders surrounding the captain and his men. Despite their efforts, it was obvious that the line
could not be reformed; the red-robed soldiers had broken through their black-clad counterparts.
Instead, Brand set a course through the throng of enemies. Dalir in his magnificent armour on his
steed, the plume of his helmet visible even in the confusion of battle, served as waymark.
Geberic was hard pressed, barely able to land blows, and only the aid of the archers behind kept
him from being overwhelmed. Glaukos was in his element on the other hand, felling outlander after
outlander and occasionally clearing an enemy from Brand’s path as well. Thanks to the strength of his
arm, the young knight reached his target.
First, Brand slashed at the front leg of the horse, making it fall forward and throw its rider to the
ground. Dalir was swiftly on his feet in response, and the two commanders now faced each other.
Already a sea of red threatened to swallow them both as the Anausa rushed forward to save one
captain and kill another. Caution long since abandoned, Brand leapt forward and struck.
Had warriors of lesser skill been by his side, Brand would have been surrounded and slain, but
disdaining their own safety, Glaukos and Geberic kept the outlanders at bay. Arrow after arrow flew,
affording them the occasional moment of respite, though nothing longer than that. And none of them
could intervene in the fight that Brand was embroiled in; it had been his choice to recklessly strike
against Dalir, and it was only he who could finish it.
Sweat pouring down his face, Brand did not seem in any position to accomplish this. His opponent
was among the elite of the outlanders with the weapon training that followed, and his armour, not
merely ornate, was heavier and thicker than that of the Anausa; it scorned every blow by Brand’s
Nordsteel blade, and the knight could not find an opening.
Suddenly, he stumbled backwards, falling to the ground. Eagerly, Dalir moved forward to seize the
opportunity; in his haste, he did not notice that Brand had fallen in a manner that kept his legs
crouched beneath him. As Dalir was almost in reach to strike, Brand was on his feet again. He trapped

100
his enemy’s sword with his own shield, just for a few moments, but long enough. Unable to free his
sword and protect his right side, Dalir was defenceless against the next attack that came. Summoning
his strength for a terrible blow, Brand hacked his weapon into the other captain’s neck, finding the
smallest of openings where the armour met the helmet.
Pulling his sword back, a spray of blood followed. Dalir stood still, life leaving his eyes. Brand
hacked again and again until the head came off. Thrusting his sword into the ground, the knight
grabbed the plume of the ornate helmet. It was so well fitted that as Brand pulled the helm up, the
head inside did not come loose, but stayed inside its shell.
“He is dead! The enemy captain is dead!” Brand shouted, hoisting the decapitated head of his foe
into the air. With his height and long arm, the veracity of his words was plain to see for those nearby;
the nature of the helmet left no doubt as to its owner. Mearcians encouraged, outlanders discouraged,
the former fought harder and the latter less. The cry went up on both sides in both languages,
announcing the death of Jenaab Dalir. The standstill was broken, the Anausa began to take flight, and
the Order soldiers gave pursuit. At first, it happened slowly, like pebbles crumbling from a tower; then
came the avalanche, the tower crashing down, the entirety of the army abandoning battle.
Wounds on his body and crimson colour on his armour, Brand stood surrounded by his men,
breathing the blood-soaked air greedily. It seemed to take him a while to remember the ghastly trophy
in his hand, and he finally dropped it, picking up his sword instead to clean it and sheathe it. Looking
up again, he found the soldiers of the Star staring at him.
Fist beat against chest repeatedly. The blood of his forbear was invoked in a murmur, until it was
broken by a roar. “Dragonheart!”
There was a moment of silence before it was repeated by all the drakonians nearby. “Dragonheart!
Dragonheart!”
The chant continued, gaining strength as the men of Adalrik bestowed this epithet upon their
captain, the ekename given to the boldest of Sigvard’s line. Surrounded by soldiers, by loyalty, by
devotion, the young commander stood victorious on the field of battle, his field of battle, and accepted
their praise. In this moment, he seemed invincible.
~~~~
The mounted knights pursued the enemy, felling as many as they could. The infantry took care of their
wounded, collected equipment, and buried the dead. The price of victory was steep. A quarter of the
Order footmen were committed to the earth; the same number was too badly wounded to fight, and
time would tell how many would recover fully.
These steps taken and the knights returned, Brand marched the army to Polisals. What was left of
the outlander garrison was given a simple choice. If they surrendered, their lives would be spared. If
the Order was forced to storm the city, every single one of them would be put to the sword. After an
hour of deliberation, the gates were opened, and the outlanders lay down their weapons. Polisals, the
central city of northern Hæthiod and the key that unlocked the salt mines of this region, was free.

101
 15. Solstice Gifts
Tothmor
Some ten days after departure, the Order army returned to Tothmor, having left a small force behind
to guard Polisals along with the most severely wounded. Thus, it was with severely diminished
numbers they entered the streets of Tothmor, and the cold weather kept many indoors; still, they
returned with victory and news of liberation, and joy was finally returning to the city of circles. There
were exceptions; some with dour disposition looked at the few Order soldiers and wondered what
would happen once the outlanders woke from their winter slumber and retaliated.
With their fewer numbers, what remained of the army could be quartered comfortably in the first
circle, so the entirety marched up the mountain to enter the palace district. On the steps into the keep,
Brand was met by William. “You are looking hale,” the lieutenant smiled, “and on your feet.”
“I congratulate you on your victory,” William replied, grasping the other knight’s arm. “All of
you,” he raised his voice, allowing the soldiers to hear. “You have fought well and brought peace to
the oppressed. Hæthiod owes you a debt.” He spoke quietly again, directed only at Brand. “Let us talk
inside.”
They entered the keep, walking up the tower to reach the marshal’s chamber that William
occupied. The smell of blood and sweat was gone, replaced by crisp winter air. Sitting on a chair was
Baldwin, oiling his own and his lord’s weapons. “My lord,” the squire exclaimed, standing up.
“Welcome back!”
“Keep at your work,” Brand replied cordially with a wave of his hand, and the boy sat down again.
The lieutenant went to the map of the realms on the nearby table, indicating northern Hæthiod with his
finger. “Another step taken.”
“Your stratagems have proven their worth,” William granted. “I notice the cost was steep,
however.”
“There are four hundred men in Polisals still,” Brand explained. “At least half of them will join us
eventually.”
“We are still hard pressed for men, not to mention arms and armour. I will make further attempts
at recruitment, but we cannot expect to reach much beyond our original two thousands,” the captain
declared.
“It will have to do,” his lieutenant argued. “We should not move until the Raven Days have
passed, which gives us more than two months to replenish our force.”
“Unless the outlanders are already marching against us.” Both their eyes fell upon Lakon in
southern Hæthiod. “They have the numbers to challenge us, and the risk of being besieged, being
imprisoned in this city is as great as ever.”
“I trust that our rapid advances will make them cautious,” Brand said confidently. “They are more
likely to await reinforcements and face us with greater numbers.”

102
 “That seems speculative,” William argued. “We know too little to estimate their intentions and
actions.”
“We lack for knowledge in general,” his companion conceded. “We will need to send scouts
across the wall eventually. We need to be forewarned if more outlanders are arriving from the Reach.”
“Agreed.” The Hæthian knight paused briefly. “I have never heard of any of my people entering
that place. Death and dust are all that awaits you, they always said.”
“The outlanders are men, nothing more. The Reach may be hostile to us, but nothing worse than
what we are dealing with in Hæthiod,” Brand claimed self-assured. “We should resume interrogations
of our prisoners with an aim towards understanding the home of these outlanders. Where are their
cities? What armies do they field beyond what we have faced?”
“Who is their king?” The question came from Baldwin, making both knights suddenly turn their
heads towards him. “Someone must be ordering the outlanders to invade us. I would like to know who
is putting us through all of this.”
Brand’s mouth curled upwards. “I as well.” The implication of mirth disappeared from his face.
“There is nothing more dangerous than not knowing the enemy you fight.”
“We saw that at Sikyon,” William muttered darkly. “I have never before seen so many ranks of
bowmen, fighting as infantry when needed. I could never have imagined it. Their arrows darkened the
sky.”
“We will not make such mistakes again. Gods willing, when spring comes we march upon Lakon
and finish this campaign,” Brand swore.
“That is in the future. Tonight it is the eve of solstice. A good meal is prepared for our conquering
heroes,” William informed his lieutenant. “Tonight, we celebrate.” Agreeing with this sentiment, the
other two present in the room followed the captain to the dining hall in the palace.
~~~~
The Realms of Adalmearc celebrated winter solstice in different ways, but regardless of location, it
involved food and drink; in peaceful years, Hæthiod was no different. With the current war and the
recent siege, provisions allowing celebrations in Tothmor were limited, and the inhabitants spent the
evening in the style of the northern lands with small gatherings at home. Many also went to the
temples of the third circle.
Having suffered disproportionately to anyone else, the priests and priestesses had not made much
progress in restoring their shrines. Not a single whiterobe remained in Tothmor. The other orders had
cleansed the temple to Hamaring of the defilement that had taken place, but otherwise left it bare for
when new whiterobes might arrive from Heohlond. Until then, any worshippers prayed in an empty
space, surrounded only by bare walls.
Even with men and women of the cloth present, the other temples did not fare much better. The
hitherto lush gardens of the greenrobes had been torn up, their sacred tree felled and used for
firewood, and the earth had been heavily salted to make it little more than a desert. It would take years
if not decades of careful tending before the soil might sustain growth again. The same had been done
to the herb garden at the temple of Idisea. Their stores of healing supplies had already been spent due
to the siege, but books and parchments for teaching the healing arts had been destroyed.
So the story continued for each of the temples. The bull pen at Egnil had been burned and the
bronze bull statue smashed to pieces along with the gilded drinking horns; in their zeal, the outlanders
had not even spared the barrels of beer brewed by the priests, nor imbibed them, but simply toppled
them to let the drink spill in its entirety.

103
 The defilement was worst at the temple for Rihimil, as if the outlander priestess had particularly
enjoyed causing sacrilege in this place. Blood from human sacrifices was everywhere, seeped into the
floor and walls. While the bells of the other temples had been left alone, the outlanders had gone to
the trouble of cutting them down here and destroying them as well.
To the faithful in Tothmor, their places of worship were barely recognisable. It was not merely
awe of the divine that kept the behaviour of the supplicants subdued this solstice.
When Glaukos visited the temple of Hamaring, he left a handful of silver marks upon its bare altar;
even if there were no priests to accept the sacrifice, others followed the former Blade to pay tribute.
The gods would still be watching, now more than ever, as some expressed it. Going outside, Glaukos
crossed the gate square. It was already evening, but on solstice eve, the district gates remained open
all night. Although fuel was scarce, torches were lit here and there, lighting the main streets. Staying
in the circle of temples, Glaukos’ steps steered him towards the establishment known as The Pork and
Pepper.
Few people were in the common room, giving Glaukos plenty of options where to sit. He nodded
to the tavern keeper, who greeted him with familiarity.
“Ale and food,” the warrior explained. Soon enough, a tankard of drink was placed in front of him
along with a bowl containing a stew that was mostly water with some leek rings floating near the top
and chunks of questionable meat. Glaukos looked at it with little enthusiasm, but dug out a couple of
marks nonetheless. There were plenty more in his coin purse; after the battle of Polisals, Brand had
been generous.
Grateful, the owner scooped the coins up and left Glaukos to eat and drink. He filled the spoon and
had a taste. With slight dismay on his face, he took a sip of the ale, which did not alleviate his
disheartened expression. With a faint sigh, he grabbed the spoon again.
“Enjoying your dinner?” The question was made with scorn and made Glaukos look up. Speaking
to him was Nikolaos, one of his former compatriots.
“It is not bad,” Glaukos claimed. “Good to see you in one piece,” he added tentatively.
“Is it?” sneered the other man. “You certainly didn’t come looking when you had the chance.”
Glaukos put the spoon down. “I thought you were all dead. I heard about Philemon and Andreas
and figured it was the same story for anyone else.”
“Aye, same here. I thought the blackboot bastards got the rest and only I survived,” Nikolaos
explained, anger slowly rising in his voice. “Imagine my surprise when I am told an old friend of mine
is walking around, alive, dressed in good clothes, throwing silver around at the temple.” He looked
towards the food on Glaukos’ table. “Your purse seems to be full.”
“If you’re hungry, I can buy you something to eat –”
“I don’t want anything from you, knowing where that silver came from,” Nikolaos spat. “You
won’t buy forgiveness from me as easily as you bought it at the temple.”
Glaukos’ eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“It’s bleeding obvious. We walk into a trap. Days later, here you are, fine clothes and eagles in
your purse, eating and drinking. You Blades,” Nikolaos spoke with disgust. “Let the king die, abandon
the queen, sell us ordinary folk out like the traitorous –”
This time it was Nikolaos who was interrupted; Glaukos’ fist hit him on the chin and sent him
straight on his back. Standing up so quickly that his chair fell to the ground, the former Blade loomed
over the other man. “I’ve killed more outlanders than a spineless toad like you could lick your tongue
at. You care so much about stew and silver, you can have it.” With the rest of the tavern watching in
stunned silence and his target lying paralysed in fear, Glaukos emptied the bowl’s content on top of
Nikolaos and threw a silver piece onto his chest. Then he grabbed his mug of ale, drank it in one

104
draught, and walked with heavy strides out the door. Behind him, Nikolaos picked up the silver piece
and wiped the stew from it.
~~~~
The fifth circle had its share of watering holes, though finding any that still had anything in store was
nigh impossible. Such was also the case at Guy’s tavern.
“I have nothing to serve you,” the owner called out from the kitchen as he could hear someone
entering.
“Just a place to sleep will do,” came the answer.
“I suppose that can be arranged,” Guy granted, entering his common room. “Godfrey! Of course,
come in, come in!” He closed the distance between them and stood a little apprehensive before the
traveller, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “You are back and alive! After you left, I wondered many
times how you fared.”
“I fared a long distance and back again,” Godfrey smiled wearily. “You and your son?”
“We are both well, thank you.”
“Good.” Godfrey nodded a little. “I sometimes worried if I should have told you to flee the city,
regardless of the risk…”
“We survived. Nothing to worry about anymore. I haven’t forgotten what you did for my boy,
either.” A tinge of gratitude entered Guy’s voice.
“In that case, I shall rely on your memory to ask for a bed. I am tired of sleeping in walls,”
Godfrey explained with a wry smile.
“I never quite understand you, but a bed, I can provide,” Guy promised. “And you are just in time
to join our solstice meal.”
“No need, no need. You must be hard pressed as it is.”
“It would not be right to have a guest in my house who does not share our meal this night,” Guy
argued.
“Well, if you insist, I accept gratefully,” Godfrey decided.
“Keep your gratitude until you taste it,” Guy laughed and led his guest into the kitchen, where his
son was already filling an extra plate.
~~~~
The following day, activities resumed as normal. The returning soldiers were added to the garrison
and put on watch duty, freeing up the recruits for further training. The open space between the palace
and the Order keep in the first circle were put to this use, practising formations. Brand was also
present, watching the soldiers train, though the actual instructions were yelled by men-at-arms acting
as overseers. The first lieutenant’s gaze was idle, his mind elsewhere.
A knight approached, flanked by two Order soldiers. “These men told me you wished to speak,” he
declared. By his tone of voice and expression, he clearly did not care for being summoned this way.
“You did not heed the signal given in battle, Sir Vilmund,” Brand spoke coldly, only looking at the
knight as he pronounced his name.
“What?” Vilmund’s eyes narrowed.
“My bannerman sounded the horn to no effect. My sergeant rode into battle to inform you, yet still
you did not retreat as I commanded,” Brand explained with the frost palpable in his voice.
“I neither heard nor received any command to retreat,” the knight claimed, his tone matching
Brand’s. “We were scattering the enemy,” he defended himself. “It was the heat of battle.”

105
 “My sergeant swore he reached you and told you, yet you did not pull your men back to reinforce
the left flank.” The accusation in the lieutenant’s words were clear.
“Then he lies.”
“I have no reason to believe he does.”
“The word of a common soldier means nothing compared to that of a knight,” Vilmund argued.
“It does to me.”
“What does it matter?” he sneered. “Victory was achieved, and your own actions made you the
champion of these men you hold in such regard.” He shot a disdainful glance at the nearby soldiers.
“It matters,” Brand raised his voice, “because your failure to obey could have cost us that victory.
Regardless of the outcome, you failed in your duty.”
“I will not be lectured about the duties of a knight from someone hardly old enough to wear the
spurs,” Vilmund fumed, turning to leave.
“Sir Vilmund,” Brand called out, now speaking loud enough that all nearby could hear, “you did
not perform your duty as is expected of any warrior of the Order. You will be punished.”
The knight turned back, incensed. “How dare you impugn my honour! I demand satisfaction!”
“You demand nothing!” Brand roared. “I am your commander! You have no right to challenge me
for the sake of honour!” He nodded to the soldiers waiting. “Seize him and strip him to be flogged!”
Vilmund’s protestations became unintelligible screams as several men grabbed his limbs, forcing
him to the ground on his stomach. He continued to squirm and resist, giving them some difficulty, but
they were enough to keep him subdued while also removing his surcoat, chain shirt, and the tunic
underneath until only his cotton shirt remained.
They pulled him up again and lashed him to nearby poles that were normally used for training.
Another soldier appeared with a whip in hand.
“You cannot do this!” cried Vilmund. “I am a knight!”
“Which only makes your crime worse,” Brand declared. He nodded to the soldier, who dealt out
ten lashes, each causing a rift in the shirt and drawing blood. The spectacle was witnessed by the men
in silence. At the first hit, the knight called out in pain; he was mute for the remaining nine.
When the whipping was done, the soldiers released Vilmund. He staggered for a moment but
regained his footing. A lay brother approached with salve and bandages; with a sneer, the knight
pushed past him and disappeared into his quarters inside the palace.
~~~~
The council chamber of the palace, where once Rostam had conducted his business, was now used by
Brand when needed. Sitting in the chair that had seated a queen and an outlander before him, the
lieutenant was dictating a letter to the young scribe by his side. “After victory had been achieved, the
army of the Order marched upon Polisals. The outlander garrison surrendered, opening the gates of
the city. Three hundred were captured in addition to those taken prisoner after the battle. All of
northern Hæthiod is now freed of the outlander scourge.”
Furiously, Egil’s quill scribbled over the paper.
“That is all,” Brand declared, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Have it sent to
the quartermaster at the Citadel. Make a second version containing the same, except you leave out all
numbers concerning our army, dead, wounded and so forth. Have that one sent to the town criers in
Middanhal to share the news of our victory with the citizens.”
“Yes, milord.”
The lieutenant rose to his feet and left the room without further words. Returning to his chamber,
he lay down on his bed, still wearing armour and surcoat, and closed his eyes.

106
 16. We Pray
Tothmor
Weeks after winter solstice, Brand went to the temple for Rihimil. Despite his donation, little progress
had been made as it was still under the care of a single acolyte. All the rubble had been cleared, but
the damage done to the interior remained, there was no bell in the tower, and the altar remained as
bare as ever. Although few others came to worship, this did not dissuade Brand, who knelt and prayed
by the red-stained marble. As he finished and rose to his feet, another person appeared from deeper
inside the temple. “Might I have a word?”
In the dark, it took the lieutenant a moment to recognise the speaker. As he did, he stepped back on
instinct, his right hand moving across to grasp his sword hilt.
“My hands are empty,” Godfrey declared, raising them in front of him.
“Yet you always come like a thief in the night,” Brand pointed out.
“I am most comfortable dressed in shadows, it is true,” the traveller admitted, “but I deal only in
knowledge. Which has served you well, I might add.”
“Everything you say is tainted by your suspicious actions,” Brand retorted. “An honest man has no
need to scurry away.”
“What use am I in chains? If you are to defeat the outlanders, you need the intelligence I bring.
Without it, you have no idea of the forces arraigned against you in the Reach.”
“That is what scouts are for,” the lieutenant spoke dryly.
“They can only tell you so much. You need spies to determine the size and location of their
armies, the weak points of their city defences, and any vulnerabilities that can be exploited.”
“The outlanders are almost driven from Hæthiod. This campaign will be finished soon,” Brand
claimed confidently.
“Will that satisfy you? What of when the outlanders return?”
This made Brand give Godfrey a sharp look. “What do you know?”
“Nothing at this moment, except they will return eventually. If all you do is beat them back, they
need only recover their strength to try again. If you want to eradicate this threat,” Godfrey said
forcefully, “you must invade, as they invaded you. You must gather knowledge, as they did of you.
You must exploit their weakness, as they exploited yours.”
“What weakness?”
“Adalrik is torn by war, but the outlanders are similarly troubled. This is why some of their troops
were withdrawn along with their best commander, why reinforcements have not yet shown. You have
an opportunity to strike,” Godfrey urged.
“Or lead my army into a trap beyond the Langstan,” Brand argued.
“All I have told you has been true,” Godfrey countered. “Question your prisoners, learn what
truths you can from them. You will find my words confirmed and that the iron grip of the Godking has
cracks.”

107
 “The Godking? Who is he?”
“You will meet him in the Reach. Consider my words until we speak again,” Godfrey told the
other man, retreating back into the temple. Brand did not pursue but remained standing in
contemplation; his eyes rested upon the wall painting of Rihimil behind the altar, damaged to
unrecognizability by the outlanders.
~~~~
Fear of spies meant that the outer gate of Tothmor was closed even during the day, except for Order
soldiers and those with explicit permission from the captain of the army. This changed as a procession
approached from the heath, with numerous riders in front carrying banners, ornamented carriages
afterwards, and a great following behind. For the citizens of Tothmor, it was a splendid sight to behold
and deeply emotional as well; it was the return of Queen Theodora and her consort to their home and
their subjects.
At the front rode several Blades with King Leander and Count Hubert right behind them. Several
more Blades were found along the carriage carrying the sovereign. The window in the door was open,
allowing her to look out and her people to look at her. Young and beautiful, she smiled and waved,
provoking many outbursts of affection and loyalty from the crowd. If any bore her ill will for having
left the city towards the end of the siege, it was not expressed.
Reaching the first circle, the procession halted. On the palace square, the captain and lieutenant of
the Order army stood waiting. They gave a bow before the king as he dismounted, and another as the
queen appeared from her carriage and joined them.
“Welcome home, Your Majesties,” William spoke with a faint smile.
“Thank you for preparing the way,” Theodora replied graciously. “It seems a lifetime ago that we
parted ways in Adalrik, yet we find ourselves home far sooner than any could have presumed. You
have our gratitude.”
“The praise must go to my first lieutenant. It is his mind that is the architect of our victories.”
“The famous Sir Adalbrand,” Theodora declared, prompting the man to incline his head. “All the
realms speak of your accomplishments, in this war and the previous.”
“I merely serve as needed,” Brand replied humbly.
“It is our luck that you finally serve in Hæthiod, then,” Leander scoffed. “As I recall, this army
was meant to have arrived in Tothmor in the summer, not winter.”
Everyone looked at the king with expressions ranging from surprise to dismay or, in some cases,
confusion. Not all knew that this army had originally been on its way to fight the outlander invasion
when Richard and Brand had led it north across the mountains instead, making it absent at the Order’s
defeat at the battle of Sikyon.
Brand stiffened. “The rebellion in Adalrik had to be contained, or there would not be an army here
or there.”
“Of course, sir knight,” Theodora spoke soothingly. “If you will forgive us. We are weary from
our journey,” she added with a glance at her husband.
“Understood, Your Majesty,” William said, retreating a few steps to clear the path towards the
palace entrance.
“Where is Troy,” mumbled Leander, gazing through the crowd, as he and his wife moved forward.
Behind them, Hubert was greeted by Baldwin. The former was composed in his demeanour,
greeting Baldwin with a courteous nod. The latter could be seen attempting to control his exuberance
in response, but eventually he gave in; a torrent of words was released as the young squire told the old
count everything that had passed since they parted.

108
 ~~~~
Soon, the palace was a beehive of activity. Courtiers returned to find their old rooms in various states
of decay or already occupied by Order soldiers. Arguments arose, and servants were seen hauling
luggage from wing to wing, obeying contradicting commands in an endless journey to find lodgings
for their masters.
At the centre of this maelstrom of activity stood Philon, the steward of the palace. Beset by
indignant nobles and beleaguered servants, he issued a constant stream of directions and suggestions.
It seemed of little avail. For every person he sent away, two appeared; quite often, it was someone
returning with news that this or that chamber was already in use, or that the chosen rooms were simply
unsuitable for the courtier in question.
Armour-clad and with an indifferent expression, Hubert pushed through the soft-clothed crowd to
reach the steward. Once the others saw it was the count of Esmarch, a known favourite of the king and
queen, people were quick to give him space.
“Philon,” Hubert called out, and the steward quickly turned.
“Yes, milord?” he answered, sounding almost out of breath.
“I have been told you remained in your position throughout the occupation.”
The steward swallowed. “I deemed it necessary, milord, to protect Her Majesty’s property. I can
assure you, I cooperated as little as possible, and only with the intent of doing good.”
“What? I do not care about that,” Hubert growled. “I want to know what happened to the
prisoners. The dungeon is empty except for outlander scum.”
“I am sorry, milord, I was not involved in any of that.”
“You must have seen or heard something,” Hubert claimed with an irritated face. “What happened
to my son?”
“Your son, milord?”
“Yes,” the count replied with frustration, “Hugh of Esmarch! He was imprisoned when we escaped
the city. What would have happened to him?”
“I beg your forgiveness, Count Hubert,” Philon said with hesitation. “I do not know, but I fear the
outlanders showed little mercy. Why, they burned most of the blackrobes in the city on a pyre! And
many others were killed as sacrifices to their heathen god.” Philon wiped his brow with his sleeve.
“But perhaps he escaped in the confusion when the city fell,” he added, seeing the dark mood descend
upon the count.
Hubert did not reply; he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving the courtiers to besiege the
steward once more.
~~~~
A feast was prepared to celebrate the return of the queen and king, bringing with them the return of
something resembling normalcy to the court of Hæthiod. The monarch and her king sat in their seats
in the dining hall once more. Count Hubert flanked the king and had the Order commanders by his
other side, also allowing him to speak to his admirers, Baldwin and Matthew, who stood behind their
respective masters. By the queen’s side sat her mother and her aunt. The seat after that was left empty
out of respect of the court seer.
“I cannot imagine choosing a new court seer,” Theodora whispered to Leander with a glance
towards the vacant chair.

109
 “Even worse, this flame woman managed to take her own life,” Leander replied viciously. His
voice was slightly slurred. “Of all the prisoners taken, we barely have any of worth.” He emptied his
cup and gestured to a servant.
“We have a few officers to execute, at least,” the queen considered. “The rest can be sent to the
salt mines.”
“I will enjoy my meals more knowing where the salt comes from,” the king smiled.
Conversation halted as Troy entered the hall and walked to its centre. In his hands, he held his
instrument and began plucking its strings.
“I did not have the heart to tell him no,” Leander explained apologetically to his wife.
With a clear voice that did not falter, Troy performed On the Field of Blue, not missing a single
word. With its story of Erhard defeating the outlanders, every member of the court was elated. They
listened as the devious enemy invaded, and in a terrible battle, slew the king of Hæthiod and shed its
noblest blood. They followed the news of this disastrous defeat to Erhard, jarl of Ingmond, where the
Order forces were gathering in response to the invasion. They cheered as Erhard decided to take
action immediately, gathering all available warriors and riding hard to ambush the outlander army,
still drunk with victory. They shouted Erhard’s famous line to his men as they faced an enemy with
far greater numbers, the jarl telling his men to take courage and to the spear be bold. Frenzy seized the
audience when Troy sung of the victory won on the field of blue. As Erhard was offered the kingship
of Hæthiod, establishing a new line that now had come to Theodora, the applause would not take an
end.
“Is Troy… good?” whispered Leander.
“He must have practised. Not much else to do in camp, I guess,” Theodora smiled.
“We should send him on more campaigns. He may end up being worth his keep,” the king jested,
applauding with the rest.
“With Your Majesties’ approval,” Troy called out as the cheering finished, “I have been working
on a new ballad, never performed before. While it is not quite finished and still needs further verse, I
should wish to perform it on this auspicious night.” The almost stunned royal couple gave their assent,
allowing the bard to continue.
“When night has crept into this land,
When fiend and foe come ‘cross the wall,
Then who shall stand with sword in hand,
Then who will answer call?
Dragonheart, come forth!
Your people pray,
Dragonheart, come forth!
Hear what we say,
Dragonheart, come forth!
We’re led astray,
Save us, we pray!”
“Is this another version of that song Troy was always singing?” the king questioned. “That ballad
about some village and dragonborn.”
By his side, Theodora frowned. “I do not think this song is about Prince Sigmar.”
“Was he not the Dragonheart? Who is this, then?” asked Leander confused.
The tune chosen by Troy caught the ears of its audience. The third time the chorus was sung, many
of the courtiers joined in, and more and more eyes turned towards Brand. If any before this evening
had not known about the battle of Polisals and the ekename bestowed upon the young commander,

110
they did so now. As Troy finished to great acclaim, he bowed before the high table. The monarch
clapped politely, while her consort seemed to have no response. As for Brand, he gave a barely
perceptible nod in recognition. However, hours later when Troy retired to his chamber, he found a
small purse of silver waiting for him.
~~~~
The morning after, the knight Vilmund returned to his chamber. He had been lightly exercising his
swordplay, albeit wearing only a leather tunic above his shirt. Once alone, he removed the tunic with
stiff movements and a few grunts. Through his shirt, he ran his fingers over the healing wounds upon
his back. The fabric was dry, meaning they had not opened up despite his movements.
A servant entered the room. “Pardons, milord,” he quickly spoke. “I came to empty the fireplace. I
thought the room would be vacant.”
“Just get it done,” Vilmund spoke brusquely, inspecting his armour hanging upon a rack in the
room.
The servant moved to the hearth, but did not begin his work. “You are Sir Vilmund, are you not? I
hear you led a fearless charge at Polisals.”
“That I did,” the knight replied absentmindedly.
“Now they are singing songs of the battle already.”
Vilmund’s back stiffened. “Not a very good one. The verse reminded me of Song of Sigvard, and
the tune was like any ballad,” he spoke dismissively.
“Many seemed to like it,” the servant claimed, finally bowing down to clean out the fire pit.
“Everyone is singing about the Dragonheart today.”
“People are fools,” Vilmund sneered, hanging his sword belt upon the rack.
“You do not share their opinion of Sir Adalbrand, milord?” came a cautious question.
“He is a brat,” the knight spoke with scorn. “Barely old enough to fight, yet given command. It
galls me to my very core that the Order is led by such an upstart.”
“No doubt you would be a worthy commander,” the servant ventured to say.
“Without doubt,” Vilmund agreed magnanimously.
“Perhaps it can still be so.” The man crouching by the hearth kept his attention upon his task, but
his voice grew cautious. “If Sir Adalbrand is defeated, people will know the truth and seek a worthier
leader.”
The knight’s eyes turned narrow. “What are you saying?”
The servant continued his work, but his movements were slow and produced little effort. “If a
battle were to be lost under his command… it would be easily done. A message in the right place to
reveal the necessary knowledge, for instance.”
“You mean tell the enemy of our movements, our tactics?” Vilmund’s voice was fraught with
suspicion.
“I am but a simple servant. What would I know? But if a great knight such as yourself deems it
wise…”
The man was still looking inside the fire pit and did not realise what was happening until it was
too late. Vilmund’s fists closed around his neck and smashed his head against the wall. “You think I
am a filthy traitor?” bellowed the knight, releasing his anger with numerous kicks. “You think I can be
spurred to dishonour?” He took a pause to spit before resuming. “You can explain in the dungeons
why you advocate treason, you worthless dreg!”
When the guards arrived, summoned by the commotion, the servant was already beaten to a
bloody pulp.

111
 ~~~~
More than two months passed after the return of the exiles to Tothmor, with winter reaching its end.
There was thaw in the air, the frost receding. Winter rains had filled the water storages, and food
provisions had arrived from Korndale, spurred by the resuming of salt deliveries from Polisals. The
smiths had been busy hammering new arms and armour. As the Raven Days ended and a new year
began, the Order army left Tothmor and began its march south.
Its ultimate goal was Lakon, though before that it would meet with the armies of Korndale, sent by
King Adelard under the command of Prince Aquila. The combined forces could match the outlanders
in Lakon and commence the final liberation of Hæthiod. The king himself along with his trusted
companion, the count of Esmarch, and a contingent of Blades was leaving the queen to participate in
this final leg of the campaign.
Beyond that, the Order brought many recruits to fill the gaps in its ranks, having emptied Tothmor
of any man left with the strength to bear arms. The reasons why these youths joined the Order were
many. Some did it for silver, others for revenge or for justice, many to seek opportunity far away.
Among their number was Hugh of Esmarch, the disgraced son of Hubert.

112
 17. Sins of a Father
Lakon
A week outside of Tothmor, the Order and the dalemen reached each other. William, Brand, Leander,
and Hubert accompanied by knights and Blades rode in front of one army to meet Prince Flavius of
Aquila, commanding the forces of Korndale. With numerous riders and banners, the two parties met
on the heath between Tothmor and Lakon.
“Prince Flavius,” William greeted him, nodding in the saddle.
“Sir William, I presume,” the prince replied. “Your Majesty, Count Hubert,” he continued. “You
must be Sir Adalbrand.”
“A pleasure,” Brand spoke with courtesy. He glanced at Flavius’ impressive facial scar, crossing
both eye and cheek. “The reputation of Flavius Ironside precedes the man.”
“As does yours,” Aquila replied with a growl.
“You seem alone?” William questioned. While accompanied by a sergeant and other common
soldiers, the prince did not seem to have any lieutenants or warriors of noble birth with him.
“We have brought as many as we could spare, as commanded by my king,” Flavius informed them
gruffly. “But I had to leave someone to defend my own city in my absence. Let us continue.” Without
delay, the prince turned his horse and entourage, leading them south.
With glances exchanged between their commanders, the Order army followed suit. Brand slowed
the pace of his horse until he was next to Hubert. “Did you meet the prince Aquila in Korndale?”
“We did,” the count confirmed.
“Is this brusque behaviour typical of him?”
“It is,” Hubert nodded. “Though he was against Korndale sending its armies abroad, which could
explain his disposition towards us,” he added as an afterthought. On Hubert’s other side, Leander gave
a scoff.
“I see,” was all that Brand spoke in reply, spurring his horse forward to ride at the head of the
column.
~~~~
With two armies marching together instead of one, the pace slowed for several days until some
manner of cohesion was achieved. About a week later, Lakon loomed in the distance. It was the
second-largest city in Hæthiod and a centre of trade that connected the rest of Hæthiod with Florentia
in Korndale, allowing primarily salt and olive oil to flow in one direction with meat and fabric going
the other way. Its importance was such that the late king Everard had married his own sister to Count
Stephen of Lakonia, tying his support to the throne. This had been before it had become apparent that
Everard would never have children with his wife, paving the way for Stephen’s daughter Theodora to
be made heir.

113
 The queen was not present, but her champions could gaze upon the city in her stead. Due to the
great traffic Lakon saw, it had numerous gates, weakening its defences. Despite this, the outlander
commander had decided against facing the Order on the field. Whatever the strength of Lakon’s walls,
the outlanders were relying upon them. With quick orders, William commanded a fortified camp to be
set up, advanced siege fortifications to be constructed to ensure the enclosure of the city, and siege
equipment to be assembled in preparations for assaults.
~~~~
A curious sight was assembled on the table in William’s tent. Rolled up letters were arranged to form
a circle with chess pieces placed in various patterns.
“This gate is closest to the castle and can expect swiftest reinforcements,” the knight captain of the
Order explained, revealing that the paper and pieces served as a crude representation of Lakon. “I
suggest we feint an attack here, drawing their spare forces in this direction, before we begin our actual
assault on the opposite side.”
“Seems wise,” his first lieutenant concurred. “Especially –”
“I will not commit any troops to storming the city,” Flavius declared flatly.
“You have come simply to watch?” Brand asked acerbically.
“I have come,” the prince spoke with scorn, “because of underhanded dealings between you and
my king!”
Confusion spread among those present for the war council. “I have never exchanged a single letter
with your king,” Brand defended himself, his voice wavering between disbelief and anger.
“Yet his desire to court your favour, Sir Adalbrand,” Flavius said with disdainful emphasis on the
name, “is why my soldiers are sent here when they are needed to defend my city!”
“Your accusations are baseless, Prince Flavius,” the knight replied coldly. “I have no knowledge
of your king’s intentions, and the notion that any king would court my favour is ridiculous.”
“My lords, we are gathered to discuss the assault,” William pointed out.
“By all means, make your assault. But not a single daleman will participate, I swear by all the
eyes,” the prince declared, turned around, and left.
From a chair in the corner, Leander gave a snort of laughter. “I suppose this concludes the
council.” He rose and did as Flavius, forcing Hubert to follow suit.
The captain and the lieutenant of the Order looked at each other. “Our losses will be far too heavy
if we are to storm the city with only our men,” Brand considered. “Our supposed allies have
abandoned us already.”
“I did not understand his reasoning, but he seems to have some grievance against you. Perhaps you
could settle matters with him?” William suggested.
“It was he that accused me,” Brand argued indignantly. “I have done nothing against him, yet he is
set against me. I see no cause why I should settle anything with him, and regardless, he does not seem
inclined to listen to any word I would speak.”
William gave a quiet sigh. “I will give the order for our camp to be further entrenched.”
~~~~
The days became monotonous. Lacking the men for an outright assault, the Mearcians set up a sharp
watch surrounding Lakon. Patrols were sent out as well, and supply lines were established under
strong escort from Florentia and Tothmor. The Order soldiers were frequently trained by their men-at-
arms, but other than that, the soldiers soon descended into games and gambling to fill the time.

114
 “The scouts have returned.” As Brand delivered the news, he entered William’s tent. His own
sergeant was already there, playing chess against William’s squire with Egil watching. All of them
looked up as the lieutenant walked in.
“What did they find?”
Brand gave a shrug. “Nothing. The outlanders are not manning all the Langstan. They have built a
ramp to facilitate easy crossing, which is the part they guard.”
“We should set up our own watch, in that case,” William decided.
“Already seen to,” his lieutenant informed him.
“Good. The thought of the Langstan in the hands of the outlanders is grating.”
“If the outlanders send an army to relieve Lakon, it is less than a week from the wall,” Brand
began to speak. “Not much warning.”
“Your point?”
“We should send scouts into the Reach. Establish the location of the closest city from which the
outlanders operate, and extend our sight into their lands,” Brand suggested. “Should they attempt
another incursion, we might even repel them at the Langstan itself.”
William gave a frown. “The men will be reluctant to enter the Reach, let alone traverse it. We will
have to enforce discipline.”
“I will lead the first patrol,” Brand declared boldly. “I have already asked for volunteers. Once I
return, failure to follow my example will be considered dishonourable. Let shame drive any soldier
afraid to do what his commander does. If shame is not enough, the lash will have to do.”
The captain gave his lieutenant a look. “That seems many days to spend investigating a
wasteland.”
“It is but the first step. What good is driving the outlanders from Hæthiod when they might return
any day?”
William gave another frown. “You wish to establish permanent patrols beyond the wall?”
“I wish to invade,” Brand said with conviction. Egil’s mouth dropped open, and Baldwin’s hand
froze in the air as it was moving a chess piece.
The captain leaned back in his chair. “The aim of our campaign is to see this land freed, not the
occupation of another.”
“How many centuries have we suffered the outlanders to plague Adalmearc? They struck first, but
we should strike last, and with such strength that they never rise against us again,” the lieutenant
argued forcefully.
“Brand,” the other knight spoke quietly, “we would need ten times the soldiers we have now just
to begin. Half our current forces are not even willing to fight for us currently.”
Brand nodded in agreement. “Korndale would need to be actively involved. Given that their king
apparently courts my favour, it should be possible. We need support from Adalrik, but that can be won
as well. When I return, I will have the knowledge to plan the campaign and convince those in need of
being convinced.”
“Me, first and foremost,” William warned his lieutenant.
“If I cannot persuade you of all people, I will know the cause to be hopeless,” Brand smiled and
took his leave.
Walking from one end of camp to the other, Brand was nearly at his tent when he saw a familiar
shape waiting for him. With a wry expression, Godfrey sent Brand a smile. “Tell the volunteers to
make their preparations,” he told Geberic, who had followed him from William’s tent. “We depart
tomorrow morning.” Geberic sent Godfrey a scowl but did as told.
“What did your captain say?” asked the wanderer.

115
 “He is reluctant,” Brand admitted, “but if I can verify your information, we have all the knowledge
necessary for a successful campaign.”
Godfrey nodded. “All my intelligence can be trusted, you will see. The map I made is waiting for
you in your tent. We will speak again when you return from the Reach, no doubt.”
“No doubt. One last thing,” Brand added. “If I find anything amiss, or if my return seems in doubt,
I have left orders for your death to be excruciatingly painful. You will not be left alone either for a
single moment until I have returned, should you consider making another disappearance.”
“I expected nothing less,” Godfrey smiled.
~~~~
Evenings in the camp were subdued. There was a general lack of firewood; although southern
Hæthiod could be considered lush in some regions compared to its northern counterpart, much of that
were olive trees and forbidden to chop down. With spring having only just begun, the nights were cold
without fires burning, and most soldiers remained inside in their tents. The volunteers for Brand’s
patrol were an exception, having spent the day gathering supplies and preparing for departure. The sun
had already set when they were done, each seeking his own tent to sleep before the morrow.
One of the volunteers, who had distinguished himself as a skilled warrior despite being a young
recruit, was moving through the dark camp when a voice called out to him. “Soldier!”
The young man stopped dead in his tracks upon hearing the voice. He began walking again
immediately, but it was too late.
“Hugh,” the voice spoke again, this time softly. It belonged to Count Hubert. He was standing
between tents, darkening his surroundings and isolating them from anyone else still awake.
The Order soldier turned around with a joyless smile. “Father,” Hugh greeted the old man,
stepping into the shadows to approach him.
“It really is you. I was not sure if I wanted it to be true or not.”
“What we want rarely matters,” Hugh declared casually. “Right now, I want you to turn around
and forget you saw me, but I imagine that will not happen.”
“Why are you here, Hugh?”
“Another thing that does not matter.”
“It does to me.” The count’s face, always expressive of his mood, was painted with anguish.
“Either you are here to redeem yourself by undertaking a dangerous task.”
“That would make for a good story,” Hugh spoke with another smile.
“Or the outlanders released you from the dungeons and keep you in their employ as a spy.”
“If it will calm your spirit, Father, I am not here as a spy. I have sent no reports from this camp,
and I do not intend to.”
“That seems worse,” Hubert claimed, “for it means you are their hired blade.”
“I ask you again, Father.” The familial term was emphasised. “Let us part ways and forget this
meeting took place.”
“If your intentions are honourable, surrender yourself. I will plead your case to the king, and you
may serve some way to earn your redemption,” Hubert urged.
Upon hearing the royal title, Hugh snorted with derision. “The king is my inferior in every way.
He would keep me imprisoned out of spite if for no other reason. This is the last time I ask you,” he
continued, placing his right hand on his sword hilt. “Let me leave without further words.”
“Are you running away?” Hubert contemplated. “Joining the patrol to escape to the Reach? No,
joining the Order would only complicate such a goal. I was right. Your hand has become that of a
murderer.”

116
 Hugh bit his lower lip, and chagrin filled his face. “You could have let me walk away.” Slowly, his
sword left its sheath.
“It is hard to strike in camp, and we will not see battle any time soon,” Hubert continued his
contemplations. “But out in the Reach with just a few men surrounding him, you will have your
chance at the lieutenant. Is that your reasoning?”
Raising his sword at his father, Hugh gave the smile of a rogue. “The outlanders know of his skills
as a commander. They will pay me most handsomely for his demise. All my troubles will end with a
single, swift stab of the dagger.”
Hubert drew his own sword and assumed fighting position with such speed, his son barely had
time to react, taking a step backwards. “I cannot allow that.” His voice shook for a moment.
“Father, please.” There was an overbearing tone in Hugh’s voice. “I am your son. If you had the
heart to see me executed, you would have raised the alarm already.”
“As your father, responsibility falls to me. If your blood is to stain any blade tonight, let it be
mine.” Gone was any tremor from his voice, any anguish from his face.
“I have beaten you before, Father. I remember vividly the day that I finally surpassed you. If I
must, I will do so again.”
“Is that all that would hold you back from this terrible misdeed?” Hubert stared at his son. “Would
you only surrender to me if you thought defeat certain, and not because honour, loyalty, justice
demand you stay from this course?”
“None of those ideals ever served me well,” Hugh muttered and struck his first blow.
Hubert evaded his son’s blade and retaliated. Fighting in close quarters hampered them both,
limiting their movements. Nonetheless, Hugh took the offensive, pressing his father back.
Hubert parried each blow. With a countenance that spoke of deep remorse, he struck past Hugh’s
guard and landed a thrust into the younger man’s side, swiftly pulling his sword back.
Hugh stared with disbelief at his own blood on Hubert’s steel. His mouth lolled open, and his
sword fell from his hands. As the man’s body followed the blade, Hubert dropped his own weapon to
catch his son and cradle his head in his arms.
“You killed me,” Hugh stammered. His eyes were already becoming void, staring emptily into the
night sky.
“My son, my son,” the old count cried. “All those times we trained. You always wanted to be
better than me, so I let you win. I wanted to see you smile, I wanted you to be proud. I should have
made you a better man instead, that this moment would never have come to be!”
Hugh could not reply.

117
 18. Where the Songs Are Made
Lakon
Two weeks after departure, Brand’s patrol returned home. There had been some delay in setting out,
as the discovery of Hugh’s treachery had necessitated investigation into the identity of every soldier
going with him. In the end, only drakonians who had been with the army as far back as crossing the
Weolcans were allowed to join; the sole exception to this was Glaukos. At someone’s suggestion that
the venture be abandoned entirely or at least postponed, Brand had laughed dismissively, and the
patrol set out almost as planned.
It was a dirty and dusty band that walked back into camp with weary steps, but their number was
complete; not a single man had been lost. Several of them hurried towards the water barrels and drank
copiously. It was not common procedure to be allowed water outside of rations, but Brand gave them
permission. Personally, he went to his tent, filled a cup with wine, and emptied it. He scratched the
stubbles on his cheeks, the beginnings of a beard, and washed his face in a bowl of water.
Matthew appeared, bursting with excitement. Only Geberic and Glaukos of Brand’s retinue had
followed him beyond the Langstan and into the Reach. As the young sergeant began to speak, Brand
raised a finger to silence him. “You may follow me to Sir William’s tent.”
Keeping his questions to himself, Matthew waited patiently while Brand removed the worst of the
travel dust from his face and hands. Once satisfied, the knight left, his sergeant in tow.
William was reading dispatches from Middanhal when his lieutenant entered. The captain threw
the letters on his table and stood up, sending an assessing glance over the travel-weary knight in front
of him. “You seem in good order.”
“There was no fighting,” Brand explained. “They barely keep watch of the wasteland beyond the
wall, and we had no difficulty avoiding them. They must be confident there is no need to maintain a
watch.”
“What else did you learn?”
“Some miles directly south, the outlanders keep a small post. There is fresh water, and I assume it
is the final stop for any army of theirs before crossing the Langstan. There are no defences, and
seizing the outpost would be easy.”
“Using its water for our army,” William nodded. “Beyond this outpost?”
“There is a city,” Brand elaborated. “We came close enough to see its walls in the distance. It
would be about a week’s march to reach, I estimate, from the Langstan. It is small, smaller than
Lakon.”
“Fortifications?”
“Nothing impressive. Not even a keep, I think. Merely walls and a few towers by the gate I could
see. It would fall easily.”
There was a moment before William spoke again. “A city only a week away from the Langstan.
Who would have imagined?”

118
 “It is strange,” Brand conceded. “I saw no fields or other activity to support a dwelling of
thousands. There could be on the far side of the city, of course. In any case, the surrounding land is
flat with no obstacles, making for an easy siege.”
“All we need is in army,” William remarked dryly.
“Any luck with Prince Aquila?”
The captain shook his head. “Any attempt to change his mind has been futile. In his mind, the
rivermen are a greater threat than the outlanders. He outright refuses to speak with me now.”
“I should go to Korndale,” Brand considered. “I can convince the king to support our endeavour.”
“We will need assistance from the Order, from Middanhal,” William argued. “Though I am unsure
with whom to speak... there is no lord marshal to authorise a new campaign.”
“Speak with the quartermaster,” Brand suggested. “We are not embarking on a new mission. We
simply need soldiers and provisions to conclude our current campaign, which he may release.”
“That seems dubious.”
“The marshals cannot be relied upon,” Brand argued. “They have done nothing to elect a new lord
marshal. Are you willing to wait years until our current heir is crowned and chooses one? What if our
new king opposes our campaign? We will have waited for nothing.”
“The quartermaster it will be,” William conceded.
“I could handle that,” Brand considered. “Travel to Plenmont first and Middanhal afterwards.”
The other knight shook his head. “You have enemies in Middanhal. You told me yourself that the
lord protector sent you to Hæthiod in order for you to be forgotten. I hardly think those same people
would be amenable to granting you an army for invading the Reach.”
Brand was quiet momentarily. “You are right.” He cleared his throat. “At the same time, we
cannot have both the commanders of the Order leave. With Prince Aquila unreliable, one of us has to
maintain control of the situation here.”
“Not necessarily. With our sight extended beyond the Langstan, we will have fair warning if the
outlanders come in force. The siege can continue without us,” William argued, “and if enemy
reinforcements arrive, we should pull back. Delay any fight until we have our own reinforcements
from Korndale or Adalrik, depending on how you and I succeed.”
“It seems a risk to have us both leave this army in the hands of others,” Brand remarked hesitantly.
“The siege will not be done before one of us return. If battle is to be fought, better we do so with
extra men. Success will depend on Plenmont and Middanhal,” William claimed. “Sir Ewind can
handle matters until we return.”
“Very well,” Brand assented. “So be it.”
“Before you leave, the latest delivery post had letters and a package for you. I held them here for
safekeeping,” William explained, handling a bundle to his lieutenant.
“Much obliged,” Brand smiled. “If you will excuse me.” He left the tent, followed by Matthew.
~~~~
Back in his own domain, Brand had his sergeant remove his boots, his surcoat, and chain shirt. Less
encumbered, the knight washed himself more thoroughly than when he had first arrived in camp,
combing his hair as well. Examining his stubbles once more, Brand let them be and settled in a chair
instead to open his letters, both of them from Arndis. “Tell Egil to come to my tent soon,” he
commanded Matthew. “I wish to dictate a letter.”
The boy nodded vigorously and left, leaving Brand with his package. It was wrapped in woolskin
tied with heavy string, which his knife cut. Unpacking the soft skin, a book appeared, bound in

119
leather. The golden letters of the title shone as a testament of being newly written. Eagerly opening
the tome, Brand’s eyes lingered on every word of the first page.
Steps announced someone entering the tent. “That was fast,” Brand commented. He looked up and
saw it was not Matthew or Egil, but one of the guards watching his tent.
“Someone named Godfrey claims to have business with you,” the soldier explained.
Brand gave a nod. “Send him in.”
Clad in his customary garb that spoke of long journeys, Godfrey wandered in. “Well met, sir
knight. Barely back and already reading?” he asked with amusement in his tone.
“I commissioned this from the whiterobes before I left Middanhal,” Brand explained with
satisfaction. “Ruminations upon the Art of Governance, by Anselm of Monteau. Cost me eighty
eagles, but worth every petty.”
“He was an astute fellow,” Godfrey agreed.
Brand turned several pages in, his eyes glancing over the words. “In matters of discipline, be not
cordial. In matters of generosity, be not stern,” he read aloud. “The man with reputation for being
stern or cordial will either way be admired by some, disliked by others, but a reputation for justice is
superior to both and appeals to all.”
“You sound like a man who has read it many times before.”
Brand was on the verge of saying something but closed the book instead, putting it away. “You are
not here to discuss Master Anselm of Monteau.”
“I wish to know if your journey proved the veracity of my words.”
The knight nodded a few times. “It did. Everything was as you said it would be, where you said it
would be.”
“Does this mean my impending and painful execution is delayed?” He said this with a smile.
“Abolished,” Brand granted. “Why the Highfather would send a servant into the Reach is beyond
my mind to guess, but your knowledge can be trusted.”
“I can offer more than that. I will travel to Middanhal and encourage the Highfather to support
your campaign, along with any others within my reach.”
“I suppose it cannot hurt,” Brand assented. “With no lord marshal, matters in Middanhal are –
unstable. Sir William will also go the capital.”
“I will leave soon, in that case, that I might return soon as well. I bid you farewell for now.”
“Gods go with you,” Brand told him. Once alone, the knight picked up his book again.
~~~~
There was not a book but a blade in Hubert’s hands, receiving oil, when he had his own visitor.
“Glaukos,” the count greeted him. “I am pleased to see you return.”
“My thanks, my lord,” the warrior replied. “While my blade remains clean, it was a tense journey
nonetheless. We learned much of value, and we are prepared to take the fight to the scum of the
wasteland.”
“I envy you, being among the first to enter the Reach,” Hubert admitted. “For the rest of your life,
you will have a tale to tell that few can match.”
“Knowing that Sir Adalbrand plans to return to the Reach,” Glaukos ventured to say, “is the reason
I come to see you.”
“What is it?” The count gave a frown.
“I pledged myself to his service while in Tothmor, fighting by his side at Polisals,” Glaukos began
explaining.
“Another achievement to your name,” Hubert pointed out graciously.

120
 “With the return of our queen, I found myself serving two masters. Travelling here as protector of
the king delayed the issue, but it cannot be delayed forever.”
“What issue?” Hubert asked confounded. “You are a Blade. That has not changed.”
“I am,” Glaukos assented. “But once our land is free, our king and queen will remain in Tothmor, I
imagine. If I want to fight the outlanders, I have to follow the new campaign beyond the wall. I have
to follow Sir Adalbrand.”
The frown appearing occasionally on Hubert’s face became a scowl. “You would forsake your
oath? Only death can release you from your obligation as a Queen’s Blade.”
“Or the person I am bound to,” Glaukos corrected. “My oath is to the king and queen, and they
may set me free.”
“This is unheard of!” Hubert almost leapt to his feet, his sword being flung aside and landing on
the ground. “A Blade who wishes to leave the worthiest service any warrior in this land could aspire
to!”
Glaukos swallowed, taking a step back. “I understand your displeasure.”
“Displeasure!”
“You trained me, Lord Hubert, and you have always been the ideal to which I aspired.”
“Clearly I did not train you well enough!”
“But I owe a debt of pain to the outlanders, and a debt of failed protection to our people,” Glaukos
continued, a storm of emotions flashing across his face, though none of it appeared in his tone as he
spoke. “I can only repay them both by fighting, and the fight lies out there, beyond the wall.”
“Is it not enough to serve?” The question was flung like an accusation.
“Nothing will ever be enough,” Glaukos admitted with a quiet voice. “I can never undo the
damage done to our city, our home.” He paused briefly before he was able to speak again. “All I can
strive to do is crush the outlanders, so they will never be able to spill one drop of blood upon the
heaths again.”
Hubert did not reply at first; he picked up his sword instead, staring at the naked blade. Sheathing
it, he took a deep breath. “I have trained many boys over the years, turned them into men. I tried to
instil not merely weapon skills but also courage, honour, and loyalty.”
“You have been the best master of arms in all the realms,” Glaukos claimed.
“Still, some of my boys went astray. Some of my boys lost their way. Some of them…” The
count’s voice had lost its earlier fury, and he seemed to stare into the distance. “My boy,” he
reiterated.
“I am sorry that I have caused you disappointment,” the Blade told Hubert, who turned to look at
his former student.
“I remember what you did in Tothmor,” the count spoke, his voice growing clearer. “You stayed
behind to cover our escape. You did exactly as could be asked of any Blade. You sacrificed yourself
to safeguard the ruler of our land.”
“It was my duty,” Glaukos mumbled.
Hubert exhaled deeply. “You made the right choice back then. I will trust your choice in this
matter as well. I will speak on your behalf to the king.”
“My lord?” Surprise was evident in Glaukos’ voice.
“That is why you came to me, was it not?” Hubert’s voice had regained its usual brusque nature.
“I thought that if I could persuade you, I could persuade anyone,” the Blade admitted with an
inkling of a smile.

121
 “Rogue,” the count growled, though without sting in his tone. “The queen is not here, but the
king’s permission should suffice. Meet me by his tent soon. I have another matter to attend to first that
will also require the king’s attention.”
“You have my gratitude, my lord.” With a grateful smile, Glaukos left the tent. Tying his sword by
his waist, Hubert did the same shortly after.
~~~~
In the tent he shared with his master, Baldwin was polishing boots. Making the leather shine, he
hummed a tune from his old home of Vidrevi, but looked up as someone entered. “Count Hubert!” he
exclaimed with a smile.
“Greetings, boy,” the old warrior spoke gruffly. “You are alone?”
“Sir William went to speak to the prince of Aquila. One last attempt at convincing him to join in
an assault,” Baldwin revealed with a wry expression. “I can take you to his tent?” He began to put the
boots and polish away.
“No need,” Hubert told him, sitting down. “I am not here to discuss strategy, but another matter
entirely.” He cleared his throat. “I have an issue that plagues me.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” the squire expressed, picking up his work again.
“I have no heir apparent to my title and more importantly, my duties. When I die, some distant
relative will claim my title unless the queen can find a worthy successor and see it done without
challenge.”
“Quite an issue,” Baldwin agreed.
“It is not merely politics,” Hubert strained to elaborate. “The first count of Esmarch was the
brother of King Erhard. His greatest duty was to defend the eastern part of the realm. Ever since then,
the counts of Esmarch, the blood of the northern kings have acted as the foremost defenders of
Hæthiod.”
“Impressive,” Baldwin nodded, working hard at a particularly bothersome spot on the left boot.
“When Esmarch itself was no longer worth defending…” There was a lump in Hubert’s throat he
had to clear before he could continue. “I became a Blade to the king. There must always be a count of
Esmarch with the strength and honour to defend our realm and our monarch.”
“Of course, of course.”
“One of my duties is to ensure this legacy is upheld. Rather than leave matters to chance, I have
decided to adopt an heir worthy of the task. Worthy to be the count of Esmarch.”
Baldwin looked up. “Oh! You have come to speak with Sir William!”
“I think William’s path lies elsewhere, with the Order. I have come to speak to you, Baldwin.” The
old man met the boy’s eyes with a heavy countenance whose emotions were difficult to determine.
“Me?”
“Yes, boy, you.”
“But,” Baldwin stammered. “I am not even Baldwin of Hareik, not until I become a knight. I am
Baldwin from Hareik.” The next words came with extreme hesitation. “My father’s name is not mine
to speak.”
“Only makes it simpler,” Hubert pointed out.
“What about blood of the kings, the first count of Esmarch? Does that not matter?”
“One of my useless relatives will have a daughter for you to marry. It will make it harder to
challenge the adoption, and the next generation of Esmarch will have as strong a claim as any.”
“But why me?” he finally managed to ask.

122
 “Boy, you fought by my side every day when Tothmor was besieged when men twice your age
dared not. You are steadfast, courageous, and with no ambition other than to serve. I can think of none
finer to whom I would entrust the safety of this realm.”
“Oh,” was all that Baldwin could reply with a bashful look towards the ground.
“Well, what say you?”
“Sure. I mean, I accept,” the squire added haltingly.
“Let us put the matter before the king and find that scribe boy also. I should like to have some
manner of document signed and sealed, in case one of us has to leave camp soon.”
“Very well.” With a smile, the boy put his tools aside, following Hubert outside to become
Baldwin of Esmarch.
~~~~
The grandest tent in the camp belonged to the king, and its interior was a match for its size. It
possessed furniture more luxurious than anywhere else and an ample storage of wine. After his guests
had departed, Leander sank down into a soft chair, adjusted a few pillows, and had his servant fill his
cup. Once this task had been performed, the servant flittered around nervously instead of retreating as
usual.
“What?” the king asked impatiently. His fingers toyed with a silver pendant around his neck,
depicting a raven.
“Someone else seeks audience, Your Majesty,” came a nervous reply.
“Inform them that I have created a new tax. Adoptions, being released from an oath, and similar
requests cost a bottle of spirits. Two if I do not like the person making the request,” Leander
proclaimed.
“It is the minstrel, Your Majesty.”
“Let him in without paying.” Leander waved a hand. “Any wine he has will come from my stores
anyway.”
“I would not refuse a glass,” Troy admitted with a grin, walking in and taking a seat.
“I have never known you to refuse,” the king claimed. “I thought tonight we should be drinking
the tap from Tricaster.” He made some gesture towards his servant, who gave Troy a cup and filled it.
“A fine taste,” Troy proclaimed after having a sip.
“Gets the task done,” Leander added.
“Being in an army camp is a great deal more pleasant with abundant amounts of wine. This siege
is a lot less dull than when we were quartered by the border to Ingmond. In winter, too,” Troy
shivered.
“I cannot imagine what thought made these knights want to stay in camp during winter,” the king
remarked.
“It did allow us to take Tothmor by surprise,” the bard pointed out.
“I suppose there is that.”
“I do not enjoy the hardships of such a life, but it was valuable. I found inspiration at last.”
“To make a song about yet another drakonian, causing trouble wherever he goes.” The disdain in
Leander’s voice was obscured by his slurring, but present nonetheless. “I hope you will find other
subjects for your singing soon.”
There was hesitation in Troy’s voice as he spoke again. “I wanted to speak with you about that.”
“Something on your mind?”
“There is rumour that the Order is planning a campaign beyond the wall, into the Reach.”

123
 “Best of luck to them,” Leander snorted. “It sounds like a fool’s errand to me, but if they are going
to kill outlanders, I will not stand in their way.”
“I thought I should go with them.”
Leander sat upright, blinking a few times. “You? Into the Reach? Armed with a lute?”
“I will be travelling with an army,” Troy defended himself. “First I intend to follow Sir Adalbrand
to Plenmont.”
“Why?” Leander’s voice overflowed with disbelief. “What good will that do you?”
“I can see my mother’s homeland,” Troy offered, sounding casual. “Besides, it is more about
staying close to the lieutenant.”
“Is he your patron now? Are you casting my friendship aside in favour of this arrogant, pompous
fool?”
“I stayed with Sir William and the knights those months ago because I thought it would give me
stories, something worth singing about,” Troy began to explain. “I was right. You weren’t at the battle
of Polisals, you didn’t see.”
“See what? Men butchering each other, and someone else reaping the glory?”
“It was a battle for our home, Leander, and it was almost lost.” Troy’s eyes lost focus as memories
surfaced. “In that moment, he did not panic. He saw what had to be done and did it without hesitation,
without concern for himself.”
“And earned himself many a bootlicker,” Leander added scornfully.
“He is no hound for glory,” Troy argued. “I know such men, I’ve met Count Hubert. Sir
Adalbrand, he fought because he had to. He charged the enemy headlong, killing their captain and
turning the tide of battle. No man could watch that and remain unmoved.”
“It certainly left an impression on you.” The king’s voice was sullen.
“He is not just a knight or some warrior. He is a leader of men, and he will lead us beyond the wall
as the first captain to ever do so since it was built,” the bard argued.
“A leader of men,” Leander repeated. “Unlike me.”
“I did not say that,” Troy hastily continued. “But my craft demands I follow him. I must go where
the songs are made,” he added, “that I may be the one who makes them.”
The king gave a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Enough. I am tired of listening to people.
Drink your wine.” Troy dutifully did so.
~~~~
Days passed with both Order commanders preparing to leave, planning for contingencies and ensuring
that the siege would continue in their absence. Nonetheless, an unexpected event occurred when a
convoy of provisions arrived from Florentia, bringing the post with it. Most were scrolls rolled
together without any name written as recipient, as they were military dispatches intended for the
commanders and always delivered to Brand, but among the scrolls was an actual letter, addressed to
him. Not only that, it bore the seal of the King’s Quill upon the strings that tied it together,
guaranteeing its origin and that it had not been opened beforehand. With curiosity marked on his face,
Brand broke the seal and read the contents within.
Soon after, Brand sought out William and approached his captain while waving the letter in his
hand. “The Adalthing is convening outside of time,” he informed the other knight.
“Strange,” William frowned. “Does it say why?”
“The noble prisoners from Isarn are mentioned, but more importantly, so is our campaign. The
summons does not go into detail,” Brand explained, opening the letter to glance at it. “It merely

124
mentions that it is to be discussed. My guess is that with our impending victory, they wish to declare it
at an end. Use our troops and resources towards defeating Jarl Isarn’s rebellion for good.”
“Quite the stone before our plough,” William muttered concerned.
“I should attend. I will explain the opportunity we have and convince the Adalthing to support our
endeavours.”
“And if you cannot?”
“The Adalthing does not have direct control of the Order. The noblemen can refuse to support us,
send us neither men nor food, but if they attempt to order us home, we simply ignore them. We still
have allies in Korndale and Hæthiod to supply us,” Brand considered.
“Launching an invasion without support from Adalrik…” Doubt tinged the captain’s voice. “It
seems foolhardy.”
“We will both go to Middanhal and ensure it does not come to pass,” Brand declared confidently.
“We will seek allies wherever they may be found. I have faith in our endeavour still.”
“You always have faith, which leads you to always taking risks,” William pointed out. “I worry
about the day when your luck finally runs out.”
“I will give you ample warning ahead of time,” Brand smiled. “The Adalthing convenes in three
weeks. If we are to reach Middanhal in time, we must make haste.”
To this, William agreed. The next day, the captain and the lieutenant left the siege of Lakon,
journeying from Hæthiod towards the capital of Adalrik.

125
 Fifth Chronicle of Adalmearc
Part of the Annals of Adal

This volume begins in the year ᚿᛜᚢᚿᛚ

The events unfold in the realm of Adalrik

126
 19. Falling Sands
Middanhal
The cold winter following the solstice held Middanhal in its grasp. There was no market at the Temple
square; anyone forced to be outside spent no more time on the streets than necessary. Despite the
frost, the Citadel was as busy as ever, especially in the dragonlord’s wing. The antechamber was full
each day of people seeking audience. Eolf, servant to the dragonlord, entered the room from deeper
inside the wing. “Master Edwin, his lordship will see you now,” he announced. Groans could be heard
from the rest as the rotund alderman got on his feet and followed Eolf.
Entering the dragonlord’s study, Edwin found Konstans sitting behind a desk with his head buried
in papers. “Sit,” the latter commanded without looking up. The alderman, exhibiting his usual anxiety
and discomfort in these situations, did as directed. Hearing the chair crack under Edwin’s weight and
still not looking at his visitor, Konstans reached out to turn a small hourglass around. Putting it down
on his desk, the sands quickly began flowing through. “State your case swiftly.”
“Yes, milord.” Droplets of sweat were forming on the alderman’s brow despite the cold weather.
“We – the merchants, that is – are concerned about scarcity.”
“Of what?” Finally, Konstans turned his head level.
“Salt, first and foremost, followed by meat. Since we cannot cure meat as we normally can, it will
soon become scarce. Especially as the same must be taking place in Korndale, and we cannot expect
them to sell their cattle to us as usual.”
“Because they will keep theirs rather than risk hunger,” the dragonlord realised, nodding his head
slightly. “Have you not taken precautions? This is your responsibility.”
“We have, milord,” Edwin hastened to claim. “We are rationing our stores and seeking other
means to avoid any shortage of food.”
“So why have you come to me?” Konstans glanced at the hourglass by his side, which had
deposited a quarter of its sand.
“Milord, if the law on meat prices is kept in effect, we will have to sell at a loss.”
“I doubt that,” Konstans spoke with a scoffing sound.
“We will only be able to buy it at exorbitant prices,” the alderman continued his claim.
“Furthermore, as we cannot salt it, we must sell it as swiftly as it is butchered. If we are allowed to
raise the sales price, we can both afford buying more animals and also delay butchering.”
“Not to mention allow for a tidy profit, I am sure.”
“Milord,” Edwin exclaimed in a protesting manner.
“Allowing the price on food to soar is not lightly done,” Konstans declared. He eyed the hourglass
that was more than halfway through its journey. “Do you have no other avenues to explore?”
“The royal treasury could reimburse the merchants for selling their goods at a price,” Edwin
suggested cautiously.
“What would that cost?”

127
 “Who could know for sure?” The alderman attempted an anxious smile.
“You would not mention it unless you had calculated the cost to the last copper coin,” Konstans
claimed coldly.
“Nothing above thirty-five crowns, I assure you, milord.”
“A month?”
Edwin licked his lips. “A week.”
Konstans raised an eyebrow. “I want you to write those calculations upon paper and deliver to
me.”
“Of course, milord. Even so, I should hope to leave today with a decision,” he ventured to say,
eyeing the hourglass on the table. It would not last much longer. “Surely there is no harm in allowing
the price per pound to be raised by two eagles? Only in case it becomes necessary,” he hastened to
say.
Konstans also glanced at the hourglass. “For the next month only. The price return to the fixed
amount once the Raven Days have ended.”
“Very well, milord,” Edwin acknowledged with a bowed head.
The hourglass dropped its final grain of sand. “Deliver those numbers to me and seek another
audience a week after that. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, milord.” The alderman rose and gave a bow. Konstans already had his head in the pieces of
parchment before him and paid no further heed as Eolf led Edwin out.
~~~~
Although the jarl of Theodstan kept a house in Middanhal as behoved a man of his position, he and his
entourage dwelt at the Citadel in spacious rooms that almost constituted a wing of the castle. This time
of year, a strong fire burned merrily in the hearth of the parlour, where the jarl’s sister held court with
her friends and attendants. Most of them were busy with embroidery, in particular the handmaidens,
though one of them was reading a book aloud to Theodwyn, who sat with her eyes closed. Arndis was
an exception, playing chess against the jarl’s servant, Holwyn, who was dressed like any other female
servant. Eleanor with her customary veil was fiddling with a needle, though not making much
progress and constantly pulling up the threads she put in.
Theodwyn raised a hand to silence the servant reading to her. “If that needle does not suit your
purposes, dear, I am happy to lend you another,” she stated, afterwards opening her eyes to look at
Eleanor.
“No need, my lady,” the other woman replied subserviently. “The needle is fine.”
“Then I pray you put it to proper use.” This was spoken sternly as an admonishment.
“Of course, my lady.”
Holwyn sent a raised eyebrow at Arndis sitting across her. “There should be post arriving today,”
the latter explained in a hushed voice. “Dispatches from Hæthiod tend to arrive on the second and
fourth Hamarday.”
“Personal letters are given lowest priority and distributed last,” Eleanor added, biting her lips
immediately afterwards and glancing at Theodwyn.
“Patience is a virtue,” the jarl’s sister remarked without looking at anyone in particular. “It is not
becoming for a lady to chase correspondence either. It will arrive when it arrives.”
“I am no lady,” Holwyn admitted with cheek. “I could walk to the hall of records and enquire after
the latest dispatch.”
A smile appeared on Eleanor’s face, visible even through her veil, and vanished as she glanced at
Theodwyn. “That will not be necessary,” the Hæthian lady spoke meekly.

128
 “I wish a handsome knight was writing letters to me from the front,” a young handmaiden said
with a dreaming voice.
“You wish nothing of the sort, Alyssa,” Theodwyn corrected her. “Perhaps if your mind was more
disciplined, your horse would not resemble a bloated sheep.” The reproached handmaiden quickly
glanced down at her embroidery with flushed cheeks while the other women hid their smiles and
giggles.
“I would not mind a letter from a knight such as Sir William,” Holwyn declared brazenly, making
Eleanor blush.
“That is because despite my best efforts, impressing manners upon you is like trying to dye black
wool. It simply will not take,” Theodwyn told her pointedly.
“I am happy to be a black sheep,” Holwyn grinned.
“Besides,” the jarl’s sister continued, “there will be no news of interest from Hæthiod as long as it
is winter. War is like a bear. It hibernates. Nothing will be happening until it is spring again.”
“And then the bear goes in search of bees? Do bees mean knights in this image?” Holwyn asked
with an innocent look.
“Do not be silly, girl,” Theodwyn scoffed.
“I suspect that in this gathering, knights are more like honey,” Holwyn mused.
“Enough,” Theodwyn exclaimed, though there was no real edge in her voice, and her servant did
not look chastised. “It may sound like a pretty tune, knights in war, but the truth is they are doing
nothing but sitting in camp and whiling away the time. If you need further encouragement to think of
something else, let me tell you that an army camp is a breeding ground for vermin.”
This immediately made several of the women look uneasy, in turn giving Theodwyn a satisfied
expression. Holwyn immediately seized upon this new topic. “You refer to rats scurrying around
inside the tents? Lice on every man’s head? Or is vermin another of your images and it actually refers
to the camp followers, the women of dubious –”
“Thank you!” This time, Theodwyn’s voice was sharp enough to cut steel, and any signs of mirth
upon her companions’ faces evaporated. “Instead of entertaining silly notions or making a mockery of
our soldiers, you should pray for them. The outlanders are ten times as many as the Order, and we
should be happy that winter prevents any battles from being fought. No news is good news.”
The mood became sombre. “But surely,” Alyssa spoke cautiously, “our knights will win no matter
who they fight?”
“Of course,” Theodwyn reassured her. “They need only await reinforcements, and victory is
certain.”
“Therein lies the problem,” Arndis remarked absentmindedly, her hand hovering over a chess
piece.
“What do you mean?” asked Eleanor.
“All available Order soldiers are already in Hæthiod. Sir William and my brother cannot expect
any further.”
“Levies can be raised among the noblemen, surely,” Eleanor argued.
“Any left have been sent north against Jarl Isarn,” Arndis countered, moving her hand to another
piece. “None of the southern lords will commit troops to fighting in Hæthiod as long as Adalrik is
caught in war as well. Probably not even once that war is concluded.”
“What of the mercenaries hired by our lord protector? They’ll finish the war against Isarn swiftly
and afterwards, they can be sent south,” Holwyn suggested.

129
 Arndis shook her head. “They are too expensive for Jarl Vale to use against the outlanders. Once
Jarl Isarn is defeated, they will either be dismissed from service or remain here in Adalrik to
strengthen his rule. Why use his own gold to fight the Order’s battles?”
“You think he would abandon Hæthiod?” Eleanor sounded shocked. “He is the lord protector,
ruling on behalf of the prince. When the prince is king, Hæthiod will be his subject. Thus, Hæthiod is
the responsibility of the lord protector as well.”
“Perhaps, but it is not the responsibility of the jarl of Vale, which I think weighs more heavily,”
Arndis replied, finally deciding which piece to move. “Game end.”
~~~~
Eolf, servant to the dragonlord, appeared in the antechamber once more. As before, the sight of him
raised eyes and hopes. He extended a gesture towards an old man in undyed robes, who rose to follow
the servant, leaving disappointment behind.
“The quartermaster has come to see you as bidden,” Eolf told his master.
“Have a seat,” Konstans offered, adding a few scribbles to the paper before depositing his quill in
its inkwell. “I have summoned you to discuss the execution of your duties. Or rather, the dereliction of
same.”
The quartermaster of the Order, well into his seventies, gave a sardonic smile. “At least you
offered me a seat before hurling insults at me. I may be old, but my mind is stronger than my knees,
and neither need any rest.” He remained standing with a defiant expression.
“In other words, it is not because you misunderstand your duties,” Konstans spoke coldly. “You
simply refuse to attend to them appropriately.”
“I have served the Order in my position for nigh on twenty years.” The reply was spoken with an
icy tone equal to the dragonlord’s. “In that time, I have not let one bag of flour go missing, one dagger
be unaccounted for. If there is the slightest discrepancy with the men or material supplied for any
campaign of the Order, it will not have happened at the Citadel.”
“Yet supplies are not going north the siege camp at Grenwold, but south towards Hæthiod. Even
though you were specifically instructed to do so.”
“I serve the Order and its marshals. You have no authority to instruct me.” There was sneer in the
old man’s voice.
“You give me no choice but to have you forcibly removed from your position, as you are not fit to
fulfil it,” Konstans threatened.
“Who will remove me? Your sell-swords and hired brigands? An attack on me is an attack on the
Order itself, here in its very heart. I cannot imagine you would be so foolish.” The quartermaster gave
an impatient sigh. “I have duties to attend to. I take my position most seriously, Lord Konstans, as
does every one of the Order’s soldiers in the Citadel.”
Konstans watched with frustration as the other man left, anger leaving a mark on his face. “Eolf,”
he called out curtly. The servant quickly materialised. “Tell the captain of the Citadel I wish to see
him tomorrow. No more supplicants for the next hour.” The servant bowed and made himself scarce
again.
~~~~
Unlike the permanent quarters for the dragonlord, there were no such provisions for the position of
lord protector, being so rarely needed. Instead, the jarl of Vale had been given chambers that a guest
of his prominence would typically receive at the Citadel. In another contrast to his brother, Valerian
was not receiving petitioners; any seeking the lord protector were told to request audience with the

130
dragonlord instead. This allowed the jarl solitude for the most part, surrounded by his books and
ledgers. The only other people in this wing of the castle were his family, the most trusted servants, and
a strong contingent of his personal guards.
The jarlinna, pregnant for several months now, had on numerous occasions expressed her desire to
live elsewhere than the cold walls of the Citadel. As the jarl’s house in Middanhal had been nearly
destroyed during Isarn’s occupation, it was not a possibility. While Valcaster would be more pleasant
during the winter months, Valerian had expressed his fervent wish that his wife give birth in
Middanhal and not in Valcaster, where news would take weeks to reach him. As a consequence,
Alexandra made her discomfort known to her surroundings often, thereby ensuring they shared her
plight and further prompting Valerian to seclude himself in his study.
Seated in that room, the jarl’s quill was scribbling away, as it was on any other day. Numbers were
compared, added and subtracted, underlined and finished with a swirl. Sometimes the jarl was
humming to himself, sometimes his face made a frown as numbers and figures did not initially align,
but they always yielded to him once he finished his calculations.
There was a knock on the door. “Enter,” Valerian called out; he enjoyed his solitude to such an
extent, there was not even a servant in the room with him to answer the door or attend to his needs. A
young woman entered. In terms of facial features, she had little in common with the man sitting
behind the writing desk, taking after her mother instead. Despite the dissimilarities, they were father
and daughter. Valerian looked up. “Yes?”
“How are your numbers?” Valerie asked, closing the door behind her.
“Bigger than last year,” her father replied with uncharacteristic dryness. “But you came here to ask
me something else. What do you need?”
“I was considering taking Alexandra to the Temple. See what the greenrobes have left in their
stores. The winter is making Alexandra look pale, and a little red mixture for her cheeks would
brighten her appearance. If you approve?”
“Fine by me,” the jarl muttered, his head already bent over the papers again.
“A change of surroundings might be beneficial for her as well,” Valerie continued.
“Take a carriage. It is too far for her to walk,” her father instructed her.
“We shall,” she promised, opening the door to the study. Although her query had been answered,
she remained in the doorway, looking hesitant. “I was wondering, Father.”
“Yes?”
“What will happen to the Isarn prisoners?”
The sound of Valerian’s feather pen scratching over paper ceased. He looked up. “They are traitors
and rebels. The only punishment is execution.”
“For all of them?”
“Perhaps leniency will be granted to those of lesser status. Those who captained this rebellion will
lose their heads,” Valerian stated with a flat tone of voice as if discussing his calculations.
“I see.” Valerie’s voice was equally toneless.
“Is something the matter, my child?” He deposited his quill into its inkwell.
“No, Father.”
“Are you nervous about the wedding?”
“No, Father.”
“There is no shame in that. You will not only become a wife, but a queen. This is the best possible
match I could ever hope to secure for you.”
“I know, Father.”
“Good.” Valerian smiled, taking hold of his feather pen again, soon scribbling numbers again.

131
 ~~~~
A youth in rich garments walked brashly into Konstans’ study, almost pushing Eolf out of the way.
“Prince Hardmar, milord,” the servant quickly muttered, stepping aside. “I will inform the envoy
he must wait.”
Konstans raised his head but did not have time to speak before the prince did. “I make this
appearance as a courtesy, which I will not repeat. I am your prince, and you will not summon me in
this fashion again.” Hardmar’s voice was swinging like a pendulum between angry and icy. Behind
him came his guard, Berimund, captain of the kingthanes.
Konstans sheathed his feather pen in its inkwell. “I made a polite request, my prince, that you
would see me. I am attending to matters pertaining to your kingdom, after all, and in service to it.” In
contrast, Konstans spoke with politeness, although tinged with distance.
“Precisely. My kingdom. In the future, you will come to me.”
“Of course, my prince,” Konstans conceded. “If you will allow me to address the matter at hand.”
“Yes, be swift about it.”
Nothing about Konstans’ demeanour revealed that he was affected by this show of condescension.
“I thought we should determine the date for the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“Between yourself and my niece,” the dragonlord explained patiently. “The end of the Raven Days
seems a fitting time for a celebration, and we can formalise the union between our houses.”
Hardmar frowned. “That is far too soon. We have not even announced it at the Adalthing.”
“The Adalthing is six months away,” Konstans pointed out. “We can have the town criers
announce it within the next few days. That gives an engagement period of almost three months.”
“Three months,” Hardmar scoffed. “I am the future king! You would disgrace me with such a
short engagement?”
“That was not at all my intent to imply,” Konstans argued calmly. “A wedding between the two
most powerful houses will signal stability and bring to mind thoughts of a prosperous future.”
“I will announce my betrothal to your niece at the Adalthing, as is proper,” the prince declared. “If
she cannot wait that long, she is free to marry a man of lesser worth,” Hardmar added with a sneer
before turning on his heel and marching out. Berimund avoided looking at Konstans and followed his
master in leaving.
Konstans watched the prince leave. Taking a deep breath, he dipped his quill in ink and continued
writing.
~~~~
The number of Order soldiers in Middanhal was considerably below full strength, having yet to
replenish the ranks after most of the men marched south to Hæthiod for the campaign. The garrison
still manned the Citadel and walked the streets of Middanhal, but the sentinels on the walls were
spread thin, and the patrols were infrequent.
This left plenty of room in the barracks for soldiers wearing tabards of different colours. Some had
the golden spirals on red that signified the House of Vale. Others wore colours and symbols hitherto
unseen in Middanhal, such as a green surcoat, where a crimson bird of prey spread its wings. These
men were the mercenary company known as Red Hawks. Such companies, whose only loyalty was to
gold, were viewed with disdain in Adalmearc, and the Hawks had sailed from as far away as Alcázar
to serve the jarl of Vale and bolster his forces. Despite their base being beyond Adalmearc, many men

132
of the company hailed from the Seven Realms, making for a motley band, and the Nordspeech of the
realms was heard among them as often as the trade speech of Alcázar.
Most of the Hawks, including their captain, had been sent north for the siege of Grenwold Castle,
but a few hundred remained in Middanhal to support the lord protector. They spent their time as all
soldiers did, exchanging silver for beverages, games, and company. The cold weather might temper
their desire to leave the Citadel in search of these distractions, but it could not supress their boredom.
In one of the barracks belonging to the Red Hawks, three of their colours returned in the afternoon
after such an outing. “Blast this weather!” one of them exclaimed, shaking his cloak. Already, the
snow was melting into their clothes, prompting them to quickly remove their outer garments and hang
them by the fireplace. Most of them had the appearance common to natives of Alcázar and warmer
skies.
Deep, rolling laughter was heard from one of the tables. “You southern boys wouldn’t last a day
on the isles.” This proclamation came from a man carving a piece of wood in idle fashion. His skin
had an earthly tone to it, much like the men he addressed, but with several coloured markings, which
along with the gold ring in his right ear revealed him to be a Dwarf; his other notable features were a
neatly combed beard and a missing left ear.
“The isles,” repeated the first soldier while making a face. “You keep running your mouth about
how tough life is there, yet I never see you step one foot away from the fireplace.”
“Of course,” the Dwarf laughed on. “That’s what life on the isles taught me. Don’t go outside in
bad weather, you fool!”
“It’s going out into the snow or staying in here with you, Jorund,” one of the other soldiers pointed
out.
“Fair point,” Jorund admitted, placing his woodcarving on the nearby table and collecting some of
the shavings on the ground to throw them into the fire. “Say, while you lads were out, did you get
some proper brew to bring back?”
“Just get some from the kitchen,” someone suggested, warming his hands as Jorund began feeding
the flames.
“That’s weaker than the milk I had from my mother’s breast,” the Dwarf retorted with a sour
expression.
“You remember the taste?” This was spoken with mild surprise and almost no hint of mockery.
“You’re right, Gawad, that does sound odd,” Jorund assented. “Maybe it’s your mother’s milk I
remember.”
The other soldier, same height as the Dwarf but with a thin, black beard and both his ears intact,
gave a vague smile. “Keep talking that way, and I’ll keep this small keg of ale to myself that I brought
back from town.” He spoke Adalspeech with a strong accent yet otherwise flawless.
“Knowing you, that beer was brewed by a horse, I bet,” Jorund grinned.
“Close,” Gawad admitted. “Apparently, it was brewed by a bull.”
The Dwarf’s grin lasted a moment longer until he caught on. “Bull’s brew? You got this from the
geolrobes?”
“If that’s what they’re called,” Gawad spoke with a shrug, acting as casual as Jorund was excited.
He pulled away his cloak from where it was hanging, revealing a cask underneath it. A bull’s head
was branded into the wood of the small barrel.
“Gawad, you glorious creature. I’ll pay you one silver a mug,” Jorund promised. He was already
licking his lips.

133
 “Maybe it’s all for me,” the other soldier considered. He was quickly surrounded by several men,
joining the Dwarf in demanding or even begging that the keg be opened without delay. Soon, every
tankard in the room was full.
Jorund let out a long sigh of pleasure after the first sip. “Now this is how you brew it,” he smiled.
Everyone else agreed.
“Did you hear any news?” someone asked of the men who had gone outside. “How’s our boys
faring?”
“Siege is slow,” came the reply. The man speaking was thin, but looked lean and tough; along with
Gawad, he had organised the acquisition of ale, and currently he sat counting the silvers this had
brought him. “I’m guessing our new masters don’t want to pay us for our dead, so they’re not going to
storm them, but starve them out.”
“Sieges are the best,” came a content sigh. “We get pay for being employed, but don’t have to do
any fighting.”
“Yeah, right until our employer gets tired of waiting and sends us all up on the walls to die in an
assault.” This was spoken with a derisive snort by the coin-counting soldier, and several other Hawks
gave their assent.
“Jerome is right. I’d rather be here,” Jorund declared, “even if we’re not getting active pay. If you
think it’s cold here, imagine lying in those tents with just the rats for company.” A handful of
murmurs voiced their agreement.
“We heard other news,” Gawad weighed in. “About your home, wasn’t it, Jerome?”
The lank soldier stopped his counting, putting his silver away in a pocket deep inside his tunic.
“That’s right. Those Order lads took Tothmor. All the town criers are yelling it.”
“Tothmor? I didn’t know it was under siege,” the Dwarf frowned.
“It wasn’t,” Jerome shook his head. “It seems the boys in black got themselves a good captain.”
“Not as good as Captain Bassel,” someone declared loudly, making everyone raise their mugs in
cheers.
“I’ll drink to that!”
Gawad looked at Jorund, whose ale remained motionless in front of him. “Something troubling
you?” he asked.
“Cities like Tothmor don’t fall without a siege,” the Dwarf muttered, barely audible through the
clamour of the other soldiers’ voices. “Things are going to change now, one way or the other.
Question is if they will change for us or pass us by.” He finally looked at Gawad, gave a shrug, and
emptied his mug.
~~~~
Towards the end of the day, Eolf entered his master’s study. “Milord, the envoy from Ealond is still
waiting.”
Konstans looked up abruptly, muttering to himself and running his fingers over his forehead.
“Send him in,” he finally declared, pouring a cup of wine for himself. As the door opened, he turned
the small hourglass on his desk before looking at his visitor.
The man entering was clad in bright colours describing intricate patterns. He was a stark contrast
to the highborn drakonians or their servants, whose garments were typically a single colour with an
emblem upon it.
“Master Guilbert, milord, servant to the duke of Belvoir,” Eolf announced and retired.
“Have a seat, Master Guilbert,” Konstans offered. “You have come a long way to see me.”

134
 The envoy made an elaborate bow. “It is but a short distance for an audience with a man of your
import.” He remained standing with a smile; having waited all day did not seem to have dampened his
spirits in any way.
There was a moment of silence, where Guilbert looked at the dragonlord expectantly, while
Konstans glanced at the hourglass swiftly disgorging grains of sand. “What brings your master to send
an emissary to Middanhal?” he finally asked.
“My master, Duke Gaspard of Belvoir, sends his cordial greetings and wishes to convey his
deepest pleasure at your ascension to your current and most rightful position,” Guilbert declared with
a fluent stream of words as if reciting a poetry from memory, adding another small bow. The smile
had so far not faltered from his face for even the briefest of moments.
“His courtesy is appreciated,” Konstans replied. “I assume that is not all he wishes to convey?”
“Most astute, my lord,” Guilbert remarked, finally sitting down. “As the rest of Adalmearc, the
duke has been watching events unfold in Adalrik and Hæthiod with anxious eyes. The Order must
fight two wars, and their strength is greatly weakened in Ealond, for instance.”
Konstans’ eyes narrowed. “The Order will be victorious, as it always is. Besides, the lord protector
has added his own forces to theirs, including the renowned Red Hawks. The war in the North will
come to a swift conclusion, I assure you.”
“Yes, the Red Hawks,” Guilbert repeated contemplatively. “Order soldiers, Vale soldiers,
mercenaries. All the warriors you could possibly gather to fight these wars. There cannot be any left,”
he added with a smile.
“The coffers of the jarl of Vale are deep,” Konstans retorted. “Add the treasury of Adalrik to this,
and you will find we have enough gold to fight twenty wars.”
“Gold, I do not doubt,” the envoy assented. “But soldiers can only be hired if there are soldiers to
hire,” he continued, and his smile seemed a challenge. “If the lands are empty, no one can fight for
you.”
“As long as there is gold in this world, you can find a man willing to swing a sword for it,” the
dragonlord replied dryly.
“Perhaps. Even so, allies willing to fight by your side, not for gold but for friendship’s sake, must
be welcome.”
Konstans gave the other man a scrutinising gaze. “Is Duke Gaspard offering his aid?”
“In more ways than one. It grieves my master to inform you that you cannot trust King Rainier to
uphold the high king’s peace.” Guilbert’s smile was dropped in favour of a concerned expression.
“What proof does Duke Gaspard have of this?” Konstans’ voice was steady, but his eyes stared at
the envoy.
“The king has told his vassals to make certain preparations. Prepare the stores of war such as
filling the armouries, ensuring food supplies, making a count of able-bodied men and so forth,”
Guilbert listed. “Unless King Rainier has arranged this with your lordship, and you are already aware
of what is happening in Ealond?”
“It is not by arrangement with me,” Konstans admitted, barely moving his lips. “Does the duke
have any material proof that King Rainier plots war?”
“Nothing in writing or similar, alas.” Guilbert’s face was appropriately regretful. “Every one of the
king’s subjects knows it to be true, but unless someone dares speak up first, none of them will risk
being singularly disloyal.”
Konstans took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. “Does the duke know exactly what
King Rainier intends?”

135
 “On this, the king has revealed nothing. Yet both Herbergja and Tricaster have been targets for the
kings of Ealond in the past, and either city seems likely.”
“Tricaster is across the border from Belvoir,” Konstans pointed out. “If King Rainier seeks to
expand his lands to include that city, he might add it to your master’s duchy. I can only imagine a man
as shrewd as your duke has considered this.”
“My lord, I am shaken that you would insinuate Duke Gaspard would take advantage of such an
unlawful situation.” Guilbert’s voice was indignant. “Breaking the peace of Adalmearc in order to
seize the lands of Korndale and bring them under his own rule, it is unthinkable for an honourable
man such as the duke!”
“But not unthinkable for King Rainier,” Konstans added with a sardonic smile.
“Indeed not.” Guilbert’s face quickly became sorrowful.
The dragonlord licked his lips. “You may inform your master of my gratitude for delivering this
intelligence.”
Guilbert inclined his head. “Duke Gaspard is prepared to do more. As the foremost nobleman of
the realm, he feels it is his duty to take action.”
“What sort of action is he planning to take?” Konstans’ expression bordered on suspicious.
“The duke is bound in loyalty to King Rainier, of course,” the emissary began to say. “But both
dukes and kings are bound in loyalty to the Dragon Throne of Adalrik above all. If the king has
broken his fealty, it is the duty of those still faithful to amend the situation.” Each word in the last
sentence was spoken with the utmost care.
Konstans carefully stroked his chin. “Only the Order has such authority. I cannot condone or
command your master to take such drastic steps.”
“In normal times, the Order would be strong enough to dissuade King Rainier from even
attempting. Yet the lord marshal is dead and cannot intervene, and there are no others to command the
Order to action.”
“What of the marshal of Ealond? If he is made aware of this, it is his duty to step in.”
A sarcastic smile made a brief appearance on Guilbert’s face. “All of Sir Martel’s forces in
Fontaine have been sent east except for some hundred. There cannot be more than a few thousand
Order troops in all of Ealond. The good marshal is powerless to stop King Rainier.”
“Moving against the king,” Konstans spoke slowly, each word chosen with care, “especially when
our cause could be considered insubstantial, is an extreme measure to take. Should the duke do this, he
will be seen as a usurper.”
“The alternative is worse,” argued Guilbert. “King Rainier is ambitious, and he is young. If this
attempt at expanding his power is thwarted, but nothing else is done, he will simply wait for the next
opportunity. And the next, and the next.”
“Even so.” Konstans tapped his fingers on the table idly. “Without the proper authority, without
real evidence, any action taken could cause as much harm as it would prevent. Merely by sending this
message, Duke Gaspard is risking the wrath of his liege.”
“Which is why, should any ask, I am here to propose a union between your son and my master’s
eldest daughter.” Guilbert’s smile swiftly made its return.
Konstans displayed a brief, emotionless smile. “The House of Vale is flattered and will consider
your master’s proposal.” The dragonlord gave Guilbert an inspecting glance. “He must place a great
deal of trust in you to convey such a proposal.”
“I am proud to carry out the duke’s tasks, though I am the humblest of emissaries.” Guilbert
gestured towards himself. “A simple servant whose father’s name is not his to speak and the least
worthy member of his lordship’s household. Thus, should I reveal anything spoken between my

136
master and your lordship, my testimony would hold no value. You are both noblemen of the highest
birth, whereas I am lower than commonborn.”
Konstans leaned back in his seat, his fingers playing with the stem of his wine cup. “What exactly
is your master asking of me?”
“A pledge between your house and his. If not symbolised by union through marriage, then through
other means such as a treaty,” Guilbert explained.
“What would this pledge entail?”
“Duke Gaspard pledges himself to your cause and your wars. As you pledge yourself to him.”
“Such a treaty might be misconstrued as our approval of any unlawful actions taken by the duke,”
Konstans pointed out. His eyes, formerly resting on his cup, rose to meet Guilbert’s.
“Surely none would be so crass as to assume that. My master merely requires your written pledge
to prove to the nobles of Ealond that Adalrik is our friend.”
Konstans began tapping his desk again. “This is not a matter lightly decided.”
Guilbert nodded. “I will remain in Middanhal until the Raven Days have ended. It will not be
pleasant to travel until the new year, regardless.”
“I will summon you once a decision has been made,” Konstans declared and rose.
Guilbert stood up as well. “Very well, my lord.” The envoy paused before he spoke again.
“Remember, Lord Konstans, that if you agree to lend your support, in return you gain not only the
assistance of Belvoir, but all of Ealond.”
The dragonlord merely gave a brief nod and rang a bell standing on his table. His servant quickly
appeared. “Show Master Guilbert the way out,” Konstans told Eolf, who did as ordered.
Once alone, Konstans sank down into his seat. He glanced at the hourglass by his side, whose
sands had long since run out.

137
 20. Beyond the Price of Gold
Middanhal
“We need the remaining Hawks sent to the siege,” Konstans said firmly. He was sitting in his
brother’s study in the Citadel.
“You have access to the royal treasury same as I,” Valerian pointed out. He was seated at his desk,
adding pen strokes to his accounts.
“Other expenses can be paid by the treasury, but not the mercenaries. They fight under the banner
of those that pay them. We do not want them to consider Adalrik rather than Vale to be their patrons,
should loyalties ever become conflicted.”
“I have already sunk a hundred crowns into buying their contract for the siege,” Valerian
complained. “It will cost at least ten, maybe twenty more to retain the remainder of the Hawks.”
Konstans glanced at the ledgers on the table between them. “Your books seem full. I wager you
can afford it.”
“I do not see your reasoning. Despite dwindled numbers, the Order can garrison Middanhal
without help.”
“The issue is not whether they can, but whether we wish it so,” Konstans argued. “This city and
this castle are defended by soldiers who are not loyal to us. We narrowly avoided disaster when Isarn
seized the city. Should the Order turn against us, our position will be even worse with our armies
becoming trapped in the north.”
Valerian wore a sceptical look. “We are the rightful rulers of the realm as confirmed by the
Adalthing. Why would the Order ever turn against us?”
“Their leadership is in tatters with both the lord marshal and the knight marshal dead. Captain
Theobald is headstrong and unlikely to take orders from us. As for the Order’s commanders, one has
already committed treason, and the rest may not be more trustworthy.”
“Athelstan was a traitor, true, but in chains he can cause no further harm. As for the others, we
have no reason to doubt their loyalty or honour.”
“Alwood is impulsive, unreliable – who can tell what goes on in his mind? The Arnling boy
clearly has grand designs, given how he has the town criers announce his victory at Tothmor. With the
realm weakened, what if one of them decides to march against us?”
“Konstans, you see enemies where there are only shadows,” Valerian claimed.
“Better than closing my eyes until the enemies are at our throats,” Konstans shot back. “Arnling is
dragonborn and a successful commander. That combination holds great sway over drakonians. Or
what if some old veterans still hold fondness for Athelstan and decide to free him? I do not fear Isarn
led by Isenhart, but this war could be prolonged tenfold if Athelstan were allowed to return.”
Valerian gave a sigh. “Very well. But I will negotiate the price myself. These Hawks have fleeced
me enough.”

138
 There was a quick knock on the door, and a servant opened it without waiting for permission. The
breach of etiquette made the jarl frown, but the servant spoke before he could be reprimanded. “The
jarlinna is in labour, milord.”
~~~~
Alexandra’s bedchamber was nearby. As Valerian and Konstans hastened down the hallway, they
found the door closed, but muffled sounds of agony could be heard; in front of the room, several
servants had gathered in excitement or in concern. Most knew how the previous jarlinna had met her
fate.
“Have the sibyls been summoned? Away, you imbeciles!” Valerian shouted as he approached,
parting the servants like a ship through the sea. He was about to throw himself against the door when
his brother seized him by the shoulder and held him back.
“Collect yourself!” Konstans commanded. “The sibyls have been here for days already in
anticipation of this event. They are already attending to your wife, and your presence would only
disturb. Your place is out here. Now sit.”
Valerian gave a bewildered look at his brother until the latter’s words sank in, and the jarl found
himself a seat. “Of course, the sibyls are already here. I forgot.”
“You,” Konstans told a servant, “bring a bottle of brandy. Someone fetch my son. The rest of you,
be gone! This is no spectacle for you to gander at.” Quickly, the servants dispersed, either before
Konstans’ harsh tone or to do his bidding.
“I forgot about the sibyls,” Valerian mumbled. “I have not been thinking about Alexandra for
days. My own wife.”
“Be calm, Brother. This is not like last time.”
“I should have seen her, spoken with her,” the jarl muttered to no one in particular. “It could be too
late.”
Konstans glanced down the hallway in the direction of the servants he had dispatched. “A strong
drink will help you.”
Konstantine arrived first, staring at his father and his uncle. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked
meekly.
“Sit and wait,” Konstans told him. The brandy arrived soon after, and Konstans put a cup in his
brother’s hand. “This will keep you steady.” He gave another cup to his son, took a third for himself,
and tasted a small sip.
Konstantine smelled the liquid, frowned, took a sip, and pulled a face. By his side, Valerian
emptied his cup absent-mindedly, keeping his eyes on the door to the jarlinna’s bedroom.
~~~~
No clock measured the hours. The passage of time was punctuated by outbursts of pain reaching the
men outside the bedchamber. At some point, Valerian paced in circles before resuming sitting down
with a blank stare, his reverie only broken by another cry beyond the door. Konstans sat placid,
neither words nor expression revealing his thoughts. Konstantine was gnawing on his lower lip,
shifting his gaze between his father and his uncle.
The door burst open, preceded by an infant’s cries. Sister Adilah stood in the doorway, looking
around the room until she located Valerian. “My lord, you have a son,” the norn declared.
Valerian leapt to his feet, followed by his relatives. “My wife?” he asked with a croaking voice.
“She is well. Come, see for yourself.”

139
 The norn stepped back into the room, allowing Valerian to stride past her. Inside, he found
Alexandra in her bed, looking exhausted. Other women were present as well. Valerie, his daughter,
seemed pale but smiling nonetheless. Mathilde, his brother’s wife, had a blank expression. Two other
norns were also present, an acolyte and an initiated priestess. The latter had just emptied a small
flacon, and she held a bundle in her arms.
“Born to rising sun, gold in hair and hand, the fountain will never dry,” the priestess spoke with
half-closed eyes. Peering in from the doorway, a servant heard the birth words and quickly scribbled
them down on paper kept ready for just this reason.
Sister Adilah crossed the room and snatched the baby out of the other norn’s hands, putting the
newborn child onto the ground. Everyone looked expectantly at Valerian, who did not hesitate to pick
up the boy and thereby acknowledge him as a member of his house.
“Valerius,” the jarl spoke with gleaming eyes looking at his son, “I give you this name after your
grandfather. Valerius, my son, be welcome to the House of Vale!”
The room erupted in cheers. Konstans placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, congratulating him.
Same sentiment was expressed by Konstantine and Valerie.
“How blessed you are,” Mathilde told Alexandra. Despite the nature of her remark, Konstantine’s
mother had little fondness in her expression as she watched the jarl place his child in his wife’s arms
for the first time.
~~~~
Holwyn slipped inside the quarters belonging to her master. He was engaged in a game against his
sister, who for once was not surrounded by her usual attendants among the court ladies. “Milord, news
you should hear,” she spoke. The jarl looked at her expectantly. “The jarlinna of Vale has given birth
to a son. The boy seems healthy and strong.”
“Interesting,” Theodoric remarked, stroking the thin beard on his chin. “That should leave
Valerian busy.”
“More importantly, the same goes for Konstans. His son is no longer heir to Vale,” Theodwyn
added.
“Perhaps a chance to sow discord,” the jarl muttered. “We will need to break their stranglehold
over the Adalthing sooner or later. This might be the first rift.”
Holwyn poured some ale for herself and sat down. Theodwyn glanced with an irritated look at
Holwyn’s smudged clothing touching the furniture, but restricted her comments to the topic at hand.
“Even better if we could drive a wedge between the prince and his lord protector.”
“That will happen on its own, I am sure,” Theodoric said confidently. “Four years with House
Vale putting their own needs above those of the kingdom is sure to gall our young prince. He seems
headstrong and thus bound to come into conflict with his regents. Once the prince is finally crowned, I
bet he will have had enough of Vale.”
“Still, it would not hurt to help such conflict along,” Theodwyn declared pointedly.
“Holebert feels confident he can recruit one of the prince’s chamber servants to be our eyes and
ears,” Holwyn told her master.
Theodoric gave an affirming grunt. “Good. It is too soon to approach Ingmond while he grieves
his family, but I feel certain that eventually, he will see the wisdom in restricting Vale’s power. We
need to wrest the Adalthing from him by the time a new jarl of Isarn is to be appointed.”
“Who do you think Jarl Vale will seek to make the new Isarn?” asked Holwyn curiously.

140
 “If I were him, I would elevate one of my margraves with strong ties to me,” Theodoric
contemplated. “A blood relative would be sure to spark outrage. I cannot imagine the Adalthing ever
agreeing to that. But someone almost as close to me as a member of my own house.”
“Lord Jaunis,” Theodwyn remarked. “He is Valerian’s margrave and his brother-in-law. Young,
hot-headed, and enraged against the northerners responsible for the death of his father. He will always
favour the South in the Adalthing and be easily swayed by the powerful husband of his sister.”
“Valerian would have an iron grip upon the realm even after our prince is crowned and he steps
down as lord protector,” Theodoric muttered in agreement. “Fortunately, it takes both king and
Adalthing to raise a new house to the rank of jarl. We have four years to undermine Vale’s hold over
the Adalthing before he can make anyone jarl of Isarn.”
“Or four years to make our future king suggest another to be the new jarl,” Theodwyn added.
Holwyn raised her cup as if making a toast. “Four years.”
~~~~
The most luxurious chambers in the Citadel were naturally reserved for the royal family. With the
ascendance of House Hardling, this meant three boys in their teens occupied these rooms; their mother
and sister had remained at Hardburg to oversee the family’s lands.
“You fret like a child, Inghard. I fail to see what that boy means to us,” Hardmar remarked with
indifference. The heir to the realms sat in a soft chair, drinking diluted wine. “It is not our house.”
“Hardmar is right.” The second of the brothers, walking around the room, voiced his agreement.
“Vale is loyal to us. What does it matter if he has a son or not?”
Inghard, the youngest, looked at the other two. He sat in a corner with a book in his hands. “What
if it causes a rift between Jarl Vale and his brother? Now that Lord Konstans’ son is no longer heir to
the jarldom.”
“If it does,” Hardmar replied with a shrug, “that is their problem, not ours. In fact, perhaps it
would be to the best.”
“How so?” asked Gerhard.
“I have my doubts about how loyal Vale is. He was swift enough to arrange the legalities that I can
marry that daughter of his, yet he refused to do the same that I can be crowned before time.”
“Those are two separate matters,” Inghard interjected. “Anybody can receive royal permission to
marry before they are of age, but the laws regarding succession are set in stone. Nobody may be
crowned before they are twenty-one. It is impossible to make exceptions.”
“Impossible,” Hardmar scoffed. “Or he simply lacks the will.”
“I find your doubt misplaced. Vale is only lord protector until we take power,” the second brother
began to speak.
“Until I take power, Gerhard,” Hardmar inserted, emptying his cup.
Gerhard shot his eldest brother an annoyed glance. “If Vale wants to be dragonlord after you are
crowned,” he corrected himself, “he needs to stay loyal to House Hardling.”
“Which explains why he wants to delay my coronation as much as possible,” the eldest prince said
with contempt.
“What should concern us,” Gerhard continued with a pointed look at his brothers, “is this upstart,
Adalbrand.”
“He is older than any of us, a knight and a commander,” the young Inghard interjected.
“So?” Gerhard asked irritated.
“How can you call him an upstart when he has proven himself more than any of us have?”

141
 “Be silent. What is important is that he is clearly trying to ingratiate himself with the people,”
Gerhard claimed, resuming his pacing.
“He is? How?” asked Inghard.
“You have not heard?” Hardmar spoke up. “He had the town criers announce the conquest of
Tothmor all over the city.”
“I have been at the library most days of late,” Inghard mumbled, looking down into the book in his
lap.
“I sent this Adalbrand to Hæthiod to be forgotten,” the crown prince sneered, “yet he presumes to
spread these tales of his victories. He insists on being a thorn in my side.”
“He must be dealt with,” Gerhard demanded. He had ceased walking around in order to pick up
some dice on a table, left behind from a game. Now he played with them in his hand with restless
motions. “He must be stripped of command before he can do any harm.”
Hardmar nodded, filling his cup. “True. I will inform Vale to take of it.”
“That is beyond his power,” Inghard pointed out. “He has no authority over the Order.”
“He is lord protector, king in all but name,” Gerhard scoffed.
“In the realm of Adalrik, yes,” Inghard clarified. “But the Order serves all of Adalmearc. It cannot
be commanded by any with the power of the king, only by someone with the power of the high king.”
“But they are the same,” his second brother argued. “The king of Adalrik is also the high king of
Adalmearc.”
“Yes,” Inghard replied patiently, “but the lord protector only serves in place of the former, not the
latter. I suspect this is on purpose, ensuring the Order is a counterweight to the lord protector.
Regardless, would it not be best to let Sir Adalbrand continue to win his victories against the
outlanders?”
“It should be me winning those victories,” Hardmar considered. “The Order should be obeying
me.”
“The outlanders are of no concern,” Gerhard interjected. “The civil war to the north is all that
matters!”
“Tedious sieges against scoundrels,” the crown prince snorted. “The real glory obviously lies with
defeating these outlanders, invading our realms. But do not worry, Gerhard. I will deal with both
rebels and invaders.”
“You?” asked Gerhard with obvious doubt.
“Yes, me!” exclaimed Hardmar. “Once the petty rebels are done, I will turn the full might of the
realms against the outlanders and drive them out. Then all the people shall know I am the saviour of
Adalmearc.”
Gerhard, looking unimpressed, threw the dice on the table. Inghard resumed reading.
~~~~
All through the Citadel and the city, the news spread of the birth of Jarl Vale’s son, providing a
welcome excuse to interrupt work and share the excitement. Despite having been near the centre of
events and personal attachments, the dragonlord of Adalrik did not shirk his duties; soon after, he
resumed his labours. As the day came to a close, the latest person summoned by Konstans entered the
study.
“What have you learned?” Konstans questioned him.
Arion, chamberlain to the jarl of Vale, inclined his head quickly and began his report. “Our
merchants and reeves have noticed increased traffic in both the duchy of Belvoir as well as near the

142
capital. My specific enquiries will not be replied until another week or two has passed, so it is
impossible to say whether this traffic is of military nature.”
“Your best guess?”
Arion licked his lips. “Milord, there could be any number of reasons. Even if the king of Ealond or
the duke of Belvoir are arming for war, we have no intelligence to suggest their target.”
Konstans let out a deep breath. “Inform me as soon as you know anything.”
“Of course, milord.”
“What have you heard from Hæthiod?”
“The tidings seem genuine. Tothmor is in the hands of the Order,” Arion confirmed.
“How?”
“A surprise assault by Sir Adalbrand, much like how Middanhal was taken earlier this year.”
“How does that keep working for him?” Konstans asked with incredulity. “War is not that easy!”
“Apparently, it is for the knight lieutenant,” Arion remarked dryly. “But is this not a good thing,
milord? If they can close the campaign in Hæthiod, the Order army can be used against Jarl Isarn
afterwards.”
“That depends on who they will take orders from,” Konstans pointed out. “If this Adalbrand has
designs of his own, we may have another Athelstan on our hands, only somehow, this one is even
more dangerous.” He paused for a moment. “Find out all you can. We cannot be blind to any danger
from Hæthiod, simply because we are staring at Ealond or Isarn.”
“Of course, milord,” Arion assented, taking his leave with a short bow.

143
 21. Cold Quarter
Middanhal
The Dragon Throne was a marvel of artisanship, combining sculpted marble with fashioned gold and
laid with sapphires. The chair itself sat atop numerous stairs, giving it an elevated position in the
throne room and conveying the majesty of its occupant in comparison with those standing on the
floor, looking up to gaze upon the seat of power in Middanhal. Currently, a seventeen-year-old boy
took that seat, wearing a charming smile while dressed in blue and golden silk.
“You are welcome at our court,” Hardmar spoke to the envoy standing before the throne. “I am
pleased that King Brión would affirm the ties between Heohlond and Adalrik.”
The emissary inclined his head with a smile. He was dressed in the colours of Clan Cameron with
a heavy, fur-lined cloak and thick woollen clothes. “The rí ruirech acknowledges the bond between
the high lands and the low lands. He bows before the ard rí and sends these gifts.” As he spoke, the
messenger gave a bow before gesturing to a small chest behind him. Two servants accompanying the
envoy unfastened the leather straps and opened the lid, revealing the contents to be dyed fabrics,
carved figurines, and pieces of jewellery.
“They say that three things are beyond the price of gold,” Hardmar spoke. “Kin, honour, and
peace. I accept these gifts as a token of peace between my loyal subject, King Brión, and I. Tell him
he has proven his honour in my eyes and inform him of my desire that he and I should be as close as
kin.”
Many of the courtiers mumbled their approval and appreciation at the eloquence displayed by the
young prince, and the highlander envoy seemed satisfied. “My deepest gratitude, great prince, along
with that of my king.” Not finished yet, he pulled out a small statuette from a pocket, about the height
of a man’s hand from wrist to fingertip. “As for the esteemed lord protector, my king offers his good
wishes to your son and had this prepared in anticipation of the joyous occasion. As Idisea saw fit to let
your son arrive already, it gives me great pleasure to present you with the king’s gift to Valerius of
Vale.”
The envoy gave the statuette to a servant, who approached the throne and placed it in Valerian’s
hands with a deep bow. The jarl examined the piece. It was carved in ivory, a near priceless material.
The statuette resembled a white bear standing upright, its jaws opened in a roar. “It is exquisite,”
Valerian exclaimed, examining the craftsmanship.
The envoy nodded with satisfaction. “It was made by our best craftsmen with runes of protection
added underneath.” Valerian flipped the piece over to see the symbols cut into the bottom. “Place it by
your son’s bedside, my lord, and the great bear himself shall come from the mountains to safeguard
him.”
“Magnificent,” the jarl’s voice boomed. “Convey my deepest thanks to your king.”
With final courtesies towards Hardmar, who graciously bowed his head in return, the envoy
retreated along with his servants, leaving behind the chest of gifts.

144
 While waiting for the next person to be given audience, the courtiers murmured among each other
in small groups. One of these was centred around Theodwyn. As a jarl’s sister at a royal court without
any queen, she ranked among the highest noblewomen. Her handmaidens were viewed with favour by
others, other noblewomen sought to be included in conversation with her during meals or audiences
such as this, and being invited into Theodwyn’s circle of confidence in her parlour was an emblem of
distinction. So far, only Arndis and Eleanor had a safe place by Theodwyn’s side, whether they were
among the court or in the privacy of her quarters; as for the remaining ladies, they were continuously
given attention and cast aside in an endless cycle according to Theodwyn’s whims and their ability to
inform her of interesting events at court.
“Do you suppose that statuette was made from real elephant bone?” whispered one of the ladies
excited. While trying to be discreet, her voice hissed the sibilant sounds like a rusty nail scratching
steel.
“Of course it is,” Theodwyn declared dismissively. “King Brión is not foolish enough to risk
offence.”
“Those are rich gifts,” Eleanor mentioned. “I did not imagine the highlanders would have such to
spare.”
“We are not all savages in the north, Eleanor,” Theodwyn chastised her. Many of the other women
exchanged glances; had such an expression of displeasure been aimed at any of them, they would soon
after have been banished from Theodwyn’s presence.
“Of course not, my lady,” Eleanor spoke with flushed cheeks. “I meant nothing against
Theodstan.”
“Theodstan is in Adalrik and obviously different,” another woman declared. “But just look at the
envoy, all dressed in furs and wool! There is an obvious difference between highlanders and
drakonians.” Several of the other women present nodded and chirped affirmations of this.
“Arndis may disagree with you in that regard,” Theodwyn said crisply. “After all, her mother was
a highlander.”
Several pairs of eyes turned in surprise to look at the blue-clad woman. “She was,” Arndis
confirmed. “I have never been to Heohlond, so I cannot speak for the rest of the realm, but my mother
was a true lady.”
The same women who had affirmed that highlanders were savages hastily agreed that none could
cast aspersions on the late wife of Arngrim. “Indeed, all knew that Lady –” one of them began to say,
but she fell silent, unable to complete her sentence.
“Lady Deirdre,” Theodwyn spoke with emphasis on the name, “was poised and dignified every
time I saw her at court. I only regret I never knew her better,” she added with a kind look towards
Arndis. “I am tired,” she announced with an abrupt shift in her voice. “I shall retire to my chambers.
Do not disturb me before the evening meal,” she instructed them.
“Yes, Lady Theodwyn,” they replied in unison, scattering as she left them.
~~~~
The dragonlord of the realm was not attending audiences, as he could not spare the time for
ceremonial gestures. Instead, he was hosting his own meetings in his chamber as usual. While his
brother was receiving gifts, Konstans was sitting across the table from Theobald. As captain of the
Citadel, he was the only knight in Adalrik with a commanding rank until such time that a lord marshal
and knight marshal would be appointed.
“Captain Theobald, I appreciate that you will meet with me.”
“You are the dragonlord. I assume this was important,” Theobald replied in his brusque manner.

145
 “Quite right. I have observed your efforts in rebuilding the city guard,” Konstans began to say,
broaching the topic. “It is of course of the utmost importance that Middanhal has a strong garrison
with effective patrols.”
“Of course,” Theobald agreed. “Jarl Isarn would never have taken the city if most of my soldiers
had not been marched off to war, against my counsel.”
Konstans nodded. “To this end, my brother has retained the services of the remaining Red Hawks
here in Middanhal. They can be used to bolster the garrison.”
Theobald’s expression stiffened. “There is no need for such.”
“The outer walls and the gates are thinly manned,” Konstans argued. “Letting the Hawks guard
one of the gates seems sensible.”
“The Order mans the fortifications of this city,” Theobald declared firmly. “Every gate, every
tower, all will remain under the command of the Order.”
“The Hawks can patrol the streets,” Konstans suggested. “Help keep order in the city.”
“I will not have mercenaries responsible for upholding the law,” the captain retorted with gritted
teeth.
“You are a difficult man to offer aid,” the dragonlord replied.
“I did not request your aid.”
“What about inside the Citadel? The kingthanes already guard the royal quarters and the throne
room,” Konstans considered. “The Hawks could be assigned similarly to protect the courtside of the
castle.”
“I will not have any soldiers on the walls but my own,” Theobald growled, “regardless of
location.”
“Of course, but the interior is a different matter, is it not? The Hawks could guard the corridors,
the prisoners and so forth. There is no reason Order soldiers must stand guard outside my wing or that
of my brother’s family, for instance,” Konstans argued in a cordial tone.
“I suppose that would not matter much,” Theobald admitted hesitantly. “Though it would not
make a big difference either. There must be less than a hundred soldiers on duty in those areas you
speak of.”
“In part because you cannot spare more,” Konstans pointed out. “This way, we can strengthen the
guard, and you will have more men for the rest of the city. In truth, I fear that these mercenaries are
getting restless. Having tasks would keep them out of trouble. You would be doing me a favour.”
“True, idle soldiers are the enemy of peace and order,” Theobald agreed. “I will inform the leader
of the Hawks and have him put his men to use as you suggest.”
“Excellent,” Konstans smiled gratefully. “I am much obliged, captain.”
“No trouble.” Theobald made a dismissive gesture. “If that is all, I shall return to my duties.”
“Of course, captain. Thank you again.” Theobald rose, turned, and left the dragonlord, who was
already buried deep in his next task.
~~~~
For the time being, the dungeons under the Citadel were still guarded by Order soldiers. Since
prisoners were usually sent to the mines or released after paying geld, in rare cases executed, only few
cells were needed. A single guardroom manned by two soldiers was enough. The room was circular
and like a spider had corridors extending in every direction; each of these contained a number of cells.
A young woman in an expensive, blue dress walked down the steps and entered the guardroom. It
was not only her appearance that made her seem out of place; her eyes darted around, taking in sights
unusual for a noblewoman, and her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant smell any dungeon possessed.

146
 “Look, milady, I mean no disrespect, but this ain’t a place for gentle folk,” one of the guards began
to say, standing up from their dice game to block Arndis’ path.
“I merely need to speak with one of the prisoners. Then I shall trouble you no further,” she told
him.
“We can’t just let anybody walk down and enter the cells. That’s against our orders,” the guard
informed her, still blocking her path.
“Hold up,” the other man said, scratching his cheek. “That colour. You’re Sir Adalbrand’s sister,
aren’t you?”
“I am,” Arndis confirmed. “Are you known to my brother?”
“Not as such. I was part of the original garrison when those Isarn dogs besieged us, both here in
the Citadel and later Athelstan’s army outside the walls. Both times, your brother came to our rescue,”
the guard explained. “He’s a good man, a true knight. The sort we need.”
Arndis sent him a smile that emphasised her good features. “You are most kind. What is your
name, good master?”
“Just Ingmar, good lady.”
“I shall pass your words and your name onto my brother,” she promised.
“That’s real nice of you, milady,” he muttered bashful, scratching the ground with one foot.
“Which prisoner do you need to see?”
“Isenwald of Isarn, if it is no trouble to you.”
“No trouble at all. Not like anyone else is down here,” the guard reassured her, even if his
compatriot sent him a sceptical look. He fetched the keys from the wall and walked over to one of the
corridor doors. “This one, milady.” Unlocking it, Ingmar entered the hallway beyond. It was dark, but
light from the guardroom revealed that the corridor had a blind end and four doors on either side,
allowing for eight cells. “Wait,” the guard exclaimed, turning around to quickly fetch a lit candle.
“You will need this, milady.”
“Thank you,” Arndis replied politely, accepting the faint light source.
The guard walked down the hallway until he reached the third door on the right, unlocking it.
“We’ll keep the doors open, he is chained up anyway. Don’t get too close, though, he might be able to
reach you if you step inside the cell,” he warned her.
“I understand,” Arndis told him. She moved to stand just by the door, while Ingmar turned back to
the guardroom.
The candlelight flickered, struggling to illuminate the dark space. Sitting on a primitive bed with a
chain around his ankle was Isenwald, heir to the jarldom of Isarn. His previous slender frame was now
gaunt, and his eyes seemed unnaturally large in his hollow face. “Who – is there?” he croaked with his
typical hesitation and a voice that had not known much use of late.
“Lady Arndis, my lord,” she presented herself, holding the candle near her face.
“It has been a while since any called me by title,” Isenwald spoke and coughed a faint laughter. “I
would – offer you a seat, but – I think you are better served by remaining standing.”
“Thank you nonetheless,” Arndis replied cordially.
“What – do – I – owe the pleasure – of this visit?” He gave a hollow smile. “That was telling – of
how long – I have been here. Before my – imprisonment, I would have remembered to avoid such
clumsy words.”
“I felt it was only in good order that I paid you a visit,” Arndis replied to his question. “I apologise
for the delay it took me to make my appearance.”
“Since – it was not expected, I cannot reproach you for any such – delays.” Isenwald cleared his
throat, choosing his next words with care. “I am curious why you felt the need to visit me.”

147
 There was a moment before Arndis answered him. “You recall the last time we met?”
“Yes. I surrendered – our house and have been here since. In some ways, it – is my last memory.”
“You saved lives on that day, Lord Isenwald.” Her voice took on a formal tone. “Not only mine,
but also the lives of my friends and many other innocent people. It took me a while to admit it, but
you deserve praise for your actions. I do not expect others will see it this way, so I have come to thank
you myself.”
Isenwald straightened up a bit, his expression becoming serious. “I appreciate the sentiment, my
lady. I shall remember your words.”
“You are welcome,” Arndis replied, inclining her head.
“Perhaps,” Isenwald spoke quickly, just as she was about to turn away; she stopped as she heard
him speak, holding the candle in front of her face so that the thin wisp of smoke lay under her nose.
“Perhaps you would – do me a kindness – in return,” he hurried to say in slow fashion. “What can you
tell me – of my family?”
Arndis stared at him in surprise. “You do not know?”
He shook his head. “I have not been told anything since – I arrived here.”
Sympathy coloured her face. “There was a battle. Your uncle and brother were both captured, and
they are prisoners here as well. Your father still controls Isarn, but his allies are under siege.”
Isenwald responded to this news with silence. “I am sorry,” she added.
“May – I ask a favour, my lady? Can you tell them – I am here as well, alive and – in good
health?” His words were undercut by his own coughing.
“Of course,” Arndis promised him.
“Uncertainty about the fate – of your family leads to terrible speculations,” Isenwald explained,
“and we have – only too much time to speculate – in this place.”
“I shall let them know,” she told him. “Farewell, Lord Isenwald.”
“Thank you,” he spoke hoarsely, following the candle in her hands with his eyes as she left the
room.
~~~~
“He has a strong grip,” Valerian exclaimed with pride. “I imagine he will be a warrior if he wants to
be. Granted, right now he mostly sleeps, but once he grows up, just wait and see,” he impressed on his
brother.
“Undoubtedly,” Konstans replied absent-mindedly.
The jarl did not seem to notice. “Alexandra has proven to be a pillar of strength. She seems
delicate, but I would bet on her against Alfbrand himself in a fight!”
They were in the royal quarters occupied by Hardmar, though the prince himself was absent.
Standing by a desk, Konstans drummed his fingers impatiently against the wood. “Do you know why
the prince called us here?”
“I could not say,” Valerian admitted. “He gave no sign that anything was on his mind when I saw
him at the audience.” Konstans exhaled through his nose, creating a snorting sound, though he did not
make any reply.
At length, the prince appeared. “My lord protector and my dragonlord,” he smiled.
“My prince,” the brothers replied with differing enthusiasm.
“I called you here because of Adalbrand, who seems bent on being a pest,” Hardmar informed
them. “He was supposed to sink into oblivion in Hæthiod, yet I must hear his name shouted from the
street and muttered in the corridors. What will you do about it?”

148
 Valerian sent his brother a surprised look. “My prince, I am already taking steps towards this. I
have him under increased watch to anticipate his future moves. We will be warned should he become
a threat.”
“Watch. Warn.” Hardmar chewed on the words. “That sounds like doing nothing but wait for him
to become an actual threat.”
“Hardly,” Konstans spoke in defence. “It is merely prudent to gather intelligence before we act.”
“Yet he wears his victories like a crown already,” the prince claimed. “Why wait with removing
him? In fact, I have toyed with the idea of replacing him myself. It is only fitting that the outlanders
are destroyed by my hand.”
The two men looked at him with alarm and disbelief. “You would travel to Hæthiod? On
campaign?” asked Konstans.
“Why do you sound surprised?” asked Hardmar offended. “I am to be king. What task is more
fitting for a king than leading an army and winning battles?”
“There is a reason kings have captains,” Valerian pointed out. “One purpose of the Order is
precisely to train the commanders needed.”
“Such as Athelstan,” Hardmar sneered. “How soon before Adalbrand becomes another like him?”
“I will not allow Adalbrand to become a problem,” Konstans declared curtly.
“My brother is most reliable when it comes to solving such problems, my prince,” Valerian
hastened to add.
“That is why he serves as dragonlord, I take it,” Hardmar remarked. “Tell me, what else has been
done in service to the realm?”
“Forgive me, what are you asking?” Konstans frowned.
“You are the dragonlord, you serve the realm. What have you accomplished?” asked Hardmar.
Konstans cleared his throat. “I have convinced the captain to let the prisoners be guarded by
Hawks rather than Order soldiers. This way, none who might harbour loyalties to Athelstan, former
soldiers of his or the like, will be tempted to let him escape.”
“The captain is not an easy man to convince,” Valerian said impressed. “How did you manage
that?”
“I made a few suggestions that I knew were not palatable to him, waiting with my true purpose and
making it seem inconsequential. A slight misdirection,” Konstans explained.
“A change of guard.” Hardmar’s voice expressed the opposite of his lord protector’s. “What else?”
“What else? I negotiate with the guilds to ensure trade and coin flows into the city,” Konstans told
the prince. “I meet with envoys. I prepare for the Adalthing. Once this rebellion is over and the House
of Isarn has been removed, a new house must be raised in their place. We will need the voice of many
others in the Adalthing to see our choice carried through.”
“Have you achieved this?” Hardmar asked.
“It is too early to approach Ingmond. He is still in mourning,” the dragonlord elaborated. “Besides,
this will not be relevant for a long time. There is time to secure our choice for jarl.”
“Our choice? I have not chosen any to become jarl of Isarn.”
The brothers of Vale exchanged looks. “We were not aware you had a choice in mind, my prince,”
Valerian spoke with caution.
“I have none in mind right now, but seeing as he will be one of my four jarls, I obviously want to
choose the man,” Hardmar informed them coldly.
“Certainly, my prince,” Konstans spoke with deference. “We will keep this in mind.”

149
 “Of course you will. In the meantime, I want you to make preparations to have Adalbrand
removed from command. As soon as the rebels in the north have been defeated, I will bring all
available troops south to finish the outlanders.”
“I shall see what can be done,” the dragonlord muttered.
Hardmar gave a sudden smile. “That is all I require from you. You are dismissed.”
The brothers muttered their farewells, making awkward gestures of courtesy before leaving the
room. “He has grown more demanding,” Valerian mumbled as they walked past kingthanes standing
guard in the hallway.
“Not to mention his newfound interest in governance,” Konstans added.
“And warfare. But he is still very young. Taking counsel from others is rarely a virtue of youth,”
the jarl pondered.
“He has four years to grow up,” his brother remarked.
“Let us hope he does. We cannot replace him, after all,” Valerian pointed out with a wry smile.
Konstans made no reply to this.
~~~~
In the dungeons below, Ingmar moved to lock the doors to Isenwald’s cell upon seeing Arndis return
to the guardroom. When he came back, he saw that she had remained rather than moving towards the
stairs.
“Anything the matter, milady?” he asked.
“I am sorry to impose on your kindness, but I should like to visit two of the other prisoners. I made
a promise,” she explained.
The guard looked at his counterpart sitting down. “Captain can’t chew us out any more than he is
going to already,” the other soldier remarked in a resigned fashion.
“Which prisoners, milady?” asked Ingmar.
“Athelstan and Eumund of Isarn.”
“All the men of Isarn,” the guard considered. “They are down different corridors. Captain wanted
them kept separate,” he explained, opening another door, stepping past it and unlocking the cell
beyond.
Arndis followed him, still holding the candle in her hand. Inside sat a young man reminiscent of
Isenwald, though he remained more muscular than his brother even after months of imprisonment.
“Sir Eumund,” Arndis called out.
“What is it,” he replied tonelessly.
“I am Lady Arndis,” she began to say.
“I recognise your colours,” he interjected.
“Of course.” It took Arndis a moment to resume speaking. “Your brother asked me to inform you
that he is being kept here as well, but he remains in good health.” Eumund made no reply to this. “I
bid you farewell,” the lady added awkwardly when it became clear she would not receive an answer.
Ingmar looked behind Arndis as she returned to the guardroom. The other soldier, still seated by
the table, was staring pointedly at the cup in his hands.
“Athelstan as well, was it?” Ingmar asked, walking over to unlock a third corridor and yet another
cell.
“You are most kind,” Arndis told him with a smile that would confound most men.
“It was nothing,” Ingmar mumbled, leaving to let Arndis step inside Athelstan’s cell.
The man once renowned as the greatest commander in the Seven Realms lay on the primitive
wooden construction that served as his bed. His eyes were closed, and he looked almost serene; the

150
fact that his cell door had been unlocked did not disturb his reverie. The faint light of the candle was
enough to reveal his skin was unnaturally pale, and his hair had grown long and wild, but lacked any
lustre.
“Sir Athelstan?”
He opened his dark eyes and quickly sat up. “My apologies, my lady. Had I known to expect
delicate company, I would have been more courteous.” He stood up entirely and made an awkward
bow as his chains allowed.
Arndis seemed confused for a moment before she bowed in return. “Nothing to apologise for. I did
not announce my arrival ahead, so you could not have known.”
“I appreciate your visit, regardless.”
“I bring news from your nephew, Isenwald. He asked me to inform you that he is also kept here,
but he is in good health.”
Athelstan inclined his head. “That is very kind of you to tell me. I have wondered often about
Isenwald’s fate.” He paused briefly. “If I may impose further upon you, would you tell me how the
war goes against my brother?”
“The Red Hawks are besieging the castle of Grenwold. There have been no battles or other events
of note.”
“The Red Hawks… Jarl Vale has brought in mercenaries. Putting his gold to use,” Athelstan
contemplated.
“I do not quite understand why the jarl is besieging Grenwold,” Arndis admitted. “I would have
imagined they would seek to capture Silfrisarn.”
Athelstan shook his head. “Marching an army deep into Isarn is too risky. The terrain is
mountainous in the southern parts and easily defensible. Not to mention, provision lines would be
under threat of constant raids. Taking Grenwold Castle allows the supply lines to be defended,” he
explained, frowning as he continued, “or they can march on Hrossfeld afterwards. Taking Hrossfeld
leaves northern Isarn vulnerable to an invasion that my brother does not have the troops to defend
against.”
“I see. Now that you explain it, it sounds so simple.”
Athelstan gave a hollow smile. “It was my pleasure to be of help.” Silence filled the dark confine.
“Lady Arndis, if you will forgive me for asking further questions…” When she did not object, he
continued. “How is your brother?”
Arndis gave him a surprised look. “Brand is well. He has just sent news that he has retaken
Tothmor from the outlanders. All the city is rejoicing.”
Athelstan smiled, this time in a genuine manner. “In winter, no less. I always knew he had a gift
for command, but even I did not expect…” He did not finish the sentence but simply continued
smiling, seeming lost in memory or thought.
“He had the best teacher,” Arndis pointed out.
Athelstan turned his gaze on her again, his attention snapping back. From a pocket in his ragged
clothing, he dug out a small wooden carving, specifically the king piece from a chess game. “I gave
him this the first time he beat me. Eventually, I could no longer win against him, no matter how often
we played.” He rubbed it between his fingers.
“He taught me how to play the game,” Arndis said. “We did not have much time to play, sadly, but
I found it intriguing.”
“It is an excellent challenge for anyone, whether a knight or a lady,” Athelstan declared. “You
should practise the game. Give Brand a challenge when he returns.”

151
 Arndis smiled. “Good advice, Sir Athelstan. I will take my leave, but I thank you for the pleasant
conversation.”
Athelstan gave a bow as deeply as his manacles allowed. “The pleasure was entirely mine, my
lady.”
~~~~
As Quill moved through the corridors of the Citadel, a few heads turned to stare. On most days, the
King’s Quill was known to never leave his tower, and he was a rare sight elsewhere in the castle. The
scribe greeted those he met and knew, whether courtiers or servants, making his way to the lower
levels. With him, he carried parchment and writing tools. He was near the entrance to the dungeon
when a noblewoman came from the opposite direction, ascending the staircase. Looking up, Arndis
saw Quill standing in the doorway.
“Master Quill,” she exclaimed surprised. “I was not expecting to see you here.”
“My duties are varied,” the scribe smiled, “and one of them calls me to the cells. I confess, I did
not expect to see you here either, Lady Arndis.” An anxious expression appeared on her face, and
Quill swiftly added, “Nor is it any of my concern.” He stood aside to let her pass. “A pleasant day to
you, Lady Arndis.”
“Thank you, Master Quill,” she replied with a hint of relief and hurried past him.
Continuing down the stairs, the law keeper entered the dungeons and found the Order soldiers on
guard. They in turn easily recognised the scribe. “Master Quill,” Ingmar spoke in greeting.
“I need to speak with a prisoner.”
“Lots of that going around,” mumbled the other guard.
Ingmar hastened to get the keys while sending his companion a threatening look. “Which prisoner,
Master Quill?”
“Lord Elis.”
“Elis?” Ingmar questioned.
“You know, southerner. That hallway,” the other guard reminded him while handing Quill a
candle. “You’ll need this.”
“Right. This way, Master Quill.” Ingmar led the scribe down one of the corridors, unlocking a cell.
“Who is there?” asked a frail voice. The dim light had trouble illuminating the cell, showing little
more than a haggard shape on the bench serving as a bed.
“Master Quill, milord,” replied the law keeper. “I have come to inform you of the charges of
treason against you.”
Metal could be heard scraping against wood as chains slid across the bench. “Treason? I have
languished for months in this hole! I must be given an audience with the lord protector!”
“Your guilt will be determined by the Adalthing, milord. The lord protector will not hear your
plea.”
“But he can have me released! There is no need for a trial against me!” Elis insisted.
“Charges of treason cannot simply be swept aside,” Quill declared. “Only the Adalthing can
proclaim you an innocent man, or grant you mercy in case you are found guilty.”
“I am innocent,” Elis protested.
“There is evidence to the contrary, which is why I urge you to admit your guilt and plead for
leniency,” Quill told him.
“What evidence,” the nobleman scoffed. “I say that I am innocent! Is my word not enough?”
“There are witnesses that you attempted to surrender the Citadel to Jarl Isarn’s forces. Lady Isabel
among them, whose word cannot be doubted. Not to mention, given that you made deals with both

152
Jarl Vale and Jarl Isarn at the Adalthing, promising to support both as lord protector while seeking the
office yourself…” Quill swallowed. “Milord, your word is not in good standing among your peers.”
“I may have – entertained the notion of surrendering to the rebels,” Elis admitted. “We were in a
desperate situation! I might have saved many lives otherwise lost if the Isarn scum had stormed the
castle. How can it be treason simply to consider surrender?”
“Milord, the evidence is heavier than that. You were discovered communicating with the rebels,
planning to betray the castle.” Quill licked his lips; the candle in his hand showed him to be ill at ease.
“I really must urge you to consider begging for leniency.”
Elis had so far been looking in every direction, staring at shadows, but he now fixed his eyes on
Quill. “You would enjoy that, I bet.”
“Milord,” Quill protested.
“I remember. It was you who discovered me. You and that wretched kitchen girl!”
The scribe coughed. “Please, milord, this does not help your situation –”
“You bastard!” Elis lunged forward; the chains on his wrists plunged him back. “You are to
blame! You are the guilty party, not me!”
“Milord, please!” Quill moved back, hitting the wall of the cell.
“How dare you show your face to me!” Elis shouted. He strained against his shackles, gritting his
teeth and looking like a madman.
Pressed against the wall, Quill moved to the side until he nearly fell backwards through the door
opening. Regaining his balance, he hurried away; the screams of the former dragonlord followed him
all the way out of the dungeons.
~~~~
After the departure of the brothers Vale, Hardmar moved from one part of his quarters to another,
where his own brothers were to be found. Gerhard was playing with a deck of cards, constantly
shuffling them, while Inghard, the youngest, had his nose in a book.
“I am losing faith in Vale,” Hardmar proclaimed. “Both of them.”
“What would give you cause for doubt?” asked Gerhard.
“My lord protector only cares about his son,” Hardmar sneered, “while my dragonlord is barely
capable of completing any task.”
“That is odd. Lord Konstans strikes me as an intelligent man,” Inghard remarked from his seat,
looking up briefly.
“I did not ask your opinion,” his eldest brother said dismissively. “I questioned Konstans about his
work, and he had little to show. I do not believe he can effectively handle threats to my rule, nor can
his brother.”
“He is the most powerful jarl,” Gerhard pointed out with incredulity, scattering playing cards
everywhere on the table by him. “Vale is paying for the Red Hawks currently fighting Jarl Isarn. His
armies are fighting for you!”
“As they should,” Hardmar replied with disdain. “He deserves no reward or special title for simply
defending the realm. I want a lord protector, a dragonlord that carries out my wish swiftly and
obediently. Neither Vale nor his brother seem able.”
“Jarl Vale chose to put you on the throne,” Inghard interjected, looking up again from his book. “It
will be four years before you are crowned and that choice is irreversible. Until then, you should not
whip your only ploughing horse,” he advised.
“Shut up, Inghard,” Hardmar told him coldly. “I will whip whom I please.”
His youngest brother returned to his book.

153
 22. Ill Fate
Middanhal
Every evening, Kate was found in the library tower. In Egil’s absence, she had taken over many of his
duties. She was not Quill’s apprentice in name, nor did he teach her everything a future King’s Quill
needed to know; he paid her as an apprentice, though, making Kate rich among the kitchen girls. It
also kept her busy from morning until bedtime and sometimes beyond.
“Are you done sweeping?” Quill asked.
“Yes, Master Quill.” Kate put the broom back into a cupboard.
He gave a glance at the water clock in the library hall. “Still early. You have time to practise your
letters.” When she remained standing with an apprehensive look on her face, he frowned. “Something
the matter?”
“My writing is so ugly,” she complained. “I couldn’t possibly write as elegant as you. I feel like I
am wasting parchment.”
Quill gave a wry smile. “That is why I make you wash the writing away, so you can use the
parchment again.”
“It’s still a waste of ink,” she spoke with gloom.
“Kate,” Quill spoke with a stern voice. “Do you think these hands were born with the skill to
write?” He gestured with the aforementioned extremities. “I was apprenticed at a younger age than
you and spent the better part of a decade before my master let me near any books with a feather pen.”
“Yes, Master Quill,” Kate said in surrender, going to the scriptorium.
Not long after, there was a soft knock on the door to the library. “Do you want me to open, Master
Quill?” Kate called out.
“Keep that quill writing rather than look for excuses,” her master admonished her, answering the
door himself. Outside stood a young nobleman in blue and brown colours; behind him stood a silent
kingthane. “Prince Inghard,” Quill greeted him.
“Master Quill,” came the reply along with a courteous bow. “I concluded my reading and should
like to procure another book.”
“Already? It is fortunate this library has so many volumes, considering the pace with which you
devour them.”
“The best part of my brother’s new title is the access to the royal library,” Inghard jested with a
gentle smile, stepping inside. His protector remained outside, gazing down the hallway.
Quill accepted the book from Inghard. “And what did our prince think of Historie of the Thusund
Eylands?” Walking down the shelves, he returned the tome to its resting place.
“It was fascinating, from the saga of Eirik Wyrmbane and after,” Inghard replied. “The insight into
Thusund and the importance of its fleet, from raiding to trading and so forth.”
“It was written by an islander, so take his word with a grain of salt,” Quill cautioned, smiling.
“Still, I agree with your assessment.”

154
 “Do you have another like it?”
Quill gave another smile. “I have many like it, but have our prince considered reading other
material? I could suggest several books intended for the edification of young princes and future
rulers.”
“That sounds too much like what my tutors want me to read,” Inghard revealed with a wry
expression. “I want something with stories in it.”
Quill searched for a brief while. “How about the account of Sir Etienne and the fall of Tricaster,”
the scribe suggested, handing it to Inghard.
The prince accepted the book and carefully opened to the first page. His face lit up into a smile.
“This looks excellent! Thank you, Master Quill.”
“Enjoy,” the library keeper replied, watching Inghard leave; the prince was already reading as he
walked, nearly stumbling into the kingthane waiting outside.
~~~~
Some days after Konstans’ conversation with Theobald, the proposed changes had taken effect. This
meant that when Valerie descended to the dungeons, she found two Red Hawks guarding the prisoners
instead of Order soldiers.
“You can’t be down here, milady,” one of them began to speak.
“I am the daughter of Jarl Vale,” she cut him off. “I am here to speak to one of the prisoners.”
The Hawks exchanged glances. “Her father pays the silver,” one of them remarked with a shrug.
The other got up and took the keys that were hanging on a nail on the wall.
“Which prisoner?”
“Lord Isenwald.”
“Not much lord left in him,” snickered the guard sitting down.
The other Hawk unlocked the doors into Isenwald’s cell. “Leave us,” Valerie commanded. Once
alone in the hallway, she hastened inside the cell. Isenwald rose clumsily, being hindered by his
chains. As she raised her hand holding a candle, the flickering light fell upon his face, which looked
feverish in its paleness. Valerie recoiled at the sight.
“You should not come here,” he admonished her. Nothing but hopelessness marked his expression.
“On the contrary, I should have come long ago. I wanted to give my father time to forget his anger
towards us, but that was a mistake,” Valerie admitted ruefully.
“You should not be here,” he merely reiterated, sitting down and looking away.
She found a seat on the squalid bed next to him; he shook his head, refusing to look at her. “I have
not given up pleading for leniency in your case.”
“Valerie,” he muttered while staring at the stonewall. “What good will come from – instilling false
hope? The penalty for treason is – death, nothing else.”
“Isenwald, you warned me and my family. If not for you, I would be where you now sit.”
“Knowing that, I can accept my fate.”
“My father will see that you deserve mercy,” Valerie argued forcefully.
He finally turned to look at her. “My father always tried to teach me how to rule. I never learned
much, but this – I know. If your enemy – is at your mercy, you – do not show any mercy. You finish –
it.”
“My father is different from yours,” Valerie pointed out. “Not to cast aspersions on your father,”
she added.
“No need,” Isenwald smiled without mirth. “He has – done that to himself better than any – one
else could.”

155
 “There is another way,” she spoke hesitantly. “I am to wed Prince Hardmar.” Isenwald stared at
her speechless. “In this new position, I am confident I can secure a pardon for you.”
“Congratulations,” he spoke at length.
“Do not be angered,” Valerie implored him. “It may save your life.”
“I am not. As queen, you will be safe. I am happy to hear this.”
“You do not have to pretend with me.”
“Please,” Isenwald pleaded. “Knowing – I sit here and not you – is all the solace – I have. My
brother and my uncle, the people – dearest to me besides you, are fated to – die. I will never see my
mother’s face again. My – only defence is to avoid thinking, to have the – days pass swiftly and hope
this ends soon. Do not make me hope, do not make me think.” He took a deep breath, staring at
Valerie with his large eyes, having possibly spoken more words in succession than ever before in his
life.
Valerie, on the other hand, sat in silence for a long time. “As you wish,” she finally remarked.
“Given what I owe you, I can only respect your wishes. Is there nothing I can do for you, then?”
“Write a letter to my mother,” Isenwald instructed her. “Tell her – I met my fate with – honour, as
a son – of – Isarn. Tell her she can be proud – of me and not to weep for me, for – I regret nothing.”
“I will,” Valerie promised. She placed her hand on his cold, damp cheek, making him lean into her
touch. “I am also proud of you, Isenwald of Isarn,” she told him, leaning forward to kiss his lips.
Before he could react, she got up and left the cell.
~~~~
Theodwyn was holding court as usual in her parlour, surrounded by handmaidens and noblewomen,
when her brother strode through the room; he went straight from the corridor to his chamber. All the
women except Theodwyn hurried to stand, many of them bowing as well with various degrees of
servility, whereas the jarl barely afforded them a glance. Once he had passed, the women sat down
and resumed conversation, except for Holwyn, who left to follow her master to his room.
“How did it go?” she asked, closing the door behind her.
“Marcaster’s disdain for northerners has only grown more pronounced ever since he was
Athelstan’s captive,” Theodoric remarked while removing his outer clothing, making himself more
comfortable. “He could scarcely contain it in my presence.”
“Did his disdain close his ears or tongue?”
“Possibly.” The jarl gave a shrug. “He was hard to read, but I think he is considering currying
favour with our new prince. I did not press the subject. If he is on that path already, I might send him
off course by prodding him.”
“That is one gap in Vale’s southern alliance,” Holwyn commented.
“Not enough if he can rely on Ingmond.” Theodoric rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We need to
sow enmity between Vale and Ingmond.”
“I have my sources within Ingmond’s household, but they reveal little,” Holwyn informed him.
“The jarl refuses to see anyone. He seems utterly indifferent to everything. His chamberlain and his
steward make all decisions in his stead.”
“His grief consumes him,” Theodoric considered. “Perhaps we should remind Ingmond that Vale
was warned about Isarn’s plot and fled Middanhal beforehand, yet left Ingmond and his family
behind. In some ways, Vale could be considered responsible for the death of Ingmond’s family.”
“That would have to be suggested very delicately,” Holwyn cautioned.
“Of course,” Theodoric replied brusquely. Outside the room, they could hear Theodwyn explain in
detail her examination by the court physician, his concern for her deteriorating health in these stressful

156
conditions, and how she had been mandated to take a walk each evening in the fresh air to stimulate
her heart. “Gods, if only my sister would spend all waking hours elsewhere,” he muttered. “Something
else,” he added abruptly.
“Yes, milord?”
“I met Valerian’s daughter at Marcaster’s home. She is friends with his daughter, I think.”
“Lady Valerie? What of her?”
“She approached me in the corridor when we were alone. She asked my opinion on the Isarn
prisoners.”
Holwyn frowned as well. “It was Lord Isenwald who warned her of his father’s plot. Presumably
there is affection between them.”
“Ill-fated affection,” the jarl added with a touch of scorn. “I got the impression she wanted to know
if I might oppose their execution once the Adalthing convenes.”
“The girl is a dreamer,” Holwyn remarked with a sardonic smile.
“She is, but her father is lord protector, she will wed our crown prince, and that gives her
influence. Keep watch of her.”
“I imagine one of her servants will not mind earning some extra silver,” Holwyn speculated.
“Not too much. Paying all these spies is ruining me,” the jarl complained.
“You can’t put a price on knowledge,” his servant smiled.
“I can,” Theodoric replied dryly. “In this case, the price is ten silver a month at most.”
“You old miser,” Holwyn grinned.
~~~~
“The emissary of Duke Belvoir asked me to relay that he needs to be seen by you soon, preferably
today,” Eolf informed his master.
Konstans looked up from his desk with a tired expression. It was long past sunset on this particular
day, and the dragonlord had barely left his study since morning. “Tell him I will see him now. But
give me a few moments first,” he instructed the servant. Eolf nodded and left. Once alone, Konstans
poured himself a healthy amount of wine into his cup and emptied it immediately.
The envoy entered soon after, wearing his customary broad smile. “My lord Konstans,” he spoke
in greeting, followed by an elaborate bow.
“Master Guilbert,” Konstans replied, gesturing to a seat. “I thought you intended to stay in
Middanhal until past the Raven Days, yet now you require an audience with all haste?”
“Forgive me if misplaced words have caused any offence.” Guilbert was swift to adopt an
apologetic expression. “I meant no lack of respect by assuming my news would be of urgent interest
to your lordship.”
“What news?” Konstans frowned, and his hand moved towards the wine jar before he stopped
himself.
“A letter from my master. The duke has been told by King Rainier to bring his army to Fontaine
once the Raven Days are over. The king no longer merely wants my master to prepare arms and
soldiers. He has commanded the duke to march out.”
Konstans’ brow was knitted in thought. “To Fontaine, you say.”
Guilbert nodded. “Which also means that King Rainier does not target Tricaster.”
“Because Fontaine is the opposite direction of Tricaster, so if your duke is to march away from his
home, it must be to target Herbergja,” Konstans concluded.
“That is also the result of my master’s considerations,” Guilbert explained with a worried look.
“There is still time for you to decide whether you would support my master in his endeavours to

157
safeguard the realms,” the envoy continued without elaborating what those endeavours might be. “If
not, Duke Gaspard will be forced to follow the commands of his liege. There is still time,” he
reiterated, “but not much.”
“I understand,” Konstans replied. “Thank you for informing me.”
“Merely my duty.” Guilbert’s smile returned as he stood up and bowed before the dragonlord,
taking his leave. Konstans remained sitting in his chair, twirling an hourglass between his fingers
while staring out the window upon a dark, cloudy night.

158
 23. The Heart of a Hero
Middanhal
Middanhal barely had time to settle after the shocking tidings regarding the conquest of Tothmor
before other news shook the city. The town criers made themselves hoarse proclaiming the victory
over the outlanders near Polisals and the subsequent capture of the city. This provoked even greater
jubilations than Tothmor had; merchants sighed in relief, housewives wept from joy, and men
everywhere rejoiced knowing that the salt mines at Polisals had been freed, banishing the spectre of
famine from everyone’s minds. There would be enough salt to preserve and cure all the food needed
to get through next winter. Immediately, the price of salt, which had steadily been rising last year, fell
to half of yesterday’s price.
Details of the battle were announced as well, including one particular bit that the town criers
revelled in revealing. As the battle for Polisals was hanging in the balance, the young knight Sir
Adalbrand charged into the fray. Disdaining danger and defying death, he duelled the enemy captain
and slew his foe, demoralising the outlanders and dispatching them to flight. For this deed, the
drakonians among the Order soldiers hailed him as Dragonheart upon the battlefield, an honour last
bestowed upon the late Prince Sigmar.
In the dark winter days, such stories spread throughout the city with some difficulty at first; people
did not like to linger on the streets to listen to town criers, nor were they inclined to leave the comfort
of their homes for the purpose of visiting others. Yet being the only recent tale of note, it was
eventually retold and recounted at every hearth every night. And each time, embellishments grew a
little more, numbers rose a bit, deeds and heroics became greater, and the legend of the Dragonheart
increased in stature.
~~~~
Inside their quarters in the fortress, the Red Hawks were only too happy to leave patrolling of the city
and Citadel to the Order soldiers. They crowded around the fireplaces and only went into town
reluctantly, usually to procure what could not be found in the castle. Left mostly to their own devices,
their activities were primarily gambling with their pay or spending it on drink, preferably both. A few
of the mercenaries had taken advantage of this, braving the cold weather to bring back barrels of beer
and the occasional delicacies from the market that were available to buy in deep winter.
Having set up an improvised tavern, Jerome the heathman was slowly, but surely filling his
pockets. A good deal of his income came from the Dwarf Jorund, whereas their mutual friend Gawad
from the south straddled both sides of the fence; some days, he helped Jerome to make a little extra
silver, other days he spent that silver to share a drink with Jorund.
On one of the former days, Gawad had brought back the news from town concerning the victory at
Polisals; tonight was one of the latter days, where he joined Jorund in drink and dice. “Tell it again,”
Jorund pleaded with a wry smile.

159
 “You know every detail,” Gawad complained.
“So make sure you include all of it. Don’t forget the start,” Jorund impressed upon him.
“Anyone else could do it, they all know it as well as me,” Gawad argued.
Jorund shook his head. “They don’t have your lovely way of speaking Mearcspeech. Come on, I’ll
give the next round.”
“It’s your turn anyway,” Jerome interjected.
“Then Gawad better tell it if he wants to be sure he gets his next drink,” Jorund claimed with a
sour glance at Jerome.
“Fine,” Gawad acquiesced. He cleared his throat. “Hear all, hear all,” he called out, imitating a
town crier. “The Order army, only days after victory at Tothmor, has marched north and met the
armies of the cruel outlanders upon the plains of Polisals. Outnumbered, wounded, and weary after
their latest battle, the Order soldiers were pressed but took victory under the leadership of the knight
captain Adalbrand, lord of House Arnling…”
~~~~
Walking down the stairs to the dungeons, Arndis came to a halt as she saw two Hawks in the
guardroom. “You are not Order soldiers,” she said with a light frown.
“Astute,” one of them remarked. “This place is off bounds.”
“I need to see one of the prisoners,” Arndis told them.
“That may be, but it won’t happen. Time to leave, milady.”
“What is the harm in letting me visit?”
“The harm is our lieutenant will keep our pay,” snorted one of the Hawks. “We’re not taking that
risk.”
She glanced at the table between the soldiers, which held both dice and scattered playing cards.
“Do you men enjoy gambling?” she asked.
“What’s it to you?”
Arndis opened the small coin bag in her belt and took out a handful of silver coins. “I will make a
wager with you.” She stacked the coins on the table. “I wager that if you let me inside one of the cells,
none will ever be the wiser. If I am wrong, you might have trouble with your lieutenant. If I am right,
you get to keep this silver.”
One of the soldiers frowned. “Wait, if you win, we get to keep the coin? That’s not how wagers
work.”
The other Hawk stood up. “You half-baked moron,” he sneered at his companion. “She is giving
us the coin for looking the other way. Fine by me,” he continued, looking at Arndis. “I already lost
this week’s pay, I swear those dice are cursed. Which prisoner?”
“Athelstan of Isarn,” she told him with a smile. “He is that way.”
~~~~
“Master Quill, did you hear?” Kate was barely past the door before she yelled at her master, short of
breath from having rushed up the stairs.
“Kate, you are in the king’s library,” Quill admonished her. “Decorum, please.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you should behave and not shout in my library.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“Better. What is it you wished to tell me?”
“Did you hear about the battle? There was another one, and the Order won!”

160
 “I heard,” Quill smiled. “I do not spend the entirety of my days alone in this tower.”
“Of course,” Kate acknowledged, though there was a tinge of disappointment in her voice.
“Someone else told you.”
The old scribe gave a nod. “I took the noon meal in the hall today. Everyone was as eager to share
the news as you are.”
“Right.” Kate’s enthusiasm quickly returned. “It’s rather exciting, isn’t it? Egil told me once there
would be war, and I didn’t think it would be interesting because it was in another realm, but he was
right.”
“It certainly does excite,” Quill granted, “though only because to us, Hæthiod is so far away.
Imagine if these were tidings of a battle fought up north between our forces and the rebels of Isarn,
and imagine the battle had gone ill. We should all be less excited, I think.”
“I suppose.” Kate’s mood dropped again.
“What might be interesting to consider,” Quill continued, “is that the letter bringing this news to
Middanhal was most likely written by Egil.”
“Really?” Her mood as ever-changing as the moon, Kate’s face lit up at the mention of Egil.
“I think so. He is accompanying Sir Adalbrand as his personal scribe. I imagine he writes all his
correspondence and missives.”
Kate blinked a few times. “I can’t imagine Egil in a war camp, surrounded by soldiers and knights
on horses. Or near a battle! Do you think he is in danger?”
“No, no.” Quill shook his head. “I am sure Sir Adalbrand would not allow that.”
“Still.” Kate chewed on her lower lip. “Were you not worried about Egil when you sent him so far
away?”
“A little,” Quill admitted. “But Egil has many long years ahead of him in this dusty tower. If he is
to keep the annals after me and record the history of the Seven Realms, he should have some
knowledge and observations of how that history is made.”
“I guess you know best. Even so, I’ll feel better when Egil is home again,” Kate declared.
“Me too,” Quill confessed. “Now, there are pens to sharpen and ink to make. To work!”
“Yes, master!”
~~~~
“My feint worked. The outlander captain thought I had fallen, making me vulnerable, but I retained
control of my footing. Once he approached to deliver a killing blow, I took him by surprise,” Arndis
read aloud. “Leaping to my feet, my shield trapped his sword for but a moment, but a moment was all
I needed. Unable to deflect, my sword took his neck. Upon his death, his soldiers quickly lost their
appetite for fighting and fled. I was so exhausted when this happened, I did not realise at first what
came after. Only as the chant rose did I hear my soldiers title me as Dragonheart, but it is a title I
cherish. These men have endured great ordeals upon my orders, and their admiration is all the reward
a commander could ever want.”
“What a battle!” came an outburst from Athelstan. “Does he write more?”
Arndis looked down at the letter in her hands, squinting her eyes in the weak candlelight. “Merely
pleasantries and well-wishes to me.”
Athelstan gave a sigh. “What I would not give to be in his boots. There is nothing as elating, as
intoxicating as hard-won victory.”
“A feeling you have often known if rumour be true.”
“On occasion.” Athelstan exhaled and smiled. “Thank you, Lady Arndis, for this gift along with
your company.”

161
 “It was nothing,” she blushed; the red colour on her cheeks could barely be seen in the darkness.
“A jar of water seems like nothing except to a man in the desert.”
“You are as gifted with words as you are in war,” Arndis told him, almost in chiding fashion.
“We fight with swords upon the battlefield and words anywhere else,” Athelstan declared. “If I
could wield only one weapon, I would choose words any day.”
“Words are the only weapon available to me,” Arndis considered. “That said, you are correct to
some extent. I have seen words cause men to halt their swords, but there are also men who would
happily use their swords to silence the words of others.”
“Agreed,” Athelstan nodded. “I have had plenty of time to reflect in here. Perhaps my
contemplations would be different had my circumstances also been different, but it seems obvious
now that placing might over right brings only disaster.” He raised his arms, making his chains rattle.
“I am sorry about your current – predicament,” Arndis said cautiously.
“As am I,” he replied with a bitter smile. “But who can I blame but myself? My brother, perhaps,
yet in the end, I chose to follow him. I could have refused.”
There was hesitation before Arndis posed her question. “Why did you not refuse him?”
Athelstan sat silent for a while. “It was not that I believed him to be right. Rather, I believed the
rest to be wrong.” He gave an awkward smile. “I suppose that makes little sense.”
“You may need to elaborate,” she admitted.
“I know my brother’s failings. I did not follow him because I imagined he would be the king we
needed. I followed him because I despaired at all I had seen within the Order and the realms. In my
arrogance, I believed this path gave me the possibility to mend it all.”
“What made you despair? If my question is not out of bounds,” Arndis hurried to add.
“I am so starved for conversation, you could ask me anything,” Athelstan confessed. “The Order’s
campaign in Heohlond was gruesome. Your father was right to seek an end to it, and they killed him
for it. Neither the lord marshal nor the knight marshal were men equal to the responsibility given
them, and they both died ignoble deaths as a result.”
“Did you know my father well?”
Athelstan paused. “I knew him. At the battle of Cairn Donn, we fought together side by side,
which forges kinship between men. He was a good man, Arngrim of House Arnling, and I was
saddened by his death.”
“I do not have many memories of him,” Arndis confided in him. “I am not sure if I truly remember
how he looks, or I simply remember the portrait of him hanging in our house.”
“I think you were in his thoughts. When I was recalled to Middanhal to be sent to Alcázar, he
asked me to bring Brand as my squire, far away from Adalrik, and extend the protection of my house
to you and your mother,” Athelstan explained kindly.
“I never knew.”
“In my absence, there was little I could do. I told my brother, but Isenhart was never the sort to
care for such promises. Of course, now it is my house that could use the protection of yours,”
Athelstan remarked with hollow laughter.
Arndis glanced out at the corridor. “I have been here a long time. I think it best I leave rather than
risk discovery. I shall return another day if you wish it.”
“I do,” Athelstan exclaimed, staring at her with eyes starved for light. “I wish it fervently.”
“Until next time,” Arndis told him, and he bowed in farewell to her.
~~~~

162
Although the dragonlord had an entire wing at his disposal, he stayed there alone. His family, meaning
his wife and son, had chambers in the same part of the palace as the rest of the House of Vale.
Konstantine spent most of his time in idle fashion; now that he was no longer the heir presumptive to
the jarldom of Vale, his uncle had stopped pressuring him to learn what being a jarl entailed, and his
father was too busy ruling the realm to make any demands. The only two people that Konstantine saw
often were his cousin, Valerie, and his mother, the lady Mathilde.
“Are you in here, my boy?”
“Yes, Mother,” he replied.
She found him lying on his bed, playing with grapes before eating them. “Eat properly,” she
admonished him, and he sat up straight.
“Yes, Mother.”
Mathilde sat down next to him on the bed, caressing his hair. “You seem restless, my son.”
“I am fine,” he told her with slightly confusion. “I was just lying down, doing nothing.”
“Is doing nothing really a fitting way for you to spend your time? You, the descendants of jarls,
not to mention you have royal blood on your mother’s side.”
“I know, Mother, you told me,” Konstantine said in an indulgent tone. “Your great-grandfather
was king of Ealond long, long ago.”
“Not so long ago,” she sniffed. “Regardless, my point is, do you not feel the urge to do something?
Make something of yourself?”
“Uncle has a new heir,” he shrugged. “I will not be jarl or anything else.”
“Only if you accept your fate,” Mathilde claimed. “Your father was not born to a title either, and
now he is dragonlord. Your prospects are even better, for you have me as your mother.”
Konstantine gave her an odd look. “There is really not much you can do, Mother. Things are the
way they are.”
“Nonsense. I expect more from you, Konstantine, do you hear me? I expect you to make your
mark on the world.”
“Very well, Mother.” The indulgent tone returned with full force in Konstantine’s voice.
“Do you hear me?” Mathilde’s voice, hitherto moving between caring and stern, turned harsh. “If
opportunity presents itself, I expect you to seize it with both hands. Do not dare grow complacent, do
you understand?”
“Yes, Mother, I understand,” Konstantine mumbled.
“Good,” she smiled. “Get some sleep, dear child. It will keep you strong.” She bade him goodnight
with a final caress.

163
 24. The Long Path
Middanhal
Several weeks after the battle of Polisals, as snow fell on the landscape, a lone wanderer walked the
Kingsroad between Inghold and Middanhal. He rarely stopped except to sleep, and he only did so for
an hour at a time. Whenever he was awake again, he would walk, day or night; eating and drinking he
accomplished while on the move. A heavy cloak and a hat shielded him from the snow, which lay so
thick on his clothes, they seemed dyed white. A walking staff made of solid blackthorn completed his
appearance.
With heavy steps, the wanderer approached Middanhal. It lay as always upon its hill flanked by
the great peaks of the Weolcan Mountains, Valmark to the west and Wyrmpeak to the east. They were
perennially snow-capped, but now the white colour descended all the way down the mountain slopes
until reaching the paved road, crunching underneath his boots. The black banners of the Order were a
stark contrast to the snow-white walls and towers of the city. Upon the fortifications, dark-clad
soldiers watched with disbelief this singular wanderer walk up towards the gate, having traversed the
open land despite snowstorm and freezing cold.
As he stood before the intricately carved gates, Godfrey gave a smile. “Always good to be back,”
he muttered to himself.
~~~~
“Looks the same,” Godfrey remarked as he stepped inside the library hall. Turning to his left, he saw
Quill enter from the scriptorium.
“Sidi!” he exclaimed.
“You always name me such when we have not met in a while,” Godfrey smiled.
“Old habits die slow in old men.” They clasped hands in greeting. “But I am ever glad to see you,
Godfrey.”
“You too, old friend.” The traveller sat down, releasing a sigh of contentment.
“Long journey?”
“I came from the siege at Lakon. I have had little rest since then.”
“Long journey.”
“Before that, I was in the Reach.”
The scribe shuddered. “That evil place.”
“There is unrest among the Godking’s subjects,” Godfrey revealed, “but the price is steep, and
steeped in blood for that matter. Sooner or later, he will turn his full attention upon Adalmearc again.”
“Adalrik is still torn by war,” Quill mentioned while shaking his head.
“Yes. Do you have something to drink?” Godfrey asked suddenly. “I am dry beyond belief.”
“Of course, of course,” the scribe told him, quickly fetching water in a cup.

164
 Godfrey took it with both hands and drank greedily. “Thank you. That was needed.” He wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand. “Yes, Adalrik. We cannot do anything about this civil war. Our hope
must lie with the Order being strong instead.”
“That seems a frail hope, given that the Order lacks leadership.”
“It could be worse. I had my doubts about your friend, the young Adalbrand, but his skills as a
commander are unmatched. If he is given a strong Order army, I believe he can hold the Godking at
bay and push the outlanders back beyond the Langstan.”
“Gods grant you are right,” Quill prayed.
“Gods grant me some sleep,” Godfrey remarked dryly. He glanced around. “For a moment, I
wondered where your apprentice was at, but I remember now. I met him in the camp near Lakon.”
“Egil? How is he?”
“Boy seems fine,” Godfrey assured Quill. “His adventures have not caused him harm. And if he is
there, I assume his room is available,” he added with a wry smile.
Quill gestured towards the empty chamber that belonged to his apprentice. “All yours.”
“Do not wake me even if the tower is on fire,” Godfrey instructed him, retreating to his
accommodations.
“If the tower is on fire,” Quill replied after a moment, “I would not give you a second thought, I
am saving the books!”
~~~~
The next day, the wanderer stepped onto the streets of Middanhal again, leaving the Citadel. He met
few other people; even Order patrols were scarce. Following the Arnsweg south, he reached the
Temple square, which lay open and near deserted. The weather was too poor for the peddlers to bring
their stalls and goods, and any seeking to buy would have to venture into the shops in the nearby
quarters for craftsmen and merchants. Despite the frost, a few others joined Godfrey in crossing the
Temple square to enter the sacred building itself; regardless of weather and season, some were always
asking the gods for favours or bringing them offerings out of gratitude.
The two Templars standing guard by the entrance did not seem affected by the bitter cold; they
gave a barely perceptible nod to Godfrey as they spotted him, which he returned in like manner. While
other visitors all went to place some form of tribute at the Alfather’s altar, even if just a copper coin,
Godfrey did not. He left the Hall of Holies immediately, walking through the corridors until he spotted
a priest in black robe. “Tell the Highfather that Godfrey is here to see him,” he instructed the priest,
who bowed his head and hurried away wordlessly.
A brief while passed until an old man in grey robes approached Godfrey. “You are back,”
Septimus stated simply.
“We need to speak.”
The old priest beckoned towards a corridor, and Godfrey followed him down the chosen path.
After passing through several winding hallways, they entered the private chamber of the high priest.
“What is amiss?”
“Too much to name,” came the reply. “This civil war in Adalrik does not promise to end soon.”
“It is beyond our power to influence,” Septimus stated.
Godfrey nodded, sitting down on a simple chair; the austere chamber had few other pieces of
furniture. “I am hoping the Order will prove strong enough if it can marshal all its forces.”
“The Order is without leadership,” the priest pointed out.
“I plan to remedy that, though it will take me months if not longer. It seems that no matter how
fast I run, time is running out faster.” Godfrey accompanied his words with a bitter smile.

165
 “How can you accomplish this?”
“The marshals,” Godfrey declared. “I will seek out Korndale first, Ealond afterwards, continue to
Thusund, Vidrevi, and so forth until I am done.”
Septimus exhaled, sitting down on his bed. “Quite a journey. You will end up in all the Seven
Realms, almost.”
“Very likely.”
“What can I do?”
“I have enlisted a young commander, Sir Adalbrand,” Godfrey explained.
“I have met him,” Septimus smiled. “Very self-assured, but not without reason.”
“Along with Sir William of Tothmor, he will lead our Order forces. Sir William should be
travelling to Middanhal to seek support for our campaign into the Reach.”
Septimus’ eyes widened. “You think an invasion is possible?”
“I do not think permanent victory is within hand’s reach, but we cannot simply fight a defensive
war. If so, we will be whittled down little by little.”
“What do you require of me?”
“Support Sir William and Sir Adalbrand in what ways you can. With the lords of Adalrik busy
fighting among themselves, our good knights will need any aid possible if they are to mount a
campaign,” Godfrey instructed the priest.
“It will be done.”
“Good.”
“On another note,” Septimus continued. “If you travel to Ealond, I have a message you might
deliver.”
“Why not?” Godfrey smiled. “The role as the Highfather’s servant always serves me well.”
~~~~
The same day, the wanderer left the Temple. Following the Arnsweg south once more, he crossed the
great city. Reaching the river Mihtea, he walked onto the Arnsbridge. On either side of the
construction, he was flanked by statues of the kings of Adalrik; a few stubborn snowflakes managed
to stick to the carved stone despite the howling wind. Walking past them, Godfrey mumbled the
names of each king, sometimes smiling, sometimes twisting his face into a scornful expression.
Having crossed the Arnsbridge and the Mihtea, Godfrey reached Lowtown, the slums that lay
between the southern bank of the river and the outer walls. Sticking to the main road, he encountered
neither people nor trouble and soon found himself before Saltgate. The Order soldiers gave him a few
lazy glances but otherwise showed no interest; there was only a toll for entering the city, not leaving
it.
Passing under the stone arch of the gatehouse, Godfrey took a deep breath; before him stretched
the Kingsroad all the way south to Plenmont in Korndale. “Back to it again,” he mumbled, stepping
onto the path.

166
 23. Quenching the Thirst
Middanhal
“Tell me.” The command was spoken by Konstans to his brother’s chamberlain, Arion.
“Other lords have received the same summons. King Rainier is gathering his troops in Fontaine,”
Arion explained. They were meeting one cold morning in the dragonlord’s study, some weeks before
the Raven Days and while Godfrey was still journeying to Middanhal from Hæthiod.
“Anything at all to indicate the king’s plans?”
“There is no unrest anywhere in Ealond to quell. While many of his vassals demurred when he
took the throne, none have openly defied the king.”
“Herbergja,” Konstans mumbled. “The kings of Ealond have an unhealthy obsession with that city.
Rainier must know that he cannot hope to conquer, let alone keep Herbergja without a fleet stronger
than what Thusund can muster.”
“The king seems to believe otherwise.”
“What else have you learned?”
“Nothing more about Ealond,” Arion replied with regret. “I am waiting to hear from your reeve in
Hæthiod. I do bear news from the south.”
“Yes?”
“Rumour in Plenmont is that King Adelard seeks to marry Arndis of House Arnling. He is sending
his army into Hæthiod to assist Sir Adalbrand as a token of this coming union. Your reeve sends this.”
He placed a letter upon his master’s desk.
Konstans leaned back in his seat, frowning. “I wondered what kept Adelard asleep for so long.
Everything falls into place now,” he considered. “Adelard strengthens his claim by marrying another
dragonborn. He combines his army with the Order forces in Hæthiod, led by an undefeated
commander. When these two, king and knight, march into Middanhal to lay claim to the Dragon
Throne, who can oppose them?”
“But they cannot both take the throne,” Arion reminded his master. “Is it the king or the knight
who seeks to be crowned?”
“It does not matter to us,” Konstans countered. “Either way, we will be an obstacle to be
removed.” He exhaled through gritted teeth. “It is obvious now. These dispatches spreading the news
of Adalbrand’s victories. He is laying the foundation for his treason.”
“The Order, Korndale, Ealond,” Arion muttered. “It does not bode well.”
The dragonlord of Adalrik sat quiet for a while. “I must take action. Tell the envoy from Belvoir to
come see me in a few days,” he instructed the chamberlain. “Return to me afterwards. There is much
we must attend to.”
~~~~

167
A few hours later, Konstans entered the royal wing. The kingthanes noticed his approach, but did not
hinder the dragonlord, and he was allowed straight access to the parlour by the royal chambers.
“My prince,” Konstans greeted Hardmar while inclining his head. “May we speak in private?”
“Lord Konstans,” the prince spoke affably. He was sitting down with a cup of wine in his hands,
evidently in a good mood. “Leave us,” he commanded, causing Berimund and another kingthane to
vacate the room. “What brings you here?”
“You recall that I promised to watch Adalbrand in case he became a threat,” Konstans reminded
him. “I have recently learned that he has joined an alliance with the king of Korndale.”
“An alliance? What for?” Hardmar frowned.
“The king will wed Adalbrand’s sister, tying them together. The king’s armies will march to
Hæthiod, where no doubt the treasonous knight will take command of them. Given that his father died
a rebel in Heohlond, it is no wonder that the son follows the same path.”
“I knew it!” exclaimed Hardmar. “He has always coveted my crown. He must be stopped!”
“I have a plan to do so,” Konstans explained. “Adalbrand is beyond our reach in Hæthiod,
surrounded by Order troops. He must be lured to Middanhal, isolated.”
“How can that be done? Since he plans treachery, he will be wary of anything we do,” interjected
the prince.
“As atheling, Adalbrand has a seat in the Adalthing. If it is convened to discuss unrelated matters,
he will have a reason to come to Middanhal. Furthermore, the protection of the landfrid will make him
feel safe and not suspect anything.”
“Clever,” Hardmar granted. “Some of the nobles may grumble that we break the landfrid and seize
Adalbrand, but as a traitor, the king’s peace does not extend to him regardless.”
“I have no such intentions,” Konstans exclaimed, sounding almost shocked. “If we break the
sacred peace of the Adalthing, every member will turn against us. We need the Adalthing to formally
declare Adalbrand a traitor, but if we imprison him while he is under the protection of the landfrid, the
noblemen would see him freed purely out of spite if nothing else.”
“Are they fools? Why would they protect a traitor?” Indignation overflowed in Hardmar’s voice.
“Because if the landfrid protects a traitor, it also protects them,” Konstans explained impatiently.
“I have a better way. The peace only extends two weeks before the Adalthing assembles. We simply
make sure Adalbrand arrives in Middanhal earlier than that.”
“I see,” Hardmar remarked doubtfully. “How will you accomplish that?”
“Trust me, my prince, as your dragonlord. Solving such problems is my responsibility.”
“Very well,” the prince declared. “Accomplish this, and you shall have my utmost satisfaction. My
dissatisfaction will be of equal measure, should you fail.”
“That will not happen,” Konstans claimed tight-lipped. He gave a curt nod and turned on his heel,
leaving with speed.
~~~~
While Konstantine sometimes sought out other young noblemen at the court for games and merriment,
living in close quarters with his family meant that his evenings were mostly subdued in nature. The
Red Hawks, who by now kept watch over most of the Citadel courtside, had furthermore been
instructed to ensure the dragonlord’s son stayed out of trouble. Because of this, Mathilde was rarely
disappointed when seeking out her son in his chamber.
“Konstantine,” she called out as she walked inside. Unlike other times when she visited him, her
voice was heavy.
“I am here, Mother,” he answered, looking up from his bed.

168
 “Sit up,” she told him, and when he did so, she sat down next to him. “Konstantine, my son, you
do not seem content.”
“I have nothing to complain about,” he told her. “It is dull here, but so would Valcaster be, or
Uncle’s house if it had not been burned down.”
“I mean discontent with your lot in life,” Mathilde elaborated, prompting confusion to spread
across her son’s face. “As your mother, it is my task to remedy that. I have spoken with your father,
and we have devised a solution.”
“You spoke with Father?”
She nodded. “There is something very simple you can do, which will thrust you out of the
shadows and into your rightful place again. I have arranged everything, but I need to see you take
action yourself. Your father needs to know you deserve this.”
“Deserve what?”
Mathilde took out a small flacon from inside her clothing. “Tonight, Valerius’ nurse will sleep
heavily. I have seen to it. Myself, I promised Alexandra to stay with her in her room. She sleeps
poorly of late.” The woman gave a smile. “This is for you.” She thrust the small flask into
Konstantine’s hand.
“I do not understand,” he said confused.
“Tonight, you will not be disturbed. None will be awake. Go into Valerius’ room and let these
drops fall into his mouth.”
“What on earth for?”
“To prove you are my son,” Mathilde told him harshly. “To prove your father worthy. Do you
think he is satisfied having an idle son, lying about all day?”
“But what will this do?” Unease overflowed Konstantine’s face.
“It will set things right.” She grabbed his chin with her hand, staring directly at him. “Are you a
child still, my son?”
“No, Mother,” he mumbled awkwardly through her grip.
“Do this, or do not expect to be part of our family,” she told him as her nails dug into his cheeks.
She relinquished her hold on him and stood up; despite her short stature, she seemed imposing in
comparison to his seated position. “Tonight. Do not disappoint me,” she impressed upon him. As she
left, he stared down at the flask that was clutched in his hand still.
~~~~
It was long past the hours when the dragonlord gave audience, yet he had a visitor nonetheless.
Jerome of the Red Hawks sat in the seat opposite Konstans’ desk, staring at the nobleman with either
curiosity or suspicion in his eyes.
“I am told you are the kind of man I need,” Konstans declared.
“That depends on what kind of man you seek, milord,” the heathman replied.
“I need someone who will do exactly as I say, no matter what it is, no matter what it takes. Who is
motivated by coin more than anything.”
Jerome raised an eyebrow. “Usually, lords want loyalty first and foremost.”
“I am practical. I have more gold at my disposal than anyone else in the Seven Realms. I find it
hard to trust a man who is loyal merely by his honour, but a man loyal to gold, that man I can trust,”
Konstans explained.
“There’s reason in that.”
Konstans took out a heavy bag that filled out his hand. “We will start with silver for now. This bag
is yours if you accomplish a task for me.”

169
 Jerome eyed the coin purse greedily. “What do you need done, milord?”
“Tonight, I want you to sneak into my brother’s bedchamber. As a Red Hawk, you should have no
trouble getting there, and my brother sleeps alone.” Konstans retrieved a small flask with his other
hand. “He always has a cup of wine standing by his bedside. Pour this vial into the wine without being
noticed by any. Return to me by morning for your payment.”
“What’s in it?”
“If you get paid, does it matter?” asked Konstans.
“No,” the other man admitted. “Why not do it yourself, milord? You have easier access than
anyone.”
“He is my brother. It should not be done by my hand.”
Jerome licked his lips. “And after I do this, should I expect to find my own wine someday spiced
in the same manner?”
“If you leave no trace, what reason would I have for that?” Konstans hefted the coin purse in his
hand. “Enough questions. The choice is yours. Do you want the coin or not?”
“Aye,” Jerome answered and extended his hand to take the vial. “I’ll do it.”
~~~~
As night fell, the interior of the Citadel became quiet except for the occasional kingthane, Hawk, or
Order soldier walking rounds or relieving a comrade from his post. In her chamber, Valerie woke. She
reached out to grab a cup standing by her bed only to find it empty. With an annoyed look, she got out
of bed and left her room. She stumbled around in the darkness of the hallway until she reached one of
the parlours and found a pitcher. Filling her cup, she took a hearty draught. Only then did she look
back at the corridor she had come from, and the sight of frail light made her frown.
Walking towards it, she saw that it came from Valerius’ room; the door was ajar. She peered
inside. The small chamber had an alcove, from which snoring sounds were emitted; the child’s nurse
was fast asleep. The boy himself made no noise; he was lying in his cradle. Sitting next to it, holding a
candle, was Konstantine. The young man sat on the floor with one hand on the child’s bed, gently
rocking it.
“Konstantine,” Valerie whispered. “What are you doing in here?” She stepped inside, closing the
door behind her.
“He was making sounds,” Konstantine explained. “I was just rocking him to help him fall asleep.”
Valerie took another step to stand next by the cradle and touched the boy’s cheek with her hand.
He stirred a little but continued sleeping. “He seems fine now,” she told Konstantine, sitting down
next to him. “You can probably go back to bed.”
“I will stay,” he declared, staring at the empty door. “Until morning. In case he needs me again.”
“There is kindness in you,” Valerie said affectionately. “You should show it more often.”
“Perhaps.” He paused. “What is it like, now you have a brother?”
“Konstantine, I have always had a brother,” Valerie admonished him. “You and I grew up as close
as siblings. Granted, I disliked you the first year or two when you did nothing but cry, but you have
grown on me,” she grinned.
“That is good.” He gave a faint smile. “It is good to have family.”
“He is lucky,” Valerie said and nodded towards the sleeping Valerius. “Lucky to have you as his
older brother. All the things you will teach him when he grows up.”
“Yes,” Konstantine spoke. “I will take care of him,” he promised, staring at the closed door.
~~~~

170
Close by, a Red Hawk moved through the wing occupied by the House of Vale. He walked past the
empty rooms belonging to Valerie and Konstantine, he heard the sounds of Alexandra and Mathilde
sleeping in the former’s chamber, he passed Valerius’ room with its closed door. At last, he reached
the innermost quarters. They were not locked; this location was deep inside the wing with many
guards between here and the rest of the fortress. The door opened obediently to the mercenary’s touch,
and he walked inside.
In the bed slept the jarl of Vale, the richest and most powerful man in Adalrik. A cup of wine
stood nearby. The Hawk took out a small vial and poured its contents into the goblet; then he tucked
the empty vial inside his garments. Within few moments and without causing a sound, Jerome was out
in the hallway again.
Leaving the wing, he eventually came across a few of his fellow Hawks making their patrols.
“Seen anything?” they asked.
“All’s quiet,” he told them. “My watch is over. Time for me to get some sleep.”
“Lucky,” one of the Hawks said enviously.
“Very lucky,” Jerome smiled.

171
 23. Cards on the Table
Middanhal
The following morning just as the sun rose, Jerome of the Red Hawks returned to the dragonlord’s
atrium and was immediately admitted into audience. “I did as you commanded, milord,” he told
Konstans. “There’s been no sign of anything amiss so far. Nobody suspects anything.”
“Nor will they,” Konstans declared. “There was only water in the vial. At worst, my brother will
find his wine a little diluted this morning.”
Jerome frowned. “Water? But I thought…”
“You thought I wanted my brother dead,” Konstans stated. “Never mind the chaos this would
cause for me, including the election of a new lord protector.”
“So what was this for?”
“I needed to know if I could rely on you. If you are willing to kill my brother at my behest, the
most powerful man in the realm, I expect you will carry out any other task I give you,” Konstans
explained.
The Hawk gave a scowl. “I don’t like being tested.”
Konstans took out the coin purse from last night and slid it across the table. “You did as I asked.
Here is payment as promised. You will find me a generous master.”
Jerome’s face turned from displeasure to satisfaction. “Anything you ask, milord.”
“Good. I have another task for you. And this one, I assure you, is of the utmost importance.”
~~~~
The jarl of Theodstan sat in his parlour, playing cards with one servant when another entered
hurriedly.
“Milord,” Holwyn exclaimed, short of breath. “I have just been told that the dragonlord is calling
for assembly out of time.”
“Are you sure?” Theodoric’s voice was deeply sceptical.
“Completely. I believe the Quill has already been told to send out the summons.”
The jarl threw his cards on the table. “What is so urgent they cannot wait until summer?”
Holebert gathered up the cards, shuffling them together. “Maybe they want Jarl Isarn officially
declared a traitor sooner rather than later.”
“Isenwald is safe in Silfrisarn now, which will not have changed when the Adalthing convenes at
midsummer,” the jarl said dismissively. “If anything, it is the Isarn prisoners they want executed.”
“Maybe they fear an escape attempt?” Holwyn suggested. “The guards in the dungeons are no
longer Order soldiers but have been replaced by Red Hawks.”
“Could be,” Theodoric considered. “Or they have some agenda we cannot guess.”
“I will listen for any whispers. See what we may learn,” Holwyn declared.

172
 “Good.” Theodoric glanced at the table and his missing hand of cards. “Holebert, did you take my
cards?”
“I thought you were done playing,” the servant said in excuse.
“I had king and jester,” the jarl complained, followed by a sigh. “Deal us a new round. I need
better servants,” he grumbled, to which the others only laughed.
~~~~
“Milord? Your son requests an audience.”
Konstans looked up at Eolf. “My son? Are you certain?”
“I know how his lordship’s son looks,” the servant sniffed. “Shall I show him in?”
“I admit to some curiosity,” Konstans confessed, turning the hourglass on his table to let the sands
fall. “Let him enter.”
With almost timid steps, Konstantine entered his father’s study, glancing around. “Father.”
“Of all the men waiting outside, I did not expect to see you.” Konstans’ voice was almost amused.
“What brings you here?”
“I thought we should speak,” the young man spoke.
His father glanced at the hourglass. “Time is short. What do you need?”
Konstantine cleared his throat. “I know you are disappointed that I am no longer Uncle’s heir.”
“Have I expressed any such disappointment?”
“Not directly –”
“Then why would you assume such a thing?”
Bewilderment spread across Konstantine’s face. “But I thought –”
“I was born the second son. Do you think I have ever let that hold me back?”
“I guess not.”
“Let me share some fatherly wisdom I received myself when I was young, from your grandfather.
He was a clear-sighted man,” Konstans told his son. “He kept me out of the Order, knowing it would
be a waste to make me a knight. He explained to me that there are two kinds of value to possess.”
“What are they?” asked Konstantine interested.
“Resources and respect. The former is land, gold, soldiers, and the like. The latter is titles, honour,
authority, and so forth. It is important to know that they are interchangeable and never constant.”
“You mean, land can be exchanged for gold, gold can be exchanged for soldiers?”
“Exactly,” nodded Konstans satisfied. “Similarly, a title in itself is of little value, except for the
power and authority it can be exchanged to. It does not matter whether the jarl of Vale is my brother
or me. The title belongs to our family, and I may use its authority when I need it.”
“Just as you have used it to become dragonlord.”
“Indeed, which offers further possibilities. On the other hand, the Red Hawks are loyal to our gold,
not our title. Or take Jarl Isarn, who will soon have lost all right to that title. Yet his vassals will
remain loyal to him because they have sworn to be. In that case, honour has its own value.”
“So you are saying I should not care about titles?”
“I am saying,” Konstans explained with patience, “that titles are but one form of commodity. As
long as the title remains in our family, we have access to its value, and your time should be spent
pursuing something else. To borrow some wisdom from your uncle, it is a poor merchant that stares
himself blind on one commodity.” The dragonlord smiled at his own words.
“Thank you, Father. I understand much better now.”

173
 “I am glad you are sensible enough to listen.” Konstans looked at the hourglass on his table, which
had run empty. “I must press on with today’s affairs. Tell Eolf I need a brief while before I see anyone
else.”
“Of course, Father.”
~~~~
“Do either of you know the lady Arndis?” asked Hardmar.
“She is Sir Adalbrand’s sister,” explained Inghard.
“Obviously,” sneered his older brother impatiently. “But what do you know of her?”
“She is a confidante of Lady Theodwyn, I think,” Gerhard told the others. “I have seen the two of
them together, along with the veiled woman.”
“Lady Eleanor,” Inghard inserted.
“Never mind them,” Hardmar snapped. “I have heard that the king of Korndale seeks to marry
her.”
“Really?”
“Odd. She brings no wealth or alliance with her,” Inghard contemplated.
“On the contrary,” Hardmar retorted. “She will strengthen his claim on the Dragon Throne, my
throne, and tie Adalbrand to his cause. Treasonous lot!”
“I suppose there would be danger no matter who she marries,” Inghard continued. “Her children
will have the same blood as us, even if it is matrilineally.”
“A shame if she leaves for Plenmont,” Gerhard spoke up, drumming his fingers on a table as
customary. “She is quite beautiful, unlike that company she keeps. An old hag and a scarred woman.”
“Does that matter to you?” Hardmar asked his brother with a hint of contempt. “You will be
pleased to know I have decided you should marry the daughter of Lord Marcaster.”
“Lady Gloria?”
“Unless he has other daughters, that would be the one,” Hardmar jeered.
“Why that one?” asked Gerhard, whose face seemed to struggle with finding an appropriate
reaction.
“He will pull several other landgraves to our side. It is a favourable alliance,” the prince explained.
“You could have asked me,” Gerhard pointed out with a sour disposition.
“Fine. Pretend I asked you beforehand.” Hardmar waved his hand dismissively.
“You will not get an exception for me to marry early, will you?” The question was asked with a
suspicious voice. “I am in no hurry.”
“Fret not, little brother,” Hardmar reassured him. “I only intend to announce your engagement at
the Adalthing. Unlike Vale, I do not rush these things.”
“Perhaps you should,” Inghard interjected from his corner of the room. “A lot can happen in the
next several years. Maybe Jarl Vale is wise to make sure you marry his daughter before you have a
chance to find a better match.” With this said, the youngest Hardling brother resumed reading his
book, leaving the crown prince to contemplate his words.
~~~~
In the dungeons, Arndis sat with an empty coin purse and a chessboard inside Athelstan’s cell. The
knight raised one hand, careful to avoid his chains accidentally knocking any pieces about, and moved
his thane to threaten Arndis’ jarl.
“I knew it,” she smiled, moving her dragonlord forward into the vacated space. “I believe that
concludes the match?”

174
 Athelstan stared at the board in disbelief. “How long did you say you had been playing?”
“Brand taught me the game last summer,” Arndis replied, looking both shy yet also pleased with
herself.
“Impressive. It took him years to beat me the first time, though granted, he was only thirteen when
we started playing.” Athelstan continued staring at the pieces, tentatively moving a few about to
examine the different positions. “I will excuse myself with not having played the game in several
months now.”
“I am glad we can remedy that,” Arndis smiled. “I am sorely lacking for worthy opponents among
my friends at court.”
From his tattered clothing, Athelstan pulled out a small wooden carving. It was a king piece. “I
gave this to Brand the first time he beat me.”
She nodded. “I recall you told me.”
He extended the piece towards her. “It seems fitting I give it to you.”
“Oh, thank you.” Hesitantly, Arndis accepted the gift.
“It is just a piece of wood,” Athelstan told her with a joyless smile. “It is all I have at present,
however, and perhaps it will remind you of me in the future.”
“I shall cherish it for that reason,” she promised.
He began arranging the pieces on the board to their starting position. “Another game?”
“With pleasure.”
~~~~
As evening arrived, it was Konstantine seeking out his mother and not reverse. She gave a look of
surprise upon seeing her son in her chamber, but it was quickly replaced by disappointment. “I
suppose you have come to offer excuses?”
“I spoke with Father.” Mathilde’s expression turned blank. “In general, I have given it all some
thought,” Konstantine continued. “Should anything happen to my little cousin, it would be a tragedy
to our house. I cannot imagine Father would want that.”
“So now you choose to think,” Mathilde sneered, but there was little bite in her voice.
“In fact, I cannot imagine Father would condone what you told me last night.”
“What happened to obedience?” she hissed. “How dare you question me!”
“I threw it away, that little flask,” Konstantine told her. “I do not intend to ever think about it
again. I do not think you should either.”
“Are you now presuming to tell me what I should do?”
“As long as Valerius is healthy and safe, I see no point in dwelling on last night,” Konstantine told
her. “But should something ever happen to him, Father will know everything in detail.” He stared at
his mother.
“At least you show some backbone.” She returned his gaze and found him unwavering. “As you
wish,” she finally declared. “Last night is forgotten.”
“I am glad. Goodnight, Mother.” She did not return his well-wishes.

175
 27. Seal and Sign
Middanhal
This particular evening was busy in the library tower. It was Laugday, meaning all the servants had
enjoyed their weekly bath; on this eve, Quill opened his library for the kitchen girls, knowing their
hands had been scrubbed clean. For an hour, the library turned into a lore house, teaching them to read
and letting them have access to a select part of the book collection. Kate supervised, ensuring every
page was turned with care, books returned to their rightful place, and that the library did not suffer in
any way from showing this courtesy to the servant girls.
Quill meanwhile was free to continue his work. He sat in the scriptorium, writing letter after letter.
“Master Quill? What are you doing?” Kate asked curiously.
“The Adalthing is being convened outside its regular day,” he explained, pausing his work.
“Summons must be sent to the members that they can make their way to Middanhal in time.”
He continued writing, and she stared with awe at the tip of his feather pen as ink flowed to mark
elegant letters. “It looks so easy in your hand.”
“Want to try?”
“I couldn’t!” She seemed almost horrified at the suggestion.
“It is just a letter,” Quill smiled. “The recipient will probably know its contents merely from
having my seal upon it. I doubt you could do much damage.”
“But Master Quill, I can’t make it nearly as fine as you.”
“As long as it is readable,” he told her. “Here, this letter is finished. Copy the writing exactly as
you see it.” He made room for her at one of the writing desks, preparing quill and ink, blank paper,
and placing the original letter next to it for her to see.
Hesitantly, Kate took a seat. Her fingers almost trembled as she took hold of the feather pen,
dipping it in ink. With cautious movements, she made one line and immediately paused to examine
her work. “It’s not exactly straight.”
“Keep working,” Quill commanded, starting a new copy himself.
It took Kate nearly half an hour to write what Quill had done twice as fast. When she told him she
was done, he walked over and examined it with a solemn look. “Not bad. With some practice, you
might become quite decent.” A twinkle appeared in his eye.
“It’s good enough?” Relief flowed from Kate’s voice.
“I think it is. In fact, let us use this version to send to Brand, that is, Sir Adalbrand in Hæthiod.
Perhaps Egil will read it, and you can tell him when he returns home.”
“Egil is coming home?”
“He is travelling with Sir Adalbrand, so I assume so. If the good knight returns, so should Egil.”
“I can’t wait!” As an example of the impatience expressed in her words, Kate stood up, moving
around the room.

176
 “You will have to,” Quill told her. “Also, it is late. Tell the girls to pack their things away. Come
see me afterwards.” While Kate did as instructed, Quill folded the letter together and tied string
around it. He melted some wax upon the string knot before marking it with the insignia of the King’s
Quill.
“The girls are leaving now, Master Quill,” Kate said as she returned to the scriptorium.
“One final task for you tonight. Deliver this to the Hall of Records. Tell the scribes it is to be sent
to Sir Adalbrand at the Order camp.” He handed her the sealed letter.
“My first letter.” It was with a smile that she left the library to carry out her assignment.
~~~~
Hours later, when night had fallen upon the castle, something stirred in Egil’s empty room. A shape
pushed itself out from under the bed, stretching arms and legs once out of the uncomfortable hiding
place. Leaving the small chamber on silent footsteps, the intruder entered the library hall. Moonlight
fell through the window to reveal it was Jerome, the Red Hawk, though he wore dark clothing instead
of his green surcoat with its conspicuous red symbol.
His gaze fell upon the long table and benches where the kitchen girls had been reading. “Of all the
days…” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his back and neck; the girls’ appearance had forced him to
hide and lie immovable for hours.
He glanced towards Quill’s bedroom; it was quiet. Moving swiftly, he entered the scriptorium,
closed the door behind him, and quietly searched through desks and drawers until he found his target
and could pull out Quill’s seal, conveniently placed with a stick of red wax next to it.
Jerome took out a small candle and fire tools. After a few tries, a small flame sprouted and ignited
the candle. Retrieving a letter from a pocket, he did just as the scribe had done hours earlier, melting
wax onto the string and marking it with the seal of the King’s Quill.
Suddenly the mercenary stiffened and quickly blew out the candle, returning the room to darkness.
With barely a sound, he moved to stand near the door so that if it should open, he would be concealed
by it.
After waiting with bated breath, nothing happened. He gave a smile in the dark and relaxed,
exhaling. After a few more moments of waiting, he dared to open the door into the library hall. It was
as he had left it. A look towards Quill’s door revealed it remained closed.
Jerome quickly crossed the hall and turned the key sitting in the door leading outside. It creaked
terribly, sending a start through the intruder. Forgoing caution in favour of speed, he opened the door
as soon as it was unlocked and moved through; after closing it, he hurried down the spiral staircase.
Behind him, Quill continued to sleep without interruptions.
Walking through the castle, Jerome met no hindrance other than the occasional Red Hawk, who
recognised him and greeted him in passing. With a smile, he threw a few remarks back and went on
his way, reaching the Hall of Records. It was not locked; it contained nothing of value in coins, only
books, ledgers, and the like concerning the organisation of the Order, and whatever post was to be sent
from Middanhal to any of its garrisons or camps.
Jerome aimed for the bowl containing the latter. He dug through a few dispatches and missives
until he found his target; removing the letter that Kate had written and Quill had sealed, he replaced it
with his own. Also bearing the seal of the King’s Quill, it would appear genuine to anyone else.
With a faint whistle, Jerome passed through the corridors of the Citadel, returning to his barracks.
It was not hard to find a fire burning somewhere in winter, and the flames greedily ate the letter he
had stolen from the Hall of Records. Satisfied that the paper had been consumed entirely, Jerome went
to bed.

177
 ~~~~
The following morning, the envoy from the duke of Belvoir presented himself to the dragonlord of
Adalrik. “You wished to see me, my lord?” he questioned after his usual gestures of courtesy.
“I did. You may tell your master he has my tacit approval to act,” Konstans declared.
“He will be pleased!” Guilbert’s smile widened, as much as such a thing was possible. “However,
the duke should like certain reassurances.”
“I just gave them to you,” Konstans informed him dryly.
“More than that,” Guilbert retorted. He pulled out a document, unfolding and smoothening it.
“This is a formal declaration of an alliance between the House of Vale and my master, the duke of
Belvoir.”
Konstans raised an eyebrow as he accepted the parchment, glancing over its contents. “Why is this
necessary? Is my word not enough?”
“With deepest respect, my lord, you are not the head of your house. The duke has already signed
this, as you can see. It needs only the signature of Jarl Vale.”
Konstans dropped the document onto his desk. “I said that we will accept the duke’s intervention
in Fontaine. I have no intentions of writing anything down.”
“Ah, my lord, this paper merely formalises the alliance between your house and the duke’s. There
is nothing criminal about a pledge of friendship and mutual assistance.”
“I suppose not, but why does the duke require that we write it down?”
“An alliance with the lord protector and jarl of Vale will ease the minds of the other lords of
Ealond,” Guilbert explained. “There is nothing odious about it. It will give my master the confidence
he needs to take action in Ealond, and in return, it is proof that he will march against your enemies
afterwards.”
“All our enemies,” Konstans specified. “Whether northern or southern, whether in Ealond, Adalrik
– or Korndale.”
“All your enemies will be his,” Guilbert promised.
“Very well. Leave it with me. I will have my brother sign and seal it, and it shall be delivered to
you soon.”
“Most splendid, my lord,” Guilbert beamed. He took his leave. Konstans sat staring at the
document for a moment before he grabbed his quill and signed it as Valerian, jarl of Vale.
~~~~
“Arndis! Arndis, are you in here?” Eleanor came almost flying into the chambers belonging to the
only member of House Arnling still in Middanhal.
“Right here,” Arndis replied amused, stepping out of her room and into the parlour. “What is
happening?”
“I just heard a rumour,” Eleanor said, sitting down. She removed her veil, letting her breathe a
little easier.
“I am not Theodwyn,” Arndis told her in amused chastisement. “You need not exert yourself on
my account.”
“But this pertains to you,” her friend explained.
“A rumour about me? How curious.”
“They say that the Quill has been ordered to convene the Adalthing soon,” Eleanor revealed.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Your brother is a member, is he not?”

178
 “He is. Oh!”
“That must mean Sir Adalbrand is coming home,” Eleanor said excited.
“Really, just call him Brand,” Arndis corrected her. “But you are right. Or maybe he cannot? He is
on campaign, he might not be able to just leave camp.”
“The way the campaign seems to be going, the war might already be over, and we just have not
heard the news yet,” Eleanor suggested merrily.
“Hardly,” Arndis smiled. “Though I hope you are right.”
“You are lucky. There is no reason for Sir William to return to Middanhal.” Eleanor gave a small
sigh.
“If the campaign is over as soon as you seem to think, nothing would hold him back either,”
Arndis spoke with a teasing voice. “I wonder why the Adalthing is being assembled outside of time,”
she continued contemplatively.
“Most seem to think it is to have the traitors in the dungeons officially declared just that, traitors,”
Eleanor told her in a casual voice. “I guess the lord protector is eager to have them executed.”
The colour vanished from Arndis’ face. “I forgot about them.”
“Are you well? You seem pale,” Eleanor pointed out concerned.
“I – I did not sleep well,” Arndis claimed. “In fact, I should like to lie down a little. If you would
excuse me.”
“Of course!” Eleanor quickly agreed. “I will see you at the meal, or I can have something brought
to you if you are not well enough to appear.”
“I just need rest,” Arndis told her with a feeble smile. Once her friend had left, she returned to her
room and took out a king piece from a chessboard, staring at it.

179
 28. A Bloody Welcome
Middanhal
Nearly a month after the summons to the Adalthing had been sent out, a large entourage rode into
Middanhal. They were led by two Order knights, meaning their passage was not hindered or subject to
toll. Furthermore, both of the knights possessed such fame as to be immediately recognised. The news
quickly spread that Sir William the Unyielding and Sir Adalbrand the Dragonheart had come to
Middanhal.
William’s retinue was as modest as his nature, consisting only of his squire. In comparison, Brand
was accompanied by his sergeant, four soldiers acting as his guard, a bard, and an apprenticed scribe.
While Middanhal was familiar with much, this was an unusual band led by the two most renowned
knights of the day, and all heads turned to witness their progression. Order soldiers stopped on patrol,
commoners and noblemen stared, and several contingents of Red Hawks watched them keenly.
Before the Citadel, they parted ways. William and his squire rode further on to reach the northern
courtyard and the Order stables; Brand and his followers entered the southern yard, leaving their
horses to the stable hands.
“You should find rooms in the barracks,” he told Nicholas, Quentin, and Matthew, who were
enlisted as Order soldiers. “My own chambers will accommodate you,” he told Geberic and Glaukos.
“Thank you for your service,” he finally told Egil. “Give my regards to Master Quill.”
“Yes, sir,” the young apprentice promised. The group split up, each to their destination.
Brand, followed by his remaining two guards, walked through corridors and up staircases past
servants, nobleborn, and Red Hawks, until he reached the chambers that had been assigned to his
house last year. He knocked heavily, and the door was opened by Arndis’ handmaiden. “Milord!” she
exclaimed.
“Jenny,” he nodded. “Is your mistress at home?”
“She is,” came Arndis’ voice from inside. Brand moved forward with hurried steps, embracing his
sister.
“You look well,” he smiled, retracting his head to gaze at her.
“I am well,” she replied, pulling back after a moment. “Jenny, have ale fetched for our guests.”
The servant gave a quick bow and hurried off. “Geberic, well met,” Arndis told the soldier, nodding to
him.
“Thank you, milady,” he replied.
“This is Glaukos. We picked him up in Tothmor, and he has stuck to us since,” Brand explained
with an amused look.
“My lady.” Glaukos gave an elegant bow.
“Well met,” she repeated before turning her attention towards Brand again. “I am surprised to see
you already. I did not imagine you would arrive before another week or two.”

180
 “I had to make it in time for the Adalthing,” Brand laughed. “There is no point in arriving after it
has been held.”
“Of course, but you made it with weeks to spare,” Arndis smiled.
“What do you mean?” The mirth on Brand’s face gave way to uncertainty. “The Adalthing is in
two days’ time.”
Now it was his sister who exhibited confusion. “Brand, the Adalthing is more than a fortnight
away.”
The men exchanged glances. “That can’t be right,” Geberic grunted. “I saw the summons from the
Quill myself. Lord Adalbrand is correct.”
“Maybe a mistake was made?” Arndis suggested.
“It is not like Quill to make such an error,” Brand frowned. “Geberic, find Quill and ask him. Sort
this out.”
“Right away, milord,” Geberic promised. He left the room.
“I am sure there is an explanation,” Arndis said.
“No doubt,” Brand muttered; his expression gainsaid his words.
Almost immediately after stepping out, Geberic returned. “Something’s wrong. There’s a bunch of
Red Hawks standing in either end of the corridor, and they scowled as soon as they saw me.”
Glaukos’ hand flew to his sword hilt, holding it ready. “Who are these Red Hawks?”
“Mercenaries working for the jarl of Vale,” Arndis explained.
“He is the one who called the Adalthing,” Brand considered. “The Hawks we saw at the gate, in
the city… he has been watching my progress, waiting for my arrival.”
They all looked at each other. “This is a trap,” Geberic finally said out loud.
“Lock the door,” Brand commanded, which Glaukos immediately did, bolting it. “Can we fight
our way out?” Brand asked with a look at his other guard.
“There’s a lot of them,” Geberic admitted. “They can’t get to us all at once in the corridor, of
course, but how many mercenaries does that bastard have in the castle? Hundreds?”
“I stand ready!” Glaukos declared fiercely.
“Geberic is right.” Brand shook his head. “That was a foolish notion by me. Maybe we can wait
until nightfall and make our escape in the dark through the window.”
Geberic walked over to their suggested escape route. “It’s quite a drop,” he mentioned sceptically.
“If you can climb down a bit though, it’s not so bad.”
“Brand,” Arndis spoke. “In a few days, it will be two weeks until the Adalthing assembles. The
landfrid takes hold.”
“That is why I was given the false date,” Brand realised. “They needed to lure me here earlier.
They dare not break the sacred peace of the Adalthing.”
“In other words, if we can wait them out for three days, you are protected by the landfrid,” Arndis
pointed out. “You can walk out of here and Jarl Vale will not dare touch you.”
“That door will not hold for three days,” Glaukos pointed out.
“I need to get to the northern part of the Citadel,” Brand contemplated, marching over to the
window. It gave him a view of his desired destination; the path to it went through one of the orchards
supplying the castle with fresh fruit. “The Order soldiers will not permit the Hawks to take me. They
can protect me for three days, after which I can leave the city unhindered.”
“How do we get you there?” asked Arndis.
“I will have to make a run for it,” Brand declared. “I will climb down under the cover of night and
flee to the Order side.”

181
 “Let’s hope for clouds,” Geberic muttered. “There’s moonlight tonight. You’ll stand out like a
sheep in a coal mine, going out the window and down the wall.”
Their discussion was interrupted by a heavy knock. “Sir Adalbrand, this is Lord Konstans,
dragonlord of Adalrik. I wish to speak with you.”
Everyone inside the room glanced at each other with a variety of thoughts appearing on their faces.
Brand walked over to the door. “I hear you. What do you have to say?”
“Would you mind opening the door that we may discourse with civility?” Konstans requested.
“I can hear you easily,” Brand replied. “You wish to speak, so tell me what you have to say.”
“There are charges laid against you. I require you to follow me that they may be addressed. I
assure you, you have nothing to fear,” Konstans claimed.
His words were received with contemptuous looks, though none inside the room gave voice to
their disdain. “I thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Brand answered from his side of the
door. “Will you give me some time to consider?”
It took a moment before he received a reply. “I cannot. This requires that you immediately come
with me.”
“I will be with you shortly,” Brand promised. He turned away and approached the other people in
the room. “How long until nightfall?” he asked quietly.
“Hours,” Geberic answered.
“He will not be delayed that long,” Brand considered. “I need to make my escape now.”
“What if you get spotted trying to climb down? They could be waiting for you,” Geberic objected.
“I will go first,” Glaukos declared. “I will hold them back and buy you time.”
They were interrupted by Konstans’ voice from beyond the door. “Sir Adalbrand. Wielding the
authority of the realm, I demand you open this door now!”
“Lord Konstans,” Brand said cordially, raising his voice that he might be heard by the man
outside, “you may go to Hel and give her my regards.” He turned to his men. “It has to be now.”
“I think it is too late,” Glaukos murmured.
The sound of an axe striking wood reached them. The Hawks had begun their assault upon the
door. Glaukos and Geberic took position in front of it, swords drawn.
“Stay inside your chamber. There is no need to put you in danger,” Brand told Arndis, gazing
around the parlour that now seemed a prison.
“Let it not be said I cowered before these villains,” Arndis declared, standing firmly next to her
brother. He gave her a weak smile, drawing his own sword.
The door splintered. A hand moved through the gap in the wood to try and unlock the bolt;
Glaukos stabbed the hand with his sword, prompting an outcry of pain and quick retreat by its owner.
The axe resumed its work.
“Milord, it’s been an honour to serve you,” Geberic said while keeping his eyes fixed on the
disintegrating door.
“You freed my home, my lord,” Glaukos added without explaining himself further.
Brand took a deep breath. “As you both showed at the battle of Polisals, no captain was ever
flanked by better men.” He assumed a fighting stance while Arndis retreated to the back of the room.
The door fell to pieces. One Red Hawk rushed through, but Glaukos easily evaded his weapon,
slashed him across the shin just above his greave, and pushed him back with a kick.
His comrades pulled the Hawk back, and someone else tried their fortune passing through the
door. With Glaukos waiting for him, his luck was equally poor. A third came through, a fourth. The
third did not merely receive a wound, but fell to the ground dying; the fourth was engaged by Geberic

182
and followed his fellow Hawk in death. The mercenaries pulled back and ceased sending men through
the doorway to slaughter.
“You should escape, milord,” Geberic argued, speaking quietly. Although they had retreated, the
Hawks could be heard moving around out in the corridor. “Before they try again.”
“He is right,” Arndis told Brand. “You have a chance.”
“We can keep them at bay meanwhile,” Glaukos added.
The young knight walked over to the window and looked out. “There are Hawks in the orchard
below. It is too late.”
“Him and Hel,” Geberic swore.
Glaukos renewed his grip on his sword. “Let them come, in that case.”
When they did, their tactics had changed. The first soldiers had attacked with short swords, usually
ideal for fighting in such tight quarters as this; they had not anticipated the presence of Glaukos, who
excelled in such combat and had the advantage of a longer sword. The next wave of Hawks came with
spears.
Their ability to wield the weapons in this space was limited, but they were not aiming for
elegance; they simply used the long reach to force Glaukos and Geberic backwards into the room.
Now several Hawks were able to press forward while using their spears to keep the defenders at a
distance. The fight turned into a regular skirmish with the Hawks trying to manoeuvre further into the
room to fill their numbers, and Brand and his men seeking to push them back.
Arndis picked up anything that could be thrown to use it in that manner, hurling bowls, plates,
needlework, and anything else possible at the attackers.
Another Hawk fell to Glaukos’ blade, but it cost him a spear piercing his thigh, causing the former
Blade to roar in pain. For the first time, Brand had to move in close, protecting Glaukos by forcing the
Hawk back; meanwhile, Geberic exchanged blows, dealing and taking wounds as well.
With his moment of respite, Glaukos leapt back into combat, felling the Hawk that Brand kept
occupied and following it up by doing the same to Geberic’s adversary. The bodies were beginning to
pile up in the room.
With every Hawk inside the parlour dead, the mercenaries delayed their next assault. Brand
retreated behind his defenders, catching his breath. Both the men in front of him were wounded. He
glanced back at his sister, so far unhurt.
“They’re not in a hurry, these Hawks,” Geberic growled.
“They are waiting for fatigue and injuries to take effect,” Glaukos muttered darkly.
“I’ll gladly fight three days and three nights,” proclaimed his comrade. “We’ll keep them at bay
until the landfrid.” Glaukos did not reply to this other than a smile.
Brand bit his lower lip until blood appeared. “We will not last that long,” he mumbled, licking the
trickle of blood away. “Is anyone out there with the authority to negotiate with me?” he called out.
“I am,” Konstans replied. He appeared in the doorway, standing behind his men. “Are you ready to
surrender?”
“Will my men and sister be left unharmed?”
“They will be,” Konstans promised.
“What say you Hawks?” Brand continued. “Will you keep from seeking revenge for your fallen?”
“If it gets that big bastard to stop killing more, I’m practical enough to say yes,” someone shouted.
Others agreed with this position enough to satisfy Brand, who let his sword fall.
“Milord!” it burst from Geberic. “Brand!” exclaimed Arndis.
He raised his hands to silence them. “What is the point in all of us dying?”
“Very wise,” Konstans assented.

183
 “I surrender,” Brand declared, stepping forward unarmed. Two of the Hawks approached
cautiously, eyeing Glaukos and Geberic. “You need not seize me,” Brand told them. “I shall follow
willingly.”
They glanced at Konstans nervously, who gave a nod. “We are all men of our word here. Escort
Sir Adalbrand to the dungeons,” he told them. “Collect your dead and get your wounded to a lay
brother. As for them,” he added while gesturing to the remaining people inside the room, “we have no
quarrel with any of them.”
Brand glanced over his shoulder as he walked out of the room. His two defenders stared with bitter
looks and bloody appearance at their master’s departure into enemy hands; his sister stood tall in the
carnage, subduing any emotion that surfaced. Looking ahead, he continued to the dungeons.

184
 29. Slow March
Middanhal
Konstans returned to his quarters, but before he could resume giving audience, his brother burst into
his study.
“Pardons, milord,” Eolf exclaimed, a few steps behind. “He would not wait.”
Konstans raised a hand in a disarming gesture. “You may leave us,” he told the servant and turned
to his brother. “You seem agitated.”
“Men are dead! There was fighting inside the Citadel! Fighting between our Hawks and Order
soldiers!” The words came flooding from Valerian and were spoken with incredulity.
“Between one Order knight refusing to obey my lawful authority,” Konstans corrected him
pointedly. “The two men doing most of the fighting were not Order soldiers.”
“That hardly makes it better! What gave you the notion this was a good idea?”
“Adalbrand was a threat. That threat has now been removed,” Konstans explained.
“By inciting fighting? Was there no better way to handle this?”
“Nothing has happened that was illegal,” Konstans retorted. “It is my right as dragonlord to arrest
someone suspected of high treason. Adalbrand was seized before the landfrid takes effect, and the
question of his guilt will be put before the Adalthing. It is the right way to handle this.”
“You gave me no warning!” Valerian struck the table with his fist. “I had to hear this from some
common soldier,” he complained.
“I handle many affairs of the realm without informing you,” his brother replied. “I sit in this room
from sunrise past sunset each day, governing. Do you think you would have time to handle your
precious books or see your son if not for me?”
This gave Valerian pause. “I am not saying you did wrong,” the jarl muttered. “Merely that you
should have told me before you started a battle inside the Citadel.”
“I did not know one would erupt,” Konstans argued. “I did not expect he would resist to such a
degree. Which only proves his guilt.”
“You are certain he is a traitor, then?”
“Without doubt. He has been proclaiming his victories to win favour with the people. Not to
mention, our reeve in Plenmont informed me that a union of marriage between King Adelard and
Adalbrand’s sister was being planned. This would have provided Adalbrand with an army to attack us
from the south while our forces are engaged to the north,” Konstans explained. “A clever plan that
would have succeeded if not for my quick intervention.”
“I suppose,” his brother granted.
“Are we done? I have plenty to see to before the Adalthing convenes.”
“Fine,” Valerian mumbled, leaving.
Konstans waited until his brother was gone before summoning his servant. “Have this brought to
Master Guilbert, the emissary from the duke of Belvoir,” he commanded Eolf, who bowed and

185
accepted a document rolled inside a case. Inside lay the treaty signed between the Houses of Vale and
Belvoir. Soon after, it was in Guilbert’s possession, and he could return to his master’s lands.
~~~~
William knocked and awaited a reply before entering Eleanor’s chambers. “They would not let me
through. I could not ascertain anything with my own eyes.”
“Were you not able to gather any news at all?” Eleanor asked. She sat, unveiled, pressing her
hands together; anytime she stopped, they would begin to shake.
“They claim that the only dead are Hawks. Sir Adalbrand, his sister, and his men are supposedly
unharmed.”
“Are they still fighting?”
He shook his head. “Sir Adalbrand was taken to the dungeons, I was given to understand.”
“How come they will not let you through then?”
William took a seat. “Who can say? From what I can tell, this was instigated by the dragonlord.
The dungeons are guarded by his mercenaries. I will take this matter up with him,” he declared.
“Do you know why he was arrested?”
“High treason, I was told.”
Eleanor gasped. “That cannot be! He only arrived today. How could Sir Adalbrand ever be
involved in such?”
“I am not sure he is,” William spoke darkly, “and it may not matter either.”
Eleanor touched the burn scars on her cheek. “Poor Arndis. She should not be left alone.”
William rose up. “I will try again to demand entry and get her away. I will bring her back here.”
“Always a hero,” Eleanor smiled sadly.
“If only that were enough.”
~~~~
Theodoric sat in his parlour. Theodwyn’s guests and ladies had been dismissed immediately upon his
arrival, leaving him alone with his sister and two servants. “Several dead and many more wounded,”
the jarl exclaimed, stroking his forehead. “They attacked him in his own chambers!”
“What do you know of Arndis?” asked Theodwyn concerned.
“She seems unharmed, milady,” Holwyn reassured her.
“What else do you know?”
“Only that Sir Adalbrand was taken to the dungeons. His two guards are wounded, but not
severely. The charge against him is high treason, though none seems to know the evidence or any
details,” Holwyn rattled off.
“Perhaps we should leave,” Theodoric contemplated. “Withdraw to my house.”
“Leave? Show timidity before this crass act of violence?” Theodwyn sounded appalled.
“I only have half my thanes with me in Middanhal, and most of them have been left at the house
because you demand several chambers to yourself,” the jarl reminded her. “We are vulnerable here.”
“If Valerian or Konstans lay a finger on a jarl of the realm, they will find another rebellion on their
hands,” Theodwyn claimed loudly. “They would not dare move against you.”
“Adalbrand is dragonborn, yet that did not protect him.”
“The Adalthing is in a few weeks,” Theodwyn pointed out. “If you withdraw to your house, you
will be far removed from all the negotiations taking place beforehand.”
Theodoric’s face became wrinkled in thought. “Holebert,” he finally said, “go to my house and
fetch four thanes.” He raised a finger when Theodwyn was on the verge to protest. “No arguments.”

186
 “Yes, milord,” Holebert bowed.
“As you wish,” Theodwyn almost sneered. “This is very poor for my health, you know, all this
commotion. I intend to move freely and unfettered as always. I will not be cowed!”
“Imagine your health when we are locked in the dungeons,” her brother retorted, turning on his
heel and retreating to his chamber.
~~~~
Moving through Lowtown, Nicholas walked with determined steps towards a specific tavern. With his
bow staff, leather jerkin, and confident stride, he gave the impression of a seasoned veteran, and none
gave him trouble. His destination was packed with patrons, drinking and eating; the ravages of war
seemed contained to northern Adalrik, sparing the capital from shortages. Entering the common room,
Nicholas let his eyes search around until he found the tavern owner.
“Master Gilbert,” he called out to no avail due to the noise of the room. He pushed his way
forward, moving in and out between tables, until he could grab hold of the corpulent man’s shoulder.
“Master Gilbert!”
The tavern keeper turned around, and his expression of confusion was replaced by delight.
“Nicholas, my boy! You’re back, and in one piece, it seems!” He ran his eyes over the archer as to
confirm his observation.
“Indeed, Master Gilbert.” Leaning forward, Nicholas spoke into the other man’s ear. “I can see
you’re busy, but I was wondering –”
“You’re looking for Ellen?”
“If you can spare her.”
Gilbert grinned. “It won’t hurt these misers to wait a while longer for their ale. Come along!” he
yelled, gesturing and moving towards the back of the room. Behind the bar stood a young woman,
filling mugs and removing others. “Ellen!” Gilbert shouted as he approached. “I’ll take over for you –
there’s someone here to see you!”
She looked up and beamed a smile at the sight of Nicholas, walking swiftly around the bar to
embrace him. “You’re here! Come, let’s talk elsewhere,” she said, talking straight into his ear, and he
nodded in agreement. Leading him by the hand, Ellen moved through a door to enter the small
courtyard of the tavern. While the sounds of the common room still reached them, they were shielded
from all eyes, and Ellen greeted him with a proper kiss.
“That’s better,” Nicholas laughed, placing his arms around her waist. “I’ve missed you.”
“Same, in case that wasn’t obvious,” she replied.
“It was, but a reminder wouldn’t be bad.”
She grinned and reminded him as requested. “Are you back for good? Your last letter didn’t even
mention your return.”
“It was a rather sudden decision,” Nicholas explained. “We’re not staying, though. The lieutenant
is here along with the captain, asking for support. Reinforcements and the like.”
“I thought you were close to throwing all those savages out,” Ellen said. “Isn’t it strange that your
commanders leave rather than finishing the task?”
“They have their reasons,” Nicholas declared with certainty. “Besides, it’s only because Lord
Adalbrand went to Middanhal that I get to be here as well.”
“I’m grateful to him for that,” Ellen said smiling. “How long?”
“Who knows how long with these lords and noblemen? Some days, at least, maybe weeks if we’re
lucky.”
“We should make the most of it,” she told him with a glint in her eye.

187
 By the door, Quentin cleared his throat. “Sorry to intrude.”
The reunited couple turned their heads towards him, separating a bit. “Quentin? I thought you were
staying at the castle.”
“Something’s happened,” he explained with a grave voice. “Lord Adalbrand’s been arrested.”
“Arrested?” exclaimed Ellen.
“What for?” asked Nicholas.
“Nobody seems to know. They don’t seem interested in us, but stay away from the Citadel,”
Quentin cautioned him. “In fact, stay here. I’ll tell Geberic we should meet at this place. Sorry,” he
added towards Ellen. “I don’t mean to cause trouble, but we’ll need a friendly location to stay low.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t stay,” Nicholas considered, “and bring danger to anyone who lives here.”
“Nonsense,” Ellen declared firmly. “If there’s trouble, your friends should stay here, and so should
you.”
“Will your father agree?”
“I’ll persuade him.”
“Thanks,” Quentin told her. “I’ll fetch the others.” He disappeared again.
Ellen turned to look back at Nicholas. “What are we going to do?”
He pulled her into an embrace. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “What can we common folk do when
the nobleborn are at each other’s throats? I don’t know.”
~~~~
It was evening when the door to the library was pushed open forcefully and Kate stormed through.
“Egil!” it burst from her as soon as she saw him with an embrace to follow.
“Good to you see too,” he coughed once she let go.
She glanced at his and Quill’s face. “You look serious. Is something wrong?”
“My friend, Sir Adalbrand, has been arrested,” Quill told her.
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “What has he done?”
“We don’t know,” Egil interjected. “I have travelled with him for months. I don’t understand
what’s going on.”
“The matters of high lords are rarely transparent,” the old scribe remarked.
“Are you in trouble?” Kate asked Egil while biting her lip.
“Hardly,” Quill assured her. “This has nothing to do with us.”
“How were your travels?” she asked next. “You must have seen so much.”
“I did,” Egil answered, giving Quill a hesitant look.
“Go ahead. You are both excused tonight,” he told them. “But do not be loud. I have work in the
scriptorium.” As Quill left to continue his tasks, Egil had already launched into the first of many tales.
~~~~
A huge man with a great axe strapped to his back stormed through the royal wing of the Citadel. The
kingthanes cast sidelong glances but did not get in the way, as it was their own captain. Berimund
burst into the chambers belonging to the princes, making all of them stare at the big warrior with
various expressions. Inghard had raised eyebrows, Gerhard seemed perplexed, and Hardmar appeared
irritated.
“You move with the grace of a bull and make as much noise,” the crown prince sneered.
Berimund came to a halt. “My apologies, my prince. I have just heard the news and desired to
speak with you at once.”

188
 “What news?” asked Inghard. For once he was not holding a book, but playing chess against his
brother.
“The arrest of Sir Adalbrand,” Berimund explained.
“It is most excellent,” Gerhard proclaimed before turning his attention back on the game. “Vale
has lived up his reputation and removed a threat for us.”
“You agree with Lord Konstans’ actions?” Berimund exclaimed in disbelief.
“Of course,” Hardmar told him curtly, leaning back into his couch. “Arnling desires my throne. He
had to be stopped.”
Berimund gave a frown. “You know this, my prince?”
“It was obvious,” the young nobleman scoffed. “Gathering followers and support, making
alliances.”
“You consider him a traitor?” Incredulity continued to permeate the captain’s voice.
“It is not consideration, it is fact,” Hardmar stated. “Why do you think the Adalthing is being
summoned? So we can execute the lot of them.”
“He is your blood,” the kingthane argued a deep furrow in his forehead.
“Only barely,” Hardmar retorted.
“It does not concern you that a dragonborn may be sent to the scaffold?” Berimund clenched his
fist by his sides.
“I would send my own brothers to that same place if they betrayed me,” the prince declared
casually, making Inghard and Gerhard stop their game.
The kingthane glanced behind him. By the door stood two of his brethren, staring pointedly ahead
into empty air. “I see,” the captain mumbled. “I shall not disturb you further, my prince.”

189
 30. Playing Blind
Middanhal
Once he had surrendered, Brand walked with his head held high through the hallways of the Citadel.
Despite the slow pace, the Hawks did not pull him along or push him forward, and Brand was not in
chains or had his hands bound; it seemed more like a band of thanes protecting their lord than guards
escorting a prisoner.
To reach the dungeons, they had to cross from the southern side to the northern part of the fortress,
where the Order had control. If Brand considered making a run for it, he showed no sign, walking
steadfast along the shortest path to the cells; his word and his honour bound him stronger than iron.
He descended the stairs to reach the circular guardroom, only stopping once he had come that far.
The guards discussed briefly where to place him while placing iron rings around his wrists; their
instructions were to place prisoners as separate as possible, and the cells already held noblemen and
thanes of Isarn along with the landgrave of Elis. Finally, one of the Hawks gave a shrug, took the
keys, and gestured for Brand to follow him.
Choosing one of the empty cells casually, the Hawk entered along with Brand. He attached the
chains hanging by the wall to Brand’s wrists, pulling a few times to make sure they were secure and
sturdy. “Enjoy your stay, milord,” the Hawk grinned and left, closing and locking the door after him.
Brand sank down onto the crude bench that served as bed and chair. A torch burning in the
hallway outside cast a dim light through the barred window in his door. As his eyes adjusted, he was
able to examine his chamber. It was quickly done; a blanket lay folded next to him, and straw had
been spread onto the stone floor to mitigate its coldness. “Gods, hear me,” he mumbled with a
despondent expression. “Help me, for my circumstances cannot get any worse.”
A voice reached him from the adjacent cell. “Is someone else there? Did the guards bring a new
prisoner?” someone asked. “My sympathies for your situation, though I hope you are not averse to
conversation. The hours grow long in this place.” Frowning, Brand listened as the voice continued. “I
am Athelstan of Isarn, friend, and who are you?”
Brand let his head sink into his hands.
~~~~
Early next day, Brand received a visitor. The guard unlocked the door to let in Arndis, and she
hastened forward to embrace her brother tightly. “I am well, I am well,” he repeated, stroking her hair.
“You need not be worried.”
She pulled back. “Of course I am worried! You are the last person who should be in a place like
this.”
“Yet I am. Guilt or innocence has little bearing upon it,” he told her.
“I tried to see Lord Konstans, but I could not get admitted.”
Brand shook his head. “He will not see you. He has no reason to hear any plea you make.”

190
 “If he would at least tell me with what evidence they hold you –” Arndis began to say.
“What would that accomplish?”
“We must plead your case to the Adalthing!” she declared. “If we can dismantle any proof they
may have, the Adalthing must declare you innocent.”
“I already told you, my guilt or lack of same does not matter,” her brother impressed upon her.
“All of this has carefully been planned. I was lured to Middanhal ahead of time that the landfrid would
not protect me. Now they have me in chains, and Lord Konstans is far too clever to stumble on this
last step. The Adalthing is entirely under his and his brother’s control. I saw that last year,” he added
bitterly.
“Maybe that control can be broken. Lord Theodoric is our friend and wields influence too,” Arndis
suggested.
Brand sat down, exhaling deeply. “Jarl Ingmond blames me for the death of his family. There is
nothing he wants more than to see my head separate from my shoulders. Between him and Jarl Vale, I
would need nearly every other member of the Adalthing on my side to be acquitted.”
“Then I will get them on our side!” Arndis proclaimed fiercely. “I will plead, beg, threaten, bribe,
extort, and do what else I must to see you freed!”
Brand looked up at his sister’s face. “I am in no position to stop you. But heed my counsel, sister.
Sell our house, take all the coin we have, and depart for distant realms. Do not let my downfall pull
you with me. Escape while you can.”
“I will not abandon you,” Arndis told him firmly. “I will return. Keep your spirits up, Brother.”
She caressed his head for a moment before departing; he watched her leave with a resigned smile.
Walking down the corridor, Arndis stopped briefly in front of Athelstan’s cell to look through the
window. He glanced up, and as their eyes met, a smile was lit on his face before she continued on her
way. Once she was gone, Athelstan called out, “You are fortunate to have a sister such as the lady
Arndis.”
“Yes, I am certainly in fortune’s grasp,” Brand muttered, rattling his chains.
“Did you speak? I could not hear,” Athelstan shouted apologetically. Brand responded with a deep
sigh.
~~~~
Arndis went straight from the dungeons to the chambers occupied by the siblings of Theodstan.
Theodwyn sent a glance at the dirty hemline on Arndis’ dress but did not remark upon it, instead
gesturing for her visitor to take a seat. “You must be so distraught, dear child. Did you manage to
sleep at all?”
“I am fine,” Arndis replied, remaining standing. “Eleanor was a gracious hostess.”
“Room could be found for you here,” Theodwyn offered. “My brother has filled the chambers with
his thanes, but I am happy to throw some of them out.”
“That will not be necessary,” Arndis told her, quickly changing the subject. “I need your help and
that of your brother’s.”
“Theodoric is elsewhere. I do not know when he might return, but let us speak until then.”
Arndis finally sat down and took a deep breath. “I need to know if the jarl can see my brother
exonerated in the Adalthing.”
Theodwyn clasped her hands. “He will seek to influence the assembly in that direction, of course.”
“Good,” Arndis exhaled. “That is a start.”
“It may not be enough,” Theodwyn admitted. “If Jarl Ingmond follows Jarl Vale, they need only to
convince six landgraves of your brother’s guilt.”

191
 “He is not guilty of anything,” Arndis exclaimed.
“Of course not, but what matters in the Adalthing is whether the lord protector can make it seem
so.”
“How?” Arndis asked confounded. “What possible reason could there be to suspect Brand of
anything?”
“There are – rumours,” Theodwyn spoke with careful phrasing. “Jarl Vale will fan the flames of
such, I imagine.”
“Rumours? Of what?”
Theodwyn hesitated. “That your brother sought alliances in order to lead a revolt. In fact, it is said
that he sought to marry you to the king of Korndale to secure the king’s armies for his cause.”
“That is preposterous!” Arndis could barely sit still. “Brand defeated the rebels, why would he
become one?”
“You and I know that,” Theodwyn explained, “but it is not common knowledge.”
Arndis was silent for a moment, calming herself. “So it is the landgraves that will determine his
fate.”
Theodwyn regarded her friend with concern. “My dear, it is almost time for me to take my stroll.
Will you not join me? It will do you good.”
“Thank you, I have no need of it,” Arndis replied absentmindedly.
At this point, the jarl entered, followed by two of his thanes. He stopped as he saw Arndis and
nodded in greeting. “My lady,” he said courteously, removing his cloak and handing it to Holebert,
who appeared upon his master’s arrival.
“My lord,” she greeted him back.
“Theodoric, it is good you have returned. Arndis needs our help to secure her brother’s release.”
“I see,” the jarl mumbled. “It may not be that easy.”
“Nobody expects it to be easy,” Theodwyn retorted. “You have swayed the Adalthing against
worse odds.”
“That was a different time,” Theodoric countered. “It is not a matter of persuading the landgraves
to support your brother, it is persuading them to oppose Vale. With his tight grip on power, few will
be willing to do so.”
“You will try, will you not?” Arndis asked with concern.
“I shall see what I can do,” Theodoric promised her, though his words were spoken cautiously.
“We already have a rebellion on our hands, and the noblemen are frightened. It is easy to make them
see traitors everywhere.”
“My brother is not a traitor!” Arndis interjected, standing up.
“Do not worry,” Theodwyn spoke in a soothing voice. “Theodoric has no intentions of giving up.
Have you, Brother?”
The jarl cleared his throat. “I shall see what can be done,” he reiterated faintly.
Arndis let her gaze measure him from head to toe. “You have my gratitude for that, my lord jarl,”
she spoke politely. “If you will excuse me.” She gave a short bow and left with haste.
Theodwyn sent her brother a scathing look. “You could have at least attempted to reassure the
poor girl.”
“And lie to her?” he said in question. “I was as kind as I could be.”
“You could have pledged your full support, that you would do your utmost to save her brother
from the axe.”
“His fate is sealed,” Theodoric claimed. “I shall lend my voice to him in the Adalthing, but no
more. If I negotiate with the landgraves on his behalf, suspicion will fall on me next!”

192
 “I find your company difficult when you act cowardly,” Theodwyn declared coldly, leaving
abruptly for her own room without another word.
Theodoric stared at the door she closed behind her. “I am keeping us both alive, you ungrateful
woman,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
“You always do what you know is best,” another voice spoke. It was Holwyn, entering the parlour
to place a hand on Theodoric’s shoulder. “We all know this.”
“That does not seem to be the case for my sister,” the jarl grumbled.
“I think you are right and that Sir Adalbrand is doomed. Unless unusual measures are taken into
use,” she proffered.
Theodoric turned his eyes on her. “No. They are looking for any excuse to tighten the noose
around anybody that might seem against them. Do not give Vale or his brother any reason to lead
either of us to the scaffold as well.”
“As you say, milord,” Holwyn declared meekly; she inclined her head and retreated a few steps,
hiding her expression.
~~~~
“I heard the story of your victory at Polisals. It was most impressive,” Athelstan called out. When he
received no reply, he continued. “It must have been exhilarating to be hailed as the Dragonheart with
the rush of battle and victory coursing through your veins. I can only imagine your state of mind on
that day.”
“You need not flatter me,” Brand retorted. “You have won your own share of battles. You know
the taste of victory as well as any other.”
“I have,” Athelstan granted. “Yet none where I challenged the enemy captain to single combat and
turned the tide of the battle by felling him. You would think such only happened in song.”
“I suppose,” Brand assented, sound mollified. “In fact, a skald in Hæthiod chose to travel in my
company, and he witnessed the battle. He must have thought as you, for he put the deed into verse.”
“Hah!” Athelstan exclaimed. “I always knew they would sing your name one day. It happened
sooner than I anticipated.”
“I guess,” Brand commented with a pleased voice.
“I wish I could have seen the sight,” Athelstan declared. “How you waded into battle and hacked
your enemy’s head off.”
Brand gave a frown. “How do you know such details of the battle? I did not mention this in my
dispatches.”
“Arndis told me.”
“My sister has been paying you visits in this godforsaken hole?” Brand’s voice quivered between
disbelief and outrage.
“She has. She bribes the guards, I believe. Even her considerable charm could not grant her
passage this often.”
“Often?” The word was bellowed by Brand. “What in Hel’s name would she come to visit you
for?”
“An act of kindness, I would assume. She brings me news of the outside or plays chess against me.
She is most skilled.”
“I know,” Brand said icily. “I taught her. If I had known she spent her time so frivolously, I would
have returned to Middanhal months ago.” Athelstan gave no reply at first, but suddenly he roared with
laughter. Brand pressed his lips together, but finally curiosity took hold and he yelled out, “What?”

193
 “You must have earned a lot of silver from the spoils after your victory against me,” Athelstan
began to explain.
“So?”
“That very silver was used by your sister to bribe her way into visiting me. I could have accepted it
as mere coincidence that you and I are now made neighbours in imprisonment, but the evidence is
mounting. The gods have a sense of humour, and the jest is played upon us.”
“Then let that be your entertainment and let me have some peace,” Brand shouted, crossing his
arms and ignoring further attempts at conversation.
~~~~
Meanwhile, Arndis entered the wing occupied by Jarl Vale and his family. She did not get far before a
pair of Hawks stopped her. “What is your business?”
“I seek an audience with the lord protector,” she answered.
They both grinned. “You thought you would simply walk in and speak with the ruler of the
realm?”
“How could that fail to work?” the other soldier laughed.
Arndis placed her hand on her coin purse. “I understand there may be a certain toll in order to
pass.”
The Hawks eyed her and exchanged glances. “Do you hear what I hear?”
“I hear someone thinking we’re willing to risk our employment for a few meagre coins.”
Arndis bit her lower lip. “I would make it worth –”
“As if our employer wouldn’t notice we let someone walk right past us and into his chamber, or
worse, into the room where his newborn son sleeps.”
“There would be a flogging in our future. But who wouldn’t happily take a whipping for a handful
of silver?”
While the soldiers laughed at her expense, Arndis saw someone moving down the corridor. “Lady
Valerie!” she called out, making the shape turn around. “Lady Valerie, may I speak with you?”
The woman hesitated but eventually walked down the hallway to approach the group. At her
presence, the Hawks ceased their merrymaking and stood up straight with blank expressions. “Do I
know you?” Valerie asked.
“I am Arndis of House Arnling,” she introduced herself.
Valerie inclined her head in greeting. “What do you require of me?” she asked, a little confused.
“I should dearly wish to speak with your father, Jarl Vale,” she added politely,” if such a thing is
possible.”
“My father rarely receives visitors. You should speak with my uncle, Lord Konstans, instead,”
Valerie suggested.
“I have tried, but he seems too busy to receive me,” Arndis explained. “Your father is my
remaining hope.”
“I cannot help you in that case,” Valerie told her and turned to leave.
“Wait! My brother is the only family I have,” Arndis pleaded. “I ask humbly that you would
intercede with the jarl on my behalf.”
“In this case, my father does not listen to me,” Valerie replied with a hint of regret. “You have my
sympathy, Lady Arndis, but do not expect that of my father’s.”
“What of the prince? Are you not engaged to him?”
Valerie gave a frown. “Our engagement has not been made official. I do not see the relevance,
regardless. It is not Prince Hardmar who has had your brother arrested.”

194
 “Yet the lord protector must heed him, I imagine,” Arndis claimed. “Prince Hardmar’s opinion
must weigh heavily.”
“Perhaps,” Valerie admitted doubtfully, “but I am sure his opinion is aligned with my father’s. I
have less sway with the prince, in any case. I have not met him even once save from afar, and I doubt
he holds any affection for me.”
An expression of dejection fluttered across Arndis’ face before she composed herself. “I see. I
thank you for your attention, Lady Valerie.” She gave a short bow and departed. The guards waited
until Valerie had gone as well before resuming their laughter.
~~~~
Athelstan moved about, restless in his cell. With the chains restricting him, his options were limited;
mostly, he shifted between sitting on his bench and lying down upon it, moving the blanket about, or
arranging the dispersion of straw upon the floor. Eventually he called out to his neighbour. “Fourth
pawn two steps forward.” He received no answer. After waiting a while, he repeated himself. “I move
my fourth pawn two paces forward.”
He had to be patient before he finally got a reply. “Second pawn one step forward.”
Athelstan gave a smile. “Thane on black, three steps forward.”
“You tried that before. Last summer we spent in Alcázar. Knight on black, two steps forward and
inland.”
“I thought you might have forgotten,” Athelstan laughed. “You cannot blame me for trying.”
“I suppose not.” Brand cleared his throat. “Your move.”
~~~~
With evening on its way, Arndis approached the royal wing. Instead of Hawks, she was met by
kingthanes, who glanced at the blue colours of her clothing. “Lady Arndis,” they greeted her
respectfully. “What brings you here?”
“I desire an audience with Prince Hardmar,” she informed them.
“It is late, but we can enquire whether the prince is available to receive visitors,” one of them
offered.
“I was not thinking tonight,” Arndis corrected them. “If you would be so kind as to tell the prince
that I hope to return tomorrow afternoon with his approval. He will have my utmost gratitude should
he be amenable to entertain me, even but a short while.”
One of the kingthanes nodded. “Of course, Lady Arndis. I will tell the prince immediately.” He
turned and disappeared deeper into the wing. Shortly after, he returned. “The prince has agreed to
your request and expects you tomorrow afternoon.”
Arndis gave a slight bow. “You have my gratitude, my lords. Until tomorrow.”

195
 31. Joining the Play
Middanhal
The next day at noon, Arndis presented herself in the royal wing. She was clad in silk of deep blue
colour with magnificent silver jewellery and had intricate hair, moving with the grace of Austre
through the Citadel. Many of the kingthanes sent lingering glances as she passed by, reaching the
inner chambers.
“Lady Arndis has arrived.” One of the guards introduced her to the prince, who sat alone in the
parlour of his rooms.
“Enter,” Hardmar spoke graciously.
She did so and followed up with an elegant bow. “My prince,” she greeted him.
“Lady Arndis,” he replied with a charming smile as his eyes took in the sight. “Please, take a seat.”
She sat down opposite him. “To what do I owe this unexpected delight?”
“I wish to speak with you concerning these troublesome events that transpire in your realm, my
prince.”
“I will always lend an ear to hear the concerns of my loyal subjects,” Hardmar claimed. “Proceed.”
“I fear that the kingdom is in the hands of people seeking only their own gain at the detriment of
everyone else, including you, my prince,” Arndis stated.
Hardmar raised an eyebrow in a sceptical expression. “How so?”
“Jarl Vale was chosen lord protector, yet he seems too preoccupied with his newborn son to handle
the affairs of the realm as charged. Meanwhile, the dragonlord rules as he sees fit, undermining the
authority of law and you, my prince.”
Hardmar gave a quick laugh. “That is a bold claim, Lady Arndis. I will excuse you, as you are a
woman with little knowledge of these matters. Yet given your dubious relations, you should be careful
casting aspersions on others.”
“Very true, my prince,” Arndis hastily agreed. “I speak only from what I have seen. If you will
permit me to tell you, perhaps you can see where I have misunderstood.”
“As you wish. Tell me.” There was a tone of boredom emerging in his voice.
“You know the events of the other day when my brother was arrested,” Arndis quickly began. “I
cannot imagine Lord Konstans would make such a decision without consulting you on every detail
and obtaining your full permission.”
“Of course,” Hardmar mumbled.
“I was present, my prince, and Lord Konstans did not handle this matter well. If he had informed
my brother of the charges, Adalbrand would have complied peacefully. Instead, we were assaulted in
our chambers by these brigands masquerading as mercenaries and forced to fight to defend ourselves!
I do not wish to paint myself as a frail flower, my prince, but combat between armed men is no place
for a lady, and a lady’s chambers are no place for combat.”

196
 “I grant you that Lord Konstans could have handled the matter with more grace,” Hardmar
conceded magnanimously. “Yet it was his task to arrest a suspected traitor, my lady, and he did as
instructed. Your brother was wrong to resist regardless of the circumstances.”
“Of course, my prince, I see that now. Will you permit another question?”
“Fine.”
“Why was this not handled by Order soldiers? The Order, loyal to the king, is the guarantee of
peace and law in our land. Yet these mercenaries, loyal only to gold, answer to the lord protector. Or
in this case, his brother,” Arndis argued. “It is not the royal treasury that pays the Red Hawks, but Jarl
Vale’s coffers.”
“The jarl is lending his aid while the Order rebuilds its strength. I have no intention of letting the
Hawks take the place of the Order,” Hardmar declared.
“Of course not, my prince. You are far too wise for that. It is merely that the thought of
mercenaries protecting our home is disconcerting. There are rumours that the prison guards accept
bribes to let anyone see the prisoners.”
“I cannot believe such,” Hardmar stated forcefully. “They would not dare.”
“They are mercenaries,” Arndis repeated. “As Sigvard’s atheling, any true son or daughter of
Adalrik can only be loyal to you, my prince. But who can say with men from foreign realms, fighting
for coin?”
Hardmar scratched his cheek. “The Hawks may not be trustworthy, but that is no reason to doubt
Jarl Vale or his brother.”
“You are right, as always, my prince,” Arndis assented with a meek expression. “I have trouble
understanding the intricacies of rule or the complicated affairs of state. After the frightful experience
the other day with these sell-swords, I could not help but begin to fear.”
“You have no cause for that,” Hardmar reassured her. “This is not the court of some savage king.”
“I am greatly relieved to hear such, my prince,” Arndis told him, her voice echoing this sentiment.
“Jarl Vale is already the most powerful nobleman in the realm with his titles, riches, and vassals. The
thought of his mercenary army added to his own forces gave me pause.” Hardmar was about to speak,
but Arndis’ words made him frown in contemplation instead. “It is a relief that you would grant me
the courtesy of listening to my silly concerns, my prince.” She sent him a smile to make a man’s
kneecaps falter.
“I am happy to,” Hardmar replied, all signs of worry disappearing from his face.
Arndis turned a little to glance at the nearby table, where a chessboard stood with an unfinished
game. “I assume you play, my prince?”
“From time to time. That is my brothers’ current game. Young boys, finding it hard to finish even
a simple game,” Hardmar said in an overbearing tone.
“I have recently learned the game myself,” Arndis confided in him. “Some might say it is not
fitting for a woman, but I confess to a certain thrill. What would you say, my prince?”
“I see no harm in women playing,” Hardmar declared.
“Would you do me the great honour of playing a match against me? I can only imagine I would
learn so much.”
Hardmar gave a smile as overbearing as his voice. “I would be delighted.” He gestured towards the
table and got up, courteously pulling out the chair for her. “Do you know how the pieces are set up?”
he asked, taking his own seat opposite her.
“I believe I recall, but please correct me if I should make a mistake,” Arndis implored him.
“I shall,” Hardmar promised.

197
 ~~~~
Half an hour later, Hardmar moved his jarl forward. “Game end,” he declared triumphantly.
“You are too clever at this game for me,” Arndis told him. “Yet I am not cross at all, for I feel I
have learned so much.”
“You were a worthy opponent,” Hardmar said in a gracious voice. “With practice, you might
present a challenge to me some day.”
“I cannot imagine ever possessing such skill,” Arndis blushed. “You do flatter me, my prince.”
“Not at all,” Hardmar assured her with a smile.
“Unfortunately, none of the ladies at court know the game or can teach me to improve. Perhaps,”
she began to say before interrupting herself. “I forget myself.”
“Do continue,” Hardmar encouraged her.
“Could I impose upon my prince to play against me again? I cannot hope to find a better teacher,”
Arndis said shyly.
“Why not,” Hardmar agreed cordially. “Come see me tomorrow at the same time.”
Arndis rose and gave a deep, slow bow, sending the prince a radiant smile afterwards. “I can
hardly wait, my prince.”
~~~~
“Storm ladders,” Brand insisted. “They will arrive the fastest, and with the few archers that Alcázar
has, the danger is light.”
“You forget the catapults upon the towers,” Athelstan retorted. “A few shots in the right places
will decimate your men. Siege towers or just a shielded battering ram stand better chances of reaching
the walls.”
“If I have men on horseback transport the ladders, the catapults will not have time strike fast
enough. As you did yourself against Middanhal, I was told.”
“True, I did,” Athelstan agreed. “Yet you still need your infantry to run across the open field
before they can scale the walls. Even in staggered formations, you might lose hundreds to the stone
throwers.”
“It is a risk, but siege towers or battering rams are even more exposed,” Brand argued, gesturing
with his hands into the solitude of his confinement.
“How so?”
“If the catapults throw stones in their path, they might get stuck.”
Athelstan laughed in the darkness of his cell. “Point taken. Which gate would you move against?”
“I would feint an attack on the Kabir’s Gate, making the Kabir fear for his palace and draw his
forces there while actually storming the Purple Gate.”
“Same here,” Athelstan nodded to himself. “Only a fool would assault the Kabir’s Gate. Even if
you took the city fortifications, the palace walls behind would keep your forces hemmed in.” He
coughed a few times and raised his voice so he could be heard in the other cell. “What about
Herbergja? Without any fleet at your disposal,” he added.
“Any other restrictions?”
“None. You have siege engineers, archers, cavalry, any supplies you might need, but no ships.”
Brand chewed on his lower lip. “Can you mine the walls?”
“Ground is too soft. Your tunnels would collapse long before you reach the city defences.”
“That rules out rolling siege engines across such terrain,” Brand mumbled. “Very well, this is what
I would do…”

198
 ~~~~
“Lord Konstans desires an audience, my prince.”
“Fine, show him in,” Hardmar directed his thane, who nodded and disappeared. Shortly after, the
dragonlord entered. “What is it?” asked the prince curtly.
“I was told some troubling news,” Konstans began to speak.
“Why are news always troubling,” Hardmar questioned sardonically. “Continue,” he gestured at
Konstans.
“They say that Arndis, the Arnling sister, visited you for quite some time today.”
“What is it to you?” Hardmar gave a scowl. “And how do you know? Do you spy upon your
prince?”
“Never,” Konstans quickly claimed. “It was one of your subjects, concerned about you.”
“A kingthane? Who betrays my confidence?” Hardmar nearly bellowed.
“My prince, I must warn you against being seen with this woman. We have just arrested her
brother for treason, yet your association with her may cast his doubt into guilt.”
“You arrested him,” the prince spoke coldly. “Without warning me.”
“You told me to deal with Adalbrand, so I did,” Konstans replied with equal lack of warmth.
“By letting your brigands spill blood inside my castle!” This time, Hardmar did not control his
voice. “Nor will you tell me what spies you have planted in my chambers!”
“I would never dare spy upon you, my prince,” Konstans claimed. “I and others are merely
worried. This woman is likely a traitor herself and should not be let into your presence.”
“You think she poses a threat to me?” Hardmar asked contemptuously. “You think a woman might
strike me down?”
“Of course not, my prince –”
“I suppose I should be concerned,” the prince continued angry. “I cannot trust my own kingthanes
or my servants!”
Konstans took a deep breath, holding his tongue at first. “My prince, forgive me for disturbing
you. I shall take my leave.”
“See that you do,” Hardmar dismissed him, turning his back demonstratively. Disdain ran across
Konstans’ face before the dragonlord turned around and stormed out.
~~~~
In Eleanor’s chamber, Arndis sat by her vanity mirror. She was removing her jewellery, carefully
placing each piece into a box made for that purpose. “I will need to borrow some of yours tomorrow,”
she told her hostess.
“But I have nothing as fine as yours,” Eleanor claimed.
“It does not matter,” Arndis replied. “I cannot appear two days in a row wearing the same. Even
someone with his poor observational skills would notice that.”
“Is it so important?”
“I must use every advantage I can. My dress, necklace, earrings, hair, everything must be used to
blind him into infatuation with me.”
“You are playing with fire,” Eleanor remarked nervously, scratching the burn scars on her cheek.
“The greatest risk was seeking him out without knowing his disposition,” Arndis told her friend
while picking out new ornaments and evaluating herself in the mirror. “He might have had me thrown
into prison next to Brand.”
“Thank the gods he did not,” Eleanor shivered.

199
 “The hardest part was manoeuvring so that he won the game without making it too easy for him.”
“The chess game?”
“Yes, of course,” Arndis replied impatiently, discarding one necklace in favour of another.
“Why was that necessary?”
“If I had simply let him win, he would have been bored with the game and my company. I needed
to present a sufficient challenge to pique his interest without wounding his pride by making him lose,”
Arndis explained. “Obviously.”
“I see,” Eleanor simply remarked. “Arndis, you seem burdened. I worry about you.”
Arndis bit her lip, swallowing the first words that came to her. “I know, Eleanor, your concern is
appreciated,” she finally spoke. “But all I need from you is that you will lend me this necklace and
these earrings. My chambers have been cleaned, so I shall return to them tonight.”
“Already? If you feel unsafe, you are more than welcome –”
“Brand’s men will be staying there as well. Besides, it is not as if one room in this castle is safer
than the other.”
“I suppose not.” Eleanor sent her friend an apprehensive look. “Be careful, Arndis. You do not
trifle with powerful people. The price to pay is heavy.” She ran her fingers across her scars.
Picking up the pieces she intended to borrow, Arndis gave her an absentminded smile. “Worry not,
dear Eleanor. Thank you for this.” She made a gesture to indicate the jewellery in her hands and
departed.
~~~~
The door to Brand’s cell was unlocked, and a tall figure in a red robe entered. “Quill,” the prisoner
greeted him, standing up. “I did not expect this visit.”
“I wish I came for better reasons or with happier tidings,” the law keeper said. “The Adalthing
convenes in a few days. I have come to inform you of the accusations levelled against you and how
your trial at the Adalthing shall proceed.”
“Very well. I have a question to ask first, though.”
“Yes?”
Brand gazed at Quill in the darkness. “The letter summoning me to the Adalthing gave me the
wrong date. As a consequence, I arrived here early, before the landfrid, and I was immediately
arrested. Did you betray me, Quill?”
“I would never!” he exclaimed, sounding aghast. “It would be a crime against the sanctity of my
office. It is unthinkable!”
Brand nodded a few times. “I thought as much, but I had to ask.” He sat down on his primitive
seat.
“I suppose I cannot blame you, given your circumstances,” Quill admitted.
“What do you have to tell me about the trial?”
“You stand accused of high treason. The specific accusations against you will be laid out by the
dragonlord once your trial begins,” Quill began to explain.
“I cannot wait to discover my crime,” Brand commented with a sardonic smile.
“Any evidence and witnesses will be brought before the assembly. Afterwards, you will be given
the chance to refute the allegations, dispute the evidence, make a plea for mercy, or whatever you
think is best.”
“It will not be begging for mercy, I can tell you that,” Brand declared.

200
 “When both sides have spoken, the Adalthing must decide your guilt, and we will count the voices
for or against. As you are the one standing accused, you will not be asked, but you are still considered
a member, and you affect the number of voices necessary to reach a majority,” Quill elaborated.
“I doubt Lord Konstans would be careless enough to let that matter,” Brand remarked with another
joyless smile. “What are they saying about me, Quill? Do people believe the accusations against me?”
“I think most people are confused and uncertain,” the scribe stated at length. “They are
withholding judgement until they see the evidence at the Adalthing.”
“I am curious about that myself,” Brand said almost with a sneer. “I wonder what they have
conjured to paint me guilty.”
“I am sorry that I cannot offer more aid.” Quill wringed his hands. “If possible, I would find out
what proof they have, but as the law keeper, I am forbidden from interfering.”
Brand looked up from his seated position. “The evidence will not matter. It is a question of
whether enough members of the Adalthing agree with Lord Konstans that I am an enemy.”
“It is deplorable to think about,” Quill stated, “that they would see you fall despite your
innocence.”
“Not to mention, if they fail to band together and protect me, if they follow the dragonlord blindly,
there is nothing to protect them from suffering the same fate later on,” Brand remarked. “That is my
only hope. That they fear what power Lord Konstans might gain in the future more than the power he
holds right now.”
“I must continue,” Quill told him. “I must inform the others who also stand accused.”
“Wait. What of Sir William? Does he share my fate?”
“He does not. He remains free. In fact, I hear he has been demanding Captain Theobald to
intervene and seeking to intercede on your behalf to anyone who might listen.”
Brand gave a half-hearted smile. “He has not had much luck.”
“We will meet again, Brand. Not for the last time, I hope.”
“Farewell, Quill.”

201
 32. Snake Pit
Middanhal
The kingthanes escorted Arndis to the royal chambers without delay once she appeared. In a flattering
dress and with new jewellery, she turned as many heads as the day before. As soon as Hardmar saw
her, he flashed a smile and turned to his brothers. “Leave.” Their eyes darted between him and Arndis.
“Leave,” he repeated with anger rising in his voice. The youths quickly got up and made an awkward
departure while bowing before the lady, who smiled and returned their courtesies with more grace.
“You have such an air of command, my prince,” Arndis flattered.
“They know who is master,” Hardmar replied with a casual tone of voice. “I had the servants tap a
fine barrel of wine,” he continued, gesturing towards the table where a bottle of wine had been placed
along with two cups. “Would you care for some now? I will have it served.”
“I should take a cup with delight, but allow me,” Arndis proposed, pouring herself. “The
appearance of servants can feel so crude at times. I prefer the mood as it is now,” she added coyly.
Having filled the two cups, one more than the other, she presented the drink to the prince.
“I will not deny being presented wine by such a delicate hand,” Hardmar remarked. “I have set up
the game for us. Shall we?” He extended his hand in invitation towards the table where the chess set
awaited them.
“With pleasure. I look forward to what I might learn today.”
~~~~
Half an hour and half a bottle later, Hardmar declared victory, and Arndis appeared deeply impressed.
“You leave me confounded with your ability to see openings everywhere,” she told him.
“The art lies in creating an opening where none exist,” Hardmar revealed with a superior smile.
“But you already show progress. I almost thought at one point you might win this match.”
“You should not flatter such, my prince,” Arndis spoke with blushing cheeks, helped along by the
mixture she had applied an hour earlier. “If I make progress, it is only because my teacher is so
proficient.”
“Now who is flattering whom?” Hardmar asked with a grin, taking yet another sip from his cup.
“Truly, you have the signs of a commander. You would make a great captain, leading armies in the
field.”
“That is true,” the prince considered. “That is what this game teaches, after all, how to direct
troops.”
“It is an enjoyable game,” Arndis remarked. “A pleasant distraction from the troubles of the day.”
“If you are referring to your brother’s predicament, you have my sympathy, but that is all I can
offer. It is a matter for the Adalthing, and we must trust it has the wisdom to decide these matters,”
Hardmar told her with an overbearing voice.

202
 “I trust in your wisdom,” Arndis confided in him, emphasising the last two words. “And so I shall
trust the Adalthing.”
“Very sensible.”
“I only fear what shall happen to me afterwards. I have no father, my prince, and a woman left
without family is defenceless.” She bit her lip in an anguished expression.
“No woman of Sigvard’s blood will ever be defenceless at my court,” Hardmar declared with
grandeur. “You have no reason to fear.”
“A stone falls from my heart,” Arndis declared, pressing a hand to where her heart resided. “I
knew a prince of your stature would not let anything befall me. The line of Sigvard is safe in your
hands. Prince Hardmar, defender of the dragonborn. If any deserve to be titled Dragonheart, it is
surely you.”
Hardmar gave a satisfied smile. “If that is your judgement, I will not gainsay you.”
“Again you show your wisdom, my prince.”
~~~~
“How come there are no defensive stone throwers on the walls of Middanhal?” Brand wondered.
“Given that there is only a small area for the enemy to approach, a catapult on each tower would be
devastating.”
“That was originally the intention,” Athelstan replied. He was arranging the straws upon the
ground to resemble a city with fortifications and towers, and he had broken some into numerous
pieces to create an army that was attacking the walls.
“Truly?”
Athelstan nodded in the dark until he responded in speech instead. “If you ever examine one of the
towers, you can see the markings in the ground where the machinery was meant to be anchored.”
“I had no idea,” Brand admitted. “I will be sure to take note of that next time I pass by.” They both
laughed. “Why are there none now?”
“They were dismantled long before my time. My best guess would be that having siege engineers
to maintain and operate them was deemed too costly in peace time,” Athelstan speculated.
“To be fair, catapults would not have saved the city from me or Sir Richard.”
They shared laughter once more.
~~~~
Konstans was pacing around the room. Not his own, but the chamber belonging to his wife. “Please,
dear husband, you will give me a headache if you do not sit down,” Mathilde declared.
“He is proving not only impossible to control, but impossible to work with,” Konstans
complained, though he ceased walking around. “I could live with him being headstrong if his
decisions were not so obviously foolish and self-destructive.”
“That is the nature of princes and kings,” Mathilde stated prosaically. She sat in the corner of the
room, following her husband with her eyes.
“Any suggestion I make, he is bound to do the opposite. The only thing that seems certain is that
he is determined to do what is against his own best interests,” Konstans continued, resuming his
pacing.
“You exaggerate, I am sure. He is making a fool of himself, true, but that will only make the
Adalthing less inclined to heed him and thus more inclined to heed you,” Mathilde claimed.

203
 “It is more than that,” Konstans muttered in a dark tone of voice. “I see the signs of someone ill
equipped to handle power. Before we know it, we have another King of Grief with all the persecution
and terror to follow. Summary executions, snake pits as in the old times, and worse.”
“That is a dire prediction,” his wife said. “It cannot be so bad.”
“Not yet, but I refuse to stand by and witness the realm descend into such chaos again.” He stroked
his chin. “I may have to make plans.”
“What of the younger brother? He seems eager to please. It was the Adalthing that made Hardmar
heir. They can choose another,” Mathilde suggested.
“To my knowledge, the Adalthing has never set aside an heir once confirmed,” Konstans
considered.
“These are not ordinary times. There is no king either to declare an heir for the Adalthing to
confirm.”
“True, but if we were to have another election, we may open the path for King Adelard to make his
claim known. Given the rebellion in the north, we do not need a conflict to erupt in the south.”
“You were satisfied with the work done by that mercenary, were you not? Jerome was his name?”
“I was.” Konstans looked at his wife thoughtfully.
“You may require his services again.”
~~~~
The door opened to Brand’s cell. He squinted as the light flooded in, staring at the shape in the
doorway.
“We finally meet again,” Hardmar greeted him. “How do you find your new accommodations?”
“After life in an army camp, I find them marvellous,” Brand replied. “Had I known I would
experience such luxury, I would have gotten arrested long ago.”
Hardmar smiled sardonically. “Your spirits have not suffered, I see. You must be wondering why I
am here.”
“I cannot profess I care.”
Ignoring him, Hardmar continued. “After your arrest, I did not plan to come down here.”
“Your plan failed.”
“I would see you in all your misery at the Adalthing, after all, so why make myself endure these
dreadful surroundings?”
“That is harshly put.”
“Yet something has changed lately.”
“I find the surroundings grow on you.”
“I have had a visitor of my own.”
“Can you speed this along? I prefer the rats to what company you bring.”
Hardmar gazed directly at Brand. “Your sister.”
So far, the imprisoned man had been glancing idly in any direction but at the prince, but these
words made him sit up straight and stare. “You lie.”
“You think I could not imagine a better lie if I wanted to injure you?” Hardmar smiled with one
corner of his mouth. “Twice in as many days. At first, I thought she came to beg for your life, but she
has barely mentioned you. She seems resigned to your fate.”
Brand relaxed his position a little. “What do I care?”
“Maybe you do, maybe you do not. Her only concern seems to be her own safety. So she has come
to me, seeking my protection. I admit that I enjoy this turn of events.”
Brand scoffed. “Your attempts to wound me are as dull as your mind.”

204
 “I must say, she has managed to catch my eye. I never really took notice of her before, but she can
be quite beautiful, is that not so?”
Brand narrowed his eyes and his hands became fists. “Choose your words with caution.”
Hardmar laughed. “What threats can a condemned man in chains make?” Brand leapt to his feet,
stretching his chains to the limit as he stood face to face with the prince. The latter recoiled but
regained his composure when it became clear that Brand could not reach him. “So close, and yet so
powerless,” he grinned.
“All you have, you stole from me,” Brand hissed through his teeth. “You drape yourself in my
victories. The throne you sit upon, the crown your greedy fingers caress, you would have none of it
but for me.”
“Yet I have it. All of it. And there is nothing you can change about it.”
“I cannot be the only one to see this. Your lack of worth will become apparent soon enough.”
Hardmar let contempt run across his face. “You think you are the only man who can win a battle?
Once you are a head shorter, I will do what you have failed to do. I will gather the Order’s armies and
march to Hæthiod myself, destroying the outlander scourge. Your name will be erased from the
records, and I will stand as victor over the heathens.”
The prisoner stared at his visitor. “Know this,” Brand impressed upon him, straightening himself
to his full height. “As you have gained your position by unworthy means, so you are unworthy to keep
it. I may be condemned, but so are you.”
For a moment, Hardmar tensed with a variety of emotions dancing across his face. Finally, he
laughed. “I came here thinking you might beg for your life, but this proved much better entertainment.
Thank you, Sir Adalbrand.” The title was spoken with a sneer. “We shall meet again soon.” The
prince departed, and Brand returned to his humble seat.
“I hope you are right,” Athelstan called out from his cell. “The prince is in a nest of vipers, and
they must be poised to strike at him. But he seems so venomous himself, it is possible the vipers will
be the ones to suffer in the end.”
“Hardling, Vale, I care little,” Brand claimed. “As long as someone suffers.”
Athelstan was quiet for a moment. “Brand, will you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“That I broke my oath. That I chose to follow my brother rather than my Order. That I did not stay
with you at Lake Myr.”
It took a little while before he received a reply. “Does it matter?” Brand asked. “It will not change
anything. It will not alter the course of our fate.”
“It changes something for me. Soon, I will be walking up the scaffold,” Athelstan declared darkly.
“This will be one less burden that I drag with me.”
“If it matters to you,” Brand told him, “you have my forgiveness.”
“Thank you.” Athelstan let out a deep breath. “I hope to see you on the other side. In the Sapphire
City.”
“That would disappoint me. I expect at least one of us to be bound for Hel,” Brand declared.
Laughter was heard from the other cell.

205
 33. Brothers Three
Middanhal
Inghard moved his pawn forward. “King under threat.” Gerhard scratched his neck. His hand hovered
over his king piece until he changed his mind and grabbed a knight, letting it kill the offensive pawn.
Inghard immediately moved his thane into the same position, removing the knight. “King under
threat,” he repeated. Gerhard took a few deep breaths while his hand moved around the board
indecisively.
“Need advice?” Hardmar offered with an overbearing voice. He was reading letters from their
home at Hardburg, but glanced up to look at his brothers. “I am adept at teaching this game.”
“You lost the last three times we played, so I doubt you can help him,” the youngest remarked
while keeping his eyes on the board.
“Shut up, Inghard,” Hardmar said with a sour expression.
“He is right, you are worse than either of us,” Gerhard scoffed. “What gave you the idea you are
any good?”
“It is that lady,” Inghard explained. “Arndis of House Arnling. I saw the chess board after you
played against her.”
“Then you should know my skill,” Hardmar retorted.
“How long do you plan to entertain her as your visitor?” Gerhard asked. “She is the sister of a
traitor and not suitable company for you.”
“It is your move,” Inghard pointed out.
“Do not presume to tell me what is suitable for me,” Hardmar sneered. “I will entertain her as long
as I find her pleasing.”
“Did Lord Konstans not warn you?”
“Your only option is to move your king,” Inghard spoke.
“What do you know of our conversations?” Hardmar narrowed his eyes as he stared at his brother
and stood up. “You take an unhealthy interest in my affairs, Brother.”
“This affects us all,” Gerhard claimed. “It reflects poorly upon us when you spend your time with
the sister of a traitor right before the Adalthing gathers.”
“Never mind. You would have lost in two moves anyway,” Inghard said resigned.
“Have you considered that while Lord Konstans tries to get Adalbrand convicted, your association
with that woman makes him seem innocent?” Gerhard questioned him.
“Spare me.” Hardmar’s face became contorted with contempt. “I saw him last night. His guilt is
obvious.”
“You saw him?” Inghard asked with sudden interest. “You visited him?”
“Why?” Gerhard added.
“Because I wanted to throw in his face how his sister now fawns over me,” Hardmar told them
with a cruel smile. “He has nothing left, and I wanted him to know that.”

206
 “How did he react?” Inghard wondered.
“He made idle threats.” Hardmar frowned. “Why do you care?”
“He is one of the most famous men in the realm, if not all the realms,” Inghard replied. “I have
heard much about him from the King’s Quill upon my visits to the library.”
“All that reading will make your mind dull,” Gerhard cautioned him with a condescending voice.
“The Quill is in league with this turncoat?” Hardmar exclaimed.
“They became friends long ago, I think, when Adalbrand was still a page,” Inghard explained.
“How knowledgeable you are where traitors are concerned,” the crown prince scorned him.
His youngest brother gave a shrug. “He crossed the Weolcans with an army. He defeated Sir
Athelstan before even becoming a knight. Who would not find him interesting?”
“Enough!” Hardmar stormed out of the room, slamming doors as he went.
“It is still your move,” Inghard mentioned. Gerhard simply toppled Inghard’s king with a careless
motion and left.
~~~~
In the atrium for the chambers of House Arnling, an armed warrior sat at all times. Sometimes it was
Geberic, sometimes Glaukos, and quite often both. At first, they had also insisted on following Arndis
anywhere she went in the Citadel, but she had rejected to be watched in such a manner. Instead, the
two sentinels resigned themselves to their shared quarters, sharpening their swords and constantly
checking the hallway.
Arndis had quickly grown accustomed to their presence and paid them little heed, being occupied
with her own affairs. She was mending a rift in a dress with needle and thread when her handmaiden
entered her chamber. “Pardon me, mistress,” the servant said. “Someone named Mistress Holwyn
wishes to be received.”
Arndis walked out into the atrium and saw Holwyn running a finger down Glaukos’ sword to test
its edge. “Holwyn,” she greeted the visitor. “Does Theodwyn wish that I walk with her? She usually
does it in the evening.”
“I come for other reasons,” Holwyn told her. “May we speak privately, milady?”
“Of course,” Arndis replied, though uncertainty could be heard in her voice. “Follow me.” She
returned to her chamber.
Holwyn stepped inside, closing the door after her. “Forgive me the secrecy, milady, but you never
know who is listening.”
“What matter gives cause for such apprehension?”
Holwyn licked her lips. “I am aware that you have been paying visits to our crown prince.”
An annoyed look came across Arndis’ face. “I have no wish to discuss this matter.”
“If you merely do it to secure a benefactor at this court, I will leave you alone,” Holwyn continued
with a scrutinising gaze. “If your hope is to save your brother, we need to speak.”
Arndis glanced at the door, but stayed in place. “Continue.”
“The Adalthing will convict him, I am certain of it. My master cannot prevent it, nor can Prince
Hardmar, regardless of how much you charm him,” Holwyn stated.
“If that is all you have to offer –”
“On the contrary,” Holwyn quickly spoke. “I suggest we take the matter into our own hands.”
“In what manner?”
“I will explain in detail once the time comes.”
“Are you acting on behalf of the jarl?” Arndis’ face lit up in sudden realisation.
“I am,” Holwyn claimed. “I need to know if you are willing to do what is necessary.”

207
 “Yes, whatever it takes,” Arndis declared forcefully.
“Good. Tell nobody for now. Act as if every word you speak will be overheard by Lord Konstans.
There is a good chance it is true,” Holwyn impressed upon her. “We will meet again.”
“Gods go with you,” Arndis replied.
~~~~
With the Adalthing approaching, Konstans spent every waking moment attending to tasks. He no
longer appeared at any meals in the great hall, eating only what his servant brought him. He did not
give audience or receive visitors either, except for a few people on a diminutive list. While in the
midst of his preparations for the assembly, Eolf entered his study to inform him of such an exception.
“Prince Gerhard to see you, milord.”
“Send him in.”
The young prince entered with hasty steps. “My lord, we must speak!”
“Of course. Be seated,” Konstans bade him.
“I just spoke with Hardmar,” Gerhard explained. He remained standing, pacing back and forth
instead.
“Concerning?”
“He completely disregards your advice about the Arnling woman,” the prince exclaimed, throwing
his hands into the air. “He seems bent on putting our plans into peril.”
“It saddens me that he will not listen to reason,” Konstans claimed, though his voice was absent
any emotion.
“He has only grown more stubborn since he was made heir. He is becoming a danger to us all,”
Gerhard spoke anxiously.
“You are wise beyond your years,” the dragonlord told the prince. “It is a cruel trick by fate that
you were born the second son of your house.”
“I have often thought so myself,” Gerhard grumbled, making fists as he walked around the study.
“Sometimes, one might wonder if the Adalthing chose the wrong brother.”
Finally, Gerhard stood still. “You think so?”
“It has not been my thought,” Konstans replied evasively. “But I may have come across this
sentiment from others.”
“But Hardmar is the eldest,” Gerhard objected.
“Tradition is on his side,” Konstans granted. “Yet the laws of succession do not state that only the
eldest son of Sigvard’s line can be considered an atheling.”
“I never thought about that,” the prince admitted. “I did not know.”
“It does not matter now, I suppose,” Konstans mused. “The choice has been made.”
“Not to mention, Hardmar would burn the Citadel to the ground before he let you take his crown,”
Gerhard added with awkward laughter.
“We shall speak no more of it,” Konstans declared. “I only thought you should know. My prince.”
“I appreciate that you would tell me,” the youth replied, and he left the study with a thoughtful
look in his eyes.
~~~~
The door opened to Brand’s cell, and the prisoner looked up to see a youth scarcely aged fourteen.
“You would think I would have some peace and quiet locked away in this place,” he murmured,
narrowing his eyes to ascertain the colours of House Hardling upon his visitor. “Whatever you wish,
be swift. I am a busy man, as you can tell.”

208
 “I merely wanted to meet you.” Inghard glanced around the cell. “I am not comfortable in places
such as this, but my curiosity got the better of me.”
“If you had given me warning, I could have cleaned the place.”
“No need to trouble yourself on my account,” the prince replied, holding a box under one arm.
“Master Quill has spoken about you on several occasions.”
Brand swallowed whatever remark had been on its way past his lips and sat up straight. “You
know Quill?”
Inghard nodded, watching a rat scurrying about in the corner. “When I go to library. He said that I
remind him of you.”
Brand had not been incarcerated long enough for his strong physique to deteriorate, and his
muscles were evident under the ragged remains of his tunic. The knight let his gaze run over the pale
youth, whose arms and legs seemed as soft as his hands. “Is that so.”
“Yes,” Inghard confirmed, oblivious to any of Brand’s barbs. “He told me how you would often
visit the library as a page.”
“True,” Brand admitted. “My childhood was spent in that tower as much as anywhere else.”
“Why?”
The chained knight sent the young prince an incredulous look. “You wish to discuss my
childhood? My reading habits?”
“For better or worse, you are the most famous knight in the realm,” Inghard explained. “As a child,
I heard about Theobald, the Blade of the North. Athelstan, the Wolf of Isarn. Or William the
Unyielding. Now they tell stories about you. I am curious what man hides behind the legends.”
Brand rested his head against the wall. “Take a look, boy. I am what we all are when the legends
are stripped away.”
Inghard frowned. “How so?”
“All men are in the chains of fate. Mine are merely visible.” He let the manacles rattle to
emphasise his point.
“Master Anselm of Monteau,” Inghard pointed out with satisfaction.
“Yes. You have read him?”
“No. Master Quill made that quote once and told me to read his Ruminations.”
“Quill was right. Any prince or ruler should know his principles.”
“I will never be ruler,” Inghard shrugged.
“A month ago, I never thought I would be awaiting execution by my own people,” Brand retorted.
“I will grant you that.”
“If you will not read Master Anselm, take his most important lesson to heart,” Brand impressed
upon him. “Sharpen the sword of justice with mercy. Fill your coffers with gold, spend your silver
with ease. Be steadfast to your friends, be kind to your enemies, and you shall see the latter become
the former. Place your value on coin, loyalty, and wisdom in the reverse order,” Brand quoted from
memory, “that you may trust yourself, others, and lastly that, which does not hold life in its hands.”
“I shall remember your words,” Inghard promised. He took the small box from under his arm,
revealing its patterned look. “I am told you are an excellent chess player. My brothers cannot provide
me with a challenge. Would you be interested?”
Brand eyed the chessboard. “Let us set it up.”
~~~~

209
One of the Red Hawks knocked on the door to Valerie’s chamber. Once given entrance, he stuck his
head inside the door. “Lady Valerie, there is a Mistress Holwyn seeking to speak with you. She is a
servant of Lady Theodwyn.”
“Thank you,” Valerie told him and left her room, walking down to meet Holwyn. “Tell Lady
Theodwyn that I appreciate being invited to join her evening walk, but I am rather tired tonight.”
“I come for another reason, milady,” Holwyn told her. “I have a message that I was instructed to
speak only in private,” she added while glancing at the Hawks who stood guard.
“Fine,” Valerie acceded, returning to her room and followed by Holwyn. “What is it?”
Holwyn closed the door behind them. “Milady asked my master once whether he would be
inclined to spare the Isarn prisoners from execution, is that not so?”
“Not my exact words,” Valerie replied.
“But something to that effect?”
“Possibly. Why?”
“It seems unlikely the Adalthing can be convinced to show mercy. Yet a path may be found.”
“You speak in riddles,” Valerie complained.
“If you want to save Lord Isenwald, you must be prepared to use deceit. Are you willing to do
that?” asked Holwyn.
“How do you mean?”
“Answer me first. Are you willing to risk your father’s wrath for his life?”
Valerie stared at Holwyn. “Yes. Now it is your turn to give me answers.”
“More than that, I have a task to give you,” Holwyn smiled.
~~~~
Kate was finishing her duties in the library tower when the door opened and two kingthanes stepped
through. Behind them came Hardmar, heir to the realms. Kate stood with mouth agape, staring at the
prince, who did not notice her. Nor did he seem to spot Egil, who froze while gazing with wide eyes.
Instead, Hardmar sought out Quill and approached the scribe. “Master Quill,” he spoke with a
charming smile.
The library keeper had been engrossed in law books; seeing the visitor, he quickly rose and gave a
deep bow. “My prince, what may I do for you?”
“I have come for your counsel in a legal matter,” Hardmar explained.
Quill glanced at the tomes upon his reading table. “Your arrival is fortuitous. I was just reading
about this subject in preparation for tomorrow’s Adalthing. How may I serve?”
“It is a question of the laws of succession,” the prince began to explain. “As I have been told again
and again, I may not be crowned until I reach the age of twenty-one.”
“That is true, my prince. It is an ancient custom, related to similar laws regarding the age at which
a person may marry or inherit,” Quill informed him.
“A custom, you say, not a law?”
“It was written into law many centuries ago. I believe the purpose was to ensure a child could not
be crowned king while controlled by a regent hiding behind the throne. Instead, the office of the lord
protector was instated, allowing the Adalthing some control over the process,” Quill elaborated,
sharing his knowledge with delight.
“Always the Adalthing seeking to control,” Hardmar remarked. His smile faltered for a moment as
he gazed upon the heavy law books, and when it returned, it did not touch his eyes. “Yet we dispense
with such laws in times of need. Titles may be inherited although the heir is too young.”
“Only to ensure that the membership of the Adalthing is full, I believe,” Quill added.

210
 “Once again the Adalthing.” Hardmar’s voice acquired an air of condescension briefly. “We also
allow those otherwise too young to marry. Lord Konstans had no difficulty arranging that for me.”
“The king and his dragonlord have the right to extend this privilege, though it is rarely used,” Quill
assented. “And not to anyone younger than the age of sixteen, and both parties in any such marriage
must still be willing as customary.”
“So these laws are changed as we see fit, as we need,” Hardmar remarked, tapping his fingers on
the books on Quill’s table. “Now there is need to make an exception to the law preventing me from
receiving my crown.”
“Your pardon, my prince?” Quill questioned.
“You are my law keeper, my counsellor. Procure some document that grants me exception and
allows me to be crowned now, not in four years,” Hardmar instructed him.
Regret washed over Quill’s face. “My prince, I apologise, but that is not possible. No such
document exists. The laws of the realm do not allow it.”
“You are the law keeper. It is allowed if you say it is,” Hardmar pressed him.
“I have taken a sacred oath to uphold the laws of Adalrik in all my actions. I cannot break this oath
for any reason.”
Hardmar’s smile faded. “You are a scribe. Simply take your pen and write the script I need.”
“My prince, I cannot.” Quill’s face grew stern. “This law was instituted by the Adalthing. If you
wish it revoked, you must present it to the Adalthing and gain their favour for your purpose.”
“Beg, you mean,” Hardmar corrected him with a sneer. “Plead for them to give me what is
rightfully mine.” Around the room, Kate and Egil retreated as far away from the prince as they could
without attracting attention. As Quill did not reply, Hardmar turned towards his thanes. “Seize him,”
he commanded, nodding at the old scribe.
The kingthanes exchanged glances. “Pardon, my prince?”
“Are you deaf? Seize the old man!” Hardmar roared, turning to point at the object of his ire.
One of the kingthanes swallowed. “He is the King’s Quill, my prince. We cannot.”
Hardmar spun around to stare at his men. “You defy my orders? How dare you!”
“The Quill’s person is sacred, my prince. He may not be harmed,” the warrior explained
cautiously. “To assault him is to assault the law of the land.”
“You serve me!” Hardmar bellowed. “Do as I command!”
“We protect you,” the thane corrected. “And should the Quill assault you in any manner, my
prince, I will strike him down without hesitation. But as he is not even holding a sharp feather pen nor
have made any act of aggression against you, I may not touch him.”
“Traitors, all of you,” Hardmar breathed heavily, glancing at everyone in the room. Finally, he
stormed out, and after some hesitation, the kingthanes followed.
“Master Quill,” Kate mumbled with quivering voice.
“You may be calm,” Quill told her and Egil. “Everything is well.”
“What was he going to do?” asked Egil.
“We will never know, thankfully. It is late. To bed with both of you.”
“Yes, Master Quill,” replied his helpers. They all found it hard to sleep that night.

211
 34. Who We Are
Middanhal
As the day of the Adalthing arrived, unease could be felt in the air. The Adalthing was meant to
convene the day after summer solstice, and meeting so early in spring felt eerie to many. This was
exacerbated by the fact that the Adalthing had also met out of time last year, and repeating this felt
like an ill omen to many of its members. Most of these noblemen preferred to be left in peace without
the Crown interfering in how they governed and taxed their estates; gathering the Adalthing to meddle
in the Crown’s affairs invited the latter to meddle in theirs. Furthermore, with the grim topic of traitors
and executions looming, the stage was set for a bleak assembly.
There was none of the typical merriment and idle talk between the different noblemen and their
families, who would usually only meet for this occasion at solstice. As noon approached, the lords
gathered in the hall of the Adalthing. With the absence of Jarl Isarn, his margraves, and four of the
northern landgraves, the chamber seemed large and almost empty. Jarl Theodstan and his followers
congregated in the northern part, appearing very few in number. Jarl Ingmond arrived with his vassals
as did Jarl Vale, and the southern landgraves moved back and forth between their groups or
occasionally formed their own. Other than the absence of the rebellious lords, a key difference from
last year’s assembly was that the throne was once more occupied. Although he was not king and had
no formal role in the Adalthing yet, Hardmar had taken the seat with a satisfied expression, and none
had seen cause to argue against it.
The balconies were full of spectators. The high priest of the blackrobes in Middanhal with his
silver-threaded clothing was present, as was Edwin, alderman of the guilds. Sir William had found a
location and stood surrounded by several women such as Arndis and Theodwyn, friends of his former
ward Eleanor, who was also by his side; Geberic and Glaukos stood nearby. Arion, chamberlain to the
jarl of Vale, was another in the audience, and eventually the guards had to turn people away from
walking up the stairs.
As the noon bell resonated through the castle, Quill called the assembly to order. First, the ritual
had to be overseen. Each present member of the Adalthing was consecrated by the priestess of Disfara
and swore the oath to uphold the Adalthing, its laws, and its decisions. With the gathering sanctified,
the trials could begin.
~~~~
The first brought to the room was Elis, landgrave and former dragonlord. His imprisonment had lasted
many months now, and he bore the signs. His clothing was ragged and filthy, and the lords standing
near the entrance shied away from the stench as he was dragged in by two Hawks. His hair was long
and unkempt, his nails ragged and torn. He raised his hands to shield his eyes against the daylight and
stood a pitiful sight with chains around his wrists, which had left the skin raw and red.

212
 As dragonlord, Konstans stated the allegation against him. He conspired with the rebels to
surrender the Citadel to them; thus, the charge was treason by aiding a rebellion against the Crown.
Witness to this was Isabel of Hæthiod; although absent, her testimony had been heard by Theobald,
captain of the Citadel, who repeated it before the Adalthing. Elis had revealed his plans to betray the
defenders and ensure the castle fell into the hands of the Isarn army, and Isabel had subsequently
informed the captain. Soon after, the rebels had carried out a nightly assault, though it was foiled as
Elis’ treachery had been unmasked beforehand.
The charge and evidence presented, Quill turned towards Elis. “You may speak in your own
defence now, my lord, or if you admit your guilt, you may call for the Adalthing to show mercy.”
Elis licked his lips. “I am innocent,” he claimed. “The only evidence against me is that of a
woman, who is not even present. Why would I, a landgrave of the south, seek to aid these murderous
northerners?” He glanced around the hall at the other noblemen from the south, avoiding Theodoric
and his men. “I am the victim of a plot to see me fall.”
“It is working,” someone remarked with harsh laughter.
“Silence,” Quill commanded. “The prisoner alone may speak.”
“I see that my enemies are numerous and have infiltrated even this place,” Elis continued,
straightening up as much as he could. “I will find no justice here. I demand my guilt is determined
through trial by combat instead.”
The noblemen exchanged glances. “Unfortunately, my lord, trial by combat is only permitted in
disputes of honour and when evidence is absent. You stand accused of treason, and evidence has been
brought against you. For either of these reasons, your request cannot be granted,” Quill explained,
making many of the lords grin at Elis’ despondent appearance.
“I am innocent,” Elis reiterated, though his voice was growing faint. “I do not deserve this.”
“Enough,” Konstans declared.
“I do not deserve,” Elis continued, stammering to himself.
“Let us have the voices counted,” the dragonlord commanded, to which Quill nodded. He began
the ritual questioning, asking each member to state whether he considered the accused to be guilty or
innocent in the charge brought against him. All declared him to be guilty.
“George, landgrave of Elis, the Adalthing has spoken with one voice. You are found guilty of
treason, which may be punished by geld, exile, or death. Furthermore, the right of your house to
inherit your title is no longer guaranteed,” Quill proclaimed.
“Execution!” Hardmar announced loudly, making everyone turn towards him. “The only reward
for treason is death.”
Konstans cleared his throat. “The doom placed upon him shall be execution by the axe. Remove
the prisoner.”
“Innocent,” Elis croaked as the Hawks dragged him out.
~~~~
Shortly after, three men were brought to the hall. One pushed against the guards, one walked with
bowed head, and one moved with dignity. “Isenwald of Isarn, Athelstan of Isarn, Eumund of Isarn,
you stand accused of high treason. You broke the king’s peace with the aim to seize the throne for
your lord. You led armies against the Order of Adal in open rebellion. You assaulted the garrison of
Middanhal through deceit in order to further this aim. Furthermore, Sir Athelstan and Sir Eumund,
you broke your oath as knights and the loyalty you owed the king, or in his absence, the lord protector
at the time,” Konstans declared.

213
 “As you have surrendered after battle as part of rebellious forces, no further evidence has been
considered necessary,” Quill explained. “Yet you may all speak in plea of mercy, asking the Adalthing
to absolve you of your crimes.”
As the first accused, Isenwald spoke first. “I have nothing to say,” he declared.
“Thank the gods, or we would be here all year,” someone jested, evoking grim laughter.
Eumund glanced around the room. “Give me a sword, and I would gut each of you like the fat pigs
you are,” he proclaimed with an acerbic voice. “I would rather have death than mercy from any of
you.” He caused a murmur; many met his contempt with their own disdain, while others expressed
some measure of respect.
Athelstan spoke as the last, but before any words left his tongue, he let his eyes move slowly
among the collection of lords. “I am resigned to my fate. I make no apologies nor excuses for my
actions. I once did more for this realm than any man standing in this hall, and I received only exile in
Alcázar as reward. I did more than any man here to hurt this realm, and now I shall receive death.
Hero or villain, our fate in this life remains the same.” He glanced up at the balcony and let his gaze
rest upon Arndis. “I bid you all farewell, knowing you shall never see the like of me again.”
“Enough,” yelled Hardmar. “Let us get on with it.”
“Let us count,” Konstans demanded, and each lord proceeded to state for each prisoner whether
they favoured him to be punished for his guilt or not. As with Elis, there was never any doubt about
the outcome.
“Isenwald of Isarn, Athelstan of Isarn, Eumund of Isarn, the Adalthing has spoken with one voice.
You are found guilty of high treason, which may be punished by exile or death. Furthermore,
Athelstan of Isarn and Eumund of Isarn have forfeited their rank as knights. You shall each be
pronounced a knave and have your sword broken.”
“They will be dead long before that,” Hardmar laughed. A few noblemen joined his laughter
anxiously.
“All the prisoners are condemned to execution by the axe,” Konstans announced. “Return them to
the dungeons.”
~~~~
When the last prisoner was brought to the chamber of the Adalthing, murmur rose from the floor and
the balconies. The previous trials had been matters of formality; this was the one that would be
discussed for years to come. Walking tall, Brand entered the hall flanked by guards. His incarceration
had not had time to leave as great a mark upon him as the other prisoners; although his clothes were
dirty and torn in places, he seemed unbroken in spirit and body. His strong blue eyes moved from one
lord to the next, causing some to shrink. Others gave a curt nod in greeting and acknowledgement,
which Brand returned. A few had entirely different reactions; Ingmond for one stared with unbridled
hate at the chained knight.
Quill called for silence, and once it had been obtained, Konstans could pronounce the charges. “Sir
Adalbrand, you stand accused of high treason and other crimes. They are as follows,” the dragonlord
proclaimed. “You sought an alliance with the king of Korndale in order to lead his armies against
Middanhal, either to put him or yourself upon the throne.” Mutterings erupted among the audience.
“Silence,” Quill demanded.
“You gathered men to your personal guard as thanes, despite not having that privilege,” Konstans
continued. “Lastly, you violated the Knight’s Codex and its command to act in a righteous manner
against your enemies by poisoning them in order to conquer the city of Tothmor.”

214
 There was a clamour of voices upon hearing the final charge. “Silence,” Quill repeated. “There
must be order in the chamber. Proceed, my lord,” he told Konstans.
“In my hand, I hold a letter from my reeve in Plenmont,” Konstans told the assembly, holding it
high. “It proves the first accusation as it recounts how the king of Korndale is seeking to strengthen
his claim upon the throne of Adalrik through marriage to Sir Adalbrand’s sister, Lady Arndis.” A
number of eyes turned towards the woman, who looked as perplexed as any. “It further explains the
source of this intelligence, proving it to be trustworthy.” At the last word, Brand smiled.
“We will pause these proceedings later to allow any to investigate the letter,” Quill declared.
“Continue, my lord.”
“The second charge requires little explanation. When I came to arrest Sir Adalbrand, his men
fought without fear of death to defend him rather than stand aside. Neither of them are Order soldiers.
One is in fact a former thane of the jarl of Theodstan, and the other a former Blade of the queen of
Hæthiod. Both have shifted allegiance towards Sir Adalbrand, defending him in the manner of thanes.
Even if we set aside the perversion of these thanes abandoning their former masters, Sir Adalbrand
has usurped the privilege of the high nobility to name thanes. This is a direct threat against the
Adalthing,” Konstans claimed. Brand scoffed in response.
“On with it,” Hardmar demanded. “Tell us about the poison!”
Konstans gave a grim smile. “In order to weaken the defenders of Tothmor, Sir Adalbrand had the
water supply poisoned. I have demanded of Sir William that he stands witness, but he has refused.”
This caused another wave of conversation to flood over the hall with many staring at the famous
knight. For his part, William showed no emotion. “I have a letter again explaining the events and Sir
Adalbrand’s dishonourable actions,” Konstans elaborated, pulling out another piece of paper from his
clothing. “It reveals the details of the assault upon Tothmor, explains how the garrison was too weak
to fight back, and how the contaminated water had to be disposed of. The honourable Sir Vilmund has
signed the letter as witness of its veracity in describing these events.” Bitter laughter ensued from
Brand.
“We shall halt this trial for an hour,” Quill announced with an eye towards the water clock that
stood near the throne, “to let any that so desires to read the contents of the letters.”
~~~~
While Brand was allowed to read the missives as the first, the remaining people present gathered into
small groups and hushed conversations. As the exception, Hardmar sat alone. His eyes swept over the
assembly, noting how the noblemen were dispersed and with whom they gathered, or he gazed up at
the balcony.
Arndis stared down at her brother, who stood isolated in the chamber. “Would your testimony
have changed anything?” she asked William while looking ahead.
“Nothing I could say under holy oath would have helped Brand,” the knight admitted quietly.
Frustration danced across Arndis’ face before she composed herself. “I understand,” she spoke
tonelessly.
Eleanor gave a shiver and placed her arm inside William’s. “This is all so dreadful.” Next to them,
Theodwyn stood silent.
Her brother was on the floor of the hall, surrounded by his margraves. Remarks were being
exchanged along with worried looks, and they seemed most of all a group under siege.
The southern lords were livelier, many of them engaged in discussions. More than one expressed
satisfaction that the first of the rebels would soon face justice, and it was only a matter of time before
Jarl Isarn himself followed his sons and brother to the scaffold. Some questioned Brand’s guilt; Jarl

215
Ingmond brooked no disagreement in that respect and added that the axe was far too good and swift a
fate.
Jarl Vale, lord protector of the realm, was remarkably silent. The proceedings of the Adalthing
were generally led by the King’s Quill and the dragonlord, and he had not interfered with this
arrangement. While his vassals were conversing loudly around him, the jarl himself mostly stared at
the water clock.
His brother made up for this, being in high spirits. Both margraves and landgraves commended
him for unmasking this treachery before it could come to fruition, and the dragonlord received their
praise with smiles and grace, even making jests.
Quill had left the hall. He appeared again on the balcony, carrying on a quiet conversation with the
high priest of the blackrobes. They made sure none could overhear the words exchanged; the only
thing discernible was that the blackrobe shook his head slightly before the conversation ended.
~~~~
As the hour drew to its close, Quill returned to the hall and resumed the proceedings. Brand was given
the floor to defend himself, now that he had seen the proof against him. “My lords,” he began. “You
have heard the accusations against me, and you have seen the evidence against me. Yet Lord Konstans
has been far too kind. He is too humble a man, I assume, or perhaps he feared to tire this assembly by
going into lengthy details. Allow me to purge my soul and confess all the reasons I stand in chains on
this day.”
“My first crime was to be born Adalbrand of House Arnling, atheling of Arn, atheling of Sigvard.
My ancestry, proclaimed in my very name, gives these mighty lords cause to fear.” He let his gaze
move from Konstans to Hardmar before it swept over the rest of the assembly. Some seemed to listen;
others met Brand’s attempt to defend himself with little regard. “My next crime was leading an army
across the Weolcans together with Sir Richard of Alwood and Jarl Theodoric of Theodstan.” As he
mentioned the latter name, Brand motioned towards its wearer. Theodoric did not seem pleased or
proud.
“After that, in the company of the same lords, I had the audacity to liberate Middanhal from
Isenwald of Isarn. I continued by defeating Isenhart of Isarn upon the battlefield, and having not
learned from my past mistakes, I finished my spree of transgressions by defeating Athelstan and
Eumund of Isarn. In fact, each of the men whom you just condemned for high treason was only in
chains because of me.”
“And we did nothing?” one of Vale’s margraves jeered, which several of his brethren agreed with.
Ignoring the outburst, Brand continued. “Given two thousand men and the company of the
esteemed Sir William,” he spoke with a glance towards the knight on the balcony, who nodded in
return, “I marched to Hæthiod to face an enemy ten times stronger. I conquered Tothmor, I conquered
Polisals, I drove the outlanders from the realm. I did all of these things because I am a knight of Adal,
and that is my charge, the only charge here today that matters. I defend the Alliance of Adalmearc
against all enemies, whether they be invaders or rebels.”
“If letters may prove a villain, I am sure Lord Konstans could have the entire realm vilified within
days,” Brand remarked. “No witnesses whose character and veracity may be assessed stand here today
to prove these allegations against me. Allow me to fill that gap and bear witness myself.” He cleared
his throat. “Any rank or position I have ever held has been given to me. Knight, lieutenant, captain, all
have been earned. I have never sought to usurp the rightful position of another nor privileges I do not
deserve. I have made no deals with foreign kings, only demanded their defence of the Seven Realms. I
have gathered no men to me pledged in oaths, only in loyalty and willing service. I have slain no

216
enemy who surrendered or were too wounded to resist, only those who struck first against these
realms.”
Brand raised his hands before him, showing the chains upon them. “I am feared because of who I
am, not because of what I have done. Consider this. You are all men of power,” he impressed upon
them, “power greater than mine. One day you might find yourself standing where I stand. Would you
wish to be convicted based on who you are or what you have done?” He let his eyes move across the
room one last time. “I only ask that you judge me as you would wish to be judged.” He fell silent.
“Finally,” Hardmar sneered. “Let us get this over with.”
Brand left the centre of the hall with the statue of Disfara, clearing the space for the lords to
approach and pronounce their judgement. Ingmond went first along with his margraves. He declared
Brand to be guilty of high treason and all other charges, and none of his men went against him. The
first twelve voices to send Brand to the scaffold. It required thirty-five.
Vale stepped forward as the next. He was glancing around the room, and his hand fumbled a bit as
it tried to grab the foot of the statue. As Quill called for his vote, the jarl did not reply at first. His face
was worried as he looked at Brand and the assembled noblemen. Whispers began to appear as
Valerian delayed, and Quill called upon him again. “Guilty,” the jarl finally declared, returning to his
brother and margraves. None of the latter went against their jarl. Twenty-nine voices against Brand.
The last jarl to voice his support was Theodstan, who mirrored his predecessor at the statue.
Exhaling deeply, Theodoric swallowed and at last called out his choice. “Innocent of all charges.” As
he turned around to walk back, his eyes crossed Konstans and afterwards Hardmar, making the jarl
hurry back to his men. Had he declared as the others, the decision would have been made. Instead,
people in the hall were calculating furiously. Six more members of the Adalthing had to lend their
voice to a guilty verdict.
Only the landgraves remained now; upon his ascension as heir to the realms, Hardmar had lost his
membership as an atheling, and Brand would not be participating either, though it seemed doubtful he
would have voted for his own guilt in any case. Absent those northern landgraves who were in revolt,
eleven in all had come to the assembly; nine of these were from the south. One by one, the remaining
noblemen were called forward to make their voice heard.
Marcaster declared the prisoner guilty and sent Hardmar a nod, which the prince graciously
reciprocated. The next two followed suit. The fourth hesitated briefly before announcing that he found
the accused innocent. As he returned to the edge of the hall, the other southerners shied away from
him. The fifth landgrave followed his peers and proclaimed his verdict to be guilty, as did the sixth,
reaching a tally of thirty-four, one shy of a majority. With a heavy expression, Brand looked up at his
sister. Arndis attempted to smile, but failed.
The seventh landgrave stepped forward and called out his judgement. When the word resonated
around the hall, Brand staggered as if the doom pronounced upon him had physically fallen onto his
shoulders. It did not matter what the remaining noblemen decided; Brand was found guilty of high
treason.
Once the counting finished, Quill began to speak, but he stuttered so, he had to try again several
times. “Adalbrand of House Arnling,” he finally spoke with quaking voice, “the Adalthing has spoken
with one voice. You are found guilty of high treason, which may be punished by exile or death.
Beyond that, you have forfeited your rank as knight. You shall be pronounced a knave and have your
sword broken.”
Hardmar leaned back on his throne, satisfaction overflowing in his smile. Konstans stepped
forward. “Your sentence is execution by the axe. Remove the prisoner.” On the balcony, there was
sudden commotion; Arndis had collapsed and would have fallen if not for the quick intervention by

217
William. As the Hawks dragged him away, Brand stared across the hall to gaze at his sister; both the
faces of the Arnling siblings were drained of blood.
Once the condemned had been taken away, Hardmar made a motion to Konstans, who gave a
quick nod. “The prince wishes to address the assembly,” he informed the noblemen.
“My lords, they are grim matters that summoned us here today, but justice has been served, and we
may all find solace in that thought. We will not delay, but see justice carried out. The executions will
begin tomorrow, spread over several days, to set a lasting example of what happens to those rebelling
against the Crown,” Hardmar declared. Hearing this, Arndis retreated from the balcony with hasty
steps, leaving the chamber. “The prisoners shall be executed in ascending order proportional to their
crime. Elis tomorrow, Arnling the day after, and one man from Isarn each of the following days,” the
prince decided.
“As you say, my prince,” Konstans acquiesced.
“Furthermore,” the prince continued, “not all is ill. I have an announcement to make in this
assembly, declaring the intentions of mine and another house.” He paused, making sure all eyes were
upon him. “I am proud to announce the engagement between my sister, Lady Gunhild of House
Hardling, to Lord Edward of Marcaster.” Cheers rose among many of those listening; Valerian and
Konstans remained silent, and neither looked pleased. “While it is traditionally the head of the
bridegroom’s household who has the honour of making such an announcement, I thank Lord
Marcaster for allowing me the joy of informing you all of the bond between our houses, soon to be
made formal through my sister and his son.”
Marcaster took a small step towards Hardmar, separating himself from the crowd of his peers, and
made a small bow. “The honour remains mine to see my son wed to such an illustrious house as yours,
and the joy felt by my prince is shared by me and all those of my house.”
Congratulatory and celebratory cries were heard around the hall; Valerian on the other hand drew
close to his brother. “What is happening?” he whispered. “What of Valerie?”
“We are being usurped,” Konstans muttered darkly, staring at Marcaster. “Hardmar wants the
landgraves on his side to move against us, and Marcaster wants to replace us.” He turned towards
Quill and spoke again, raising his voice. “Our business is concluded. You may end the assembly.”
The law keeper had been standing dazed, but the dragonlord’s words pulled him out of it. “The
voice of the Adalthing has spoken and may now lie silent. Under the eyes of the dragon, the raven, the
bull, the horse, the bear, the hart, and the eagle, I declare its word to be law.” The Adalthing was over.
Valerian turned to his brother again, speaking with a hushed tone of voice. “What happened? I
thought the prince had agreed to marrying Valerie?”
“I am as surprised as you, Brother,” Konstans confessed. “He was supposed to announce the
engagement.”
“What will we do now?”
“Do nothing,” Konstans told him. “I will handle this.”
“What will you do?”
The dragonlord let out a deep breath. “Tell the workmen to raise the scaffold. We will need it from
tomorrow on.”

218
 35. When the Raven Calls
Middanhal
As usual, Konstans sat in his study the following morning shortly after sunrise. Unusually, he was not
occupied with anything. He was not receiving visitors, reading missives, or writing his own; the small
hourglass on his desk stood still. By the wall was a larger water clock, and the dragonlord continued to
glance towards it while drumming his fingers on his desk.
He was at last disturbed by his servant. “That Red Hawk is here to see you,” Eolf informed him.
“Send him in.”
Jerome marched inside the room and waited until Eolf had left. “Apologies, milord,” he spoke.
“You had no luck?”
“No matter of luck would help,” the Hawk claimed. “I considered every angle. Approaching from
the library tower, lowering myself onto the roof and go through a window, sneaking through
somehow. Nothing worked. Those thanes got every inch covered. I couldn’t even get near.”
Konstans muttered a curse. “I must devise a way.”
“I can’t see how anything can be done inside the Citadel.”
“Not inside the Citadel,” the nobleman mumbled to himself. Ignoring Jerome, he sat silent for a
while.
“Milord?” the mercenary cautiously asked after some time.
“I have a plan,” he finally said. “I have a long and arduous task for you, but your payment shall be
equal in measure.”
“I’m at your service.”
“Eolf,” Konstans called out, summoning his servant. “Send a message to Prince Gerhard. Inform
him that I request his presence immediately.” Eolf bowed in response and swiftly left. Outside on the
Temple square, several workmen were busy assembling a scaffold.
~~~~
Holwyn slipped into the parlour outside Arndis’ chamber, prompting Glaukos to leap to his feet. He
had his sword halfway drawn before he relaxed. “You should announce yourself,” he chastised her.
“Just keeping you on your toes,” she smiled. “Is the lady here?”
“I am,” Arndis told her, appearing in the doorway of her room. “Let us talk in here,” she
suggested, motioning for Holwyn to follow her. “What can you tell me?” she asked as soon as the
door was shut.
“I have set it all in motion,” Holwyn confided in her. “Thanks to Lady Valerie, a carriage with the
insignia of Vale will be ready to transport your brother to safety.”
“Because a carriage belonging to Vale will not be questioned at the gate,” Arndis realised.
“Precisely.”
“Can Lady Valerie be trusted?” Arndis questioned.

219
 “She has as much at stake as you do,” Holwyn claimed.
“What happens next?”
“Leave the rest to me. With your silver and some ham-fisted persuasion, I will see your brother
free.”
Arndis let out a sigh of relief. “When?”
“Today. The Hawks will be busy keeping order at the Temple square, and most of the Citadel’s
inhabitants will be present to see Lord Elis lose his head.”
Arndis gave a shudder. “As long as it is not Brand. Thank you,” she spoke with emphasis,
grabbing hold of Holwyn’s hands. “I owe you a debt that can never be repaid.”
“Thank me when it is over,” Holwyn smiled. “I suggest you stay in your room until then. Do not
give anything away.”
“I will not move one foot,” Arndis promised.
~~~~
Berimund moved through the royal quarters, nodding at his men as he passed them. The captain of the
kingthanes continued until the innermost room, which served as Hardmar’s bedchamber. The prince
was being attended to by servants dressing him. Berimund stepped inside and stood waiting.
“Captain,” Hardmar addressed him. The prince was looking into his mirror, admiring his
appearance, and also using it to glance at the big man standing by the door.
“You summoned me, my prince,” Berimund replied politely.
“I did. Two of my kingthanes need to be dismissed from service immediately,” Hardmar told him,
returning his attention to his attire. “I am tempted to command them incarcerated, but I have decided
to be lenient.”
“Dismissed?” Berimund repeated. “Are you referring to Alaric and Sandar?”
“I am not aware of their names,” the prince retorted with derision. “They were my protectors the
other day when I went to the library, where they defied me and refused to follow orders.”
“That would be them,” Berimund confirmed. “They told me of the incident shortly afterwards.”
“Well? Have they been thrown out in dishonour as they deserve? Stop fiddling, fool, and be done
with it!” The last sentence was directed at a servant buckling the prince’s belt.
“My prince,” the captain explained in patient voice, “as neither of them have been derelict in their
duties, brought shame to themselves, or in any way dishonoured their oath as thanes, I see no cause
for that.”
Anger took hold of the prince’s expression, and the servants almost recoiled. He turned around to
face the captain, having to bend his neck backwards to stare up at him. “I gave them an explicit
command, and they refused to follow! How in Hel’s name is that not a violation of their oath?”
“Assaulting the King’s Quill when he poses no threat would be a crime,” Berimund spoke with
composure. “To attack him is to attack the Adalthing, which may not be done.”
“He is a threat! He is a traitor like the rest of you!” Hardmar grabbed a cup standing on a nearby
drawer and threw it against the wall.
“If that is your belief, my prince, you may dismiss him and all of us from service once you become
king.” Berimund bowed his head in subservience.
Hardmar stared at the big thane, breathing heavily. “I will not forget this,” he swore with a
malicious look. “Out of my way,” he snapped a moment later. “I have an execution to attend.” The
captain stepped aside, making a full bow as the prince marched past him.
~~~~

220
From the dungeons, two Hawks dragged Elis up the stairs and outside, reaching the southern
courtyard. Already, a crowd was lining up to see the last march of the condemned. As they passed the
gate, the number of spectators increased tenfold. A path was kept clear along the Arnsweg by
hundreds of Hawks, keeping the people at bay and providing a suppressing effect to the riotous mood
that so easily could grip a crowd.
Elis looked as pitiful as ever; to his filthy and ragged appearance, he added a sense of despair and
despondence so strong, it surrounded him like a stench. He moved with lethargic steps, and the Hawks
escorting him grumbled impatiently. They had been instructed not to hurry, allowing all plenty of time
to witness the traitor’s slow march towards death.
~~~~
The Citadel was nearly emptied for inhabitants courtside, giving it an eerie atmosphere of being
abandoned; for something as important as the execution of a traitor, even servants were given leave of
their duties to watch the law of the realm being upheld. Light-footed, Holwyn moved through the
hallways with nary a sound; with nearly every Hawk on the streets to maintain order, she walked
unseen across the fortress.
Yet as she neared the dungeons, she was spotted. “Hullo, Holwyn,” a voice called out to her.
Holwyn froze in her tracks. She was disguised as man, wearing pants and with her long hair tucked
underneath a cap. She had just passed the doors to the various barracks occupied by the Hawks; ahead
of her was the door that led to the cells. With a resigned look towards the entrance ahead, she turned
around. “Hullo, Brother.”
Holebert looked at her with a regretful smile. “The jarl says to return to our chambers and stay
there until his return.”
“How did he know?”
“You had me recruit one of Lady Valerie’s servants to be our spy.”
“The one who was enamoured by you because of the whole debacle with Isarn,” Holwyn
mentioned. “She ratted me out?”
“Funny, isn’t it? She overheard your conversation and told me without realising your identity. I
told the jarl, who figured out your scheme.”
Holwyn glanced towards the door to the lower levels. “You could say you came too late. Or that I
knocked you out.”
Holebert shook his head. “Unlike you, I know my place. Our family has always served the jarls of
Theodstan. I will not endanger that.”
“This is the only chance I will get!” she implored him. “It will be too late soon.”
“Why do you care?” Holebert asked with a scrutinising gaze at his sister. “This Adalbrand is
nothing to us.”
“He saved us all,” Holwyn argued. “Theodoric risked everything to warn the Order against Isarn’s
treachery, and it would have been for naught if not for Adalbrand. It is not right to do nothing and let
him become meat for the worms.”
“Doing nothing may not be right, but it’s smart. There’s a hunt going on for traitors, and this can’t
be concealed,” Holebert warned her. “They will scour this place for the culprit, and someone will talk.
If not Lady Valerie or Lady Arndis, then the stable hand who prepared the carriage, or the guards at
the gate who let it through, or some servant who noticed something. They will piece it together, our
jarl will be next on the executioner’s block, and you will hang.”
“You may be right,” Holwyn admitted, hanging her head in defeat. One hand moved towards her
pocket where her sap lay.

221
 “Don’t even try,” Holebert told her. He gestured with his head towards the upper levels. “Move.
You first.”
With a bitter look, Holwyn walked past her brother towards their chambers. “We’ll have innocent
blood on our hands,” she said spitefully.
“At least it won’t be our blood,” he replied, escorting her back to their quarters.
~~~~
With spring arriving, the vendors had been returning to the Temple square, transforming it to a
marketplace once more and bringing trade with them. Much to the chagrin of the guilds, all of this had
been temporarily halted. This was not only to make way for the scaffold raised in the centre of the
square, but also to allow a throng of people to watch. Just south of where the executioner was to ply
his trade, a tribune had been built to allow the prince the perfect view of the square, with the Temple
serving as the background to the gruesome spectacle about to unfold.
Hardmar sat on a tall chair in the middle of the tribune with the lord protector to his right and the
dragonlord to his left. Seated on benches extending on either side were the noblemen of the Adalthing,
many of them accompanied by their wives and children. The absence of most of the northern lords
meant that space was ample.
Elis’ slow progress from the Citadel to the Temple square had the unintended consequence of
making the high lords and ladies wait in the cold weather without entertainment. “Wine,” Hardmar
commanded, holding out his cup. A servant hurried to fill it. He drummed the fingers of his free hand
on the armrest of his chair impatiently. “Gods, will this ever begin?” he questioned.
“There he is now, my prince,” Valerian told him.
Elis shuffled his way to the open space between the tribune and the scaffold. He looked around,
seeing thousands of faces staring back at him. From princes and noblemen to paupers and nobodies,
Elis had the attention of everybody. He stared up the stairs to where a hooded man awaited him, and it
seemed he finally snapped out of the haze surrounding his mind. “No!” he yelled.
His words were lost in the clamour demanding his life. Whether for reasons of revenge, justice, or
simply delight in watching the fall of those once high, none had pity on Elis. The Hawks grabbed him
by the shoulders and dragged him up the scaffold without hesitation. The landgrave kicked and
screamed, pleaded and begged, threatened and cursed, all to no avail. Finally, one of the Hawks
punched him in the mouth to silence him.
Quill, who had been standing behind the prince, stepped forward. “George of Elis, you have been
condemned to death, and the raven calls for you. You may speak your final words and hope the eagle
shall hear.”
“Spare me!” Elis implored, staring at the tribune. Every face looking back was implacable and
deaf to his pleas. “Save me,” he mumbled weakly to the soldiers standing by his side. With indifferent
expressions, they pushed him to his knees and held him in place, placing his head on the block. The
executioner hefted his great axe in his hands for a few moments and took position, gazing at the
dragonlord until he received the signal to continue. The prisoner continued to beg, struggling in vain
to escape. As Konstans nodded, the axe fell swiftly, cleanly, and Elis spoke no more.

222
 36. No Greater Honour
Middanhal
The rest of the day following Elis’ execution passed with normalcy; yet to a few, the sun seemed to
hasten across the sky, setting and rising again all too swiftly. In his lodgings, Brand could not see or
mark the passage of time any other way than when meals were served to him; he only knew that night
had passed and day had come when a guard opened his cell and pushed his morning meal to him. The
sun had risen on his last day.
Brand picked up the bowl of porridge, stabbing the slush with his wooden spoon. Noise in the
hallway made him look up abruptly, fixing his eyes on the door. The sound of the key being turned
was heard, and the door swung open. It was not his escort to the scaffold, but his sister. He let the
bowl fall to the ground and hurried to stand, catching her in an embrace; his chains allowed him just
barely to close his arms around her waist.
“I tried,” she told him, pressing her face against his neck; her voice revealed her to be a short step
away from tears. “I tried, everything I could think of. I spent all day yesterday trying to see the prince,
the lord protector –”
“Be still, Sister,” Brand told her gently, stroking her hair. “I have no doubt you did.”
“You were supposed to be far away from here,” she stammered.
“Enough, enough,” he chided her with a kind voice. “It is all out of our hands now. Come now,
you should be consoling me,” he continued with a sad smile.
She looked up at him. “You are the only family I have. What am I to do without you?”
“What you did all those years while I was away,” he reminded her. “Survive. You have the same
strength as I do. That is my only comfort in this hour. I need not fear for you after I am gone.”
She pressed herself against him again. “I cannot bear to hear you say it!”
“Of course you can, Sister. You are the last Arnling and more deserving to be named an atheling
of Sigvard than anyone else in this realm.” He pulled back a bit to look at her with a wry expression.
“Present company excluded.”
She gave a hiccough that sounded halfway between laughing and crying. “I pity other women who
do not have the fortune of being your sister.”
“I pity other men, especially those who would deny you anything. Now live your life free, Arndis,
have children, and tell them my story. In this manner, I shall live forever.”
“I shall name my first son Adalbrand. And the next two or three,” she added, prompting the
familiar sound choked between laughter and tears from him.
“It is time.” Neither of the siblings had noticed that a guard had appeared in the doorway.
“It cannot be time already!” Arndis exclaimed fiercely. “It is still morning!”
“They want it over with faster. It took too long yesterday,” the guard explained with indifference.
“Farewell, Sister,” Brand told her, embracing her one more time. “Now or in an hour, it will not
change anything. Let me leave lest I lose my courage.”

223
 Arndis bit her lip. “Farewell, Brother,” she finally spoke. “I will never forget you.”
“You have to leave now, milady,” the Hawk told her brusquely.
Brand released her from his grasp, and she stepped away. At the door, she turned to look upon him
one last time. They each bowed their head towards the other, silence filling the space between them;
then she was gone.
~~~~
The march from the dungeons went swifter than yesterday’s procession. Brand moved at a steady
pace, walking tall. The reaction from the crowd upon seeing him was ambivalent. Some shouted
disparaging remarks as could be expected, but they were few in number. Some cried out in disbelief or
despair; most seemed dumbstruck, unable to understand that the man hailed as hero and champion by
every town crier was about to meet the executioner.
By the Temple square, everyone was waiting for his arrival. Princes, jarls, landgraves and
margraves, wives, children, thanes and favoured servants, all of them sat on chairs or the benches on
the elevated tribune. Arndis arrived as the last, having gone against the advice of her friends to stay
away. Glaukos and Geberic flanked her, trying to push their way forward, but the nobility and their
retinue saw no reason in yielding space to the sister of a disgraced knight and traitor.
Berimund, his eyes constantly surveying the crowd for trouble, took note and muttered a few
commands to some of his men. Swiftly, they ensured room was made for Arndis, allowing her full
visibility of the square.
By the prince stood Quill as yesterday, ready to play his part. Egil did not accompany him for this;
his master had deemed it unnecessary that the apprentice learned this lesson already.
In the crowd were Matthew, Nicholas, and Quentin. The latter two were armed with bows and
Matthew had his sword, but they could not even reach the edge of the throng held back by scores of
Hawks. Instead, they were perched upon the stairs of the Temple, giving them an excellent vantage
point. With them was Troy; the bard stood ready to witness the final verse in his song of the
Dragonheart.
~~~~
Reaching the open space between the tribune and the scaffold, the Hawks grabbed hold of Brand’s
shoulders to make him stop and force him on his knees before the prince. The latter rose from his
chair and walked to the edge of the elevated platform, making him visible to most. In his hands, he
held a sheathed sword.
“Adalbrand of House Arnling, you are an oath breaker,” Hardmar declared in a loud voice. He
pulled the sword from its scabbard; if standing close, it was possible to see that the blade had been
partly filed through. The prince took hold of the sword in each end with gloved hands and broke the
blade against his knee. Raising the pieces into the air, he threw them onto the ground in front of
Brand. “Thus, your honour is broken, and I pronounce you a knave for all to know.” The prince
returned to his seat. “Proceed,” he commanded.
The Hawks pulled Brand up to stand on his feet and pushed him towards the scaffold. With a
sneer, Brand jerked his shoulders away from his guards, walking on his own up the stairs. Once there,
he turned to face the tribune again.
Quill stepped forward. “Adalbrand of House Arnling, you have been condemned to death, and the
raven calls for you.” His voice was hoarse. “You may speak your final words and hope the eagle shall
hear.”

224
 Brand gazed upon the gathering of nobles, who had come to witness his death. “Last I came to this
city, it was to save you all from a tyrant. You chose another to be your master, and whatever fate
befalls you, it is well deserved. Now witness how the last atheling of Sigvard meets his fate.”
With those words, he willingly turned and knelt by the block. The executioner hefted his sharp
axe, waiting for the signal.
Every conceivable expression was found among the many faces of the spectators. The prince
showed eagerness. The lord protector was uneasy, the dragonlord determined. Tears flowed freely
from Arndis. Theodoric looked away, whereas Ingmond stared intensely. Yet the strongest reaction to
this scenery came from Berimund, captain of the kingthanes. He balled his hands into fists, his eyes
darting from the prince to the prisoner. “No,” he muttered. “No.” As Brand placed his head upon the
blood-soaked stone, the bear-like man leapt down from the tribune and charged the scaffold.
The morbid tranquillity of the square was shattered. Shouts arose from every direction,
contributing to the chaos that now ensued. Brand rose to his feet to see what was happening. The
executioner yelled for the soldiers to grab the prisoner, but both were struck by the confusion of the
moment. As they noticed Berimund, they attempted to block his path and draw their swords in
defence; they had as much luck as they would have withstanding the onslaught of a raging bull.
Knocking the Hawks off their feet, Berimund grabbed the executioner and tossed him over the side
of the scaffold. “Follow me,” he told Brand, releasing his battle-axe from the leather straps on his
back.
The kingthane jumped down from the platform. Troubled by the chains on his wrists, Brand
followed suit with less grace. Berimund was already running towards the edge of the crowd where the
Hawks were keeping the line back and maintaining order. They were suddenly caught between the
constant push and pull of the mob on one side and a nearly seven foot tall warrior furiously charging
them.
Using his axe as a blunt instrument, Berimund struck down several Hawks. “Run!” he shouted at
Brand, who wasted no time passing through the gap in the line and disappearing into the crowd.
~~~~
As yesterday, most inhabitants at the Citadel were in the city for the execution, including the Hawks.
Two remained as usual in the dungeons, keeping watch of the remaining prisoners. They sat casually
around the table in the guardroom, helmets on the table next to cards and cups of ale. Engaged in idle
talk, neither guard took much notice when a third Hawk walked down the stairs, holding a uniform;
only when they noticed that behind came Gerhard, prince of the realm, did they immediately stand to
attention.
“Be at ease, boys,” the third Hawk told them, throwing the uniform on the table. “The prince wants
to speak to Isenwald. Someone lock it open.”
“At once,” one of the guards acquiesced, fetching the keys. He unlocked the corridor first and
stepped inside to unlock the cell as well. Gerhard and his escort followed after.
Moments later, the third Hawk returned to the guardroom. “Come take a look at this,” he said to
the remaining guard, motioning towards the corridor.
“What’s going on?” The last guard moved towards the third Hawk; passing by, he was struck in
the back of the head by a sap. Removing his helmet, the other Hawk wiped the sweat from his brow
and revealed himself to be Jerome.
“I just didn’t want to drag you that far,” he admitted to the unconscious man and bowed down to
grab him by the arms. He pulled him into the hallway and further into Isenwald’s cell, who was
having his chains unlocked by Gerhard.

225
 “What – is going – on?” Isenwald asked perplexed.
Jerome dumped the second guard next to the first inside the cell. “What does it look like?”
Gerhard finally managed to get the chains open. “This is a rescue. I will take you to your father.
You may thank me later.”
“Much later,” Jerome stressed. “Time is not on our side.”
“What – of my uncle and brother?” asked Isenwald.
“There is no time,” Jerome urged. “We need to move now!”
“I am not going anywhere,” Isenwald declared with a slow, but steady voice, “unless they are
coming too.”
Gerhard’s eyes darted between the two other men. “This was not part of the plan,” he mumbled.
“Would you rather die in here?” Jerome practically yelled at him.
“Yes,” Isenwald declared with defiance.
“How about I knock you down, same as them,” Jerome threatened with a gesture at the
unconscious Hawks. “I’ll throw you on a cart and be done with it!”
“When we reach my father, I will tell him you left his son and brother behind to die,” Isenwald
countered.
“What should we do?” the prince asked confused, staring at Jerome.
“Hel take me,” the Hawk swore. “Too late to back out now. Fine! Strip these men of their surcoats.
We need two more disguises,” he instructed the others and hurried away with the keys. Standing in the
guardroom, he stared at the many doors leading down the other corridors. With a vulgar curse, he
chose one door, unlocked it, and walked past each cell asking the prisoners for their names.
“You do not know?” Ulfrik, once captain of Jarl Isarn’s thanes, jeered at him.
“You can stay and rot,” Jerome spat, continuing to the next. “Who are you?”
“Ernulf, thane to Jarl Isenhart of Isarn.”
“I don’t need the full story. You?”
“Eumund of Isarn. What is it to you?”
“It’s your lucky day,” Jerome informed him, unlocking the door quickly. “You’re going home.”
Eumund frowned in disbelief. “What is this?”
“You’d think people would be more grateful to be rescued from certain death,” the Hawk
muttered, opening his chains. “Go to the guardroom and put on the uniform on the table. Hurry!”
While Eumund did as instructed, Jerome continued his search down the other corridors. This time,
he did not call any names but simply cast a quick glance at the prisoner inside.
After two false searches, he came upon his prey at least. “Athelstan of Isarn, here you are.” Jerome
did as before, freeing the chained man within moments.
Athelstan stretched his arms. “I am being freed?”
“Finally, someone who understands. Follow me,” Jerome commanded. They returned to the
guardroom and found Gerhard, Isenwald, and Eumund there, the latter two wearing Hawk surcoats.
Isenwald threw the third one to his uncle, who put it on swiftly. “Get those helmets on,” Jerome told
them. “If I know Athelstan’s face, so will everyone else in this castle.”
The men of Isarn quickly complied. “What about our thanes?” asked Athelstan. “Should we not
rescue them as well?”
“Bloody Hel, no!” Jerome yelled, locking the various corridor doors. “We are leaving now!”
“I agree,” Isenwald declared with a cold voice. “You – do not know what they – did, but Father’s
thanes – deserve to remain here.” His brother and uncle stared in surprise at Isenwald, but neither
objected.
“Lead the way,” Athelstan told Jerome.

226
 Four Hawks and one prince now made their way through the Citadel with speed. Courtside, they
barely encountered any. Once they reached the Order side of the fortress, traffic increased; apart from
the occasional Order soldiers, there were also scribes, servants, and others employed in its service,
conducting their duties as any other day. If any of them wondered at Gerhard’s presence or why he
was being escorted by four Hawks, only three of whom had helmets, none saw it fit to ask. The small
group made it to the northern courtyard without difficulty.
Its southern counterpart and the Arnsweg beyond was filled with people to watch Brand’s last
march, blocking any attempt to swiftly traverse the city by that route. In comparison, the Order
courtyard to the north was relatively empty. Unusually, a carriage bearing the insignia of House
Hardling stood with a full span of horses, yet no driver. This raised a few eyebrows from those
passing by, as the carriages of the nobility were generally restricted to the southern side. Yet as before,
none questioned the actions of a prince.
“Everyone inside,” Jerome commanded. “And for gods’ sake, keep those helmets on and faces
hidden!”
The other four did as told, entering the carriage with speed. Jerome climbed onto the driver’s seat,
grabbing hold of the reins and setting the horses into motion.
The path from the Order courtyard to the northern gate was short, allowing for the Citadel to
quickly reinforce the walls. Soon, the carriage approached Woolgate. Inside, three Hawks and one
prince sat; various tells betrayed their anxiety. Athelstan’s leg was restless, Eumund was digging his
nails into his skin, and Gerhard sat with open mouth, breathing heavily. Isenwald alone seemed in
complete control of himself, appearing calm.
In the end, it did not matter; the Order soldiers manning the gate saw no reason to even hail the
carriage or question it in any way. They simply cleared the passage and allowed it to pass through. An
hour after Gerhard and Jerome had appeared in the dungeons, they had escaped from Middanhal.
~~~~
While the carriage was making speed towards Silfrisarn in the north, Berimund was fighting on the
Temple square. The Hawks had attempted to follow Brand into the crowd, but they had lost sight of
him immediately, and searching the mass of people was impossible; the situation had developed into
complete chaos. The only thing left for the Hawks to achieve was defeating the captain of the
kingthanes.
None of the Hawks had his prowess in battle, but they were numerous, and Berimund used only
the blunt end of his axe shaft or the flat side of the head. When he struck someone down, they got up
again, making it inevitable that he would lose; his only gain was buying time.
Finally, one of the Hawks pierced Berimund’s foot with his spear, and the thane lost his balance
with a howl. At once, the Hawks swarmed over him, knocking him to the ground and taking hold of
his weapon. He attempted to wrestle free with his great strength, but it was in vain; in the end, he
yielded and could resist no more.
The Hawks dragged him to the front of the tribune; unable to stand, Berimund had to be held up.
Hardmar rose and approached his thane with rage infused in every step, every gesture, every motion
that ran across his face. “You have betrayed me,” he spoke with unhinged fury. “Dogs shall eat your
corpse! You will rot in Hel for eternity!”
“As you say, my prince,” Berimund replied, remarkably calm.
“You have broken your oath, you have forsaken your honour, and now you shall die,” Hardmar
stated with utter contempt.

227
 “So be it. There is no greater honour for a thane than to die for his lord,” Berimund declared with a
strong voice. He found Arndis in the crowd and bowed his head to her.
“Take his head! I want it on a spike!” Hardmar spat enraged.
The Hawks renewed their hold on Berimund and followed the familiar route up the stairs, placing
his head on the block. The kingthane gave no resistance; he knelt placidly and did not flinch even
when the axe severed his head from his shoulders.

228
 37. Descent
Middanhal
Fleeing for his life, Brand ran north as the only direction available to him. Pushing his way through
the throng of people, he reached the other edge and found himself on the abandoned Arnsweg. It was
evident he had to remove himself from the streets and find shelter. Without hesitation and still in
chains, Brand steered towards the Temple.
He would end up straight in the arms of the Hawks if he attempted to reach the main entrance, but
fortunately for him, the Temple had many smaller entrances dotted around the complex. They could
only be opened from the inside, though. Reaching the closest one, Brand hammered his hands against
the wood. “Refuge!” he yelled. “Refuge!”
He continued his panicked blows, staring over his shoulder. The Hawks were still combing the
crowd, searching scattered in every direction, and none were in sight for now.
At length, the door was opened by a black-robed acolyte. “What’s going on here?”
“Refuge!” Brand exclaimed hoarsely.
The blackrobe widened his eyes, staring at Brand in chains. “Holy –” The acolyte interrupted
himself. “Come in!”
Brand hurried inside, and the door was shut behind him. “Thank you, Brother.”
“It’s my duty,” the blackrobe replied, scratching his head. “To be honest, I’ve never been in this
situation before. I don’t know what happens now. You haven’t committed a crime against the gods,
have you? I am not supposed to give you sanctuary in that case.”
“You have my word, I have done nothing of the sort,” Brand promised.
“That’s good,” the acolyte replied relieved. “I’ll take you to Brother Eadric. He’ll know what to
do.”
The blackrobe turned and began walking deeper into the complex, followed by Brand.
On their path, they came across several other robes of various colours, all of whom stared at
Brand’s ragged appearance and chains; even without recognising who he was, his status was obvious.
Setting a brisk pace, the acolyte wove in and out of corridors, finally going through a door to enter a
large room, arranged like a study.
“Yes?” asked the man sitting by one of the desks at work, keeping his focus on what he was
reading. The patterned hem on his black robe marked him as the local high priest of his colour; since
the locale happened to be the great Temple at Middanhal, it also marked him as the high priest for the
Order of the Dragon in all the Seven Realms and beyond.
“Brother Eadric, this man seeks refuge in the Temple,” the acolyte explained.
The high priest looked up and turned his head to see Brand standing behind the blackrobe in the
doorway. “By all that is holy – enter, quickly! Close the door!” Brand hastened to do as instructed.
“Were you seen coming here?”
“None saw me enter the Temple, I believe,” the escaped prisoner replied.

229
 “Did anyone see you before you reached my chamber?”
“Some of the priests, yes.”
“We must act quickly,” Eadric considered. “You,” he said directed at the acolyte. “Find the
Highfather and inform him he is needed here at once. I will instruct the Templars to close the Temple.
Wait here,” he told Brand, and the two priests left in haste.
~~~~
Left alone, Brand noticed a pitcher of ale. Grabbing it with both hands, he drank greedily; his chains
and eagerness left as much spilled as imbibed, but he sat the pitcher down with a satisfied sound.
Shortly after, Eadric returned. “I see you have quenched your thirst,” the high priest remarked. “The
Templars are closing every exit. That should buy us some time before your presence here is revealed.”
“I am grateful,” Brand said earnestly. “I was worried you might hand me over.”
“The thought crossed my mind,” Eadric admitted unsentimentally. “This Temple does not meddle
in politics. But the Highfather tasked me to find some way to save you from the executioner’s block. It
seems where I failed, the gods stepped in.”
“He did?” Brand asked with interest. “The Highfather?”
“Yes, but you will have to ask him why. He did not tell me.”
Brand’s eyes grew distant as he digested this knowledge. His attention snapped back as the door
opened and an old man in grey robes entered. “Adalbrand, son of Arngrim. I am surprised, which is a
sign of how weak my faith is.” The Highfather, leader of all the religious orders of Adalmearc, smiled
broadly. “Sit. You must be weary.” While Brand sat down, the old priest turned towards Eadric. “Has
the Temple been sealed?”
“It has, so we are safe for now. But eventually they will connect Lord Adalbrand’s disappearance
with the closing of the Temple and guess his location. What will we do if they demand he is delivered
to them?”
Brand stared back and forth at the two priests. “We will ensure he is long gone before that
happens,” Septimus declared. “If need be, he can be hidden at one of our shrines in the city.”
“With respect, Holy One,” Brand spoke carefully, “I am well-known. Sooner or later, I will be
discovered and handed over to my enemies. I must flee the city.”
“Getting you around the city is not a difficult task for my blackrobes,” Eadric claimed, “but both
gates will be shut and under heavy guard. Same with the outer walls. I cannot guarantee we can get
you outside the city without risking discovery.”
“Wait,” Brand asked of them, “wait. Let me think.”
“You have until nightfall,” Eadric remarked, “then we cannot wait any longer.”
“I have an idea,” Brand told them. “I will need a message sent to Captain Theobald at once, and
we must hope he is amenable to my plea.”
“It is risky,” Eadric spoke with doubt. “We may be able to put some pressure on the good captain,
but if he resists, our involvement is revealed.” He looked at Septimus.
“Do as he asks,” the latter commanded.
“Very well. A spoken message,” Eadric specified. “Nothing in writing.”
“Understood. I need my men to be informed as well,” Brand requested. “I shall require their help
once beyond the city if I am to avoid capture.”
Eadric nodded. “We can locate them.”
“I need you to take me to the northern wall. Tonight,” Brand continued.
“That can be done,” Eadric considered. “We will disguise you as a lay brother. Anyone who sees
you will assume you are making a nightly visit to a patient.”

230
 “Excellent. I will need at least forty feet of rope,” Brand mentioned, “and a weapon.”
“Your men can bring you one,” the blackrobe told him.
“I may have to fight before that. I need a sword as soon as I leave this Temple,” the former knight
declared.
“Any weapon in this place is sanctified to divine service.” Eadric shook his head. “The only
swords here are those of the Templars, and only they may wield them.”
“I will find a weapon for you,” the Highfather suddenly declared. The other two men looked at
him with surprise. “Prepare your messages and have them sent. Time is of the essence. Have his
chains removed after that,” Septimus instructed Eadric. “Afterwards, seek me out in the Hall of
Holies,” he finally told Brand. Both the blackrobe and the prisoner nodded in compliance.
~~~~
A while later, Brand appeared in the Hall of Holies without manacles, but wearing a clean linen tunic
instead. The sacred space was empty save for Septimus. It gave the usually bustling hall a strange
atmosphere; the statues of the gods lining the walls seemed to loom over the interior.
“Come here,” the priest commanded Brand. He was standing in front of the enormous wall
painting that was opposite the main entrance, depicting Rihimil in battle with the Dark Serpent. Just
below was the altar dedicated to the Alfather, the only one of its kind. It was made from marble stone,
a single rock hewn into shape. The sides depicted battles long forgotten, where tall and terrible
warriors with eerie eyes fought. The top side was completely smooth, except for the centre, where two
hands rose in prayer.
“You must swear upon this altar to never reveal what I am about to tell you,” Septimus demanded
of Brand.
The young man opened his eyes in wonder, but extended his hand to grasp its marble counterpart.
“I swear by this holy altar never to reveal what you will tell me now.”
Septimus gave a small nod. “Good. Let us fetch your weapon.”
He led Brand out of the Temple hall and into the complex. After another journey through its
winding passages, they reached the Highfather’s personal chamber, about as small and sparse as the
cell that Brand had occupied until recently. “Bolt the door,” he told Brand, who did so. “Push the bed
away,” he instructed next, and with a confused look, Brand complied. The priest took a deep breath
and bent down, grabbing the rug to pull it aside. Underneath, a hatch was revealed. As Brand watched
with incredulity, Septimus removed his necklace bearing the symbol of his office and used it as a key
to unlock the hatch. “Open it.” While Brand pulled the hatch open, the priest deftly lit a candle on the
nearby drawer and took out a second, placing it inside his robe. “Follow me.”
A dark and winding staircase revealed itself in the floor. Holding the candle, Septimus descended,
followed by his young companion. The steps, hewn into the rock, were indented where they placed
their feet, the sign of many centuries of use. Strange symbols were carved into the walls on either side
of them. They resembled the figures upon the altar and seemed to tell a story of endless war. The same
warriors, taller and thinner than men should be and with empty eyes, wielding swords of strange
make.
“What is this place?” Brand breathed. The candle cast long shadows, flickering to illuminate the
carvings before thrusting them into shadows again in an endless cycle.
“You will have many questions, and I have no answers. Nothing is known for certain,” Septimus
replied.
“What is depicted upon these walls?”
“My best guess, the Great War.”

231
 “That was a thousand years ago,” Brand pointed out.
“Almost eleven hundred,” Septimus corrected him.
“This is older than the Temple,” he considered, letting his fingers trace the carved figures as they
continued their descent. “How deep are we going?”
“Until the roots of the mountains,” Septimus answered, and they continued in silence.
Time seemed to dissipate in such surroundings, and only the slow decay of the candle gave any
indication of how long they had walked. Finally, when their light source neared the end of its life, the
steps no longer led further down, and soon after they disappeared entirely as the floor became flat and
even. They walked a little distance longer and turned a corner in the tunnel. Immediately after,
Septimus stopped.
The passage expanded into a vaulted cave. With amazement in his eyes, Brand stared at an ashen
tree that grew in the middle of the naturally formed chamber. “How is this possible?” he marvelled.
“Without light or water, rising from the rock?”
“I do not know,” the priest admitted. “I only know that at times, the leaves become rustled as if
moved by wind somewhere else. Do not touch!” he added sharply as he saw Brand stepping forward
and extending his hand towards the branches. “This place is sacred beyond what mortal minds may
understand. We may not approach further.”
Brand stopped, letting his hand fall down. “What lies beyond the tree?”
In the darkness with such weak light, it was near impossible to see. “My eyes are too old to see it
anymore, but I saw it when I first came to this place. It is a door without handle or lock or bolt. Where
it leads, I do not know.”
Brand stared at the tree once more in wonder. “This is why the surcoats of the Templars bear a
tree,” he realised.
Septimus nodded with a faint smile. “They are not aware of the reason themselves, but I believe
so. This tree is the reason why the Temple exists. It is my holy charge and that of my predecessors to
protect it at all costs. The Temple must never be violated, this secret must never be revealed. Do you
understand?”
“Yes, Holy One, though I do not see who would have reason to wish it harm.” Brand glanced at
the priest briefly but quickly returned his gaze to the tree again.
“The outlanders, among others,” Septimus muttered darkly, and this gained him Brand’s attention
again.
“What do they know of this place?”
“Little more than us, I wager, but enough. It is why they have waged war against us all these years.
To them, there has never been any peace between our realms and theirs. Only a temporary cessation of
hostilities.” Septimus grabbed Brand’s arm. “Do you understand?”
“I do.” Brand stared once more at the green-leaved ash. “We cannot allow any to defile this place.”
“Good. Now, the reason we came.” Septimus turned to face the exit. Next to it, leaning against the
cave wall, was a sheathed sword. The priest reached out to take hold of it with his free hand. “I
believe this sword was placed here to ensure a weapon was always at hand to defend the antechamber.
Perhaps placed here before the Temple was built. Since that has never been necessary, I lend it to
you.”
Brand received the scabbard with a sceptical look. “I hope you oiled it,” he remarked dryly.
“That is not needed. Draw the sword, but only an inch or two.”
Perplexed, Brand inspected the sword. The hilt was laid with gold, a priceless emerald sat in the
pommel, and runes were carved into the cross-guard. “Even Dwarven-forged Nordsteel will lose its

232
edge unless kept,” Brand muttered, grasping the hilt and slowly sliding the sword out. It left the
scabbard silently and revealed the pattern of waves upon the blade. “Sea-steel!”
“That sword will never break or dull,” Septimus declared. “To wield it is a great responsibility. Do
not draw it in anger,” the priest commanded, “or to commit an evil act. Never sully its blade.”
“I shall not,” Brand promised.
“When you have no further need of it, you must return it to me.”
“I shall.”
“Good,” Septimus nodded. He took the spare candle from his robe and used the dying flames of its
predecessor to light it. “Let us return.”
~~~~
They made the ascent in silence, and arranged the furniture in Septimus’ chamber to hide the hatch.
“There is one more thing,” the priest told Brand. “I need something. Meet me in the Hall of Holies.”
They separated, and Brand returned to the ornate hall. A few acolytes were cleaning and removing
offerings from the various altars and gave him little attention. He crossed the room to reach the statue
of Rihimil and knelt by its altar.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I swear each year on this day, on Rihimil’s Day, I will give offerings
in praise of your grace towards me.” He leaned forward, letting his brow touch the edge of the cool
stone.
Rising again, he idled around for a little while until the Highfather returned, carrying a small jar
and a piece of cloth. “Leave us,” the latter commanded, and the acolytes cleared the room without
hesitation. “Over here,” he told Brand, nodding towards the altar for the Alfather. “Kneel.” Brand did
as instructed, kneeling in front of the priest, who opened his jar. The scent of oil faintly spread, and
Septimus let it pour slowly over Brand’s hair until it streamed down his face.
“In Sigvard’s name, I anoint you.
Born of the dragon are you.
Our prayer upon you.
The Lord of Dragons keep you.
By this altar and this blood,
The Lord of All bears witness.”
Setting the jar aside, Septimus took the knife in his belt and pricked his finger. As drops of blood
appeared, he placed them upon Brand’s brow and finished bestowing the blessing of Sigvard upon
him. “Rise,” he told Brand and gave him the cloth to clean his face. The priest took a deep breath. “I
have done all I can to aid you now. Godfrey can ask no more.”
As his face appeared from behind the cloth, Brand stared at the priest in surprise. “Godfrey? The
spy I met in Hæthiod? He is involved in all of this?”
“That sounds like him,” Septimus assented with a wry smile. “He believes you have the skill to
push the outlanders back. For his sake, I have lent you all the aid I can think of. I hope he is right.”
“He is,” Brand declared firmly, placing one hand upon the hilt by his side.
“In that case, let us see to your escape.”
~~~~
Once night held sway, a lay brother and a blackrobe left the Temple through one of its discreet doors.
On occasion, they encountered patrols of Red Hawks, but these were scarce; most of the Hawks were
scouring Lowtown under the assumption that Brand would find it easiest to hide there. Furthermore,
the blackrobe knew the paths to take that kept them in the shadows, and stealth seemed natural to him.

233
They passed between the mansions of the nobility, moving along walls and through narrow streets. At
one point, the priest knocked on a door and was granted passage through the herb garden of a public
house with none of the patrons inside any wiser.
Their route was doubled in length, but eventually they stood underneath the imposing northern
walls, its towers rising up against the night sky. “This is where I was told to bring you,” the blackrobe
spoke quietly to the lay brother.
He gave a slight nod. “That is all I need.”
The priest inclined his head. “Dragon’s wing upon you,” he spoke in farewell and quickly made
the sign of the seven-pointed star before disappearing. The lay brother turned to face the walls that lay
between him and northern Adalrik.
Many towers dotted the outer fortifications, adding to their near impregnable strength. Even
though the garrison was still lacking in numbers, the northern walls were fully manned, mindful of the
rebels in Isarn. Some of the soldiers on duty stood watch upon the towers themselves, gazing out at
the open plains, others patrolled along the wall, and the remainder huddled together inside for warmth.
In the tower rooms, the soldiers passed the time in the same ways as everywhere else, using cards,
dice, and drink; if someone was blessed with a singing voice or knew how to play an instrument small
enough to carry around in a pocket, they could often shorten the hours of sentinel duty and receive the
gratitude of their peers for a performance.
Inside one of the many watch posts, one such occurrence had just taken place; one of the Order
soldiers on duty had played a piece on his short flute and received applause for it. He gave a small
bow, smiling as he put his instrument away.
“I didn’t realise you had wall duty tonight,” one of the others told him. “Someone told me you
played for them while having the Citadel watch.”
“I did,” the flute-playing soldier replied. “I got assigned to this post just today.”
“The kitchen must have poisoned a whole lot again,” another remarked coarsely. “I was only sent
here today as well.”
“Maybe the knight knows something,” a third considered. “Sir Fionn, who died and forced us to
spend the night here?”
“Please say it was a painful death, full of writhing pain.”
“The kitchen’s cooking will usually do that.”
“I know as much as you worthless bastards,” the knight grunted from a chair in the corner, “which
is to say, absolutely nothing.” He cut a piece from the apple in his hand and ate it demonstratively
loud.
“What I don’t get is why they assigned a knight to this tower,” someone contemplated with a sly
expression. “They don’t even have that at the gatehouse. Is it because we are so much trouble we need
to be watched, or is someone punishing the good knight in our midst?”
“Shut your fruit hole,” Fionn mumbled with bits of apple flying out of his own opening.
There was a knock on the door, which caused everyone inside to exchange glances. The guard was
not to change for many hours, and everyone knew how Isarn had begun its rebellion by assaulting the
garrison from inside the city, slaughtering their Order brethren upon the walls. Instinctively, everyone
reached for their weapon.
“Well, I doubt they would knock first if they were here to fight,” Fionn declared, though he still set
his knife and fruit aside to place his right hand on his sword hilt. “Open the door.”
One of the soldiers did while the others watched intently. “It’s just a lay brother,” he told the
others, causing tension to reduce. “You got the wrong place, Brother, we have no wounded here,” he
told the man at the door.

234
 “On the contrary, Faramod, I believe this is the right place,” the lay brother replied.
The soldier took a step back with an astonished look. “You know me?”
The robed man followed, entering the tower. “I know you all.” He took down his hood and
revealed himself to be Brand.
“Captain!” many of them exclaimed, rushing forward to get a better look and nearly stumbling
over one another.
“It’s really you!”
“Lieutenant, you remember me?”
“Sir, you’re alive!”
Brand raised his hands to command silence. “I am for now. I need your help to escape the city and
certain death. I place my life in your hands.”
The soldiers exchanged looks, and eyes darted between Brand and Fionn. The knight had stayed
back, but now he sent Brand a scrutinising gaze. “So that is why I was sent here. All of us fought with
you,” he realised. “Theobald is in on this, that old fox.” A smile slowly spread across his face. “You
always had a good plan. How do you intend to get across the wall?”
Brand patted his own stomach. “I have forty feet of good rope under this robe.”
“Let us get to it,” Fionn declared. “Faramod, close the door and keep watch here. You dullards are
with me.” He motioned towards several of the others and went for the stairs.
Quickly, the small group ascended the tower, reaching its top floor with the doors leading to the
walls. A moment later, they could gaze down upon the ground below. “Bit of a drop,” someone
mumbled.
“You, keep watch there. You, there,” Fionn swiftly commanded with a few gestures, sending men
in either direction along the fortifications where other soldiers might appear. “Rope, Sir Adalbrand?”
Brand pulled his clothing up to reveal that many feet of rope was tied around his stomach, giving
him the appearance of a portly lay brother. The soldiers grinned at the sight and untied the twine.
Several of them took hold of one end. Standing between that and the inner wall, space was cramped
but sufficient for their purpose. Brand took hold of the rope, tied it around himself, and looked at the
men. “Do not drop me,” he spoke, half in jest, half in earnest.
“We always trusted you to lead us into combat and out again,” someone remarked. “Now it’s your
turn to trust us.”
“I always did,” Brand told them. “I knew if I came here tonight, you would not fail me. Farewell,
good men, and know you have my gratitude.”
“Time is sparse,” Fionn muttered brusquely. With a nod in acknowledgement, Brand grabbed the
rope and jumped up between the crenellations. His next step took him outside the wall.
The rope tightened with the added strain of his body weight, and the men jerked forward and
backward in response. Finding his footing against the stonework, Brand pulled at the rope to signal
that they should lower him down.
Fionn looked over the edge, watching Brand’s slow descent. “This is more nerve-wrecking than
any battle,” the knight admitted with a grumble. “I should have told him not to look down.”
Even without the knight’s sage advice, Brand continued. The soldiers began to complain and move
restlessly while grasping the rope, as much as their confined position allowed. “How much further,
sir?”
“We are only halfway,” Fionn told them. “Hold on, you weaklings!”
“With respect, sir, you could help.”
“The rope is not long enough for any more to grab,” the knight explained with regret. “Damn!” he
suddenly added.

235
 “What?” several exclaimed.
“I thought the rope was unravelling. He is fine, he is fine.”
“Sir, is what we are doing treason?”
“A bit late to ask that question if it bothers you,” someone else pointed out.
“If your arms hurt, it is because you spend your energy talking,” Fionn told them in his brusque
manner. “Be quiet!”
There was some timid grumbling, but they did as the knight commanded. Suddenly the weight
disappeared from the rope, and the soldiers tumbled backwards into the inner wall. “Did the rope
come undone?”
“He did not fall,” Fionn reassured the soldiers. “He reached the ground. He is already away.”
“What a night!” someone exclaimed as they began pulling up the rope.
“Indeed,” the knight assented. “Of course, if any of you breathe a word of this to anyone, even
your wives or sweethearts, I will feed you your own bowels.”
~~~~
A few miles north of Middanhal, a small band of men sat gathered under a great oak. A few of them
wore Order surcoats, some wore tunics without distinct markings, and one was armed only with a lute.
The tree stood in solitude by the road, making it distinct and an obvious meeting spot. Some of the
men were constantly scouting, though the darkness of the night allowed for little visibility. The others,
especially the youngest, sat huddled to keep warm.
“Maybe we should use that lute for firewood,” Matthew jested.
Troy sent him an indignant look. “Do you also butcher small children for meat?”
“To be fair, firewood is better use for that instrument than anything you can do with it,” Nicholas
jested, earning him the same scornful look as Matthew.
“That’s harsh. Troy is getting pretty good,” Quentin claimed, and now it was his turn to receive
various looks.
“Quentin said something nice about someone,” Matthew stammered with open mouth.
“That’s as glowing a recommendation as you’ll ever get,” Nicholas grinned.
“That’s sure to get me entrance at every castle between here and Dvaros,” Troy mused.
“I’m surprised you’ve come along,” Quentin said with a glance towards Nicholas. “I didn’t think
that girl of yours would let you out of Lowtown.”
“Ellen understands,” Nicholas replied serenely. “She’s a reasonable woman.”
“Or she’s already tired of you,” Quentin jeered.
Nicholas widened his eyes in fear. “You think so?”
“Will you bleeding morons shut your traps?” Geberic barked. “This isn’t a trip for leisure.” By his
side, Glaukos allowed the corner of his mouth to tug upwards, but he did not speak.
“We have been here hours,” Matthew complained. “Are you sure you understood the message
right?”
“There wasn’t much to misunderstand,” Geberic retorted. “Tonight at this oak.”
“Could it be a trap?” Quentin questioned.
“Possibly,” Geberic admitted doubtfully, “but if they wanted to capture us, they could have done
so already. That blackrobe knew where to find us, after all.”
“Do you think we did the right thing?” Glaukos asked quietly of Geberic. “Perhaps someone
intended to lure us away from the lady Arndis?”
“I didn’t think of that,” Geberic replied with a curse. “But I can’t imagine the blackrobes would do
such a thing.”

236
 “There!” Glaukos interjected. “I see someone,” he added in a quiet voice.
“It’s a lay brother,” Matthew told them.
Soon, the shape had approached sufficiently for the rest to confirm what Matthew had seen. When
the lay brother threw down his hood, elation erupted among the men.
“Sir!”
“Milord!”
“Lieutenant!”
“I’ll be damned,” Troy admitted, leaping to his feet. “I have material for three different songs
now.”
Brand removed the robe entirely and shivered slightly in the chill of the night. “Better the cold
than hide who I am,” he told his men smiling. “Hopefully I will never wear another’s feathers again.”
“My lord, what happens now?” asked Glaukos.
Brand looked at each of his men in turn, letting his gaze linger upon them. “You have all risked the
wrath of powerful enemies to stand by my side. I will never forget this,” he told them emphatically.
“As long as I live, you shall all have a place at my table. When I have a table again,” he added and
was rewarded with grins. “For now, we flee the reach of the lord protector and his henchmen.” He
turned his gaze east. “We make for Heohlond.” The others voiced their assent and the small band set
out.

237
 38. Master and Thane
Middanhal
Middanhal was in uproar. Not only had Brand escaped the executioner’s block while standing on the
very scaffold, the intervention had come from the captain of the kingthanes, adding insult to injury.
That the thane had willingly taken Brand’s place under the executioner’s axe only made things look
worse for Houses Hardling and Vale. Furthermore, while his flight had been spectacular and public,
Brand’s escape was not the worst thing to befall the rulers of Adalrik; at least they and others were
confident that Brand was still in the city and would eventually be found.
Rather, the whole city was ablaze after the discovery that both the sons of Isarn had fled the
dungeons of the Citadel along with their uncle. Not only did Jarl Isarn have his heir and second son
returned to him, his feared and famous brother was also by his side again, ready to lead the armies of
Isarn once more. Unlike Brand, there was little doubt that they had fled the city already and were
beyond Vale’s grasp. This certainty was due to the greatest blow of all; the escape had been
orchestrated by Gerhard, brother to the crown prince, and the rebels had left the city in a carriage
belonging to House Hardling. Not only had the realm’s most dangerous traitors managed to flee, their
numbers had increased in the shape of the younger prince.
Hardmar had been fuming ever since the events at the Temple square, and his ire only increased
upon his return to the Citadel and learning of his brother’s actions. Numerous breakable items had
paid the price so far, and the kingthanes were caught in the dilemma of trying to give the prince as
wide a berth as possible while still actually guarding him.
The lord protector had been contemplating the same issue. He had received news that strictly
speaking, he did not need to share with Hardmar; Jarl Vale was the ruler of the realm, not the prince.
After conferring with his brother, Valerian had decided to inform Hardmar nonetheless. Thus, in the
evening of this eventful day, the two Vale brothers entered the royal chambers.
The servants, usually present somewhere in the background, were not be found. Inghard was
hiding in the library tower. The kingthanes stood positioned by the entrance to the royal quarters, as
far away from the inner rooms as possible. All of them stood aside with blank expressions as Valerian
and Konstans walked past.
Reaching the parlour in front of Hardmar’s personal chamber, the lord protector and dragonlord
was met by the aftermath of mayhem. Shards were strewn generously across the floor from jars,
pitchers, cups, and similar. Books were flung across the room, chairs lay toppled over, and any liquid
once inside the broken containers stained the ground. Hardmar sat in the midst of the destruction with
the only undamaged bottle and cup in his hands.
“My prince,” Valerian spoke cautiously to gain his attention. “I was given this not long ago.” He
held a letter in his hand. “It was written by your brother.”
“That snake,” Hardmar hissed, leaping to his feet and pushing the bottle in his lap onto the ground
where it shattered.

238
 Konstans raised an eyebrow at seeing the wine spill before looking at the prince. “Prince Gerhard
writes his motivations for doing as he did.”
“Let me guess,” Hardmar sneered. “He has joined the rebels in the hope they will put him on the
throne instead of me.”
“On the contrary, my prince,” Konstans gainsaid him. “He hopes to persuade Jarl Isarn to lay
down his arms with this gesture of good will.”
Hardmar snatched the letter from Valerian’s hand and began reading it. “What nonsense,” he
scoffed. “This is obviously a ruse of some sort. Nothing but a sword against his throat will make Isarn
surrender, and only a fool assumes otherwise.”
“Prince Gerhard’s decision was undoubtedly foolhardy,” the lord protector began to say.
“Do not call him that!” Hardmar bellowed. “Betrayers do not deserve titles!”
“Of course, my prince,” Valerian added with a small bow.
“This is utter rubbish,” Hardmar mumbled as his eyes glanced over the letter. “Why does he only
mention presenting Isenwald to his father? He ran away with all three prisoners. How much thought
did he put into this?”
“Who can say, my prince,” Konstans muttered. “Regardless, however informal or ill-conceived,
this is an invitation to negotiate. I intend to participate and see what may be gained.”
Hardmar narrowed his eyes sceptically while Valerian looked at his brother in surprise. “You did
not tell me you meant to leave,” he reproached Konstans.
“It is in the best interests of the realm that this rebellion is put to an end sooner rather than later.
As dragonlord, I will pursue whatever means available.”
“As if you care,” Hardmar sneered. “If this is so important, let your brother go.”
“Perhaps it is wisest that I go instead,” Valerian agreed.
“No. You and only you were elected by the Adalthing to rule as lord protector. If you are captured
or killed, it throws the entire leadership of the realm into question,” Konstans explained calmly. “We
cannot risk that. I will go.”
“You are eager to rush into a trap,” the prince remarked with scorn.
“I will bring the remaining Red Hawks with me and join up with those besieging Grenwold. I will
have an army three times the size of Isarn’s with me. I would like to see them spring any trap,”
Konstans declared dryly.
“Go then,” Hardmar finally said with disdain. “I hope it is a trap. It means either you or Isarn will
suffer defeat.” He turned around and pushed the shards of the broken wine bottle around with his foot.
“Where are the servants?” he grumbled.
Valerian turned to walk around, but Konstans remained standing. “If you say so, my prince,” he
replied haltingly. “With our numbers, victory is assured. Perhaps I will bring the scribe with me as
Adalbrand did and send reports back to the town criers of my victory over Isarn.”
Hardmar stiffened and turned around on his heel. “Why would you mention that name? And why
have the soldiers failed to apprehend him?”
“The city is large,” Konstans explained with regret. “Unfortunately, taking the Red Hawks with
me will delay our search, but it is necessary I bring all available troops with me. Should it be a trap, as
my prince hopes.”
“No,” Hardmar declared incensed. “Leave if you wish, but the soldiers stay! I want that bastard
found!”
“My prince, please,” Valerian spoke in an attempt at a soothing voice.

239
 “The Red Hawks fight under the banner of Vale, paid by our gold,” Konstans told the prince with
a cold voice. “They will follow me to do battle against Isarn if need be. The risk is mine entirely, my
prince, as is any glory.”
“I will go in your place,” Hardmar proclaimed abruptly. “You can stay behind. I will handle these
negotiations, if they are anything more than a phantasm of my foolish brother’s mind.”
“You have no authority with which to conduct negotiations,” Konstans reminded him with a hint
of a superior smile. “You may be our prince, but you are not our king. If you wish to accompany me, I
cannot stop you, but I will be in command.”
“You are damn right you cannot stop me!” Hardmar roared. “I will be leading the army, and any
victories will be mine! The people will hail my name as victor, me as the Dragonheart!”
“Brother,” Valerian cautioned him.
“If that is your wish,” Konstans conceded with a vague gesture imitating a bow. The Vale brothers
left, leaving Hardmar to dump into his seat with an empty cup and a bitter expression.
~~~~
The following day, Hardmar summoned his court to the throne room. Once the courtiers arrived, they
found the prince in the high seat with a great axe lying across his legs. He glanced around the hall at
those present, finally motioning for the guards to bring two prisoners forward. They were Ulfrik and
Ernulf, thanes to the jarl of Isarn. With little consideration, the Hawks pushed the men to the middle
of the hall in front of the throne and forced them on their knees; both had shackles around their hands.
“One of these men,” Hardmar announced loudly, “killed the family of Jarl Ingmond. They both
accuse the other of the deed, and we have no witnesses. I have decided it should be handled the old
way through trial by combat.” The courtiers exchanged whispers and looks of disbelief, but none
spoke up. “Let the gods show the truth. You,” he called out to the kneeling prisoners, “fight.”
“What?” asked Ernulf.
“To the death?” asked Ulfrik.
“Until one man no longer stands,” Hardmar replied with a casual manner.
The Hawks moved away, and both men immediately got on his feet. The combatants circled
around each other, sizing up their opponent; lacking weapons and with chains on their wrists, their
options were limited. Finally, Ulfrik rushed forward and tackled Ernulf. Both men fell to the ground
and struck at the other, but the shackles kept either man from landing a decisive blow. Trapped
underneath the larger man, Ernulf managed to push Ulfrik back and seized his opportunity to crawl
away. He did not get far; changing tactics, Ulfrik grabbed him by the arm and shoulder to turn him
around onto his stomach. With murder in his eyes, the thane wrapped his chains around his former
comrade’s throat. Ernulf gasped for air, but Ulfrik only tightened his hold. The court watched in
trepidation and fascination as the moments trickled by along with Ernulf’s life. Finally, he ceased
fighting and lay still.
Disentangling his chains, Ulfrik rose to his feet and faced the prince, having added blood stains to
his filthy and torn appearance. Hardmar viewed him with a discerning eye. “Take off his head,” he
commanded, lifting the great axe in his lap with some difficulty and throwing it at Ulfrik. The latter
caught the weapon with one hand, took hold with the other, and swung. As the court gasped in
collective horror, Ulfrik separated Ernulf’s head from its shoulders.
“Put it in a box and send it to Jarl Ingmond as a present,” Hardmar told a servant, who stood
staring with open mouth. “Tell him it is the man who killed his family. As for you,” the prince
continued, looking at Ulfrik, “tell me. Who do you serve?”
The thane hurried to kneel. “You, my prince.”

240
 “I need men by my side who will follow my command unquestioningly. Who will kill my enemies
without hesitation.”
Still holding the axe in one hand, Ulfrik raised its bloody edge towards the prince. “Without
hesitation, my prince.” He lay the stained weapon aside.
“Good. Swear it.” Hardmar rose and walked down the steps to stand before the kneeling warrior.
He extended his hand, which Ulfrik grabbed and pressed to his forehead.
“I will to my lord be true and faithful,” Ulfrik proclaimed. “Your life is my life, your blood is my
blood. All my days, I shall serve my lord until death may find me.” He paused for a moment, looking
up at Hardmar, who returned his gaze expectantly. Pressing the prince’s hand against his brow once
more, he continued. “By eagle’s flight from raven’s cry, through falcon’s fall till dragon’s rise, this
oath I swear.”
“By my table you shall be seated. In life, you shall know reward. In death, you shall know honour.
All my days, I will hold this to be true,” Hardmar replied, and the oath was complete. “I name you
captain of my kingthanes.” He turned towards those of his protectors present, who looked crestfallen.
“Follow his example, or you will follow your former captain.”
“This is an outrage!” It was not any lord or thane who spoke out, but Theodwyn. She marched to
stand in front of the throne, only a few paces away from Ulfrik and the prince. “This brute assaulted
me and other ladies of noble birth! His honour is forfeit twice, for attacking unarmed women and
hostages under his protection! Yet you elevate him?” Disbelief and indignation overflowed in her
voice.
“Be silent,” Hardmar sneered. “My decisions are not yours to question.”
“I do question them, my prince.” The title was spoken with a heavy dose of mockery. “After all,
your new protector could not even win a fight against three unarmed women!” she crowed, speaking
as much to the court as the thane.
“I can remedy that right now,” Ulfrik bellowed, grabbing the axe from the floor.
By Theodwyn’s side, Eleanor appeared. She tore the veil from her head, revealing the burn scars
that disfigured her face. “Try us,” she taunted. “You and your master are not the first tyrants I have
faced.”
“Enough!” Hardmar declared. “Go find a uniform,” he told Ulfrik, “and take a bath. You stink.”
He turned towards Eleanor and Theodwyn, staring at the latter. “As for you, keep wagging that tongue
like a dog’s tail, and I will make dog meat of you,” he threatened, turning abruptly around to depart
the throne room with speed. He left behind a court confounded by what they had witnessed, an
incensed thane along with two noblewomen in the same state of mind, and a headless corpse lying in a
pool of blood.
~~~~
The barracks were bustling with activity. The Red Hawks in the Citadel had been informed they
would march to join their brethren in the north at the siege, which had caused a whirlwind of
preparations. There had been no word on what exactly was expected of them, so speculation was
rampant.
“I bet they got tired of waiting,” Gawad considered. He was sewing to mend some clothes. “We’re
all going up the storm ladders at that castle the boys are besieging.”
“How much are you willing to bet?” Jorund asked with shining eyes, pausing from putting oil on
his short sword.
“You’re always betting away your coin,” the southerner chided him.
The Dwarf gave a laughter. “This one is safe. I am certain you’re wrong.”

241
 “How so? What else is there up north, except for the cold and some flea-infested sheep?” Gawad
gave a shudder as if he could feel the chill already.
“You forget to see the connection between events,” Jorund informed him. “Haven’t you heard
about the escaped prisoners?”
“I did,” Gawad said disinterested. “So what?”
“You’re really not from the realms,” the Dwarf grinned. “One of them was Athelstan. Everyone
knows his name.”
“Well, they don’t in Alcázar,” Gawad retorted.
“He is a brilliant captain. With his return, Jarl Isarn’s armies are twice as dangerous. I’ll bet you a
barrel they’re sending us north because they expect to do battle with him soon.”
“If he is so brilliant, how did he get captured?” Gawad questioned.
“Good point,” Jorund conceded. “There was this young lad, barely a knight, they say, who beat
him on the battlefield.”
“Is he leading the fight?”
“He is busy hiding somewhere in Lowtown where the executioner can’t find him,” Jorund
explained with a grin.
“Really?” Gawad exclaimed, taken aback. “That was him?”
“None other.”
“Did you hear?” A third Hawk joined their conversation, standing restless. “About what happened
in the throne room?”
“What?”
“The prince had two prisoners fight to the death,” the soldier told them eagerly, “and made the
winner the new captain of his thanes! He took the oath right then and there with the corpse still
bleeding next to him.”
“Gods, this land of savages,” Gawad mumbled to himself.
“I guess there was an opening to fill,” Jorund remarked.
“Why don’t you try to join their ranks, Jorund?” the third Hawk suggested. “You won’t have to
march around from fight to fight, risking your life.”
Laughter burst out in response. “A Dwarf in the clothes of a kingthane!” Jorund howled. “These
drakonians would tear the hair from their heads at the mere thought.”
“Besides, it doesn’t seem to be that much safer,” Gawad interjected. “From what I hear, these
kings and their protectors keep dying.”
“Or like yesterday, one kills the other,” Jorund added, still laughing.
“Hey, has either of you seen Jerome lately? Guy owes me ten eagles.”
Both Gawad and Jorund shrugged in response. “Maybe we’ll see him in the kingthane colours,”
Jorund suggested.
“Let’s hope not. Working for these lords is more dangerous than any battlefield,” Gawad declared
darkly. “Best we take our silver and keep our heads down.”
~~~~
Hours later, Ulfrik followed his new master to the library tower; the former had been washed clean of
the dungeons and wore a blue surcoat with the golden dragon upon it. Quill was sitting by a table in
the library hall, reading, when the door was pushed open with excessive force. Hardmar strode into
the room with his protector right behind. Seeing the prince and his henchman, Quill slowly rose and
turned to face them both.
“You,” Hardmar addressed the scribe curtly.

242
 “How may I serve, my prince?” Quill asked courteously.
“I want a legal document declaring me worthy of being crowned as king immediately,” Hardmar
informed him coldly.
From the scriptorium, Egil emerged; one look at the imposing thane made him remain standing in
the doorway. Quill sent him a warning look. “That is not possible, my prince,” the law keeper replied
with a polite voice.
Hardmar stepped forward and stared into Quill’s face; he was close in height to the scribe, but not
quite. “You refuse?”
“The law refuses, my prince. I am its embodiment and can only act in accordance to it.”
“I am your king!” The words burst from Hardmar, suffused with rage. “Do as I command!”
Quill’s composure did not strain the least. “I cannot, my prince.”
“You are the King’s Quill, you are my servant!” Hardmar screamed.
Quill straightened up, allowing him to stare a few inches down at the prince. “I am Kateb al-Qasr,
the scribe from Alcázar,” he declared in a proud voice. “I am the King’s Quill, but you are not the
king, and I am not your Quill.”
Hardmar had been tensing his hands into fists, and anger clouded his eyes; he took a deep breath
and turned to look over his shoulder. “Seize him,” he commanded Ulfrik. “Grab his hand and placed it
on the table.”
The thane quickly did as told; Quill made no attempt to avoid this or resist. Taking hold of the
scribe’s right arm, Ulfrik forced his hand to lie flat on the table.
Hardmar drew his knife. “It is a poor quill that cannot write. Such a tool has no use but to be
discarded.” Using the handle of his dagger as a hammer, he struck Quill’s hands, breaking bone.
An exclamation of agony escaped Quill, but he did not move. Instead, he kept his gaze upon the
prince as he spoke again. “I am the King’s Quill,” he spoke as if reciting from a book. “I am the
embodiment of the law. My person is sacred. An assault upon me is an assault upon the Adalthing.”
“Silence!” Hardmar struck again, hitting the fingers.
“I am the King’s Quill,” the scribe repeated. “I am the embodiment of the law.”
“Shut up!” Another crunching sound, accompanied by a scream of despair from Egil. The others
present paid him no heed.
“I am the King’s Quill. I am the embodiment of the law.”
“Remove him!” Hardmar shouted. “Throw him in a cell until he wastes away!”
“With pleasure,” Ulfrik growled, hauling the law keeper away.
In the doorway, Egil stood stunned; only the tears rolling down his face indicated otherwise. “You
are the new Quill,” Hardmar informed him with a harsh voice. “You will accompany me and the army
when we march out that you may record my victories. And upon our return to Middanhal, you will
write the document that the old fool refused to do so.”
The prince left without waiting for any reply, leaving Egil alone in the library.
~~~~
Elsewhere, Holebert and Holwyn were making a hasty departure from their jarl’s rooms at the Citadel,
leaving the siblings of Theodstan alone in their shared quarters. While one sat calmly down, the other
was animated and pacing around the room while gesticulating wildly.
“You said nothing!” Theodwyn exclaimed infuriated.
“What would that have accomplished?” Theodoric defended himself.

243
 “The man who wanted to cut your sister’s head off is walking around free in this castle!” She
turned to stare at him with furious eyes. “You will simply accept this without a single word in
objection?”
“With my low standing at court, it would have meant nothing,” he argued.
“It might have given others courage to speak up,” Theodwyn countered. “Or at the very least,
shown that you have some kind of backbone!”
“I went against Vale and the prince at the Adalthing,” the jarl retorted, both his body and his
temper rising. “Against my better judgement, pressured by you. I made an enemy of these people, and
it changed nothing! You would have me continue on this path?”
“Yes!”
“I should gainsay the prince at every turn, giving him every cause to despise me?”
“Better than to have your own sister despise you,” Theodwyn almost hissed.
Theodoric took a deep breath, regarding his sister with cold eyes. “You should mind that insolence
of yours.”
“I never speak a word that is untrue,” she declared proudly.
“Very noble,” Theodoric spoke pointedly, “and very foolish. Nothing gets a man killed faster than
the truth.”
“At least I would die with my spine straight and not limp from years of bending so low,” she said
venomously.
Her brother stared at her with narrowed eyes. “I think it best you leave the Citadel. Go and live at
my house in the city, or better yet, return to Theodstan. There is little reason you should remain here.”
Theodwyn scoffed. “All my friends are at court. I will not be chased away. But I will take my
evening walk for the sake of my health, not that you would care. Holwyn?” she called out.
“Accompany me.”
“Holwyn fled, and with good reason,” Theodoric told her. “Take one of my thanes.”
“I would not dream of it,” his sister replied with disdain. “I want solitude from all these brutes at
court, not to surround myself with them!” She turned and marched out of the room with determined
steps.
~~~~
In the dragonlord’s study, Arion was given audience with his master. He waited until the servant had
left before leaning forward to speak in a loud whisper. “Did you hear, milord? About the King’s Quill
and the new thanes?”
“I did,” Konstans replied curtly. “Word has spread wildly through the castle. I have already been
approached twice with regards to what I will do.”
“What will you do, milord?”
The dragonlord raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “The prince claims that the Quill assaulted
him, and that his thane merely defended him. I doubt you will find anyone who believes that, but we
are marching out tomorrow, and I hardly have time to begin a formal proceeding into the matter. It
will have to wait until I return.”
“Very well, milord.” Arion licked his lips. “Did you hear about the thanes?”
“I was not present, but of course I did.” Konstans returned his attention to the parchment in front
of him. “Decapitation in the throne room and a traitor made thane, the scandal is as great as his attack
upon the Quill.”

244
 “Not that, milord,” Arion explained eagerly. “Apparently he does not trust the other kingthanes
after the captain’s betrayal. The prince has already appointed up towards twenty new kingthanes,
many of them former Hawks. They swore the oath just now.”
Konstans turned his gaze back upon the chamberlain, frowning in contemplation. “I suppose given
his fear of treason, it makes sense from his viewpoint. Though I think he has traded hounds for
wolves.”
“You bade me inform you of any changes in the prince’s protection. Do you require anything
further?”
Konstans shook his head. “It does not matter this late in the game. We leave tomorrow. The
damage with the Quill has been done. I imagine that will suffice for one day even for the prince. You
make take your leave for the night.”
“Very well, milord. I bid you good night.”
~~~~
Usually, Theodwyn would take her stroll in the orchards and castle gardens, but Captain Theobald had
decided to keep such areas locked for the night until his garrison was back at full strength. Finding
herself frustrated, Theodwyn went up the floors to walk along the castle walls, taking in the fresh air.
Most Order soldiers were placed on the city’s northern defences after dark to keep watch against the
enemy coming from that direction; with Athelstan returning to command his brother’s forces,
vigilance was demanded more than ever.
Because of that, Theodwyn could walk undisturbed along the fortifications. The only soldiers on
duty were atop the different towers, keeping an eye on the city and the wide Arnsweg curving
alongside the castle. Soon, she found another on the wall, moving towards her; she stiffened and stood
straight as the shape approached.
“You,” she spat with utter contempt.
Ulfrik gave a vicious smile. “I did not imagine you would give me this chance on the eve of my
departure, walking alone beyond your brother’s clutches. You are as foolish as you are impudent.”
“Be silent, you dog,” she sneered. “Return to your master’s heel.” She made to move forward, but
he blocked her path.
“We have already taken care of the ink-stained fool,” Ulfrik told her menacingly. “Unless you beg
forgiveness for your insults and grovel at my feet, you will be next before tomorrow’s over, I swear it
by the Seven and Eighth.”
“Mad dogs like you should be put down,” Theodwyn retorted. “Only a mad man would give you a
position. Prince or not, I have nothing but contempt for him and you.” She tried again to walk past
him, but he moved to stand in her way.
“You should learn humility, or you will learn the price that every haughty hag must pay,” he
threatened, advancing and pressing her against the crenellations to prevent any possible escape.
“You dare to threaten me?” she sneered. “My brother is a jarl. Touch me, and I will have your
head.”
“Not before I have your tongue,” he shot back. “My former master was a jarl, and it did not save
his kin from the dungeons, nor will it save you.” He towered over her. “Beg for mercy, you miserable
crone.”
She responded with scornful laughter. “Or what? It went poorly for you last time we danced, and
you even had an axe.”
“Not another word,” Ulfrik warned her with rage flashing in his eyes, tightening his hands into
fists.

245
 “I believe I still see the mark of my shoe on your neck.” Her derisive laughter continued.
“Enough!” he roared, and one hand shot forward against her. It was unclear whether his intention
was to grab her by the collar or to push her, but it was the latter effect that came to pass. Arms flailing
wildly, Theodwyn fell backwards. She attempted to grab onto the crenellations, but in vain, and
continued past them. For a few moments, she plummeted towards the ground; she landed on the
cobblestones, shattering her spine and the back of her head with death to follow.

246
 39. Flour and Turnip
Middanhal
Hours later, still before the sun had risen, Holwyn slipped inside her master’s quarters. She found her
brother waiting for her in the parlour. “How is he?” she asked softly.
Sadness was written on Holebert’s face. “He has not been to bed. He merely sits upon it, staring
blankly. He does not answer when I speak to him.”
“Let me try.” She passed her brother and entered the jarl’s personal chamber. “Theodoric?” she
called to him with a gentle voice.
As Holebert had told her, the jarl sat on the edge of his bed staring at an empty wall. He did not
stir or turn his head when Holwyn spoke his name, but he did respond. “What have you learned?” His
voice was toneless.
“None saw the actual – incident,” she told him cautiously. “A kingthane was seen by that wall not
long after.”
“Who?”
“He was spotted from afar by a guard standing on a tower,” Holwyn explained with hesitation.
“The guard paid little notice to him. I could enquire about the movements of the kingthanes and
determine his identity, possibly, but success is uncertain. I might learn enough to piece it together, I
might not.”
“How likely?”
“It will be harder with the prince departing today along with many of the kingthanes and the
Hawks,” Holwyn considered. “Those would be the people to question. I could travel with the army
and return to you once I know.”
“I know enough,” Theodoric stated monotonously.
“You do, milord?”
“It was that former thane of Isarn. If not him, then one of his companions.”
“I think so as well, milord.” Holwyn stared at her master, searching his face, but it remained
devoid of emotion.
“My mind is settled.”
“What will you do?” Holwyn asked carefully.
He finally turned his head to gaze at her. “I will leave this chamber and attend court. I will accept
the condolences and this story that she fell by accident. I will appear to be in mourning, nothing
more.”
“But?” she dared to add.
“I will find the coward who declared war on the House of Theodstan, and I will kill anyone I see
fit until my thirst for revenge is satisfied,” he declared in a calm voice, standing up. “Tell Holebert to
come here. I need to dress.” The choice of attire was easy; all of Theodoric’s clothes were black.

247
 ~~~~
Although it belonged to her husband, Mathilde was a rare sight in the dragonlord’s office. Her
presence was a sign of how tumultuous the last days had been; she had marched through the
antechamber and forced her way into his study without allowing any obstacle to hinder her.
“Calm yourself,” Konstans told her to little effect.
“The Quill is in prison, Theodstan’s sister is dead, and Athelstan has escaped the dungeons to join
his brother,” she declared with a clenched jaw. “Everything is unravelling.”
“Athelstan’s escape is unfortunate, but Isarn has not nearly the army he once did. The damage is
limited,” Konstans claimed, taking a healthy sip of his undiluted wine.
“You do not honestly believe that,” she exclaimed.
“Regardless, nothing can be done about Athelstan at present, so you may calm yourself.”
“What of Theodstan then? This has made him completely unpredictable,” Mathilde argued.
“Before, he could be relied upon to remain passive. Who knows what he intends now?”
“Who knows,” Konstans repeated muttering. “He will be seeking revenge.” The dragonlord paused
for a moment. “I need to meet with him now while there is time,” he exclaimed in sudden realisation.
“Before we leave. There is no time to waste.” He left in haste, leaving his bewildered wife behind.
~~~~
In the library tower, Egil was packing his belongings. Although the task was familiar to him, he still
had his belongings spread out on his bed to determine what to pack. Along with nearly all his
possessions, Kate was also in his room, looking concerned. “What about Master Quill?”
“I don’t know,” Egil admitted, surveying his ink set, feather pens, clothes, and rolls of parchment.
“I tried to see him this morning, but they wouldn’t let me in, and I won’t get any more chances before
I have to leave.”
“How can you leave at such a time as this?” Kate questioned.
He looked up at her. “Do you think I want to travel with these madmen? They tortured Master
Quill,” he spoke with emphasis. “I want to run in the other direction, but that won’t help me or my
master, so I am doing as I am told.”
“Why can’t you tell someone? When I saw Lord Elis receive letters from the rebels, I was also
scared to talk. But I told the captain, and he made it right,” Kate argued.
“Those were special circumstances,” Egil countered. “Master Quill is the law keeper, and they
threw him in a cell, which should tell you what regard they hold the law in. If I say anything, I’ll be
right there next to him.”
“Then at least you could look out for him!” Kate almost stamped her foot in frustration.
Anger flashed across Egil’s face, but it quickly subsided. “Just be glad you’re a kitchen girl and
not part of any of this. Now, I have to pack, and you have your own duties to attend to.”
“Egil,” she asked hesitantly, “what happens to the library while you’re gone?”
“Happens to it? Nothing,” he replied absentmindedly. “I imagine the kingthanes will keep it
locked until my return.”
She stared at him as he picked out what to bring along on the march north; receiving no further
reaction from him, she turned on her heel and left the library swiftly.
~~~~

248
There was a knock on the door to Eleanor’s room, and with her handmaiden absent, she opened the
door herself to find William standing outside, wearing full armour and surcoat. “I just heard about
Lady Theodwyn,” he told her with dismay. “You have my deepest sympathies.”
She stood staring at him, hesitating for a moment before she stepped forward to put her arms
around him tightly. Although taken aback, he returned the embrace. “I am glad you are here. You are
very cold,” she continued. “Have you been out all night?”
He nodded, and they separated; she stepped back into the room, followed by him. “Yet another
fruitless search for Brand. Wherever he hides, I cannot reach him, which I hope means he is beyond
the reach of his enemies as well.”
“He is clever,” Eleanor declared. “He is probably miles away by now.”
“I doubt it, but let us hope so since I obviously cannot help him.”
“You have done your best,” she consoled him.
“I have done nothing. I could not stop his arrest, his trial, or his execution. I cannot even help him
escape,” William admitted bitterly. “I am a knight, not a courtier. It is little wonder I should fail at
every turn.”
“You are being too hard on yourself,” Eleanor said in a soothing voice, letting her hand stroke his
brow.
“On the contrary, it is important I remind myself. Brand is the same, and he forgot. It does not
matter that he wins every battle on the field. He loses every battle in these halls because he does not
understand.”
Eleanor bit her lip. “So what will you do?”
He took a deep breath. “Bearing this in mind, I will return to my duty. I came to Middanhal hoping
to solicit aid for the campaign in Hæthiod. I will speak with the quartermaster and gain what troops I
can, and then I will return to finish the liberation of our homeland.” He hesitated briefly. “You could
come with me. You have not been home in Tothmor for ten years if I recall.”
Eleanor considered it before shaking her head. “Arndis has lost her brother and a close friend
within the span of days. I cannot abandon her as well.”
“I understand,” William told her. “I will leave soon, I imagine. With summer approaching, I need
to take advantage of the season to finish the campaign.”
“Of course,” Eleanor replied, almost masking the disappointment on her face. “The Order has no
better knight than you.”
He stared at her with an indeterminable expression on his face. “You are too kind as always, Lady
Eleanor.” He gave a bow and left her room.
~~~~
The jarl of Theodstan strode into his own quarters, where the dragonlord awaited him. The latter
bowed his head. “My condolences, my lord, upon your loss.”
“Thank you,” Theodoric replied with indifference. “I was told you were anxiously waiting in my
chambers to speak to me. I thought you had a horse waiting to take you north.”
“Hence the reason for my anxiety as time is short,” Konstans explained. He glanced at Holebert,
who had originally fetched the jarl. “May we speak privately, my lord?”
There was a moment where Theodoric seemed not to care, but he nodded to his servant, who
quickly departed. “What do you want?”
“We are both intelligent men, so I will dispense with pretence. You are aware of who is guilty in
Lady Theodwyn’s death?”
The jarl’s eyes and voice changed from dull to cold. “Why?”

249
 “One of the new kingthanes. Ulfrik would be my guess,” Konstans told him.
“That is not what I asked.”
“I want to give you the opportunity to exact your vengeance.”
Theodoric gave a sardonic smile. “Grief may cloud my mood, Konstans, but not my mind. What
does it matter to you?”
“A member of a jarl’s family has been slain with impunity,” he explained. “It cannot go
unpunished.”
“That sounds likely, but not coming from you.”
“I extend this aid to you now because I hope to rely on your aid in the future,” Konstans admitted.
“Should, for instance, a new jarl of Isarn need to be chosen by the Adalthing rather than by our future
king.”
Theodoric scrutinised the other man’s face. “You are a hard man to read.”
“It might also come to pass we need to choose another future king,” Konstans finally confessed.
“One who will not throw the Quill into shackles.”
The jarl gave another mirthless smile. “Your puppet has cut his strings, has he? Now the rest of us
shall pay the price.”
“I grant you that matters have escalated far beyond what any could predict.”
“You have a hand in creating this monster that besets us, Konstans,” Theodoric declared. “Yet I
may not hold it against you if you can deliver what you promised. State your plan.”
“The kingthanes, including your sister’s murderer, are untouchable inside this castle. Yet all of
these new savages appointed by our prince will travel with him north. An army camp in comparison is
susceptible to swift raids.”
“I am aware,” Theodoric remarked with a touch of disdain.
“I am going north to negotiate with Isarn, however futile such an attempt is bound to be. It is
common knowledge that Isarn will have troops in the area, and given his lack of honour, none would
doubt that he might make such a cowardly attack.”
“I assume that is not all you intend? To tell me things I already know?”
“We have a great number of Isarn uniforms in our possession after defeating their army,” Konstans
explained patiently. “My chamberlain, Arion, can give you access to those surcoats.”
The mocking expression disappeared from Theodoric’s face, and he took a deep breath. “I see.”
“You will have some time,” Konstans told him. “The army does not travel fast, and we will be in
camp for a while.” He gave a deep bow. “My condolences once more, Jarl Theodoric. I shall leave
you in peace.” As they parted, one man wore a faint smile, the other a contemplative look.
~~~~
Less than an hour later, the Red Hawks in Middanhal marched out to join the rest of their company at
the siege of Castle Grenwold. At the front of the long column rode Prince Hardmar with more than
twenty kingthanes, most of them newly sworn to his service; the supplies train was in the other end.
Unlike his previous journey with an army, a horse had not been provided for Egil, so he had found
room in a cart carrying large sacks of flour. It was not particularly comfortable, but he could do worse
for a seat, and riding the wagon spared his legs the walk and his arms from carrying his belongings.
Red Hawks were marching alongside the carts, acting as rear guard. Soon, one of them caught
Egil’s eye. The soldier missed one ear but had an expensive ring in the other along with coloured
marks on his skin. While one hand held a spear as he marched, the other had a tendency to stroke the
groomed beard on his chin. Eventually, Jorund noticed the young scribe staring and sent him a grin.
“You’re a Dwarf,” Egil pointed out.

250
 As if bewildered, Jorund touched the gold ring in his ear and then grabbed hold of his facial hair.
“By my beard, you’re right, lad! I never knew!” He laughed.
“I just meant,” Egil stammered, “I’ve never seen a Dwarven warrior. You’re a Red Hawk, even.”
“You don’t miss anything, do you?” Jorund’s eyes glistened with mirth.
“I didn’t think your people liked to fight.”
This evoked boisterous laughter. “Are you mad, boy? We fight in our mothers’ wombs, trying to
punch our way out. Show me two Dwarves, and I’ll show you where the fighting’s at!”
“I didn’t know,” Egil admitted thoughtfully. “The only Dwarves I’ve seen are those at the Mint or
working their craft in the shops in town.”
“Inland Dwarves,” Jorund remarked with a superior smile. “I’m from the islands, and like any true
islander, travelling is in my blood. I’ve been to every Realm by now and Alcázar beyond. Where I lost
this.” He motioned towards his missing ear.
“What happened?” Egil asked excited.
“I had too much to drink one night. Truth be told that happened every night,” Jorund confessed
with a wicked grin, “but this time, these fiends notice my ring and don’t know better not to mess with
a Dwarf. So they follow me and fall upon me in a dark alley, cutting off my ear and my ring with it,
beating and kicking me to a pulp.”
“Then what?”
“The halfwits made the mistake of leaving me alive. I woke with a bigger headache than usual and
a nasty itch on the left side of my head,” Jorund related. “It took me a while, but I found out each of
those bloody ear snatchers’ names and I got my ring back, plus something for my troubles.”
“I have never seen a man wear earrings,” Egil contemplated. “Only women and Dwarves.”
“It’s an old custom,” Jorund began to explain.
“Jorund, you bow-legged, bearded bastard!” A Hawk with a more elaborate insignia appeared.
“Quit your yapper and fall into line, or your only supper will be the whip tonight!”
“Yes, lieutenant!” Jorund replied with a stout expression. “Don’t worry,” he spoke quietly to Egil,
“he is all hammer and no nail.” He gave the boy a wink and hurried past the cart, falling into place
next to a couple of other Hawks.
Egil turned his head and followed the Dwarf with his eyes. Looking beyond to see the rest of the
train, something caught him by surprise. Jumping down from his cart, he ran forward past a couple of
other wagons. “Kate!” he exclaimed.
Sitting in another cart was the kitchen girl. “I wondered how long before you realised I was here.”
“What on – how? Why?”
“You’re not the only one who gets to go somewhere,” Kate told him with a touch of defiance.
“The fine folks need someone to cook for them in camp same as in a castle, and Cook must be tired of
me, because she let me leave.” Her demeanour changed into a grin.
“Kate, this isn’t a trip for leisure!” Egil almost tripped over the words. “It isn’t like the stories you
read in the books or hear in songs. There could be battles, this is dangerous!”
“Would you prefer I wasn’t here? Would you rather be alone?”
“I didn’t mean that,” Egil defended himself. “I just don’t think you thought this through.”
“I did,” Kate claimed forcefully. “Master Quill is in the dungeons and you are gone, leaving the
library locked off and me trapped in the kitchens. I am tired of being left behind.”
Egil walked next to the cart for a few moments, digesting her words. “What’s in that cart?”
“Mostly sacks of vegetables, I think. Turnips, by the feel of them.”
“Mine is better, it’s flour.” He gestured with his head. “Let’s sit there. It’s more comfortable.”
With a smile, Kate jumped down and followed him down the row of carts.

251
 40. The Solace of Spring
Silfrisarn
The band of riders that entered Silfrisarn had little in common with the men that had fled Middanhal.
The carriage with the emblem of House Hardling had been discarded and extra mounts procured
instead. The Hawk surcoats and torn clothing had been exchanged for wool or leather tunics in the
first village they had reached inside the jarldom of Isarn. Some of the villagers had been sceptical
when sighting the ragged group, but the peasants were won over by the bearing of the sons of Isarn,
Athelstan in particular; soon they were in part stupefied by having such company, in part eager to
please in any way possible. With the help of proper food, the escaped prisoners slowly regained their
strength and began to resemble their former selves.
The guards upon the towers of Silfrisarn, easily recognising those returning, shouted the news with
joy. It was spread swiftly through the city, as these were the first good tidings to arrive to the city in
many months; with Isarn having suffered several defeats and knowing that the siege of Grenwold was
a precursor to its own, Silfrisarn was starved for good news.
Progressing through the city, some of the riders responded to the cheers with their own; for
Isenwald, it was an entirely new experience to be lauded. Prince Gerhard and Jerome, the Red Hawk,
had subdued reactions; they were now truly in the grasp of Jarl Isenhart, enemy of the Crown.
Reaching the keep, the riders dismounted with expressions of relief and gratitude. Their arrival
caused a great commotion; servants dropped whatever they were holding, guards pointed and shouted,
while the extended family of the jarl came running to greet their returning kin.
Athelbold, the jarl’s cousin, came swifter than most others and embraced Athelstan with the
warmth of a brother. Behind him came his brood, shouting and greeting the kinsmen they had been
told they would never see again. Isenwald laughed freely and even dour Eumund smiled.
“It has been a gloomy winter,” Athelbold declared, “but the new year has brought solace.
Welcome home!”
“Thank you, Cousin,” Athelstan replied. “We come not empty-handed, but bring good tidings as
well. Where is my brother?”
“I left him in the great hall. Be warned.” Athelbold lowered his voice. “His demeanour has been
foul ever since victory in this war became a fool’s hope. Do not expect a warm welcome.”
“Consider me warned,” Athelstan told him quietly with an understanding expression. “Let us greet
your father,” he spoke to his nephews, raising his voice. “We have much to tell.”
~~~~
The jarl of Isarn sat in his great chair lined with the skin of the bear he had killed in his youth, proving
himself worthy of his title. A cup and pitcher lay before him, both empty. As the newly arrived
entered the hall, he looked towards them.
“My sons and brother return,” he declared. “Would that the army you lost returned with you.”

252
 His sons glanced at each other, whereas Athelstan stepped forward. “Some things cannot be
mended, but the fates have deemed it right that your sons should not die to the sound of cheers,
surrounded only by enemies. It is a sign,” he claimed, “and the first step towards regaining what has
been lost.”
The jarl rose and approached his family. “I have heard such promises before, yet here we are in
Silfrisarn when we should be in Middanhal.”
“Times have changed,” Athelstan assured him. “We do not arrive alone but have travelled with the
man who rescued us from certain death, Prince Gerhard.” He gestured towards the prince behind him,
who stepped forward.
The jarl looked sceptically at the youth. “And did you do this out of the goodness of your heart?”
Losing the intimidated look upon his face, Gerhard cleared his throat. “I hope to remedy the ills
that plague our realm.”
Isenhart stared at him with a scrutinising gaze. “Do you, now,” he muttered.
“I will explain it all,” Athelstan promised.
“Well met, Father,” Isenwald spoke up. “It – is good to be home.”
The jarl let his eyes rest on his sons, and his shoulders dropped as tension left his body. “I am glad
you are home,” he admitted, grasping each of them around the neck. “You are sons of Isarn, and if
those silkworms had hurt either of you, I would have flayed them alive.” Eumund did not respond but
gave an awkward smile in his father’s grasp while Isenwald grinned happily.
“Boys!” A new voice broke through the crowd to announce a woman pushing her way forward.
“My sons, my sons,” she cried out, and they turned around to face her. She grabbed them, hugging
them both as best she could. “My boys, I thought you were lost to me,” Halla confessed with tears
appearing in her eyes.
“All this wailing,” Isenhart complained. “Make your greetings and refresh yourself after the
journey. Find me in my study afterwards, but do not keep me waiting,” he commanded his brother,
who gave a quick nod. The jarl left, leaving his wife behind to resume her outbursts of joy, hugging
her sons tightly.
~~~~
Less than an hour later, Athelstan and Athelbold had joined Isenhart in his private chambers. “Tell
me,” the jarl commanded.
“Prince Gerhard brings a proposal for peace,” Athelstan explained. “On behalf of Lord Konstans.”
“That snake,” Isenhart sneered. “As if he can be trusted.”
“He ensured our release,” his brother pointed out. “We would all have been executed by now if not
for this gesture of goodwill.”
“He could simply have demanded leniency at the Adalthing if he wanted to spare your lives,” the
jarl argued. “And why does this proposal come from the dragonlord and not the lord protector?”
“Perhaps to protect his position,” Athelbold considered. “This may not be popular among the lords
of the Adalthing.”
“This smell like a trap,” the jarl declared, “and gods damn me if it does not look like a trap!”
“You have not yet heard the proposal,” his brother reminded him.
“Fine. What deal does the so-called dragonlord of Adalrik offer?”
“If the war comes to an end immediately, we will all receive full pardons, and your title as jarl and
member of the Adalthing remains untouched,” Athelstan explained. “In return, we must pay a geld
equal to the sum that Jarl Vale has spent on his mercenaries.”
“Of course,” Isenhart scoffed. “The Bookkeeper is worried about his coin.”

253
 “Besides that, we must support the lord protector in any proposals he brings to the Adalthing while
his office lasts, including choosing a new heir.”
“I can see why the lord protector would not wish to attach his name to such terms,” Athelbold
smiled sardonically.
“Why this demand?” asked the jarl. “Vale chose that brat to be prince.”
“He must be regretting his choice.”
“This cannot be offered in earnest,” Isenhart exclaimed. “Even if we agreed to these terms, the
moment we enter Middanhal, landfrid or not, they will put chains on our hands and a noose around
our neck!”
“Vale may be eager to see the war end,” Athelstan speculated. “The mercenaries must be draining
his coffers dry.”
“That I can believe,” the jarl scoffed. “But this is clearly a trap. Either they will ambush us at these
negotiations, or they will once we return to Middanhal.”
“If the peace is concluded in public, sworn upon the statue of Disfara at the Adalthing,” Athelbold
considered, “Vale would not dare to break such a peace. Even these southerners must hold some
things sacred.”
“Perhaps,” Isenhart replied doubtfully, “but that merely means they will not let it come that far.
They will ambush us the moment we leave this castle.”
“Let them,” Athelstan declared self-assured. “We will bring our forces, and they may bring theirs.
Let us see how these sell-swords fare against the sons of Isarn.”
“I would place more faith in that boast, Brother, if you had not already lost one battle on the field.”
“I underestimated my opponent,” Athelstan confessed. “I fought my former squire without
knowing it, and he took advantage of my ignorance.”
“And what if that should happen again?” Isenhart questioned. “I will not have you throw my
remaining warriors away.”
“They tried to behead him some days ago,” his brother declared dryly, “so I think he is done
fighting for them.”
“Athelstan is right,” said their cousin. “If this is genuine, we cannot hope for better terms. If it is
false, let us unmask their dishonour by slaughtering their hired blades.”
Isenhart glanced from one to the other. “We stay ready to fight at the first sign of treachery,” he
impressed upon them. “And this prince goes with us as our hostage. If they prove false, he pays the
price.”
“Agreed,” Athelstan assented.
“Agreed.”
~~~~
The jarl waited three days while his army prepared, letting his returned kin find rest in their ancestral
home. On the third morrow, the soldiers of Isarn rode out. With arms and armour made from
Nordsteel and led by Isenhart, Athelstan, Athelbold, and Eumund, warriors of renown, they were a
fearsome sight. The citizens cheered them on; the ghosts of previous defeats were chased away by the
steadfast sound from thousands of boots marching through the streets. With Athelstan returning to
lead their armies, the people of Isarn breathed easier; the war no longer seemed certain to be lost.
From a window in the keep, Isenwald watched his brethren ride out. He looked wistful for a
moment, but he soon smiled as he held his mother’s arm and lent her his support. In the absence of his
father, he had been named to rule the jarldom until Isenhart’s return, and his smile disappeared once
his eyes turned towards the departing soldiers.

254
 41. Knives at Night
Castle Greenwold
“I don’t believe you!” Egil exclaimed.
“I swear on my ring,” Jorund asserted. “They make it from snails.”
“You’re lying,” Kate insisted. “I’ve seen snails. They’re gross and slimy, but not purple.”
The Dwarf let his bellowing laughter sound. “Obviously they are not like our snails, or every
peasant would dye his clothing purple! These snails live only on the coast of the Mydlonde Sea, where
it is far warmer than here.”
“But I don’t understand.” Egil scratched his head. “How do you get dye out of a snail?”
“It’s a long and difficult process, and they don’t tell outsiders about it lest their secrets get stolen,”
Jorund confided in them. The two youths looked downtrodden upon hearing this, making him quickly
continue. “But I once spied the snail gatherers at work. It was a strange sight to behold!”
“Tell us more,” Kate entreated.
“As you wish,” the Dwarf granted graciously. “See, in the city of Labdah, they used to gather the
snails and crush their shells, making a giant stew of the whole thing,” he described. “Of course, this
soon turned against them. You can’t milk the cow you kill.”
“Of course,” Kate nodded sagely.
“So the smartest people in Labdah left the city and founded a new one called Surru, in the other
end of the inland sea. A place still teeming with the little slugs,” he continued. “To avoid repeating the
mistake, they keep the snails alive and simply prod them. It provokes the snail to cover itself in nasty,
stinking slime, repelling any predator. It would work perfectly except that disgusting slime has a nice,
purple tint,” Jorund explained. “So you’ll see hundreds of people walking up and down the coast,
prodding the snails and gathering up their muck. You get much less than by the old method, but it
keeps the snail alive to be milked next year.” He punctuated his words by pretending his water skin
was a slug leaving its slime all over Kate, who shrieked and moved away while Egil laughed.
“Jorund, we are almost there,” Gawad informed his friend and nodded towards the road ahead. In
the distance rose Castle Grenwold as an imposing sight, dominating the surrounding hills by being
situated on the tallest. The landscape was lush, allowing for grazing of animals, but the immediate
area around the castle was desolate; neither man nor beast could be seen. Where that no man’s land
ended, the palisade works could be found, encircling the besieged fortress. A distance further from the
castle was the siege camp itself. It resembled a typical army camp except for the siege crafts
assembled.
“Sure,” the Dwarf responded to his friend. “Time to get back into line,” he told Kate and Egil with
a smile. “Maybe we’ll see each other inside camp, yah?”
“I hope so!” Kate replied eagerly while Egil nodded. Following his comrade, Jorund hurried to
find his place and march with the other Red Hawks into camp.

255
 ~~~~
While the soldiers got settled in, Konstans moved straight to the captain’s tent. He was followed by
Hardmar, who kept a close eye on him; two of the prince’s thanes stuck nearby as well. The captain
was sitting in a chair, having idle conversation with some of his men, when the small party of
noblemen strode in. Immediately, the commander rose up and greeted them with a bow. “Lord
Konstans, Prince Hardmar,” he spoke. “You arrived sooner than expected.”
“We made good time on the march,” Konstans replied. “How goes the siege? You do not seem
particularly burdened.”
“There have been the occasional sorties and skirmishes,” the captain told him. “The defenders
were mostly active when we first arrived, seeking to disrupt our attempts to set up the siege. That
ended with the completion of the palisades. We have sent terms of surrender but heard nothing back.”
“What terms did you offer?”
“Surrender within two months if they are not relieved. Our best guess is their food stores should be
depleted by then.”
“Fine,” Konstans assented. “I am here for another reason.”
“I see. The missive made no mention of this,” the captain spoke cautiously.
“We are not in the habit of spreading secrets by letter,” Hardmar interjected with an overbearing
manner.
“Of course, Your Highness,” the Red Hawk replied, looking at the prince. “May I enquire why you
have come?”
“We will be conducting negotiations with the rebels,” Hardmar sniffed. “As they have already
proven themselves dishonourable men, we will also be bringing the army.”
“What we need from you, captain,” Konstans added, “is to prepare the continuation of the siege
with as few men as needed, so that the remainder may march with us.”
“Of course,” the Hawk nodded. “The castle is lightly defended. I think one thousand men should
be sufficient to maintain the watch. I do not imagine there is any threat of a relief force assisting the
besieged if the Isarn army travels to negotiate with you – or ambush you, as you suspect.”
“Indeed,” Konstans agreed.
“If the castle is lightly defended,” Hardmar spoke with an almost irate voice, “why have you not
taken it yet?”
“A castle is designed for defence, even by a small garrison,” the captain explained as if to a small
child. “If we storm it, we will have losses. You need only give the order, of course, as long as you are
willing to pay the extra sum we are owed for such an attempt as per our written agreement.” He
looked at Konstans.
“No need, captain,” the dragonlord replied. “Have the army ready to march out by tomorrow, and
that will be all.”
“Very well, my lord,” came the obedient answer. Hardmar did not speak again but restricted
himself to a disdainful look before storming away, followed by his thanes.
~~~~
Along with the soldiers dispersing to find a place to lay their heads for the night, the train of
provisions and its many unarmed attendants also spread out to seek beds. One of these, a driver for a
cart full of water barrels, left the wagon with no further regard and moved quickly into the camp. The
shape, drawing little attention, moved through the tents until finding one with a specific shield upon a
pole outside; the shield had an insignia of a tree upon it.

256
 Stepping inside Richard of Alwood’s tent, the driver was immediately noticed by the knight.
“What is this?” he spoke brusquely. “Announce yourself!”
“Sir Richard,” Holwyn spoke with a quick grin, letting her hood fall down.
“Holwyn,” he exclaimed astounded. “Does this mean Theodoric is recalling me? He knows how
much I hate sieges,” he spoke surly. “I should never have agreed to act as his reeve here.”
“In a manner,” she replied. “You are to leave camp with me, but leave your belongings.”
“What? Is this Theodoric’s command?”
“It is. Your sergeant is to stay here. You need only your weapons, armour. And your horse,”
Holwyn added. “I suppose it would look odd if you left on foot. If anyone asks, make an excuse. Say
that you are exercising your steed or scouting the area, but do not give the real reason why you are
leaving.”
“I have no idea what that reason might be,” Richard pointed out.
“Good. See you outside of camp,” she told him and swiftly left.
~~~~
A few miles south, concealed among the hills and the few trees remaining after the besieging army
had chopped the rest, a band of warriors stood restlessly. They made no idle conversation or engaged
themselves in any other pursuits to pass the time except scouting north towards the camp. They wore
dull cloaks and helmets concealing their faces and any insignias upon their clothing. Their leader was
Theodoric.
As sunset approached, Holwyn and Richard reached the group. “Theodoric?” the margrave
questioned. “What is the meaning of all this?”
The jarl looked at his vassal. “Theodwyn is dead,” he declared tonelessly. “Murdered by someone
in that camp.”
Richard’s face began to turn red with boiling rage. “Who?” he growled, his right hand grabbing
hold of his sword hilt.
“One of the kingthanes. Our prince has elevated a new brood of brutes to this rank, and one of
them pushed her from the walls to her death.”
“Which of them? I will carve him into pieces,” Richard swore.
“I cannot know for sure. But I accuse the prince of being behind this, and so his misdeed falls upon
all of his sworn men. All of them are guilty,” the jarl proclaimed with his monotone voice.
“Very well,” Richard accepted. “I will challenge each of them and cut my way through them all.”
“Even you would not last through twenty duels,” Holwyn inserted. “It must be done another way.”
“How?” asked the knight.
Holwyn pulled out red surcoats from bags lying on the ground. They had the black swords of Isarn
upon them. “We take our revenge the old way, the true way.” Removing her cloak, she began to put
one of the uniforms on. Meanwhile, the other warriors discarded their own cloaks, revealing them to
be already dressed in the tabards of the north-western jarldom.
Richard’s face expressed his doubt. “This is not right, Theodoric. Kill the bastards, yes, but under
our own colours. Our vengeance is just. We have no need to hide it.”
“If we do that, we will be denounced as traitors and it will be the end. They will besiege Cragstan,
and we will all fall,” Theodoric retorted. “Besides, if the culprit escapes justice tonight, I need to be
free to see vengeance completed.”
“This is not right,” Richard reiterated. “I have never fought under any colours but my own and the
Order’s.”

257
 “This is for Theodwyn,” Theodoric impressed upon him, staring down at the shorter knight. “Her
blood screams to me from the ground. Every single person involved in her death must pay, and this is
the way to ensure it.”
The knight exhaled. “Very well,” Richard relented with reluctant voice. “For Theodwyn. But do
not ask this of me again.”
“I will not,” Theodoric promised. He watched as the knight removed his own surcoat with help
from Holwyn and donned the emblem of Isarn.
“Let us be on our way,” the knight demanded brusquely. “I have no wish to wear this attire longer
than necessary.”
Theodoric nodded in approval, and the small band set into motion except for himself and Holwyn.
“You have scouted the camp?” he asked quietly of her.
“Yes, milord. I know where to strike.” She hesitated slightly. “What of the prince?”
“We kill his protectors tonight, including the hand that slew my sister. At some point, he must
travel back to Middanhal, bereft of his thanes. Spare him until then,” Theodoric exclaimed with
sudden savagery, “that my own hand may plunge the knife into him! When he is isolated and
weakened, we strike.”
“Yes, milord,” Holwyn replied, put on a helmet and hurried after the other warriors. The jarl
remained behind, watching them disappear into the night.
~~~~
As darkness fell, the soldiers in camp had no reason to suspect this night would differ from the
previous. The defenders of the castle had not attempted any raids in weeks, being too few to risk
losses in skirmishes. With the reinforcements, the camp seemed safer than ever. It did not have its
own stockade, as the available wood had been spent on encircling the castle or on siege engines, but
deep ditches were dug to prevent cavalry from riding through, and the Hawks maintained enough
scouts to spot any army of sufficient size to act as a relief force for the besieged. Their vigilance did
not allow them to notice a band of warriors counting only forty.
In the dark, nothing gave away their position until the first handful were upon the sentries. Several
Hawks went down within moments, though they managed to fulfil their duty and cry out for their
brethren to take up arms. Rather than other Hawks, the alarm was first heard by the kingthanes; the
attackers were entering camp close to where the prince had chosen to raise his tent for the night. Thus,
it came to battle between the thanes of Hardling and the thanes of Theodstan, neither side showing any
leniency but letting the sword rule freely.
~~~~
“Did you have to pitch our tent here?” Jorund grumbled. “The brook is on the far side of the camp
now.”
“I prefer it here,” Gawad explained. “Among other Hawks. I had enough of those thanes and their
prince on the march.” He shuddered a little. “Some of them are child-killers, goes the rumour:”
“Speaks ill of a lord who would take ill service,” Jorund agreed. “But I’m not saying we should
share tents. It’ll take us ages to fetch water.”
“Do you hear that?”
“I’m thirsty, but I can’t be bothered to walk that far. You think the quartermaster will dole out
some ale tonight?”
“Listen!” At Gawad’s insistence, Jorund fell quiet. Suddenly, the southerner lurched to grab his
spear. “There’s fighting!” he exclaimed, running out of the tent.

258
 “Gods, already?” With an exasperated expression, the Dwarf found his own weapon and followed
his friend towards the sounds of battle.
~~~~
A maelstrom of mayhem appeared across the camp. The attackers were not concentrated in one place;
some had spread out along the edge of the encampment, solely to cause chaos. Making use of what
remained of cooking fires, they set tents ablaze and made it impossible for the defenders to discern
what was truly happening. The Hawks grabbed their weapons and rallied, but in most places, there
were none to fight other than the flames quickly spreading, and they were forced to discard weapons
and use water or wet blankets to combat the blaze.
With the fire keeping the Hawks occupied along with the general confusion, few came to the
kingthanes’ aid. Nearly equal in number to their enemies, the fighting was vicious and closely
matched. As captain of the royal guards, Ulfrik was in the midst of the fighting, and he wielded his
fearsome axe to great effect. Battling men wearing his former master’s emblem did not seem to inhibit
his lust for blood or slow the swing of his weapon. He felled one opponent with a roar and turned
towards the next, a short warrior wielding only a sword. The blade was bloodied; Richard had already
claimed his own victories. As the two men locked eyes, both charged the other.
Ulfrik let his axe fly with a powerful blow against Richard’s midsection, impossible to parry and
strong enough to bite through armour into his flesh. The disguised knight crouched as he sprinted,
rolling underneath the axe swing and in position to stab his sword up into Ulfrik’s groin. The latter
gave a terrible scream, dropping his weapon. As Richard rose with fury in his eyes, pulling his sword
out, he slashed the blade into the side of Ulfrik’s neck. Withdrawing the sword, blood poured out, and
the thane sank mortally wounded to the ground.
~~~~
While his thanes died for him, Hardmar kept inside his tent, furthest from the entrance, with one of his
guards in front of him. Lacking vision, neither prince nor soldier could tell what was happening
outside. All they knew was the noise of battle mingled with screams of dying men.
Someone entered the tent with speed, and the thane nearly fell upon him with a drawn sword.
“Peace!” exclaimed Konstans, showing his empty hands. “It is only me!” The thane relaxed slightly,
but kept his weapons ready.
“What are you doing here?” Hardmar questioned.
“There is fighting all over camp,” the dragonlord explained. “I came here to help defend my
prince.”
“As if I would believe that,” Hardmar sneered.
Konstans hesitated. “I have no thanes with me,” he admitted. “As you have, my prince.”
“You came to hide,” the youth declared with a contemptuous smile. It quickly faded as screams
pierced the air.
“If need be, I will defend us both,” the nobleman claimed. He looked at the thane. “Your brothers
are dying out there. Why are you in here?”
“Unlike you, his place is here,” Hardmar claimed with a shrill voice. His remark was undercut by
the sounds of weapons clashing and more men dying.
“Of course, my prince,” Konstans assented subserviently.
“If you are so concerned, you may go fight yourself,” Hardmar declared with his customary sneer
and picked up a cup, emptying it.

259
 “My apologies for speaking out of turn, my prince. Allow me,” Konstans spoke with a servile
voice, picking up a bottle. “As for you,” he said to the remaining thane, “make yourself useful and
look outside. Tell us what you see.”
The warrior did as instructed, gazing outside. “I see Isarn soldiers, several of them. They’re
fighting our boys. I think we are pushing them back.”
As the thane turned his back on the noblemen, Konstans poured the wine for Hardmar’s cup.
Placing the bottle on the nearby table, Konstans watched as the prince began to drink; waiting until
that moment, he drew his knife and plunged it into Hardmar’s neck.
Blood and wine filling his throat, the prince was unable to make any sound. He fell towards the
ground, but by then, Konstans had already withdrawn his knife, taken the four steps towards the
unsuspecting thane, and done the same to him.
Cutting the strings that held the opening drawn back, Konstans closed the tent and concealed the
sight within. He used his knife several times more on both bodies inside, mutilating them to make it
seem like they suffered many wounds. Looking at the small candle that illuminated the tent, he
reached out to tip it over. Slowly at first, but soon eagerly, the flames began to consume everything
they touched.
Using his knife for the last time, Konstans cut open an escape path in the back of the tent. The
fires illuminated him briefly as he stepped out into the darkness before he was gone.
~~~~
When the attack began, Kate had been sleeping underneath a cart serving as an improvised shelter.
Looking out from between the wheels, she could see distant fires accompanied by great noise, but
there was no sign of men actually fighting near her. Gathering her courage, she crawled out and
headed towards where Egil had found his place to rest for the night. Occasionally, a Hawk hurried
past her, but most people in this part of camp were not soldiers, but craftsmen or labourers, and they
kept themselves hidden.
Reaching her friend, Kate found him packing his belongings together. “What are you doing?” she
whispered.
He turned around startled. “Don’t sneak up on me!” he chided her. “I am running away.”
“Are you mad?”
“This camp is not safe,” Egil told her. “There will be more fighting. Besides,” he added, “I don’t
want to be the prince’s prisoner. I am leaving.”
Kate bit her lip. “Fine. But I bet you didn’t prepare any food. I know where it’s stored. We’ll get
some and go.”
“You shouldn’t come,” Egil told her. “It’s dangerous where I am going.”
“So is this camp. You just said that,” Kate reminded him with raised eyebrows. “Now come on,
let’s not waste time!”
“I don’t know,” Egil admitted with wavering voice. “You shouldn’t follow me.”
“Do you want to argue all night?”
“Fine! Let’s just go,” Egil consented, and together, the scribe and kitchen girl made their flight.

260
 42. The Wolves of Isarn
Northern Adalrik
As morning came, the Hawks surveyed the damage. As it turned out, it was limited. Few of their
people had been killed or even injured; in fact, most of them had not seen any fighting. Only the
kingthanes had suffered; fifteen of their number had been slain or grievously wounded. None of the
attackers were found among the dead; either they had survived unscathed or been mindful to retrieve
their dead upon their retreat.
The assault had achieved its purpose nonetheless, for it became clear that their target had been the
prince. His tent had been set on fire, and when the remaining kingthanes discovered the flames, they
braved the fire to rescue Hardmar only to find him dead. They had saved his body and that of the
nearby thane from the flames, which was all the aid they could give. Both the prince and the thane
bore many injuries, suggesting they had been overwhelmed. Konstans had been among the first to
arrive, examining the slain and explaining all this to the thanes and Hawks close by.
“I will bring the news to Middanhal myself,” the dragonlord declared. “The kingthanes may follow
at their own pace to bring the dead home. However, this dastardly attack by cowards too fearful to
face us in daylight must be avenged. Captain,” he continued, looking at the leader of the Red Hawks,
“search the area. No doubt the savages that serve in Isarn’s army will be nearby. Find them all and
eradicate them,” he commanded.
“Yes, milord,” the captain promised. He wasted no time organising this, sending out scouts and
arraying soldiers into skirmishing bands; soon, the Hawks were scouring the countryside while
Konstans rode swiftly back to the capital, bearing news that death had befallen yet another heir.
~~~~
Less than twenty miles away, the army of Isarn lay encamped. Exercising caution, they had outriders
scouting the area; they returned with reports of being attacked by Red Hawks. Soon, it seemed evident
to the captains of Isarn that it was as feared. These negotiations were simply a ruse to lure them into
battle.
The Hawk scouts, meanwhile, returned eagerly with news that a force of Isarn soldiers had
marched close to their own camp, measuring some two thousand in strength. The captain of the
mercenaries summoned his lieutenants for a war council. With an army ten thousand strong, the
Hawks did not fear an open attack by a force so inferior in numbers; the danger, as some pointed out,
was in continued nightly raids destroying their supplies and making it untenable to maintain the siege.
Or, another argued, if this relief force was allowed to break through the palisades and reinforce the
defenders of Castle Grenwold with both men and provisions, it could prolong the siege greatly. As
their contract with Jarl Vale stated, letting an enemy significantly reinforce a besieged castle meant
they forfeited a great deal of the pay owed, and their future pay for continuing the siege would be

261
reduced. While the Hawks did not fear an attack against their main army, it was impossible to protect
the palisade works everywhere at all times against the Isarn force present in the field.
The captain considered and made his decision, marching out with more than five thousand Hawks
to punish Isarn for approaching so close. It took them an hour’s march to reach their enemy; by then,
it was late afternoon. Most commanders would consider it too late in the day to start a battle, but
several things spoke in favour of the Hawks fighting now. They were far more numerous, allowing
them to envelop the Isarn ranks as soon as battle began. The terrain was flat, affording no advantage to
the enemy; although there were hills directly west of the field, the Isarn army had not had time to
array themselves upon it, which would have significantly strengthened their position.
If battle was not fought today, the Isarn army might retreat out of reach or be allowed to take
formation upon the hills; either of these possibilities would make it far more difficult to uphold the
siege of Castle Grenwold. With these arguments presented, the captain of the Hawks acquiesced to his
battle-thirsty lieutenants and gave the order to attack.
~~~~
Once it became clear that fighting was inevitable, both sides presented themselves in battle lines and
approached their enemy. Neither had cavalry to speak of nor archers, making this an engagement of
infantry alone. The Hawks in their dark green coats were a terrible sight as their numbers filled the
horizon; their ranks were far deeper than Isarn’s, yet their lines easily extended beyond their
opponent’s to either side. With hope of victory dim, Athelstan commanded his men to storm forward
in an attempt to breach the Hawks’ centre; could this be achieved, the near certain defeat might be
avoided.
Led by Isenhart and Athelstan themselves, the men of Isarn followed with roaring battle lust into
the lines of the Hawks. With the jarl, his brother, and his thanes spearheading the charge, it was a
formidable fighting force comprised of the best warriors in the jarldom.
The ranks of the Hawks proved too deep. Despite their best efforts, Isarn could not punch through.
The enemy captain, acutely aware of this danger, sent his reserves to reinforce his centre, ensuring
that the lines would not break. Slowly, Isenhart and his men were pressed back. Their Nordsteel
armour served them well to diminish the losses inflicted upon them, but nothing could protect against
overwhelming numbers.
Sunset was only a few hours away when there was a sudden turn. From the west, thousands of
Isarn troops rushed forward into battle, led by Athelbold and Eumund. In this moment, Athelstan’s
strategy became clear. He had used half his forces as bait, luring the Hawks into battle. His army
seemed under strength and caught on flat terrain; easy to deal with if done so now, but promising to be
a nuisance if allowed to escape and remain in the region. In their eagerness to fight, the Hawks had
not scouted the area thoroughly, and they fell prey to the soldiers hidden behind the western hills.
The Hawks’ superior numbers were for naught. The Isarn reinforcements hit them in the flank, and
their own reserves had already been spent to support their centre. Their flank disintegrated under the
attack. Soon, it became apparent that defeat was inevitable. As their right flank fell apart, their captain
ordered a retreat of the remaining forces.
The setting sun saved what was left of the Hawks; with darkness falling, Athelstan ceased any
pursuit of the fleeing enemy. It would too easily descend into disorder, making it man against man
rather than army against army, and the Hawks were still equal in numbers despite their losses. A
chaotic chase might turn against Isarn, causing them to suffer as many dead as they might inflict.

262
 Even though the Hawks were allowed to flee, their defeat was indisputable. As his men cheered,
Athelstan stood on the bloodstained grass under fallen bodies and fallen arms, victor of yet another
battlefield.
~~~~
Late in the night, the Isarn army returned to its camp, bringing wounded and what spoils of war could
be taken with them. Some of the soldiers remained at the battlefield, keeping watch and protecting the
defensive position upon the hills to deter any further fighting while the northerners were unready;
Athelbold and Eumund stayed behind to command, whereas Isenhart and Athelstan went back to
camp.
The latter seemed unburdened, his reputation restored. The jarl was pensive, almost brooding in
the dark. As they strode into the middle of camp, Gerhard came running out to meet them, followed
by Jerome. “What happened?” asked the young prince. “How did it come to battle? Why did you not
negotiate?”
“Lord Konstans had other plans, it seems,” Athelstan remarked. “Prince Gerhard, I fear you must
consider yourself our prisoner for the time being. While I have not forgotten that you secured our
release –”
“As I suspected from the start, this was all a trap,” Isenhart interrupted. “There is only one
reward.” He drew his sword.
“Isenhart!” Athelstan called out sharply, reaching out for his brother, but in vain. Before anyone
could stop the jarl, he plunged his blade into Gerhard’s chest. Blood sprung forth like a fountain, and
the prince lay dead within moments. Isenhart turned his eyes on Jerome. “Brother,” Athelstan shouted,
finally reaching him to place a hand on his arm. “We will need a messenger to tell Middanhal their
devious plans failed them,” he explained, gesturing with his head towards the dead prince. “Let it be
this man,” he added, now motioning towards Jerome, “who freed your sons from prison.”
Contempt was on Isenhart’s face, but he relented, lowering his sword. “This once. Let him never
appear in my sight again.”
“Of course,” Athelstan promised.
As the jarl stalked away, Jerome fell on his feet before Athelstan. “Thank you, milord,” he
stammered.
“This was unfortunate,” Athelstan admitted, glancing at Gerhard’s corpse. “I do not wish it said
that the sons of Isarn are ungrateful or repay kindness with death. You saved our lives, and so yours is
safe. But this I do wish to be said,” Athelstan continued. “Do not treat wolves like sheep. Your
masters have tasted the fangs of Isarn today. They will so again. Relay that message to the men you
serve.”
“Yes, milord,” Jerome agreed anxiously, standing up. Soon after, he was escorted out of the camp
to make his way south.

263
 43. A Bloody Mark
The Alfskog
Two youths, little more than children, travelled across northern Adalrik. The food taken from camp
had been devoured after a few days. Instead, they foraged for berries and wild fruit, mushrooms and
even roots on occasion when hunger was worst.
“Egil, we’re far from camp now, and we haven’t seen any soldiers,” Kate said, walking alongside
him. “Don’t you think we should go east? And then we can turn south.”
“Not yet.” They were between three and four weeks north of Middanhal. Ahead of them for many
miles lay only pastures for sheep, oxen, and horses until grass eventually gave way to wood. “We
need to go further.”
“Are you sure we’re not just walking in circles?”
Egil made a gesture with his head upwards. “The sun is to our left. It’s late afternoon. That means
north is ahead.”
Kate drank from the container they had managed to bring along from camp. “We’ll need more
water soon.”
“There’s bound to be a stream somewhere,” Egil considered. “If it runs in the right direction, we
can just follow it, and we’ll have enough water.”
“Until we have to turn east. Right?”
“Right.”
~~~~
The next day, fortune smiled upon them. It was Kate who was alerted to the sound of a brook; they
followed her ear and came upon a stream of water, allowing them to drink their fill.
“There we are,” Egil remarked. “There’s probably things to eat that grow around here too.”
“We’ll look while we walk,” Kate nodded. “I’d give a year’s pay for an hour inside the orchard in
the Citadel,” she added with a whining tone. “Apples, pears, plums –”
“Stop! You’re making me hungry,” Egil grumbled.
“You better keep your eyes open, then,” she teased. “Make sure you find enough for two!” He did
not reply but started walking instead, following the stream. “Egil?” Kate said as she caught up to him.
“Is something wrong?”
“We’re running for our lives,” he pointed out.
“We were,” she corrected him. “Nobody’s chasing us. Nobody’s got cause to. I think we’re safe.”
“Still, let’s be alert.”
“Of course. You just seem in a troubled mood.”
“I’ll be fine once we get further away from camp.” He increased his pace, and they continued in
silence.

264
 ~~~~
“Egil, we should turn back.” Kate had repeated this point throughout the day, receiving varying
responses. It was more than a week after they had fled the camp.
“We’ve come all this way. We might as well continue,” Egil mumbled, sounding weary.
“Where to? I’ve seen the maps, there is nothing this far north!” Kate stopped and stared at him.
“There’s nothing here!” They stood in lands near barren except for brown-coloured grass.
“There is the forest,” he pointed out, nodding ahead. In the far distance could be seen the rising
trees of the Alfskog.
“So?”
“So I am going there,” Egil told her and began walking again.
“Are you mad?” Kate ran up to stand in front of him. “You can’t enter the forest!”
“Well, that’s what I intend to.” He moved around her.
“But you’ll die! Nobody enters the northern woods and returns,” Kate nearly yelled, catching up to
walk by his side.
“I’ve done it before,” Egil declared.
“You never told me that.”
“I was asked not to tell anyone.”
“I’m not anyone,” she told him with a sour voice.
“Well, I am going there.”
“Egil, that’s stupid. We should turn around and go back to Middanhal. Find a way to help Master
Quill.”
“Kate!” He stopped to look at her. “I can’t explain because I don’t know how. I wouldn’t
understand if someone tried to tell me. So you’ll just have to trust me. You can wait outside the forest,
and I’ll come back for you.”
“No, that’s not the way we play.” Kate raised a finger to put him in his place. “You keep trying to
leave me behind. If you’re going inside to die, so am I.”
“With that attitude, what could go wrong,” Egil mumbled, but he began walking again as did she.
~~~~
It was nightfall when they reached the edge of the forest. With the sun setting, the wood was pitch
black, and nothing could be spied past the treeline. “So?” Kate asked. “What now?”
“We enter the forest,” Egil told her. Taking a deep breath, Kate began to walk forward. “Wait!” he
called out. “We’re not ready yet.” He took out the small knife in his belt.
“What do you mean?”
“We need protection,” he told her, rolling up his sleeve.
“From what?”
“From whom.” He squinted in the darkness, looking at his arm.
“Shut up and tell me.”
“That contradicts itself.” He touched his skin with the tip of his knife gently.
“Just tell me what you’re doing!”
“The forest has protectors. I need to make sure they won’t attack us.” He inhaled, exhaled, and cut
into his own skin.
“Egil!”
“It’s fine,” he gasped. “I know what I am doing.” He traced a strange pattern with the knife,
frowning in concentration. “There. Done.”

265
 “What does this mean?”
“Apparently it means I’m not to be killed.” Egil cleaned his knife, sheathed it, and wiped the blood
from his arm with his hand. “Blood is disgusting,” he remarked. “I’m glad I’m not a warrior.” He
rolled up his sleeve tightly, so it could not come loose and fall down to conceal the bloody rune.
“How does this work?”
“You’ll see. Let’s go,” he told her, and together, they entered the Alfskog.
~~~~
They had to walk slowly; there were no paths for walking other than what the animals might have
trodden by chance. Roots occasionally rose from the ground, causing them to trip, and they soon held
on to each other tightly for support. Owls could be heard, performing the hunt; likewise their prey,
such as swift little forest mice, could be noticed rustling through the undergrowth.
A squirrel passed by not far from them, giving them a curious gaze before hurrying onwards. As
they approached a clearing with a small lake illuminated by moonlight, they spotted several deer
drinking; as the pair came closer, the animals fled.
The boy and girl walked over to slake their thirst and fill their skins. Standing up and turning
around, they saw an archer pointed a nocked arrow at them.
It took a moment for them to realise the threat; even in the moonlight, the Elf was in near complete
concealment with the forest behind him. Had he not stepped forward into the clearing, they would
never have seen him. His eyes, strange in colour and without pupils, stared at them intensely. The
arrow on his bow looked sharp.
“Here!” it burst from Egil, who held his arm forward. “Elf-friend, I am an Elf-friend!” By his side,
Kate stood paralysed from shock or fear. “Ælfwine,” he added, “do you understand me? Ælfwine, like
the old tongue!”
The scout scowled and shouted something in his own speech. Another scout appeared as from thin
air; she also had an arrow at the ready and pointed at the pair.
“Do you know Ælfwine? The word or the man?” Egil asked.
One of the Elves yelled at him, and the boy became silent. The woman lowered her bow, but her
disposition did not grow gentler. She kicked Egil behind the kneecap, making him fall to his knees
and keeping him immobile. Grabbing his wounded arm, she examined it briefly and exchanged further
angry words with the other Elf.
With scant consideration, she pulled him up to stand. The man gestured for them to move, adding
a string of sounds like a thunderous waterfall. With dread in their eyes, Kate and Egil began to walk,
followed closely by their captors.
~~~~
They walked through the night. The sun could be felt faintly through the foliage, but it did little to
disperse the cold that lingered in the forest or the fear evident in Kate and Egil’s demeanour.
Whenever they attempted to speak, the Elves silenced them, either with words or a smack of the bow
staff on their heads. They soon learned to remain quiet and focus on the difficult march through the
thick woods.
It was finally starting to feel warmer when the Elves halted the pair; one scout kept them under
guard while the other disappeared. Words were still forbidden, as the children quickly learned when
they tried to speak; there was nothing to do but wait. Eventually, the other scout returned with several
other Elves. The others were clad in the same manner, carrying the same weapons, and a heated

266
argument erupted between them. More than once, Egil’s arm was examined with little regard for his
comfort. Each time he tried to interject or say a word, he was silenced with a slap.
Finally, the Elves seemed to reach a decision. Rope was collected from somewhere and used to
bind Kate and Egil’s wrists; appearing thin, almost frail, the twine nonetheless held them tight. Kate
pulled on her hands a few times to no avail, and a strike to her head taught her to stop.
With a push, the two captives were told to start moving. No less than four scouts accompanied
them, leading them through the forest while keeping a sharp watch on both the children. They walked
at a quick pace through the rough terrain; with their balance impaired from having their hands tied, the
prisoners stumbled more than once. Every time, one of the Elves was close by to grab hold and keep
them standing up, pushing them onwards. On occasion, the scouts allowed for a brief rest, giving Egil
and Kate some water; they only received food at the end of the day. As they had not slept the previous
night, both children fell asleep immediately once given the chance. When they woke next morning,
food and water was provided once more; soon after, another day’s journey began. In this manner, they
travelled for nearly a week through the Alfskog.
~~~~
Both the youths were exhausted after seven days of journeying through the forest. They received only
enough provisions and rest to keep them on their feet; if the sharp arrows of the Elves were not
enough to dissuade attempts of flight, the sheer exertion forced upon them banished any thoughts of
escape.
Their pace only lessened when they reached some kind of larger clearing, where the landscape
sloped upwards ahead of them. One scout kicked both the prisoners behind the knees to make them
fall on the ground. With further motions and words conveying the impression that they better not
move, three scouts remained behind to watch while the last disappeared swiftly.
Time passed while they had their faces against the forest floor. The only sounds were the trickling
of a stream in the distance, the wind rustling the leaves, and a bird chirping about its territory. Their
watchers, standing behind them, could neither be seen nor heard.
At length, there was movement ahead. Both children raised their heads as best they could. The
scout was returning, accompanied by another. He was also an Elf, yet he seemed nothing like his
brethren. It was not due to anything apparent, such as their individual heights, which were near even.
Nor was it because of how they were clothed; their leather armour and his woven tunic of linen were
both the attire to be expected of people living in a forest village. It was his very presence that stood in
contrast to the scouts. Speed was in their every movement to the point where they seemed as skittish
as the deer that roamed the woods; their eyes constantly darted in every direction, and their fingers
fiddled with the smoothened wood of their bow or the soft feathers upon their arrows.
The other Elf was nothing like this. He walked with dignified steps, careful in each movement
whether it was done by his feet, his hands, or his head. He breathed deeply, and the rising of his chest
could be seen each time. He was dressed like a simple villager, yet exuded command like a prince. He
gave his attention to the surroundings as he pleased, while both the scouts and the children found their
eyes drawn to him at all times. He bore no weapons, not even a small knife in his belt to cut thread or
meat, and he seemed average of build; nonetheless, a sense of danger surrounded him as it would a
lion who feared nothing and gave all others cause for dread.
“Rise,” he commanded briefly as he reached Kate and Egil. He spoke the Mearcspeech with
strange pronunciation, but it was understandable. They quickly did as he told them. “Show.” He
pointed at Egil’s bloodied arm. Egil complied. With a strong grip, the Elf took hold of Egil’s arm to
look closer. Anger began to cloud his delicate features. “You make mockery of symbols dear to us,”

267
he proclaimed with an irate voice. “There has not been Elf-friend for a thousand years. With ignorance
you paint yourself,” he sneered, pushing Egil’s arm back against the boy. “You have gone too far. As
with all your kind, death is your fate.”
“Please!” Egil begged. “It wasn’t me who did this, it was Ælfwine! He’s like you!”
“We haven’t done anything,” Kate protested, her voice breaking. “You can’t do this to us!”
“Silence,” the Elf commanded. “Your borrowed words and false attempts to gain our trust will not
avail you.”
“I swear to you, Ælfwine gave me this mark! He’s an Elf like you! Please listen!” Egil implored
them. One of the scouts responded with a backhanded slap across Egil’s face that made him tumble
backwards. Some of the scouts grabbed each of the youths and began dragging them away while their
lord turned to leave. “Ælfwine, he is a friend of Godfrey, you must know him!”
The stately Elf stopped dead in his tracks. He shot an angry look over his shoulder at Egil before
giving a brief command in the Elven tongue. The scouts dropped their captives, who fell to the ground
yet again. The other Elf stalked away with forceful steps, leaving Kate and Egil to exchange mystified
glances.
Moment after moment passed in anguish for the pair; as before, each time they spoke, one of their
guards interfered with a harsh response. There was nothing they could do but wait.
~~~~
Eventually, the Elf returned, but not alone. By his side and engaged in a fierce argument with him
walked Ælfwine. Egil gave a deep sigh of relief and sent a cautious smile to Kate. What Ælfwine and
his companion discussed, they could not understand. It was evidently a tense conversation that ended
with Ælfwine remaining and the other Elf departing in anger.
Walking up to the children, Ælfwine sent them an annoyed look. He dismissed the scouts curtly
with a brief word; they bowed deeply and disappeared. “You,” Ælfwine simply spoke as Kate and
Egil stood up, managing to pack a good amount of disdain into the word.
“Ælfwine, it’s me! Egil!” the boy exclaimed happily.
“I am not an imbecile,” the Elf retorted. “I can see that. I do question your intelligence, as you
have decided to stroll into the dragon’s den and beg to be devoured.”
“Egil, what’s going on?” asked Kate.
“I made the mark!” Egil defended himself. He held out his arm. “Like you did!”
A sneer crossed the Elf’s face. “Those ragged lines seem more like mockery. No wonder my
cousin was incensed.”
“That’s your cousin?”
“Egil, who is this?”
“Enough,” Ælfwine declared. “Your lives are spared. Leave immediately and never return.”
“We can’t,” Egil claimed. “We’re hundreds of miles from Middanhal. The two of us crossing the
realm on our own? We won’t make it.”
“That is hardly my problem,” the Elf replied dismissively.
“But how am I to help Godfrey as the King’s Quill if I am dead?” Egil asked slyly.
Ælfwine stared at him. “You little fiend,” he finally declared. He let out a sigh. “Wait here. I mean
that. Do not move one single step.” He turned around and left with speed.
“Egil!” Kate stamped her foot in the ground. “Tell me what’s going on!”
“That was Ælfwine. He is an Elf, as you can see. Well, if you know how Elves look. I guess few
people do,” Egil rambled.
“How in Hel’s name do you know an Elf?”

268
 “Remember last year when I went to Heohlond on an assignment for Master Quill? Ælfwine was
the reason I left.”
“I thought Elves lived in marshes, stealing babies or waylaying travellers,” Kate frowned.
“I don’t know about elsewhere, but the Elves in the Alfskog just kill anyone who enters the
forest,” Egil explained happily.
Kate stared at him and finally punched him on the shoulder. “You dimwit! You knew they were
going to treat us this way?”
Egil let out a cry of pain. “I didn’t! They were supposed to treat us like friends. That’s what the
mark was for. Ælfwine gave it to me, and it means that other Elves look on me as a friend.”
“Is this how they treat their friends?” Kate asked incredulously. “No wonder they don’t get
visitors.”
“Maybe I drew it wrong,” Egil considered, examining his arm.
“So this is why we walked for weeks? To get threatened and dragged around with arrows in our
face? What a plan, Egil.”
“It was good thinking,” he defended himself. “Ælfwine is an Elven warrior! We’ll be safe all the
way back to Middanhal now. It wasn’t part of the plan for them to threaten to kill us,” he admitted,
“but it all worked out!” Kate simply sent him a disbelieving stare.
When Ælfwine returned, he was clad for travelling with thick garments and a heavy cloak. A
sword was strapped around his waist, and he had various other items packed away. As he reached his
companions, he sent Egil an angry glance, grabbing his hurt arm. “You did not even clean this
properly,” he muttered, pouring some water over the skin and cleaning the dried blood away, followed
by a quick bandage. “Time to leave,” he declared. “You will walk at the pace I set. We will not rest
until I decide. You will not complain about weariness, hunger, or anything else. In fact, you will be
silent throughout the entire trip. Do you understand?” They nodded. “Good.” He began walking with
the boy and girl right behind him like a pair of dogs.
“Master Ælfwine, are you really an Elf?”
“Of course he is, I told you as much.”
“Gods help me.”

269
 44. Blighting the Song
Northern Adalrik
“Why are your eyes that way?”
“Why are yours not?” Ælfwine snapped. They had left the Alfskog some days ago, and the barrage
of questions had been relentless. “Hel take me, it was bad enough last time with just one of you.”
“I don’t think he is in a mood for questions,” Egil related with a loud whisper.
“He never is, so there’s no point in waiting,” Kate countered. “Why do Elves swear by Hel like we
do?” she asked loudly. Ælfwine increased the pace.
They moved through the empty lands that constituted the north of Adalrik. On occasion, they
encountered paltry flocks of sheep, but they kept their distance. Even though Ælfwine had brought his
blindfold, he preferred to avoid outside company that would force him to disguise his true nature by
hiding his eyes and sword.
While he had success during the day with his strategy of marching too fast to allow the youths any
questions, he fell prey when they made camp at night. If the area seemed desolate and firewood was
available, he built a fire, suffering enquiries ranging from his method of making a campfire to whether
he lived in a house or inside a tree.
His usual response was to roll up his cloak like a blanket and turn his back to them, falling asleep
immediately. This led to a routine each night where Kate and Egil would continue to talk or bicker
among themselves for a while before eventually following his example.
~~~~
As none of them knew the lay of the land well, they simply steered by the sun, setting a course south
and for the most part avoiding other people. Staying away from the main roads slowed their progress;
a week after leaving the Alfskog, they reached hills that added further hardship to their journey.
“I need a break soon,” Kate declared, out of breath. Egil did not speak, but his appearance gave the
impression that he was of the same mind.
Ælfwine did not look back, though he slowed his pace. “It is barely past noon. You can walk for a
while longer.”
“Not much longer,” Kate insisted. She and Egil were slogging some steps behind Ælfwine with
their heads bowed down from weariness, staring at the grass underneath their feet. Because of this,
they almost stumbled into the suddenly motionless Elf at the top of a hill.
“Hey,” Egil exclaimed as he nearly collided into Kate; his mouth remained open, but no further
words came. Ahead of them stretched a meadow that in peaceful times would have been lush with
grass. Now, it had been trampled by thousands of feet, and a brown, rusty colour had dyed the
vegetation.
“What happened here?” asked Kate with a low voice.

270
 “There must have been a battle,” Ælfwine surmised. “Over there,” he nodded, “you can see where
they buried the bodies.” The children strained their eyes to see small mounds of loose dirt; there were
scores of them if not hundreds.
“Who fought?” asked Egil.
“Who can tell?” Ælfwine shrugged and began walking down the hill.
“Should we be here?” whispered Kate.
“There is no reason to linger,” the Elf granted, “but simply passing through should not cause
offence to living or dead.”
“If you say so,” Kate replied doubtfully.
Walking down the slope, many details were revealed before their eyes. Pieces of broken blades or
armour, shields destroyed beyond repair or use, fabric torn and discoloured. “I wonder why they
fought on the flat land,” Ælfwine mumbled.
“How so?” asked Kate.
“You would think at least one of the commanders would have positioned their army upon the hills
to gain that advantage,” the Elf speculated. “No arrows or marks left by hooves. This was an
engagement of foot soldiers.”
“You’re so good at noticing,” the kitchen girl spoke with admiration.
“He is,” Egil nodded eagerly. “It was the same in Heohlond. He could deduce so much.”
“They are just simple observations,” Ælfwine told them modestly. “Besides, it is of no concern to
us. We should leave this place of death before night falls.” He picked up the pace, and the youths
hurried to keep up with him.
~~~~
Camp that evening was made in unusual silence; neither the girl nor the boy spoke while Ælfwine
struck fire, warding off the darkness for the night. They had all made themselves a place to sleep when
Kate finally spoke. “Master Ælfwine, did you ever fight in a battle like that?”
Unlike previous nights, this was not followed up immediately by another question; both the
children simply stared at the Elf waiting. He cleared his throat. “I did. Many times. Gods grant I never
have to again.”
“What did you fight for?” Egil asked.
“I fought… We fought…” Ælfwine’s voice trailed off, but his companions did not interrupt him.
“We defended ourselves.”
Silence followed until it became clear he would not add to his answer. “Did you win?”
“We won and we lost. There is nothing left.” He exhaled deeply.
“How do you mean?” she questioned him.
“If you are in the wastelands with nothing but a water skin and meet someone who tries to take it
away,” Ælfwine explained hesitantly. “If you fend him off, but spill all the water in the process, did
you win or did you lose?”
“That sounds like you lost,” Kate contemplated.
“I think so as well.”
“Is that why you live in the Alfskog?” Egil wondered.
Ælfwine closed his eyes. “We should sleep. We have a long way ahead of us yet.” The children
looked at him, but when he did not stir or speak again, they did as he had done.
~~~~

271
To reduce the time spent on gathering food, Ælfwine decided to enter a village on their way, bartering
for food with the few coins Egil and Kate had available. Putting on his blindfold, the Elf played the
beggar escorting his young kinsfolk to other relatives. Anxiety had touched the villagers after the
battles and armies in the vicinity, but they saw no threat from an old, blind man and two children. In
fact, they eagerly questioned the travellers for news; when curiosity had been satisfied and food traded
for silver, the three companions were given leave to sleep in a barn with a roof and hay for a bed.
“What’s that noise?” asked Kate. They had each found a place to rest for the night, but the sound
of small creatures scurrying about could be heard.
“Probably rats,” Egil considered. “There are plenty of them in an army camp. You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to rats,” she declared offended. “If someone let rats live in the Citadel
kitchens, they’d get a smacking, and rightfully so!”
“This is a barn. There’s bound to be rats,” Egil countered.
“I think it’s just one, but it sounds really big.” Kate pulled her cloak tight around her. “There!”
“Where?”
“Over there. I think.” She bit her lip. “It’s hard to see in the dark, but there was definitely
movement.”
“Will you two be quiet,” Ælfwine demanded.
“I just keep imagining that big rat crawling onto me while I sleep,” Kate complained.
“Now I am imagining it,” Egil whined.
The sound of tiny feet tripping through the hay could be heard, making both the children squirm
and squeal. “For gods’ sake!” In the blink of an eye, Ælfwine sat up and flicked his wrist; his dagger
flew through the air in the dark, impaling something against the wooden framework of the barn.
“Fetch my blade, clean it, and go to sleep!” he commanded of Egil, throwing the knife scabbard at the
boy. With eyes darting between Kate and Ælfwine, Egil got up and moved over to where the Elf’s
dagger had struck. He found a large rat, impaled against the wall.
~~~~
The younger travellers woke early in the morning as the oldest of their company held a hand to cover
each of their mouths. “Wake up,” he whispered emphatically. Both children reacted by twitching and
making mumbling sounds until they became aware of their surroundings and Ælfwine. “Be quiet,” he
commanded in a low voice. Only when both of them were still did he remove his hands.
“What’s going on?” Kate whispered.
“There are armed men in the square,” Ælfwine explained, keeping his voice low. “Twenty or so.
They wear no emblems, so I suspect they are bandits rather than soldiers. Best we put some distance
between them and us.”
“They can’t be looking for any of us, can they?” asked Egil.
“And we don’t have anything worth stealing,” Kate added.
“Regardless,” the Elf spoke impatiently, “let us not wait to find out their motives. Get up, hurry!”
“What about the townspeople?” asked Egil as he stood up.
“Since they live here, I imagine they prefer to stay,” Ælfwine replied.
“But if they’re bandits, they’ll take what these people have. Probably all their food, and they might
starve come winter,” Kate objected, brushing some hay away from her dress.
“How can we leave with the food they sold us if their own food will get stolen?” asked Egil with
wide eyes.
“Merchants do it all the time,” Ælfwine said dismissively. “It is called the principle of bartering.
No more talk, get going!”

272
 “But you’re an Elf,” Kate argued. Neither of the children had moved one inch. “You can bewitch
people, can’t you?”
“If I could, would I bother carrying around a sword?” Ælfwine hissed. “This is not something to
debate!”
“You can fight,” Egil pointed out. “You’re a better warrior than any of them. You killed all those
brigands that were after us in Heohlond.”
“I knew it! Kate declared eagerly. “You got witching powers!”
“I fought maybe six or so, not twenty,” Ælfwine retorted. “I have no armour but this leather tunic,
and you want me to fight twenty men on my own? One arrow in the right place and I am done for. Did
you bring me all this way just to get me killed?”
“I think you can do it,” Egil proclaimed.
“For what purpose? There must be scores of these bands roaming the land. This is what happens
when wars drag on and armies lose battles,” Ælfwine informed them. “Men get desperate, and with no
tool or trade but blades and battle, they turn to banditry. It will not make a difference if I fight them.”
“But –” Egil began to say.
“Silence! Now follow me,” Ælfwine commanded, and he left the barn.
Outside stood two armed men. They had been checking the outlying buildings, making sure every
villager was accounted for. At the sight of the travellers, they grinned at each other. “Got ourselves a
few more chickens hiding in the coop!”
Their laughter died as Ælfwine turned his eyes on them. One of them raised his axe while the other
fumbled to pull a sword from its scabbard. The Elf was faster. His knife was in his hand one moment,
embedded into the axeman’s chest the next; by the time the other brigand had pulled his sword out,
the dagger sat in his eye.
Kate and Egil crept forward as Ælfwine cleaned his weapon, staring at the bodies. “They’ll notice
they are dead, and then they’ll come after us,” Egil pointed out. “If we leave now, we’ll be hunted.”
“Unless someone stops them now,” Kate added.
Ælfwine stared at them. “Seven and Eighth, you will be the death of me,” he swore, pulling off his
cloak with angry movements. “You will both stay here and stay hidden. Do you understand?” he
asked sharply. They both nodded vigorously. Clenching his jaw, Ælfwine adjusted his sword belt and
walked away with forceful steps. They waited a few moments before sneaking after him.
~~~~
In the village centre, a band of armed men were gathered. The villagers had formed a circle around
them, but not of their own volition; threats and rough treatment had called them to assemble. “It’s a
simple matter,” one of the ruffians explained. “My men need food for a week. Give us that, and we’ll
be off with no further harm.” Some of his men eyed the women of the village, gainsaying his promise
that the harassment could be at an end so easily. “Of course, we will also protect you from bandits that
sadly plague this area. Bring out your silver in a pile before me. I’ll let you know when your payment
for our protection is sufficient.”
The villagers exchanged glances. “If you want food, we’ll give you what we can spare. But with
the taxes we have to pay, there’s nary a silver coin in all the village,” an elderly man claimed,
ostensibly the town alderman.
The bandits gave a coarse laughter, and their leader stepped towards the old man, who stood next
to a young woman and a small boy no more than five. “Your daughter and grandchild, I’m guessing,”
he told the alderman. “Or your son’s wife, perhaps. It makes little difference to me.” He picked up the
boy in his arms. His mother reached out in vain with a desperate expression upon seeing her child in

273
the outlaw’s arms; the old man placed his hand on her shoulder to keep her back. “Just as this boy
means little to me,” the bandit added. He walked a few steps back towards his own men, making him
more visible to the other villagers as well. “But I imagine he means a lot to you,” he continued with a
louder voice, glancing at the other peasants. “Is the silver you have hidden away worth more to you
than this boy’s life?”
“Enough.” The word was spoken calmly; thanks to the silence that had already fallen onto the
crowd, it was easily heard. Bandits and villagers turned as one to see the speaker. A tall wanderer,
clad only in leather with a sword and knife in his belt, stood calmly awaiting their gaze. Upon seeing
his eyes that had but one colour in them, the outlaws retreated several steps, opening a path between
him and their leader.
“It’s a ghoul,” someone whispered.
“A fiend!” another declared.
Ælfwine strode forward without fear through the pack of bandits until he stood a few paces away
from their leader. “I have killed two of your men already. Leave now, or I will kill you all.”
“Chief, what should we do?”
“He’s a fell creature, chief, let’s bolt!”
“Silence, you dogs! And you, whatever demon you may be.” While he spoke, the bandit put the
small boy down on the ground, but kept one hand on his head; the other hand pulled out a knife. Not
understanding what was happening, the boy began to cry, looking at his mother. “Drop your weapons
or he gets it.” Encouraged by their chief’s example, some of the other brigands moved to circle around
Ælfwine.
With his left hand, the Elf pulled his dagger from its sheath, turned it between his fingers to hold it
by the tip, and launched it at the leader of the outlaws. It happened within the blink of an eye.
Although not balanced for throwing, Ælfwine’s aim was close enough that the dagger embedded itself
into the unprotected throat of its target. The chief dropped his own knife and his hold on the boy,
clutching the wound with both hands while sinking to the ground.
There was the briefest of moments while the outlaws realised this turn of events and what it meant;
outraged, they charged wielding blade, axe, or club.
Ælfwine was one step ahead of them. He leapt forward, crouched low, picked up the small boy
into his left arm, and held him close to his own body while his right hand drew his sword. Strange
waves lay in patterns along the blade, and the leather strip that was wound around the pommel came
loose to reveal a red gemstone; few if any took note of this as the bandits closed in from all sides.
Clutching the boy closely, Ælfwine stayed in constant movement. Most attacks he evaded,
occasionally letting his leather protect against a weak blow. Each time his own sword struck, it
removed an enemy. An axe swung out; he crouched and slashed its wielder across both ankles. A club
came against his head, far too small a target to hit reliably; sidestepping, Ælfwine cut the club-
wielding hands off at the wrists. Arrows flew from a few archers in the back, but with their own
people crowding around the target, it was impossible to aim at the Elf and hope to hit him. A dagger
was plunged at him, too close to evade; Ælfwine turned his body so the blade did not stab into him,
but glanced against his leather. Turning his sword around, he used the pommel to strike his attacker’s
chin, sending him flat on his back.
When the first five men lay dead or dying and Ælfwine still stood with battle fury ignited in his
strange eyes, the bandits changed strategy. Some held onto their weapons, some threw them on the
ground, but they all chose to flee, scattering in every direction. They left the Elf standing bruised and
battered with a ring of corpses surrounding him; a bloody god of war in the midst of the carnage he
had caused.

274
 Breathing heavily and bleeding lightly from small cuts and gashes, Ælfwine finally stood still. He
gazed around the village square with a perplexed look, as if it took him a moment to understand the
enemy had fled. The boy no longer cried in his arm, appearing to be in shock; specks of blood were
sprayed across his face. Lowering his sword and relaxing his stance, Ælfwine put the child down on
the ground and took two steps away. The mother hurried over to grab her son tightly, looking up at the
Elf with fearful eyes.
Looking at the villagers, they all mirrored her countenance and stared at the Elf, whose odd eyes
stared back. “You should keep those and learn to use them,” he declared, pointing with his sword at
the weapons left behind by the brigands. Grabbing cloth from a pouch on his belt, he stalked away
while cleaning his blade before sheathing it, leaving the shocked villagers to gather their wits.
From their vantage point behind one of the houses, Kate and Egil hurried to cross the village and
catch up with Ælfwine. “You did it!” Egil declared triumphantly.
“I did. Do you have our possessions? We leave immediately,” he informed them, not slowing his
pace for one moment.
“They’re in the barn,” Kate told him, struggling to walk as fast as him. “Why are we hurrying
away? You just saved those people!”
“Tomorrow, they may decide they fear the fiend more than those bandits,” Ælfwine explained.
“Best we have some distance between us and them, should that happen.”
They did not argue further, but quickly collected their few belongings from the barn and set a
course south. They had not walked more than a few hundred paces from the village when a voice
behind them called out. “Wait!” Turning around, they saw the mother of the small boy hastily
approach them, clutching something in her hands. As she reached them, she extended the item towards
Egil, who stood closest. “Thank you,” she mumbled. As soon as Egil accepted it, she hastened away.
Opening the cloth bundle, they saw that it was half a cheese wheel, bits of sausage, and some
apples. “See?” Kate smiled. “They are grateful.”
“Yes, had I known my reward would be a morsel of cheese, I never would have hesitated to throw
myself into the fray against twenty men,” Ælfwine muttered sourly.
“I want one of the apples,” Egil declared.
“Less talk, more walk.” The trio continued south.
~~~~
When it became time to make camp for the night, Ælfwine forbade fire; they could not risk attracting
any of the unsavoury folk marauding the area. So they sat in darkness, the children staring at the Elf as
he examined his minor injuries and ensured they were clean.
“I have never seen a sword like yours,” Kate spoke with curious eyes at Ælfwine.
“How could you have seen it today when I bade you both stay away from the fighting,” he retorted
without looking up.
They children exchanged guilty looks. “It’s sea-steel, isn’t it? I saw the high king’s crown once
before he died. It had the same patterns,” Egil explained.
“What is it to you,” Ælfwine muttered.
“That sword must be worth a king’s ransom,” Egil continued. “How did you end up with it?”
“The smith gave it to me.”
Kate and Egil sat with eyes nearly bulging out. “The smith?”
The Elf breathed slowly. “Six items he made after unlocking the secret of the sea. A knife to test
his prowess and four swords to follow, given to our champions,” Ælfwine spoke almost like a chant,
still keeping his attention on himself. “Yet when he realised that his greatest work had no purpose but

275
to kill, he took to the forge one last time and made a helmet for protection, giving it to our king that he
might never die. It did not work.”
“That reminds me of something,” Kate considered. “Swords made from the sea. The swords of sea
with count of four,” she continued. “That’s from Song of Sigvard!”
“That may be. I have never heard it,” Ælfwine replied, finishing his examination of his wounds.
“It tells the story of the last battle in the Great War,” Egil explained. “The swords of sea were
wielded by the Brothers Swordsmen, Alfbrand and Alfmod. Did you know them?”
A faint smile played around Ælfwine’s lips before it faded away. “They were cousins, not
brothers.”
“Are the legends true?” it burst from Kate.
“That depends, what are the legends?”
“Alfbrand was the Bladesinger, and Alfmod was called the Dragonslayer. Wasn’t he?”
Ælfwine’s fingertips ran over the ruby in the pommel of his sword. There was enough moonlight
to illuminate his shape, but they could not discern his face. “Yes.” He adjusted the leather strips
wound over the hilt to hide the precious gem.
“Did he do it? Did he really kill a dragon?”
“Yes.”
The children stared at him with open mouths. “How?”
The Elf sat with closed eyes. He ran his hand over his forehead as if wiping away sweat, though
the night was cold. “Fire and jaw, scales and claw,” he muttered to himself, suddenly opening his eyes
to stare at the children. “Be thankful, little fools, that you live in a time where all the dragons are
gone.” He grabbed the water skin and drank greedily from it.
“What does Bladesinger mean?” Kate dared to ask after brief silence.
Ælfwine exhaled. “Alfbrand was the greatest champion of our people. When he moved his blade,
it was a song made flesh to behold. There was never a swordsman like him under the sun, and there
never shall be.” Noticing the children staring at him in wonder, he cleared his throat. “In any case,
they were warriors, and we should not regard the skill of killing with such awe. I do know that neither
Alfmod nor Alfbrand took delight in battle.”
“What about you? Aren’t you glad that you’re a good warrior? You saved that village,” Egil
argued.
Ælfwine stared away from the children. “It is an ill deed to kill a child of the Alfather, whatever
the cause.”
“Your people wanted to kill us just because we entered the Alfskog,” Egil pointed out.
“We have grown hardened,” Ælfwine admitted. “We consider it bleeding the patient to ensure his
survival.”
“I don’t see how killing those bandits was a bad thing. Now they won’t ever hurt anyone again,”
Kate added.
“You do not understand,” the Elf told them. “Death such as the battlefield we passed through is a
blight upon the Song. One man’s violence may not cause much disruption, but that of thousands?” He
held his fingertips against his brow as if suffering from headache. “I can barely hear it. Its absence is
like a pressure against my mind that will not relent.”
The children looked at each other confused. “Master Ælfwine,” Kate asked cautiously, “are you
hurt?”
He looked up at them. “I am a man in the wasteland who killed five others to defend my water
skin, spilling it all.” He sat upright with a start, blinking a few times. “I am fine. Merely thoughts of
old battles resurfacing. Time to sleep.” He lay down, rolling his cloak around himself. The children

276
gesticulated and mouthed words to each other, silently discussing, until they both admitted ignorance
with a shrug and lay down as well.
~~~~
At dawn, illuminated by the sunlight, Ælfwine seemed his normal self. “We avoid villages in the
future,” he declared to his companions. “We will have to gather food for the remainder of the
journey.” The children, less talkative than usual, accepted his decision by nodding. In silence, they
broke camp.
They were about three weeks from the capital if they had travelled in a straight line, but because of
Ælfwine’s caution, their journey was greatly extended. They had to spend an hour or longer on most
days foraging for food; without a bow, hunting was impossible. Furthermore, they could not follow
the brooks and rivers they encountered, as villages and towns inevitably were settled by these streams;
because of this, they had to spend further time finding water. Lastly, progressing south meant entering
more populated lands. As their surroundings grew lush, so did villages, fields, and herds grazing on
green pastures.
On occasion, the children attempted to ask Ælfwine further questions about his blade, his past, or
the Brothers Swordsmen; he ignored them entirely, refusing to yield even the briefest answer. Day
after day, they trotted southwards with Kate and Egil talking among themselves and Ælfwine a few
steps ahead.
Their strategy turned out to be effective if slow; travelling for five weeks away from roads, they
had no further encounters since the village. Eventually, the twin summits of Valmark and Wyrmpeak
grew in size to loom ahead of them; between those mountains lay Middanhal and their destination.

277
 45. The Last Prince
Middanhal
Of those that went north to the siege camp, Konstans and a few retainers were the first to return to
Middanhal. He had a bath drawn for him in the dragonlord’s private quarters and was in the hot water
when his wife strode into the room. “Forgive me, milord,” Eolf stuttered, trailing behind her. “I tried
to explain you were occupied.”
“I am his wife, you dolt!”
“It is fine, Eolf,” Konstans waved him away. The servant bowed and left them alone.
Mathilde found a seat on a chair. “Tell me what happened.”
“It went as planned.” Konstans sat up, washing the dust of the road from his arms with a piece of
soft cloth. “The prince is dead.”
“Good. We should find Inghard more pliable.”
“Yes. Hopefully the cutthroat has done his task on Gerhard already,” Konstans spoke casually.
“This will amuse you to hear,” Mathilde smiled. “Jerome returned only yesterday. He barely rested
between here and Silfrisarn, so eager was he to escape our good friend Isenhart.”
“Did he botch the killing?”
“This is the amusing part,” she continued. “Isenhart killed Gerhard himself. He was enraged by
our deception, and you already know how he treats hostages. Out of all people, Athelstan intervened
and made sure the Hawk was spared.”
“Brilliant.” Konstans let a rare laughter sound. “Isarn killing the other prince leaves our hands
clean. I could not have planned it any better.”
“A shame that Gerhard had to die,” Mathilde considered with a pragmatic voice. “He was very
amenable towards us. He would have been a good puppet.”
“He would have revealed our involvement in releasing the Isarn prisoners sooner or later,”
Konstans pointed out, scrubbing a resistant spot of dirt until it cleared away.
“That, on the other hand, could have been planned far better,” Mathilde scowled. “The half-witted
son is hardly of consequence, but letting Athelstan escape has made our enemy twice as dangerous.”
“You exaggerate,” Konstans claimed with a calm voice. “Isarn’s armies are crippled. It does not
matter how great a commander Athelstan is when he has no soldiers to command.”
“You underestimate him. Jerome also brought news of a skirmish between the Red Hawks and
Isarn’s forces. The Hawks were forced to retreat.”
“Winning a small encounter will hardly turn the war around for Isarn. Every soldier he loses, he
cannot hope to replace anymore. As long as he has losses, every victory is also a defeat for him,”
Konstans stated.
“You better be right.” His wife wore a sneering expression. “These mercenaries are costing us a
fortune. The last thing we need is for this war to be prolonged.”
“All will be well,” the dragonlord claimed. “We have matters closer to home.”

278
 “What do you mean?”
“The marriage between our house and Hardling fell through. With Hardmar’s death, plans will
certainly have to change now,” Konstans remarked with a sardonic smile. “Of course, he is not the
only Hardling.”
“Valerie and Inghard? It will have to wait at least a few years, even if you get the boy declared of
age to marry before time,” Mathilde contemplated.
“I had someone else in mind.” He ran the cloth in his hands across his face, sighing with relief as
the soft, warm cloth touched his skin. “Inghard has a sister, and we have a son.”
A knowing smile spread across Mathilde’s face. “Of course. How clear-sighted of you, my
husband. I will tell Konstantine and prepare him for it.”
“Let me,” Konstans told her. “Such an important matter should come from his father. After all, it
marks his time to do his part for our house.”
“As you say, dear husband.”
~~~~
Many days after Konstans’ arrival, a trio approached Middanhal. When the city was still some
distance away, Ælfwine stopped. This close to the capital, he had been walking with the blindfold
during the day; even avoiding the Kingsroad, there was always a danger of meeting other people. Now
he removed it and turned his strange gaze upon his two companions.
“The road must be close by,” he told his companions. “You can find your way to Middanhal from
here. My task is done.”
“Will you not come all the way?” asked Egil. “Much could happen between here and the Citadel.”
“Yes, at least let us treat you to a meal, and you can sleep in a real bed tonight,” Kate offered.
“There may be many dangers in this world,” Ælfwine smiled, “but you can handle what lies
between here and your home.”
“I need you to come with me,” Egil stated with a worried look.
“Egil, he’s done enough for us. If he wants to go home, we should let him,” Kate interjected.
“I need your help,” Egil spoke almost imploring.
“With what?” Ælfwine frowned.
“Master Quill is in a cell. You remember him, right?” the boy asked the Elf.” “The prince hurt
him, and now he is a prisoner. He is an old man, and we have to get him out!”
“Egil, I am no prince or lord to your people. They will not heed my word,” Ælfwine pointed out.
“No, but you’re the best warrior I’ve ever seen. You could fight your way out!” Egil suggested.
“Free Master Quill and get him out!”
“Egil, there will be an entire garrison between your master and freedom,” the Elf gently said. “I
am not an army.”
“You killed those bandits like it was nothing!”
“They were few and had no reason to keep fighting me. There could be hundreds of soldiers
standing in our path.” He looked at the boy with concern. “Even if I could make it out alive, I cannot
imagine your old and frail master would survive the same trip.”
“Can’t you try?” Egil pleaded. “I beg you, please!”
“And afterwards? Where do you flee, pursued by soldiers? With a sickly man who needs tending?
Egil, we would only hasten his demise.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Egil, he can’t,” Kate told him with sadness in her voice.

279
 “If your master is to be freed, it will be by cunning or some similar device, not by strength of
arms,” Ælfwine declared. He let his gaze move back and forth between the children. “I take my leave
now. I warn you that you should never return to the Alfskog. You know what awaits you.”
“We know,” Kate nodded while Egil sniffed.
“Since you never listen,” Ælfwine continued with a scolding voice, “I will tell you this. Should
you ever met any of my people, speak the name of Alfmod to them. They will recognise it and bring
you to me. Now farewell.” He bowed his head to them and turned around, moving north rapidly.
Kate watched him leave. “Did he say what I think he said?”
“Who knows,” Egil replied monotonously. He began a shambling walk towards Middanhal; a
moment later, Kate turned from watching Ælfwine’s tall shape to catch up with the boy.
~~~~
An hour later, the double walls of Middanhal rose imposingly before them; ahead lay Woolgate,
allowing people to enter the city from the north. Kate suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of Egil’s
sleeve. “Gate toll!” she exclaimed. “Do we have any coin left? I think we spent the last we had.”
“It’s fine. I am the king’s servant, and you are travelling with me. We don’t pay gate toll,” Egil
informed her tonelessly.
“Are you well? You’ve barely said a word since we said goodbye to Master Ælfwine.”
“Yes.”
This close, plenty of other travellers were moving along the Kingsroad; one branch came from
Theodstan and the other from Isarn to entwine before the gate. These days, there were few travellers
coming from the western branch, but trade and traffic remained as usual from the east. For a city of
Middanhal’s size, having only two gates was deeply unusual; while it made the city easier to defend, it
also meant that both places were constantly crowded. The nobility was exempt from being subject to
toll or guard inspection and could ride through without interruption; all others had to wait their turn.
Kate and Egil, one looking concerned, the other indifferent, joined the row of people waiting to enter
the great city.
“One silver per head to enter the city,” the guard announced with the utmost boredom. He held his
hand outstretched while his head was turned elsewhere, staring at a few pretty faces that had just
passed by.
“I am the King’s Quill,” Egil proclaimed.
His hand devoid of silver, the guard looked outwards and finally down to see a young boy staring
back and a girl of the same age nervously tripping behind him. “What?”
“I am the King’s Quill,” Egil explained. “Kindly let us pass.”
The guard grinned. “I’ve never heard that one before! That’s funny, lad. For that, I won’t slap the
teeth out of you.” His grin disappeared. “Now either sod off or pay.”
Egil kept his unblinking gaze on him. “I am a servant to the king and do not pay toll. Stand aside.”
The guard scowled and grabbed hold of Egil’s robe, pulling the boy to him. “You’re itching to get
smacked, aren’t you.”
“I am the embodiment of the law,” Egil told him fearlessly, staring right into his face. “My person
is sacred. An assault upon me is an assault upon the Adalthing.”
The guard’s expression turned confused. “Don’t try and confound me, boy! I’ll slap you silly till
the sheep come home!” Despite his many threats, the soldier did not move to carry any of them out.
“I am the King’s Quill. I am the embodiment of the law. My person is sacred,” Egil reiterated.
Doubt spread across the guard’s face. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but the Quill is
an old geezer –”

280
 “Let him go, you halfwit!” It was the gate lieutenant, summoned by the commotion. “Haven’t you
heard? The old Quill got thrown into the dungeons. This must be his apprentice who went north with
the prince.”
The soldier quickly let go of Egil’s robe and backed away. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “How was I to
know?”
“Quiet, you moron,” the lieutenant silenced him. “You may pass, Master Quill. I was sorry to hear
of the prince’s passing,” he told Egil and disappeared into the gatehouse again.
Without sparing the guard another look, Egil walked forward and entered the city, closely
followed by Kate. “Egil, that was amazing!” she exclaimed. “You were so fearless! How did you
know to do that?”
“I learned it from Master Quill,” he explained in a tired voice. “I suppose I should return to the
library.”
“Wait, didn’t that soldier say the prince had passed?” Kate’s eyes widened.
“He must have died when the camp was attacked,” Egil assumed. “I guess that’s my luck. I won’t
have to forge anything.”
“Forge?”
“The prince wanted Master Quill to make false documents,” Egil related. “He refused. That’s why
they threw in prison. I was next.”
“Wait, the prince,” Kate suddenly interjected. “He can help.”
“He is dead,” Egil pointed out. “Let’s get back to the Citadel.”
“Not him! I mean, one prince is dead, and the other prince fled with the prisoners. So there is only
the youngest prince left, right?” Kate’s eyes beamed.
“I guess. So?”
“That means he is in charge now. What the old prince did, the new prince can change. And Prince
Inghard is a friend to Master Quill,” she explained excitedly. “He was always visiting us in the
library!”
Realisation spread across Egil’s face. “I have to get an audience with the prince!”
He sprinted towards the Citadel. An hour later, having used his authority as the king’s scribe to
open further doors, Egil and Kate accompanied Inghard down to the dungeons. Shortly after, Kateb al-
Qasr was freed from his cell, restored to his position as the King’s Quill, and could return to his
library tower.
~~~~
In the great Temple, affairs had returned to normal after that fateful day when the doors had been
closed. The blackrobes had never given any explanation for this, and none dared ask the Templars.
Rumours swirled. The Highfather had fallen violently ill, and his death had been feared until he
miraculously recovered. One of the Templars had broken his vows and been cast out, like it had
happened to Sir Damien years ago. Some swore they had seen Adalbrand, the infamous knave, pass
through the halls. Others were convinced that a large treasure of gold and silver had been sent to the
Temple for safekeeping.
Two of the men who knew the truth, Septimus and Eadric, sat in the latter’s study. “We have
received another report,” the high priest told his superior, holding a strip of parchment in his hand
containing scribbled runes. “Not only did Isarn win a battle and threatens to end the siege of
Grenwold. The jarl killed Prince Gerhard afterwards by his own hand.”
Septimus sighed. “Perhaps it would have been better if Athelstan had died on the scaffold. This
war may drag on indefinitely now.”

281
 Eadric looked at the old man. “Should we seek to intervene?”
The Highfather shook his head. “Too dangerous. This must play out by itself. Any news of
Adalbrand?”
“None of our priests have reported anything. Either he is well disguised –”
“Or he is keeping to the wild,” Septimus nodded. “I wish him gods’ speed in either case.”
“If Adalrik is out of our hands,” the blackrobe began to say, “it is time to deal with Ealond.”
“You are right. They did not heed my warning. Inform the Templars and have a carriage made
ready.”
“Yes, Brother. When should you wish to leave?”
“Tomorrow. I leave the Temple in your capable hands until I return,” Septimus declared.
“Yes, Brother.”
Next day, though few inside or outside the Temple were made aware, the Highfather and ten
Templars left for Fontaine.

282
 Sixth Chronicle of Adalmearc
Part of the Annals of Adal

This volume begins in the year ᚿᛜᚢᚿᛚ

The events unfold in the realm of Ealond

283
 46. The Raven’s Shadow Falls
Castle Belvoir
In the south-eastern part of Ealond lay the duchy of Belvoir along the border to Korndale. It was
situated where several tributaries converged upon the river Sureste, making the lands fertile and lush.
Along with this came the rich trade with Tricaster across the border, making Belvoir a prosperous fief
and its master one of the most powerful noblemen in Ealond. His fortress reflected this with many
towers, high walls, and a large garrison; the nearby castle town had many stately houses built by
wealthy merchants, its markets and workshops bustled with activity, and the settlement had over time
acquired its own fortifications and reached a size to merit consideration as a city.
Riding on the main thoroughfare upon a magnificent steed, Duke Gaspard was followed by a
grand retinue of kinsmen and other noblemen. They were returning from the hunt in the nearby forests
that teemed with game, reflected by the many pheasants and even a large deer that their servants were
bringing back. The townspeople hurried to stand aside for this splendid procession, but many of them
cried out to the duke, wishing the gods’ blessing upon him. He waved in return on occasion,
exchanging jests and laughter with his companions meanwhile.
The hunting party went down the main street of the city, eventually reaching its temple. Unlike its
domed counterpart in Middanhal, it had a tall spire and a stained glass window above its great door
that formed the shape of a raven. A novice in her brown robe was sweeping the stairs by the entrance
when she looked up to see the duke and his followers approach. Dropping the broom, she hurried
inside and called for her sisters.
The high priestess of the temple was soon outside with the other ordained members of her order,
bowing low as the duke reached them. “The Raven Days are over!” Gaspard declared. He was a
handsome man with a groomed beard, as brown in colour as his cheeks were red. His fur-lined cloak
and wealthy attire made an impression upon the commoners as well; a crowd was already gathering to
gawp at the richly dressed riders and hear their lord’s words. “Those days of hardship always take
their toll, and food becomes scarce in many a home.” Concern lay upon his countenance. “As the new
year arrives, it brings an end to hardship for now. I bring this gift to the temple,” he announced,
motioning to his servants that were holding the deer upon a stick, “that our revered sibyls may use it to
feed those who cannot feed themselves.” His men walked forward to place the carcass upon the steps
of the temple while the onlookers cheered.
“You have our thanks, Your Highness,” the eldest of the norns replied. “May the goddess bless
you as you have blessed us with this gift.” She gestured to some of her sisters, who grabbed the legs of
the deer and hauled it inside.
“May the new year bring you all gifts,” the duke declared loudly, and his people roared
enthusiastically. Waving to them, the duke turned his horse and began a slow trot, giving his people
time to greet him and be greeted in return.

284
 “That was kind of you, Father,” remarked the young man who rode next to Gaspard; he had the
same ruddy cheeks and clear blue eyes, though his hair was blonder and his beard thinner.
“I prefer the pheasants anyway,” the duke remarked with mirth in his eyes, winking to his son
before sending further smiles to the adoring crowd.
~~~~
The land was nearly flat, but where it sloped slightly upwards stood Castle Belvoir. It towered over its
surroundings, including the town, and dominated the landscape. The nearby river had been partly
diverted to serve as a moat, increasing its defences greatly. As the hunting party approached the
fortress, the call went up from the guards, and the drawbridge was lowered in response. Numerous
servants hurried into the courtyard to receive the duke and his retinue; stable hands received the
horses, kitchen servants took the dead fowls to prepare or cure the meat, and personal attendants
brought wine and other refreshments to drink.
“Welcome home, milord,” declared the steward.
“All has been well in my absence, I trust?” asked the duke.
“Yes, milord. I was told to relay that your wife has gone through the books for the last year, and
she wishes to discuss them with you.”
“Tell her we may do so tonight,” Gaspard commanded.
“Yes, milord. Also,” the servant continued hesitantly, “Master Guilbert returned yesterday.”
The duke was quiet for a moment. “Send for him in my study immediately.”
“Yes, milord.”
The duke turned around. “Alois,” he called out.
His son walked over to him. “Yes, Father?”
“Meet your mother and me tonight in my study. We will be examining the duchy’s books.”
“Of course, Father.”
“Let us attend to our horses,” Gaspard continued. Father and son went over to where their steeds
stood waiting. The stable boys had removed the saddles already and handed brushes to the noblemen
to let them groom the horses themselves. Idle conversation ensued, mostly about their luck on the
hunt, until the beasts had been properly tended to; only then did the duke allow his men to enter the
castle and relax after their expedition.
~~~~
While his companions rested, changed clothes, or saw to other needs, the duke marched straight to his
study. The figure inside had been sitting down, waiting, but leapt up as his lord thrust the door open
and strode inside. “My lord,” Guilbert greeted him, bowing low.
“Guilbert,” the duke responded with a nod. He moved to pour a cup of ale from a pitcher on a
small table. “How was your sojourn to Middanhal?”
“It was a success, my lord,” the envoy reported with satisfaction. He grabbed a leather cylinder
that had been leaning against his chair and opened it on the duke’s desk, letting a rolled-up document
slide out.
Gaspard seized the parchment eagerly and unfurled it, letting his eyes glance over it. At the
bottom, it carried the signature and seal of the jarl of Vale. “Excellent. This should silence the other
lords. You have done well, Guilbert.”
“I live to serve,” he replied with a bow.
“What is your impression of the jarl?”
“I never met with him,” Guilbert admitted. “Only his brother, the dragonlord.”

285
 “What would you say of him?”
“A clever man, clear-sighted and willing to act as necessary,” Guilbert described. “Yet under strain
from the civil war and liable to make mistakes if pressured sufficiently.”
“I see. Once we intervene, the war should come to an end,” the duke declared. He sat down by his
desk, continuing to examine the treaty in his hands. “Did you learn anything else of note?”
“The prince seems charming. Seems, that is. I did not witness anything to the contrary, but his
cordial manner felt like a mask upon his face, and I did not feel at ease when I glimpsed behind the
mask.”
“Is that so,” Gaspard considered, stroking his chin. “That will be a headache for the drakonians,
not us. Once we finish this war that threatens his future rule, he should at any rate be amenably
disposed towards us.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“You have done well securing this, Guilbert,” the duke reiterated, rolling the document together.
“Thanks to this, my plans may proceed.”
“It was an honour. May I enquire as to when you depart for Fontaine?”
“In a week or two, I estimate. Why?”
“I was wondering,” Guilbert spoke cautiously, “if I would be accompanying his lordship to the
capital. I believe I may be of great service at the court.”
Regret appeared on the duke’s face. “I fear that would be unseemly. I will face opposition as it is,
trying to legitimise myself at court. Legitimacy, unfortunately, is your weakness.”
If being reminded of his bastard background upset Guilbert, he did not show it. “As you say, Your
Highness,” he assented with a servile demeanour.
“You will do important work for me here at Belvoir,” the duke maintained. “Far more important
than at Fontaine.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Was there anything else you required of me?”
“No, you are dismissed,” Gaspard told him. Turning around, Guilbert left the study with his
countenance devoid of emotion.
~~~~
The duke took dinner with his family and court afterwards, being served pheasants. After the winter, it
was the first fresh meat anyone in the castle had eaten in months, and to augment the good mood, the
wine was less diluted than normal. As the duke’s cheeks were already red in colour, the effect of the
drink was not visible on his appearance; he laughed a great deal, yet that was also commonplace. His
wife was quieter in comparison, retaining a dignified disposition and only occasionally adding a
remark to her husband’s jests. Their eldest son, mixing their blood and temper, was somewhere in
between; laughing more often than his mother but with less intensity than his father.
In any case, the successful hunt and the return of the lord of the castle, with delicious food and
wine to follow, meant for a merry meal. The harshness of winter lay behind them, and while other
lands might be ravaged by war, those seemed like distant realms; nothing threatened the prosperity of
Belvoir.
When all were satiated, the duke withdrew to his study, followed by his wife and Alois. The
accounts of the duchy had already been brought there by command of the lady, and she wasted no
time in opening the ledgers at specific pages.
“Look here,” she told her husband. “These are our expenses for linen and cloth for the last year,
and these are sums paid.”
“They match, so why the dissatisfaction?” asked Gaspard.

286
 “I enquired with the merchants and weavers and tallied every sum. There is a discrepancy of fifty
silver,” she declared triumphantly. “Your steward has written higher figures in these books than he
actually paid out, keeping the difference.”
The duke laughed. “My dear Claudette, you acted like a wolf with the scent of a wounded hart.
Fifty silver is all?”
“It is not the amount of coins, it is the principle,” the lady replied offended. “I told you that
daleman was not to be trusted, and I was right!”
“So you went to all this trouble, tracking down every merchant and craftsman, just to prove you
were right?” Gaspard’s voice danced with amusement.
“It is the principle,” she reiterated fiercely. “He is cheating us!” While the duke appeared calm in
the face of the duchess’ outburst, their son kept his distance.
“Darling, in the course of examining the books, do you have an estimate of how much coin we
have saved since Master Livius became steward?”
“I would not know,” she sniffed. “I did not compare with the previous year’s books.”
“But you must have an idea,” Gaspard pressed her.
She stared at her husband. “Three crowns and seventy-two silver, or thereabouts,” she admitted
sourly. “But what he stole has to be subtracted from that!”
“Thereabouts,” the duke smiled amused. “My arithmetic is inferior to yours, my dear, but that
should leave us three crowns and twenty-two silver richer.”
“It is the principle,” she repeated.
“Alois,” the duke called out, looking at his son. “What would you suggest is done?”
The young man frowned. “A servant who cheats his master is an offence to our honour.
Furthermore, if it became known we have done nothing to discourage this, all our servants would be
emboldened to steal from us.”
“Very true. But Master Livius is the most capable steward I have had in many years. Is it worth
losing his skill in running my estate to set an example?” asked Gaspard.
Alois scratched the thin beard on his chin. “I would call Master Livius to my study tomorrow and
tell him that starting this year, his wages will be increased with fifty pieces of silver.”
“Are you mad?” came an outburst from his mother.
“I would also inform him,” the young nobleman continued, “that I have decided not to suffer any
kind of thievery or dishonesty among my servants henceforth. He is to crack down on any such
behaviour harshly, and you expect that the coming year’s books will be balanced perfectly with not a
copper petty out of place.”
“You are soft-hearted like a wench,” his mother grumbled.
Gaspard smiled broadly. “You are wise beyond your years, my son. Come now, Claudette, be
thankful that our son has inherited your mind and my good looks. Imagine the disaster if it had been
reverse,” he grinned.
“How dare you!” Claudette exclaimed. “Tonight when you come knocking at my chamber door,
home for the first time in many nights, I shall remember your words and make you bitterly regret
them.”
“Lock your door all you want, dear wife. I have a copy of the key,” he informed her with a wink to
his son, who seemed slightly nauseated at the conversation.
“I expected nothing less from a rake like you,” she huffed. “Alois, do not stay up late. There is a
chill in the air tonight, and I do not want you to get sick.”
“Mother, I just spent a week in the coldness of the forest,” he tried to protest, but she was already
leaving.

287
 “That was a clever decision, my son, concerning Master Livius. You will make a great duke some
day. Maybe more,” his father predicted with gleaming eyes.
“You have not changed your mind, then?” Alois asked apprehensively.
“I considered your objections as promised. I am still determined this is the best course of action,”
his father declared.
“The decision is yours to make,” the son assented. “I want to be by your side - that should be my
decision to make.”
The duke shook his head. “There will be plenty for you to do in my absence. Once matters in
Fontaine are decided, we march to war in Adalrik. I want you to make those preparations.”
The youth considered this briefly. “As you say, Father. I shall make you proud.”
“You already have, my boy. Now, let us have a glass of this brandy to chase away that night chill
your mother mentioned,” Gaspard suggested with smiling eyes, pouring two glasses.
~~~~
About a week later, Gaspard of Belvoir was in the saddle once more. Along with his usual retinue,
many hundred soldiers stood ready in the courtyard; on their march, their number would increase to
the double, and it would still only be a small portion of Belvoir’s full strength. Although the duke had
been summoned by King Rainier to march all his soldiers to Fontaine, equipping all his levies and
keeping them fed was very costly, and Gaspard was only bringing the number he considered
necessary. To the inhabitants of the castle, unused to seeing armies of any size, it was an impressive
sight regardless.
As the columns made ready for departure, a norn entered through the gate and approached the
duke. Seeing her, he dismounted again, allowing her to address him with more ease. “My lord,” she
greeted him while inclining her head.
“Sister.”
“I come to wish the Raven Lady’s blessings upon your venture,” she explained. She lowered her
voice as she continued to speak. “I have received word from the Veiled. She awaits your arrival.”
“Very well,” the duke simply replied. His gaze fell upon one of the windows above where his wife
and children were watching him, including his eldest son. “You were present when Alois was born,
were you not?”
“I was the sibyl for all your children, Your Highness.”
“Do you remember his birth words?” the duke asked, waving and smiling to his family.
“Of course,” the norn claimed.
“Raven’s shadow falls, fountain overflows, the river shall be his,” Gaspard quoted from memory.
“In that moment, I knew he was destined for this.”
“There can be no other interpretation, Your Highness.”
“My son,” he added to himself, smiling again. “Thank you, Sister,” he added, taking to the saddle
again. “Gods go with you,” he told her in farewell. “Move out!” he shouted to the procession of men
behind him while his personal guards fell into place by his side. With a gentle push of the spurs into
his horse, the duke began the journey towards Fontaine.

288
 47. The Justiciar
Central Ealond
Carcas was a sleepy village in central Ealond. Nothing distinguished it from any other village in the
realm except for a temporary attraction, which had set up tent south of the brook that supplied Carcas
with fresh water. One after another, the villagers visited and returned to tell the others that a seeress
had come to town, telling their fortunes for just a silver piece. One farmer had been told of his good
harvest to come, another that his heifer would calve without complications if he spoke a spell of health
upon her three times a day, and a third had bought a potion that would give him eloquence to haggle at
the market fair in summer.
Some came anxiously, some came out of boredom, but regardless of the reason, most of the village
paid a visit to the prophetess and her silent protector; he was a docile giant of a man travelling with
her. None of the townspeople had heard him speak during their visits to the tent, and they assumed he
was either mute or touched.
Having been here for a few days, the fortune teller had been visited by everyone from the village
with the intent to do so; early in the morning, her lackey was about to pull down the tent when one
final guest appeared. He wore leather and a cloak meant for travelling, complemented by his heavy
boats thick with mud; approaching the tent, he called out to the silent man outside. “Is this where the
fortune teller can be found?” The big man nodded and gestured for the visitor to enter.
The tent held various pieces of furniture, including bedrolls and a small chest. Two primitive
chairs could also be found, one for a guest and one for the seeress herself. She sat, waiting for her
customer, wearing a red robe in the fashion of the norns though it was adorned by many strange
symbols. Cloth was wrapped around her head, concealing her lower face; big silver earrings could
barely be seen underneath the scarf. “Be seated,” she spoke in invitation. “What is your name, good
master?” Her voice was deeper than her slender form suggested, almost hoarse.
“I thought you knew such things,” her visitor replied with a sardonic smile. He was around forty
years of age with long hair tied back under his broad-brimmed hat; the tan and lines on his face
suggested a life outdoors.
“I see what will come to pass,” she retorted. “Your name is of no consequence, to be truthful.”
“Unlike yours. I am told you’re the mistress Clarisse, born with the clear-sight, and you can tell
me much that’s hidden from mortal eyes. Am I right?”
“You are,” she answered with her raspy voice. “What brings you before me, traveller? To call
upon my sight is a great ordeal and not undertaken lightly. I must know exactly the reason for piercing
the veil of the future,” she informed him, placing a hand on her forehead. “If you’ve come for other
reasons, such as to cure ailments that the lay brothers or sibyls cannot heal, I have many remedies as
well.”
“I have a question. Tell me if I am ever to marry, settle down, and have children,” he asked of her.

289
 Her dark eyes scrutinised his appearance, and she extended her hand. “One eagle is necessary for
the sight to take flight.”
“Of course,” he assented, putting his hands on his belt. Besides a long dagger with elaborate sheath
and hilt, it also held his coin purse, and he fished out a silver piece to put in her hand.
Once payment was given, the fortune teller leaned back in her seat with closed eyes, placing her
hand on her forehead again. She hummed a sound with closed lips, continuing for several moments. “I
see – I see you seated in a chair like now, but with grey in your hair.” Her voice was like the growl of
a beast. “You sit before a fire in the hearth. A woman’s voice reaches you, telling you that food is
ready. A boy, six or seven years of age, pulls your boots to let you be comfortable.” She resumed the
humming sound before finally gasping deeply. “You have your answer.”
“I have. Truth be told it was another question I sought answer to, but this will suffice,” the
traveller claimed.
“If something else ails you, perhaps I can help,” Clarisse offered.
“I just needed to know if your powers of prophecy were genuine or not. You see, if they were, I
would charge you with blasphemy, abusing a sacred gift.” A start went through the fortune teller, but
before she could react further, his long dagger was in his hand and pointed at her stomach. “As you
are simply a charlatan, that’ll be my accusation. I advise you to be calm rather than attempt to resist,
flee, or command that big lout outside to attack me. I’ve already had the men in the village surround
the tent.”
“You false snake,” she hissed. “Who are you to dare accuse me?”
“You’re hardly one to throw stones,” he remarked dryly. “I suppose I should introduce myself. I
am Ghislain, justiciar of the Raven Court, and I place you under arrest as you have falsely claimed to
possess powers of clear-sight, accepting money in return. A thorough search of your belongings and
examination of you and your companion will determine if you are guilty of any other charges.” He
raised his voice to call out behind him without taking his eyes off Clarisse. “You may apprehend her.”
Commotion outside announced the villagers’ approach.
“Am I guilty simply on your word?” she spat; her voice was no longer deep or raspy, but sounded
typical for a woman in her thirties. Some of the men who only yesterday had paid for her counsel
entered the tent with chains.
“The nearest high priestess of the Raven Court will determine your guilt,” Ghislain declared
calmly. “I will be a witness against you, and even without clear-sight, I think I can predict the verdict.
Shackle her,” he commanded, keeping his knife ready on her while the men did as told.
Being pushed outside, Clarisse saw the justiciar’s cart; it carried a metal cage for prisoners with a
heavy cloth cover to serve as a primitive roof and offer some protection from the elements. Upon the
driver’s seat sat a great dog with thick fur; its size would have made it look menacing, except it sat
with its tongue lolling. Next to the cart, on the ground and also in chains, sat her companion. “You
couldn’t have warned me?” she demanded to know angrily.
He gave a resigned shrug. “It was too late.”
“Damn, the big fellow can talk,” one of the villagers noted.
“Quiet,” Ghislain commanded, either to the prisoners, the townspeople, or all of them. He was
carrying the chest from inside the tent, putting it on his cart. “Pull down the tent and gather any other
belongings into my wagon.”
“Are you keeping it?” someone wanted to know with envy in his voice.
The justiciar turned around quickly with a piercing gaze. “All their items must be examined for
signs of witchcraft,” Ghislain explained sternly. “You don’t want to risk bringing any such objects
into your home, I can tell you that. As for the rest of their things, it is forfeit to the Order of the Raven.

290
Steal any of it, and you steal from the goddess. I’d strongly advise you against doing that,” he said
pointedly.
The village men mumbled and grumbled, but none dared defy the justiciar. Soon after, everything
was packed in his cart, including the prisoners inside the cage.
Standing up on the driver’s seat, Ghislain surveyed the men that had aided him. “Remember this
lesson,” he commanded them. “The gift of prophecy is a sacred blessing given by Idisea to her chosen
followers. Anyone who is not a sibyl, anyone who demands payment for its use, is either a fraud or a
heretic. Do not give me cause to ever return to your village,” he added with a threatening undertone.
Sparing the villagers no further attention, he sat down, grabbed the reins of the horse, and set his
wagon into motion.
~~~~
Their progress was slow as they drove on little more than dirt, trying to reach the main roads that
connected the cities of Ealond. The justiciar seemed content with this, letting the horse move to its
own pace and spending his time scratching his dog behind the ears.
“Master Justice,” spoke his male prisoner. “Where are you taking us?”
“To Monteau,” Ghislain replied. “The high priestess there will cast judgement upon you.”
“If you care about our destination, you should have done something to prevent it,” the woman in
the cart sneered to her shackled companion.
“Easy, Sister,” he told her calmly. “It all happens for a reason.”
“What reason?” she asked incredulously. “Are you saying it’s fated that I received the raven
brand? As for you, you big oaf, they’ll throw you in a pit to turn a mill wheel for the rest of your life!”
He lowered his voice. “I am having the same dream.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not this again.”
“Several nights in a row. I am not surprised the justiciar found us.”
“Well, it would have been nice if you’d warned me,” she spoke with disdain.
He glanced at her with tired eyes. “We’ve been doing this for more than twenty years. It was time
it came to an end.”
“Forgive me if I am not fond of it ending this way, being branded,” she muttered, rubbing her hand
as if she could already feel the burning mark upon it. “Hey, Master Justice,” she continued with a
mocking voice, “don’t your prisoners get to eat?”
“Sure,” he replied with a complacent tone, “tonight when we stop.”
“Tonight?” she whined.
“There’s bread in our bag over there,” her brother told her, nodding towards a sack lying in the
cart, but outside their cage.
The woman extended her hands, but the shackles kept the bag out of her reach. “Perfect. Michel?”
The giant leaned forward and stretched out his long arms, but to no avail either. “Sorry, Sister.”
She let out a sigh. “I can’t believe this day.”
In front of them, the justiciar smiled to himself, feeding his dog a piece of meat.
~~~~
Towards the end of the day, the cart rolled into a small town; its primary advantage over the villages
of the land was the presence of a public house. The justiciar fished out a silver pin from his coin purse
and attached it to his tunic; it was made in the shape of a raven clutching a naked sword in its talons
and would be recognised anywhere in Ealond. “Stay,” Ghislain commanded his dog and jumped off
the wagon, striding into the tavern while ignoring any protests by Clarisse at being left in the cage.

291
 A handful of other people were present, mostly locals along with a portly merchant and his
servants. They glanced at the newly arrived but paid him no further heed, engrossed in their own
conversation. Ghislain likewise cared little for the other patrons, walking up to the tavern keeper.
Unlike his customers, the owner spotted the silver pin upon Ghislain’s chest immediately and
bowed low with an anxious smile. “How may I be of help, Master Justice?” he enquired.
“I need my horse stabled and three meals. Send two of them to the prisoners on my cart,” he
instructed. “If you have a bone or such to give my dog, I would look kindly on that.”
“Of course, good master,” the owner replied in a servile manner. “Anything else?”
“Some bread and food for my journey tomorrow. I’ll sleep in the common room tonight,” he
added, glancing out at the room with its merry fire burning in the hearth.
“Very well, good master.” The tavern keeper turned and barked a few orders at one of his servants.
“These prisoners,” he continued hesitantly, “they are not – dangerous, are they?”
“About as dangerous as one of your kitchen wenches,” Ghislain scoffed. “They are not witches or
heretics, merely foolish blasphemers with little wit about them.”
“As you say,” the owner assented with another bow. “Please, take a seat.”
Ghislain nodded and sat by the long table in the middle of the room, keeping plenty of distance
between himself and the other people drinking and laughing. Soon after, a bowl of stew was placed in
front of him along with a spoon; the kitchen maid did this and retreated with such haste, the contents
almost spilled. Ignoring her behaviour, Ghislain busied himself with emptying the bowl while staring
with indifference at the empty wall in front of him.
The merchant and his men were in a good mood, laughing and eating their fill with plenty of ale as
well. Their master enjoyed telling jests in particular, letting his entire barrel-shaped body roll with
laughter. As he did, a strange rattling sound accompanied his mirth. Finishing his stew, Ghislain
suddenly held still, listening intently. Finally, he turned his head to look at the merchant. “What have
you got in that pouch on your belly?” he asked, nodding towards the item in question.
The other man took hold of the purse that hung in a leather string around his neck. “What’s it to
you?” he asked aggressively, his merry mood gone. “If you’re thinking of grabbing your paws on it,
best you look away, stranger.”
Ghislain turned his upper body towards the men, making the pin on his chest visible. They all fell
silent, and the merchant grew pale. “I’ve heard that rattling sound before,” the justiciar explained with
a growling voice. “It sounds like bones. Let me guess.” He furrowed his brow in contemplation. “The
little fingers of a hanged man, snipped before dawn but after night’s end, boiled and bewitched to give
you an edge over the other traders.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the merchant stammered, sweating.
Ghislain narrowed his eyes. “Lying to me is a poor choice,” he warned the man, extending his
hand. “Give it to me.”
The trader swallowed. “Yes, Master Justice.” He removed the pouch and threw it to Ghislain.
The justiciar probed the content of the purse through the leather with his fingertips. “Who sold this
to you?”
“An old man, travelling on a donkey. It was weeks ago.”
“Where?”
“Between the road of Fontaine and Montmer,” came the hurried reply.
“What did he promise it would do?”
The merchant licked his lips. “He told me it would protect my goods from rot.”
Ghislain stared at him intently. “You fool. You invite evil into your life and carry it around your
neck. Tell me this,” he demanded. “Do you feel that your strength is sapped quickly? That long

292
journeys or hard labour leaves you quickly tired, and that your thirst and hunger have become harder
to satiate?”
“Yes!” the man exclaimed. “Am I cursed? Help me, Master Justice, please!”
Ghislain turned his gaze to the empty plates in front of the merchant. “No, it’s because you eat like
a pig, and you’re slowly turning into one.” Anxious laughter, suppressed in vain, erupted around the
room. Ghislain held the pouch up. “I’m guessing these are chicken bones, and you were swindled
from your money like the imbecile you are. But if you want to be sure there is no taint of evil upon
you,” he added, “I suggest you make your offerings at the next temple of Idisea you reach. Or better
yet, go to Fontaine and drink from the holy fountain. Only then may you be certain that you are
cleansed.”
“Yes, Master Justice,” the merchant mumbled, glancing at his servants as they tried to wipe the
smiles from their faces.
“As for this,” Ghislain continued, standing up and walking over to the fire where he tossed the
purse into the flames. They happily began to devour the leather pouch. He returned to his seat, taking
a healthy swig of his ale. The locals slowly resumed conversation whereas the merchant retired to his
room.
“Pardon me, good master,” one of the kitchen maids spoke nervously.
“Yes?” Ghislain replied.
“Is it safe?” She nodded towards the fire.
“I doubt there is a lick of evil in those old bones,” the justiciar reassured her. “Besides, fire is the
great cleanser. You have nothing to worry about.” Seeing the anxiety remain on her face, he
continued. “If you wish to ward yourself – is there an ash tree in town? Failing that, an oak tree.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Let the bones burn in the fire through the night. Tomorrow, without touching them with your
hands, take the bones and bury them under the root of an ash or oak tree. That will bind any
malevolence in the bones as safely as holy ground.”
“Thank you,” she smiled, adding a little bow after a moment’s consideration.
“It’s my duty,” he simply replied, returning to his ale.
Shortly after, a cup of wine was placed next to him. “From my master,” the kitchen girl explained.
“As thanks for protecting us.”
Ghislain turned his head, looking at both servant and master; each of them managed to look
grateful and nervous at the same time. He raised the cup and gave a nod in gratitude, emptying it.
Afterwards, having finished his meal, he made a bed for himself in a corner of the common room and
fell asleep mere moments after lying down.
~~~~
Early next morning, the justiciar woke and gathered his belongings. Once outside, he tossed some
bread and cheese into the cage on his cart. “Breakfast,” he told his prisoners. One thanked him while
the other cursed him. His dog barked eagerly. “At least someone is happy to see me,” he muttered
with a wry expression, scratching the beast on the head while waiting for the stable boy to bring out
his horse.
Michel sent his sister a look. “What?” she asked with breadcrumbs falling out of her mouth.
“I had the same dream again,” he confided in her.
“What else is new,” she grumbled.
“It was different. It feels so urgent,” he claimed.
“Quiet with such talk,” Clarisse whispered with a sneer.

293
 They were interrupted by banging on the bars to their cage. “If you’re going to chatter away, you
should prepare your confession,” Ghislain suggested. He had put the harness on the horse, and their
journey could be continued. “You have a couple of days until Monteau.” He sat up on the driver’s seat
of the cart.
“What if I want to go to Fontaine?” asked Michel.
His sister kicked him. “What’s wrong with you?” she hissed.
“Tough luck. I’m not driving around with you for weeks when Monteau is only a few days away.”
Next to Ghislain, his dog placed its head in his lap, angling for more scratches.
“But there are certain crimes against the faith that only the Council of Three may judge, right?”
Ghislain sent a scrutinising glance over his shoulder. “What would a peasant like you know about
that?”
“Michel,” his sister spoke with a warning tone.
“I know that certain heresies are considered so dangerous, they must be judged by the tribunal,”
Michel continued. “For instance, those who profess the teachings of Hraban the Revered.”
“Hraban the Mad, you mean,” Ghislain scoffed, giving his draught horse the signal to start pulling
the cart. “Only a halfwit would follow his crazed beliefs. I’ve met many a moron in my time, and
never one followed that heresy.”
“Today is your lucky day,” Michel smiled, stroking the full, black beard on his face.
“Michel!” His sister’s voice reached a pitch barely audible to human ears.
“You see, I believe as he does. I believe that men may hear the voice of Idisea. I believe that the
Order of the Raven has lost her blessing. I believe the justiciars have erred from the path of right.”
Ghislain halted the cart abruptly, pulling the reins back forcefully while the mare protested. For a
moment he sat, staring emptily ahead while anger began to surface. He leapt down from his seat and
walked over to stare into the cage. “I don’t know what would be worse,” he confessed; his voice was
steady, but the words were spoken with an edge. “If you’re saying that as a jest, or if you truly believe
it. Either way, you got your wish.” He stared with contempt at Michel. “I’m hauling you before the
Council of Three where you’ll be made to repent all your errant beliefs. After that, you’ll get the worst
punishment for a heretic. I hope you’re not afraid of fire, boy, because there’s a lot of it in your
future.”
“Michel, what have you done?” whispered Clarisse, tearing at her hair. “You’ll get us both burned
at the stake!”
He gave her a peaceful smile. “You need not worry, Sister. You’ll be fine, I promise.”
“How can you know,” she questioned. “Twenty years I’ve taken care of you, and you throw it all
away!”
The cart set into motion again, turning around and going north towards Fontaine. “It’ll all be well,”
Michel claimed. “We’re going where we’re supposed to go.” He leaned back into the straw that served
as a rudimentary bed, closing his eyes.

294
 48. The Heretic
Central Ealond
Steadily, the cart rumbled on northwards towards the capital of Ealond. The journey passed quietly for
the most part. Clarisse had gone through various stages of anger, pleading, and finally sullen
resentment towards her brother, who had endured it all calmly. Ghislain had restricted himself to
barking for silence on occasion until at length this had been granted, albeit not through any of his
efforts. The only creature making noise was the dog, expressing its opinion of the various woodland
creatures watching the cart drive by.
On the fourth day of their journey, Michel finally broke the silence again. “Today is Laugday. We
could all use a bath.”
“No amount of water will clean your soul, heretic,” Ghislain shot back.
“Even condemned people are allowed to wash,” Clarisse claimed.
“What gave you that idea? Condemned people are allowed nothing but a noose,” the justiciar
stated.
“It’ll be a long road to Fontaine if we can’t bathe on occasion,” Michel pointed out, stroking his
black beard. “Or change the hay in this wagon.”
“I let you out of the chains to see to your needs on occasion,” Ghislain retorted. “Be content with
that.”
“Master Justice,” Michel continued unabashed, “if memory serves me, there’s a village up ahead
with a lovely little brook of water. It would be a short stop to let the horse and your dog drink, and we
might wash and change clothes. Surely you would enjoy that yourself.”
Ghislain looked at the dog by his side, who stared back with a begging look and whined quietly.
“Fine. Same rules apply as always. You go one at a time, and if you try to run, I set the hound on
you.”
“Of course, Master Justice,” Michel smiled.
“You’re very pleased with yourself,” Clarisse muttered. “Don’t think this absolves you in my
eyes.”
“I would never dare,” Michel swore. “But my dreams have been strange of late, and nothing clears
the head like a good swim in cool water on a warm day.”
“You can’t even swim, dimwit,” his sister reminded him.
“True.” The big man frowned. “Master Ghislain,” he called out, “can you swim?”
“What possible reason do you have for asking? Planning to drown me in that lovely little brook of
yours?”
“Never,” Michel protested. “But the stream is deceptively deep and has a current. If you can’t
swim, you should take care.”
“Sadly for you, I am an excellent swimmer,” Ghislain informed him.
“Good,” Michel replied with a satisfied expression.

295
 ~~~~
About an hour later, the wagon crossed a small bridge and rolled into a village. The justiciar halted his
cart and looked back at the brook they had just passed. “Very well,” he assented. “One at a time. You
first,” he nodded at Michel, unlocking the cage and the big man’s chains afterwards. “Here, boy,” he
called to the dog afterwards. “If he tries to run,” Ghislain told the hound, “you sink your teeth in him.”
The dog barked happily in response.
“You need not worry, Master Justice,” Michel told him, getting out of the wagon. Walking down
to the stream of water, he stripped to the waist, removing his boots and socks as well, and entered the
brook.
The justiciar sat on the bank, watching his prisoner enjoy the cool water in the sunshine. They
were not alone; several children of the village had been sent by their mothers for the same purpose.
They eyed the strangers warily for a while until playing and swimming in the stream diverted their
attention. “Ah, to Hel with it,” Ghislain finally expressed, watching the others amuse themselves. He
removed most of his clothing, laying it in a pile. “Watch my things,” he told his dog, who whined
back at him. “You’ll get your turn,” he promised and entered the water. The justiciar was lean and in
good shape, taking powerful strokes to cross the stream from one bank to the other and back.
Keeping to the edge, Michel watched him with a grin. “Not such a bad idea, was it, Master
Justice?”
“Even heretics can have the right thought on occasion,” Ghislain granted.
Michel only smiled, staying where he could reach the bottom and washing his shirt before laying it
to dry on the bank. That accomplished, he stood and watched the children of the village. Suddenly he
called out the justiciar. “Master Ghislain, I think that child is in trouble.”
“What do you mean?” The justiciar ceased swimming, treading waters while gazing in the same
direction as Michel.
“Out there,” the large man urged, pointing.
“If this is some ploy –”
“I swear by the Seven and Eighth, I think she is struggling with the current.”
“Him and Hel,” Ghislain cursed. “Stay here!” he commanded Michel, swimming to land with a
few strong strokes. Moving out of the water, he ran along the bank downstream. Approaching the
children, he saw that Michel was right; they were visibly upset, shouting and calling for attention, but
none of them old or strong enough to intervene. With a fluid movement, Ghislain dove into the water.
The current, dangerous to a child, was little match for him. Within moments, he reached the girl,
scarce more than seven or eight, and wrapped one arm around her, keeping her afloat. The child
gasped for air, struggling and almost hitting her rescuer. Unaffected, Ghislain used his legs and free
arm to get to the edge of the stream until he could find footing. Breathing heavily, he pushed the girl
onto the bank.
By now, several adults in the village had been alerted and arrived on the scene. There was some
initial confusion, but the testimony of the children quickly explained matters. “Thank you, traveller!”
a man exclaimed, holding the rescued child tightly. “I told my girl to stay by the bank until I came, but
she never listens, do you?” He ruffled her hair affectionately while she hid her face against his chest.
“Any man would have done the same,” Ghislain spoke dismissively, still catching his breath. An
expression ran across his face. “My prisoners,” he burst out, getting out of the water and hurrying
back from where he came.
“Prisoners?”
“He’s a justiciar,” someone whispered.

296
 His cart stood where he left it with Clarisse up against the bars, trying to watch the events that had
just unfolded. “What happened?” she asked.
Ignoring her, Ghislain moved past the cart and towards the stream. By the edge with his feet in the
water sat Michel, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Not much of a watch dog, are you,” Ghislain
growled at the hound, who had the decency to look ashamed.
“Well done, Master Ghislain,” Michel told him. “You saved a child.”
“Someone else would have done it,” the justiciar claimed. “I was merely a bit faster to arrive.”
“I can’t say,” Michel admitted, speaking as much to the dog or himself as to Ghislain. “All I saw
was a girl struggling, never what came after.” His warden frowned at hearing those words, but before
he could speak, Michel stood up. “I am done. I am sure Clarisse is anxious to be allowed her turn to
wash.”
“Get going, then,” Ghislain told him, eyeing the tall man with a scrutinising gaze.
~~~~
They left the village and continued their journey for the rest of the day. As it grew dark, they were far
from any signs of habitation, and Ghislain decided to make camp by the roadside.
“Perhaps, Master Justice, we could make some different arrangements,” Clarisse suggested. “If we
build a fire, the night will be more pleasant. And maybe you’d let my brother and me sleep on the
ground instead of inside this thing fit only for beasts.” She glanced at the cage surrounding her.
“I should have gotten rid of you in Monteau,” the justiciar complained. “Your comfort means little
to me,” he added, addressing Clarisse. “You have food and a place to sleep that’s dry.”
“I contest that last point,” Michel objected. “If you’d let me raise our tent, we’d have a nicer sleep
with no trouble to you.”
“Imagine if we get sick before the trial, in your custody,” Clarisse considered.
Ghislain sighed. “You’re keeping the chains on.”
Soon after, a campfire burned, and a tent was raised close by. The siblings shared bread and fruit
while Ghislain helped himself to some smoked ham, courtesy of the grateful parents whose daughter
he had pulled from the brook. The dog placed its head in his lap with a telling look until he relented
and threw a piece of meat to it.
A while passed in silence with Ghislain sending Michel a discerning look. Finally, the large man
returned the gaze. “Does something trouble you, Master Ghislain?”
“All the years I’ve been swimming,” the justiciar began to say, “and I’ve never had to help anyone
in need. But today you want to wash, and you choose the spot, and you ask if I can swim…”
“It’s Laugday,” Michel pointed out. “Nothing strange about it.”
“Who told you about Hraban? To profess his teachings, you must have been taught,” Ghislain
continued, changing topic.
“Don’t answer,” Clarisse interjected. “He’s trying to trick you into confessing.”
“I make no secrets of my beliefs,” Michel smiled. “I’ll be glad to answer.”
His sister sighed. “You’re a really hard man to help.”
“I want to know who spread this heresy,” Ghislain demanded.
“An old whiterobe in the village where we grew up. He died twenty years ago during a skirmish
between the local lords. There’s not any trail to follow there, justiciar.” Michel’s smile might have
seemed mocking in spite of his gentle nature.
“Do you even know the full story? Hraban spent the last decades of his life imprisoned in
Fontaine, growing madder by the day. He was nothing but ravings and ramblings at the end, they say,”
Ghislain told them.

297
 “Being imprisoned for decades will do that to a man,” Michel countered. “Ask yourself this. If the
Council of Three truly considered Hraban a blasphemer, that his revelations were inspired by madness
rather than the divine, why keep him alive instead of having him executed?”
Ghislain chewed on the meat in his mouth. “If he really was mad, he couldn’t be held responsible
for his blasphemous talk, I imagine.”
“I have another question for you, then,” Michel continued. “The Fates weave the life strand of
every person at birth, right?”
“Gods, here we go again,” Clarisse mumbled.
“Of course,” Ghislain nodded. “Idisea knows the hour of every birth and death. Austre sees all
deeds under the sun, and Disfara knows the hidden depths of the human heart.” He spoke as if reciting
verse.
“Does this mean we are fated to do every action we take?” asked Michel. “Are we responsible for
anything we do if those acts were woven by the Fates into our destiny?”
“Every man is responsible for his own actions,” Ghislain stated. “The Fates simply observe and
record what will happen. They don’t decide.”
“But still it means that everything has already been decided,” Michel argued. “You may think it
was your choice to take us to Fontaine instead of Monteau. I may think it was my choice to convince
you to do so. But the three of us were always going to end up in Fontaine. It was woven in our fate
long ago.”
“You’re giving me a headache, Brother.”
Ghislain scratched his head. “But it’s still my decision. I could open those shackles right now and
let you run. I choose to do my duty and haul you both before the tribunal.”
“Then perhaps our fate is not written in stone,” Michel smiled, “or woven in unbreakable thread.”
“How else might fate work?” The question came from his sister, who seemed reluctantly curious.
“I think the Fates weave a path for us,” the gentle giant contemplated. “A destiny we may fulfil if
we have the courage to walk that path. Every choice of significance either helps us stay on the path or
makes us stray from it.”
The justiciar stared into the fire. “How do we know if a choice does one or the other?”
“That,” Michel admitted, “is a question without answer.”
“Damn heretic,” Ghislain muttered. “I liked you better when you were a pair of charlatans. Get
some sleep.”
“I wish you a dreamless sleep, Master Justice.”

298
 49. Court, Keep, and Castle
Fontaine
Along the great river Mihtea, as it flowed towards the sea, lay Fontaine. It was the capital city of
Ealond and the third largest in the Seven Realms. While Middanhal was home to the high king, the
Order and the Temple, and Herbergja was the economic heart of Adalmearc, Fontaine was the city of
craftsmen and artisans. Where its rivals had guilds numbering in scores, Fontaine counted its guilds in
the hundreds. Materials came from distant lands, such as wool or cotton, iron or copper, dye, leather,
timber, and anything else conceivable to be put to looms, under hammer, into vats, or worked upon
with a variety of tools unique to each trade. Much of it was sold to the citizens, who were accustomed
to a wide selection of every item available to their households; the rest, notably dyed cloth and
expensive wine, was sold in other lands with a reputation for excellent quality.
There was one guild in Fontaine that had no counterpart in any other city, and it was another
reason for the capital’s fame; it was the guild of engineers. It had been founded nearly eight centuries
ago by Renaud, the famous architect who built the double walls of Middanhal and its domed Temple.
In some respects, it functioned like any other guild; it was an association of masters within this
particular craft, regulating who could work in this field, guaranteeing quality, settling disputes, and
providing support for members of the fraternity. Since most of their work was overseeing the
construction of buildings, quality was imperative; flaws in the work meant collapse and possibly death
for any unfortunate soul caught by debris.
The masters took on apprentices for their workshop, who helped draw up plans and acted as right
hands while learning the trade. Unlike most other crafts, extensive study of mathematics was needed
along with the usual knowledge of materials, tools, and so forth. Some apprentices were fortunate and
could take their master’s place in the guild when the time came; others sought employ elsewhere.
While the other realms had builders of their own, a man trained by the guilds of engineers in Fontaine
was sure to find work and be well paid anywhere. In this manner, many trained engineers carried on
the tradition of Renaud in building castles and fortifications; finally, some left the city with the
opposite intentions, seeking work as siege engineers. Wherever defensive walls stood, siege
machinery was needed to break through them.
In one workshop, a young man sat hunched over his workbench with parchment and charcoal. Part
of his work showed various runes in complicated formulas, while the rest was a curious design unlike
anything else. It was a stone thrower of sorts, but instead of utilising torsion, it worked through a
counterweight. His face was contorted in concentration as he scribbled numbers continuously, biting
his lower lip.
“Armand?” a voice called out. Its owner came descending down the stairs into the workroom.
A start went through the young man, followed by a chagrined expression as he stared at the runes
he had written. “Yes, master,” he replied absent-mindedly.
“Look at me when I speak to you,” the old engineer reprimanded him.

299
 “Forgive me, master,” Armand hurried to respond, turning to look at the other man.
“Did you deliver the plans to Master Hamid?”
Confusion took hold of Armand for a moment. “Not yet,” he explained. “I was going to on the
way home.”
“You mean you forgot,” his master reproached him. “Very well. See that you do.”
“I promise, master.”
The older man scratched his bearded cheek. “You better. I am considering letting you oversee the
construction of Master Hamid’s warehouse, but I need to know I can rely on you.”
Armand’s face glowed. “You can, Master Lambert, I promise!”
“You need strict attention to detail,” the engineer spoke sternly. “Every number must be checked
twice. All the material must be inspected thoroughly. You must supervise everything, every plank of
timber cut.”
“Of course, master,” Armand nodded eagerly.
Lambert sent him a discerning look. “Very well. We’ll talk later of Master Hamid’s warehouse.”
“Yes, master!”
“You may leave for the day,” Lambert told him.
Armand leapt to his feet, gathering his parchments. “Thank you, master,” he said, making sure to
turn and look at the old man as he spoke. He almost took a step towards the door, stopped his
movement, and gathered up the plans for a warehouse lying on a shelf above his desk. With a smile
and a nod towards Lambert, he left the workshop and stepped onto the bustling streets of Fontaine.
The capital of Ealond shared one trait with its counterpart in Adalrik; the Mihtea flowed through
both cities, providing them with fresh water. The similarities ended there. In Fontaine, it was the
southern part that held the most notable features, including the royal castle and the great temple
dedicated to Idisea. Instead of being surrounded by mountains and having few gates and bridges to
emphasise defensive capabilities, Fontaine lay on a flat plain and had plenty of entryways. Merchants
and their storehouses congregated around the river, using its swiftness to transport their goods, and the
many workshops depending on these materials spread out like fans from the surrounding warehouses
and marketplaces.
Walking hastily, occasionally bumping into other people and nearly dropping his parchments,
Armand made his way from the craftsmen’s quarters to the statelier districts belonging to the affluent
merchants of Fontaine. Tall spires rose ahead of him, signalling wealth and power. At length, he
stopped outside one particular house that rose several stories high, knocking on the door. His eyes
admired the stonework and construction while he waited until the door was opened by a young servant
girl.
Her appearance suggested she came from Alcázar and beyond, same as her master; she stared
mutely at Armand, who smiled to her. “Hullo,” he greeted her. “I have these plans for Master Hamid
to inspect and approve.” He extended the bundle towards her.
Silently, she hurried back into the house, leaving the young apprentice to stare perplexed at the
empty doorway. Shortly after, a stately woman appeared. “You are from Master Lambert’s workshop,
yes?” she asked; her Mearcspeech came rolling off her tongue.
“Yes,” Armand smiled. “The drawings for Master Hamid’s expanded warehouse are complete
along with calculations of material, workforce, and everything else.” Once more, he reached out with
the parchments, letting the woman grab them.
“Thank you,” she replied curtly. “My husband will contact your master once he has seen them.”

300
 “Very good, mistress,” the apprentice spoke with a courteous bow. She closed the door without
further words. He stood gazing at the timberwork of the doorframe briefly before he gathered his wits
and left.
Wealth in Fontaine was generally determined by how close someone lived to the river. The
semicircles of the city defences extended in arches north and south, and the poorest lived furthest from
the waters, closest to the walls. With the slender towers of the Raven Court and the broad turrets of
the royal castle behind him, Armand walked north and away from the Mihtea.
The streets grew narrow and more crowded the further he came; in most places, the houses lay
directly against each other and rose several floors into the air. Armand’s destination was one of these
with nothing setting it apart. Entering, he greeted those inside briefly and disappeared up a flight of
stairs to reach another door.
Passing through, he walked into a small room that held a bed, a table, a few chairs, a drawer, and a
small loom. By the latter sat a woman, no more than twenty years old. “Armand,” she smiled.
He walked over to kiss her cheek. “Hullo, my dear,” he greeted her, dumping his parchments on
the table.
“Anything new to tell?” Her hands expertly moved the loom, pausing only for a moment as she
looked at him.
“Master Lambert might let me oversee the construction of the new warehouse we’re going to
build,” he related excitedly.
“That’s wonderful!” She sent him a glowing smile before returning her eyes to her work.
“He made no promises, but if I do good work the next days, I’m sure he will hold to it.”
“You might be made a master sooner than we thought,” she spoke happily.
“That might be getting ahead of ourselves,” Armand cautioned her, sitting down on the bed after
taking his shoes off.
“That smells,” the woman complained, wrinkling her nose.
“Nicolette with her delicate nose,” he grinned.
“Nothing delicate about your feet,” she retorted. “Wash them.”
He sat up and glanced down into a barrel between the bed and the table. “We’re nearly out of
water.”
“I’ll fetch some tomorrow when the water bearer makes his rounds,” Nicolette promised.
“Do you need coin?”
“There are some petties on the drawer,” she explained, nodding towards the furniture in question.
Her glance fell on the parchments he had brought home. “Are you still working on that?”
“I am sure the principle is sound,” Armand claimed. “Using a counterweight should allow for
immensely more force than simple torsion.”
“You’ve explained that to me already,” she told him patiently.
“I just can’t quite get the final nail in,” he complained.
“Wash,” she reminded him.
He grabbed a small bucket and poured water from the barrel into a small bowl, using it to wash his
feet. “The models I’ve built all crack under the weight even though I’ve calculated it precisely.”
Nicolette ceased her work and leaned over to pick up the drawing with its runes. “It does look
fearsome. Seeing these numbers remind me of Brother Erwan back home, sitting in his lore house
teaching letters and tell-craft.”
“Feels like an age ago,” Armand added.
“Do you think we could be wed back home? Our parents would be happy to celebrate us, I’m
sure.”

301
 He scratched the back of his head. “I won’t be able to leave the city if I’m to oversee the
warehouse construction,” he considered. “We’d have to wait until after that business is done.”
She nodded slightly. “That’s fine. I don’t mind waiting. It’ll be merrier to have the wedding
surrounded by family.”
“Quite right,” he agreed, drying himself after washing.
Nicolette’s attention returned to his drawings of the imagined stone thrower. “I envy that you get
to learn so much from Master Lambert. I always liked going to the lore house.”
“When I’m a journeyman, there’ll be lots you can assist me with,” he promised, leaning back into
the bed. “Master Lambert’s wife helps him with the calculations too, I’ve noticed.”
She let go of the loom to pick up his sheet of numbers. “I’d really enjoy that, I think. There’s an
elegance in arithmetic, I find. It’s so nice when everything adds up and fits together neatly.”
Armand sat up again. “You’ll get all the calculations you could ever wish for,” he declared. “In
fact, would you mind looking at my work?” He gestured at the parchment. “I may have made an error
somehow, and you have a better head for numbers than me.”
“I’d be happy to, dearest,” Nicolette promised.
“Let it rest for now, though. This humble apprentice has missed his betrothed all day long.” He
launched himself like a projectile from a ballista to envelop his arms around her, making the chair
topple and both of them fall to the ground; the sound of her surprised shriek became mixed with his
laughter and yelling from downstairs, voicing the other residents’ opinions of noisy neighbours.
~~~~
South of the river lay the largest temple in the realms hallowed to Idisea. It was commonly known as
the Raven Court, being inhabited by sisters of that order. Tall, elegant towers rose in every corner of
the complex towards the sky. It was built around a courtyard, where a fountain sprung and flowed
through until it joined with the waters of the Mihtea. The mysteries surrounding this wellspring were
numerous, giving various explanations for why this particular fountain was sacred; if the norns knew
the truth, they did not share it. Regardless, there was a steady stream of visitors each day to drink from
its waters to purify themselves, paying for the privilege. It was also a prerequisite for being received
into audience by the Veiled, the highest priestess in the Order of the Raven.
All norns were believed to have powers of prophecy as servants of Idisea; this allowed them to
speak the birth words when a child was born, giving a hint of what future was in store for the
newborn. The Veiled was especially blessed by the goddess and would receive omens and portents.
After drinking from the fountain, and for an additional fee, supplicants would be granted entrance to
the highest of the spires in the Raven Court, where the Veiled would wait.
It was not certain if the high priestess actually wore a veil; she sat behind a curtain and could only
be seen as a shadow against its fabric. The visitor would enter and sit on a chair without back, staring
at the curtain while flanked by two temple guards armed with staffs; Idisea did not allow any in her
service to wield sharp weapons meant for killing. Once seated, the Veiled would address the believer.
“You have come before the Veil, but only she blessed by Idisea may gaze beyond. Tell me,
traveller, what do you seek?” The voice was deep and hoarse.
“I’m not actually here to ask you anything,” Godfrey admitted with a wry smile. “I carry a
message for you.”
“Then why are you disturbing me?” The priestess’ voice turned sharp. “I do not commune with
the goddess on a whim!”

302
 “I do not spend thirty silvers on a whim either,” the traveller replied dryly, looking at the guards;
neither of them was amused. “I am to ensure that this message is delivered to you personally. Your
acolytes and wardens did not take kindly to that request, so I found another solution.”
“What letter could you possibly bear of such importance?” There was a sneer in her voice. “Very
well, leave it with the guards and I shall read it.”
“I am to speak it,” Godfrey explained. “The message is from the Highfather. He warns you that
you have strayed from the path. Return to it swiftly, or punishment will be severe.”
“How dare you!” The shape behind the curtain leapt up to stand, causing her chair to fall
backwards. “You threaten me in my own sanctum! I should have the guards beat you bloody!”
“I do not think that is what the Highfather had in mind,” Godfrey remarked.
“Another reason to have you flogged,” the Veiled spoke with anger. “Pretending to speak for the
Highfather is blasphemy!”
The two guards in the room took hold of their staves with both hands and moved threateningly
towards Godfrey. He rose to his feet and did not dignify either guard with a glance, staring at the
curtain instead. “The darkest dreams belong to those who see only darkness in others,” he spoke
coldly. “Your eyes are as blind to the truth as your ears are deaf to my warning.” He turned around;
the guards looked at the curtain waiting for orders, and before any were given, Godfrey was already
gone, leaving a seething priestess behind.
~~~~
A cart rolled shakily on cobbled stones to enter one of the courtyards of the temple; it bore a cage,
marking it as the property of a justiciar, which was a common sight in this place. Less typical was the
fact that the barred prison was empty and the prisoners sat with their shackles on the driver’s seat.
Only a big hound was in the back, sticking its head forward to peer between the travellers.
“That’s madness,” Ghislain stated vehemently. “How can two gods be one?”
“The way I see it, the Hidden is simply a name assumed,” Michel explained. “Before she became
the Veiled, the high priestess must have had a name like any other, right?”
“But there are seven gods,” the justiciar argued. “Not six with one in disguise.”
“If you think this is mad talk, ask him why we swear by the Seven and Eighth,” Clarisse inserted.
“I would, but we’ve arrived.” There was a tone of regret in Ghislain’s voice as he halted the cart.
His dog gave a cheerful bark at seeing familiar surroundings, jumping down to greet the approaching
stable hands. Ghislain stepped down onto the ground as well, looking back at his prisoners. “You’ll
have to come with me,” he informed them almost apologetically.
“Of course, Master Ghislain,” Michel assented. Clarisse grumbled but did not resist.
The justiciar was leading them across the yard when a traveller came from the opposite direction.
He wore cloak and hat for long journeys and had a stout walking staff in one hand; a sword was
strapped to his belt, but nothing marked him as out of the ordinary. Yet by chance, as they approached
each other, he glanced in Michel’s direction, and the giant man returned the look; when their eyes
locked, Michel gave an anguished cry and fell to the ground.
“The eagle flies, the raven cries, the dragon dies!” The words poured like a river from his mouth,
and he clenched his arms around his knees. “Hide in shadows, walk in light. Spare us, spare us!”
“Silence!” Godfrey commanded. Only Michel seemed to hear, as the attention of everyone else
was upon him, but he immediately ceased the flood of words.
“Brother,” Clarisse exclaimed worried; she sat down to cradle his head in her lap and stroke his
forehead. “It’s fine, you’re fine, you hear me, everything’s fine.”

303
 “What’s wrong with him? Is he touched?” Ghislain asked concerned. Sisters of the order were
approaching from every direction. In the background, Godfrey slipped away.
“It happened to him as a child at times,” Clarisse explained, comforting her brother as best she
could. “I thought it was gone.”
“What can we do?” enquired the justiciar.
“Just give him some time.”
“Master Justice, what is the meaning of this disturbance?” A norn with a stern expression stared at
Ghislain. She had a birthmark with the colour and shape of a strawberry on her brow.
“These are my prisoners, brought for trial,” Ghislain explained. “He had a fit of some sort, but it’ll
be fine, Sister.”
“If these are deviants or blasphemers, have them thrown in the dungeons where they belong!”
“All in good time, Sister,” Ghislain spoke through gritted teeth. “Until they are in their cells, I am
in charge of them.”
“Make it fast,” the priestess demanded with an angry look.
A sneer ran across Ghislain’s face before he turned his back on the norn, bending low to examine
Michel. “How is he?”
“He seems calm again,” Clarisse replied.
Taking hold of the big man under his shoulder, Ghislain helped him to stand. “Let’s get you
inside,” he declared. “I’ll – I’ll try and choose a nice cell,” he promised with an awkward tone of
voice. Clarisse followed behind as they entered the temple complex.
~~~~
In the southernmost part of Fontaine lay the Order keep by one of the marketplaces in the city. The
fortress was large enough to accommodate a garrison of several thousand soldiers, though it currently
held only a few hundred. Unlike Middanhal, it did not also serve as the city watch, so it did not
necessarily require the same numbers; its only purpose was to be the extended arm of the Order in
Fontaine, acting as the physical presence of the high king. It currently had a handful of knights; the
rest were scattered across the numerous cities of Ealond or had been sent to Hæthiod for the
campaign.
Despite their low numbers, the Order forces maintained strict discipline, and the knights trained
daily. Every day, the marshal of the realm was found among his peers and soldiers. He was the tallest
of any man in the garrison with a powerful physique, making for an imposing sight that commanded
respect; in contrast, his black eyes and white teeth easily lit up in smiles and laughter, making him
well liked among his men.
The knight he sparred against this particular day was almost as tall and had the same eyes as the
marshal. In contrast, he was far more slender of frame, and while the marshal’s skin was black, the
other knight was lighter in colour; yet, when he sent a challenging smile after striking a hit in their
training match, another similarity between them appeared.
“Do not grow bold,” the marshal warned his opponent; each sized the other man up, preparing for
another exchange.
“None may mock Sir Martel and live to tell the tale,” the knight laughed; his merrymaking was
merely a ruse as he immediately followed up by striking out.
The marshal was not so easily duped and easily took the blow with his shield, lashing out with his
own blade against the knight’s shin, landing a hit. “I would not kill a man so clearly beneath me,”
Martel retorted, “just cut him down to size!”

304
 His opponent limped backwards; after a moment’s respite, he struck again. Again, the marshal
proved superior, trapping the knight’s sword with his own shield, holding it in place long enough to
slam his own blade against the knight’s helmet. The latter staggered backwards, shaking his head.
“Brother, are you well?” Martel asked slightly concerned.
The response came after a short pause. “Fine, fine. You caught me by surprise.” The knight took a
few deep breaths.
“That will suffice for today, I think,” the marshal declared while the onlookers cheered at the
display of his prowess.
“If you feel you have had enough,” his opponent jested, removing his helmet and wavering a bit
where he stood.
“It will do for now,” Martel smiled, supporting his brother as they walked over to a water barrel
and refreshed themselves.
“I heard a strange rumour last night.”
“You are always hearing strange rumours, Gerard,” the marshal told him with another smile before
splashing more water onto his face.
“Yes, yes, but this one could be important,” his brother insisted.
“Go on.”
“You know that the king has summoned his vassals to renew their fealty to him?”
“I remember,” Martel said patiently. He began to unstrap the bracers from his arms.
“I have been told,” Gerard continued with a lowered voice, “that some of them are bringing large
numbers of troops along.”
The marshal frowned. “For what reason?”
“That is why it seems strange. I cannot imagine any benevolent cause, leaving only malevolent
possibilities.”
“The king is young and perhaps not popular,” Martel contemplated, “but it is far step to outright
rebellion. The nobles dislike each other as much as they dislike the king. None of them would have
the support to make any attempt.”
“Probably not,” Gerard conceded, “yet the timing would fit. Adalrik is in civil war, the Order is
waging a campaign in Hæthiod.”
“There has been peace in Ealond for decades,” the marshal brought up. “I thought the strife of past
years was behind us.”
“There was peace because King Rainier’s father knew how to rein the nobles in,” the knight
pointed out. “His son may not have the same strength.”
“What are we to do? With a few hundred men, we cannot secure the city. We should warn the
king,” Martel considered, scratching his trimmed beard.
“There is also the possibility that the king has commanded these armies to gather,” Gerard
suggested hesitantly. “If so, warning him will inform him that we are aware of his plans.”
“What plans?” asked Martel confused.
“What does every king of Ealond want? To control Herbergja and Tricaster. Holding those cities
along with Portesur means a stranglehold on nearly all the trade in the Realms,” the knight explained.
“Breaking the high king’s peace,” the marshal mumbled, “attacking another realm, I cannot
imagine King Rainier would dare to do so.”
“It is also hard to imagine the nobles seeking to overthrow the king, yet one or the other must be
true.”
Martel was silent for a while. “What shall we do? With a few hundred men, we can neither defend
the city against the nobles nor stop the king, regardless of what is true.”

305
 “A few hundred men in the right place can make a great difference,” Gerard claimed. “Let me
investigate further. Have the men prepare to move out at moment’s notice to seize either the palace or
the gate. Perhaps both.”
Martel nodded. “I will.” He gave a wry smile. “They should have made you marshal.”
Gerard slapped him on the shoulder. “You look the part better, little brother. Visit Mother soon.
She asks for you.”
“I will,” the marshal promised, and they went their separate ways.
~~~~
Along with the Raven Court and the Order keep, Fontaine’s most noticeable building was the royal
castle. It did not have the immense fortifications of the Citadel or the splendour of its counterpart in
Plenmont, but lay somewhere in between; it was a sign of how the kings of Ealond desired to present
their wealth to their subjects while also being able to defend themselves against those same people.
The king sat in the royal chambers, reading. He was pale and lanky with eyes and hair of dark hue;
his beard was trimmed in the latest fashion, leaving a ring of hair around his mouth but his cheeks
smooth. A servant announced his entrance with a knock. “Yes?” the king enquired.
“The seneschal seeks audience, Your Majesty.”
“Show him in,” the king granted. He closed his book and looked up as the steward of his realm
entered.
“Your Majesty.” The seneschal gave a deep bow.
“What news?”
“Duke Belvoir approaches, Your Majesty. He should be able to enter the city in a few days.”
“My other vassals?”
“They are all in or near the city, Your Majesty.”
Rainier nodded. “Summon them in two days’ time to affirm their fealty to me.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The seneschal gave another bow and left his master.
The king stood up to walk over to a window. Looking out, his gaze was attracted by the slender
spires of the temple and the sturdy turrets of the keep. In between lay great swathes of houses and
workshops. On the river, boats were constantly being docked or departing. His eyes followed a ship
with tall masts, lazily following the slow current towards Herbergja. Returning to his seat, Rainier
took out his book again and resumed reading.

306
 50. Veiled Chains
Fontaine
The dungeons in the Raven Court were austere as could be expected, though this was not due to
animosity against those awaiting trial; they were simply cells like any other in the temple, except their
occupants were not any of the sisters, but prisoners. In fact, the rooms were clean and free of vermin.
Compared to sleeping in a tent, it was almost hospitable, as Michel related to Ghislain. The latter was
standing outside, looking in; the only difference between this cell and those used by the norns was that
a window had been cut into the wooden door to allow supervision of the occupant.
“In short, Master Ghislain, I am being treated well, yes.”
“Good,” the justiciar muttered. “Your trial is in a few days. I have been considering your defence.”
“My defence?” Michel’s voice was amused. “You are a witness in the case, Master Justice, not my
counsellor.”
“I know,” Ghislain grumbled. “I just think you should be prepared.”
“That is kind of you.”
“The good news is that the tribunal haven’t burned a heretic in more than a century. I don’t think
they’ll start now.”
“That is good news,” Michel agreed with a wry smile.
“The Veiled is a sensible woman. Not the sort who wants to see crowds whipped into a frenzy.”
“I see.”
“Sister Rosalie is kind-hearted,” Ghislain considered, “and I don’t think it’s in her to condemn any
to death. That leaves only Sister Jocelyne,” he continued darkly.
“She is less friendly?”
“She is – stern.” The justiciar chose his words carefully. “Some call her Sister Strawberry,” he
added with a sudden chuckle. “Not because of her disposition, but the birthmark on her face. In any
case, she is only one voice out of three.”
“I am sure it will be fine if I simply tell the truth, Master Ghislain.”
“Of course, of course.” The other man nodded to himself, leaning against the cell door. “Still, I
will search the archives to see what might be gleamed.” He glanced through the bars at the prisoner
inside. “The outcome of previous trials may sway the tribunal to be lenient.”
“Do as you find best, Master Ghislain,” Michel smiled.
~~~~
Far above the dungeons, the Veiled had passed on the sacred words of the goddess to the latest
supplicant. She signalled through the curtain for a pause before the next visitor; the guards, seeing the
shadow of the hand gesture, left the room.
As she was alone, the woman on the other side of the divide stood up. She was wearing the
patterned robe of a high priestess. Although grey was sprinkled across her hair, she did not seem

307
hindered by age. She moved with ease out of the hall to enter the chambers behind. The scattered
belongings revealed the area to be her personal quarters. On a desk lay another robe with a threaded
needle as a sign of interrupted repair work. Hanging on a nail above was a veil of the sort any woman
concerned with modesty might wear. A few books lay stacked on a stool by the simple bed with one
of them opened up. There was no mirror of any sort.
Sitting down by the desk, the norn pushed her un-mended robe aside to reveal strips of paper
below. They were messages from her sisters in other cities or from here in the temple, bringing her
attention to matters deemed important. She picked one up which had Belvoir written upon its back to
signal its origin. The notice was sparse, simply informing the Veiled that the duke was on the march.
Crumbling the note in her hand, she closed her eyes, lost in thought for a while. “Grant me
strength,” she whispered, “to see your will through.”
“Veiled Sister?” A voice rang out from the hall.
Quickly snapping to attention, the high priestess grabbed the veil hanging on the wall and adjusted
it over her face. She walked out of her chamber to enter the bigger room, still holding the crumbled
note in her hand. “What is it?”
The shadow of a robed figure met her from beyond the curtain. “If you have time, I would like to
speak briefly with you, Sister.” The words were spoken with a servile attitude.
“For goodness’ sake, Sister Rosalie, step around. I have enough conversations through that piece
of cloth.”
The other norn dutifully moved past the divide to look at her superior’s veiled face. She was
perhaps a decade younger with a face where laughter easily found a home. “Forgive me, Sister, I
know how little time you have between the worshippers seeking the wisdom of the goddess.”
“Yes, yes, out with it. Is this about the tribunal?”
“No, Veiled Sister, though I suppose we should speak about that as well. I have never participated
in the trial of a heretic before,” Rosalie admitted. She shifted her weight back and forth, never
standing still. “I am unsure how to proceed.”
“We ask questions of him and any witnesses and cast our judgement based on the answers,” the
Veiled replied curtly. “What else?”
“There is a story that the Archon sent you a message,” Rosalie explained with hesitation.
“You listen to stories?”
“Of course not, Veiled Sister,” the norn quickly expressed, swaying in place. “A guard was
concerned and told me.”
“That was not his place,” the high priestess spoke sharply. “This message, if it was genuine, was
not for his ears to hear or his tongue to speak.”
“I told him as much, Sister,” Rosalie nodded. “I only wonder what would cause the Archon to
issue a warning.”
“That is not your concern.”
“Of course, Veiled Sister,” the younger norn admitted with deference. Her shifting from one foot
to the other intensified. “I am just worried. If you require aid of any sort –”
“I am aided by Idisea,” the Veiled spoke with the curt tone of voice so natural to her. “What else
could I need,” she asked without needing an answer.
“Of course,” Rosalie repeated. “Forgive me for intruding upon your reverie.” She nodded in
farewell and left. The Veiled turned around to stare at the small fire that heated the chamber; the
crumbled note in her hand was thrown carefully into the flames to be devoured within moments.
~~~~

308
Regardless of the season, the markets of Fontaine were busy affairs with countless peddlers and
buyers alike. The latter consisted usually of servants to the wealthy, children sent on errands,
housewives needing sundries, apprentices fetching material for their master’s craft, and so forth. One
of the exceptions to this list was Sir Gerard, who was a common sight at the markets surrounding the
Order keep. Being a knight and handsome in appearance, he drew gazes easily and rewarded them
with smiles and laughter. He rarely bought anything other than a strip of dried meat or piece of fruit to
chew upon, maybe a draught of ale to drink, but his congenial manner made him a welcome sight
regardless.
At times, he walked with men of the garrison; on other occasions such as now, he walked alone
with only his sword for company. Given his training as a knight, few would find fault in his
confidence; if there was a disturbance somewhere, often his very presence was enough to cool heated
heads. As chance would have it on this outing, Gerard became alerted to tumultuous behaviour.
Barrels of fruit and fish were overturned, hens flew frightened to all sides, and outbursts of
indignation followed the trail of commotion.
Tracing the movements through the market with his eyes, Gerard moved swiftly to stand in the
path of the disruption, which soon came into view; a young girl, aged twelve or so, was bolting
through the crowded square. Constantly, she knocked people and objects over; behind her, an
overweight man in wealthy clothing was in pursuit while yelling curses.
The fugitive was running at all speed, looking only a few paces ahead. This became her undoing;
when she noticed the knight in front of her, it was too late to evade. Gerard’s strong hand shot out and
seized her by the arm. She struggled and kicked, spitting out unintelligible words to little effect;
neither her small fists nor her shoes could land any kind of blow to trouble Gerard in his armour, and
he simply grabbed hold of her other arm to keep her still.
Soon after, her pursuer caught up to them. “Thank you, sir knight,” the big man spoke, panting and
wiping sweat from his brow. By his looks and clothing, he was a merchant of Alcázar and among the
successful kind.
“It was no trouble. Master…?”
“Master Hamid, at your service,” the merchant spoke with a bow. He spoke the language with a
strong accent, but easily understandable. “Thank you for catching the thief.”
The girl was still struggling, but it was a token effort by now. Gerard glanced down at her. “She is
no street urchin, by her attire, unless some kindly shoemaker has taken up residence in Fontaine.”
“Ah, no, she is a servant in my household. She stole,” Hamid added with a harsh glance. “My wife
says I am too soft with servants.”
“I never heard of a successful merchant with a soft heart,” Gerard remarked brusquely before
breaking into laughter.
Hamid joined him. “Very true, sir knight, very true.”
“What did she steal?” asked Gerard, looking at the girl again. She had become still, glancing back
and forth between the men with enmity in her eyes.
“Steal?”
“What did the girl steal? It must have been significant to cause her to flee from you,” the knight
reasoned.
“Jewellery from my wife. It was already found, so the damage is limited, thank the gods,” Hamid
told him.
Gerard looked down on the girl, turning her around so she faced him. “Is this true?” he asked
sternly. “Did you take your mistress’ valuables?”

309
 The girl sneered back at him. “She does not speak the northern tongue, alas,” Hamid explained.
“There is no need to question her, sir knight. I will bring her home and deal with her.”
“Petty theft is one thing, but stealing items as expensive as jewels is a severe matter,” Gerard
frowned. “Guards!” he called out, alerting some men from the city watch. Still holding the servant girl
in a firm grasp, he changed into the trade language of Alcázar, speaking with a heavy dialect. “Is it
true you stole your mistress’ jewellery?”
The fugitive’s eyes widened. “You speak real words,” she stammered.
“Do not evade my question, child,” Gerard told her with his stern voice.
“Master Hamid said none here would understand me,” she continued.
“Sir knight,” Hamid interjected in Mearcspeech, “there is no need. I have not actually lost any
property. I do not see the need to question her.”
By now, the local guards had reached them, looking questioningly at the knight. He gestured for
them to have patience and turned his attention back on the child. “I understand you well, girl,” Gerard
told her. Noticing something with a frown, he pulled up the sleeve of her dress to reveal a badly
bruised arm. “Were you beaten because you stole from your master,” Gerard asked her, crouching
down to look her straight in the eyes, “or for another reason?”
“Good sir knight,” Hamid tried to intervene again.
“What does that matter?” the girl asked confused.
“The law protects servants from being beaten by their master unless they are breaking the law,”
Gerard explained in the tongue of Alcázar.
“But I am my master’s property,” the girl protested. “How can the law protect me when the law
says I belong to him?”
Gerard’s eyes widened in realisation. He stood up, staring at Hamid. Vague words of protest
issued from the latter before he simply turned around and fled. “Guards,” the knight called out,
pointing at the heavy man, “seize him!” They followed orders without delay.
“What’s going on?” the girl asked confounded.
Gerard crouched down before her again, wearing a smile. “I am guessing your master bought you
on the markets of Alcázar and brought you with him to this city?”
She nodded. “The mistress needed a girl to tend to her needs.”
“But you were not happy in his household.”
“The master is not a bad man,” the girl spoke cautiously, biting her lip.
“But your mistress is not kind, and you wanted to run away. What is your name, girl?”
“Najat, master.”
“Very well, Najat. Master Hamid must have – hidden certain truths.” The words in the trade
speech came haltingly from Gerard’s tongue, but his smile compensated. “The laws in Adalmearc,
where you are now, are different from Alcázar.”
“How so?”
“Since the foundation of our realms, it has been the law that no man, woman, or child who sets
foot upon the soil of the Seven Realms may be a thrall,” Gerard explained; it took him a while to
manage formulating the full phrase.
Najat frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Your master bought you as his slave in Alcázar, but such is outlawed here. The moment you
arrived in Adalmearc, you were free.”
Confusion was etched on the girl’s face. “I am free?”
“You may go anywhere you wish. If you are smart, you should go with me.”
The girl almost scowled at him in suspicion. “Why?”

310
 “Because Master Hamid will be made to pay punishment,” Gerard explained, working his way
through the words of the trade speech. “Some of which will be your coin as – as a way to make right
what happened to you. Come with me, and we will make a statement to the servants of the Kabir of
this city.”
A careful smile crept onto Najat’s face. She poked her little hand into Gerard’s, looking at him
with eyes as dark as his. “I don’t think I mind this place is so cold,” she considered, “if people are as
nice as you.” The knight laughed heartfelt in response.
~~~~
In the afternoon, the Veiled concluded another session and sent the supplicant on her way. Rather than
admitting the next one, one of the guards approached the curtain. “The chief justiciar seeks an
audience, Reverend One.”
“Send him in and leave us.”
The guards both nodded, walking out of the chamber. A moment later, a man in plain clothes
entered; only the sword and long dagger, meant for fighting rather than any innocent purpose,
distinguished him from the people seeking the Veiled’s counsel. On his chest was the raven pin that
all justiciars wore, except his was made of gold rather than silver, signalling him to be their leader. He
knelt before the curtain. “Reverend One,” he greeted her.
“Master Ivo. You may approach,” the norn granted. The justiciar stood up and walked around the
divide to be faced with her veiled appearance. “What is it?” she enquired.
“The knights are investigating.”
“Us or the king?”
“Both, in a sense, considering Duke Belvoir’s movements are connected to both,” Ivo explained.
“What have they learned?”
“Nothing substantial, I believe,” the justiciar replied. “The very fact that they are chasing two trails
that overlap should confuse them. Long enough for our plans to conclude.”
“If you did not consider them a threat, you would not have brought this to me,” the Veiled pointed
out.
Ivo spoke with hesitation. “There is a chance they uncover our intent and warn the king.”
The norn walked a few paces to stare into the small fire in the chamber; her veil hid the expression
of contemplation upon her face. “We cannot take that risk.” She turned back towards the justiciar.
“We must intervene.”
“Is it necessary?” asked Ivo. “They are knights of the Order. Good men.”
“You knew this was the outcome when you brought this to my attention,” the Veiled reproached
him. “Besides, I am not speaking about the marshal. That would be too bold even for us. Simply target
the man conducting their investigation.”
“His brother,” the chief justiciar clarified. “A sworn knight.”
Behind the veil, the norn’s eyes stared at Ivo. “His fate is necessary. It is no different than if he
died in battle protecting this realm. Idisea will look kindly upon his sacrifice.”
“Of course, Reverend One.”
“See it done.”
“At once, Reverend One,” the justiciar declared.
~~~~
Fontaine was littered with taverns. At one of these establishments, a short and dour-looking fellow sat
with a mug of weak ale. “What do you want?” he muttered as a man joined him at his table.

311
 Putting his hat down, Godfrey smiled at his companion. “Always such a cordial welcome from
you, Garrick.”
“You want courtesy, you pay coin.”
“In that case, we can dispense with civility. I have a task for you,” Godfrey informed him.
“I don’t imagine you’d be here otherwise.”
“This might take a year or two. You will be paid throughout the duration.”
“Dangerous?” asked Garrick.
“Of course.”
“Of course,” the surly man repeated.
“The assignment is in Alcázar.”
Garrick’s response was to raise one eyebrow. “You want to send me half across the world to the
savages?”
“No more savage than Herbergja or Fontaine, I assure you,” Godfrey stated. “The task is easy.
You will collect information from others of my associates and pass it on.”
“You mean I’ll be your spy.”
“If that is what you wish to call it.”
“That’s going to get me killed, I wager,” Garrick claimed.
“The pay is equal to the dangers involved. It is a fairly simple task, though. You will simply hear
what some people have to say and pass it on to the blackrobes in Alcázar.”
“I wondered when they would get involved,” the stocky man snorted. “You’re always tangled up
in their business.”
“We have mutual interests,” Godfrey admitted. “In this case, we both know you and find you a
reliable choice.”
“If I wanted to take marching orders from the blackrobes, I’d still be a temple guard.”
His taller companion glanced at the mug of diluted ale. “You are not in need of coin, then.”
“Not that much,” came the grumbling reply.
“A shame. It was ten silver a day merely for asking a few questions in the right places.”
“Places where the only answer I get is a stabbing.”
“The job requires someone who can handle a blade,” Godfrey granted. “The pay reflects that.”
Garrick wetted his lips. “Ten silver a day, you say?”
Godfrey nodded. “Indeed.”
His companion emptied his tankard. “I’m not paying for the trip myself.”
“Of course not. It will be arranged.”
Garrick sat staring down his empty mug. “Himil’s balls,” he finally exclaimed. “Fine. I’ll do that.”
“Excellent.” Godfrey smiled and withdrew a letter from an inner pocket. “Some instructions for
you. When you are ready to travel, seek out the blackrobes here in town.” He pulled out a small rod
with runes inscribed upon it. “Hand this over, and it will explain everything to them.”
“This better not be a message that gets me into trouble,” Garrick mumbled.
“Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.” Godfrey grinned and stood up, placing his hat on his head.
“A pleasure as always.”
“Pleasure’s all yours.”
~~~~
“You won’t believe what happened today, my dearest,” Armand declared as he entered the small room
he shared with his betrothed.
“What happened?” asked Nicolette. She was busy as usual working at the loom.

312
 He grabbed a nearby pitcher and drank some of its content. “Gods, it’s getting warm already. I
wish Laugday was soon. Anyway,” he continued, sitting down on their bed. “Master Lambert went to
Master Hamid’s house today to discuss the warehouse plans.”
“Did he suggest you oversee the construction?” Nicolette asked eagerly; her hands stopped their
work as she turned to stare at him.
Armand shook his head. “You won’t guess it. When the master went there, Hamid was not at
home. His wife explained he was conducting some business in town, so Master Lambert waited.
Suddenly, Hamid burst into the house, frightening all.”
“Why?” Nicolette’s eyes were wide with wonder.
“He garbled away in Suthspeech with his wife, so Master Lambert understood nothing until a
guard patrol arrived moments after,” Armand related.
“The city guard?”
“The same,” Armand nodded. “Though somehow the Order is involved. A knight showed up at
some point too.”
Nicolette stared at him. “How come?”
“Apparently, Hamid brought slaves with him to Fontaine,” Armand revealed dramatically.
“What, really? Slaves?” Nicolette shivered.
“Poor sods were free the moment they arrived in Ealond, but he obviously kept that from them,”
he continued, telling the story with relish. “That sly peddler kept them working for free. Some of them
had bruises from being beaten, but not by Hamid,” Armand revealed with a dramatic whisper, “but
from his wife!”
“No!” Nicolette gasped. “What a shrew!”
“Indeed, unlike my sweet, dear betrothed,” Armand grinned, pinching her cheeks.
“Armand!” she chided him, pushing his hands away. “What about the warehouse?” she abruptly
continued.
His merry demeanour changed. “Probably not going to happen. Hamid will be facing a large geld,
and his trading privileges may get revoked.” He gave a little sigh. “There’ll be other opportunities.”
“Of course there will, my dear,” Nicolette told him, turning back to her loom. “You should show
Master Lambert your plans, by the way.” She gestured to the pile of parchments lying on the table.
“Not until I have them completely done,” Armand declared.
“I finished them,” she informed him as her hands deftly began to weave.
He frowned, staring at her back. “You – finished them?” Standing up, he crossed the small space
from the bed to the table to examine the illustrations of his stone thrower with a counterweight.
She nodded, turning to look over her shoulder. “You asked me to look at your calculations,
remember?”
“I did, but…” His voice fell quiet as his eyes glanced over her changes.
“Your arithmetic was correct, so I went through everything else. I compared the numbers written
on your drawing. The angle and placement where the logs attach, the different weights and so on.”
Armand returned to staring at her. “You went through everything?” he reiterated in disbelief.
“You have to adjust the angle, lengthen the support beams, and make the chains for the
counterweight run this way,” Nicolette explained with a smile. “See? This should transfer the strength
of the falling counterweight much better.” She turned her eyes from the plans to her companion. “Am
I wrong? I tried about ten different combinations until I got it right. I think I did,” she added, pointing
out the last set of figures scribbled down.

313
 Armand spread out the parchments almost feverishly. His hands flailed around, comparing notes
and runes. “You’re right,” he muttered. “We’d have to build a model to test it, but I think you’re
right.” He raised his head to look at her with shining eyes. “You’re right.”
She smiled. “I’m very glad, dear. I enjoyed the challenge.”
“I’ll take this to Master Lambert tomorrow,” Armand declared. “But I can’t tell him about you, or
he’ll sack me and make you his new apprentice,” he laughed. “If this works, you’ll never have to
spend a moment at that loom again!”
“Until then, I better finish this shirt,” Nicolette said sensibly, returning to her work with a satisfied
smile.
~~~~
In the evening, the last remnant of traffic hurried towards the gates of Fontaine to enter before they
were locked for the night. Duke Belvoir and his retinue were an exception; his followers numbered in
the hundreds at least, and finding lodgings in the capital would be an arduous task. Instead, the duke
commanded his small army to make camp one last time on the road between Belvoir and Fontaine.
“Tomorrow morning, send a messenger,” Gaspard informed one of his aides. “Tell the king that I
await his summons to present myself to him.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Dismounting, he left his horse in the care of an attendant. While his men raised his tent and set up
camp, the duke stared at Fontaine. To one side, the distinct towers of the Raven Court greeted him; to
the other, the royal palace met his gaze.

314
 51.The Brevity of Fate
Fontaine
“It will be another few days before the trial,” Ghislain informed Clarisse. “Sister Rosalie, the
youngest member of the tribunal, asked for time.”
“What for?”
“She wanted to understand the old heresy better, I believe.”
“So she can better accuse my brother.” Even through the door, Clarisse’s scowl could be felt.
“Michel will receive a fair hearing,” Ghislain claimed.
“Better if you had never dragged us here,” she retorted. “We wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“You confess heresy to a justiciar, don’t complain about the consequences,” he countered. “I’ve
talked with the sibyls about the charge against you also.”
“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense,” she complained.
“You’ll receive a sentence the day after Michel. I’ve been reasonably mild in my statement,”
Ghislain stated. “You’ll not be punished. Much, at least. Though you should find yourself another
occupation after this.”
“Or else expect the justiciar on my trail, I’m sure,” Clarisse scoffed.
“I’ve also requested that you’re allowed to be present for Michel’s trial as his only family,”
Ghislain continued.
“Oh. I guess that’s kind of you.” The admission came reluctantly.
“Master Ghislain!” a voice called out indignantly. A norn came striding through the corridor.
Besides the customary red robe, she also had her hair covered entirely, leaving only her face visible; it
had a stern expression and a strawberry birthmark.
“Sister Jocelyne,” the justiciar mumbled. “You seem upset.”
“I have been told you are consorting with prisoners,” the norn expressed with disdain.
“Simply informing her of a few details,” Ghislain remarked, looking like a dog being scolded.
“The other one, the heretic!” Jocelyne’s face was aglow with anger. “Going so far as to advise
him!”
“Same as here, just informing him,” the justiciar defended himself. “The truth will judge him,
which is all I have advised him to do. Tell the truth.”
“The goddess will judge him,” Jocelyne sneered. “Through me and the tribunal. You are her
hound, fetching the prey back to your mistress. Do not presume otherwise.”
Ghislain swallowed, staring at the norn. “Yes, Sister.”
“Good. I expect you will keep your distance until the trial,” Jocelyne declared. She marched away
with determined steps.
“I am so relieved,” Clarisse said to the empty air in her cell, “knowing Michel will get a fair trial
with her as a judge.”
Ghislain made some grumbling sounds but no intelligible reply.

315
 ~~~~
Gerard left the royal palace after a fruitless conversation with the king’s seneschal. No wiser than
when he had woken up this morning, the knight made his way back towards the Order keep. As was
his wont, he slowed his pace to stroll through the markets, exchanging pleasantries and jests with the
peddlers. He stopped in one place to buy some dried mutton, chewing on it leisurely. At another stall,
he bought a white ribbon suited for a young girl’s hair, stowing it inside his surcoat after paying the
shopkeeper with a smile and three petties.
The general noise of the market was disrupted by loud shrieks and people crashing into stalls.
Whipping his head around and with a hand on his sword hilt, Gerard located the disturbance. A ruffian
with a vicious knife had assaulted a man, slashing both his body and the strings of his coin purse.
“Thief! Murderer!” and other outbursts were shouted as the assailant fled.
Without hesitation, the knight sprinted forward, pursuing the brigand through the winding paths of
the marketplace. Despite his armour, Gerard kept up the pursuit, remaining less than twenty paces
behind. The thief glanced behind constantly, each time finding the knight hot on his heels.
The fugitive reached the end of the market stalls and turned a corner, running down alleyways.
Gerard was close by, not letting him get out of sight. As the streets grew narrow, flight became harder;
the thief’s path was constantly obstructed.
Turning down a particularly dark alley, the bandit finally stopped. “Surrender,” Gerard called out,
drawing his sword, “or I cannot guarantee your safety.”
The thief turned around to face the knight, holding his dagger. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he
growled. Several men appeared at both ends of the alley, all of them armed.
A sneer travelled across Gerard’s face. “I am a knight of Adal, scum,” he spat. “You best surrender
now.”
The attackers gave no response to this other than approaching from both sides. Gerard swung his
sword back and forth to keep them at bay; while the narrow alley made it impossible for them to
encircle him, it also made it difficult for him to wield his sword properly.
The brutes eyed him carefully, exchanging nods and gestures; the knight faced three or four
coming from either side. Unlike his long blade, their daggers were well suited for this fight. Only the
question of who would risk the first attack from Gerard’s sword kept them back.
After long moments, one of them came within striking distance. Gerard slashed at him, and he
retreated quickly, having accomplished his goal; from the other side, one of his compatriots threw
himself at the knight to tackle him. Prepared for this, Gerard’s stance kept him standing, and he used
the pommel of his sword to smash the bandit in the back of his head. The attacker fell to the ground
with a groan, but as before, he had bought enough time. His companions swarmed forward before
Gerard could bring the sword back.
The knight fell down under the sheer weight of their assault, and they pinned him down. One held
his sword arm to the ground while the others stabbed their knives through the openings of his armour.
“Rihimil!” Gerard called out. “Help me!” Any further words drowned in blood. When the assailants
left, dark spots stained the star on his surcoat, dying the white ribbon in his pocket red.
~~~~
Meanwhile, Armand assembled the courage to approach his master with a wealth of parchments and
scribbles in his arms. “Master Lambert?” he spoke, clearing his throat.
“What is it, boy? Did you finish inspecting the oak?”
“Yes, master. It’s something else,” he replied nervously.

316
 “Well, what is it?” Lambert squinted his eyes, looking at what Armand held. “This again?”
“I think my plans are finished, master. I believe my counterweight stone thrower is done.”
“You’ll need a better name than that,” the old engineer mumbled through his beard. “Very well,
let’s see it.”
Armand dumped the papers onto the desk in front of the master, who picked them up, one by one.
Muttering to himself, Lambert went through them all. Slowly, his expression changed from a frown to
incredulity. “Are you sure these calculations are right?”
“Yes, master. I checked them, as did my wife-to-be. She has a good head for numbers,” Armand
added with pride.
Lambert put the final parchment down and looked at his apprentice. “A weapon such as this would
be able to throw boulders of unprecedented size across unprecedented distances,” he declared
astonished.
“Yes, master,” Armand beamed.
“Have you shown these plans to anyone?”
“Only my betrothed, master.”
“Good. They are valuable. Armand, I should bring this to the attention of our guild master.”
“You think so?” Armand’s eyes widened in surprise.
Lambert stroked his beard. “This has implications that need consideration. Sign the sketches with
your name, Armand, to prove ownership. I will take them to the guild master immediately, and we
will proceed from there.”
“Thank you, master!” Armand’s eyes shone with delight.
“It’s nothing,” Lambert mumbled, watching as his apprentice took a quill, dipped it in ink, and
wrote his name on each piece of parchment.
~~~~
The Raven Court had no shrines for other deities; worshippers seeking any of the other divines would
have to go elsewhere. The Order of the Dragon had a modest temple not far from the keep, allowing
the Order knights and soldiers a place to seek out their patron. A handful of blackrobes maintained the
place, carried out the rites, and sent messages to their superior in Middanhal about the affairs of
Fontaine.
In one of the inner chambers, Godfrey sat with the high priest of the temple. His staff leaned
against the wall while a cup of water kept his hat company on the table. “Who was Sir Gerard?”
“Half-brother of the marshal. Both of them were sponsored into the Order,” the blackrobe
explained. “Had the wit to be marshal, many felt, but Sir Martel was chosen.”
“Not the wit to stay alive,” Godfrey muttered. “When did it happen?”
“It cannot have been long ago. One of my brethren saw them carry the body into the keep just a
stone’s throw from here, and decay had not yet begun.”
“You’re certain the norns are to blame?”
“Brigands do not attack a knight,” the priest pointed out.
“Of course not, but he might have attracted other enemies.”
“Possibly, but not that we are aware of. And the timing of his attack fits with his investigations.”
Godfrey let out a sigh. “If this is true, the Veiled has gone too far.”
“Agreed. We will investigate further, but regardless, I will write to Brother Eadric,” the priest
declared.
“As you wish.” Godfrey took a deep breath. “I need to speak with Sir Martel. Whether this will
make him more or less amenable,” he considered, “I suppose I will find out.”

317
 ~~~~
The dungeons were not the only part of the Raven Court situated underground. As the norns were in
charge of seeing the dead laid to rest, they needed cold chambers to store the bodies and prepare them
for burial. They might not always go through such trouble for paupers and the like, but a knight
merited every final honour. Lying on a slab, Gerard’s brown skin had begun to acquire the hue of
death. His surcoat and armour had been removed by the Order soldiers in the keep, leaving only the
inner garments for the norns to strip. Once his body was naked, cloth and water were applied to wash
his wounds clean.
“You are not on duty tonight,” Jocelyne remarked as she entered the chamber. She scratched the
birthmark on her forehead and adjusted the hood that covered her hair, leaving not a single strand
visible.
“I requested this honour,” Rosalie replied. Her hands pressed the cloth across Gerard’s skin with
movements as soft as her demeanour. Her usual shifting about in place seemed gone in favour of focus
on the task at hand. “I heard tales of this man,” she added with pity in her eyes. “I cannot fathom why
he would be slain in such a senseless manner.”
“That is a lesson to us all,” Jocelyne declared. “Those seated highest among us may still fall in the
most undignified way.” Seeing her sister’s slow progress, the norn grabbed some rags and soaked
them in water. “Here,” she muttered almost aggressively, joining the other norn in washing the body.
“Or you will never be done.”
“Working this duty,” Rosalie contemplated, “you encounter so many fates. Children, old people,
rich, poor. Some die through accidents that could easily have been avoided.” Her eyes lost focus and
her hands nearly came to a halt, rubbing the same spot over and over with little strength put into the
motion.
“Your point?” Jocelyne asked curtly, deftly moving across the torso that held the most wounds and
dried blood.
“How can it be their fate to die? If a brick falls from a rooftop and hits a man in the head, he might
die. If he had paused just moments before, maybe to admire the sight of something, he would have
lived,” Rosalie considered. “I don’t understand how Idisea determines our fate,” she admitted.
“You are not the Veiled Sister,” Jocelyne reminded her. “You need not know the will of the
goddess as long as you follow the instructions given by her servant.”
“But I am one of her servants,” Rosalie argued. “Soon, we will sit on the tribunal to judge the
heretic.”
“What does that have to do with all this talk about fate?” the other norn scoffed.
“Hraban spoke extensively about fate,” Rosalie explained. “Maybe that is what attracts people to
his heresy.”
“Hraban the Mad,” Jocelyne sneered. “Do not forget that part. They were wrong to have let him
live, not to mention allow any of his ramblings to survive. They should have cut him down the
moment he began spouting his falsehoods.”
“But do you not find it curious that he was kept alive?” asked Rosalie. She returned her attention
to the work, scrubbing one of Gerard’s cold hands. “If it truly was blasphemy when he claimed to hear
the voice of Idisea, why did they not dare to see him dead?”
“It was not a question of daring,” Jocelyne sniffed, cleaning the other arm. “They were simply
soft-hearted. They had no idea that this and other heresies might spread. It was only after the madness
of Hraban that the office of the justiciar was created. Heretics, heathens, and frauds had free reins
before that.”

318
 Rosalie gave a chuckle. “I doubt it was quite as bad. This is the first trial for heresy in decades.”
Jocelyne turned her heard sharply to stare at her fellow norn. “Because we do not allow it to take
root. Make no mistake, Sister.” Her voice had enough edge to cleave stone. “As members of the
tribunal, we have a sacred duty. Washing the dead is all well and good, but that is when we will truly
serve the goddess.”
“Perhaps,” Rosalie replied, shifting back and forth on her feet under Jocelyn’s gaze. She moved
the cloth across Gerard’s peaceful face. “For me, I feel closest to the goddess when carrying out acts
of service such as this.”
Jocelyne made a scoffing sound but no other reply, and they poured the burial oils upon the fallen
knight’s body in silence, finishing the preparation.

319
 52. Blood, Water, and Wine
Fontaine
The following day, a messenger from the king summoned Belvoir to be received in audience. The
messenger found the camp partly deserted, as most of the soldiers had filtered into the city already,
but the duke was present to receive the summons with a smile. Commanding his retinue to saddle up,
Gaspard rode ahead of the column. Surrounded by his most trusted attendants, the duke led the cortege
towards Fontaine.
With his banners proclaiming his identity, the guards and common folk quickly parted before
Belvoir and his men; they rode through the gate of their choice and entered the city with ease. While
some people watched their progression with indifference, others gawked openly, particularly those
who recognised the insignia of Belvoir and wondered what the duke’s presence in Fontaine meant.
Reaching the palace, Gaspard and his men dismounted in the courtyard. “Only upon my signal,”
he instructed the warriors by his side in a quiet voice. “We wait until my men are in position.” They
all nodded their assent and followed the duke into the palace, eventually entering the throne room. In
the far end upon the eponymous seat sat Rainier, king of Ealond. Looking pale to the point of sickly,
he was a stark contrast to the duke, who confidently strode through the room while courtiers
whispered and stared.
Approaching the throne, Gaspard walked just close enough that the royal guards became uneasy
and shifted forward one step, ready to protect their liege. With a wry smile, the duke came to a halt
and gave a deep bow before the king; his attendants, flanking him, followed suit.
“Duke Belvoir,” the king greeted him. He stroked the thin beard surrounding his lips. Despite his
frail looks, his voice was strong and easily heard in the hall. “I am pleased you have come as I
commanded.”
“I have, Your Majesty,” Gaspard responded. He glanced over his shoulder to look at the crowd
that had gathered.
“You have brought your armies as I also commanded,” Rainier continued slowly with his gaze
fixed on his vassal.
“I did. We stand ready.” In contrast to the king, the duke’s voice wavered, his attention elsewhere;
while Rainier’s eyes were locked on him, Gaspard’s swept the crowd once more.
“I did not expect you would bring them into the city,” the king continued. “I would have thought
they would remain outside in camp.”
Unrest took hold of the duke’s men upon hearing this, their eyes darting around the room; tension
could be felt in the air by every member of the court present. “They are, Your Majesty,” Gaspard
replied frowning.
“Strange. I have received reports that many of them, albeit in the guise of common folk, have been
spotted throughout the city. Some by the gates, some by the Order keep, some by the bridges, and
some,” the king spoke slowly, “in this very palace.”

320
 “We’ve been betrayed,” one of Belvoir’s men muttered. Several of them reached for their sword
hilts, though none drew blades just yet.
“Calm yourselves,” Gaspard hissed to them. “Your Majesty, if these men are wearing common
garbs, how can they be known to be soldiers in my service?”
The king gave a superior smile. “I will grant you that, Duke Belvoir.”
“Some of my soldiers may have left camp in search of provisions or entertainment. If so, I assure
you they will be punished,” the duke promised.
“That is comforting to know. However,” Rainier continued, “I require an explanation for this as
well.” He gestured to his side. From the throng of courtiers, Guilbert stepped forward to stand near the
throne. He held a parchment roll in his hands.
Upon seeing his envoy standing in the throne room, Gaspard paled. “What is this?” he croaked.
“Proof that you conspired against me, Duke Belvoir,” the king informed him. “Thankfully, this
loyal subject warned me.”
“That is a lie!” the duke exclaimed. His soldiers all drew weapons, making the palace guards step
forward with lowered spears. Quickly, the duke’s protectors were encircled by their royal
counterparts.
“Lay down your weapons and surrender,” Rainier demanded, “and I will show mercy.”
“Mercy from a serpent,” one of Gaspard’s warriors spat. All of them stood ready to fight, except
the duke himself. All colour had drained from his face. His eyes shifted between the king and Guilbert
constantly, and he seemed paralysed.
“Milord!” one of the beleaguered soldiers called out. “Do we fight?”
Gaspard swallowed. His previous confidence had evaporated. The palace guards took another step
forward, tightening their ranks; their spears left not the smallest gap. Staring down at the metal tips
pointed at him only five paces away, resignation flooded the duke’s countenance. “We yield,” he
mumbled. His hands unclasped his belt, letting it and the scabbard by his side fall to the ground. His
men stared at him and each other in disbelief, but Gaspard’s surrender sapped any will to fight. One
after the other, they threw their weapons down.
“Arrest them,” the king ordered his men. At spear point, the guards led the prisoners away.
Gaspard sent a final look towards Guilbert, who returned it coldly. The court, which had been deadly
silent during the confrontation, burst into chatter upon seeing the foremost nobleman in the realm
brought low. Letting his gaze sweep over the men and women, the king raised his hand to command
silence.
“I sit upon this throne as my father did before me,” Rainier proclaimed in a loud voice, not
mentioning that his grandfather had been a lowly count. “It is mine by right. By challenging this,
Duke Belvoir has committed the most egregious of crimes. Treason.” The king paused, slowly moving
his gaze to make it appear as if he was staring at each of his courtiers individually. “Unlike those who
would usurp my rightful crown, I am not tyrant,” he declared. “Duke Belvoir will be given a fair
chance to explain his actions, and evidence will be brought that none may be in doubt of his guilt.”
The king glanced to his side at Guilbert, who replied with a short bow. “I bid you all remember this
day. Let it be a lesson to any who might conspire against their lawful sovereign,” Rainier concluded,
standing up. As he stepped away from his throne and walked out of the room, every single man and
woman in the hall bowed low before him.
~~~~
At the Order keep, the mood was sombre. The man regarded by many as the premier knight of the
realm had been slain in an ignominious manner by brigands and left to die in an alley. While daily

321
activities continued as usual, talking occurred in a suppressed fashion among the remaining knights
and soldiers. Even the servants felt the oppressive atmosphere that permeated the castle, behaving
with less cheer than usual.
A cart carrying barrels of apples drove into the courtyard. The driver and a henchman jumped
down from the cart and began to unload while the guards scarcely gave them a second glance; one of
them exchanged a few words with the driver while the helper began to roll one of the barrels inside
the actual keep. As soon as he was inside and away from prying eyes, he abandoned the barrel;
checking his surroundings one more time, Godfrey ventured deeper into the castle.
On occasion, the faintest sound of footsteps falling, clothes wrinkling, or anything of the sort
announced the approach of another. Each time, Godfrey found an alcove, a corner, or anything like
that to hide in. Whether soldier or servant, none of them noticed the stealthy wanderer, regardless of
how close they walked past him; each time Godfrey became aware of someone else, his own presence
remained hidden.
Moving upwards, Godfrey came several floors up the main tower of the keep. The further up he
came, the fewer people he encountered, making his progress faster, and he began to relax. Entering yet
another corridor, he stared at the various doors ahead of him. They all looked the same, none of them
giving any clue as to what lay behind. A start went through him, and he turned around to see a young
servant girl holding a broom staring at him.
Returning her gaze with a perplexed expression, Godfrey gathered his wits and cleared his throat.
“Pardon me, young mistress.”
“I don’t speak your silly words,” Najat replied in Suthspeech.
“Forgive me twice, in that case,” Godfrey told her, pronouncing the words in her native tongue as
if he had been born and raised in Alcázar himself.
Her mouth opened in surprise. “You speak the same as me.”
“Indeed, young mistress,” Godfrey twinkled. “I am an acquaintance of Sir Martel, the marshal. Do
you know of him?”
She nodded. “He’s real kind. But right now, he’s also real sad, because his brother got killed.”
Sorrow overtook her own expression. “We’re all sad about that.”
Godfrey nodded a bit, crouching down to be at her eye level. “I heard about that. In a way, that is
why I am here. I need to speak to Sir Martel.”
“Will you make him feel better? He needs that,” Najat told him.
Godfrey gave her a reluctant smile. “I honestly cannot say. I think right now, nothing can lift the
sadness in his heart.” He carefully reached out a finger to prod Najat on the left side where her own
heart lay inside. The slight tickle made her giggle despite the heavy topic of their conversation. “But
one day, I hope he will look back and feel better, knowing he did the right thing on this day.”
Najat seemed to ponder his words, biting on her lip. “You went up too far. Sir Martel’s room is the
floor below. First door on your dominant hand.”
“Much obliged, kind mistress,” Godfrey told her with a smile. Standing up, he gave a slight bow; a
little flustered, Najat returned the gesture.
The marshal of Ealond stood by the window in his chamber, staring at Fontaine. The charge of his
office was to maintain the high king’s peace throughout the realm, regardless of whether the
warmonger was a simple baron rebelling against his liege or the king of the riverlands himself. Having
only a few hundred men at his disposal, it did not seem like there was much Sir Martel could actually
do. Behind him, hanging upon an armour rack, was a chain shirt with broken rings and bloodied
metal.

322
 There was a knock on the door. “I do not wish to be disturbed,” the marshal called out while
keeping his gaze out of the window. The cracking of the door being opened could be heard. Martel
swung around. “I thought I made myself clear,” he growled.
“You did, Sir Martel,” Godfrey admitted. “Alas, the realms cannot indulge you.”
The knight narrowed his eyes, scowling at the intruder. “If you think I need to wait for the guards
to throw you out of this window, you are mistaken.”
Godfrey glanced at Martel’s imposing physique. “I have no doubt of that.” From inside his coat,
Godfrey pulled out a parchment scroll. “I come for another reason. The Order is leaderless and thus
becoming powerless.”
“Who are you?” the marshal growled, crossing the room to stand in front of Godfrey and stare him
down.
“Who I am does not matter in comparison to what I have to say,” the shorter man replied, raising
the scroll in front of himself. “Grant me a moment of your time to listen. If you disagree, you may toss
me out of as many windows as you desire afterwards.”
~~~~
Belvoir’s men had been distributed throughout the dungeons of the royal palace; the duke himself was
chained up in a separate cell and kept apart from anyone else. He had been almost docile since his
arrest and subsequent incarceration; that ended when the door to his prison was opened and Guilbert
stepped inside.
“You!” Gaspard spat out.
Guilbert kept himself by the door, beyond reach of the chained prisoner. He held a handkerchief in
front of his nose, shielding it from the smell and slightly muffling his speech. “I have been sent on
behalf of the king to offer his mercy to you.”
“Why did you betray me?” the duke roared, struggling against his shackles.
“You betrayed the king,” Guilbert corrected him. “I am a loyal subject.”
“I showed you every kindness!” the prisoner exclaimed. “Where others would have kept you
hidden or sent you away in shame, I treated you like family!”
A contemptuous smile appeared on Guilbert’s face, and he removed the handkerchief that the duke
might see it. “Like family. Such choice of words. You treated me with the kindness shown to a hound
expected to fetch for its master and be grateful for the privilege! I may be a bastard, Gaspard,” he
sneered, “but I am no dog!”
“I let you dine at my table, I trusted you!”
“You used me when it suited you,” Guilbert retorted. “Sent on tasks for dubious goals fitting for
my low birth, allowing you to cast me aside if ever needed.”
“I would never have done such a thing,” the duke protested. “I am not a miserable wretch like
you!”
“You are the one in chains. Between us, I would call you the wretch,” his former servant argued.
Gaspard sent the other man a disdainful look. “If our father could see you now, it would tear him
apart!”
His half-brother stared at him. “That is the first time you have ever acknowledged our kinship in
words or deed.”
“And the last. If it kills me, by the Seven and Eighth I swear, I will avenge your treachery,”
Gaspard declared.
“You will not. You will be dead by tomorrow,” Guilbert declared flatly.
“The king’s position is not so strong he can execute me at will,” the duke claimed.

323
 “The treaty between you and Jarl Vale is proof of your guilt, among other things.”
“That document does not prove any intention to take the throne,” Gaspard countered. “Pledging to
support Jarl Vale in ending a rebellion is not against the law.”
“Maybe not explicitly, but seeking an alliance with foreign rulers does cast suspicion upon you,”
Guilbert claimed. “We will find more proof if need be, but the king is prepared to offer you terms.”
“I will not make this easy for him,” the duke stated.
“You should if you have any regard for your family.”
“Alois has done nothing!” exclaimed Gaspard.
“He is the son of a traitor. We all bear the burdens of our father’s transgressions,” Guilbert told
him with a sardonic smile. “Yet if you admit your guilt publicly, Alois will be allowed to inherit your
title and lands.”
“How can you do this?” The duke wrung his hands together, making the chains clank against the
stone floor. “Alois is your blood!”
“It is too late to remind me of that,” Guilbert remarked. “This is the king’s offer. If you refuse to
cooperate, not only will you still be executed, Alois will be made destitute.”
“You fiend!”
“You have the rest of the day to consider your answer. I shall return for it tomorrow morning.”
Stashing his handkerchief, Guilbert turned and left the cell.
~~~~
Every guild had a meeting hall in Fontaine. Some of the smaller or less prestigious guilds shared one;
in fact, the water bearers and tallow chandlers shared their location with the fishmongers, much to
their chagrin. As one of the wealthiest and most prestigious associations, the engineers’ guildhall was
among the grandest in the city. Apart from large chambers to conduct meetings and hold feasts for the
members, it also held living quarters for the current master of the guild.
Most apprentices only entered the building twice during their tutelage. The first time would be
when they were taken on by a master, signing the papers and paying the fee associated therewith, and
the second time when their apprenticeship was completed and they were acknowledged as journeymen
within the trade.
As an exception to this, Armand he entered the guildhall, staring around with curious eyes. By his
side was Master Lambert. “Through there,” the old engineer told his apprentice, motioning at a set of
doors. “I’ll see you afterwards,” he mumbled.
“Thank you again, master,” Armand smiled, opening the doors to pass through them.
In the next chamber, he was met by a man beckoning for him to follow. “This way.” While
appearing to be a house servant, he wore clothes meant for being outdoors; his grim appearance and
silent behaviour did not invite any questions, and Armand followed him quietly.
Moving through the building, the dour-looking man eventually opened another door and gestured
for Armand to step through. The apprentice did so, entering a study of sorts. In the middle was a table
with a bundle of parchments upon it. Next to it, a man in fine clothes sat. As if his garbs did not
declare his wealth, a gold chain ran across his stomach.
“Master Donatien,” Armand gasped. “I did not expect –”
“You know who I am,” the other man smiled. Behind them, the door was closed.
“I do. I mean, I recognise the chain of your office.” Armand glanced at it.
“Then it serves its purpose,” the alderman chuckled. “Please, be seated.”
Looking dumbfounded, Armand sat down. “I thought I was meeting the guild master.”
“That was the plan, but your design is of such interest to the guilds, he involved me.”

324
 “Are you familiar with the art of engineering, master alderman?”
Donatien gave a shrug. “I have a meagre understanding of it.”
“I was hoping to discuss the model –” Armand began eagerly, but he was cut off.
“Are these numbers correct? Will your stone thrower be able to hurl boulders of this weight across
such distances?”
Armand paused, looking at the parchments indicated by the alderman. “Yes, I’m certain of it. It
can be proven once we build it, but the arithmetic is correct.”
“I was told your betrothed helped you in that regard.”
“She did,” Armand smiled. “She has a mind for that.”
“Was she involved in designing the weapon?”
“She helped with some details, though the design is my invention,” Armand explained.
“I see,” the alderman nodded. “May I offer you wine?”
Armand glanced around the room. “I couldn’t ask you – I mean, allow me to serve –”
“Not at all,” Donatien smiled and stood up. Turning his back to Armand, he walked over to a small
drawer, upon which stood several cups and a pitcher of wine. While the apprentice looked at his
sketches again, the alderman poured the wine. Picking up the goblets, he placed one in front of
Armand and sat down with the other.
“Thank you,” the apprentice mumbled flustered.
“No trouble at all. Let us drink to your design, Master Armand.” The alderman raised his cup, and
Armand followed suit, taking a healthy sip. He grimaced slightly at the taste of the undiluted wine, but
did not remark upon it.
“Perhaps I should speak with my guild master,” Armand suggested carefully.
“Unfortunately, we are faced with a dilemma,” Donatien informed him with regret in his voice.
“The situation is complicated, but I feel that I owe you an explanation.”
“About what?”
“Bear with me,” Donatien requested. “You could not be aware of this, but the guilds are always in
an anxious relationship with the king.”
“The king?”
Donatien nodded. “The kings of Ealond depend on the wealth that the guilds create. Yet our king,
whether the current one or his predecessors, are always greedy for more. In my time alone, both King
Rainier and his father before him have attempted to raise taxes upon us several times.”
“I see,” Armand claimed, though his confused expression gainsaid his words.
“Fortunately, we always have means to prevent this. Simply put, we starve Fontaine of trade and
divert it elsewhere. We direct our ships to make port in Herbergja rather than Portesur. From there, we
send it north through Vidrevi to Middanhal rather than to Fontaine. In this manner, we deprive the
king of other taxes until he relents.”
“That’s clever,” Armand assented.
“Of course, this requires Herbergja to be in the hands of the kings of Thusund and not Ealond. If
King Rainier controlled both the major ports on the mainland, we would be at his mercy.”
“I see,” Armand reiterated, frowning.
“The main reason that the kings of Ealond have never taken Herbergja is that the city is so difficult
to besiege. The river mouth makes it difficult for siege engines to approach on land, and our king does
not have the fleet to attack the city on sea.”
“Forgive me, master alderman, but what does this have to do with me?”

325
 “Our king is gathering men and provisions. He is planning a campaign,” Donatien explained. “I
would not imagine he stands any chance of taking Herbergja,” the alderman considered, “until I heard
about your weapon.”
“You think the king wishes to use my stone thrower?” Armand asked excitedly.
“With its range and strength, it could succeed against the walls of Herbergja where battering rams
might not,” Donatien admitted. “For this reason, the guilds cannot allow your weapon to exist.”
Armand sat with an open mouth. “You’re not here to help me.”
“On the contrary.”
The apprentice gathered his wits and began doing the same to his sketches. “I’ll find someone
else,” he coughed, standing up and piling the parchments together.
“You will not, Master Armand.” Regret filled the alderman’s voice, making the apprentice look at
him.
“What do you mean?” he asked, followed by a coughing fit.
“The wine. I am sorry, but we cannot risk it. The king would have the guilds in a stranglehold,”
Donatien explained as Armand fell to the floor, gasping for breath. “As alderman, it is my duty to
protect their interests above everything else. Even one of our own members.” Armand tried to speak,
but he could only manage a wheezing sound. A few moments later, the sound stopped, and the
apprentice lay still. The alderman walked over to the door and knocked.
His grim servant entered, holding a linen sheet. “It’s done,” he remarked prosaically, unfolding the
sheet on the floor.
“You know what to do,” Donatien remarked.
The servant nodded and rolled Armand’s corpse onto the fabric, wrapping him up. “He’ll be found
in a day, maybe two. His woman?”
“Keep an eye on her for now.” The alderman collected Armand’s sketches where they had been
dropped on the floor and left his servant to his task.
~~~~
A peddler was leaving Fontaine, driving a cart containing his supplies and trade goods. Some of it
were spices, mostly pepper, while the rest were combs, buttons, ribbons, and the like, which he might
sell to the villages dotting the land beyond the city. By his side on the driver’s seat was a wanderer,
who had been given a ride in exchange for a few pieces of silver and the promise of good stories.
“I know just the one to tell you,” Godfrey claimed, adjusting his hat. His walking staff lay behind
him in the cart. “Have you ever been told the reason why the fountain inside the Raven Court is
sacred?”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” the peddler told him in a good-humoured manner. “I have
heard at least a dozen stories on that account.”
“But this one is true,” Godfrey specified, raising a finger. “Do you know of Eirik Wyrmbane?”
The driver frowned. “I can’t say that I do. Name sounds foreign.”
“He was an islander,” his companion explained. “Upon the very site where the Raven Court now
lies, he did battle with a fearsome creature that would rival Hel in terror.”
The peddler grinned and nodded a few times. “Tell me more, friend.”

326
 53. Hraban
Fontaine
“Master Guilbert is here, Your Majesty.”
The king nodded. “Show him in.”
Guilbert entered the king’s study and gave a flourishing bow. “Your Majesty.”
“What did Belvoir decide?”
“I am happy to inform Your Majesty that the duke has accepted your magnanimous offer,”
Guilbert replied with a satisfied expression.
Rainier stroked the thin beard on his chin. “I did not think he would, given his excessive pride. I
underestimated you, Master Guilbert.”
“His family, especially his son, is his weak point,” Guilbert explained with a sly expression.
“Enough pressure applied, and I knew he would cave.”
“You have done well. The executioner will have work to do.”
“I live to serve.” Guilbert offered another bow.
“I will be pleased if this matter can be resolved swiftly. It gives me time to launch my campaign
before summer begins. Will Alois of Belvoir be a problem?” the king asked.
“He can be pragmatic,” Guilbert considered. “I think he will consider himself fortunate if his
father’s treason only costs him his father and not his title as well.”
“Can he be trusted not to betray me the moment my back is turned?”
“If he considers Your Majesty to be vulnerable, he may strike, seeking vengeance. The boy is quite
attached to his father,” Guilbert revealed.
“He will have to be removed,” Rainier decided. “I cannot have Belvoir in hostile hands. One of my
cousins may be suited to assume the title of duke. I will need those forces to take Herbergja.”
“Your Majesty knows best.” Guilbert gave another bow. “What of the sibyls?”
“How certain is their involvement?”
“It is beyond the shadow of doubt, Your Majesty. The sibyl in the town of Belvoir sent and
received messages between the Raven Court and the duke. I doubt the duke would have dared this ill-
conceived attempt of a coup without the Veiled standing ready to legitimise his rule and crown him
king.”
Rainier was quiet for a moment, contemplating the situation. “Punishing the sibyl at Belvoir within
or outside the limits of the law should not be difficult. Punishing the Veiled Sister, on the other hand,
may not be in my power.”
“Unless damning evidence can be found, Your Majesty. If the sibyl at Belvoir confesses and
implicates the Veiled, you have cause to arrest her,” Guilbert suggested.
“Evidence is not the issue,” Rainier lectured him. “The sibyls have a strong hold on Ealond.
Moving against them is no easy matter. Perhaps that will be one of your tasks,” the king considered.
“Find a way to force the Raven Court under my control.”

327
 “I would be delighted, Your Majesty.” Guilbert bowed his head. “May I ask a question that may
broaden my understanding of my master’s affairs?”
“You have earned that privilege,” Rainier granted graciously.
“Why the trouble of negotiating with Belvoir to make him confess his guilt? The treaty between
him and Jarl Vale alone would turn the other nobles against him.”
The king smiled sardonically. “Negotiating that treaty was ingenious, Master Guilbert, and I
foresee great use of your skills in the future. If I revealed it now, it would certainly be damaging to
Belvoir’s reputation as well as Vale,” Rainier explained, “but I would gain nothing further from it. As
long as only I know of this treaty, it can be used as a bargaining tool.”
Understanding illuminated Guilbert’s face. “When Your Majesty takes Herbergja, Jarl Vale will
object and seek to undermine your conquest. Making the treaty public at the same time will tarnish his
reputation.”
“Indeed,” Rainier smiled. “He will be revealed as a conspirator who sought to steal my throne and
give it to another. Neither the Order nor the rulers and noblemen of the realms will heed his words.”
“Most impressive, Your Majesty.”
“Your skills as a negotiator will be needed when the time comes. Continue to serve me well,
Master Guilbert, and I will remember your name when I need a new seneschal someday.”
Guilbert bowed deeply. “The honour alone of serving Your Majesty is a privilege without
measure.”
“I am aware,” Rainier assented. “You are dismissed.” After more bowing and scraping, Guilbert
left the king alone.
~~~~
A few days after Armand’s demise, his betrothed entered the meeting hall for the guild of engineers.
Having never been there before, she glanced around nervously until a man with a brusque demeanour
appeared. “Are you Nicolette?” he asked.
“I am,” she replied cautiously. “I was told the guild wanted to meet me concerning my – about
Armand.”
“Follow me.”
Nicolette did so while her eyes darted in every direction. On occasion, they passed a clerk in the
employ of the guild or some of its members, engineers discussing their work; others were engrossed in
arguing about the latest events, such as the execution of the duke of Belvoir.
Passing through the halls, Nicolette reached the same chamber where Armand had once sat. The
table itself was empty, but the alderman sat next to it. Behind her, the door closed. “Mistress
Nicolette,” Donatien greeted her.
“Master alderman,” she replied. “I did not expect –”
“When I heard of what happened to your husband-to-be, I decided to become involved myself,”
Donatien explained.
“That is kind of you,” Nicolette spoke, though she sounded uncertain.
“Dreadful business,” the alderman added with sympathy in his voice. “I am told Armand – that
was his name, was it not?”
“It was.”
“I am told he showed great promise,” Donatien continued, “and even invented his own siege
machinery.”
“He did,” Nicolette nodded repeatedly. “He was smart.”
“His master told me that you aided him in this.”

328
 “Oh, my contribution was small. I merely helped with some adjustments.”
“I only ask because I imagine your situation is now difficult.” The alderman’s voice and face both
expressed his concern. “If you were able to recreate this weapon, the guild would no doubt pay you
for it.”
“I’m not an engineer,” Nicolette replied. “I merely used the basic principles of counterweights to
adjust Armand’s design. How it precisely worked, I don’t know.”
Donatien nodded to himself. “I see. My apologies, you must feel uneasy. May I offer you some
wine?”
“That’s kind of you.”
The alderman got up and poured two cups of wine, placing one before her. “You may not be aware
of this, but when a guild member dies, his seat in the guild is offered to his wife. Assuming she is
skilled in the same trade, of course.”
Nicolette took a sip of her wine. “Thank you, master alderman, I feel better,” she told him, putting
the wine down. “I was aware of that,” she continued, “but Armand and I weren’t married. Nor do I
really know anything about engineering work.”
“But you have the mind for it,” Donatien pointed out. “Having lost Armand, the guild feels it
would be a shame to lose you as well. I have spoken with Master Lambert, and he is willing to teach
you as his new apprentice.”
“Me? But I can’t afford the fee,” Nicolette admitted.
Donatien made a dismissive gesture. “In light of what you have already lost, the fee will be
waived. You may begin next Disday.”
“Really?” Tears begin to appear in her eyes.
“Of course, dear child. The guild needs people like you to prosper. You may not have been
married to Armand yet, but given your betrothal, that seems a mere formality. We take care of our
own,” Donatien told her, drinking from his own cup.
“Thank you,” Nicolette told him with a few hiccoughs.
“I am happy to help,” Donatien claimed. “The wine may help clear your throat,” he added with a
smile.
Nicolette smiled through her tears, emptying her cup. “What should I do now?”
“Return the way you came and find the clerk in the records hall,” Donatien instructed her. “He will
see that you are inscribed as an apprentice.” The alderman stood up and opened the door for her.
“Thank you,” Nicolette repeated before she walked out of the room.
Once she was gone, the alderman’s servant entered. “You sure I shouldn’t deal with her?”
Donatien shook his head. “There doesn’t seem to be any need. She will be observed. And Master
Lambert has strict instructions never to teach her anything related to siege machinery,” he added with
a dry voice.
“Very well, master.”
The alderman poured himself another cup of wine and drank heavily. “I’m glad this business is
dealt with. Have the carriage made ready.”
“Yes, master.”
~~~~
For days, Michel had been incarcerated in the dungeons of the Raven Court. Despite this, his
demeanour remained friendly and courteous; he greeted the guards as they entered his cell and
unshackled him, leading him away. They walked for a long while with the prisoner between them, not
speaking a single word as they went up countless flights of stairs to reach the chamber of the Veiled.

329
 The curtain had been removed, and a small tribune had been raised instead with three seats. In the
middle sat the Veiled Sister, her face covered as customary. She had Sister Jocelyne on one side and
Sister Rosalie on the other, forming the tribunal of the Order of the Raven.
Besides the guards accompanying the prisoner, two other people were present. Ghislain, appearing
as a witness, and Clarisse, related to the accused. The latter moved over to embrace her brother; one of
the guards stepped in her path. “Let them have a moment,” Ghislain demanded, and the temple guards
complied, stepping back.
Clarisse gave Michel a tight hug, and he patted her on the head. “It will all be well, Sister,” he told
her.
“For once, you better be right,” she sniffed.
Michel smiled, pulling away. He looked towards Ghislain. “Master Justice,” he greeted him.
“Michel.” The justiciar nodded back.
“Take care of my sister,” Michel requested.
“Enough. Let this trial begin,” the Veiled commanded. Ghislain pulled Clarisse to the side, letting
Michel stand alone in the middle of the room under the gaze of the three norns. “Michel from Jaler,
you stand accused of heresy as a follower of Hraban the Mad. Do you deny this?”
“I do not.”
“Gods,” Clarisse exclaimed with a lump in her throat.
“Silence,” Jocelyne sneered. Anger was flushing her cheeks as red as the birthmark on her
forehead.
“Your sentence will depend on the extent of your heretical beliefs and whether the Council of
Three believes there is any hope of redemption for you,” the Veiled continued. “You will answer all
our questions, after which Master Justice Ghislain will bear witness. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Michel replied.
“Tell the truth, Master Michel,” Rosalie encouraged him, clasping and unclasping her hands in
constant motion. “It is your best friend.”
“I shall,” the defendant promised with a smile.
“Who instructed you in the heresies of Hraban?” enquired the Veiled.
“A whiterobe in my home village, whose temple acted as a lorehouse for the children of the town.
He has been dead for many years.”
“The justiciars will investigate further, rest assured,” Jocelyne declared with a disdainful look.
“Explain the full extent of your knowledge concerning Hraban and his blasphemies,” the Veiled
commanded.
“I imagine there’s one you’re particularly interested in hearing about,” Michel considered. “I
believe that Hraban heard the voice of the goddess.”
The hall fell completely silent for a moment. “Blasphemy,” Jocelyne hissed with barred teeth.
“No man has ever heard the voice of Idisea,” the Veiled declared forcefully. “Only the sisters of
Idisea’s order has this blessing.”
“That is what you believe,” Michel granted, bowing his head, “yet I disagree. I think your
predecessors did as well. That is why they dared not kill Hraban, but locked him away, recording all
he said.”
“Silence!” Jocelyne shrieked. “You are here to answer our questions, not spout your falsehoods!”
“Sister, please,” Rosalie implored her.
“Nor do I think he was the only man to ever hear the voice of the goddess.”
“More heresy!” Jocelyne was nearly frothing at the mouth. “They should have killed Hraban
where he stood.”

330
 “Revered sisters,” Ghislain spoke up. “The accused deserves a fair hearing.”
“Perhaps we should let him speak until he has finished his confessions,” Rosalie suggested.
“Order will be restored,” the Veiled demanded, and the commotion subsided. “As for you, heretic,
you will not speak unless in direct answer to us.”
“I dream of ravens,” Michel proclaimed, raising his voice. He seemed to stare beyond the tribunal
at something none others could see. “Ever since I was a child, and now, every night in my cell. A
raven flies across the land, and its black feathers blot out the sun.”
“Quiet!” the Veiled demanded.
“The eagle has flown ahead in flight,” the prisoner continued, “and now the cry of the raven is
heard. It shatters my ears.” An agonised expression was upon his face. “The rivers of Ealond turn to
blood.” Everyone inside the chamber looked at him mesmerised, except for the Veiled and Jocelyne;
the former seemed intimidated and the latter infuriated. “Dragon’s blood, dragon’s blood, death across
the land!” The last words reverberated across the chamber. “A ship lost at sea, we’ve strayed from the
course. The raven’s cry continues every night, but we do not heed its call,” Michel finished, gazing at
the Veiled.
Jocelyne leapt to stand in front of the tribune. “Are we to simply sit and listen to this repulsive
speech?” She sent her sisters a furious look. “Hraban was left to live, and centuries later, we are still
dealing with his false teachings. Only the sisters of the Order of the Raven have the blessing of
prophecy,” she stated loudly, turning to face Michel. She strode across the chamber, staring up at the
accused.
“Sister Jocelyne, please,” Rosalie pleaded, wringing her hands.
“Return to your seat,” the Veiled told her, though her voice was weak.
“You would take our place?” Jocelyne sneered, looking straight into Michel’s face.
“I have no desire of that,” he informed her. “I simply told you what you were meant to hear.”
Jocelyne stared at him. “You are beyond redemption,” she stated coldly. The next moment, she
pulled her knife out of his stomach.
Due to the obstructed view, the others did not readily understand the reason why Michel sank to
the floor. The truth only became apparent when the bloody dagger in Jocelyne’s hand reflected the
sunlight shining through the window. “Michel!” Clarisse screamed, throwing herself at her brother’s
body.
“Jocelyne, what did you do?” Rosalie exclaimed. She hurried forward to reach the dying man.
“I had to,” Jocelyne declared. The dagger fell to the ground, making a loud ringing sound. The
guards stared in shock, unprepared for this turn of events.
On the floor, Michel gasped for breath, trying to speak; no words escaped his lips. “Help me!”
Rosalie demanded, trying to stem the bleeding with her hands. As the only one to react, Ghislain
moved to aid her. The Veiled simply sat in her seat, looking at the spectacle.
“I had to do it,” Jocelyne reiterated. “He would have been like Hraban. I had to protect our faith.”
Behind her, Clarisse rose from the ground like an avenging spirit; in her hand was the knife. She
renewed the stain on the blade by plunging it into Jocelyne’s back.
With a shriek, the norn fell to the ground. The guards finally woke from their stupor and they
hurried forward to seize Clarisse, who simply dropped the knife and gave no resistance. Rosalie
looked helplessly at her fallen sister; her hands were already soaked in Michel’s blood. Together, norn
and heretic took their final breaths while the Veiled sat in her seat, paralysed.
Ghislain was the first to pull himself together. Standing up, he grabbed hold of Clarisse with his
bloody hands. “Protect the Veiled,” he commanded the guards. “I’ll get her to a cell.” Neither guard
protested, letting the justiciar take hold of the prisoner and lead her out of the chamber.

331
 With speed, Ghislain moved through the Raven Court, pushing Clarisse ahead of him. “They’ll
recover soon enough and wonder what happened to you,” the justiciar told her. “You don’t have much
time if you want to escape.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll be hunting you. Today, I’m giving you a chance for Michel’s sake.”
They turned a corner and practically ran down a flight of stairs. Neither spoke as they moved
through the temple. They drew many stares, but none saw reason to question the actions of a justiciar.
Eventually, they reached the courtyard that led into the city.
“She deserved it,” Clarisse stated spitefully. “She killed him because he was right.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Ghislain declared. “Get going.” He nodded towards the entrance into the
yard. “I take no responsibility for what happens next.” Clarisse sent him a final look, but she did not
speak again; silently, she turned and hastened to cross the square, leaving the Raven Court.
It took her another hour to hurry through the city and reach the nearest gate. Without looking back,
she left Fontaine. Had she cast a glance behind after leaving the gate, she would have seen the duke of
Belvoir’s head on a spike, placed as a warning to all that would betray the king.

332
 54. Adeline
Fontaine
While the execution of Duke Belvoir caused upheaval in Fontaine, routine quickly returned. Several
weeks later, the city seemed the same as ever, and the arrival of a carriage with ten protectors aroused
little attention. Only those few who recognised the surcoats of the guards stared in wonder; it was an
ashen tree on black, signalling the Temple in Middanhal and marking the wearer as a Templar knight.
As the carriage and riders entered the yard of the Raven Court, the sisters were among those who
knew the tabard of the Templars. All eyes turned towards the carriage, realising who was inside. The
door opened, and a small, old man in grey robes stepped out with a kind smile.
While one of the Templars spoke with the norns present, bidding them to summon the Council of
Three, the remainder formed a protective circle around the Highfather. He crossed the courtyard to
drink from the sacred fountain, bending down with some difficulty. One of his protectors helped him
to stand up afterwards. Thanking the Templar, the priest adjusted his robe and sat down upon the
stonework surrounding the fountain.
The Templars remained in a circle around the Highfather; while their expressions were blank, their
great swords and imposing presence kept everyone at bay. In contrast, Septimus sent smiling eyes in
every direction from inside his ring of protectors.
After a while, the Veiled appeared along with Sister Rosalie, the former hiding her face as
customary. By now, the courtyard was full of servants, norns, acolytes, guards, justiciars, and anyone
else who dwelt in the Raven Court, and all were staring at the little man in the grey robe. The
Templars pushed people back and let Septimus approach the sisters leading the Order of the Raven.
As he stood before them, Rosalie knelt, kissing his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, the Veiled did
the same, and she quickly stood up again. A tall woman, she had to look down to lock eyes with the
Highfather. “Archon,” she greeted him, “we had no word of your coming.”
“I saw no need to kick up dust,” Septimus smiled. “You are Sister Rosalie?” he questioned the
second norn.
“I am, Holy One,” she beamed, almost shaking with excitement.
He nodded a bit to himself. “Only two of you.”
“Sister Jocelyne has not yet been replaced,” the Veiled explained stiffly. “Her demise was so tragic
and sudden, we are still in mourning.”
“Of course.” Septimus nodded a few more times. “Strange business. The return of Hraban, murder
in this very chamber.”
“The heretic did not claim to be Hraban,” the high priestess corrected him impatiently. “He merely
espoused the same false beliefs.”
“I see. Same unfortunate result.”
“It was terrible,” Rosalie interjected, nodding vigorously. “Both their deaths should have been
avoided.”

333
 “I agree. In fact, I believe I sent you a warning.” Septimus’ voice grew harsh, and the onlookers
exchanged glances. Rosalie stepped back several paces while her superior straightened her back.
“This was an internal matter,” the Veiled argued tight-lipped. “It concerns only me as high
priestess of the sibyls.”
Septimus gave another nod, glancing around the room. “I will admit that.” He returned his gaze to
the Veiled. “Your meddling in the affairs of this realm are very much my concern, on the other hand.”
Gasps of disbelief could be heard across the courtyard. “Archon –” the Veiled tried to intervene,
but she was immediately interrupted.
“You conspired to cause changes on such a scale, the upheaval would have shaken the foundation
of the Alliance of Adalmearc,” Septimus spoke, raising his voice. It rang across the courtyard. “Did
you not consider the reprisals against our faith? Not to mention that you set aside your sacred duties as
servants to the divines, tainting your office with profane dealings.” All kindness was gone, and the
little man seemed fused with anger.
“I have done nothing of the sort!” the Veiled defended herself with a shaky voice. “Where is the
evidence?”
“I know!” Septimus roared, which seemed incapable for a man of his stature. “I know of the
messages sent in the dead of night, of plans made, of the blood that stains your face!” His finger was
pointed in accusation at her.
The norn’s hands shot up to her veil as if she could physically feel the stains underneath the fabric.
“It’s a lie,” she claimed, her voice growing weak. “It’s all a lie. I did it all for the faith.”
“You did it for your own ambition,” Septimus declared. “Adeline,” he continued coldly. “I have
come to disrobe you.” The crowd erupted in murmurs, but none intervened; the Templar stood like a
fortress surrounding the Highfather and the Veiled, discouraging any from approaching.
“No!” came the outburst from the Veiled, but there was no mercy to be found. Septimus gave a
short nod, and two Templars grabbed hold of the norn, tearing the veil and red robe from her. Left
only with her linen dress underneath, they pushed her to her knees in front of Septimus; transformed
from a kind, old man in plain robes, he stared down upon her naked face like a vengeful god.
“Adeline, you have forsaken your holy vows,” he began, stretching out his hand to hold it over her
head. He continued with a chanting voice. “By the Seven and Eighth, this doom I proclaim upon you.”
“No,” she sobbed, grabbing the torn veil from the ground and pressing it against her face.
“Let no shrine in this land offer you sanctuary. No shelter may you find. The river shall not slake
your thirst, the field will not satiate your hunger, the forest will give no succour. Never shall you rest
where the eyes of the dragon, the raven, the bull, the horse, the bear, the hart, and the eagle are upon
you,” Septimus continued. He ceased chanting and continued with an icy tone. “Adeline, I name you
oath breaker.”
The Templars let go of the disgraced norn, and she collapsed onto the cobbled stones, dissolving
into tears. Without another word, Septimus entered his carriage, and his guards mounted their horses.
They departed from the courtyard, leaving every person stunned.
~~~~
While the fate of Duke Belvoir had given Fontaine something to discuss, his execution had not
impacted the city as such; to most residents of Fontaine, the duchy of Belvoir was in the other end of
the realm and of little interest. The Veiled Sister being disrobed was another matter; every man or
woman in the capital held one of two opinions. Either it was felt that the Highfather had overstepped
his authority and like a foreign invader violated Ealond as assuredly as if he had murdered the king, or
people were convinced he had done so with good reason. Usually, those reasons were aided by wild

334
stories concerning debauchery in the Raven Court. The conspicuous death of a heretic and a member
of the Council of Three prior to the disrobing of the Veiled only fuelled these rumours further.
No doubt Fontaine could have discussed this matter for at least two or three more weeks, had not
other news reached the capital. These tidings arrived from Belvoir, and the good citizens of Fontaine
finally had a reason to care about the duchy. It turned out that while Duke Gaspard had brought a
number of soldiers with him during his ill-fated attempt to usurp the throne, he had left most of his
army back in Belvoir. Furthermore, few of his soldiers had actually been apprehended in Fontaine;
when the revolt failed, most had simply found their way home in the following weeks. Measured in
arms, Belvoir was the most powerful of the duchies of Ealond, and despite Gaspard’s failed plans, this
strength remained. His son, Alois, had shown himself aware of this.
After making an example of Gaspard, the king had been gathering his other vassals and their
armies to Fontaine, preparing a campaign. Reluctantly, the guilds were supplying provisions of every
sort, and speculation was rampant as to the king’s intentions. While preparations were still underway,
Rainier commanded part of the army to march east swiftly under the command of trusted, loyal
vassals. It eventually became clear that while the king had another campaign in mind entirely, he had
decided to occupy the region of Belvoir while his remaining armies gathered. This would prevent any
kind of unrest and allow his choice for the new duke to assume the position and consolidate it,
keeping the largest fief in the realm on hands friendly to the king.
As it turned out, the current duke, albeit new to the title himself, had surmised as much and
gathered his own armies. While mostly unproven in war, Alois did not seem hindered by this or in any
way timid. He had ambushed the king’s forces sent to wrest control of the duchy from him, routing
them completely with few losses. As summer began, those were the news that reached Fontaine and
King Rainier, making all forget about the Highfather’s visit the city; Alois, the new duke of Belvoir,
was in open rebellion against the throne.

335
 Seventh Chronicle of Adalmearc
Part of the Annals of Adal

This volume begins in the year ᚿᛜᚢᚿᛚ

The events unfold in the realm of Adalrik
as well as the realm of Heohlond

336
 55. The Price of Bread
Theodstan
Seven men walked east in the shadow of the Weolcan Mountains. A young swordsman set the course,
followed by two warriors with equal arms. Behind followed two archers with longbows of Hæthian
make. A bard and a sergeant of the Order, too young that he should ever have been conscripted,
brought up the rear. Conversation was sparse; each man had a haggard look in his eyes, only
occasionally replaced by hunger. Every time they came across a small brook flowing down the
mountainside, they drank greedily and filled every container at their disposal. Satiating their stomachs
with water could only chase the hunger away temporarily, though, and famished expressions soon
returned.
“Milord, we can’t keep this up,” Geberic spoke quietly, having taken a few extra paces to walk
alongside Brand.
“I am aware.”
“Unless luck’s on our side and we come across game, we’ve got nothing to eat.”
“I am aware,” Brand repeated curtly.
“Of course, milord,” Geberic muttered.
They continued the march in silence for a while longer. Eventually, Brand glanced behind and was
met by the resigned faces of his men. “This is the fastest way to our goal,” Brand explained in a low
voice that only Geberic might hear. “And in this rocky terrain, it will be hard for any to pick up our
tracks.”
“I never doubt you have good reason, milord,” the old man-at-arms claimed. “And I know the
men, they’ll never complain. We all chose this. But,” he continued hesitantly, “a bow staff doesn’t
complain either when it’s being pressed too hard. It just breaks, and then it’s of no use to anyone.”
Brand continued to stare ahead as he asked his question slowly. “Are you breaking, Geberic?”
“Never, milord,” he protested. “You tell me to go to Hel, even if it’s just to get rid of me, I’ll keep
marching until I get there. But between you and me,” he added in a whisper, “I got my doubt about
Glaukos. He looks tough, but he’s a real grouch when he doesn’t get enough sleep.”
Brand gave a weak smile. “Noted.”
~~~~
Their march continued for another hour before Brand called another rest; as the men sat down, some
more gracefully than others, their leader stared west at the sun slowly approaching the horizon.
Hidden from his sight behind the towering Wyrmpeak was Middanhal; it had been more than a week
since their escape. Patrols of Hawks had been scouring the area, but thanks to the mountainous terrain,
their pursuers had no trail.

337
 Turning his gaze north, Brand stared into the jarldom of Theodstan. It covered the eastern part of
Adalrik, running along the entire border to Heohlond, touching the Weolcans in the south and the
Alfskog in the north. While none would ever claim it to be fertile lands, it had pastures for grazing and
forests.
Glancing at his men, Brand cleared his throat. “We move out,” he told them. Without looking back
or waiting, he set into motion; his course was north rather than east. Exchanging looks, but never
questioning their captain, the band followed him deeper into Theodstan.
~~~~
The next days, the group walked north-east, reaching greener surroundings. Having run out of
provisions, their progress was noticeably slowed; instead of constantly moving forward, they spent
much of the day foraging for berries, mushrooms, or roots while Quentin and Nicholas did their best
to hunt. Although both were expert marksmen, neither were experienced hunters. Sneaking up on
game was never a skill they had needed before, and in the course of an entire day, they rarely
managed more than a squirrel or occasional rabbit.
“I found these,” Matthew exclaimed happily, showing a handful of large mushrooms as the group
made camp.
“Those are poisonous,” Geberic informed him flatly. Matthew let them fall to the ground where he
stood. “What about you?” he enquired, nodding at Troy.
“I found some berries,” the bard began.
“Where are they?”
“Well, as I was about to pluck them, I saw a rabbit.”
“So? Did it fight you for the berries?”
“No, no,” Troy hastened to say, “but I started to imagine how a good rabbit stew might taste.”
“Hel strapped to a bell,” Geberic swore, “you ask a simple question and get his life’s tale. This
isn’t a tavern, string peddler, did you get anything?”
“I gave a good chase, I really did,” Troy defended himself. “I almost had it, but it jumped down
this hole, and I couldn’t reach it. I had chased it for so long, I couldn’t remember the way back to the
berries.”
“It ran into its warren, not a hole,” Geberic told him brusquely. “Only a cobblestone boy would be
dumb enough to think he could chase up a rabbit on foot.”
“They were blueberries, I think. Or raspberries, maybe,” Troy frowned. “I honestly don’t know
how most berries look.”
“Shut up,” Geberic growled.
“Any berries this early would not be ripe in any case,” Brand inserted. “Let us not waste breath
over it.” He sat on a fallen log, dividing up a handful of wild pea pods that Glaukos had brought back.
The Hæthian sat with his back against a tree, dozing off; a sleeping man was not a hungry man, as he
had told the others.
The final members of the band returned; triumphantly, Nicholas threw a small partridge onto the
ground. “Feast on this, my friends,” he told them exuberantly.
“Nicholas, I could kiss you,” Geberic yelled as he picked up the bird and began to pluck its
feathers.
“I’m spoken for, but let Quentin have it,” the archer grinned.
His hunting partner did not share in the merriment; instead, he walked over and sat down on the
log next to Brand. “We’re not alone in this forest,” Quentin said quietly.
“Who did you meet?”

338
 “I didn’t come close enough to find out. I just heard voices and made a hasty retreat. Could be
poachers like us,” he considered. “Could be the local lord’s forest men. Could be Hawks looking for
us.”
“Did they discover you?”
Quentin shook his head. “I can’t imagine they did.”
“Good.”
The archer looked at the bird in Geberic’s hands being plucked. “If we make a fire to roast that,
someone might see.”
Brand gave a short nod. “Thankfully, eating it should give us the strength to keep a quick pace
tomorrow. Rest, Quentin,” he told him.
“Fat chance I’ll sleep tonight,” the other man muttered. Yet despite his misgivings, with his share
of the partridge in his stomach, Quentin snored peacefully throughout the night.
~~~~
As declared, Brand kept the pace quick the next day with few breaks and only an hour spent before
nightfall to forage; the result of their search for food reflected this. Being so early in spring, the yields
of the forest had not had time to ripen yet. Their stomachs complained, but every man kept his mouth
shut on the topic of food, and a few songs by Troy provided a diversion from their predicament.
“They’re following us,” Quentin related to Brand, sitting next to him; the men were arranged in a
circle, listening to Troy as night fell and their meagre rations were being consumed. “It’s not a
coincidence.”
“Any idea about their number or identity?”
The archer shook his head. “Hard to tell their numbers. I heard several voices, so at least three, but
they might be up towards ten, I couldn’t say. I’d guess around five or so. As for who they are…”
Brand frowned. “Yes?”
“I saw what looked like gold and blue.”
Brand stared at him. “Are you certain?”
“Bloody Hel,” Geberic exclaimed, making Troy lose his grip; disharmonious tones struck out from
his lute. “Are you saying the prince sent kingthanes on our trail?”
“Looks like it,” Quentin admitted.
The mood grew sombre. “That’s not good,” Nicholas finally pointed out.
“Kingthanes, Hawks, I care not,” Glaukos declared. “They bleed like any other man.”
“That’s sort of it,” Geberic countered. “Kingthanes are really good at making others bleed.”
“Sir, can we escape them?” asked Matthew. All eyes turned towards Brand.
The former knight smiled ruefully at his sergeant. “You need not worry, boy. You should all rest.”
“Nobody is expecting me to fight, right?” Troy asked concerned. Quentin rolled his eyes.
“Nothing will happen tonight. Rest,” Brand reiterated. “I will take first watch.” The men
murmured but acquiesced, lying down to find what comfort they might on the forest floor.
As for Brand, he stood at the edge of their small circle, keeping eyes on the dark forest
surrounding them. Geberic joined him. “A word, milord?” he asked quietly.
“Go to sleep.”
“Glaukos is handy with a blade, and the archers are sharp,” Geberic stated, ignoring the command.
“Fighting this close in a forest, arrows aren’t that useful, though. The bard is obviously not much to
rely on, nor the boy. As for me, I’ll fight, but I’m no match for a kingthane.”
“I am aware, Geberic.”

339
 “I’m not sure we stand a chance against five kingthanes or more, but some of us can buy time.
Even if it’s just Glaukos and me,” Geberic suggested. “He’ll do it, you know the mad bastard won’t
back down. We can distract the kingthanes, lead them on a merry chase. Or wound them badly enough
that they can’t pursue you further. Give you time to escape into the mountains, maybe.” He nodded
towards the south.
“Nobody is sacrificing themselves, Geberic.” Brand had been staring into the forest, but he finally
turned to look at his man-at-arms. “Trust me.”
“Always, milord.” The words came without hesitation, but Geberic’s face remained clouded with
doubt as he lay down to rest.
~~~~
At dawn, the group woke. A few birds were chirping in greeting, making the archers prepare arrows in
case they spotted a tasty target. Breaking camp was done quickly as they had barely any belongings to
gather. All turned expectantly to Brand, waiting for the course to be set.
“We have one advantage over the men pursuing us,” he told his followers. “As they are following
our trail, we know exactly where they will be.”
“An ambush?” asked Glaukos, resting his left hand casually on his sword hilt.
Brand nodded. “If it comes to fighting, yes.”
“How do you mean?” frowned Geberic.
“These men are sworn to protect Sigvard’s blood. Their very oath prevents them from harming me.
I believe I can dissuade them from fighting us,” Brand explained.
His men exchanged questioning glances. “What if you can’t, sir?” asked Matthew.
“Then we fight.”
“After giving away the advantage of surprise?” exclaimed Geberic.
“That’s pretty much our only advantage,” Quentin muttered.
“I have faith in you,” Brand smiled. “Should all odds be against us, console yourselves with
knowing that I am the only outlaw here. Should I surrender myself, the rest of you are free to leave.”
“That’s hardly an option either,” Geberic protested.
“My lord,” Glaukos spoke brusquely, “I did not come all this way merely to watch you be dragged
back to Middanhal.”
“The decision is mine,” Brand declared.
“We shouldn’t give them warning,” Quentin argued. “We should begin with me and Nicholas
putting an arrow in the first two of them, even the odds.” The others assented to this.
Brand raised his hand to silence the discussion. “I understand your reservations, but these are not
mercenaries or hired brutes. They are kingthanes, men of honour who have become trapped by their
oath to an unworthy master. Their captain died to save me from death, and I hope his men will
remember this.” He took a deep breath. “I owe the good captain that I at least try to spare the lives of
his men before we slaughter them in ambush.”
“Honour gets a lot of men killed these days,” Geberic muttered.
“Enough,” Brand declared sternly. “We must assume they will reach us soon. We need to take
positions.”
~~~~
Seven kingthanes were making their way through the forest. Their mood was easy with occasional
mirth expressed; heavily armoured and exceedingly skilled, they had little cause to fear anything that

340
might be encountered in these woods. Their blue surcoats with a golden dragon upon it, an emblem
recognised throughout the land, was another sign that they were not to be trifled with.
Several of them were laughing at a jest when their leader stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead of him
stood a tall, pale man, nearly young enough to be called a youth if not for the weary expression upon
his face; his clothing was common and dirty after sleeping on the ground for days, and he had merely
a leather tunic to protect his body in a fight. The only thing of note was the sword hanging by his belt
that held an emerald as its pommel jewel. “My lord kingthanes,” Brand greeted the speechless
warriors. “You come searching for me. Before you draw weapons, you should know that you are
surrounded by my men. We may resolve this peacefully, but if you force my hand, I will give the
command to see you all slain.”
Hiding behind the surrounding trees, his small band held their weapons ready. Most of them sweat
already from anxiety, and Geberic held a steadying hand on Matthew’s shoulder; only Glaukos wore a
grim expression, ready for battle. Nicholas and Quentin both pulled their bowstrings back, their arms
trembling from the effort. Regardless of how each man felt, surprise flooded their faces by seeing the
kingthanes kneel before Brand, all as one. “My lord,” spoke their leader, “it is true we have come
seeking you, but not to draw arms against you.”
“You have come to kneel,” Brand stated simply, his expression blank.
“I am Alaric,” continued the kingthane. “My brethren and I believe as our captain did that there is
but one atheling left in all of Adalmearc, and our oath compelled us to seek you out. We have come to
renew that oath, swearing fealty to the only one worthy of such vows.”
“Careful,” Geberic could not help but yell out, giving away his position. “It could be a trap!”
Disregarding the warning, Brand stepped forward to approach the kneeling kingthane and
stretched out his hand. Alaric took hold of it with his own hand, pressing both to his forehead. “I will
to my lord be true and faithful. Your life is my life, your blood is my blood. All my days, I shall serve
my lord until death may find me,” Alaric proclaimed. He hesitated for the briefest of moments before
continuing. “By eagle’s flight from raven’s cry, through falcon’s fall till dragon’s rise, this oath I
swear.” From the trees, Brand’s men stumbled forward, confounded and unable to look away.
His expression still indeterminate, Brand gazed down upon the kneeling thane. “By my table you
shall be seated,” he swore. “In life, you shall know reward. In death, you shall know honour. All my
days, I will hold this to be true.”
Alaric kissed the hand of his master and rose. “My brothers would swear the same oath,” he told
Brand, stepping aside. One by one, the words were repeated by each of the kingthanes. As they were
all done and no longer kneeling, they surrounded their new lord, exchanging nods. “We stand ready to
follow you, my lord,” Alaric declared.
“Good,” Brand replied. He turned to look east. “Heohlond awaits.” The small group, now double
in number, set into motion.
~~~~
The increase of people upset the marching order that hitherto had existed, further troubled by the
rough path they took through the forest. The kingthanes did their best to keep close to Brand, though
none could displace Glaukos, who was ever at his leader’s side. Eventually, the kingthanes settled for
spreading out along the small column.
“Milord,” Alaric asked, “may I enquire as to our destination?”
“Does it matter?” Geberic questioned him sharply.
“I am of most use when I know the days ahead,” the kingthane countered.
“We are going as far east as the highlands will allow us,” Brand replied.

341
 “Very good, milord,” Alaric responded. A moment later. “What awaits us in the highlands?
Friends or enemies?”
“My mother’s clan.”
“Our good captain is son of Deirdre of Clan Lachlann,” Geberic remarked loudly.
“In flight from father’s lands, our band of heroes sought mother’s kin,” Troy recited. “Needs
work,” he admitted.
A few of the kingthanes complimented him nonetheless, making Geberic grumble; he was
eventually forced back in the column, bringing up the rear with Matthew. “Keep a sharp eye on them,
lad,” he muttered. “Nothing but trouble.”
“They brought us food,” Matthew countered, chewing on half a loaf of bread and smiling as
crumbs dotted his face.
“When Hel comes, she’s in a beautiful dress,” Geberic mumbled.
“What?”
“Never you mind.”
“Why are you so bothered by them?” the boy asked. “If any Hawks try to find us, we got seven
kingthanes with us! They’ll chop them to pieces.”
“There are a lot more Hawks fighting for Vale than there are thanes on our side,” Geberic argued,
picking a few berries from a bush as they passed it. He put them in his mouth and chewed them with a
sour face.
“Seven kingthanes are better than none,” Matthew countered.
Geberic gave a sigh, spitting out the unripe berries. “It’s not that simple, boy. These kingthanes
may have done us a disservice.”
“How so?” frowned Matthew.
“You heard the oath they swore Lord Adalbrand, right?”
“Of course. What about it?”
“The thane’s oath,” Geberic explained. “I swore it myself to Jarl Theodoric many years ago. But
that last part, all that about eagles and ravens and other birds,” he continued haltingly.
“Yes, I didn’t understand that,” Matthew admitted.
“Me neither, but it’s not part of the thane’s oath. It’s something only the kingthanes swear when
pledging themselves to the service of the king,” Geberic elaborated. The boy by his side digested his
words silently. “These kingthanes didn’t just join us, they proclaimed Lord Adalbrand their choice of
atheling for the throne. We’re not mere outlaws anymore, boy, we’re rebels against the Crown. To
Vale and his ilk, we’re usurpers. Any chance of leniency is gone now. Enjoy that food, lad, you’ve
paid more for it than you know.”
Matthew stared at the blue backs of the kingthanes, chewing on the last pieces of his bread.

342
 56. Highland Hospitality
Southern Heohlond
In the following days, the travellers marched swiftly. There were no markers denoting the border
between Adalrik and Heohlond, but eventually, the group entered a village to barter for food; not
having to hunt or forage would speed them on their journey. While buying provisions with the silver
they could scrape together, the villagers confirmed that they had reached Clan Cameron’s territory;
they were in the highlands.
Some of the men breathed easier upon hearing this. The law of the Adalthing only ruled Adalrik,
and the might of its lord protector ended at the borders; should any be pursuing them into Heohlond,
they would be in breach of the law, not Brand and his followers. Others did not share this feeling of
relief; an enemy could still be hunted outside the confines of the law, someone pointed out.
At the end of the day’s march, when Glaukos took first watch, he was approached by Geberic.
“Can we talk?”
“We already seem to be,” Glaukos answered.
Geberic looked towards where Brand lay sleeping. “Does the captain seem strange to you?”
“He is leading us as always,” Glaukos spoke dismissively.
“True, but he hardly talks. He seems changed,” Geberic claimed with concern. “I remember him
when we crossed the Weolcans. We were in worse straits than now, I’d argue, but he never seemed
affected. Now, he’s not his usual self.”
“Geberic,” his companion spoke with patience, “you were at Polisals with me and the captain.”
“So?”
“We charged headlong into the enemy, completely surrounded. We should have died,” Glaukos
declared flatly. “By some divine miracle, we won the battle instead. The captain risked his life without
second thought to defeat the outlanders and free Hæthiod.”
“What’s your point?”
“After doing this, he comes home to his own people, and they try to chop his head off as a reward.
Of course the captain’s changed,” the heathman spoke brusquely. “I am only surprised he did not take
it worse.”
“Sure, I know that,” Geberic defended himself. “I just meant – gods, I’ve been taking orders from
him for a while now, and it feels natural. But sometimes I look at him and realise, he’s only some
twenty-odd years. Half my age, barely old enough to be a man.”
“Age has nothing to do with it,” Glaukos told him. “His fate made him a captain, same as ours
made us his defenders.”
“Fate,” Geberic snorted. “You believe that?”
“Some twelve years ago, I was a King’s Blade,” the Hæthian began to relate. “The king died on
my watch, and I spent a decade keeping order in a tavern, throwing drunks onto the street for a few

343
silvers a day. Out of nowhere, I became a Queen’s Blade. Finally, I could look people in the eyes
again.”
“Cured your blindness, did it?”
Glaukos ignored the remark. “When the outlanders took Tothmor, I stayed behind to cover my
queen’s escape. I should have been captured, but I evaded them. I fought their occupation for
months,” he continued his story, “until that went bad as well, and I should have been killed. Just as we
should both have died at Polisals.” He gave a shrug. “Fate has kept me alive and will do so until it is
my time to die. You live and you die as decreed by greater powers than us.”
Geberic stared at him. “That’s completely useless advice.”
“It was not advice,” Glaukos informed him, keeping watch of the surrounding darkness. “Think
what you want. I follow the captain because protecting him gives me purpose. I care not what your
reasons are.”
“I thought you went with us for the chance to kill outlanders,” Geberic remarked with a sly
expression.
“That as well. If you are going to sit here anyway, you can take the watch,” the heathman declared,
moving to lie down.
“Fine,” Geberic grumbled. He ended up spending more time looking at his companions than his
surroundings until one of the kingthanes relieved him of duty.
~~~~
They kept the same course with the Weolcans on their right. On occasion, they came across other
travellers or shipments of tin and stone from the mines and quarries by the mountains. Few engaged
with them; the sight of fourteen men, most of them in heavy armour, deterred others from
approaching. When they entered a village on occasion to trade for food, it always took a while to
convince the local residents that they intended to pay for the bartered goods; they usually ended up
showing and even handing over the silver before the villagers would accept that the band of warriors
came in good faith.
For two weeks, they marched since entering Heohlond. The further east they went, the more
desolate the land became, and settlements were rare to come across. At one point, a boy herding a
flock of goats watched their progression with curiosity, staring at their swords and surcoats.
“Matthew,” Brand called out, “go ask the boy if he knows of any villages nearby where we might
trade. Or at least any streams close by to fill our water skins.”
Eagerly, Matthew walked up to the boy, who was a few years younger. They exchanged a few
words; suddenly, Matthew drew his short sword, making the rest of the group exchange worried looks.
Quentin and Nicholas had already run forward when they saw Matthew give the sword to the
goatherd, who slashed it around in the air. Laughing, he gave it back to Matthew, who sheathed it and
gestured for the highlander boy to follow him.
“He says there’s water straight ahead if we walk for half an hour,” Matthew explained proudly.
“Thank you, Matthew,” Brand told him and turned his attention on the goatherd. “Where is your
village, young master? We have silver to buy food with.”
“Back that way.” The boy nodded in the direction they had come. “Ye must have walked too close
to the mountains, else ye’d have seen it.”
“Any settlements ahead of us?” Brand enquired. “Perhaps by the water you mentioned.”
“Nay,” the goatherd told them. “There’s Garmagh, of course, but naught but ghosts in that place.”
A start went through Brand. “How can we reach it?”
“Keep going. When ye hit the water, follow it north.”

344
 “Thanks, young master.” Brand inclined his head towards him as a gesture of gratitude. “We have
reached the lands of Clan Lachlann. Let us move onwards,” he spoke, directed at his followers.
Matthew waved and some of the men tussled the highlander boy’s hair before he returned to his goats.
“Do you expect to find anything in this abandoned village, milord?” asked one of the kingthanes.
“We might at least sleep under a roof,” another suggested.
“My mother lived in Garmagh,” Brand explained quietly, causing his men to fall silent. “I wish to
see the place, Sandar, that is all.”
“Of course, milord,” Sandar mumbled. The group continued east without speaking further.
~~~~
Approaching Garmagh, the goatherd’s tale seemed true; nothing but empty buildings greeted the
travellers. Some of them were burned to an extent, while others appeared derelict. The men walked
into the town square and glanced around.
“I’m guessing this was ravaged during the war,” Quentin contemplated.
“It must have been bad if nobody’s been tempted to move in since,” a kingthane considered.
“From what I heard, everyone was slaughtered,” Brand remarked.
“Unless that field worked itself, someone did move in,” Alaric interjected, pointing at a patch of
land that despite the frozen ground had painstakingly been tilled and prepared for seeding.
“That would be the owner,” Nicholas added, motioning towards a tall woman that stood between
two of the buildings.
Everyone’s attention immediately turned towards her; some kept their hands on their weapons, but
none drew steel. Brand took a step forward, gesturing for his men to remain calm. “Gods’ peace,” he
called out.
“Not much peace today,” the woman replied curtly. She looked to be in her early thirties with the
dark hair and pale skin typical of highlanders. In her hand, she held a bucket containing milk, which
she sat down on the ground. “What do you lot want?” Her other hand rested casually on the meat knife
in her belt.
“We would spend the night in some of the empty houses if it causes no trouble,” Brand explained.
“In truth, we only came this way to satisfy my curiosity.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “What in Hel’s name would make any curious to see this gods-
forsaken place?”
“My mother was Deirdre of Lachlann,” Brand explained, “and I believe she lived in this village.”
There was a brief silence as the woman chewed on her lower lip. “Deirdre was my cousin. I reckon
that makes us kin.”
“I reckon it does,” Brand confirmed with a vague smile. “I am Adalbrand, son of Arngrim.”
“My name’s Gwen,” she told him. “If ye want to stay, I don’t mind.” She glanced at the nearby
building, which was the only one showing signs of habitation. “I got some fish I was going to clean. I
don’t know how many mouths they’ll feed,” she considered.
“We have food of our own to share, and we can gather more,” Brand quickly suggested.
“Plenty of more fish in the brook,” Gwen offered. “There’s some fishing nets in the shed over
there.”
Brand turned to look over his shoulder, and Geberic nodded several times. “Yes, milord.” He
barked various orders, setting the men to task. Brand picked up the milk bucket and followed Gwen
into her home.
~~~~

345
The remainder of the day was spent searching for food, filling skins and buckets with water, and other
pursuits of similar nature. Despite their remote location, the kingthanes insisted on posting several
guards to maintain close watch over the whole village.
“Nervous lot,” Gwen remarked. Glaukos had built a fire inside her hut from her dwindling stock of
firewood, which she now used to cook her fish.
“They’ve had some bad luck in the past keeping people alive,” Geberic muttered. Along with
Brand, he, Glaukos, and Matthew were the only people inside Gwen’s home; the others were scattered
outside or in the other buildings.
“They are simply cautious,” Brand corrected his man-at-arms.
His sergeant, meanwhile, stared around the small hut curiously. On the wall hung a sword in its
scabbard, big enough to be wielded by two hands. “Is that yours?” he asked.
“It is,” Gwen declared. “It was my father’s, but I stole it one night.”
“What, really?” Matthew asked surprised. He sat on the floor, staring at Gwen.
She nodded. “My father owned most of the land surrounding this village. We lived in the big
house that sits to the right of here, the one that is mostly burned down.”
“Why did you steal the sword?”
“Matthew,” Geberic interjected with a stern voice, “mind your place.”
“I don’t mind,” Gwen told them, prodding the fish in the fire. “There was war, and I wanted to be
part of it. My father would have none of it, so I stole away in the dead of night, taking his sword with
me.”
“That’s incredible,” Matthew declared with an awed voice.
“Hardly. It meant I wasn’t here when the Order soldiers came.” Gwen’s voice grew cold. “I was
the only one fighting, and by some cruel twist of fate, everyone else died.”
“I am sorry,” Brand told her with genuine sympathy.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she replied flatly, turning away from the fire to face them. “Food is nearly
ready.”
“I’m starving,” Matthew exclaimed. Geberic cuffed him behind the ear.
“Take half and distribute it among those standing guard,” Brand instructed Matthew. “You will get
your portion afterwards.”
“Fine,” Matthew grumbled, earning him another slap on the head from Geberic. “Fine, sir,” he
corrected himself. He waited as Gwen cut up the fish into smaller bits, taking half of it and going
outside.
The others began to eat in silence. “I met your father,” Gwen spoke up, looking at Brand.
“When?”
“Some twenty years ago. He was still a squire, I think, in service to a knight. They were going to
Lochan. I can’t for the life of me remember who the knight was or why they were going there.”
“What was he like?” asked Brand.
“Handsome. I was just a small lass, he looked impressive to me with his big horse and armour,”
she revealed. “He and the knight continued to Lochan, but while his master was there, your father
came back to stay here in Garmagh until it was time for both of them to leave.”
“What happened afterwards?”
“He declared his intent to return and marry your mother. Nobody said a thing until he was out of
earshot, but everyone laughed as soon as he was gone.” Gwen smiled to herself for a brief moment.
“Deirdre didn’t, of course. She didn’t say a thing. A year later, he returned, now with golden spurs.
They were married by a whiterobe at Lochan soon after, as I remember it.”
“Thank you,” Brand told her earnestly.

346
 “It’s nothing,” she mumbled. “There’s still some fish left.”
Outside, Matthew made a round distributing the cooked food. “Thanks,” Sandar told him, eating it
quickly while Matthew continued. Looking around, the kingthane located Alaric and approached him.
“You are not at your post,” the other thane informed him.
“I doubt we’re in danger from anything but ghosts, and my sword won’t do much against them,”
Sandar replied calmly. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Get on with it, then.”
“Are we in the right place?”
Alaric glanced around. “We cover every entrance to the square. I’d say so.”
“No,” Sandar replied irritated, “being here with Lord Adalbrand. This place is so remote, even
crows would think it’s a bit much. What are we doing here?”
“Following our lord,” Alaric told him placidly.
“But where to, for what purpose?” Sandar asked with frustration. “If he wants to hide in Heohlond,
he doesn’t need seven kingthanes to protect him. In fact, we’re just drawing attention.”
Alaric took a deep breath. “We broke an oath to come here, Sandar.”
“I know that.”
“Only our new oath can remove that stain from our honour.”
“I guess so.”
“If Lord Adalbrand wishes to live out his life in some deserted village in Heohlond, I’ll stay by his
side and make sure he gets to do that,” Alaric declared.
“That’s a long time doing nothing,” Sandar objected.
“It is keeping my oath to a man who is worthy of my oath,” Alaric retorted. “Prince Hardmar is a
scoundrel and a villain, to put it mildly. If doing nothing is the worst thing that Lord Adalbrand asks
of me, I will count myself lucky to have exchanged Hardling for Arnling.”
“Fine,” Sandar relented.
“Get back to your post.”
~~~~
The men woke the next morning to the rhythmic sound of an axe splitting wood. Those who had slept
on the floor in Gwen’s home noticed that their leader was missing. Going outside, they saw the
archers and Troy emerge from another building along with some of the kingthanes. A few of the latter,
those who had kept last watch, were staring with almost pained expression at Brand wielding an axe,
chopping firewood.
“Really, milord, it would be no trouble for us,” one of them offered.
“My kin,” Brand replied between axe strokes. “My duty to repay the hospitality.” Another stroke.
“The custom of the highlands.”
“Let our lord do as he wishes,” Alaric told his brethren. A few them shrugged and returned to their
sleeping quarters to get properly dressed.
As Brand finished, he saw Gwen staring at him. “I noticed you had little fuel left,” he told her,
putting the axe aside to gather up a bundle of logs.
“I wasn’t expecting anything,” she told him, picking up a handful of firewood herself.
“You were an excellent host,” Brand smiled faintly. “You deserve good guests.”
“I didn’t do much,” she protested as they walked inside and stacked the firewood by her fireplace.
“Never underestimate small kindnesses,” he remarked, returning outside. His men were chewing
on what remained of last night’s supper turned into breakfast. “Can you tell us the route to Lochan?”

347
 “Follow the stream north,” Gwen advised. “You’ll reach a bridge and the road that goes east to
Lochan.”
“My thanks.” Outside, Brand’s men gathered to depart. “Farewell, Gwen of Lachlann.”
“Fare you well, cousin.”
~~~~
An hour north of Garmagh, they reached the aforementioned bridge. Crossing the stream, they set on
the path towards Lochan, seat of Clan Lachlann. Keeping to the dirt road, they began to encounter
more traffic, mostly farmers and peddlers. Seeing a small company of armed men, other travellers
were rarely inclined to strike up conversation, but Brand’s men made up for that by conversing freely
with each other. It was a pleasant day, and all had slept well, undisturbed by the ghosts of Garmagh.
As the shadows grew long, Lochan began to rise in the horizon. Even for the highlands, it was
small, a town rather than a city. It had wooden palisades for walls instead of stone and no castle or
keep; there was only a long hall in the centre, rising above the huts and houses surrounding it. Nearby
lay the small lake for which the town was named.
The band increased their pace, hurrying to reach the settlement before nightfall. As they
approached the gate, a guard called out to them. “Halt a moment! Who are ye?”
“We are but travellers,” Alaric replied brusquely. “Are we forbidden entrance?”
“Nay, but most travellers journey with goods or wares to trade. Ye come only with swords,
making me think that’s yer only trade.”
Brand took a step forward. “I am Adalbrand, son of Deirdre of Lachlann,” he spoke in a loud
voice. “I seek the hospitality of my kindred.”
The guard could be seen briefly consulting with his companion. “Very well,” he finally spoke,
“but we’re peaceful folk. Any of ye break our peace, kinship won’t see you safe.”
“Consider us warned.” Brand inclined his head in recognition and motioned for his men to follow
him.
Entering the town, they drew stares from all sides. Mothers pulled their children aside and men
sent them lingering glances, filled with suspicion. Few of them bore swords or weapons, though, and
Brand’s retinue seemed untroubled by the local sentiments. As for Brand himself, he set a brisk pace
and kept his eyes on the hall at the end of the main road.
Although fashioned from wood and not stone, the building left no doubt that it was the seat of a
nobleman and his family. Its front door was large enough to be called a gate and stood open; servants
and people tending to affairs could be seen entering and leaving in steady numbers. All quickly moved
aside as Brand walked up the few steps, accompanied by eleven stern warriors, a boy glancing around,
and one bard clutching a lute.
“Inform your master that Adalbrand of House Arnling seeks an audience,” Brand told a servant,
who swallowed and hurried away.
“No guards,” Glaukos muttered. “Trusting people.”
“Just wait until they meet you,” Geberic remarked.
After a short while, a servant dressed in finer clothes appeared. “Milord,” he addressed Brand, “I
am the steward of this house. My master bids you welcome into the hall. He commands that you only
bring two of your attendants with you.”
“Only two?” Alaric bristled.
Brand raised a hand to silence his thane, looking over his shoulder. “Glaukos, Alaric, with me.
Geberic, keep them out of trouble.” He turned towards the steward. “Lead the way, good master.”

348
 Moving from the parlour down corridors, they soon entered the main hall itself. It was elongated in
shape and had a long table in its middle with benches around. At both ends were hearths, though
neither were lit at the moment; the table end farthest from the main entrance had high-backed chairs
rather than benches. The hall was not empty; apart from a few servants, several armed men stood
scattered throughout the room, and more continued to arrive. By the chairs stood a man in his late
fifties, slender and well dressed. “This is Lord Ciarán, the ri tuaithe of our people,” the steward
presented him.
“Welcome to my hall,” Ciarán spoke. “If you come in peace, you shall know peace in the lands of
Lachlann.”
Brand gave a bow. “You have my gratitude, Lord Ciarán. I am Adalbrand of House Arnling, and I
have come seeking your hospitality.”
“Your name is known to us, even in this part of the high lands,” the lord revealed. “Yet it is your
mother’s name you have come to invoke, I would assume.”
“It is, my lord.” Brand nodded in acknowledgement. “My mother was Deirdre of Lachlann, born in
this very hall if memory serves me right.”
“It does.” Ciarán nodded himself. “Her first years were spent here until she followed her father to
your family’s lands to the west. While she bore no direct relation to me, she was of this túath. None
will deny this.”
“I am glad, my lord.” Brand hesitated. “I find myself in need of aid, and so I turn to bonds of
blood.”
“Given the stories we have heard, I can only imagine what has driven you to the edge of the Seven
Realms,” Ciarán remarked. “I would tell you to seek your family’s lands within our túath, but you will
find little help there, alas.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Brand assented.
Ciarán took a deep breath. “Let it not be said that Lachlann turns away its own. You shall have a
place to sleep under my roof tonight, Adalbrand of House Arnling, as shall your men.”
Brand gave a deep bow. “My deepest gratitude, my lord.”
The lord of the clan waved his hand dismissively. “No gratitude is needed to fulfil the obligations
of kinship. You and your followers may seek out rest, and tomorrow you can tell the tale that brought
the Dragonheart to Lochan.”
Brand gave another bow and retired with his protectors; the nobleman and his warriors watched
them leave, every step of the way.

349
 57. Arn Alone Sword Hilt Held
Lochan
At breakfast the next morning, space at the table had been cleared for the many guests. Brand was
placed near one end, by Ciarán’s right hand at the seat of honour, while his men were dispersed along
the sides. Opposite Brand sat a whiterobe while the sons and daughters of Ciarán took the remaining
nearby seats.
“You must bring a tale worth telling with you, Lord Adalbrand,” the lord spoke as the worst of
hunger had been sated. “Now that rest and nourishment has been provided, I hope you feel prepared to
share what has brought you to Lochan.”
Many eyes turned towards Brand expectantly, who inclined his head. “A small price to pay for the
kindness shown to me and my men. It all started upon my return to Middanhal in early spring,” he
began to relate.
“This porridge could use some salt,” Sandar remarked, poking his portion with a spoon.
“Ever the malcontent,” another thane mentioned.
“Don’t take it to heart,” Sandar replied with a disarming smile. “In fact, after weeks on the road,
this place is like a palace to me. The captain was right to bring us here.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Alaric told him.
“Why not?”
“I doubt they’ll be happy feeding another fourteen mouths unless we do something in return. Since
they have no need of warriors that I can see,” Alaric explained, “I imagine we’ll politely be asked to
leave one of these days.”
“I’ll enjoy it while it lasts, in that case,” Sandar declared, shovelling porridge into his mouth.
“I’ve been in lots of battles,” Matthew stated proudly. Around him sat a few boys and girls his
own age or younger. “We won all of them because my lord is the best captain there is.”
“Don’t outgrow your breeches just yet,” Geberic warned him. “I don’t recall you ever swinging
that sword in a fight.”
“Of course I have,” the sergeant protested with a grimace.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” asked one of the children, staring with wide eyes.
“No,” Matthew muttered, making Geberic laugh.
“Eat your meal, boy, and put some flesh on those bones.”
“I’ve not seen a decent bow since we got here,” Quentin mentioned while glancing around with
suspicion in his eyes.
Nicholas sent him an odd look. “So?”
“It’s a bad sign,” his friend claimed. “These people don’t respect archery.”
Nicholas could not help but laugh. “How do you figure? Because you haven’t seen any bows?”

350
 Quentin nodded towards the rest of the table. They were seated at the end opposite the lord of the
house. “They put all the blade boys further up the table than us. Even the bloody bard sits better than
us.”
“I think,” Nicholas remarked mildly, “that has more to do with you taking ages to wake up in the
morning, and me being kind enough to wait for you.”
“I don’t like it,” Quentin declared, glancing around again. “It’s not natural.”
“A harrowing tale, Lord Adalbrand,” Ciarán spoke. “It is disheartening to hear how dishonourable
behaviour corrupts the holy city. We are fortunate to be far removed from such, enjoying the peace of
our own lands,” he added with a strict look towards his sons.
“Hammer and quill! It boils my blood to hear of such injustice,” the whiterobe at the table declared
in a loud voice. “Even the best of laws do not suffice when broken by those charged to uphold them.
By Hamaring, I find it intolerable!” He emphasised his exclamation by slamming his hand into the
table, causing bowls and cups to jump around.
“Yes, thank you, Brother Caradoc,” the lord spoke, wiping errant porridge from his cup. “Your
enthusiasm for justice is admired by all.”
“Can nothing be done?” the whiterobe asked of Brand.
“As you said, those meant to uphold the law are those guilty. Short of marching an army to the
steps of the Citadel, I do not foresee the situation changing,” the young nobleman replied with regret.
“There is already war in Adalrik,” Ciarán quickly interjected. “We should not wish for matters to
escalate. Especially not if it might spill into the high lands. War is all too recent a memory for us.”
“War is like the tide,” the whiterobe growled. “It is only a matter of time before it returns.”
“That may be true for Adalrik or even the other tuatha,” Ciarán spoke curtly, “but while I am ri
tuaithe of this place, Lachlann will not make one move to seek battle.”
“We all wish for peace to return,” Brand claimed. “My own sister remains in Middanhal. For her
sake if nothing else, I pray for an end to war.”
“Perhaps if you settled here, she should join you,” Ciarán suggested. “In fact, I gave it some
thought last night.”
“What are your thoughts, my lord?”
“Many farms lie deserted in the high lands after the war,” the nobleman explained. “That includes
your family lands. They are not extensive, but with work and plough, grain will grow. I would be
happy to lend you seed, oxen, lumber, and what else you might need, even hands to help build your
hall.”
“That is a most generous offer, Lord Ciarán,” Brand admitted.
The nobleman shook his head lightly. “The land is yours by right, and the whole túath will benefit
if you put it under plough. Famine is always a threat if the harvest is not good. We need more fields
growing food for us. Not to mention,” he added with a wry smile, “our neighbours will be less
inclined to trespass, knowing you and your men hold Garmagh.”
“I had not considered this,” Brand confessed. “In truth, I thought any land that ever belonged to
my mother’s family would long have been lost.”
“Many villages are empty. Even in Lochan, houses become derelict,” Ciarán related. “For this
reason, I would not hesitate to offer your gallóglaigh a place in the túath,” he added, nodding towards
Brand’s men. “Blood of the high lands means less than a willing heart in this case.”
“I am grateful,” Brand told him. “I will give your suggestion due deliberation.”
“Do that,” Ciarán nodded. “Until then, you remain as my guests. You are welcome in Lochan.”
~~~~

351
After breakfast, the drakonians and heathmen split into smaller groups, each having its own purpose.
Some went to investigate Lochan and locate its taverns or handle minor errands. Nicholas and Quentin
found bored guards or townspeople to make bets with concerning feats of archery, while Matthew
explored outside the city in company with the lord’s youngest son. Glaukos and Alaric stayed by
Brand’s side, following their captain wherever he went.
“Have either of you ever been to Heohlond before?” Brand asked them.
“No,” Glaukos simply answered.
“I never left Adalrik,” Alaric admitted.
“There is little to impress men accustomed to Middanhal or even Tothmor,” Brand considered.
“But the place is orderly and not crowded,” he added, glancing around as they walked down the street.
“Given how remote we are from the rest of Adalmearc, I imagine life is peaceful here.”
“How are your boots, milord? Anything to cobble?” a hawker called out. Glaukos sent him a
menacing look until the cobbler shied away.
“It is rather quaint,” Alaric remarked. “There doesn’t even seem to be a marketplace, merely
peddlers lining the streets or the occasional workshop. There will probably be many things we can’t
necessarily get here. I doubt they have a decent armourer or blade smith.”
“We will certainly have a hard time getting our boots cobbled while Glaukos is with us,” Brand
mused.
“He came too close,” Glaukos growled.
At the centre of town, the trio reached a building larger than its neighbours; unlike them, this one
was built of stone. Its great doors wore intricate carvings, and the arched doorway was similarly
ornamented. “Hamaring’s temple,” Alaric observed.
Brand entered the altar room, making his protectors do the same. A whiterobe wearing the
garments of an acolyte was sweeping the floor. “Oh, milords,” he exclaimed. “I did not expect…” He
did not manage to finish the sentence.
Brand’s eyes strolled past him to take in the sights of the hall itself. “Regardless of your
expectations, you may be at ease. We require nothing. I simply came to see the temple.” The stone
walls were bare, which along with the open doors made the room cold; on the other hand, any kind of
tapestries or carpets would have obscured the countless carvings etched everywhere. Floor, roof,
walls, every inch was covered in depictions of countless scenes etched into the stone.
“This is breath-taking,” Glaukos stated.
Alaric bent down to let his finger follow a warrior, whose full size was about a grown man’s arm.
He was clad in magnificent armour, leading a valiant fight against numerous, less detailed foes. “The
legendary King Caradoc, my namesake,” a voice boomed.
Alaric leapt to his feet and Glaukos turned on his heel to face the entrance; Brand, already facing
it, nodded in greeting. “Brother Caradoc. We were admiring your temple.”
The whiterobe, who had broken fast with them at the hall, walked inside. He pushed the sleeves of
his robe up, revealing strong, hairy arms underneath and the fact that he seemed to wear little else
underneath his religious garments. “Hammer and quill! Always so warm in this room,” he grumbled,
turning his attention to the visitors. “I am pleased these little carvings made by my brothers caught
your fancy,” he added with a grin.
“It must have taken decades,” Alaric considered.
“Centuries,” Caradoc corrected him. “The temple has a book detailing the life of each priest in this
temple and what additions he made. According to the book, the first stone was laid in the year seven
hundred and twenty-two,” the priest elaborated, “and the first carvings were begun three years later.”
“Those are impressive records,” Glaukos granted.

352
 “Every temple of Hamaring has one. Knowledge is strength,” the whiterobe replied, reciting an
adage of his order. “What use is a bear without strength?”
“Still good for a fur coat,” Brand remarked casually.
Caradoc stared at him for a moment. “Hah! I’ll remember that one.” He gestured towards the altar.
“I am guessing you came to see where your parents were wed?”
Brand had been glancing idly at the etchings, but he whipped his head to stare at the whiterobe.
“Pardon me?”
Caradoc nodded towards the altar, upon which stood a great bear on its hind legs, raising its paws.
“This is where your father and mother married. I wed them myself some twenty-odd years ago.”
The confusion cleared from Brand’s face. “Of course. I had been told as much, yet somehow did
not connect the pieces.”
“I’ve tied a lot of young folks in my time, but an atheling of Sigvard,” Caradoc grinned, “that one
sticks to your memory.”
“It is a beautiful place for a wedding, be it for nobility or commoners,” Brand remarked.
“Aye,” Caradoc nodded. “Who knows,” he continued with a twinkle in his eye, “if you accept
Lord Ciarán’s offer, you might stand where your father once stood.”
“Perhaps,” Brand replied politely. He inclined his head in farewell and turned, leaving the temple.
“Quite a character,” Alaric said once they were outside.
“Whiterobes tend to be,” Brand added.
“I killed several of them in Tothmor,” Glaukos remarked, making both of his companions stop to
look at him. “They were plotting against the queen. We gave them the chance to surrender.”
“I wonder what the records at the temple in Tothmor show,” Brand considered dryly. They
resumed walking.
“I was wondering, milord,” Alaric began hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“Are you considering Lord Ciarán’s offer?”
Brand smiled. “Are you worried that I will make a farmer of you, Alaric?”
“I suppose my hands can wield a plough as well as a blade,” the thane considered. “I have no
concerns, milord, I follow the course you set. I only wish to know because I expect the men will be
asking me sooner or later.”
“Tell them to be patient. The course will be set in time,” Brand replied. “In any case, I consider it
too soon.”
“For what, milord?”
“For waging campaigns or sowing fields. The thaw has yet to come.”
~~~~
A few days passed for the drakonian exiles in Lochan. Lacking any purpose, the men sought one
where they could. Glaukos and the kingthanes sparred with each other and the lord’s gallóglaigh. As
for Geberic, sometimes in company with Nicholas and Quentin when they were not busy impressing
the locals with displays of archery, he made a virtue of learning the location of each tavern in town,
comparing their prices, beverages, and the temper of both patrons and staff.
“We’ll skip this one,” Geberic muttered to himself, followed by the heathmen. They had left their
bows and arrows at home and seemed uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong with this one?” protested Nicholas as Geberic led them down the small, winding
streets of Lochan.

353
 “I strongly suspect they skimp on the malt when brewing,” he responded. “Ah, this one. Full mug
for three coppers.”
“I’ll drink anything that’s wet at this point,” Quentin grumbled.
The three men entered a small establishment that was little more than a big room with tables and
chairs. A few barrels stood against the wall next to shelves filled with tankards. Along with
disinterested glances from the men already drinking, they were met with the sound of a lute playing.
“Huh, I didn’t expect that,” Geberic admitted.
“This can’t be a reputable place if they let Troy ply his trade,” snorted Quentin.
A woman appeared from the back room, putting clean cups onto the shelves. “What’ll be for ye,
good masters?” asked the brewster, looking at the newly arrived.
“Three ales,” Geberic told her, and they sat down at an empty table to listen to Troy playing.
“Nobody’s talking, and it ain’t because they don’t like strangers,” Quentin remarked with a
suspicious glance. The other patrons were all listening to Troy intently.
“I’ve never been to a tavern where nobody talked,” Nicholas considered.
The brewster placed three cups on their table and took a round through the others, grabbing and
refilling as needed. Geberic seized the tankard in front of him and took a heavy sip. “That hits the
spot,” he uttered with satisfaction.
Troy finished his song and received applause from the locals. Slightly confused, Nicholas clapped
along. “They seem to genuinely like it,” he said perplexed.
The bard bowed before his audience. “A short break before I’ll do another, if it pleases the
people,” he spoke with mirth and was met by roars of agreement. As general conversation began
across the room, Troy moved over to his friends. “Fancy seeing you lot here,” he smiled.
“These people seem quite happy with your tune,” Geberic told him.
Troy was beaming. “They do, don’t they? This town is incredible. In Hæthiod, you’re lucky to be
allowed indoors at any public house, and they’ll watch you like a hawk, thinking you’re a thief. Here,
these stone faces crack into wide smiles and they listen happily.”
“The highlanders have a reputation for music,” Geberic nodded. “Best bard I ever heard at
Cragstan came from the other side of the border.”
The owner of the establishment placed a cup overflowing with drink on the table in front of Troy.
“If you’re going to sing, best you bathe your tongue in beer, my dear father always told me,” she
laughed before returning to her duties.
“Much obliged,” Troy grinned, tasting his drink. “Good,” he acknowledged. “They didn’t spare
the malt on this one.” Geberic’s eyes darted from his own cup to Troy’s with suspicion creeping into
his expression.
“What song were you playing, anyway?” asked Nicholas.
“Arn of Old,” Troy replied. “The captain suggested I tried my luck with it, and he was right. It’s
been well received every place I’ve been.”
“The captain suggested that one? It sounds like he might be getting a little lost in the past,”
Quentin scoffed. Nicholas looked at him without understanding, prompting him to continue. “Arn of
Old? The captain is an Arnling.”
“Right, right. I never thought about that,” Nicholas admitted.
“I think,” Troy interjected, “the captain suggested it because it has a whole army of highlanders
marching to Arn’s rescue, fighting for him in Adalrik.”
“Yeah, that one is always popular in the highlands. I didn’t realise you knew the story,” Geberic
said to Troy.

354
 The minstrel sent him an offended look. “I just sang the song,” he retorted with a scowl, “of course
I know the story!”
“I didn’t think you bards listened to yourselves when you sang,” the man-at-arms explained with a
shrug. “Only explanation for how some of you sound.”
Troy grabbed his beer and emptied it. “I’m not the one paying for my drink in here,” he replied
smugly. “Now if you will excuse me,” he continued, standing up and grabbing his instrument, “I have
work to do, which unlike yours doesn’t involve maiming people, but leaves them happier than
before.”
The others watched him return to the middle of the room, strumming his lute. “That description
would also fit a few women I know,” Geberic remarked casually, and his companions burst out in
laughter.
~~~~
Some days after his arrival in Lochan, Brand was walking the entire circumference of the palisade
walls with two thanes at his back as usual. The young captain stopped on occasion to inspect a certain
area, asking questions of the few guards on post before continuing.
“Strange that Lord Ciarán or his forbears have not considered stone walls,” Brand mused. “There
must be quarries nearby that could supply the material.”
“Maybe they don’t feel it’s necessary,” one of the thanes suggested. “If I recall, Lochan
surrendered without fighting to the Order during the war rather than resist.”
“That would explain why the town was spared,” Brand considered, walking at a leisurely pace.
“Milord!” Another thane came running along the wall from the direction of the hall.
“What is it, Sandar?” asked Brand with a frown.
“Some travellers brought news,” the warrior replied, catching his breath. “They say there was a
battle in Adalrik, or a skirmish of some sort.”
“What happened?”
“The Hawks fought Isarn and lost. Not only that, but they killed Prince Hardmar!”
The other thanes looked at each other in amazement. “I can’t believe it,” one of them remarked.
“We made the right choice being here and not there.”
“I’m glad that little –” Sandar caught himself, glancing at Brand.
The latter was staring out from the palisade onto the open fields that surrounded Lochan. He took a
deep breath. “As sure a sign as any,” Brand muttered before turning to face his men. “Gather the
others. We need to make our preparations.”
~~~~
The rest of the day, the drakonians were busy. Troy went from tavern to tavern, playing the same few
songs as instructed by Brand. His thanes sought out the gallóglaigh in Lord Ciarán’s hall, measuring
their thoughts and intents, while Geberic was sent into town. As the latter returned to his master, he
found Brand in conversation with Doran, eldest son and heir to Ciarán. The man-at-arms waited at a
respectful distance until he saw the noblemen part.
“Geberic,” Brand called out for him to approach.
“Any luck, milord?” Geberic nodded in the direction that Doran had left.
“I think so. He is young. Close to my age,” Brand added with a smile. “And he is eager to see
more of the world than this corner of the realms. I dare say others think the same.”
“Did you ask him?”

355
 Brand shook his head. “I thought it best to remain discreet. There is a good head on his shoulders –
no need to point anything out to him.”
“As you say, milord.”
“Did you see the whiterobe?”
“Aye, milord. He was only too happy to talk of the war,” Geberic explained. “He feels slighted by
the Order, I’d say, and Middanhal. Feelings run cold towards drakonians and Adalrik among him and
his flock.”
Brand nodded. “I thought as much. Good. We should be ready for tonight.”
~~~~
That evening, the topic of every conversation was the death of the crown prince. Some of the
highlanders found it exciting news; others saw it as tragic tidings. None were gripped with outright
sorrow; they were not drakonians, and in Lochan, they felt far removed from Adalrik.
“I say fair riddance to him!” exclaimed Brother Caradoc. “It’s clear this prince held little regard
for the rule of law.”
“He should have stayed out of battle if it was too much for him,” declared the eldest son of Ciarán
casually.
“Mind yourself, Doran,” his father chastised him. “Until you have proven yourself in battle, you
should not speak of it.”
“When will that be, Father?” the young man complained, grabbing his cup of ale to drown his
disappointment.
“Never, if I have my way,” Ciarán told him with a stern look. “What say you to this news, Lord
Adalbrand? Do you rejoice in the death of your enemy or mourn the fall of a kinsman?”
“I would say the good prince and I were too far removed for any bonds of blood to matter.
Certainly it did not matter to him when he shouted for my head to leave my shoulders,” Brand
considered. “I will grant that the knowledge of his demise sowed thoughts in my mind with decisions
to reap. But before I speak further, I have a small request.”
“Speak it,” Ciarán told him graciously.
“I have in my company a bard. As I know the value placed on song in the highlands, I would let
him perform his skill for your court tonight, Lord Ciarán,” Brand offered.
“A fine proposal,” the lord spoke, and the others assented loudly. “Let him play!”
The command was sent down the table to Troy, who grabbed his lute, stood up, and bowed before
the local lord. “In recognition of the valiant nature inherent in the highlanders, I wish to perform Arn
of Old.” Applause and cheers rose in response. Troy took another bow in recognition, smiling, and
began playing.
“Heed my harrowed tale of pain, hale and hallowed king felled,” Troy sang. “Adalrik and
athelings slain, Arn alone sword hilt held.”
The highlanders sat or stood in rapture, whether they were nobility, gallóglaigh, or servants.
Barely a breath could be heard; none spoke or touched cups, knives, or food to cause the least sound.
They listened in terror as King Sigtrygg and his second son was slain in foul ambush, followed up by
the jarl of Vale usurping the throne, executing the king’s heir. Their hearts soared upon hearing how
Arn brought an army of highlanders from Heohlond, coming to the aid of the northern jarls and
rallying them to his cause. Exuberance filled the room as the song came to an end with Arn taking his
rightful place upon the Dragon Throne and a highlander queen by his side.
As the audience clapped and voiced their appreciation, Troy took his seat after a final bow. Brand,
on the other hand, rose to stand. “I have been well received by the túath of Lachlann,” he began to

356
speak, receiving murmurs of approval. “Heohlond is where my mother was born, and I do not doubt
that a long and happy life could be mine in this land.” He paused. “Yet Heohlond is also where my
father died, fighting injustice. Though it cost him his life, he fought those who would oppress their
brethren. Like Arngrim before me, I feel compelled to fight.” He stressed the last word, and his voice
rose in strength as he continued. “Like Arn before me, I will leave the highlands with every warrior
willing to take up arms against usurpers, kin slayers, and oath breakers!” His gaze swept over the
assembly. “I make no demands, no requests. Peace is the right of every man, and I ask of none to
follow me. If need be, my sword shall fight solely on the field.”
All of his men leapt up, some with slower comprehension than others. “I am with you, captain!”
“I’ll follow you!”
“To death, theirs or ours!”
This spurred a number of the highlanders to do the same, including Ciarán’s eldest son. As the hall
broke out in clamours of war, only the lord remained seated, sighing in defeat.
~~~~
The following morning, the local priest of Hamaring stood outside his temple. He wore a chain shirt
under his white robe and a war hammer in one hand, a sack of supplies in the other. With him stood a
woman his own age and his young acolyte.
“Be good to your mom while I’m away, boy,” Caradoc instructed him, holding him around the
neck affectionately.
“I will, Father,” the acolyte promised.
“There’s a good lad. Mind the temple as best you can,” the priest added.
“You mind you come back in one piece, Caradoc Whitesark,” the woman impressed upon him.
“I’d never dare otherwise,” the whiterobe mumbled with a smile. “I fear you more than the
Hammerhand.”
“This is no time for acting merry,” she scolded him, but the sting of her words was softened when
she sniffed and had to wipe her eyes.
“Come, come, wife,” Caradoc chastised her gently. “They didn’t get me the last time, and they
won’t this time either.” He placed a kiss on her lips. “You’ll see me again before you know it.”
A procession of warriors was leaving the hall down the main street, headed for the gate in the other
end of town. Caradoc marched over to join it, only turning back once to wave to his family.
“Brother Caradoc,” Brand greeted him with a nod.
“Lord Adalbrand,” the whiterobe replied. “Lord Doran,” he added upon seeing Ciarán’s eldest son
among Brand’s thanes.
“I did not know you had a mind for war,” the young nobleman mentioned.
“Hah! I’ve crushed more skulls with this hammer than you’ve plucked flowers,” the whiterobe
declared.
“I have never plucked a flower in my life,” Doran pointed out a tad offended.
“By that count, I’m right,” Caradoc laughed, as did most others within earshot. “Besides, the
honour of the high lands is at stake! Arngrim of House Arnling was the first decent drakonian I ever
met in my life, and I’m proud to march next to his son.”
“Brother Caradoc,” Brand spoke with a light tone, “you are welcome in our company.”
The band, more than three times the number that had followed Brand to Lochan, marched along
the only cobbled road in the lands of Lachlann. It led west, connecting their seat with that of the
neighbouring clan and the rest of Heohlond; on occasion, dirt roads spread out like legs on a
caterpillar, reaching villages and the tin mines in the south by the mountains.

357
 When afternoon came, it was time for another rest. Some of them dug out what provisions they
had brought, sharing them; a few went foraging or hunting, promising to catch up later in the day or
tomorrow if need be. Meanwhile, Brand held a small counsel with Geberic, Glaukos, and Alaric.
“Find out if any have relatives or relations in other towns and clans,” Brand instructed them. “We
need to spread the word, especially in the north. It is doubtful whether any from Clan Cameron will
come, but the northern clans suffered most in the last war.”
“They’ll be eager for revenge,” Geberic agreed. “Should we send official messages to the other
lords? Lord Ciarán may have rooted feet, but that doesn’t have to be the case for others.”
Brand shook his head. “I do not wish to be seen encouraging the highland lords to attack Adalrik.”
“Without proper support, we will run into trouble,” Alaric cautioned him. “We have few
provisions, and harvest is still months away.”
“True,” Brand granted, “but I have no qualms about approaching the lords of Adalrik. As long as
we can manage until we cross the border.”
“My lord,” Glaukos spoke up, gesturing to direct Brand’s attention.
A woman approached the men; unusually, she wore a great sword by the hip. The blade was so
long compared to her own height, she had to hold the sword hilt pushed forward to keep the tip of the
scabbard from scraping against the ground.
“Gwen,” Brand greeted her with a smile. “I did not expect this.”
“One of your men passed by Garmagh earlier today,” she explained. “He told me you were
returning to Adalrik. To war.”
“I am.”
“I’m coming with you,” she declared.
“I would have thought you had seen your share of war,” Brand admitted.
“Living with only ghosts for company gets tedious,” Gwen admitted. “Besides, you cut firewood
for me,” she continued haltingly, glancing away. “I reckon we’re kin, and this is where I should be.”
Brand smiled. “I reckon it is.” He glanced at the small gathering of warriors. “We continue,” he
commanded. “Adalrik awaits us.”

358
 58. Hand, Head, and Heart
Ardbeann
Most of the religious orders in Adalmearc had their largest temple in a major city; the Order of the
Bear was one of two exceptions. Originally, their temple in Cairn Donn had served as headquarters,
but three centuries ago, the whiterobes had built a monastery south of the city upon a plateau in the
Weolcan Mountains. Refusing to use any labour other than their own members, the priests had spent
decades hauling stones up the mountain paths to their chosen location; similarly, only brothers of the
Bear had been used to hew the stones into place and construct the actual tower.
The conclusion had been an architectural feat to rival any done by the guild of engineers in
Fontaine, as the finished tower stood precisely two hundred feet. The reason for its location and height
was simple; here, the whiterobes could make unparalleled observations of the night sky, mapping the
stars and ensuring the calendar of Adalmearc followed their celestial dance. It was in this tower that
Caradoc Whitesark had been educated as an acolyte in his youth, and three decades later, he made his
return.
He made the last stretch of the journey in company with a convoy of donkeys and their driver
transporting food to the temple. The cortege moved up the long, winding paths along the
mountainside; passing around a bend and reaching the plateau, they found the massive tower looming
above them. While continuing his casual chat with the driver, Caradoc gave a hand in unloading the
goods from the beasts; several whiterobes issued from the tower to perform the same task, and they
greeted Caradoc heartily.
“What’s your name and home, Brother, and what brings you here?” one asked.
“Caradoc from the temple at Lochan,” he replied, shaking a few hands. “I need to speak to Brother
Conall. If the old wolf is still alive,” he added with a laugh.
“He is, and age might have dulled some of his fangs, but not his wits,” another jested. “You’ll find
him at his tell-craft.”
“Much obliged,” Caradoc told them and ventured inside.
~~~~
Although built like a tower stretching upward, the temple of Ardbeann was wide enough to
accommodate hundreds of people, not to mention the wide range of exploits pursued by the
whiterobes. At the lowest levels were the kitchens, butchery, and living quarters; passing through
them, Caradoc greeted familiar and new faces alike before reaching the staircase to ascend upwards.
Next came the workshops. One floor held those found in any city, where whiterobes with the right
skill served as tailors, cobblers, parchment-makers, leatherworkers, and so forth. The floor above was
where inquisitive minds tinkered with metal, wood, fabric, and leather, creating many ingenious
contraptions and ever improving upon them. The finest clocks in all of Adalmearc were made here,
and the sale of these devices provided a stable income for the whiterobes. Since it was necessary to

359
have the foundry, smithy, and tannery outside on the plateau, these floors had large windows with
rope systems on the outer wall, allowing for material and items to be quickly transported up or down;
it was common among the novices and acolytes to use this transportation device for mischief, and
more than one aspiring whiterobe had cracked his head on the ground below.
Before proceeding further, Caradoc paused at a fountain to quench his thirst. An array of pipes
collected meltwater from the mountain and funnelled it into the tower; with clever use of the pressure
created by the water flowing down the mountainside, every floor had a constant stream of cool, fresh
water for any purpose.
The next floors were the libraries, considered the treasure room of the monastery. A few books
detailed the history of the temple and the order, and there was one or two books of poetry and verse.
The remainder were repositories of knowledge meticulously gathered over many centuries by the
whiterobes. Above all, they contained intricate patterns detailing the movements of the stars and how
to calculate their positions throughout the year. This had necessitated advanced arithmetic to be
developed, and many other books were dedicated to this study. After that followed metallurgy,
masonry, and other crafts that required a knowledgeable head to be combined with skilled hands, and
much of the lore contained in these volumes was put to use in the workshops and foundries below.
The final levels just below the roof of the tower were dedicated to tell-craft. At night, the
whiterobes would stand atop the tower, observing the sky. During the day, they would return to the
floor just below the roof, comparing new observations with old and using arithmetic to predict not
only how the constellations moved, but also anticipate solar and lunar eclipses, meteor showers, and
everything else in the heavenly firmament.
As Caradoc arrived, he found several whiterobes at work scribbling runes, calculating figures, and
comparing star maps. All of them had beards and hair as pale as the cloth they wore; considered the
finest work that a brother of the Bear could carry out, astronomy and arithmetic were only for the
whiterobes held in highest regard.
“Brother Conall,” Caradoc called out. He spoke with a subdued voice as befitted the chamber
where minds were concentrating to the fullest; due to their advanced age and accompanied loss of
hearing, none heard him. “Brother Conall,” he repeated, approaching the other man.
The leader of the whiterobes raised his head from the complex figures on the parchment that he
had been examining. Despite his frail and aged looks, his gaze was sharp. His brow furrowed in
thought. “Brother Caradoc,” he spoke slowly, digging the name out. “I thought you were in Lochan.”
“I was until recently, Brother,” Caradoc replied, clasping the high priest’s hand carefully. “I came
to speak with you.”
The high priest put down the quill in his hand. “It must be important if a simple missive does not
suffice.”
“It is, though I was travelling in this direction in any case,” Caradoc admitted. “In Lochan, I met
the son of Arngrim. He sought refuge against the villains that rule Adalrik, but now, he seeks to
return. He calls upon every highlander of worth to follow him.”
“If that’s your wish, I’ll not stand in your way,” Conall told the other priest.
“Thank you, Brother, though I did not come for permission. I came to request that the Order of
Hamaring stands behind Lord Adalbrand,” Caradoc exclaimed, raising his voice. “Some ten years ago,
a tyrant ruled in Middanhal and savaged our land. The time has come to avenge this and dethrone
another tyrant!” At this outburst, the other whiterobes raised their heads to send disapproving glances
his way.
Conall breathed heavily. “It is hardly the purpose of this order to engage in war,” he spoke slowly.
“We are not warriors, nor am I a lord commanding soldiers.”

360
 “Any man who can take up arms is a warrior,” Caradoc countered. “I fought in the war against the
drakonians as well as any gallóglach!”
“I am sure you did,” the high priest replied. “But our brothers are here to pursue knowledge or
serve our god. Neither of those purposes are met by going to war.”
“We must also serve the people,” Caradoc retorted. “The honour of the high lands was stained by
the blood of every one of our people slaughtered by the Order. When the hunter comes, the deer may
flee, but the bear has no fear!”
“Quiet!” another priest demanded.
“Still, the hunting hounds will bring the bear down,” Conall pointed out. “We are few people in
the high lands, and fewer whiterobes still. Would you have our order lose every brother fighting for
revenge?”
“I would have our brothers fight for honour.”
Conall was silent for a moment. “I will not command any of our brethren to risk his life fighting
against one drakonian to aid another. But,” he continued with his frail voice, “I will let you plead your
case.”
“My thanks, Revered One.”
“And well you should be grateful,” Conall sniffed. “I’ll have to address them in the dining hall.”
He stood up with some difficulty. “All the stairs I need to walk, in my age.”
Caradoc lent him an arm for support. “I would think you took this trip each day. Where else would
you sleep and eat but at the lower floors?”
“I have food brought to me, and I sleep in an alcove in the next room,” Conall revealed as they
moved to the stairs and began a slow descent. “I haven’t been to the lower levels in months. Consider
this pilgrimage to the hall below my contribution to your cause.” Caradoc gave a hearty laughter in
response.
“Will you be quiet!”
~~~~
The largest room in Ardbeann was the dining hall, allowing the approximately two hundred
whiterobes to take their meals together. The only drink was water; anything else would necessitate
transport up the mountain path. In compensation, the whiterobes ate their share in meat, bread, and
green. About half a century ago, attempts at planting a small orchard on the mountainous plateau had
succeeded, allowing for fruit, and the temple had always had a pigsty and a chicken coop to provide
meat and eggs.
As the meal approached its close, Conall rose up to stand. All eyes turned towards him, and silence
befell the room. “You are probably all wondering why I took the trip down to eat with you tonight.”
His crisp voice echoed through the room. “It certainly wasn’t for the pleasure of your company.”
Scattered laughter came in response. “News has reached me, and if they have managed to travel all the
way to the top floor, I’m certain you lot heard it long ago. There’s war in Adalrik.” He paused,
inhaling deeply. “This war has been going on for more than a year, and you may wonder why I bring
it up now. However, as I have been out of breath for the last hour thanks to those damnable stairs, I’ll
let Brother Caradoc explain.”
“Thank you, Brother Conall.” Caradoc rose to take the floor. “Some weeks ago, a young nobleman
of Adalrik came to Lochan, where my temple is. He sought the refuge of his kin, for his mother was of
the túath of Lachlann, and the despotic rulers of Adalrik sought to take his head. They saw him as a
threat for two reasons,” he explained, letting his voice bellow. “His success on the battlefield, fighting
rebels and outlanders, and his lineage, for on his father’s side, he is dragonborn. He is Adalbrand, son

361
of Arngrim, a name known to many here.” Voices murmured and heads nodded in agreement.
“Arngrim died trying to stop the savagery committed against our land, our people, as the Order
slaughtered villages and butchered innocent men, women, and children. Old King Sighelm was a
tyrant,” Caradoc shouted, “and our people paid the price for it!”
“Hear, hear!” Fists and cups were slammed against the tables.
“It is time to reclaim our honour,” Caradoc declared. “Lord Adalbrand marches to Adalrik against
the usurpers in Middanhal, and I march with him. To show the drakonians that the high lands will not
suffer in silence. To repay the blood they spilt upon our fields. To make the voices of the tuatha
heard!”
Many responded with cheers and shouts, but one whiterobe stood up and raised his hands to
silence the crowd. “And what do you expect from us?” he asked. “That we abandon our duties to die
in Adalrik, fighting for this Adalbrand’s cause?”
“His cause is ours,” Caradoc claimed. “We fight for justice and to see honour restored in
Heohlond.”
Another rose as well. “We are priests of Hamaring. Our heads are for knowledge, our hands are for
crafting. Each of us has a purpose here,” he told the assembly. “I fail to see how it serves our god or
this order to fight in foreign lands.”
“Our brother has a point,” a whiterobe argued, pointing towards Caradoc. “Many of us stood aside
when war raged in the high lands, and our people died.”
“What good does it do the dead to fight now?”
“Nothing, but it tells the living that the Order of the Bear will protect their honour, their homes,
and their lives,” Caradoc exclaimed.
“What does our high priest say?” someone demanded to know, looking at Conall. “Do you
encourage that our brothers throw their lives away?”
Silence befell the room as Conall slowly stood up. “Each of us has a purpose here, as our brother
said.” He gestured to one of the previous speakers. “This very tower exemplifies this. Hands carved
and carried the stones to build it. Minds calculated its shape and size. Now it lets us use our eyes to
ever understand the stars better.” He paused. “Some of us, like myself, has spent a lifetime standing at
the top of this tower, gazing at the night sky. Yet the hands at the foundation that clean the pipes,
allowing us all water to drink, fulfil as important a role. We must all serve how we serve best. Hands,
minds, eyes, all are subjected to the heart.” He let his gaze sweep over the assembly. “Let each brother
serve as he sees fit, whether it is in this temple, in the cities of the realms, or upon the field of battle. I
command none to leave and none to stay.”
“Thank you, Brother Conall. I depart tomorrow with every man willing to fight,” Caradoc
declared.
“So be it. Tomorrow, our brothers may leave, never to return. Tonight, we shall have no further
argument,” the high priest determined, and his brethren bowed their heads in acceptance.
~~~~
At sunrise, nearly twenty whiterobes gathered outside the tower of Ardbeann. All had weapons of
some kind that relied first and foremost on strength and were wielded by two hands, whether
hammers, clubs, or axes. The priests looked expectantly at Caradoc.
“Where to now?”
“The army should be encamped north of here on the road to Cairn Donn and Cragstan,” he told
them. “They’re a sluggish bunch,” he grinned, “moving slowly. I can’t imagine they’ll have gotten far
ahead of us since I left.”

362
 “Army, even?” someone remarked. “From what I heard, this Adalbrand has less than a score of
men.”
“When he arrived in Lochan, true,” Caradoc elaborated. “But our people are coming from all the
high lands to fight as if Arn himself was giving the call. Our numbers must be counted in the hundreds
rather than in scores.”
“Enough talk,” someone growled. “Let’s get a move on.” Grabbing hold of weapons and what else
they brought along, the whiterobes began the descent down the mountain path.

363
 59. Two Reasons
Clan Cameron
The day after leaving Ardbeann, the group of whiterobes reached the small army following Brand.
Spread out across the rocky terrain, it was a mixed affair. Tents of undyed colour were scattered
through the area, pitched in clusters without pattern or thought. Here and there, banners proclaimed
the identity of a minor house from one of the clans, though none of the emblems belonged to any of
the ruling houses. Despite the disorganised appearance, the priests were hailed by guards as they
approached the camp.
“Who’s there?”
“Hammer and quill! A bunch of norns, can’t you see?” one of the brothers shouted, making the
others laugh.
“It’s me, Caradoc Whitesark,” muttered the eponymous priest. “I’ve brought those of my brothers
back who’s ready to fight. Where’s the captain?”
“How should I know?” The guard gave a shrug.
“Lads, this man lacks proper respect for Hamaring and his followers,” Caradoc declared with a
threatening voice. He advanced upon the guard, hefting his hammer; behind him, his brethren raised
their weapons menacingly.
“Sorry,” the soldier stammered, “I don’t know where the captain is. Probably in the middle of the
camp.”
Caradoc broke into laughter. “I figured as much, boy. Just keeping you on your toes. It’s the duty
of any good priest.” Still grinning, the whiterobes moved past the guard to enter the camp and
announce their arrival.
~~~~
“Thank you, Brother Caradoc,” Brand told the priest after hearing his report. “The men will be
bolstered seeing you and your peers in our ranks.”
“Glad to help,” the whiterobe replied brusquely. They were standing inside Brand’s tent,
generously gifted by one of the minor lords who had joined his cause. “Where’s your shadow? That
Theodstan fellow. We’ll be in his home soon.”
“Geberic is in Cairn Donn,” Brand explained. “That is why we stopped early today. We are buying
what supplies we can before the next stretch of the journey.”
“Until we reach Theodstan,” Caradoc nodded. “How will the good jarl react upon seeing hundreds
of highlanders descend upon his jarldom?”
“We will find out soon enough,” the young captain smiled.
“My lord,” Glaukos spoke as he entered; he and another kingthane had been standing guard
outside.
“What is it?”

364
 “Geberic is back, and he is not alone,” the heathman explained quietly. “From the looks of it, he is
accompanied by someone of high rank.”
Brand walked to the opening of the tent and glanced outside. First, his eyes caught the banner of
Clan Cameron progressing through the camp; looking down, he saw twenty heavily armed warriors
surrounding an old man in rich furs. The whole procession was led by Geberic. While still some thirty
paces away, Geberic gestured for the others to wait and approached Brand alone. “Milord,” he spoke
with a subdued demeanour.
“Who is this?” Brand nodded towards the old man.
“That, milord, is the rí ruirech himself,” Geberic explained, causing every man to react with
surprise.
“That is King Brión?” Brand asked incredulously.
“None other. His men approached us in the city and said the king demanded a meeting with you.
They followed us back here,” the man-at-arms elaborated.
“We better give the king what he desires. Let him come,” Brand commanded, retreating into the
tent.
Moments later, the tent was more than crowded. In the back stood Brand, flanked by Glaukos,
Geberic, one of his kingthanes, and Caradoc. Opposite stood Brión, king of Heohlond, and as many of
his sworn men as could fit inside. Appearing to be in his seventies, the monarch stood straight and did
not seem burdened by his years. “Perhaps,” the king began to say in a hoarse voice, “we might speak
privately, Lord Adalbrand.”
“My king,” one of his men exclaimed in disapproval.
Brión raised a hand dismissively. “I doubt the noble Lord Adalbrand will cut me down during a
civil meeting. If his men can trust that I will not knife their captain during our informal conversation,”
he continued with a sardonic smile, “I think we can extend the same courtesy.”
“Of course,” Brand agreed. “Your gallóglaigh may rest easy. No harm will come to you by my
hand or any of my men.”
“You heard him,” the king added. “Leave us. All of you.” His protectors exchanged glances but
finally did as commanded; Brand’s men did the same, leaving the two groups to stand outside, staring
menacingly at each other.
“I regret I cannot offer you a seat, my lord king,” Brand spoke politely. “We have only the barest
of necessities in my small band of followers.”
“Your army, you mean,” Brión corrected him. “Your army consisting of my subjects.” He gave
Brand a scrutinising glance, having to raise his eyes to look the captain in the face. “Are you surprised
by my visit, Lord Adalbrand?”
“I had expected some form of reaction once we entered the lands of your túath,” Brand confessed,
“but I did not imagine my lord king would appear personally.”
The monarch gave a joyless smile. “You know our words. No wonder you have fooled these
people into following you.”
“Each man in this camp has come because he believes it is the right thing. Same goes for the
women,” Brand added, and a genuine smile flickered across his face.
“Regardless,” Brión continued, “I came to give you a warning. I will not accept my people going
to war against Adalrik.”
“They are not,” Brand argued. “My enemy is the jarl of Vale and his ilk.”
“He is the lord protector,” the king spoke pointedly. “He is Adalrik. He has levies, the Order, and
mercenaries on his side. While you have a ragged band of malcontents. I would not care if all of them
die on some gods-forsaken field in the low lands, except for how it reflects upon me.”

365
 “How would it reflect upon you, my lord king?” Brand asked courteously.
“As if I have no control over my own kingdom. As if the tuatha do as they please. As if when the
oireacht assemble, another táinaiste than my son should be chosen.” Confusion touched Brand’s face
briefly, and Brión gave another mirthless smile. “I see you have not learned all our words yet. Perhaps
you should stay longer in the high lands than a few weeks.”
“If that is why you came, consider your warning delivered,” Brand told him.
“You will not heed my words,” the old man contemplated. “You will continue ahead, ignoring all
the ill omens until you are utterly defeated.”
Brand could not help but laugh. “Forgive me, my lord king, I mean no offence. But I have never
known defeat on the battlefield, and I do not intend for that to change.”
The king gazed at him intensely. “I have heard the tales. In part, that is why I came myself rather
than send an envoy. I wanted to measure the man who brought the famous Athelstan of Isarn so low.
No doubt these men praise you for that,” Brión scoffed. “Many of them would have lost someone
when Athelstan won the battle of Cairn Donn.”
“It counts in my favour to some,” Brand admitted.
Brión nodded. “I have taken my measurements, and I shall rest easy tonight. I have no doubt you
are most capable at winning battles, Lord Adalbrand.” The title was spoken with little reverence. “But
you have no knowledge of winning wars and the peace that must ensue. You gather peasants to your
cause, spiting the lords whose fields will not be worked when summer comes. Nor will the lords of
Adalrik look kindly upon the man leading an army of invaders to ravage their lands and renew an
already costly civil war. Making friends of farmers and enemies of noblemen is a poor strategy for any
ruler.”
“If you will allow me a question, my lord king. Have you read Master Anselm and his treatise
concerning governance?” asked Brand.
“I have little need for books to teach me this subject,” the king spoke with disdain. “I have ruled as
king longer than you have been alive, boy.”
“Allow me nonetheless to share his wisdom,” the captain requested. “Afterwards, my lord king can
tell me if the old master’s words ring true.”
“Get on with it, then.”
“Master Anselm explains that if an enemy is within your power, there are only two reasons for
letting him live,” Brand stated. “The first is if he cannot possibly be of any threat to you, and you wish
to appear magnanimous.”
“The second?”
“The second reason for letting him live is if killing him would only create more enemies.”
“I see your point, but I imagine you will explain it to me nonetheless,” the king remarked with a
sigh.
Brand gave a sardonic smile of his own. “If you had the power to stop me, you would have done
so by now. You realise the danger in opposing me, the son of Arngrim and the victor against
Athelstan, which are only two out of many reasons why your people support me. Thus, you have come
in a feeble attempt to discourage me from any course of action that would upset your tenuous
relationship with Adalrik, because discouragement is your only weapon against me.”
Brión took a deep breath. “You have a king in your tent, boy, and rather than attempt making an
ally, you let your arrogance rule your behaviour. You best return to your books, for you have much to
learn. I bid you farewell, Lord Adalbrand. We shall not meet again.” The king turned to walk out of
the tent.
“Not unless it is on the steps of the Temple in Middanhal,” Brand spoke quickly.

366
 Brión stopped abruptly and glanced over his shoulder, laughing hoarsely. “If that is the case, I will
bend my knee gladly. But my instinct tells me that if I ever see you in Middanhal,” he continued with
a contemptuous smile, “it will be because your head gazes down upon me, mounted on a spike above
the gate.” The king left, and his men joined ranks to escort him out of the camp.
Brand’s own men filtered into the tent. “What did he want?” asked Alaric, who had arrived late
and been pacing outside anxiously, hearing his lord was unguarded.
“Just empty words. Did we get supplies in Cairn Donn?” Brand asked.
“Aye, enough to last us a week, perhaps. Longer, depending on what we might gather,” Geberic
informed him.
“Good. We can take our time marching out of Heohlond. There is still a chance for more of the
brave highlanders to catch up and join our ranks,” Brand considered.
“Aye,” Geberic grinned. “Never thought I’d march alongside a band of stone-lickers, but damn me
if it doesn’t feel good to see more of them arriving each day.”
“Get used to it. We have only just begun,” his captain declared smiling.
~~~~
The next day, Brand’s army set into motion once more, continuing their march west. The land they
passed through could hardly be called fertile, and for the most part, they encountered only brown grass
and the occasional goat, the only beast that could subsist on such feed. As they progressed, this began
to change. Flowers appeared, scattered across the hills. This was not merely because the highlander
army was reaching Theodstan and gentler soil; it was a sign that spring had arrived in full force,
finally. Soon, crops would grow on the fields, the animals would give birth to offspring, and food
would be abundant. The season of summer, and with it the season of war, was fast approaching.

367
 60. People of the Stone
Theodstan
Underneath the keep in Cragstan, countless hours had been spent digging into the rock below,
allowing for a crypt to be hollowed out. Here rested the jarls of Theodstan and their kin. As space was
scarce, all couples shared a sarcophagus, and small children rested with their parents. At first, it was
merely one chamber, meaning that closest to the entrance lay men and women from before Theodstan
was even a jarldom, going back more than a thousand years. Additional chambers had been opened up
over time; in the deepest of these sat Theodoric.
All of the stone coffins were similarly made, carved in plain form, while the lids were engraved
with the names of those inside. To one side, his parents rested together. Next to them was an empty
plot, waiting for the day Theodoric would join them. On the opposing side, sleeping inside her stone
prison, lay Theodwyn next to her husband. The latter had been dead for many years, and a few weeks
earlier, Theodoric had brought his sister that the two at last could be reunited.
“Isenhart sent a messenger three days ago,” Theodoric explained into the empty air. “He felt bold
enough after his latest victory to demand I submit to him. I thought about playing for time,” the jarl
admitted. “The old Theodoric would have bought as many days as possible, delaying any answer. This
Theodoric,” he continued, “spent the shortest amount of time possible telling the messenger to go
straight to Hel, preferably with Isenhart in tow.”
He smiled. “I could hear your voice as I said it. It was phrased exactly how you would have done
it.” He sat on the floor, leaning up against the stone that embraced his sister. “I imagine they will not
care. Middanhal is what matters. I have not raised my banners either, so it should be obvious I pose no
threat. Though part of me would relish watching Isenhart run his thick head against the walls of
Cragstan. I would consider our home the strongest castle in all of Adalrik.”
He paused. “Are you disappointed in me, Sister? Were you expecting that I would call my troops
to assemble and storm Middanhal until I could slaughter each man involved in your death?” His lips
twisted upwards for a moment. “You probably would have expected nothing less. But it is
complicated,” he claimed. “I suspect many could have given you the push to send you to your death.
A thane to that spiteful little brat, most likely, but which one? What if he had another do it, like one of
the Hawks? What if it was someone else entirely, someone I wronged years ago who finally decided
to strike back?”
Theodoric sighed, letting his head rest against the cool stone behind him. “If it truly was the doing
of Hardmar, he is beyond my reach. His thanes are scattered. Some at least are dead by my hand, but I
know not if any of them were guilty. I would gladly punish your killer, Theodwyn, whoever he might
be, wherever he might be, if only I knew.” He cleared his throat. “I have made such questionable
decisions,” he admitted. “Konstans played me like a lute. While I was blinded by grief, he fooled me.
I am confident he had the prince slain, but I can only reveal this by admitting that I was also present
that fateful night. If I lift a finger to accuse him, the remaining fingers point the blame at me.”

368
 “All my mistakes have become ghosts to haunt me. I convened the Adalthing last year, thinking to
set myself up as a ruler, only to hand the realm to Konstans and the Hardlings on a platter.” He
breathed in slowly and exhaled again. “I feel adrift. I could not tell you who I would rather see
defeated in this war, Isenhart or Valerian. I miss your advice, however infuriating it could be to have
your overbearing voice in my ear. I would trade every coin in Theodstan just to have you infuriate me
one more time.” The jarl fell silent; no further words followed, only another sigh.
Theodoric remained in the crypt for a while; in the darkness, it was hard to tell how much time
passed when his reverie was finally disturbed. “Milord?”
“What is it, Holwyn,” he enquired with a weary voice.
“Something you need to know,” she began hesitantly. “There’s an army not far from the Crag.”
Theodoric’s head turned sharply to look at her. “Under whose banner?”
“That’s what mystifies us, milord. They don’t seem to be marching under any.”
“A peasant army? No, that does not make sense,” Theodoric considered. “Those lazy bastards have
nothing to revolt about. Send scouts to find out what they want,” he commanded, standing up, “and
have every able-bodied man within ten miles assembled and outfitted for war.”
“Your steward has already seen to both,” Holwyn told him reassuringly. “He merely sent me to
inform you.”
“Very well,” Theodoric granted. “Summon Richard and Brogan. I will meet them in the hall.”
“Yes, milord.”
~~~~
Richard, margrave of Alwood and vassal of Theodstan, had gone to Cragstan since the armies of Isarn
had raised the siege at Grenwold. With the Order leaderless and Vale’s forces in disarray, there had
been none to give him new orders, and the knight was not in any hurry to return to Middanhal;
instead, he followed the example of his liege, keeping out of the conflict for now. After Theodwyn
had been buried, Richard had stayed in the city; Alwood was among the smallest fiefs in Adalrik and
held nothing of interest to its lord beyond letting him buy new horses when needed.
Because of this, he was available to counsel Theodoric, arriving to find the jarl already there with
the captain of his thanes. “How was this not discovered earlier?” Theodoric demanded to know.
“We were keeping watch to the west, in case Isarn or Vale would send any forces against us,”
Brogan explained defensively. “How could any know that an army of highlanders would suddenly
appear?”
“Certainly we were caught unaware,” the jarl spoke with gritted teeth. “Do we know of any
tension between King Brión and the lord protector? Does he have cause to join Isarn upon an assault
against Middanhal?” he asked Holwyn.
“No, milord. The rí ruirech seems on good terms with Jarl Vale. It is possible he is responding to a
call to arms from the lord protector.”
“That would make sense,” Richard interjected. “Athelstan gives the Hawks a beating, so Valerian
calls in new allies.”
“I suppose,” Theodoric granted, though his voice was tinged with doubt. “If this army is marching
against Isarn, it would have been polite for King Brión to at least give me warning before he marches
through my lands.”
“We will find out soon enough,” Richard spoke placidly. “Once the scouts return.”
“One thing speaks against your interpretation,” Brogan interceded. “If this army belongs to King
Brión, regardless of whether he comes as friend or foe, why is not being led by the banner of Clan
Cameron?”

369
 Richard frowned. “Fair point.”
“Milord,” another man called out as he burst into the hall; it was Theodoric’s steward. “Your
scouts return with a message,” he related.
“So soon? I thought this army was miles away,” the jarl frowned.
“Apparently, your outriders met a messenger from the army not far from Cragstan. With your
permission, milord, I will send him in. We need not fear his intentions, I believe,” the steward
explained with something resembling a smile.
His frown deepening, Theodoric nodded nonetheless. “Very well, I look forward to some kind of
explanation.”
The steward disappeared, and moments later, Geberic strode into the hall. Faces lit up in surprise
or excitement upon seeing the former thane of Theodstan. “Geberic, you old dog!” Brogan greeted
him, hurrying forward to clasp his hand.
“Geberic,” Richard exclaimed brusquely, “of all the bastards in the world, your name is far down
the list of who I expected to come through that door.”
“Good to see you as well,” the man-at-arms grinned before giving a bow before Theodoric.
“Milord.”
“Geberic, it has been a while. I am pleased to see you unharmed.”
“Not as pleased as I am to be unharmed,” came the swift reply, accompanied by a wry smile.
“Last I saw you was in the Citadel, keeping watch of Lord Adalbrand’s sister. I suspect his escape,
the arrival of a highlander army, and your presence are connected,” the jarl surmised.
“Ever clever, milord,” Geberic acknowledged. “Supported by the clans, Lord Adalbrand has come
to right the wrongs done to him.”
“He is welcome to do so,” Theodoric granted, “as long as it is done elsewhere. I have no interest in
seeing Theodstan turned into a battlefield.”
“I am no envoy, milord,” Geberic clarified, “merely a messenger. Lord Adalbrand requests an
audience with your lordship. He is willing to go to Cragstan, should your lordship promise free
passage.”
The jarl glanced at the men assembled. “I promise Lord Adalbrand free passage in and out of
Cragstan, in the presence of these honourable men.”
“Excellent.” Geberic gave a small bow with a satisfied expression. “I shall return immediately and
inform my lord.”
~~~~
Hours later, Brand rode into Cragstan; he was accompanied by Geberic, Glaukos, and his seven
kingthanes, riding on every horse their small army currently possessed. Dismounting in the courtyard
of the keep, the steward welcomed them and led them into the hall. As before, Theodoric stood
waiting with Richard and Brogan; a number of his thanes were also present.
“Jarl Theodoric,” Brand greeted him courteously.
“Lord Adalbrand.” The jarl gave a curt nod.
“Brand, as I live and breathe!” Richard shouted. He had been conversing with some of the thanes
but now pushed his way forward, grabbing Brand’s hand to shake it vigorously while slapping his
back.
“Richard. I am pleased to see you as well,” Brand smiled.
“When I heard what those slack-jawed villains in Middanhal wanted to do…” Richard growled
without finishing his sentence.

370
 “There will be time later, Richard, where you might conscript our guest to indulge your fantasies,”
Theodoric told him a tad sharply. “For now, we have matters that warrant discussion.”
“We do, my lord jarl,” Brand agreed.
“I assume you have come to request passage through my lands?” Theodoric posited.
“That would be a start,” Brand considered. “In truth, I have come to request that you join me.”
Eyes exchanged glances across the hall. “If the prospect of being a rebel and having my head
severed from my neck intrigued me,” the jarl responded overbearingly, “I would have joined forces
with Isarn long ago.”
“You seem doubtful of my chances,” Brand remarked neutrally.
“I suppose during negotiations, I should wrap my words in courtesy. As it is, I have grown weary
of the courtesy of courtiers. Meaning is veiled in layers, and insults have their barbs underneath silk.
These days, I find that plain truth suffices for my needs.”
“Then truth you shall hear. We have both suffered injustice at the hands of Jarl Vale and his
brother,” Brand declared. Many of the others present, whether his or Theodoric’s thanes, murmured in
agreement. “We may be rid of Prince Hardmar, but the real tyrants remain in power in Middanhal. We
have fought together in the past, Jarl Theodstan. You have followed my campaigns in Adalrik and
Hæthiod. Do you truly doubt I can defeat these churls on the battlefield?”
“I am sure you can score victory after victory while you have soldiers at your disposal. But with
each battle, victorious or not, your numbers will be whittled down,” Theodoric argued.
“I intend for my first victory to be so decisive, a second will not be necessary,” Brand retorted.
“Hah!” Richard exclaimed, earning a stern gaze from his liege.
“Let us assume that is possible. You will still be faced with assaulting the impenetrable walls of
Middanhal, and unlike last time, I imagine they will be waiting for you,” the jarl remarked dryly.
“Besieging the city is impossible, storming the walls is hardly better, and all the while, you will have a
hostile army in the shape of Isarn nipping at your heels.”
“Another thing that can be solved. Together, we will unite the entire North against Jarl Vale and
have the forces to assault Middanhal.”
“Trusting Isenhart is no better than trusting Valerian, or his brother for that matter,” Theodoric
claimed. “Isenhart has already proven he will break any law, any oath, to get what he wants.”
“He will not be constrained by law or honour,” Brand replied patiently, “but by equal strength. He
should know how he will fare if he dares to fight me.”
“So confident in your fortunes,” Theodoric spoke sardonically, “considering a month ago, your
head was on the executioner’s block.”
“Exactly. Here I stand, at the head of an army. This is only the beginning.”
“It may be too late to build this alliance you seek,” Theodoric confessed. “Some days ago, a
messenger arrived from his camp, demanding that I swear him fealty and join the war,” Theodoric
related. “I rejected his demands. Knowing Isenhart’s temper, he will not take that well.”
“I grant you that, but it proves that Jarl Isarn is aware we should stand together against our
common foe.”
“What I question is what we stand to gain,” Brogan suddenly interjected. Heads turned to look at
the captain of Theodstan’s thanes. “Right now, enemy fights enemy while we remain untouched. I see
no problem in letting these jarls tear each other to pieces! Why should the men of Theodstan die for
your vengeance?”
“An excellent question,” Theodoric assented.

371
 “Last year, you rode day and night to warn the Order army at Lake Myr,” Brand reminded the jarl.
“You marched alongside me across the Weolcans because the realm was under threat, and you felt it
your duty to help.”
“And I only succeeded in making things worse,” Theodoric declared. “Besides, I did those things
to stop Isenhart. The very man you would now ally with.”
“I admit, the situation grows ever strange,” Brand confessed. “Let me ask you this. What do you
want? Are you content sitting in this keep, watching lesser men tear Adalrik to pieces?”
“Lesser men,” the jarl scoffed. “I am no better man than Valerian or Konstans, than Isenhart or
Athelstan. I used to think so, but that was merely my vanity lying to me. The only difference between
them and me is that I am not embroiled in all this death and endless warfare. If I join you, even that
difference will be erased.”
“Theodoric,” Richard protested. “You cannot compare yourself or any man here to those dastardly
jarls! They fight only to keep their bony grip on power! We, at least, have nobler motives.”
“Nobler motives, but the same outcome. Men die, Richard, and never those who instigated all of
this,” Theodoric spoke with a resigned voice.
Brogan nodded vigorously. “Let Isarn and Vale bleed each other dry if they must. Theodstan has
no stake in this.”
“That could take years,” Brand argued, a tad impatiently. “Imagine the damage caused if North
and South remain divided this way. No salt from Hæthiod would reach your jarldom. You cannot sell
your wool in Middanhal. All the goods that make life bearable flows through the capital. Your people
will not thank you for this.”
“My people are grateful for your concern,” Theodoric remarked sharply. He took a deep breath.
“What you ask is no small thing. Isarn is already watching me with doubtful eyes. I could end up with
two enemies, both of them stronger than me.”
“You are not alone. You have the highlanders at your back and the best commander in the Seven
Realms,” Brand stated.
“The man speaks the truth,” Richard interceded. “I am not half-bad leading assaults either, if I say
so myself.”
“These highlanders. They march under no banner. King Brión did not send them, nor did any of
the clans,” Theodoric surmised.
“True. They are here of their own accord. They fight not because they must, but because they are
willing.”
“Admirable, but also dangerous. It may not take much for some of them to reconsider, and should
just a few decide to leave, they may draw the remainder with them,” the jarl considered.
“Once they have their first taste of victory, none of them are leaving,” Brand claimed.
Theodoric took a deep breath. “I need to consider this matter further. I will not give you any
answer tonight.”
“Of course, my lord jarl,” Brand accepted.
“It is late. You may share my table tonight, and we have rooms for all your men. Tomorrow, we
may discuss this matter again,” Theodoric offered.
“Most kind, my lord jarl.” Brand gave a bow.
“Tonight, you experience the hospitality of Theodstan.” The jarl made a gesture towards his
steward, who nodded in understanding and retreated. “I hope you like mutton. It is what we have
every night.”
~~~~

372
The next morning, Theodoric stood upon the walls of his keep. He had the city of Cragstan spread out
before his gaze; thanks to its small size and elevated position, he could easily see his jarldom beyond.
Rolling hills with pastures, occasionally broken by cliffs and rocks, met his eyes. Theodstan was stone
land; while the region was large, it was inhabited by few. They were the people of the stone, and thus
the jarldom was named. Whether few or many, they were Theodoric’s people; he was their ruler, and
thus he was named.
Brand approached him cautiously on the parapet. “Good morrow, my lord jarl.”
“If it is good, only time can tell. I have pondered your request.”
“I am eager to hear more.”
Theodoric inhaled slowly and exhaled. “I am hesitant to commit myself to any course of action. It
makes no difference to me whether Vale or Isarn rules. Throwing my soldiers into this fight to
dethrone Vale, only to have Isarn take his place – it seems pointless to me.”
“What if Jarl Isarn was not to replace Jarl Vale?” Brand asked. “What if you committed to a course
of action that elevated you in their place?”
Theodoric sent him a sharp look. “You mean to make me lord protector in Valerian’s stead? No.”
The jarl’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You mean to make me dragonlord. Your dragonlord.”
“I do. You are fit for the task, and it is a just reward for standing by me in this hour.”
Theodoric let out a deep breath. “That presupposes not only victory, but that Isenhart will agree to
these terms.”
“He need not be aware of what we plan once Middanhal is ours. For now, we unite with him
against a common enemy,” Brand explained.
Theodoric turned away, looking over the parapet. “It is tempting to sit back and watch Isarn and
Vale tear each other apart. They are too close in strength that either side can gain victory anytime
soon.”
Brand joined him to stand by his side. “Yet at one point, one of them will, and he shall look upon
you unfavourably.”
“I think before it comes that far, one or the other will be sufficiently desperate to force me to
choose sides,” Theodoric continued his deliberations. “I suppose you and your army give me the best
bargaining position.”
“Do I understand you correctly, my lord jarl? Are you prepared to join the war?”
Theodoric gave a slow nod. “I am, on very specific conditions that must be met. I will send an
envoy to Isenhart and entreat him to enter an alliance with us. If he accepts that we fight together, I
will raise my levies and march alongside you. Should he refuse,” Theodoric warned, “regardless of
what reason, I will withdraw to Cragstan and wait this war out. I am not going to throw my men
against the walls of Middanhal solely for your vengeance or ambition.”
”I would not expect such a thing either.”
“Along that vein, if you lose your highlanders, I will also retire to Cragstan,” Theodoric specified.
“I do not imagine that happening.”
“I imagine you do not, which also concerns me and leads me to another condition. My army is
mine to command. While I acknowledge your gift as a captain, you should not expect me to simply
fall to heel,” Theodoric specified. “If I disagree with your strategy or tactics – if I feel it endangers my
army unnecessarily – that will be another reason for me to march back to Cragstan.”
“That is only reasonable,” Brand smiled. “I agree to your terms.”
“Very well. I will send an emissary immediately to Isenhart.”
Brand stretched out his hand towards Theodoric. “And then, we go to war.”
The jarl clasped the offered arm. “To war.”

373
 61. Northern Men, Northern Steel
Northern Adalrik
The fortunes of war had changed for Isarn. The Red Hawks had bitterly tried to defend their siege of
Castle Grenwold, but constant harassment from Isarn’s forces had made it untenable. Supplies from
Middanhal could no longer be expected to arrive; soon, the besiegers had felt they were beleaguered
themselves and were forced to break camp, lifting the siege. As they began a march back towards
Middanhal, the harassment continued, constantly costing lives among the Hawks. Under strict orders
from Konstans not to engage in actual battle, the Hawks could do nothing but defend themselves in
these skirmishes and hasten back towards the safety of Middanhal. As Drakevin’s Day arrived, all
forces loyal to Vale had retreated inside the double walls of the capital.
This meant that at last, control of the North had returned to Isarn. The jarldom was no longer under
threat of invasion, and all enemy forces had been driven from the lands of his allied landgraves. After
a dark winter and long months that had portended defeat, the northerners sang songs of victory once
more.
~~~~
In the Isarn camp some fifty miles north of Middanhal, a row of prisoners was marching out. With
shackles on their ankles, their progress was slow. All of them were Red Hawks taken captive during
the last months of fighting. Being mercenaries, Isenhart had little respect for them; rather than allow
them to be ransomed, they were being sent to the iron mines of southern Isarn. In this manner, they
would be put to use in aiding the war; their labour would retrieve the ore that the Dwarven smiths of
Silfrisarn refined and forged into Nordsteel armour to equip Isarn’s allies.
Eumund was overseeing the departure of the prisoners when his kinsman Athelgar hailed him.
“Eumund,” the latter called out. “Your father summons you to council.”
“Again? I thought we had decided to leave Theodstan for now.” He turned to join Athelgar in
walking towards the middle of the camp.
“From what I gather, this has nothing to do with Theodstan. Scouts returned with news.”
“What news?” asked Eumund.
“I was not told yet. I assume you will hear at the council. Some of the thanes have a card game
going on. Join us after the council if you wish,” he suggested.
“Why not,” his cousin agreed.
They reached the jarl’s tent and split up. Eumund walked inside to find both his father, his uncle
Athelstan, and his father’s cousin Athelbold waiting; the latter was reading a letter but looked up as
Eumund arrived. They were seated on simple chairs, forming a half-circle inside the tent. “Finally,”
Isenhart grumbled as his son took a seat. “Let us begin. I have been told that an army is amassing in
Theodstan.”
“While he refuses to join us? So he must be planning to assault us,” Eumund argued.

374
 “It could simply be a deterrent against the possibility of our attack,” Athelbold countered.
“Quiet,” Isenhart growled. “There is more. This is not Theodstan’s army. Although they march
under no banner, our spies have discovered the army comes from the highlands.”
“Heohlond?” Athelstan frowned. “Does this mean King Brión is entering the war?”
“So it seems. The numbers are small. A thousand men at most,” Isenhart related.
“An advance guard, perhaps sent to reinforce the Hawks,” considered Athelstan, the jarl’s brother
and his foremost commander. “If we had not been so swift to beat Vale’s forces back, these
highlanders would have arrived undetected by us.”
“Perhaps it is not King Brión who sends this force,” Athelbold interjected. “Else they would be
travelling under the mark of Clan Cameron, surely.”
“They could be from another clan,” Eumund pointed out. “That would explain why they hide their
origin. They have not officially joined the war, but simply sent their warriors to Adalrik.”
“It makes sense that Vale would scramble to find new allies now that his mercenaries proved so
unreliable,” Isenhart snorted. “The question is if they are simply marching through Theodstan, or if
the latter is making common cause with our enemies.”
“That should be easy to determine,” Athelstan declared. “Jarl Theodoric refused to join us. If his
levies march with this highlander army, we must assume we face an enemy to the east.”
Isenhart grabbed a cup standing on a small table. “Give me your advice on what to do next,” he
commanded and took a swig of wine.
“We should attack the highlanders immediately before any more of them arrive. Scatter them and
destroy the threat,” Athelstan stated.
“Agreed.” Athelbold, the jarl’s cousin, gave a nod.
“What afterwards? Middanhal is the prize,” Isenhart told them. “The longer we delay our siege,
the more time we give Vale to shore up his defences.”
“It is too dangerous to attempt a siege if Theodstan has joined our enemy. Especially if another
army from the highlands marches into Adalrik. We will be attacked from both sides,” Athelstan
warned.
“A small force can besiege Cragstan and keep Jarl Theodoric enclosed. We need not take the city,
merely prevent him from fighting,” Athelbold argued. “That will also allow us to bolster our
provisions with what we can plunder from Theodstan.”
“What of the highlanders? If we detach troops to maintain a siege of Cragstan, they will be
vulnerable to any relief army arriving from Heohlond,” Isenhart contemplated. “We will have to
invade Heohlond afterwards.”
“I think we can do this swiftly,” his brother claimed. “If King Brión is behind this, we march to
Cairn Donn. It will not take us long, and the city’s defences are surmountable. If Vale’s new ally is
another clan, we force the king to respond. Given he would have lost his throne and head if not for my
victories in the highlander war, we should find him more amenable than Theodstan has been.”
The jarl sat thoughtful for a moment. “Get the army ready. We march against Theodstan
tomorrow.”
His commanders rose quickly. “It will be done,” Athelstan promised. He and Athelbold left
Isenhart and the tent. “My sympathies once more, cousin,” he added, gesturing towards the letter in
the other man’s hand.
“It is what it is, but thank you,” Athelbold muttered before they separated.
~~~~

375
Whilst Athelstan went to issue orders, Athelbold went in search of his son. He found the latter sitting
outside another tent along with several of Isenhart’s thanes. They sat on the ground with a folded
cloak in the middle, acting as an improvised table. Stacks of copper petties and silver eagles lay on
top, and the men were dealing cards while jesting and laughing. “Athelgar.”
The youth looked up and noticed his father. “What is it?”
“I must speak with you,” Athelbold told him, nodding for his son to follow him.
Athelgar gave his companions a chagrined look. “If you sorry lot of wretches look at my cards, I
will have the jarl string you up,” he impressed upon them and received only laughter in return. Getting
up, he walked over to join his father. “What is amiss?”
“Your mother is ill.” Athelbold waved the crumbled letter in his hand.
All ease vanished from Athelgar’s face. “Gravely?”
“The jarlinna would not write otherwise.”
“Are you leaving?”
Athelbold shook his head. “We expect battle soon, so my place is here. But you are her eldest
child. It will comfort her to have you by her side.”
“I will leave immediately,” Athelgar declared. “Anything I should do?”
“Just provide your mother with comfort,” his father instructed. “And if the worst should happen,”
he added, swallowing, “comfort your siblings. The youngest will not understand.”
“Of course. I shall write you when I am home,” the youth promised.
Athelbold placed a hand around his son’s neck, patting his shoulder with the other hand. “Good.
Gods willing, I will be able to go home soon.”
“Until then, Father.”
Soon after, Athelbold watched his son ride out of camp with a thane as attendant, moving west
towards Silfrisarn.
~~~~
The Isarn army would have been heading out in any case, but preparations for the march were swiftly
amended; instead of besieging Middanhal, Isarn would be seeking an open battle with the highlanders.
In some ways, this made matters simpler; the main camp, strongly fortified and at a location unknown
to the enemy, could remain occupied for the time being. There was no need to pack everything up and
move it towards Middanhal. On the contrary, speed was of the essence to catch the highlander army
unaware and before reinforcements might arrive.
Thus, instead of having the next days to gather everything and send it on wagons along the main
road towards Middanhal, the majority of the army had to be ready to move out the next day.
Furthermore, their path was directly east, crossing into forests and over hills rather than roads. A
forced march in arduous terrain lay ahead, calling for provisions to be packed into sacks and anything
else that could be carried; the wagon train with any other supplies would have to follow at its own
pace on roads more lenient to wheels.
The changes in preparation were handled with speed and competence by the Isarn army. After
more than a year of campaigning, they had become experienced soldiers. Leaders such as Athelstan,
Eumund, and former men-at-arms from the Order had spent winter instilling discipline and routine
through rigorous training, which had yielded results. The army of Isarn was becoming a formidable
fighting force, equipped with the finest steel available in Adalrik, and the day after the jarl’s council,
they marched east against Theodstan.

376
 62. Broken Quills
Middanhal
While northern Adalrik was overrun by armies, Middanhal itself seemed undisturbed by war for the
most part. The Order garrison was slowly returning to strength, patrolling even Lowtown and
maintaining law throughout the city. Goods still flowed through the southern gate, allowing commerce
to proceed nearly as usual. Some things were becoming scarce, such as stone, wool, or iron, but few
people took notice of such shortage yet.
As long as parchment, paper, ink, and quills were plentiful, tranquillity reigned in the royal library.
Pushing the door open, Egil entered and greeted Kate with a weary expression. The former placed a
heavy tome on one of the tables, and the latter abandoned her letter practising to take a look.
“History of the Riverlands,” she read aloud. “It’s bigger than I thought.”
“Imagine me, I had to haul it all the way from the temple,” Egil complained, catching his breath
after the stairs. “Not to mention, those whiterobes were loath to even lend it to me.”
“Did they give you any trouble?”
“They just made a fuss. They can’t deny the King’s Quill anything. Or his apprentice. Besides,
they’ll get it back once I am done copying it.” Egil sent a glance towards the door of his master’s
chamber. “Is he still sleeping?”
“He’s still inside if that’s what you mean. I don’t know how much he actually sleeps,” Kate
replied.
“I see.” Egil took a deep breath, picking up the book. “I might as well get started on this.”
“Are you ready for this work?” Kate questioned him. “It’s awfully big. Have you ever copied a
book before?”
“No, but there’s nobody else to do it, is there?” Egil snapped. “We lack this book in our collection,
and it’s my responsibility to amend that.”
“I know,” Kate mumbled. “I just thought maybe you should start with something smaller.”
“Small or big, it’s the same work. Put letters on the page.” The boy hauled the tome with him into
the scriptorium, and Kate returned to her bench.
~~~~
Soon after, the door opened to admit Prince Inghard. “You may stay out here,” he told the kingthanes
accompanying him; they nodded briefly and turned to face the corridor with bored expressions while
the young prince stepped inside, holding a book in his hands.
Kate hurried up to give a bow as deep as she could without falling over. “My prince,” she spoke.
“Kate,” he greeted her with a smile. “Egil,” he added as the scribe joined them in the hall.
“My prince. Have you finished it?” Egil asked, gesturing towards the book in Inghard’s hands.
“I have. It enjoyed it immensely,” the prince confessed. He handed the book over to Egil. “Sir
Etienne’s story reads better than any play from Fontaine I have ever watched.”

377
 “It’s hard to imagine one person going through so much,” Kate added, nodding eagerly while Egil
placed the book on a shelf. “I only wish it had gone into more detail about his time as a prisoner in the
South.”
“Yes!” Inghard exclaimed. “It feels like this was only half the story. And I wonder what happened
to him after Tricaster.”
“Well,” Egil said smugly, turning to face the other two. “That’s actually possible to find out.”
“No, really?” asked the prince. “How?”
“The Order keeps records of everything,” Egil explained.
“And he means everything,” Kate emphasised. “Eight hundred years’ worth of scrolls.”
“Some of them are really fragile,” the scribe admitted with a guilty look.
“We read through them one day,” she continued. “The Order records where the knights go,” she
elaborated, “and after the siege of Tricaster, the records say that Sir Etienne returned to his fief.”
“It mentions his death some twenty years later, in his home,” Egil concluded.
“Incredible,” Inghard told them with a smile. “Somehow, it feels good to know that he found a
peaceful life afterwards.”
A chamber door opened slowly on creaking hinges. “Do we have a visitor?” Quill asked with an
unsteady voice as he appeared in the hall.
“Master Quill,” Inghard greeted him along with a bow.
“My prince,” the elderly man smiled, bowing slightly in turn and hiding his hands inside the
sleeves of his robe. “A pleasure to have you here.”
“I came for another book. Something similar to the story of Sir Etienne,” Inghard requested.
Quill gave a nod. “I believe we can handle that.” He made as if to move, but changed his mind and
stopped. “Egil,” he spoke with a quiet voice, “the shelf just behind you should have an excellent
account of King Erhard’s war against the outlanders. The Field of Blue, I believe the title is.”
Egil turned and his eyes ran over the spines until he grabbed a book. “Here we are,” he mumbled,
handing it to Inghard.
“Thanks,” the prince replied, taking hold of it with both hands.
“It is your library,” Quill reminded him with a gentle smile. “I am only happy its owner has such
interest in it.”
“How could I not?” Inghard sent the old scribe a beaming smile of his own. “I will be back as soon
as I am finished.” The prince nodded briefly to them all and left.
“Did the whiterobes send us that book?” Quill asked.
“I collected it myself today,” Egil told him.
“Good, good. I will get started soon,” the librarian mumbled. “Our histories are incomplete
without it. I will begin work soon,” he reiterated, turning around to face his chamber door. One of his
hands extended from to grab the edge with bent fingers that could not stretch out; with a slightly
pained expression, Quill pulled the door open, passed through it, and closed it behind him.
Kate sent Egil a concerned look. “He’ll be fine,” Egil claimed, barely pronouncing the words
properly. “I better get on with it.” He returned to the scriptorium, picking up his feather pen and
resuming his work.
~~~~
Every member of Theodoric’s court had departed from Middanhal, leaving his extensive quarters at
the Citadel empty. Arndis had swiftly convinced the steward to let her take over along with Eleanor,
letting the two women and their servants make use of the bigger rooms. This meant that while

378
Theodwyn was gone, many ladies of the court still gathered in the same parlour with Arndis as the
new centre of attention.
“I am told you had something of interest to tell us?” Arndis spoke with encouragement, directed at
one of the young women present. They sat on couches arranged around a small table. None of those
present belonged to any of the highest nobility, but several had relations among the margraves or even
the landgraves.
“My father said that Lady Gunhild should arrive any day now,” the young woman replied
nervously, looking around at the expectant faces.
“I imagine Lord Marcaster is not mistaken in such cases,” Arndis granted.
“Never,” insisted the daughter of the aforementioned nobleman. “One of his thanes was delivering
a message to Hardburg and left around the same time as the lady and her retinue. He hastened ahead to
bring my father the reply.”
“What message did your father send?”
“Oh, I do not – he does not share such with me,” the woman admitted, biting her lip.
“Of course not,” Arndis spoke soothingly, and Eleanor, seated next to the girl, caressed her arm.
“You are welcome in our midst regardless.” With a relieved expression, the girl was on the verge of
speaking, but Arndis continued before she could. “It will soon be time for the evening meal. I imagine
you all wish to attend to yourselves beforehand,” she suggested.
“Of course,” several of the young women agreed, and with various farewells and promises to sit
together during supper, they left.
Once alone, Arndis and Eleanor sat down again. “What do you think Lady Gunhild’s arrival
means?” asked the latter.
“If Lady Alexandra’s chambermaid can be trusted, and I will grant you that is doubtful,” Arndis
contemplated, “I surmise that Lord Konstans’ overtures to Lady Hardling have been heard, and she is
willing to see her daughter wed to the House of Vale. I am guessing that was the reason for Lord
Marcaster’s messenger to Hardburg. The poor man must have deduced the same as us and scrambled
to salvage his alliance with House Hardling.”
“Do you think he will have any luck doing that?”
“I cannot see that happening,” Arndis revealed with a casual voice. “With the loss of two sons,
House Hardling will be looking for the strongest alliance they can, which is Vale.”
“Poor woman,” Eleanor commented. “I cannot imagine what losing two sons in such a short span
of time must feel like.”
“She must be distraught, no doubt,” Arndis granted, “but war rages. Many mothers have lost sons,
and many more will before this is over.”
“Of course.”
“Have you heard from Sir William?”
“Not yet, but I do not think he has reached the siege camp yet. Add to that, it will take a letter
weeks to travel back,” Eleanor pointed out.
“Part of me thinks he might be safer there than here.”
“He is a strong warrior, yet I worry nonetheless. He was reluctant to admit it, but he received a
gruesome wound during the battle for Tothmor,” Eleanor confessed. “It turned out to be the cause of
why he was absent at the battle of Polisals.”
“Hopefully, the fighting will be at an end soon. Once the siege of Lakon is won, all of Hæthiod
should be freed,” Arndis remarked. She hesitated before continuing. “Have you considered returning
to Hæthiod?”
Eleanor shook her head. “I have no family or friends there. Middanhal is my home.”

379
 “I am glad. Let us get ready for supper,” Arndis suggested. The women parted, each to her room.
~~~~
Bloodied and with harried looks, the rearguard of the Red Hawks marched through the northern gate
of Middanhal. They were the last troops to retreat; with their entry to the city, northern Adalrik had
effectively been abandoned to Isarn. As they passed through the gatehouse, some of them looked back
upon the city defences, noticing an unfamiliar sight. Along with Order soldiers, Red Hawks guarded
the gate and the walls; with the threat of an assault upon Middanhal far more likely than before,
Captain Theobald had relented and allowed the mercenaries to bolster the garrison upon the
fortifications. The general populace, having no reason to inspect the defenders upon the northern
walls, had taken no notice of this; it was obvious to the soldiers, on the other hand, and the
implications lay heavily upon them.
“How many do you think we’ve lost?” asked Jorund. The Dwarf’s customary conviviality was
replaced by concern.
“I don’t know,” Gawad replied with a tired voice. “Ask the quartermaster.”
“It’s probably less than I imagine. It’s always less,” Jorund considered.
"Probably.” They marched along the Citadel walls on the wide Arnsweg; Order soldiers peered
over the crenellations to look at them. At least for now, the Hawks had not been added to the outer
fortifications of the Citadel.
“It’s not like we lost a battle. Other than the first one,” Jorund yapped on. “It was just skirmishes
and harassment.” His companion did not reply. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“Our situation, the company, all of it.”
Gawad sighed. “I haven’t slept properly in a week, Jorund. The only thing I think about right now
is a bed inside these walls, where I assume the chance of nightly raids is none. Ask me again in ten
hours, preferably after you’ve given me a tankard full of ale, and not the cheap kind that you use when
you want to be disgustingly drunk.”
Jorund sent him a stare. “That’s more words than you’ve spoken all day.”
“And these are the last I’ll speak before sleep,” Gawad declared. True to his word, the Hawk did
not utter anything else but found the nearest bed in the barracks, falling into deep slumber
immediately.
~~~~
Konstans was busy at his desk when the door burst open and his brother strode through. “Yes,
Valerian?” the dragonlord asked calmly.
“I have just been informed in full by the captain of the Hawks,” the lord protector declared; his
voice revealed a turmoil of emotions. “He told me that you commanded him to retreat! Abandon the
siege and any pretence of fighting Isarn.”
“That is correct.” Konstans dipped his quill into ink and continued writing.
“I never gave any such order!”
“No, I did. You just said so yourself,” Konstans explained patiently.
“The Hawks are paid with my gold! I give them orders! I told them to take Castle Grenwold and
continue onwards. Bring an end to this war. Each week it drags on, they drain my coffers,” Valerian
complained.
“You can be rich, or you can be alive,” Konstans declared dryly. “I assume you do not need much
time to decide which you prefer.”

380
 “How does this help us? We are cowering behind our walls. How can the Adalthing respect us
when we cannot stop this rebellion?” the jarl asked. “How can you sit so calmly behind that table
while our enemy marches against us?”
Konstans threw the quill down in an angry gesture, breaking the tip. “Are you expecting me to
stride out of the gate and take up the fight against Isarn? Throw myself into the fray?”
“No,” Valerian replied, taken aback. “But you ordered a retreat. We look like we are losing.”
“Brother, it is painfully obvious we do not possess any commander of Athelstan’s mettle. If we are
to meet Isarn’s army, we need more than twice the men he has,” the dragonlord specified.
“I suppose we can scrape that together if I raise more levies,” Valerian considered hesitantly.
“Not those peasants,” Konstans spoke with disdain, picking up his feather pen and inspecting it. “I
am writing a request to the Silver Spears. If they set sail as soon as they receive this, they should
arrive within two months.”
“Another mercenary company?” Valerian asked incredulously.
“We need professional troops,” his brother stated.
“I am already being bled dry by the Hawks,” the jarl moaned. “The royal treasury will have to pay.
Or else I will have nothing left!”
Konstans took a deep breath. “Maybe that is acceptable. But keep it quiet. The Adalthing will not
be pleased if we are spending the kingdom’s gold on mercenaries.” From a drawer, he took out
another feather pen and resumed writing.
“I am not one to spread such knowledge,” Valerian rebuked him, offended.
“Yet Lord Marcaster sent a messenger to Hardburg, hoping to save his alliance with Hardling.
There was no reason for him to do so, unless he knew that we had made an offer of marriage between
Gunhild and Konstantine,” Konstans pointed out with a sharp voice, looking up momentarily at his
brother.
“I did not tell anyone except perhaps my wife,” Valerian mumbled. “She would not reveal
anything I shared in confidence, I am certain.”
“Of course not.” Konstans remarked, finishing his letter. “If we are done here, you could make
yourself useful and approach Ingmond. He is not contributing anything. Given Isarn is responsible for
his family’s death, you would think he would put effort into seeing this rebellion crushed.”
“I will speak with him,” Valerian promised, retreating from the room.

381
 63. Negotiations at Night
Southern Theodstan
Peaceful days followed in Theodstan after Brand’s negotiations with Theodoric. The jarl had not
called a general conscription yet, but had a small force at the ready; they were the soldiers hastily
assembled when the army of highlanders had first been discovered. His thanes were training them to
make the most of the quiet days. Brand’s sworn men were doing likewise, teaching the highlanders as
best they can. Besides that, they were foraging in the area and waiting to hear back from the emissary
sent to Isenhart; it would take several days for any messenger to find Isarn’s army, receive a reply, and
return. Until then, they were making the most of the time available.
“Captain!” Caradoc Whitesark ran through the rows of men and women fighting, reaching Brand,
who was overseeing the training.
“Yes?”
“We have been attacked,” the whiterobe panted. “One of our foraging parties. Two dead. The other
three are back at camp with minor wounds.”
“Lead me to them.”
Caradoc turned back the way he came, walking with hurried steps; Brand followed straight behind.
Soon, they reached the edge of the area that could loosely be called their camp. Two men and a
woman sat, looking harrowed. All of them had cuts or gashes, mostly on their arms or legs.
They rose as they saw Brand joining them; he gestured for them to be at ease. “Who were they?”
“Isarn,” one replied. “Black swords. I recognised their emblem.”
Brand exchanged looks with Geberic, who had also arrived. “Who attacked first?”
“They did, milord, no doubt about it. We didn’t even know they were present before they were
upon us,” the woman explained. “It was an ambush, plain and simple.”
“It was good you escaped,” Brand told them. “Rest and see to your wounds.”
“Yes, captain.”
Turning back into camp, Brand began issuing orders. “Geberic, ride to the jarl. Tell him what
happened and that he needs to send another messenger under a flag of truce. Isarn’s army is not in the
west, it is here.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Gwen,” he continued. “Choose five men you rely upon and investigate the area between here and
where our people were ambushed. If you see any sign of enemy soldiers, retreat at once.”
“Yes, cousin.”
“Alaric, double the guards around camp.”
“At once, milord.”
“Caradoc, tell every man to be ready for battle. We do not move out, but if our camp is attacked,
they must be prepared.”
“Yes, captain.”

382
 ~~~~
The first envoy from Theodoric was travelling on the road south and west, seeking to find Isenhart and
present a proposal of alliance. Unfortunately, the Isarn army had marched through hill and forest, far
from the Kingsroad and hiding its progress. Unaware of any attempt to contact him, Isenhart had
moved his army only twenty miles from Cragstan. They were now preparing camp for the night; their
forward scouts had found the enemy and drawn blood, meaning a surprise attack was unlikely to
succeed. Instead, Athelstan had decided to let the men rest that they might fight with full strength
tomorrow.
To march with speed, they had brought no tents or furniture of any kind; because of this, Athelstan
was sitting on the ground with his cousin, Athelbold, studying an old map displaying the local terrain,
when Eumund called out to him. “Uncle! Our men have met a messenger from Theodstan under the
flag of the horse. You should come quickly.”
Athelstan rose up, walking towards his nephew. “Where is he?”
“He is being presented to my father now,” Eumund explained, as his uncle and Athelbold joined
him. “Our men met him after scouting the enemy camp.”
“They found its location?”
“They did,” Eumund nodded. “Their numbers have increased since the first report from our spies.
They are closer to two thousand highlanders now.”
Moving through the primitive camp, they came upon the latest dispatched messenger from
Theodstan; he was carrying a flag depicting a horsehead, signalling his status as a peaceful emissary.
He was in conversation with the jarl, who nodded curtly. “Wait here,” Isenhart told him and turned to
look around until he spotted his advisors. “With me,” he commanded, beckoning them to follow him.
They walked some distance until out of earshot of Theodoric’s messenger.
“What did he say?” asked Athelstan.
“Apparently, Theodoric has changed his mind,” Isenhart snorted. “He wants to ally with us against
Vale. When I asked about the highlander army, I was told a rather ludicrous story.”
Athelbold frowned. “How so?”
“They claim that Adalbrand of all people is leading an army of highlanders, who have joined his
cause of their own volition.”
“Brand is alive?” Athelstan exclaimed; relief touched his eyes briefly.
“So they say,” Isenhart scoffed. “And while he has been my enemy until today, he is now eager to
ally with me. Along with Theodstan, who refused to submit but has already changed his mind.”
“It might not be impossible,” Athelstan considered. “Underestimating Brand is always a costly
mistake.”
“Adalbrand was taken to be executed the very day you escaped Middanhal,” his cousin expressed
with a doubtful face. “It seems unlikely he should have escaped that fate.”
“I and both my nephews did,” Athelstan retorted, glancing at Eumund. “Brand’s mother was a
highlander. He might very well have sought refuge with her clan, who in turn have sent their army
with him home.”
“If that is so,” Athelbold considered, “where are the banners of his clan? Why is this army hiding
its name and nature?”
“There can be no cause for that other than they plan deception against us,” Isenhart stated with
growing anger. “Just like Vale and Hardling did!”
A look resembling despair flittered across Athelstan’s face. “But why would they lie about Brand?
What possible gain could there be claiming he is alive and free?”

383
 “Who is the only commander to ever defeat you, Uncle?” asked Eumund quietly.
Athelbold nodded. “If I wanted to buy time and convince Athelstan of Isarn to retreat, I would use
that name.”
“Of course,” Isenhart growled. “They grow their numbers while we idle. Highlanders, Theodstan’s
levies, and Vale’s mercenaries all gathering to crush us,” the jarl murmured.
Athelstan took a deep breath. “I suppose it would be too strange if Brand escaped not only the
scaffold but also Middanhal,” he spoke doubtfully.
“This is not the first time that Vale has attempted to lure us into a trap with false words of
negotiations,” Isenhart continued brusquely. He looked at his brother, his son, and his cousin. “This
time, we spring the trap.”
“I agree,” Athelbold uttered while Eumund nodded.
“We will turn their falsehoods against them,” Isenhart declared, turning to walk back. Followed by
his kinsmen, the jarl reached where Theodoric’s messenger awaited. “I have an answer to your
master.”
“Yes, my lord jarl?”
“Tell Jarl Theodstan that I agree to cease hostilities for now. I shall withdraw my troops from his
lands as a gesture of good faith,” Isenhart proclaimed, “and await further message from him regarding
how, where, and when we may negotiate further.”
“My lord will be pleased,” the emissary replied, giving a bow and leaving camp.
~~~~
Near sunset, a messenger arrived in Brand’s camp from Cragstan. He was immediately led to the
captain to deliver his message. “The jarl’s emissary was well received by Jarl Isarn,” the thane spoke.
“Isarn are withdrawing their forces, and my lord will soon begin discussions of a formal alliance with
Jarl Isarn.”
“Thank you,” Brand told him, and the thane left to return home. Meanwhile, Brand’s men crowded
around him.
“That’s fortunate,” Alaric declared. “We will avoid a needless battle.”
“It’ll not be that easy to convince Isarn to join forces with us,” Geberic muttered. “He’s more
stubborn than a mule. We could be here for a long while.”
“I did have an impression of Jarl Isarn as being particularly obstinate. Strange that he would agree
so easily,” Brand contemplated. “He made no demands of hostages from us or proof of our good
intent.” He narrowed his eyes, glancing around the camp. “Our position is not particularly defensible.”
“We chose it to be near water,” Glaukos reminded him. “We had no reason to expect fighting.”
“We still don’t,” Geberic added.
“If I were our enemy, I would have us thinking exactly that,” the captain told the others. “Gather
my lieutenants and men-at-arms. All of them.”
~~~~
Night fell. The moon was weak, and the sky was partly clouded. Conditions could scarcely have been
better for the soldiers of Isarn that moved quietly through the forest area. They halted as they reached
the clearing where the highlanders had made camp. Torches burned here and there, allowing the
guards some visibility in the dark night. Besides the occasional movements of the sentinels, the camp
was quiet.
Athelstan raised his hand, signalling to the men behind him to stop; they were at the edge of the
forest, and stepping forward into the open would reveal their presence. The commander glanced

384
southwards; east of his position, Athelbold was supposed to wait with his contingent of men, and to
the west, Isenhart and Eumund with theirs.
It was impossible to spot the other companies; Athelstan had no recourse but to wait until it was
safe to assume they had reached their position. Given that they were all moving slowly through a thick
forest at night, none of them familiar with the terrain, it was easy to imagine one of the contingents
getting lost or delayed.
Tension lay heavy on each soldier wearing Isarn’s surcoat; some had brought spears, and others
had chosen to bring only a sword for the close combat that would ensue. Gripping shields, they
breathed deeply in an attempt to stay calm before the coming bloodshed. None of them thought to
look anywhere but straight ahead at the camp.
It was past midnight when Athelstan finally gave the signal to advance. The first ten or twenty
paces, the Isarn soldiers attempted to maintain stealth; they were still at least fifty yards away from
camp when they were discovered.
“To arms!” “We’re under attack!” “To arms, to arms!”
From three sides the soldiers of Isarn roared forward, flooding the clearing with steel. As soon as
they reached the edge of camp, they met resistance. Rather than sleeping warriors, the camp was
prepared for their arrival; from every tent issued men and women clad for combat.
The men of Isarn were not only battle-hardened, but drilled like Order soldiers for fighting in
formation; the latter was unfortunately for them of no use under these circumstances. Battle was chaos
inside the camp with countless skirmishes erupting across the area, and the highlanders had the
advantage, fighting on familiar ground.
Brand stood in the centre of camp. While he wore armour and helmet, his sword was sheathed, and
no shield was strapped to his arm. Tonight, he was a captain, not a warrior, and he calmly surveyed
the battlefield as best he could. They had built a small podium that allowed him to gaze above the
tents. His sworn men surrounded the platform, and unlike their captain, their swords were ready. Even
though he was the youngest and least experienced member of this company, Matthew had been given
this honourable assignment too. Troy was there as well, clutching his lute and failing at keeping the
fear from showing on his face. Lastly, by Brand’s side stood also Brogan, captain of Theodstan’s
thanes.
“You were right,” he admitted brusquely. “I did not think Isarn so deceptive.” Several of
Theodoric’s best warriors were scattered throughout the camp, ensuring that veteran fighters were
present everywhere.
“War makes animals of all men,” Brand mumbled. “Connor,” he called out, gaining the attention
of a thane. “Take your company and reinforce the west.”
“Aye, milord! You heard the captain!” he roared with the last part addressed to his soldiers. They
spread out in a previously determined pattern, bolstering the defenders in the western part of camp.
Brand’s eyes did another sweep of the fighting. “It is time to end this. Sandar,” he called out.
“Send the signal.” Sandar nodded; the warrior was holding a torch, which he now used to light a big
fire nearby. The wood burned merrily, letting flames blossom swiftly and fiercely.
The sudden fire was easily spotted in the night, even among warriors hiding further inside the
forest. “Charge!” Glaukos yelled. Along with a hundred men, he dropped down from the tree branches
where they had been hiding. They rushed through the wood, reaching the clearing to attack the Isarn
soldiers in the back.
From another side, Alaric led a similar assault. The attackers became the defenders as their
ambush was ambushed. With the highlanders attacking them from behind, confusion reached its
climax, and any remaining semblance of order among Isarn’s warriors evaporated.

385
 Athelstan had retreated a few steps from the fighting, standing with a bloodied sword and seeking
to examine the battle. His limited field of vision hindered him; all he could see were men dying.
“Watch out!” a soldier shouted next to him. Athelstan swung around to find a screaming highlander
charging him. He let his shield deflect the incoming blow and struck back; his sword had little trouble
piercing the leather tunic protecting his attacker, who fell to the ground.
Others by his side had not reacted as quickly; several of the soldiers around him fell to this
surprise assault. Soon, Athelstan was engulfed in fighting. “It’s Athelstan!” someone yelled,
recognising him. The highlanders swarmed towards him; all of them had either fought at Cairn Donn
against him or lost relatives in that battle.
Pressed from all sides, Athelstan found himself surrounded by enemies and his situation most dire.
Regardless, he continued to fight coldly, calculated, and there was no trace of panic upon his face.
While his enemies had limited training and poor equipment, Athelstan was an experienced knight clad
in the strongest armour known in Adalmearc. Keeping his attackers at bay, the captain of Isarn’s
forces had the mental fortitude to locate his own troops fighting nearby. In a skilful dance, Athelstan
pushed his enemies back, outmanoeuvring them until he broke through their ranks and joined his own
men.
“With me!” Athelstan commanded. “Move as one! Shields together!” His presence and voice
brought clarity to the Isarn soldiers fighting in disarray. They closed ranks, protecting each other, and
moved to link up with other groups. Some of their brethren, who had been farthest ahead, retreated
from the camp to the safety of numbers; others tried but fell before they could get that far. “Retreat!”
Athelstan called out. “Orderly retreat! To me!”
Any who heard his command and could comply, did so; the remainder were surrounded inside the
camp, deserted by their comrades and struck down. On the other fronts, Isenhart and Athelbold
surmised the same as Athelstan had done; their nightly raid had been turned against them, and nothing
further could be gained. Only the dark woods held some promise of safety, and each of the Isarn
companies pulled back, cutting down the highlanders standing between them and the forest edge.
~~~~
It was morning when the army of Isarn returned to its temporary camp. The soldiers were exhausted,
and many of them suffered from injuries. This was not an excuse to be complacent, on the contrary;
guards were chosen among those unscathed, keeping a tight watch of the surroundings. Athelstan had
no intentions of being caught unawares twice in the same forest.
While the men saw to their wounds, the commanders of Isarn assembled to hold council. “How did
this happen?” growled Isenhart. Despite having fought and marched through the night, he showed no
sign of weariness; his rage kept him not only standing but pacing. “There must be a spy in our midst!”
“Or they did not believe us when we claimed we would retreat,” Athelstan remarked with a tired
voice. He stared out into the distance.
“It could have gone worse. They did not have the numbers to properly envelop us. We had losses,”
Athelbold told them, staring at each of the other men in turn, “but so did they.”
“We could not bring our dead back,” Eumund pointed out, “meaning we have given them valuable
armour and weapons. Our enemy is better equipped today than yesterday.”
“What if they told the truth?” Athelstan interjected. “What if Brand is alive and he is leading that
army?”
“Cousin, we have discussed this. It is irrelevant,” Athelbold reproached him.
“Everything I know about warfare, I taught him. He would have guessed my intentions and known
how to react,” Athelstan continued unabated.

386
 “If that brat is alive, I will see him dead,” Isenhart swore. “Without him, I would be sitting upon
the Dragon Throne in this very moment!” His exclamation made his brother whip his head around to
send him a disturbed look.
“It does not matter,” Eumund argued. “We have lost the element of surprise. We are exposed.”
“True,” Athelstan conceded. “The highlanders excel at fighting in this terrain with all the hills and
forests between us and Cragstan. It will be a slow push forward, giving Theodstan further time to
assemble his armies. We have to retreat.”
“Retreat?” The word burst from Isenhart with indignation. “Allow this highlander rabble to send
us scurrying home?”
“We will be caught between hammer and anvil,” Athelbold told the jarl. “While we fight step by
step to reach Cragstan, Vale’s army will begin to bite at our heels.”
Eumund nodded. “We must retreat until we know the full extent of what we face. We cannot tell
how many more of the highlanders will join that army.”
Isenhart looked as if his eyes would burst from his face; upon seeing all of his counsellors in
agreement, he became less agitated. “Very well. We will retreat. But one day, I will make every
highlander in Adalrik pay in blood for this night,” he swore with malice in his voice. His commanders
spoke nothing but simply dispersed to prepare the army to march.

387
 64. Promises
Cragstan
More than a week of restitution followed after the nightly assault. The highlanders rested, tended to
their injuries, and distributed the spoils of the battle among Brand’s adjutants. Sharp watch was kept
throughout the surrounding woods, but there were no further signs of the Isarn army; it had retreated
beyond Theodstan to lick its wounds. Brand personally went with the scouts, examining traces of the
enemy along with the land itself, deepening his understanding of the terrain as he had been taught to
do by Athelstan years ago. When he went back to camp, he was prepared to give battle in this area to
any army, whether Isarn or Vale.
Returning to the clearing, it was immediately obvious that something was wrong. Several of his
lieutenants came running towards him, clearly agitated. Brand dismounted from one of the few horses
available to the ragged army, sending them all a concerned look. “What is amiss?”
The warriors looked at each other. “You tell him, Gwen, you’re the one who found out.”
The woman cleared her throat; her hands were nervously playing with the rings on her Nordsteel
chain shirt. “The highlanders are deserting.”
“What?” Alarm flooded Brand’s face.
“A rumour is spreading, or maybe it’s true,” Gwen began to explain. “The rí ruirech has send word
to remind us that he alone may lead the tuatha to war. Anyone who follows you is in breach of the law
of the high lands. Any who does not immediately return will forfeit their land and livestock.”
As Gwen spoke, the colour faded from Brand until he looked sickly. “How many have left?”
“Hundreds and hundreds more. It started yesterday. Even now, people are packing,” Alaric
elaborated.
Brand hastened into camp with a frantic expression; everything around him confirmed the news.
Many tents were gone, and more were being pulled down; the foraged food along with what
Theodoric had sent as a gesture was being stuffed into sacks. “Stop!” Brand yelled. Those nearby
glanced at him, but none reacted otherwise.
“Captain,” Geberic spoke quietly as he approached, “it’s no use. We’ve been trying to convince
them since yesterday to at least wait until you returned. They won’t listen.”
“They can’t risk having their farms taken,” Gwen added. “Their families will starve come winter.”
“You can’t abandon us!” Brand exclaimed desperately. “We have only just begun!” The
highlanders paid him no heed.
They continued to leave throughout the day.
~~~~
When morning came, the sun shone on a near empty clearing. Fast was broken mostly in silence.
Brand did not eat but gazed at those who remained. All the men who had followed him into exile from
Adalrik were still present as were a handful of highlanders; most of them were either whiterobes or

388
people from Clan Lachlann. He did not speak while the meal lasted. Many sent him silent looks, but
all others were quiet as well. Finally, Brand rose.
“Geberic, Glaukos, Matthew, Nicholas, and Quentin,” he called out. “And Troy,” he added. As he
named them, they raised their eyes at the captain, and the remainder of those present followed suit.
“You followed me into exile from Adalrik. Do you follow me now?”
“Aye, milord,” Geberic confirmed. The others nodded and voiced their agreement.
“Alaric, you and your fellow thanes. Do you follow me still?”
“Yes, milord,” they all hastened to say.
“Brother Caradoc. You and your fellow priests choose to remain?”
“We serve our god by being here. What does the command of a king matter to us?” smiled the
whiterobe.
“Lord Doran. You and those of your túath are still here?”
“Yes, my lord. We assume my father will not be punishing anyone from Lachlann as long as I am
here,” the young man grinned.
“Any chickens I had left have long since been pilfered anyway,” Gwen remarked with a shrug.
“You’re our clansman.”
“Aye!” The remaining highlanders shouted in unison.
Brand gave a smile that seemed born of both mirth and sorrow. “In that case, I will not abandon
hope.” He glanced around. “But we cannot remain here in this open position. We need walls around
us, should Isarn return. Gather anything worth bringing along. We go to Cragstan today.” The
warriors set to work immediately, and once the camp had been scoured, they began their march
towards the city. All in all, they numbered around fifty.
~~~~
The city guards spotted them from a distance, alerting the keep. Thus, when Brand and his people
entered the courtyard, Theodoric stood waiting for them. “I heard,” the jarl muttered with a low voice.
“Are these all that remain?”
“They are,” Brand replied, turning to look back at them. “Few in number, but hearts stronger than
a thousand men.”
“I would rather have the thousand men,” Theodoric remarked. “At least this few will not be a
burden to feed. You may stay at the Crag until you decide what to do next. Should Isenhart march
against me, I will have use of you and your warriors.”
“Of course,” Brand nodded.
“Do not expect me to march against him or Vale, for that matter,” the jarl continued; he spoke
quietly that only Brand might hear. “My army alone is no match for either of them. I warned you of
this.”
“You did,” Brand acknowledged. “I will not demand that you cast yourself against stronger foes.
But a respite behind your walls will be welcome. I need to consider my next move.”
“As do I,” Theodoric admitted. “I stand isolated. Before, I assumed Isarn and Vale would be too
busy fighting each other to spare me a second thought, but now… Isenhart is a vengeful man.”
“For what it is worth, I am grieved at what I have cost you,” Brand told the jarl. “I have done you
wrong.”
Theodoric sent him a surprised look. “Words I did not expect. Yet I will not hold you to blame,”
he admitted reluctantly. “I should have stood by your side, not only at the last Adalthing but also the
year before. Much would have been different.”

389
 “Enough of such speech,” Brand declared with an encouraging voice. “We will get lost, dwelling
on the past. Tomorrow is another day.”
Theodoric seemed disinclined to agree, but he spoke no reply; he merely gestured for Brand and
his people to enter the keep itself.
~~~~
Several days passed without notable events when one fine morning, Nicholas and Quentin ventured
just beyond the city gate to practice their archery. Jesting with some of the guards that left the
gatehouse to watch their craft, it took a while before any noticed a retinue of horsemen moving swiftly
along the Kingsroad; soon, they rode up the hill upon which the city lay, coming close enough that
their colours could be identified. Their cloaks were red, showing them as servants to a jarl; the other
hue upon their surcoats was gold.
No less than twenty-one men rode into Cragstan, of whom twenty were thanes to Jarl Vale. As the
company entered the courtyard of the keep, they all dismounted, and stable hands hurried to take care
of the exhausted mounts. Only then could the steward of the keep identify who rode at the head of this
column.
“Lord Konstans,” he exclaimed with a stutter.
“Where is your master? I seek an audience with him at once,” declared the dragonlord of Adalrik.
“Of course, milord,” the steward managed to reply, bowing deeply.
~~~~
An hour later, Theodoric left his study with Konstans still inside. The jarl walked down the corridor
and entered another room where Brand sat waiting. “What does he want?”
“He has heard of Isenhart’s failed attack,” Theodoric explained. “He assumes, quite rightly, that
there is now outright enmity between me and Isarn. He offers the protection of his forces, should
Isenhart attack again, in exchange for my aid.”
Brand gave a slow nod. “I suppose it was inevitable. You have made an enemy of one side, forcing
you to join the other. At least that is how he reasons.”
“He is right,” Theodoric admitted. “Isenhart sees me as a threat, and I have too few men to resist
him in the long run. Taking Cragstan may be too costly for him, but he can freely ravage and plunder
my lands. Unless I have a strong ally to deter him.” The last sentence was spoken cautiously.
“I would be hesitant to trust Lord Konstans,” Brand warned him. “You saw his power and ruthless
ability to use it at the Adalthing just a few months ago. From nothing, he conjured up accusations
against me and evidence to match. I went from commander of the Order’s armies to a prisoner slated
for execution, all upon his word.”
“Believe me,” Theodoric impressed upon him, “I know fully the extent to which Konstans may
manipulate events. When he showed up here, I was half-tempted to have him thrown in chains.”
“I would not stop you,” Brand remarked.
“But he has willingly walked into the dragon’s den because he knows I cannot hurt him. I already
have Isarn against me. If I make Vale my enemy as well, all of Theodstan will pay a heavy price.” The
nobleman swallowed, glancing at Brand. “My ancestors were jarls when yours were kings, Lord
Adalbrand. I will not be the last of my line.”
“Are you prepared to let your soldiers die in service to Vale?” Brand asked sharply.
“Surprisingly, he does not demand that. Vale intends to use mercenaries to win this war. Quite
right,” Theodoric granted. “Peasant levies will not defeat Athelstan.”
“I could,” Brand proclaimed fiercely, “as I already have.”

390
 The jarl raised a hand in a disarming gesture. “I am aware. That does not mean I can refuse Vale.
He asks only for provisions and fifteen crowns a year while this war continues,” he explained. “In
return, my people may remain home, and Vale’s mercenaries will defend my jarldom should it be
necessary.”
“How can you trust Vale would risk his army? If Isarn invades, what guarantee do you have that
your gold has bought anything but empty promises?”
“If Isarn plunders Theodstan, he will take the very supplies that are promised to Vale.
Furthermore,” Theodoric continued, “I will not pay the gold until next year. Vale is desperate for
allies,” the jarl considered. “His offer is reasonable by any means.” He took a deep breath. “I cannot
say no to this.”
Brand sat silent for a while. “You have a duty as a jarl to protect your jarldom. If I have not
overstepped the bonds of any friendship that may rest between us, I would only ask one last request of
you.”
“Yes?”
Brand took a deep breath. “Set a final condition. Lord Konstans must repeal the doom upon me
and see me reinstated as a knight.”
Theodoric frowned. “That is unusual to demand.”
“It is my last hope. I am an outlaw, my lord jarl, exiled from the land that I have fought to protect.
At least as a knight, I will have honour and dignity, not to mention purpose.”
The jarl nodded slowly. “I will make this demand on your behalf. But Konstans is shrewd. He is
bound to realise this means there is a bond between us. Perhaps he will even guess that you are in this
very castle, in this very hour.”
“Then let us not pretend. I will go with you and state my case to him directly,” Brand suggested.
“That is a bold move.”
“Victory is oft won by boldness alone. If hiding my presence is impossible, let us not attempt it.”
Theodoric’s face was warped in thought for a moment. “Very well. Come with me.”
As the door to the jarl’s study opened, Konstans gave it an idle look; when he saw Brand walk
through it, he rose to his feet with an astonished expression. “You!”
“Lord Konstans,” Brand greeted him with curt politeness.
“There is an addition to our negotiations,” Theodoric pointed out.
“You harbour an outlaw, my lord jarl,” the dragonlord stated, staring at Theodoric.
“That is in itself not a crime. While Lord Adalbrand is in Theodstan, he is under my protection.”
“As you wish,” Konstans conceded. “How does this affect our agreement?”
“I have a final condition,” Theodoric explained. “You must rescind the death sentence hanging
over Lord Adalbrand and see him reinstated as a knight of the Order.”
Konstans sent Brand a discerning look, eventually sitting down. “That is no small request.”
“Nor is it unjust,” interjected Brand. “I led the Order to numerous victories. I have earned my
golden spurs.”
Theodoric raised a hand in a gesture to calm Brand, but Konstans did not seem perturbed. “I will
be forthright with you. I have no interest in seeing you on the scaffold in Middanhal.”
Both the other men in the room looked at him with doubt. “That is not the impression I received
last we met.”
“Executing dragonborns is not very popular. We all saw how Captain Berimund reacted,”
Konstans stated dryly. “Besides, with the death of both princes Hardmar and Gerhard, the public
killing of another atheling will only cause further instability in the realm. I do not seek your death,
Lord Adalbrand.”

391
 “Do you accept my condition, in that case?” asked Theodoric.
Konstans shook his head. “It is not that simple. Your guilt was decided by the Adalthing,” he
spoke, addressing Brand. “A king may show clemency, but I am only the dragonlord. The Adalthing
would accuse me of abusing my power if I disregarded its verdict and did as I pleased.”
Brand stared straight at him. “Given that they dance to your tune, I find that hard to believe.”
Theodoric cleared his throat, looking at Brand, but Konstans did not seem to take offence. “I am
getting restless looking at you two standing up,” the dragonlord claimed. He gestured towards the
empty chairs. Hesitantly, the other men in the room sat down. “Better,” Konstans smiled. “Here is my
suggestion. The Adalthing is only weeks away. You may present your case, asking for your crimes to
be forgiven.”
“I have committed no crime!” Brand exclaimed, gripping the arm rests of his chair tightly. “I
deserve to have my honour restored in full, not to beg for mercy!”
“It does not matter what you deserve, Lord Adalbrand,” Konstans told him calmly. “There would
have to be a new trial against you, but there would be no new evidence or witnesses to bring forward.”
“You could be a witness,” Brand argued. “Say you were wrong and that I am innocent.”
“And damage my own prestige irreparably? Let us remember who is asking whom for a favour,”
Konstans spoke while raising a finger. “You have greater need of us, Jarl Theodoric, than we have of
you. I am already overlooking that you are harbouring a convicted traitor against the Crown. I am
willing to pledge my brother’s support in the Adalthing to have your guilt forgiven, Lord Adalbrand,
and that is as far as I will go.”
“That seems a vague pledge.” Brand leaned back with crossed arms.
“Jarl Ingmond hates you, Lord Adalbrand, which is entirely your own doing. Many of the
landgraves may feel the same. With my brother’s margraves and Jarl Theodoric’s, you have most of
the support you need in the Adalthing. But I will not make promises,” Konstans specified. “You have
a cunning ally,” he continued, nodding towards Theodoric. “If you cannot gain the remaining ten
votes, do not blame me for the animosity that you have inspired in the Adalthing.”
“Adalbrand,” Theodoric spoke quietly, “he has a point. You should remain here at Cragstan in
safety. I will speak to the Adalthing on your behalf and see your spurs restored.”
“I am to cower like a wolf trapped in its den while my fate is decided by other men?” Brand asked
angrily, standing up.
Konstans gazed up at him. “Again, I remind you of your negotiating position. You have nothing to
offer in return. I do this simply as a gesture of good will towards the jarl.” He nodded towards
Theodoric.
“A fine gesture that holds no real guarantees,” Brand almost sneered. “Give me another guarantee,
and I will acquiesce.”
“Adalbrand,” Theodoric spoke in warning.
“I admit, your audacity amuses as much as it astounds me,” Konstans spoke. “Go on.”
“I want your written guarantee, signed and sealed as dragonlord, that I will be allowed to depart
Adalrik in peace to seek my fortunes elsewhere. Regardless of whether the Adalthing restores me to
my knighthood or not.”
“Adalbrand, you ask too much,” the jarl protested, standing up to stare Brand directly into his face.
“If Lord Konstans truly does not seek my head, it is of no consequence to promise,” Brand
responded sharply, meeting Theodoric’s gaze.
“The landfrid will hold sway soon,” Konstans mentioned, looking up at the other two men.
“Outlaw or not, as atheling you will be protected until the Adalthing ends.”

392
 “After which you will have free reins to hunt me down,” Brand pointed out. “I want safe passage
out of Adalrik after the Adalthing ends. Or,” he added slowly, “I will seek out Jarl Isarn and offer him
my services. I will cross the Weolcans again if I must, bringing steel and death to all of Vale!”
“Adalbrand!” Theodoric yelled sharply.
Konstans sat silent, staring at Brand. “Very well,” he finally agreed. “I have my seal with me to
sign the treaty with the jarl. It is no matter to write a guarantee that you may depart this realm
unharmed. But,” he added, standing up, “any such promise will not protect you in the event of your
return to Adalrik. Nor will your status as dragonborn.”
“Fine.”
“Furthermore,” Konstans continued, looking at Theodoric. “It will be twenty crowns a year that
you will pay, not fifteen. All that you have demanded of me, including the lack of respect I have been
shown in this room, has a price.”
The jarl took a deep breath. “Agreed.” Even as he spoke, he looked upon Brand with indignation.
Konstans broke into a smile. “Excellent. Swift negotiations are always preferable to me. If you
have ink and parchment brought, we can have it all written, signed, and sealed immediately. The
sooner I can return to Middanhal, the better. I must prepare for the upcoming Adalthing. As must you,
I surmise.”
Within the hour, Konstans and his thanes left Cragstan. In his possession, he carried a treaty
between Vale and Theodstan, stating the terms of their alliance until the end of Isarn’s rebellion.
Behind him, he left a written promise that Adalbrand of House Arnling would have safe passage to
leave Adalrik throughout the summer of the year one thousand ninety-eight.

393
 65. Allies
Southern Theodstan
Theodoric departed a few days after Konstans had done so. As the dragonlord had predicted, time was
suddenly pressing the jarl; the Adalthing was about three weeks away, and Theodoric had a vote to
win that would require nearly all the southern landgraves swayed to his side. It was time for favours to
be returned or granted, promises made or kept, and vows exchanged or renewed.
Brand and his men stayed behind. While the landfrid offered protection for any member of the
Adalthing for two weeks before solstice, he was not going to arrive early, tempting fate or repeating
his previous experience when travelling to the assembly. With Theodoric’s permission, Brand was
delaying his departure as long as possible.
Because of this, the young captain was still at Cragstan when Geberic entered his room after
knocking. “This is going to sound strange no matter what,” the greybeard admitted, scratching his
neck.
“What is it?”
“That spy from Hæthiod is here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Godfrey, he calls himself. Given his nature, probably one out of many names.” Geberic scowled
at the mention of such villainous behaviour.
Various expressions flowed across Brand’s face. “Send him in.”
Godfrey entered immediately before Geberic could even fetch him. “Well met,” he smiled.
Geberic’s scowl only deepened.
“Leave us,” Brand commanded.
“Milord,” came the objection.
“Leave us.”
With a final grumble and growl against Godfrey, Geberic departed. The wanderer stepped further
inside to sit down on the bed. “Things are quite a mess, I hear.”
Brand sank into a chair. “I am not sure if you know the full story, but matters can only be worse
than you imagine.”
“I believe I know everything. Septimus told me of your escape from Middanhal, and – other
sources have informed me of your deal with Lord Konstans.”
Brand sent him a disbelieving look. “How could you possibly know? And so soon?”
Godfrey gave an overbearing smile. “If you think a conversation between the dragonlord and a jarl
can be kept secret, you have much to learn.”
“I do,” Brand admitted. “Part of me wants to burst into the Adalthing and demand each of those
snivelling cowards to beg my forgiveness, or I will do my utmost to see them all hang.
Unfortunately,” he continued, “I must instead remain silent while Jarl Theodoric speaks on my behalf,
begging them to forgive me for crimes I never committed.”

394
 “At least you have learned to listen to the second of those two voices,” Godfrey encouraged him.
“Not an easy feat.” Brand gave him a closer look. “I have a memory vague in my mind, as if it
happened in earliest childhood and not a few months ago. Tell me, I ask you ardently, what did I see
below the Temple?”
Godfrey gazed back tight-lipped. “Matters we should not speak of.”
“I dream of a tree,” Brand explained. “When I wake up, there is a moment where I think I see it.
Ash tree, with branches that move though no wind sways them.”
Godfrey let out a long sigh. “Septimus was wrong to inflict this upon you. Suffice to say, the
Temple harbours a secret. It is my task above all to safeguard it. Whether you want to or not, you have
been recruited for the same purpose.” He motioned towards the sword of sea-steel that still hung by
Brand’s side. “That was not lent to you lightly.”
Brand glanced downwards surprised, as if only noticing the weapon now. “I will be honest. I have
not had occasion to use it once.”
“Perhaps that makes you worthy of it after all,” Godfrey considered. “When I heard that Septimus
had both shown you the antechamber and lent you that blade, I am not sure what made me angrier.”
Brand stared at him intently. “I thought at first that you served the Highfather. Now I suspect it is
reverse.”
“There is hope for you yet,” Godfrey remarked dryly. He took a deep breath. “I came here for a
specific reason. The siege of Lakon has been lifted.”
“How so?” asked Brand sharply.
“A relief force of outlanders arrived from the Reach. Sir William withdrew the Order forces along
with the dalemen.”
“They did not lose a battle?”
“No.”
Brand let out a small sigh of relief. “At least the army is intact.”
“I have to return to the Reach,” Godfrey told him. “Matters are complicated beyond explanation,
but I believe we have a chance to strike against the outlanders and their Godking.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“You are smart enough to know.”
Brand glanced at the empty wall. “You want me to return to Hæthiod. To fight the outlanders.”
“There are plenty of men in this world who can swing a sword. I need you to command the fight.”
“Am I to risk my life for men who would see the executioner’s axe on my neck?”
“Yes,” Godfrey told him sternly. “No different than every soldier in that army, risking his life to
protect all the peoples of the realms. When he lies dying on the battlefield, do you think his name is
known by any of them?” His voice grew fierce. “Do you think he will be remembered? What makes
you so special compared to every man that serves under you?”
Brand sat silent. “Every answer I come up with seems like folly,” he finally admitted.
Godfrey exhaled deeply. “I cannot force you. In the end, the choice is yours. But you were born
for this, Adalbrand.” He stared directly at the young captain. “I believe this whole-heartedly.”
His companion returned the gaze. “Call me Brand.” He gave a weak smile. “I have grown so used
to it, being called Adalbrand makes my hair bristle.”
Godfrey smiled back. “Very well.” He paused for a moment. “The choice is yours. Unless you
object, I will travel with you back to Middanhal. While I need to hasten south soon, I will stay in the
city until the Adalthing has convened.”
“Of course,” Brand nodded. “We leave in a few days, once the landfrid has begun.”

395
 ~~~~
As decided, some fifty people departed Cragstan barely two weeks before solstice and the gathering of
the Adalthing; with a leisurely pace, they would arrive shortly before the assembly. For the most part,
the company suffered from a subdued mood; the exception to this were the whiterobes, whose cheer
seemed indestructible.
“One thing that bothers me,” one priest mentioned, “is the colour of our robes. It is the least
practical colour for doing anything, especially fighting!”
“True point,” someone else conceded. “I spent half a day after the battle trying to get rid of these
blood stains. Those Isarn boys may not fight well, but damn me to Hel if they don’t bleed well!”
Raucous laughter followed.
“Maybe Hamaring prefers it this way,” Caradoc mused. “A priest whose robe is always clean is a
priest who never does an honest day’s work,” he put forth.
“What you’re saying is that the best sacrifice you can give Hamaring are the stains on your robe,”
another brother argued.
“There is some truth in that,” Caradoc acknowledged.
“That must be why they call you Caradoc Dirtsark behind your back,” came the witty reply.
“Listen to this court jester!” Caradoc growled. “The stitches on his bear are barely done,” he
murmured, referring to the emblem upon the whiterobe’s chest, “and already this cub is challenging
his elders!”
“If we don’t put our strength to the test, do we truly possess it?” came the ponderous answer.
“True,” Caradoc conceded. “Tonight, I’ll test my hammer against your face.” His words were met
with good-natured laughter.
~~~~
The company moved on foot; while Theodoric had offered to lend Brand some horses, the latter had
declined, resolving that he would walk same as his warriors. For the most part, his thanes formed a
circle around Brand, walking at the head of the column; as they drew close to Middanhal, Brand
dismissed them from his presence and bade Godfrey join him instead.
“What is on your mind?” asked Godfrey as he caught up to Brand.
Brand stared at the white walls and towers in the far distance. “If I am to commit myself to the
campaign in Hæthiod, I want to understand why. This sword by my side, for instance.” He touched the
hilt hanging by his waist. “You know its origin. You know what it was meant to protect. I would not
be surprised if you even knew who placed it there, ages ago.”
“You may be right about all those things. Or maybe I am just a traveller, grown a bit touched from
solitude,” Godfrey suggested with half a smile.
Brand gestured towards Middanhal ahead. “What lies underneath the Temple? What are we all
risking our lives to defend?”
Godfrey took a deep breath. “I cannot say, for I have not the words. How would you explain
moonlight to a blind man?”
“Is that what we all are? Blind men, stumbling around in the dark?”
Godfrey laughed briefly. “That is often how I feel.” He grew serious once more. “There is a Song
being sung, Brand, and if it were to stop, the consequences would be disastrous. That is the best way I
can describe it.”
Brand waited a while before answering. “Very well. I will let that satisfy me. There is something
else,” he continued. “You strike me as a man capable of keeping a secret.”

396
 “That is a fair assessment,” Godfrey admitted with a wry expression.
“I cannot tell any of my men. Or Gwen,” Brand added with a faint smile. “I would simply be
putting the burden on them, not to mention undermine their confidence in me.”
“What troubles you?”
Brand exhaled deeply. “I have made so many mistakes. I fled this city earlier this year, and now I
am marching back because I have run out of options.”
“I have known other people in worse straits than you, my friend.”
“But this is my own doing,” Brand continued. “The king of Heohlond warned me, and I was too
arrogant to listen.”
“You met with King Brión?”
“I did. Do you know him as well?”
“Only by name. He is a clever man, I am told,” Godfrey related.
“He is,” Brand admitted. “He knew I was blinded by pride. I paid him no heed when I should have
tried to make him my ally, and in return, he took my army from me with but a word.”
“I heard.”
“I did the same with Jarl Isarn,” Brand confessed. “When I guessed he came to attack our camp,
my only thought was how to punish him for it. I drove him into retreat. If I had made it plain I knew
of his intent, he would not have attacked. We would have come to terms rather than fighting.”
“Or perhaps not. Jarl Isenhart is a tempestuous man, Brand.”
“As if this was not bad enough, I all but forced Jarl Theodoric to abandon my cause as well,
having lost all other allies.” Brand gave a prolonged sigh. “My fate rests in the hands of others,
because my own have let everything slip.”
“You have made one clever move,” his companion pointed out.
“Which is?”
“You have made an ally of me.” Godfrey let his smile linger as they continued on their march.

397
 66. Home
Middanhal
Even war could not subdue the festivities of summer solstice; Middanhal was packed with people. In
the days preceding, hefty bartering and bribing had taken place among the Red Hawks between those
desperate to be off guard duty and those eager to profit on the former. His purse considerably lighter,
Jorund was among the Hawks leaving the Citadel on the morning of Summer Day. He was not
wearing his surcoat with its red hawk nor weapons or chain shirt, but a fine cotton tunic instead
underneath a light cloak.
Leaving the southern courtyard, he moved west to reach the quarter squeezed in between the
Citadel and the mountain of Valmark. Smithies and workshops lay here for the most part, many of
them supplying the Order with equipment. The neighbourhood had another peculiarity; most of its
residents were Dwarves. At a glance, they might easily be mistaken for Men; only the gold or silver
ring that all of them wore in one ear set them apart.
As Jorund moved among them, he was greeted happily by most of the residents, whether Dwarves
or Men; today was a day of feast for all. He returned their well-wishes fondly, passing through the
main streets until he reached his destination.
It was the largest house in the neighbourhood and resembled a guildhall in structure and size. It
had the distinction of being the only building owned by Dwarves in Middanhal; they were otherwise
forbidden from owning property, but royal dispensation had been obtained in this particular case.
Above the big door were carved the runes that few but Dwarves still used as letters; they proclaimed
this the dwelling of the dvalinn. Walking up the stairs, Jorund knocked on the door.
A Dwarf opened. “What do you want?”
“Summer’s greeting to you on this day, Brother,” Jorund spoke politely.
“Summer’s greetings,” the servant replied.
“I am Jorund of Dvaros,” he explained. “I have no kin in Middanhal to celebrate the solstice with,
and so I have come seeking the hospitality of the dvalinn.”
The other Dwarf sent him a measuring look, from his cotton tunic to the golden ring in his ear.
“Step inside, and we’ll have a look at you,” the servant finally said, stepping back to allow Jorund
entry. “Let’s see them, then.”
Jorund unclasped his cloak, let it fall to the floor, and pulled off his tunic afterwards. His bare
chest was revealed to contain numerous runes drawn into the skin, which the servant quickly
examined, tracing his finger over the lines. “Very well, Jorund of Dvaros, son of Hákon, born to
Gunna, I will announce you to the dvalinn. Wait here.”
Jorund gave a nod and put his tunic back on as the servant left. Picking up his cloak and folding it,
he spent some time looking at the parlour. It was richly decorated with carvings and ornaments
everywhere, much in the style of the temples to Hamaring. Runes were interspersed with figures, both
telling the stories of dvalinns past.

398
 “He will see you now,” the servant declared, interrupting Jorund’s ruminations. The latter
followed the former from the parlour, passing into the main hall of the building.
It had one long table with numerous chairs; servants were flitting about, preparing for the feast. In
the far end stood a few Dwarves that were not occupied with this task; their rich clothing also
distinguished them. The doorman approached them with Jorund in tow.
“Master,” he spoke, gaining the attention of the others. “This is Jorund of Dvaros, come to seek
your hospitality.”
The dvalinn glanced at him. “Your name has been confirmed, I am told. Master Jorund, welcome
to my hall.”
When he was addressed, Jorund made a deep bow. “My lord dvalinn,” he spoke in greeting. “I am
honoured to stand in your presence.”
“Dvaros is far from here, but you are welcome among your kind in Middanhal,” spoke the lord of
the hall.
“My thanks,” Jorund replied. “I should not wish to spend this celebration apart from my brethren.”
Another Dwarf standing by the dvalinn sent Jorund an inspecting look. “What brings you here? It
is unusual to see a Dwarf arrive without having family or friends in the city.”
The answer came with slight hesitation. “I serve in the company of Red Hawks. I have spent the
last years in the lands surrounding the Mydlonde Sea.”
A superior look came over the dvalinn’s advisor. “You have sold your service, in other words.”
“I have seen the world,” Jorund retorted, “experienced wonders and even brought a few of them
with me back. Such as this.” From a pocket, he withdrew a small bundle. Unwrapping it, he revealed a
yellow gemstone inside. “This is a topaz. It is rare in the realms, even in the South, and they jealously
guard the secret of its origin. I was told there is an island in a sea far from here, which is the only
source of it.” Jorund extended the gem with a small bow. “A token of my respect, my lord dvalinn.”
The lord accepted the precious stone with one hand, stroking his finely combed beard with the
other. “Your respect is deep-felt, Master Jorund. Be welcome tonight at my table.”
The Hawk gave a final bow. “My thanks, my lord dvalinn. I shall see you tonight.”
~~~~
On solstice day, there was no toll for entering the city. Many took advantage of this, and heavy traffic
into Middanhal was always to be expected. Even so, the arrival of Brand and his retinue drew
attention. Several of the Order soldiers manning the northern gate recognised him; some even saluted
him. None attempted to hinder his passage; the landfrid was in effect, protecting every member of the
Adalthing. As it did not extend to those in his following, the former kingthanes now sworn to his
service hid their faces under hoods; none of them were interested in being recognised.
Walking east from the gate, they reached the nobles’ quarter in Middanhal, passing magnificent
and opulent mansions. At length, they reached the family home of House Arnling. The gate was open;
inside, the place was bustling with activity by men in green surcoats, unloading crates from carts.
Looking around in disbelief, Brand moved forward until he was noticed. “Outsiders not allowed,”
a brusque Red Hawk shouted at them. “Get out of here!”
Brand stared him down. “You are standing in my house,” he proclaimed. “You will remove
yourself, good master, or be forcibly removed.”
The Hawks began clustering around their comrade while Brand’s men similarly flanked around
their captain. “You’re the condemned prisoner who fled,” one of them guessed. “And stupid enough to
come back.” Several of them hefted their weapons ready.

399
 “I am under the protection of the landfrid,” Brand declared. “That means to attack me until the
Adalthing has convened is to attack the Adalthing itself. You will all hang if you so much as spill one
drop of my blood.”
“You’re trying to evict us from our quarters,” a Hawk pointed out. “We’re just defending
ourselves, as is our right.”
“You’re willing to fight rather than vacate my home?” Brand questioned.
“I don’t think you have more numbers than us,” someone claimed. “You want us to leave, you
make us.”
“Consider this. There are many places in the city where you might quarter. But this is my only
home,” the young nobleman declared. “I was born in this house, as was my father before me. I have
far more reason to fight for this place than any of you.” Behind him, his thanes stood ready; the
whiterobes held their weapons with a grin.
“Enough.” A Hawk appeared from the back. “This isn’t worth spilling blood over. We’ll get
assigned new quarters. Pack up your things and leave.”
“We just finished unloading half the carts,” someone complained.
“Quiet,” the same Hawk commanded. “Tell your men to be at ease,” he requested of Brand.
“Solstice is no day for fighting.”
“I will agree to that.” Brand gestured to his warriors, who relaxed and put their weapons away.
Meanwhile, the Hawks began to gather their belongings.
“Too bad. I was curious what kind of fight these red birds put up,” Caradoc remarked prosaically.
“Glaukos.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Find my sister at the Citadel. Escort her here when she is ready to join us,” Brand instructed him.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Alaric, take your men and watch the Hawks as they leave. Make sure they leave behind anything
that is not theirs.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Brother Caradoc?”
“Yes?”
“If I recall, one of your brothers is an apt cook.”
“True, more than one of them have a gift in that regard.”
“Good. See what food can be gathered. Today is solstice, and we should celebrate as best we can.”
“Aye!”
~~~~
Kate entered the tower, carrying an assortment of cakes and fruits. “I just got what I could find,” she
told Egil.
“That’s fine. Master Quill will enjoy any of that,” the apprentice replied.
“Are you sure? He doesn’t seem to enjoy anything these days.”
“He always likes solstice,” Egil declared firmly. He went over and knocked on Quill’s chamber
door. “Master? The tournament will begin soon. Kate and I were thinking we should go watch it
together.” There was no reply. After knocking again, he opened the door to find Quill lying on his
bed.
“I am sorry, Egil,” the scribe said. “I do not feel well.”
“We have oatcakes,” his apprentice mentioned. “Some cherries too, and raspberries.”

400
 “That sounds delightful,” Quill admitted, taking a deep breath. “But I think the crowds will be a bit
too much for me.”
Kate appeared in the doorframe. “We could just stay here. Food tastes the same whether we eat it
here or there.”
“That’s a good idea,” Egil added. “We’ll just eat over by the table.”
Quill looked at them both. Finally, he got up. “I suppose that’s fine with me.”
They moved to sit at the table, and Kate arranged the food she had brought with her from the
kitchen. “Just take anything you would like, master,” Kate told him.
Egil cleared his throat. “Kate, didn’t you tell me you wanted to start reading this book?” He
grabbed one that lay on the table and held it towards her.
“Do not touch the books if you are eating,” Quill admonished them.
“I didn’t –” Kate cut her sentence short as she caught Egil’s facial expressions, encouraging her.
“Right.” She got up and moved away from the food on the table, opening on the first page. Taking a
deep breath, she began to read aloud.
With Kate’s attention on the book and Egil’s attention on her, Quill slowly reached out with bent
fingers to pick up a berry. His hold on it shook a little, but neither of the children seemed to notice
him; with a quick motion, he managed to reach his mouth with his fingers, feeding himself. With a
satisfied expression, though he kept his eyes away from Quill, Egil took hold of an oatcake and began
eating.
~~~~
At the Arnling estate, it took the Hawks more than an hour to clear out. Brand’s men set to work as
soon as they could, making the house ready for a celebration. It turned out that Henry, the old steward,
was still present; the Hawks had kept him to act as their servant. Now, he was allowed to return to his
former role if only for a short while. Directing their efforts, Henry had the dining hall cleaned and
prepared for guests.
It was this sight that met Arndis when she arrived at her home, accompanied by Eleanor, their
handmaidens, and Glaukos. “I will find the captain,” the latter promised, disappearing deeper into the
house.
“I have never been to your house,” Eleanor remarked. “I scarcely knew you had one.”
“I lived here all my life until last year when we came to court,” Arndis related.
“Did you never consider leaving the Citadel and come back here? There must have been times that
you felt unsafe in the castle, I imagine.”
“I suppose,” Arndis contemplated. “But the thought never entered my mind.” She let her glance
move over the entrance hall. “This place was slowly suffocating me. I will never live under such
confining circumstances again.”
“Arndis!” exclaimed a voice. As she recognised its owner, the lady broke into a smile. Soon after,
she was embraced tightly by powerful arms.
“I am so happy to see you,” she whispered to her brother.
“No more than I am upon seeing you,” Brand claimed. He let the embrace linger before finally
pulling back. “And you do not come alone.”
“You remember my friend, Eleanor.”
“Of course.” Brand gave a small bow.
“Lord Adalbrand.” She returned his courtesy.
“I believe I told you to call me Brand.” He smiled before gesturing to their handmaidens. “Be at
ease. Your mistresses are well attended. Go as you please and enjoy the evening.” They did as he bade

401
them, one with a shy smile and the other with a bashful face. Brand meanwhile took Arndis and
Eleanor under one arm each. “Come! There are some who will be happy to see you, and others I am
anxious you should meet.”
“Brother, what of everything that has transpired? How did you escape Middanhal, and where have
you been all these weeks? How come you have returned?” Arndis enquired with an anxious voice.
Brand laughed. “All in good time. There will be occasion to tell you everything tonight. We shall
have a feast with a meal fit for my band of heroes. Troy shall play his songs, and I suspect the
whiterobes will be making merriment as well.”
“Whiterobes?” questioned Eleanor. “Lord Adalbrand, what is this band you travel with?”
“You shall see,” he smiled. “First, Sister, you should meet Gwen.” As he called her name, the
highlander turned and approached them.
“This is her, I reckon,” Gwen uttered.
“It is. Arndis, this is Gwen, our kinswoman from Mother’s clan,” Brand introduced her.
They gazed at each other. Arndis was dressed exquisitely with a tasteful selection of jewellery to
emphasise her natural beauty; Gwen was wearing armour, her sword hung by her side, and her hair
was cut sensibly short.
Arndis broke into a smile. “What a lovely surprise!” she exclaimed. She reached out to clasp
Gwen’s hands. “I had no idea any of Mother’s family remained. We wrote to Heohlond but received
only disheartening news.”
“I was away,” Gwen mumbled, looking down to see Arndis’ slender hands grasp her own. “Now
I’ve come here instead.”
“Splendid idea,” Arndis smiled. “You must sit with us and tell us everything about Mother’s
family while we eat.”
“If you wish,” Gwen muttered.
“Tonight will be the best solstice celebration this house has known,” Brand declared. His men
yelled their agreement from the different rooms of the building.
~~~~
It was late afternoon when Jorund returned to the dvalinn’s hall. He was dressed as before, though he
had added silver rings to his hair, keeping it neat. Pulled back in a tight ponytail, his missing left ear
was starkly visible. It drew some stares, but as most he met were Dwarves, all viewed him with
sympathy; stories of brigands stealing earrings from Dwarves were a common way for mothers to
make their children behave.
The doorman let Jorund in without a word, taking his cloak and beckoning for him to enter and
join the other Dwarves already busy in conversation. The feast hall itself was ready; banners depicting
the many houses of the Dwarves hung on all the walls. Jorund stepped up to one that showed an axe
wreathed in flames.
“House Fireaxe,” spoke the dvalinn, who had stepped up to stand next to Jorund.
“My lord dvalinn.” Jorund greeted him with a small bow.
“Your house?” asked the lord, nodding towards the banner.
“Indeed. Though I am not of the dvalinn’s lineage if that was what you meant,” Jorund clarified.
“It does not matter. Tonight, we are all one house,” the dvalinn declared graciously. “Come, take
your seat by my side, and tell us of our kindred in Dvaros.”
Jorund did as bid, and soon after, food and drink were served in copious amounts. Seated at the
dvalinn’s right hand, the newcomer had a place of honour; opposite him at the dvalinn’s left hand sat
the latter’s advisor. “What was your name, stranger?” asked the dvalinn’s counsellor.

402
 “Jorund of Dvaros, at the service of your house. To whom do I speak?”
“I am Ragni, born in Middanhal, where I have lived all my life,” he spoke pointedly. “I count the
first dvalinn of House Starkstone among my ancestors.” He gestured towards the banner that hung
behind the present dvalinn’s chair, depicting a tower. “But you have not only left Dvaros,” Ragni
continued. “You have ventured far and abroad.” His words were not spoken in compliment.
“Dvaros is a great city,” Jorund replied, pouring leek soup into his bowl. “Especially for any of our
people with a hankering towards stonework. But as with anywhere else, complacency lurks on its
streets, sinking its hooks into any Dwarf. I am but forty years old, yet I have more deeds to my name
than any of my kinsmen who remained behind.”
“Deeds performed for the sake of Men,” Ragni added with a scoff.
“Tonight, we will sing,” Jorund began to speak. “All over the realms, our people will leave their
home, singing of what was lost and what we hope to regain.” He stared at the counsellor. “Staying
indoors means you will miss the celebration.”
“Peace,” declared the dvalinn, who hitherto had been helping himself to the many courses. “Eat,
my fellows! The day is waning. Flush your throats with ale and wine,” he commanded with a jolly
expression. “Soon, the song shall begin.”
~~~~
Godfrey lay on his back atop the highest tower in the Citadel, staring up at the sky. Despite guards
constantly patrolling, he remained undetected. As the sun set, the first stars began appearing. “How
fortunate you are,” he muttered. “Regardless of what happens here, you remain far removed.
Sometimes,” he admitted, “I long to be like you. Other times, I know I could never accept such a lot.”
In the distance, singing reached his ears. With sunset, the Dwarves had begun their song. Slowly
they moved out from their houses, joining each other on the street to let their singing entwine. They
sang of loss with deep voices, enough to stir the heart to sorrow; they sang of hope with rising voices,
enough to spur the spirit to joy. Godfrey stood up, looking over the edge to see them in the distance.
Next solstice, the Dwarves sang, they would be home.
“You and me both, I hope,” Godfrey whispered.

403
 67. Kingmaker
Middanhal
Next morning, Brand went to the Citadel, accompanied by his sister and a few protectors. Not only the
guards stared; so did all the nobility with their retinue, arriving to participate in the Adalthing as well.
Brand paid them no heed but strode inside and located Theodoric’s quarters. The jarl greeted them
with a strained smile. “I have done my best,” he declared. Holwyn was present as well, standing
withdrawn. She exchanged looks with Arndis, but neither spoke.
“What are my chances?” asked Brand bluntly.
“You have mine and Valerian’s voices,” Theodoric considered. “Many of the southern landgraves
will follow him out of habit. I have spoken to everyone that I thought might be doubtful or susceptible
to Ingmond’s influence.”
“He is actively working against me?”
“He will not rest until you are dead, I imagine. Fortunately,” Theodoric continued, “he does not
have nearly the pull that Valerian does. I am hoping that combined with my efforts, enough will have
joined our side.”
Brand gave a nod. “Very well. Let us to it.”
They began walking towards the chamber of the Adalthing. “Brand,” Arndis spoke as she put her
arm in his, “what will you do if your sentence is not lifted?”
“I will have to leave Adalrik.” Brand exhaled slowly. “I think I know what lies ahead of me, but
the decision is not easy.”
“Are you sure Lord Konstans will honour his word? What if this was a trap to lure you into his
grasp?” asked Arndis worried.
“He signed a written promise and sealed it. It is as good as law,” Brand reassured her. “It is too
late to alter course regardless. My only concern in this moment is for you, and what will happen if I
am made an outlaw once more.”
“You need not worry. I have coin hidden away and friends to aid me,” Arndis reassured him. “I
can take care of myself.”
“I am glad that is the case for at least one of us. I will see you after the assembly,” he added as
they had to part ways; Arndis went to the balcony reserved for spectators, while Brand followed
Theodoric into the hall itself.
Slowly, the chamber filled with people. Noblemen and their attendants, the priestess of Disfara for
the ritual, and finally Quill. When the latter saw Brand, he lit up in a smile, but he kept some distance
between them and his hands inside his sleeves. “I am relieved you are unharmed,” the law keeper
related.
“Not as much as I am,” Brand jested. “I am pleased to see you back in your rightful place. I was
told of what happened.”

404
 “Just some temporary discomfort,” Quill claimed, coughing slightly. “No matter what happens
today, Brand, I am glad I got to see you again.”
“As am I.”
As the last to appear, Prince Inghard entered to sit upon the throne; Konstans walked right behind
him and took up position by his side. Quill, meanwhile, moved to stand near the middle of the hall and
begin the ceremony to open the Adalthing.
Once the rites had been observed, the dragonlord stepped forward to speak. “Once again, we meet
to discuss matters of the realm and seek peaceful resolution to issues that could otherwise lead to
strife. This chamber is the greatest safeguard to the stability and protection of Adalrik,” he declared,
“and a symbol of our unity.”
“Hear, hear!” Many of the noblemen, especially from the southern part, let their agreement be
known.
“In that spirit, I am honoured to announce the betrothal between my son, Konstantine of Vale, and
the lady Gunhild of House Hardling.” Further applause filled the hall.
“And so the noose is tightened,” Theodoric muttered under his breath.
“We begin with a matter debated at the last Adalthing,” Konstans continued. “Adalbrand of House
Arnling was deemed guilty of high treason and condemned to death. You all know what happened, so
I see no reason to dwell on it.” A few in the crowd dared to smile at this. “The jarl of Theodstan has
come before this assembly to request clemency on behalf of the condemned. I will let the jarl speak.”
Theodoric stepped forward from the cluster of his margraves. “Thank you, Lord Konstans. It is my
firm belief that Lord Adalbrand does not deserve death nor exile. Last year, I crossed the Weolcan
Mountains by his side. I fought with him at the battle of Bradon. After this, he went to fight the
outlanders on behalf of the Order, driving them from Tothmor and Polisals. My lords, do we reward
such service with death? How can we ask our knights to fight for us and for Adalmearc?”
Theodoric let his gaze move over the crowd. “Not only our realm, but all the Seven Realms
depend on the Order for peace and protection. Lord Adalbrand is the greatest commander to emerge in
our lifetime, and we have need of knights like him more than ever! Enemies threaten from beyond and
within, and we throw our greatest weapon away? History will judge us, my lords, and judge us
poorly.” Finished, he turned to give a bow to the prince and stepped back.
“I will speak!” demanded Ingmond. The jarl had been alternating his stare between Brand and
Theodoric during the latter’s speech.
“Of course,” Konstans granted, gesturing towards the space in the middle containing the statue of
Disfara.
“This oath breaker has been stripped of rank,” Ingmond spoke venomously. “His sword has been
broken. Only the intervention of other despicable oath breakers saved him from the scaffold. All of
Middanhal saw this traitor escape his just punishment, and we are to reward this? We are to show
every knight in service to the Order that oath breakers can be forgiven, and adherence to the Codex is
merely a jest?” the jarl sneered. “There is a doom, not upon this disgraced knight but upon this realm,”
he claimed with a loud voice. “Its name is divine vengeance, and it hangs over our heads until we
rectify this injustice! Only the traitor’s blood may wash it away.”
Theodoric stepped forward quickly. “I grant you that blood is of importance. Lord Adalbrand
shares the same ancestor as the man we would elevate to the highest seat in Adalmearc.” He glanced
at the young Inghard. “Executing the dragonborn, spilling the blood of Sigvard in a public square
undermines the very fabric of our realm.”
“To Hel with Sigvard’s blood!” yelled Ingmond, receiving shocked and outraged looks from most
others.

405
 “Enough,” Konstans declared. “You have both been allowed to speak. We should continue with
the counting,” he proclaimed, looking at Quill.
“I should like to speak.” Brand stepped forward, causing murmur among the crowd.
“By all means,” Konstans assented with a superior smile. “I am eager to hear.”
“My lords,” Brand spoke in a clear voice. “My prince,” he continued, inclining his head towards
Inghard. “My friends,” he added, glancing at Quill and towards the balcony at his sister and those few
of his men present. “I have committed errors of judgement in the past. I will not deny it. But it is the
future, not the past, that brings me before you today. The outlanders have raised the siege of Lakon, as
I assume most of you know. They are not petty raiders or simply organised brigands. They are an
army, bent on conquest. Less than half a year ago, all of Hæthiod was under their control. We drove
them back, but now they have returned.”
Brand paused, letting his words sink in. “Do not presume that they will settle for Hæthiod. The
armies that the Order faces are too numerous. Korndale will be next, or Ingmond.” He looked at the
jarl, who stared back fiercely. “After Ingmond, all of southern Adalrik lies open. One day, my lords,
they will stand before the gates of Middanhal.” He took a deep breath and walked up to the statue of
Disfara, placing his hand on the hem of the goddess’ dress. “Restore my freedom and my rank, my
lords, and I swear to you that I shall drive the outlanders from Adalmearc. I will pursue them into the
Reach. I will end this threat once and for all, as a knight of Adal fighting for Adal.”
Some of the lords reacted with silence, some with whispers, and a few with open disdain. “Very
well,” Konstans declared. “It is time we let our voices be heard. Master Quill.”
The law keeper nodded and took position. “My lords, you have been asked whether the Adalthing
should grant clemency to Adalbrand of House Arnling, lifting the death sentence upon him. Thirty-
five voices must speak in his favour. Lord Raymond, how do you speak?”
The jarl strode forward. “I speak against mercy of any kind,” he growled. His margraves followed
him.
“Lord Valerian?”
The jarl of Vale took his place by the statue. “I speak in favour of the condemned,” Valerian
declared.
“That is seventeen votes,” Arndis whispered anxiously to Eleanor.
“Lord Theodoric?”
“I am in favour of clemency.”
“Twenty-five,” Eleanor counted. “Only ten more are needed.”
One by one, Quill addressed the remaining members. One by one, they walked forward to touch
the statue of Disfara and let their voice be known.
“I am against clemency.”
“I speak against.”
“I hold with the original verdict.”
“Let his sentence be carried out.”
“No mercy for traitors.”
“I stand against him.”
“Let the oath breaker die.”
Only a few of the noblemen spoke against their peers. When the last had spoken, Quill cleared his
throat. “The Adalthing does not speak with one voice. The request to pardon Adalbrand of House
Arnling is rejected.” His hands shook slightly, and he hid them again inside his sleeves again.
Konstans moved forward. “We must obey the will of the Adalthing. Even so, I have heard Jarl
Theodstan’s words that the public execution of a kinsman to our prince, however remote their kinship,

406
would be an ill sign. Therefore, I ameliorate the sentence upon the condemned from death to exile. Let
him depart from our realm and cause no further disturbance.” After this magnanimous declaration,
Konstans sent Brand a condescending smile.
Some nodded in agreement with this while others were dissatisfied; as for Brand, he broke from
the crowd. “So be it,” he spoke. “Regardless, I shall do as I have declared. With or without you, I will
see Hæthiod free and the Reach burn. By the Seven and Eighth, I swear it.” Walking tall, he strode out
of the hall.
~~~~
While the Adalthing continued discussing other matters, Brand walked with a furious pace through the
hallways. He pushed a door open and strode onto the parapet, breathing heavily of the fresh air. The
city spread before his gaze, but he paid it little heed, staring upwards at the sky. There was a faint
touch of rain falling.
“I am sorry. You deserved better.” Behind Brand, Godfrey approached.
Still staring ahead, Brand exhaled and placed his hands on the crenellations in front of him. “I
knew to expect this. Still, somehow I thought that they would see reason. That all I had done would
yield some manner of good will towards me.”
Godfrey walked up to stand beside him. “Children are born on the streets of almost every city I
have been to. Their lives are gone before they ever had the chance to do anything to deserve such a
fate.” He gave a mirthless smile. “In a grim twist of irony, the only cities where such would not
happen are those under the rule of the Godking.”
“The Godking,” Brand repeated. “I have marched against him before, but last I had the Order and
an army. Now, I have nothing.”
“You are not alone in this,” Godfrey told him. “You have more friends than you realise.”
“Not in Middanhal.”
Godfrey cleared his throat. “I heard you assembled an army of highlanders and brought them to
Adalrik. I imagine your intention was to defeat those usurping power in Middanhal. Exactly like Arn
did.”
“I confess that is the truth.”
Godfrey turned his head to look at Brand. “But Sigvard took up arms against the outlanders. It was
him who led your people to victory in the Great War.”
Brand returned his gaze. “I never knew it was the outlanders that Sigvard fought.”
Godfrey gave a slow nod. “Of your two illustrious ancestors, it is not Arn but Sigvard that I see in
you.”
Brand let out a deep breath. “Flattery,” he spoke in accusation.
Godfrey allowed a wry smile to show. “Whatever it takes.”
“It is not needed. I already declared my intentions, and I will not retreat.” Brand straightened his
back. “To Hæthiod once more, and the Reach beyond.”
“Do not be discouraged,” his companion added. “The path may look the same, but you tread upon
it a new man.”
“I prefer how it was last year,” the young man said with a joyless smile, “when I had an army.”
“You will assemble another. One that follows you, not your rank,” Godfrey pointed out.
“Let us hope it is enough.”
~~~~

407
Leaving the walls, Brand went to his sister’s quarters at the Citadel. He found her together with
Geberic. “There you are, milord,” the latter exclaimed relieved. “Glaukos went after you, but I just
realise that he doesn’t know the castle. He’s probably lost somewhere in the dungeons by now.”
“Brand,” Arndis spoke gently, “are you well?”
“Yes. I need to tell my people. They should have a few days to prepare if they wish to follow me
to the Reach.”
“You intend to go through with this?” his sister asked.
“I do. I am exiled from Adalrik,” Brand reminded her. “I cannot stay here. But in Hæthiod and
beyond, there is much I can accomplish.”
“Very well. I have matters to attend to as well before you leave,” Arndis declared. “I will come by
the house tonight, and we may dine together.”
“As you wish,” Brand acquiesced, looking a touch confused. His sister gave him a quick kiss on
the cheek and left the room. “Do you know where she is going?” he asked Geberic.
The man-at-arms shrugged. “You’re asking a man of my age, who has never been married, what
goes on inside the mind of a woman? Might as well ask a harlot what’s it like to be a norn.”
“Let us find Glaukos and be on our way,” Brand declared. Before he set into motion, he turned to
look at his companion. “Geberic, you were a sworn thane to the jarl of Theodstan.”
“Now that’s something I am familiar with,” the greybeard snorted.
“Why did you leave his service?” Brand stared at him. “Asking to be released from your vow, it
cannot have been easy.”
“The hardest thing I’ve ever done, probably,” Geberic confessed. “I saw you, milord, when we
crossed the mountains, when we fought at Bradon and at Cudrican. I saw you command.”
“That was it?”
“How could I go back to serving a jarl after knowing how it is to serve a king?”
Brand gave a faint smile. “Let us go. We are pressed for time.”
~~~~
When the Adalthing finally concluded, Theodoric retreated to his quarters, dismissing his attendants;
only Holwyn remained. “Not what we hoped for,” she remarked.
“It was a fool’s errand. I should have known Konstans would not have allowed it. Even worse, he
made me waste my time negotiating with the landgraves and made me pay for the privilege,”
Theodoric exclaimed bitterly.
“You think that was simply his goal? To increase your yearly payment for his protection?”
Holwyn asked.
“I think he saw a quick opportunity to strengthen his position and weaken mine. If I pay those
extra gold crowns to him, I cannot spend them on defending Theodstan.”
“Hoarding gold sounds more like his brother, but I see your reasoning.”
“Valerian has become as much a pawn as any of us. Did you hear Konstans’ announcement?”
“Concerning his son and Lady Gunhild?”
Theodoric nodded. “His grandchildren will be dragonborn. Something that none of our previous
kings would ever have allowed. Not to mention, two princes are dead, and the third is fastened to
strings pulled by Konstans. He is the kingmaker of this realm, make no mistake.”
“What will we do?”
The jarl took a deep breath and exhaled. “We will return to Theodstan and ride this storm out. This
war that engulfs us, all this strife, it is far from over.”

408
 68. What the Future Holds
Middanhal
The day after the Adalthing, Nicholas was in Lowtown. He was wearing the finest clothes that he
could get hold of on short notice. The sleeves were a bit too long, and the weave was slightly tattered
in places; other than that, he looked grander than he ever had before in his life. By his side stood
Ellen, wearing her mother’s best dress. They were in the yard of her father’s tavern; the man himself
stood behind, sniffing and wiping his eyes. Quentin and a few others from Brand’s followers stood
scattered along with some neighbours to act as witnesses, though the locals kept their distance from
Nicholas’ armed friends; a couple of hens, a cow, and a pig were also watching with disinterest.
Lastly, a geolrobe was present, conducting the ceremony.
“As these threads are entwined, so your lives become one. Stronger together than apart,” the priest
proclaimed, tying the strings around the couple’s wrists together.
“I can’t believe it,” Quentin mumbled. “Nicholas, a married man.”
“I cannot believe he wanted us present,” Glaukos remarked.
“Me, it’s obvious. I’m his best mate. As for you, it’s because you’re one of the few other heathmen
in our company. Don’t flatter yourself,” Quentin said pointedly.
Glaukos looked around the small yard in which the wedding was taking place between haystacks
and animal pens. “I would never dare to presume.”
“Congratulations!” shouted the father of the bride, making the Hæthians turn their attention back
on the couple. The ceremony was over, and Nicholas and Ellen had turned around to receive the
felicitations of their guests.
“Thank you, Master Gilbert,” Nicholas smiled, as his father-in-law shook his hand vigorously.
“You look just like your ma,” sniffed the tavern keeper, embracing his daughter afterwards.
“The boys and I scraped some coin together for this,” Quentin mumbled. He held an elongated
item in his hands, wrapped in cloth. With Glaukos’ help, the fabric was removed to reveal a statuette
of Austre. It was exquisitely carved in wood and depicted her wearing a green dress while pulling
back her bowstring with an arrow at the ready. “We figured she’d be happy to keep an archer like you
safe. And it’ll remind Ellen of you until you’re home,” he explained awkwardly, looking away.
“It’s marvellous,” Nicholas declared with an admiring voice while Ellen planted kisses on their
cheeks.
“You’re welcome,” Quentin muttered.
“Brother Caradoc offered to make one,” Glaukos added, “but we had a feeling Austre would end
up a lot more muscular and wielding a hammer instead of a bow.”
“Glaukos made a jest, and we haven’t even served the ale yet!” Nicholas exclaimed in wonder.
“Time to remedy that! Pa, our guests are thirsty!” Ellen called to her father.
“At once, at once!” Soon, food and drink were served, and the celebration continued throughout
the day.

409
 ~~~~
The day before Brand’s departure, his sister went to their family home once again. She found his band
busy with their preparations, though all had time to stop and greet her courteously. “Do not let me
interrupt. I simply seek my brother,” she told them.
“He is in the library, milady,” a thane pointed out.
“Much obliged.” She sent the soldier a smile and continued inwards into the house.
The library at the estate of House Arnling was mostly called so out of tradition. Its shelves were
empty, as over the years, the books had been sold. Brand stood in the middle of the room; at the sound
of footfall, he turned. “Sister,” he smiled.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just curious. I might never see this place again,” Brand explained, glancing around. “It was never
home to me for long, but I feel reluctance to leave nonetheless.”
“You will see it again,” Arndis promised him. “It will be here when you get back.”
He reached out to touch her shoulder affectionately. “You always tend to be right.”
She untied a small bag by her belt. “Until then, you will have need of this.”
“Coin? Arndis, you should keep your silver. You will have plenty of need for it.”
“It is not silver.”
With a doubtful face, Brand took the bag. Pouring some of its content into his hand, his expression
turned to amazement upon seeing gold. “Arndis, there is a small fortune in crowns here!”
“I know. I put it there myself,” she remarked.
“How?”
“I invested the spoils of your victories over Isarn. The same after the battles in Hæthiod, though
those investments are still tied up in goods. Also, I have retained a small sum,” Arndis elaborated.
“While the civil war drags on, tin prices will plummet. I intend to buy as much as I can when prices
are lowest. Once Isarn has been defeated and trade to Vidrevi is re-established, our coin should have
doubled many times over.”
Brand stared at her impressed. “I was going to ask if you wanted to join me in Hæthiod. I am sure
the queen will welcome you at her court along with Eleanor, but I see now that would be a waste of
your gifts.”
“My business affairs necessitate that I am in Middanhal, but I appreciate your thought,” she told
him. She nodded towards the gold in his hands. “I realise it is limited how many soldiers this can
equip, but in time, I can send more.” She closed his hands around the coins. “Use it, Brand. Prove
them all wrong. Let them know that House Arnling still stands tall.”
“I will. If it kills me, by the Seven and Eighth, I will.”
“Good. Though do try to stay alive. I prefer you that way.”
He gave a faint smile. “I will do my best.”
~~~~
Konstans sat in the dragonlord’s study, watching a Red Hawk pacing around the room. “I wasn’t
warned that the jarl was a madman,” Jerome complained. He had been in hiding ever since returning
from Isarn’s camp. “He cut down the prince without a second thought, right in front of my eyes!”
“You complain a lot for a man who not only escaped unharmed, but also made a sizeable amount
of coin,” Konstans remarked. On the desk between them lay a small bag with a handful of gold
crowns inside. “You did not even have to touch the prince yourself, Isenhart did the task for you.
Easiest coin you have ever made.” He motioned towards the gold.

410
 Jerome finally stopped, eyeing the bag. “I suppose. Just as well. The other Hawks don’t trust me
anymore. They think I was off on some pleasant journey while they were fighting, and I can’t tell
them the truth now, can I.”
“No,” Konstans replied pointedly. “You cannot.”
“At least this is enough to get me started somewhere else.” Jerome grabbed the bag and tied it to
his belt.
“What if I had another task for you? One that pays double of what you just received.”
Jerome hesitated. “Gold is no use to a dead man.”
“With what you have, you can lead a comfortable existence, I am sure. But with three times the
amount of coin,” Konstans argued, “you will have servants, horses, fine clothes, and all your desires. I
will even have my brother elevate you to the rank of beorn.”
“That’s possible?” Jerome frowned.
“For the lord protector? Of course.”
Jerome swallowed. “What’s the task?”
“You know of Adalbrand? The disgraced knight.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He is going on a campaign in Hæthiod. Even the Reach, he claims,” Konstans explained with
contempt.
“And he’s a problem for your lordship?”
“He is. Thankfully, war is dangerous. I do not want there to be any possibility that he ever returns
to Adalrik.”
Jerome licked his lips. “And when I come back with the news that he never will?”
“The gold is yours.”
“It shall be done,” Jerome promised. He gave a short bow and left.
From a neighbouring room, Konstans’ wife appeared. “Let us hope this finally settles the question
of this upstart crow,” she sneered. “He has been a thorn in our side for too long.”
“I doubt the name Adalbrand will trouble us further,” her husband spoke calmly.
“All this could have been avoided if you had not granted him safe passage,” Mathilde reproached
him. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“It secured our alliance with Theodstan. We needed allies,” Konstans explained. “We lost our
strongest ally when Duke Belvoir died, and thanks to the rebellion by his son, the Order will not be
receiving any reinforcements from Ealond either. Not to mention, Adalbrand was under Theodoric’s
protection. Had I refused, the little worm would have slunk back to Heohlond in hiding. This smoked
him out. We know where he is going, and now, we also know he will not be returning.”
“I suppose,” Mathilde relented. “The sooner it is done, the better. If he wins any more victories, he
will only become a greater danger to us.”
“I doubt he will have any success,” Konstans remarked dismissively. “The Order army will not
follow a disgraced knight, and there is enmity between him and Prince Flavius, meaning that the
soldiers of Korndale will not follow him either. Adalbrand is little more than a brigand with a band of
outlaws.”
“Very well. As for the other matter you asked me about,” Mathilde continued. “I will have to
return to Valcaster.”
“You cannot ask any of the sibyls here?”
She gave an overbearing smile. “They are not fond of remedies to ensure only sons are conceived.
Being all women, I suppose they feel threatened.”

411
 “I thought it was a sibyl in Valcaster who gave you that same remedy before you became pregnant
with Konstantine.”
She shook her head. “No, just a wise woman that one of my handmaidens knew. I will have to
consult the same woman. If she is still alive after all these years.”
“Very well. You should go soon, so you will be back in time for the wedding.”
“I will. And once Konstantine has a son with the Hardling girl,” Mathilde considered, “what do we
do with Inghard?”
“Nothing for now. Our position is precarious as it is. Let a few years pass without murder,” he
snorted. “Once Konstantine and Gunhild has a son, and we are sure the boy is strong and healthy, we
can consider removing Inghard. Sigvard’s dynasty has ruled for a thousand years – I will make certain
ours last for ten thousand,” he swore.
His wife smiled, bowing down to kiss him. “Have I mentioned how handsome you are?”
“Power does that to a man,” he replied, throwing his arms around her to return the kiss forcefully.
~~~~
The next morning heralded the day of departure for Brand and those choosing to follow him. As the
rumours spread, volunteers had showed up to join his campaign, swelling his numbers to at least
double. The final addition came just as Brand’s column was about to leave the Arnling estate; several
carts loaded with supplies and equipment drove up, guarded by Order soldiers and led by a knight.
“Sir Fionn!” Brand exclaimed as the knight dismounted. They clasped each other’s arm.
“Still in time, I see,” the warrior replied with a grin. “I come with the blessings of both Captain
Theobald and the quartermaster,” he explained. “They both want to see the war in Hæthiod come to a
successful conclusion.”
“I never had a chance before to thank you,” Brand told him earnestly. “You took a risk that night
at the walls, seeing me to safety. I owe you.”
“Nonsense. One knight protects another,” Fionn spoke gruffly. “Now you can win this war, Sir
Adalbrand, and I will be happy to help.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Brand turned to look over his shoulder. “Geberic, make sure these carts find
a place in our train.” He raised his voice. “We are moving out!”
“Aye, captain! You heard him, move!” Slowly, the cortege set into motion.
~~~~
Returning from market, Egil entered the library and placed his purchases on the table; most of it was
food of different kinds along with a wineskin. “Master Quill, I am back,” he called out.
“Good, good,” the scribe responded. “Will you pour a cup for me? I feel a little uneasy.”
“Of course, master,” Egil replied, doing as he was bid.
Quill took a deep draught. “Much better,” he sighed. “Boy, I forgot,” he continued. “I have not
added the decisions of the Adalthing to the annals.”
“You told me yesterday. I prepared the book,” Egil explained, pointing towards the scriptorium.
“Good. You are a good lad, Egil,” Quill told him. “I just need to rest, and I will take care of it.”
With a hand that slightly shook, the librarian put the cup away and went to his room.
Egil watched him leave. Once the chamber door closed, the apprentice went to the scriptorium. By
one of the writing desks, an enormous tome lay open. One page was already filled with letters while
the other was blank. Egil moved over to sit down in front of the book. Grabbing the nearby feather
pen, he dipped it in ink and let any superfluous fluid drain away. Taking a deep breath, he placed the
tip against the empty page and began writing.

412
 Appendices

Sigvarðarmál
Hear now all with heart to understand
The tale of boldest man to breathe
Hear what by his hand alone was wrought
Great deed begets but honour great
And makes name immortal.

Sigvard, bold and brave was born in days

When oft the crows would feed in full
From this cause while yet un-bearded boy
Came many an occasion grim
To prove future valour.

War, the first and greatest of its kind

A strife with every sword left wet
Spears uncounted breaking shield and guard
And watering the fields in blood
With harvest to wither.

Years of strife had gripped with fearsome strength

The tribes of North and those who held
Bonds of trust with island dwellers tall
The people of the riverlands
From southern fields dark-eyed.

Kinship not by blood but strength of steel

Had bound the swords from north of clouds
With the spears of water and the vale
Those late to fray yet proved to be
Their brothers in arms true.

Yet in spite of weapon bond thus strong

Ill wind of fortune stronger was
Swords and spears of West with valour fought
Inflicting heavy loss on foes
But suffering worse still.

413
 Though the bravest men of East took heart
And broke their bonds of thraldom deep
All their arrows added in high flight
And gained to cause of northern lords
The field was still foe-held.

Home and dwelling one by one would fall

The brooks no longer freely flowed
Field and forest burned to bitter ash
A wasteland made where nothing grows
Deep South made a desert.

Black of soul, the Enemy stood strong

His armies massed for final war
Bringing end to raven’s cry for blood
And all men brought to heel at last
A yoke on the Northmen.

Long the hill of holy tree had stood

Surrounded by both sword and spear
Guarded and kept safe by valour strong
That evil would not ash defile
A sight to make sun weep.

Vigilant had been this watch of old

But endless horde now stood arrayed
Northmen few thus yielded eastern mark
And saw the hostile standards raised
On Wyrmpeak and further.

Still the watch was held on sacred hill

With banners of the North and West
Raised atop the vault of Hamaring
The mountain that once fair was named
But Valmark is now called.

From uncounted islands fair they came

The men of Dvaros, heroes all
Proven warriors with scars from old
On steeds of wood to war they rode
Their names we owe honour.

414
 Ragnar, tall as pine with strength of bear
Sons Ródmund brave and Róar young
Germund broad and Granmar of his kin
The sword-arm Agmund, bowman Arn,
And bold Eirik Wyrmbane.

Riverlands and vale did not stand deaf

The call to arms that came from North
‘Cross the brook and stream they willing heard
Their spears were raised on Valmark high
With names we remember.

Ademar the rider unsurpassed

And William, axe of keenest edge
Robert, fleet of foot and fair of voice
Valerius of valley deep
To call they gave answer.

While the eastern mark abandoned was

Not all defenders had been lost
Every bow of yew that still could bend
Was raised by strongest hearts possessed
These valiant wards few.

Alexander called the eagle eye

Next Agenor for courage known
Philip, tamer of the horses swift
Leander and his brother George
Who scorned wounds to fight both.

Last to name but first in honour true

With greatest might, the brothers twain
Alfmod, dancing fury in his steel
And Alfbrand, strength of sword from deep
Unequalled by gods high.

These and others came from forestlands

Whose hearts were not by terror swayed
So they stood defiant all and proud
The swords of sea with count of four
The princes of woods green.

415
 Glorious were banners flying tall
Assembled arms of allied strength
Such shall never while this world remains
Be seen by men though thousand years
Should pass to ignite war.

Yet the Enemy had gathered host

To match the numbers of the North
Even though they stood as one on field
Including lords of forest green
The brothers of blade song.

More than steel would meet the heroes bold

Not only sword and spear but worse
Dreadful beast of flame and deathly jaws
The drakes of old in numbers thrice
Would battle our forbears.

Eve before the fateful fray approached

Bold Sigvard felt in heart despair
Who could stand against such might arrayed
The Enemy had brought to bear
To end the war endless.

Legend told of ancient might asleep

Beneath the spire of Wyrmpeak tall
With no other hope to stir his heart
The hero chose to seek this out
With thought of tide turning.

Silver tear of heaven hid that night

No light upon strong Sigvard shone
Thus concealed he strode through hostile camp
Great Rihimil held ward on path
The god kept him shielded.

Thus while danger him surrounded oft

The Dragonheart unharmed went forth
Neither watch nor sentinel him saw
When climbing mountain foe-beset
The first test of valour.

416
Reaching river stream on Wyrmpeak coarse
Mihtea flowing swiftly blue
Sigvard followed waters through the night
Until his boot left print on snow
The place to make crossing.

Finally he was at journey’s end

Before him loomed the dark descent
Sigvard did not hesitate at this
But boldly stepped into the cave
That held his desire deep.

Now he came to face with strength of old

The eldest might that roamed the world
Power that would cause the gods to pause
Such dwelt within the mountain tall
Its very roots trembled.

Battle now ensued between the two

The hero and the ancient wyrm
Strength of sword and courage above all
Was put to test by fiendish foe
And long the two duelled.

Even Austre had but once such seen

When Rihimil the Blessed against
Blackest snake before the dawn of time
Was locked in combat for an age
Mankind’s great protector.

Sun had risen high and driven stars

Away to exile past the rain
When at last emerging he unscathed
The victor claiming as his prize
The strength of fell dragon.

While the hero fought on Wyrmpeak spire

Below the steel now sang in clash
Lords of North and forest felled by foes
As ill the winds of battle blew
Defeat soon to follow.

417
 None could stand against the dragons three
Though many made the bold attempt
All in vain to fight such dreaded beast
That scorned the swords and spears of men
Their scales strong as armour.

Only two had ever fought the drakes

And lived beyond such fateful day
Eirik, known as Wyrmbane for his deed
And Alfmod, fearsome to behold
Unleashing his fury.

Both the man and forest lord strode forth

And each their dreadful foe attacked
Neither held same favour as before
The strands of fate do not weave twice
Repeating their pattern.

Eirik sought to spill the venom blood

That courses through a dragon’s vein
As he struck, the wyrm took blow with scorn
Then crushed the hero with its jaws
And tore him to pieces.

Still his death they mourn on island sea

And tell of how he met his end
Eirik, mightiest of mortal men
And strongest axe of woman born
By wyrm fell the Wyrmbane.

Alfmod fought another dragon vile

And seemed at first to fare with luck
Grasping blade with wrath he deeply struck
And forth the dragon blood did flow
A wound to slay lesser.

But the forest lord had chosen ill

And stood against too strong a foe
Poison poured from wound like river swift
And thereby sapped the hero’s strength
While breath had his foe still.

418
Claws like steel against bold Alfmod struck
And ripped his mail as it were cloth
Death was nigh, but did not get its due
For Alfrik pulled his son away
And paid with his lifeblood.

Sigvard this beheld upon return

And lingered not to interfere
Strength of Wyrmpeak fighting on his side
One aim the hero had alone
Defeat turned to conquest.

Dragons three against the hero stood

But Sigvard’s might soon stronger proved
Scale and flesh and flame asunder torn
Their fire cold and made to ash
The price of betrayal.

Victory at last now seemed in sight

Until another joined the fray
Tall and grim, the warrior most fell
An Enemy of northern men
And lords of the forest.

Dark of arms and armour, dark of soul

The demon vile strode forth and slew
Scores of forest lords with morningstar
And wielding blade in other hand
To equal, grim slaughter.

Alfbrand’s brother and his father dear

Were crushed as were they brittle steel
Some the Enemy would cleave in twain
Like logs to build a fireplace
And northern lords fared same.

Ragnar fell with both his sons by side

And Robert, seeing falling friend
Rushed to Ragnar, finding only death
His head from neck was torn apart
And Phillip his fate shared.

419
 Fortune’s fickle wind now seemed to change
Bold Sigvard spent from fighting wyrm
Men were felled like grain before the scythe
The strong no safer than the weak
A river of lifeblood.

Yet the strands of fate had chosen one

To stand his ground and battle give
Alfbrand, prince among the forest lords
And known as Bladesinger of old
His skill with sword peerless.

None may sing and tell of duel true

That now began between the two
Fated since before the dawn of time
Too great for words the giants’ fight
A dance against darkness.

Yet despite such bonds on minstrel skill

That lesser leave bereft of words
Sing we must and honour show to him
Who held his ground where others fled
Unequal in courage.

Rihimil himself with Alfbrand stood

As all the hallowed Seven did
Swift as wind and strong as oaken tree
His blade to Enemy was bane
A song to make blood flow.

Morningstar and sword from hands both fell

With last of breath came anguished scream
Freezing blood and bone of all that heard
Their fear in vain for nothing more
Could threaten the Northmen.

Drake and wyrm and serpent slain on field

And eyes of master closed as well
Armies bent on conquest turned to flight
Their shields and banners thrown aside
With gain of dishonour.

420
 Grim defeat with bitter taste of death
By deed and strength averted was
Sigvard spurred the men into pursuit
And many were the foes they felled
And dyed the grass crimson.

All to Sigvard bowed and spoke as one

Henceforth the Dragon of the North
Evermore he should be known to them
With crown and fealty freely his
From every man present.

Friendship with the forest lords renewed

Confirming bonds and kinship old
Always lasting while the sun would shine
And Sigvard’s line with honour rule
As king to all Northmen.

End was found to Battle of the Peaks

The Enemy great was sent to sleep
All his might and strength were made to naught
And nevermore shall he then wake
The ward of blood Sigvard’s.

All with ear and heart to understand

The tale of hero bold you know
What his hand alone of men have done
The deed for which we give him praise
His name thus immortal.

421
 The Nobility and People of Adalrik
The Dragonborn
The House of Adal
King Sighelm of Adalrik, high king of Adalmearc. Died in his sleep in the year one thousand ninety-
seven. Called ‘the King of Grief’ in the last ten years of his reign after the death of his son and due to
his orders of brutal repression against rebel highlanders.
Prince Sigmar of Adalrik, son of Sighelm. Slain in an ambush in the year one thousand eighty-seven,
which sparked the highland war. Known as ‘the Dragonheart’, an epithet bestowed to the bravest
members of Sigvard’s line.
Lady Isabel of Hæthiod, wife of Sigmar. Born a princess of Hæthiod, sister to its now deceased king,
Everard, and aunt to its current queen, Theodora.
Prince Sigmund of Adalrik, son of Sigmar and Isabel, atheling of Sigvard, and heir apparent to the
throne of Adalrik and the Dragon Crown. Slain in the year one thousand ninety-seven.

House Arnling
Lord Arngrim, knight of the Order. Slain in a mutinous fight in Heohlond during the highland war in
the year one thousand ninety.
Lady Deirdre of Clan Lachlann, wife of Arngrim. Died in her sleep in the year one thousand ninety-
seven.
Lord Adalbrand, son of Arngrim and Deirdre. Atheling of Sigvard and knight of the Order. Sent to
Hæthiod to fight the outlander invasion as first lieutenant to William.
Lady Arndis, daughter of Arngrim and Deirdre. Younger sister to Adalbrand.

House Hardling
Lord Hardmar, atheling of Sigvard and lord of the castle Hardburg and surrounding lands. Made heir
to the realms after the death of Sigmund.
Lord Gerhard, second son of House Hardling.
Lord Inghard, third son of House Hardling.
Lady Gunhild, daughter of House Hardling and elder sister to Hardmar, Gerhard, and Inghard.

The Jarls of Adalrik

The House of Isarn
Jarl Isenhart of Isarn, with thirteen margraves as vassals. His jarldom provides the realms with silver
for their coinage and iron for their steel. In open rebellion against the Crown. Known as ‘Ironfist’.
Jarlinna Halla of Irskog, wife of Isenhart.
Lord Isenwald of Isarn, eldest son of Isenhart and Halla and heir to the jarldom. Called ‘the Dull
Knife’ behind his and his father’s back due to his slow speech and perceived slow wit. Captured in
battle and imprisoned in Middanhal.
Lord Eumund of Isarn, second son of the House of Isarn and former knight of the Order. Captured in
battle and imprisoned in Middanhal.
Lord Athelstan of Isarn, brother to the jarl, and former knight of the Order. One of the best captains in
the realms, second only to Adalbrand. Captured in battle and imprisoned in Middanhal.
Lord Athelbold of Isarn, cousin to the jarl, a warrior of fearsome reputation, and along with Athelstan
the jarl’s closest counsellor.
Lady Anhild of Silfrisarn, wife of Athelbold.
Lord Athelgar of Isarn, son of Athelbold and Anhild.
Ulfrik, captain of the jarl’s thanes. Captured in battle and imprisoned in Middanhal.
Ernulf, thane to the jarl. Captured in battle and imprisoned in Middanhal.

422
The House of Vale
Jarl Valerian of Vale, with sixteen margraves as vassals. The richest man in the realm due to his
control over the trade between Middanhal and Herbergja. Made lord protector after the death of the
lord marshal, Sir Reynold. Known as ‘the Bookkeeper’.
Jarlinna Alexandra of Jaunis, wife of Valerian and eldest daughter of Alexander of Jaunis. Pregnant
with the jarl’s child.
Lady Valerie of Vale, daughter of Valerian and his first wife Laura.
Lord Konstans of Vale, brother to the jarl.
Lady Mathilde of Montmer, wife of Konstans.
Lord Konstantine of Vale, son of Konstans and Mathilde. As nephew to Valerian, he is the heir
presumptive to the jarldom.
Arion, chamberlain to the jarl.

The House of Theodstan

Jarl Theodoric of Theodstan, with seven margraves as vassals. Dragonlord until dismissed from
service following the death of Prince Sigmar. Called ‘Fourfinger’ due to his missing left little finger.
Lady Theodwyn of Theodstan, sister to the jarl. Widowed after her husband died in the highland war.
Lord Brogan, captain of the jarl’s thanes.
Holwyn, servant to the jarl, often carrying out covert tasks on his behalf.
Holebert, servant to the jarl and brother of Holwine.

The House of Ingmond

Jarl Raymond of Ingmond, with eleven margraves as vassals. His pregnant wife and young son were
both slain by Isenhart’s thanes during the liberation of Middanhal, for which he blames Adalbrand.
Known as ‘the Pious’.

Members of High Nobility in Adalrik

Lord George of Elis, landgrave and dragonlord of Adalrik during the last years of Sighelm’s reign.
Unmasked as a traitor willing to surrender to Isenhart and subsequently imprisoned in Middanhal.
Lord Robert of Marcaster, landgrave, whose province is the largest among his peers.
Lord Richard of Alwood, margrave to the jarl of Theodstan and renowned knight of the Order. Called
‘Hotspur’ in his youth due to his impetuous style of fighting.

Members of the Order in Adalrik

Sir Reynold, lord marshal of the Order. Made lord protector after the death of King Sighelm, but died
in battle in Hæthiod.
Sir Theobald, captain of the Citadel, responsible for peace and order in Middanhal, and once known as
‘the Blade of the North’. Kinsman to the jarl of Theodstan.
Sir Fionn, knight of the Order and one of its commanders.

Low Nobility and People of Adalrik

Alaric, kingthane.
Bassel, leader of the mercenary company called the Red Hawks, employed by the jarl of Vale.
Berimund, captain of the kingthanes.
Dúrnir, dvalinn of the Dwarves of Adalrik.
Eadric, high priest of Rihimil at the Temple.
Edwin, alderman of the guilds in Middanhal.
Eleanor of Tothmor, former ward of William, now living at the Citadel.
Ellen, daughter of Gilbert the tavern keeper.

423
Eolf, servant to the dragonlord.
Gawad, member of the Red Hawks.
Gilbert, tavern keeper in Lowtown.
Jorund, Dwarf and member of the Red Hawks.
Jerome, member of the Red Hawks.
Kate, kitchen girl in the Citadel.
Quill, formally the King’s Quill, law keeper of Adalrik and overseer of the Adalthing.
Ragni, Dwarf and advisor to the dvalinn of Middanhal.
Sandar, kingthane.
Septimus, servant of the Alfather and high priest of all the faiths.
Ælfwine, Elf from the Alfskog and acquaintance of Godfrey.

424
 The Nobility and People of Ealond
The Royal House of Rivière
King Rainer of Ealond, ruler of the realm. Only the second of his dynasty to sit upon the throne, which
was conquered through civil war by his father.

Members of High Nobility in Ealond

Lord Gaspard, duke of Belvoir.
Lady Claudette, duchess of Belvoir and mother of Alois.
Lord Alois, son and heir to the duke of Belvoir.
Guilbert, servant to the duke of Belvoir and his envoy.

Members of the Order in Ealond

Sir Martel, marshal of the Order in Ealond.
Sir Gerard, knight of the Order and half-brother of Martel.

Low Nobility and People of Ealond

Adeline, the high priestess of the Order of the Raven and known as the Veiled.
Armand, apprentice engineer studying under the tutelage of Lambert.
Clarisse, wandering seeress.
Donatien, alderman of the guilds in Fontaine.
Ghislain, justiciar of the Raven’s Court, charged with hunting heretics and witchcraft.
Hamid, merchant of Alcázar, living in Fontaine.
Ivo, leader of the justiciars of the Raven Court.
Jocelyne, high-ranking sister among the Order of the Raven.
Lambert, engineer and member of the guild of engineers in Fontaine.
Michel, brother and aide to Clarisse.
Najat, servant girl in the household of Hamid.
Nicolette, fiancée of Armand.
Rosalie, high-ranking sister among the Order of the Raven.

425
 The Nobility and People of Heohlond
The Royal House of Cameron
King Brión of Heohlond, ruler of the highlands and head of Clan Cameron.

Members of High Nobility in Heohlond

Lord Ciaran, head of Clan Lachlann.
Lord Doran, son and heir to Ciaran.

Low Nobility and People of Heohlond

Caradoc Whitesark, whiterobe at the temple of Lochan.
Conall, high priest of the Order of the Bear.
Gwen, kinswoman to Deirdre of Lachlann.

426
 The Nobility and People of Hæthiod
The Royal House of Erhard
Queen Theodora of Hæthiod, daughter of Beatrice and Stephen. Crowned at the age of four in the year
one thousand eighty-five. Fled to the court of her kinsman, King Adelard of Korndale.
King Leander, illegitimate son of Everard and Diane and consort to Theodora. Fled to Korndale with
the queen.
Dowager Queen Irene of Hæthiod, wife of Everard. Their union was childless. Fled to Korndale with
the queen.

Members of High Nobility in Hæthiod

Lady Beatrice of Hæthiod, wife of Stephen, mother of Theodora, and sister to Everard. Fled to
Korndale with the queen.
Count Hubert of Esmarch, distant relative of the royal line and defender of the north-east. Leader of
the royal guard, the Queen’s Blades. Fled to Korndale with the queen.
Lord Hugh of Esmarch, son of Hubert. Involved in a plot against the queen and imprisoned in
Tothmor.

Members of the Order in Hæthiod

Sir William, knight of the Order. Known as ‘the Unyielding’ for his peerless prowess in battle, a
reputation and ekename earned at the battle of Cairn Donn. Knight captain with supreme command of
the Order campaign to liberate Hæthiod from the outlanders.
Sir Ewind, knight of the Order.
Sir Vilmund, knight of the Order.
Baldwin, squire to William.

Low Nobility and People of Hæthiod

Andreas, member of a resistance group against the outlander occupation of Tothmor.
Dominic, high priest of the Order of the Dragon, known as blackrobes, and court seer to the queen.
Imprisoned in Tothmor.
Egil, apprentice to the King’s Quill. Accompanying Adalbrand on campaign in Hæthiod as his scribe.
Geberic, former thane to the jarl of Theodstan and acting as Adalbrand’s right hand.
Glaukos, Queen’s Blade, who stayed behind in Tothmor to cover the royal family’s escape.
Guy, innkeeper and friend of Godfrey’s.
Matthew, recruit in the Order and sergeant to Adalbrand.
Nikolaos, member of a resistance group against the outlander occupation of Tothmor.
Nicholas, longbowman fighting for the Order.
Nikodemos, acolyte of the Order of the Dragon.
Philemon, member of a resistance group against the outlander occupation of Tothmor.
Philon, steward of the palace.
Quentin, longbowman fighting for the Order.
Troy, bard following the Order on its campaign in Hæthiod.
Godfrey, wanderer with many acquaintances.

427
 The Nobility and People of Korndale
The Royal House of Vallis
King Adelard of Korndale, the unmarried ruler of the realm. His secondary title is prince of Vallis,
one of Korndale’s three principalities.
Dowager Queen Sigrid of Korndale, mother of Adelard. Sister of Sighelm, the late king of Adalrik.

Members of High Nobility in Korndale

Prince Flavius of Aquila, who rules one of Korndale’s three principalities. Known as ‘Ironside’ for his
prowess in battle and military advisor to the king.

Members of the Order in Korndale

Sir Ferdinand, marshal of the Order in Korndale.

Low Nobility and People of Korndale

Alain: Leader of the troupe of wandering actors known as Egnil’s Harps.
Aldo: Alderman of the guilds in Florentia in the principality of Silva.
Aurelius: The seneschal of Korndale.
Benedict: High priest of the Order of the Bull.
Fabian: Alderman of the guilds in Plenmont in the principality of Vallis.
Raul: Court physician in Plenmont.
Rufus: Alderman of the guilds in Tricaster in the principality of Aquila.

428
Map of Middanhal