The Janus War

[Warpath]

There was an invisible threshold on the water - a line that the mid-afternoon sun would not follow them past. They left it behind.

The little boat approached and was dwarfed by a tremendous cliff face, its deeply shadowed crags overgrown with flowering moss. Storm clouds gathered above the mountain, darkening from steel-grey to black in short order. One could smell rain on the frequent gusts of wind. Rain and smoke.

The sea was in agreement with the sky, blackening and roiling, and a sudden swell tipped the boat to one side. Sailors clung and stumbled around him, but Flint Skovik may as well have been glued to the deck. He stood unperturbed, legs spaced wide, gripping his belt in both hands. After a moment he reached up to wipe sea spray from his beard as he considered what lay before him.

"Is the cove near?" the brute said without taking his eyes off of the cliff.

"I don't know," Mowlund admitted, wrapping a sodden rope around one of his meaty palms.

Flint cocked one eyebrow and turned to look at the smuggler, now. "Is that not why you are here?"

Mowlund smiled pleasantly behind a heavy grey beard, and tipped his little fisherman's hat. "The way I see it," the smuggler said, "I'm more of an intermediary. I hate the sea, as it happens. Never understood her."

Flint frowned. "An intermediary between whom?"

"You an' them, of course." Mowlund was inching toward the side of the boat now, tugging on his rope experimentally to be sure there wasn't enough slack to let him go over.

Flint was prepared to start growling when the smuggler began to shout over the side of the boat. "Hoi, you soggy trollops! I see you!"

The brute crossed the deck with the intent to pull Mowlund back and inevitably resist the urge to throttle some sense into him, but as he neared he saw something rising from the depths. The swell burst and a pale hand caught the edge of the boat, followed by another.

A woman hoisted herself half up onto the boat and rested her stomach across the rail, and then she slid her hands apart to hold herself upright. She was naked, insofar as Flint could see, with long and vibrantly orange hair that clung to the skin of her bare shoulders and chest. It did nothing to make her decent, and when she was sure the crew had noticed she arched her back and pushed her breasts out. Her lips curled into a sly smile.

Her eyes were intensely pink. At first Flint thought her an albino, but as he drew nearer he decided she could not be human. Her skin was flawlessly smooth and slick, perhaps rubbery, and aside from the orange locks and eyebrows, and long eyelashes, she was utterly hairless.

"Oh, don't start that now, you tease," Mowlund groused.

The woman pouted and deftly drew her hands even closer together on the railing, until her upper arms pushed her breasts together. "Whatever do you mean?" she said breathily, almost whispering.

"Ha!" Mowlund slapped his knee. "What are you after, eh? You know I'd fuck you stupid, had you legs to get between. Hell, if I were younger and dumber I might try to figure it out anyways."

"Oh," she chided coyly. "I thought you were clever, Mowlund. Not all our parts are incompatible."

The smuggler let out a fierce bark of laughter. "The hell they ain't! I seen those teeth, girl, you've got nothing but water 'tween those pretty ears if you think I'm trusting my pride and joy to that pit of needles."

Flint glanced from the smuggler to the girl. Now that he'd mentioned it, she was making an effort not to smile too big.

"What happened to living dangerously? Nevermind, who is this? He's big. You're not afraid of me, are you, Legs?"

"That's Flint. You leave him be now, Kaikoura."

"Hi Flint," Kaikoura said coyly. She flexed her shoulders and leaned forward a bit, and looked up at him sidelong. "Care to wet your..."

"Argh, tart! He's not interested in your boggy wares! Knock it off now, we got business."

"Oh yes he is," she sighed, giving the brute a wink. She soon turned back to Mowlund, though, and lost her smile. "You're about to dash yourselves on the cliff, as usual. Toss some leashes over and we'll tow you in. Have everybody hold on tight, though. We've got Hemi with us."

"Ha! Then what're you doing giving us the business, with that monster fifteen feet from your nethers, eh?"

Kaikoura shrugged and gave Flint another smile. "Sometimes you like a little variety."

He stared at her impassively, which was usually enough to crack a facade, but Kaikoura was not impressed. She blew him a kiss before letting herself drop away from the ship again, and the brute caught a glimpse of a large white tail with huge, brightly colored fins before it disappeared beneath the waves.

The crew began winding a rope through the ship, beneath the supports and seats, around the mast, between the struts and the hull, and then they looped the ends and tossed them overboard. A moment passed, and then the rope went taut and the ship lurched against the pull of the waves and turned sharply to the left until it came to run alongside the cliff face. Whatever towed them was not deterred by the tide.

Mowlund began to wave his arms in signal, and Flint turned to watch him. Beyond the smuggler, framed by the low-hanging sun, dozens of other boats dotted the churning sea. They were all tossing lines overboard.

"Welcome to Valoril, Mister Flint," Mowlund said. "Here's hoping it's not your grave."

[Amen]

Something about the situation struck Marcus Book as being funny.

He let the notion come and go without outwardly acknowledging it, but inside he knew he could have laughed until he cried. He'd been raging against duty and honor since childhood, bucking the expectations the Brotherhood had placed upon him - digging a grave for himself, certainly. Four years ago the Grandmasters would have been happy to put him down and now...now he was their most beloved asset. They'd entrusted him - Marcus Book - with the salvation of a foreign nation in peril.

Now he was walking the halls of Skyreach Hold, arms clasped behind his back. It was the way his trainers had walked on inspections, the way the senior brothers had comported themselves. Ivan had walked this way...

Marcus derailed the thought with a sharp shake of his head, but he did not let his arms come to rest. The mask wasn't for him.

"Are you well?" Krowe asked him.

"I'm fine," he answered. "Apologies, my mind was wandering. As I was saying, the rumors have some weight to them, yes. There are confirmed reports of dragons attacking major cities. One was killed in Radasanth, in fact."

"I haven't seen one," Krowe said evenly. Marcus didn't know what to make of the statement.

"Nonetheless, the sightings are confirmed. They fished the corpse out of the Niema."

The huntress grunted, and Marcus figured it out. She was disappointed.

He did not know what to make of the woman, but he liked her. She was of a height with him, and she held herself with the same disciplined bearing. He might think her a soldier for her lean musculature, except that she walked the halls barefoot, skulked in polite company, and had shown very little interest in being told what to do. Indeed, as far as he was aware she had not yet visited the room that had been set aside for her. He didn't know where she slept. If she was discovered on one of the roofs, he would not have been shocked.

Her hair was a peculiar shade of blonde, honey-dark and gathered up in long, wild braids, further dismissing the possibility of a martial career. She was of mixed breed, like him, but there was something duskier in her complexion, and her eyes were strikingly green. She wasn't Fallieni, then, but he could not guess at another heritage. Part of him yearned to ask, but he knew he'd only get a blank stare or worse so he contented himself to wonder.

The pair emerged onto a parapet overlooking the vast fortifications of Valoril.

"If they could kill a dragon in Radasanth," Krowe wondered aloud, "why not here?"

Marcus shrugged, resting his forearms on the low stone barrier. "As far as I'm aware, any local dragon sightings were over a neighboring hold-keep or village. No settlement for a hundred miles or more has the manpower or weaponry necessary to turn away anything bigger than a drake."

Krowe grunted again, this time with a far-away look in her eye. "You've seen a dragon?" she said at last.

Marcus shook his head. "Not alive. Bones, preserved corpses, diagrams. My order does not hunt dragons, but ambitious necromancers have been known to raise them from the dead."

This caught Krowe's attention. She turned to look at him, her eyes glinting like blades' edges. "You've fought dead dragons?"

Marcus chuckled and shook his head again. "No, thank Mitra. No, dragons tend to be tremendously magical beings. It's an exceedingly rare mage that can raise a dragon from the dead and control it. Typically they immediately regain their sentience and will go on doing whatever it was they did in life, usually after thanking their reanimator by eating him. And then they go about restoring themselves to true life. What's going on over there?"

Marcus pointed to their left, where the keep jutted out and terminated in a tremendous wood-and-steel gate. It was difficult to tell from this distance, but it looked as though a battalion was lining up in the courtyard in front of the gate, dozens of steel caps gleaming in the fading light of the sun. Thunder boomed in the distant northeast.

"They call that the high gate," Krowe said. "There's another facing east they call the low gate. I guess that most of the farmland is closer to the low gate. All the refugees have been coming in from there for the last couple of weeks."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "How long have you been here?"

Krowe thought about it. "Three weeks? Maybe longer, but not by much."

"And how long have the refugees been coming in?"

She shrugged. "Since I've been here."

Marcus frowned, shaking his head. "They wouldn't evacuate the farmlands that extensively for a dragon sighting. Something else is going on here."

"I don't think it's the dragons they're worried about," Krowe said. "Nobody here is talking about dragons. They whine about some neighboring kingdom, mostly."

The templar made a thoughtful sound. "Well, it's nearly dusk anyway. We'll have our answers soon enough."

Krowe nodded and turned to head inside. Marcus lingered for a moment longer, letting his eyes wander over the keep, and then he turned to follow her. As she lead him through the torch-lit halls, bare feet padding on the stones, he looked around with new eyes. The guard was sparsely posted, he noted now, and those that could be seen were underequipped. There were oil lamps hung from wooden arms at regular intervals, but they were empty and unlit. The anemic and inferior light of torches was used instead, even as the shadows grew longer.

"They're going to war," Marcus muttered at last.

"With who?" Krowe said.

Marcus shook his head thoughtfully, and the huntress guided him through a large set of oak double-doors, already propped open. On the other side was a long dining hall, quiet and chilly and largely empty. There were dozens of long tables here, but only the table farthest from the door was set and illuminated by candles. Marcus knew this place should have been teeming with guests, high-ranking military personnel, and visiting dignitaries. Now it was silent, and the long walk to the far table seemed all the eerier for it.

But it wasn't just the emptiness. There was something...else. A presence, a wrongness in the air that grew progressively more intolerable. Marcus wrapped his fingers around the knife he wore at his belt, and felt the Light surge through him. The shadows melted away beneath his augmented vision and then...

"Well, this is awkward."

He spun, hackles raised, knife drawn. There was a silhouette in the doorway behind them, and iniquity rolled off of it like a choking cloud. He tensed, ready to charge at it.

"Witch!" he shouted, and his voice echoed in the vacant hall.

"Dullard!" Salome called back. He heard the mocking smile on her lips, and vowed to end her there and then.

[Salome]

In her heart of hearts, Salome knew she'd had nightmares about this. If she survived this would only make them worse. And more frequent.

That was for her to know, though, and for nobody else to find out. So when Marcus Book charged her with a drawn knife, eyes gleaming like they were full of hell, she smiled wide and held her arms out to him like he was a child coming in for a big hug.

"Knife!" someone cried from behind her, and her smile widened. Two knights stepped into the room from the hallway, spears thrust forward, and Marcus slid to a stop with a frustrated huff. He switched his grip, glancing between the soldiers.

"No hug, then?" Salome said, letting her arms drop back down to her sides. "That's too bad."

"Stand down, Commander Book," someone else said from the hall. "And get those gods-damn spears out of his face. This man is our guest."

The knights lowered their spears and stood rigidly to attention, stepping aside simultaneously to frame the door. Salome slowly followed suit, masking caution behind swagger, and when she was sure that Marcus was going to stay put she turned to watch the duke emerge into the room.

Silas Valoril was a tall man with all the qualities of leadership Salome expected - stereotypically so, she decided. When he entered, chin held high and hidden behind a meticulously groomed salt-and-pepper beard, cape flowing around him in a flourish, she almost rolled her eyes. He regarded each of his guests with warm but steely eyes. There were crinkles at their edges, but he was only a little older than Salome herself. Noble command was his calling, and he bore it proudly and capably, but no man is immune to the weight of leadership. Valoril had lot to bear.

The witch was momentarily possessed by the idea of one of the knights stepping forward to stand uncomfortably close behind the duke and take a dramatic whiff of the back of his neck, and she snorted down the laughter the instant it tried to escape her. Everyone looked at her like she was mad, and she stared impassively back at them because she was.

"Duke Valoril," Marcus said, "forgive me, but this woman..."

"Is Salome Shestova," the duke interrupted, "a known hedge witch, thief, murderer, defiler, and heretic, one of the crown's most wanted fugitives. Peace, Commander, I know. Knife's Edge hasn't paid much attention to my duchy these last few years, so I'm disinclined to pay much heed to their laws. Besides, Miss Shestova is also one of the best mercenary mages in the region. I need all the help I can get."

"Aw, thanks." Salome smiled sweetly up at Valoril.

He pointed a stern, gloved finger at her. "You stop antagonizing everyone. Now, come. Put the blade away, Marcus. I assure you, everyone is safe here...for now, at least. Let's all sit down and share some food before we get down to business."

Marcus slowly, reluctantly sheathed his knife and nodded his respect to Valoril, who began to usher everyone toward the back of the hall. "I was just informed that my final guest just arrived and will be joining us in a moment, but I'm sure he won't be offended if we start without him."

Salome chose a seat, and Marcus immediately chose the seat opposite her. His fearsome, glowing eyes never left her, and he did not blink. She made kissy lips at him.

"I...guess you know one another," the duke ventured as he took a seat at the head of the table. He nodded to someone lurking in the shadows, and his knights took position to either side of him, spears held straight, eyes staring directly ahead.

"Oh, just a little," Salome said. "It's been awhile. Your hair is longer, it looks nice."

Marcus glared.

Men arrived, all walking in a line and carrying dishes and plates and covered bowls, and they set about placing their burdens on the table with deliberate precision. The other woman - Krowe - snatched a whole loaf of bread out from one of the covered bowls and began to tear chunks off and stuff them into her mouth. "They fucked," Krowe guessed, "before he found out what she was. Now he's bitter about it."

Book glanced over at Krowe and sighed heavily before resuming his concentrated effort to kill Salome with his eyes.

"Oh, no, but that's a good guess," Salome said. She paused to clap her hands together delightedly when glasses were set and a fine pitcher of wine was set out between she and Book. She pulled the pitcher away from him and toward herself, and poured herself a glass while she explained. "He's my cousin, so I think he considers me a pet project. Or he's ashamed of me? I don't know. We haven't fucked though. Yet."

That got everybody's eyebrows up, even Krowe's, and Salome smiled with her eyes over the edge of her glass. Marcus let out another, bigger sigh. "You are repulsive," he said.

"You love it."

"I like her," Krowe told Book around a mouthful of bread. The women smiled at one another across the table. If spiders could grin, it would probably look something like that.

Salome decided she liked Krowe, too, but that was a foregone conclusion. She had never heard of the woman before Valoril, but Silas had filled her in on what little he knew of her. She was an accomplished huntress of men and beasts, and a rising star in Salvar, where the talents of a bounty hunter and a monster killer were perpetually in high demand. What Silas hadn't mentioned was that Odessa Krowe was strikingly exotic. Her skin was dark, which might have suggested a Fallieni heritage, except she was sitting right next to Marcus who was himself a mutt. He was swarthy, but she made him look like a ghost. And besides, Salome had never heard of a blonde Fallieni before.

Her complexion, the fullness of her lips, and the slight slant to her eyes were all notable and interesting, but what really caught the witch's attention was her physique. Krowe wasn't anyone Salome would call big, but her limbs were thick with long, lean, corded muscle. She wore men's clothes and filled them out obscenely, but there was a threat there too. Salome was not waifish - big thighs and a strong backside were necessary components to scaling a sheer brick wall without climbing implements - but Krowe looked as though she could kick Book's head off with little effort.

Salome did a better job of stifling another laugh.

She was half into a second glass of wine now, and thoughts of big thighs and strong backsides brought her gaze back to Marcus over the rim of her cup. He was still glaring at her. She ignored it. He had changed since last she saw him. His hair was long now, full and thick and tied up in a high tail off the back of his head, and he sported a trimmed goatee. His skin was a warmer, darker bronze than what she thought normal for him, and she wondered if he'd been spending more time in Fallien of late. She couldn't imagine anywhere else calling for his attention with a suitable climate - Scara Brae was the only other place sunny enough, and there weren't many interesting creatures left alive there for the templar to kill.

She entertained the notion of inviting him back to her quarters and asking him about it, and her mind wandered while she sipped.

[Krowe]

The bread was good. The room was big, and it was boring. Krowe didn't like it. There was too much wasted space, too many dark corners to hide in. If she were being paid to kill any one of them, this is where she would make her move.

But the bread was good. Soft.

"...that's where I met Miss Shestova. This was many years ago, of course." The duke was still talking, telling them about himself. Krowe didn't care. Men were so obsessed with their histories: what they'd done, where they'd come from. Krowe only cared about victories, defeats, death. What he'd killed and how he'd done it. She thought he'd never killed anything himself, maybe.

That's why they were here, she knew. He wouldn't come out and say it because men are stupid and tell lies, either in what they say or what they refuse to say - and what they call rude to say. She had no time for silly men, offended by the truth.

But these other ones...they were killers, like her. She liked them for that, at least a little. The short, pale woman with the big, wild light hair, the one they all called witch - she was a killer. Krowe knew she used magic to do it mostly, but she saw the curve of muscle where her skirt lay across her lap, and in her upper arm and shoulder when she reached for more wine. She was a dancer, a climber, a sneak. Krowe guessed that she'd put a fair share of knives in soft places. And there was something off about her, something twitchy and unpredictable. She would be dangerous to hunt, hard to track, but prone to mistakes. It would be a long tracking - great care and vigilance would be necessary - but the kill would be easy.

The man, Book, was the opposite. He was packed tight with long, dense muscle, and he was coldly confident. There was a fire inside him - figuratively and literally, if his eyes were any indication - but he was a born leader. Or perhaps it had been hard-earned? There was sadness there, she'd seen it when she'd talked to him. Sadness meant self-doubt, a tendency toward negativity. He could be made to despair, and the fall would be a hard one, difficult to break. And like all civilized people he was a hypocrite. He might prefer the sword and shield and heavy armor, but he killed with magic too, just like the people he chased. Krowe would never say what he did was hunting, he had no finesse. He would be simple to track, but dangerous in close quarters. The kill would be easy, if it could be done from a distance.

"Ah, here's our final guest now. Mister Flint, please, come in, make yourself at home. I hope you don't mind that we started without you," Valoril said.

Krowe stopped staring at Book while she chewed, and she turned to regard the newcomer. For the first time, her mouth stopped working.

A very big man walked into the hall. He was built like a bear, only his weight and size came entirely from muscle, and he walked with an easy, lissome economy of motion. He wore leather pants, and his quadriceps pushed against their hold as he walked so that it seemed the leather was stretched over twin tree trunks. He wore tremendous, thick-soled boots, covered in metal plates, and yet he walked in complete silence. Krowe's imagination ran wild as she watched him approach, and she did not resume chewing.

His eyes missed nothing, flicking to all the right places in the room with careless ease - he wasn't worried about ambushes, but he knew where to check anyway. His bulk must have conferred incredible power, but it did nothing to impede his motion or speed: he could have outrun her, she realized, maybe even outmaneuvered her. He was too aware of himself to be easily tracked, too fast and careful to be snuck up on, and the sheer size of him gave pause. His chest was deep enough that her knife couldn't possibly reach anything vital within, even pushed down to the hilt.

He sat across from her. She swallowed.

"Holy shit," Salome said, looking up at him. "You...uh."

"You know one another too, then?" Valoril said, raising an eyebrow.

"I broke her out of prison," Flint said matter-of-factly. "Do you have milk? I do not drink wine."

"I believe so," the duke said, nodding at one of the servants. "Goat's milk?"

"That will suffice. And meat. I do not eat bread."

Krowe slowly pushed the mangled, half-devoured loaf of bread across the table and away. She didn't realize she'd put it directly in front of Marcus, and he ceased his death-stare to glance down at the bread and then over at the huntress. "Uh...thanks?"

[Warpath]

Flint was happy to put something besides fish in his belly. He might have felt some level of guilt for how much of their milk he poured down his throat, but they were about to ask him to spill blood for them. They could spare a few gallons of milk.

He felt Salome staring at him sidelong while she slurped at wine, and the other woman was staring at him too. At least she was eating while she did it, but there was something off about her anyway. It was almost as if she were emulating him. The man, Book, neither ate nor drank. He just stared at Salome with murderous intent.

"You keep interesting company," Flint said evenly, after washing down a mouthful of rib meat.

"Yes, well," Silas Valoril said. "Desperate times, eh?"

Flint nodded very slightly. "They must be, to call on any two of us. But for all four?" The brute made a noise in his chest. "I am intrigued. How desperate are these times for you, Valoril?"

If being called by his name sans title bothered him, the duke did not let it show. He shook his head slightly and said, "Please, finish your meal. At least let me give you that. I know I would kill for the chance to just enjoy a meal without...knowing."

Flint shrugged. "I kill for other reasons. I do not mind. I can eat and do business at the same time."

"I..."

"Tell us," Krowe said. There was sauce on her chin. The duke tapped his own chin to draw her attention to it, and she blinked at him.

He sighed, turning back to Flint. "If you insist. As you surmised, Mister Flint, I invited you all here because of your unique reputations and skills. Because of the things you've done, and the things you're capable of. I want to hire you. I want your help. I know we aren't the largest duchy in Salvar, but we've done well for ourselves over the centuries. The potential rewards are substantial, but the risk..."

"What exactly is happening here, Duke Valoril?" Book said, finally finding it in himself to tear his eyes off of his cousin.

"I'm not exactly sure," the Valoril said helplessly. "Details are sparse, but..." He shook his head. "A moment. It will be easier to show you." He turned to one of his servants. "A map, please."

A large map was brought in and stretched out on a neighboring table, and one by one the duke's guests rose to cross over and look at it. Flint wiped his mouth off on his forearm and grabbed a nearby candelabra, dragging it over to the map to chase away the shadows. Above, they heard the first heavy pattering of rain on the keep's roof, which rose to a downpour. They could hear drips and drops echoing from somewhere in the hall.

The map showed the region of Aardland, in which Valoril was situated. The duke tapped the keep that bore his name to orient them. It was nestled in the southeastern-most corner of a massive, broad, high plateau, and to the south was an immediate and sheer drop hundreds of feet to the sea. There were two roads out of the city, one branching to the east and gradually turning north, the other pointed directly to the north, though it wound west every so often.

There was a tremendous stretch of woodland between the two roads, with what looked to be a broad and impressive river running slantways through its center, which itself cut both the north road and the south.

There were three cities on the map. Valoril was first and most obvious in the south, but along the north road, near the river and far to the western edge of the plateau, was a city labeled Malgren. The third city was farther north and east, nearly centered on the northernmost point of the plateau amidst the foot of a mountain range, and it was called Sindragar.

"I know we've become something of a rich backwater in the eyes of the crown," Silas said, "but Aardland has a rich history going back to the Demon Wars. The original city was Malgren, now just a sprawling ruin. It was founded in the earliest days of Salvar, as a country, and peopled by fiercely independent men and women. Valoril and Sindragar came later, both starting out as small farming communities that rapidly grew. The plateau is very fertile, and something about the location keeps the summers long. The winters are harsh, but the region is peppered with hot springs and steam wells.

"Valoril and Sindragar were true cities by the time the demons came, but they were still satellites of Malgren. Malgren had always been ruled over by powerful wizards, and in those days it was chiefly controlled by a mage called Kadeugar, who by that time was already hundreds of years old. He saw the devastation wrought across the other regions of Salvar and opted to take desperate measures to ensure the safety of his own subjects.

"He conjured up his own army of demons and otherworldly soldiers from beyond Althanas, and bound them to his will. His apprentices were appointed as generals and given strange artifacts that allowed them to command and direct the demon legions."

"I'm sure that ended well," Marcus said wryly.

"Actually it did," Valoril said. "Aardland is very difficult to invade as it is, just because of the terrain. The invaders tried to scale the cliffs from the sea, but our own demonic defenders fought them off at the south wall. They did make inroads to the west and managed to amass a sizable force, but Kadeugar himself lead a charge on open ground and scattered them before they could lay siege to Malgren. Their final attempt was from the north and east, but we only discovered that decades later. They'd all frozen to death."

"Great," Salome said, half speaking into her cup. "So what happened when the Demon Wars were over?"

Silas sighed. "Peace, for awhile. We went on sending taxes to and feeding Malgren, and their pets policed our streets and kept order on the roads. And then there was a long winter and a blight, and it took us nearly a decade to recover. People in Malgren began to starve, and Kadeugar began demanding more than we could give. Sindragar declared independence, refused to pay taxes, and demanded to be paid for any food they sent to the capital. Kadeugar responded by sending a legion to Sindragar to seize its farms, and ultimately laid siege to the city.

My great grandfather would not stand idly by. He gathered up an army and marched on the capital. It was a foolish maneuver - his soldiers were really farmers, we'd never needed an army before. But Kadeugar hadn't needed real soldiers either. Most of his demonic legion was outside the walls of Sindragar. My ancestor sacked Malgren. In the confusion, an assassin mortally wounded Kadeugar before he could bring his spells to bear.

"Without their master to guide them, Kadeugar's apprentices fell to infighting almost immediately. The demons returned to the capital to fight a bloody civil war. In the end, the city was utterly destroyed during almost ten years of constant war and bloodshed. Most of the citizenry fled. My grandfather led an expedition there at his father's behest at last, and found nothing but the bones of thousands of demons among miles of desolated ruins."

"Not all of them died, I'm guessing," Marcus said. "I'm here, after all."

Valoril shook his head. "Possibly, but I don't think so. Nobody has seen a full-blooded demon here for generations. There is a significant minority of tieflings here, both in Valoril and Sindragar, but you must understand, the mark of demonic heritage doesn't carry the same stigma here. For generations, demons were our protectors. Tieflings have no need to act out against the rest of us."

"Then perhaps it is best to bring us to the present," Flint said.

Valoril nodded. "Of course. Well...four months ago I began receiving petitions from the northern farms. They were complaining of dead livestock and vandalized silos, and the like. I sent a small detachment to investigate, but they never found anything. Still, the troubles continued, so I posted a guard. They never returned. And then the attacks got worse."

"Attacks?" Marcus said.

"Yes. They began to slaughter the most isolated families, and set fire to the fields. They wiped out whole herds of livestock, and left the meat to fester in the sun. And the attacks were becoming more frequent, and bolder, and happening farther and farther south."

"Who is 'they,'?" Flint said.

"Revenants," Valoril sighed. "Walking dead, but not...you must understand, we are isolated here. Many wizards and mages come here to escape persecution in the south and practice their arts. Most of them are careful, even helpful, but every so often some damn-fool necromancer starts weaving black arts and tries to raise an army. This is different."

"A coven, perhaps?" Marcus said, brow furrowed.

"I don't know," Silas admitted. "But they must be powerful, and I don't...these revenants are equipped. They wear full armor and fight in units with fresh-forged weapons. They aren't just dry bones, they're in good condition, wrapped in bandages and poultices to preserve them."

The room grew quiet. Not even Marcus had heard of such a thing.

"What of them?" Krowe asked, pointing at Sindragar.

"I wish I knew," Valoril sighed, and there was frustration and pain in his voice. "We had been in constant communication for the years leading up to this. Duke Odo and I...we had plans to see the region unified within a generation. We were close, helping one another through our individual difficulties and tragedies. And then we began receiving strange reports from Sindragar and then...nothing. I've done everything I can think to do. My scouts and messengers never return, if they arrive at all, nor my pigeons. Even my court wizards are helpless."

"Strange reports?" Marcus said.

"Dragons," Krowe guessed, pleased.

"Yes, in part," the duke said, glancing at Krowe. "About six or seven months ago I received a missive from Odo. In it he mentioned receiving reports of dragon sightings, in passing. And the caravan merchants that had last returned from Sindragar tell me they'd heard rumors too, of dragons flying over the city."

"None of your men have seen a dragon?" Krowe said.

Valoril shook his head. "I don't know what to make of it, and frankly it's the least of my concerns. The attacks are bad enough that I've begun evacuating the farmland. I've ordered every denizen of my duchy behind the walls, and I've split my army in three. One force to push up along the south road, one to push the north, and the remainder to protect our gates should my worst fears come to pass."

[Amen]

"And what is it you expect from us?" Marcus said.

"Your expertise," Silas Valoril said. "As I said, you were each chosen because you had done notable things or had notable knowledge pertaining to the threats here, and because you could be reached quickly."

The duke leaned over the table, pinning the map down with one heavy hand. He pointed at Krowe, and then his finger fell on the map with a stern finality. "You are one of the best hunters living today," he said to her. "My farms aren't being worked. If we're looking at a concentrated attack from a large and organized force, I have every reason to believe any livestock not inside the walls are lost and my fields are going to be trampled, burnt, and befouled. I need you to scout the wilderlands, river, and forest. I need to know how dangerous these areas have become, if we can supplement our food stores with hunting,trapping, and fishing, and any information you can give me about Sindragar or the enemy forces. I need to know where my friends are, and I'd love to know where my enemies are coming from."

"I'm here for the dragon," Krowe said evenly.

Silas shrugged. "Look at the map, Krowe. If there is a dragon on the plateau, it's either nesting in the mountains behind Sindragar or somewhere in the wilderlands. Either way, you're going to have to cut up the center to scout it out. Our goals align."

The huntress nodded. "Good. I will scout for you."

The duke sighed grimly, and nodded his thanks before looking up at the others. He held up two fingers, pointing at Marcus and Salome. "You two are experts on necromancy, and you're both capable. I want you to travel with my men along the roads to try and find these revenants. As before, I want to know where they're coming from, who is animating them, why and how, and what we can do to stop it swiftly. I need information and knowledge first and foremost: I don't expect you to end this war or take unnecessary risks, which is why you'll be traveling alongside my armies."

"Yeah sure," Salome said with a shrug, and then turned away from the map while downing the last of her drink. She was already crossing the space back to the dining table to pour herself more.

"Of course, my lord," Marcus said. He pointed at the map. "Since all the sightings and attacks happened along the low road, it makes sense for us to set out from there."

The duke shook his head. "You're not wrong, but I'd prefer it if you took the high road, Master Book. I didn't regale you with our history just to bore you. Malgren was built on black magic, and the scouts and patrols I've sent up the high road haven't fared any better than those in the southeast."

"A fair point," Marcus said with a nod. "The high road it is. Who shall take the south?"

"I'd like Salome to do it," the duke said.

Marcus shook his head forcefully. "No. She doesn't leave my sight."

"It doesn't make sense to place both my experts on the same road. If the source of these revenants is in the south, I'll need a researcher there to identify it and come up with solutions. Same thing if it's in the north."

"I will protect the witch," Flint rumbled.

"The 'vitch' is not who I'm concerned about," Marcus growled back at him. "If left unchecked, she could exacerbate this whole problem. If it somehow benefits her, she will betray us. With respect, I don't think you understand the threat she represents to your people, Duke Valoril."

"What's going on now?" Salome said, stepping back up the table while swirling a newly-full glass of wine. "Are we talking about me yet? I heard somebody say 'betray' and I didn't want to miss out on any of that."

Valoril sighed. "I appreciate your candor, Master Book, and your advice, but the decision is mine to make and my hands are tied. I will trust Miss Shestova, but if it will assuage your fears, I will send two of my own court magicians with her, and order two of my guard to keep her in check. I will allow you to brief them, if you'd like."

Marcus frowned. "I don't like it," he said, "but I must defer to your authority on the matter."

"Then it's settled," the duke said gravely. "Marcus Book and his agents will escort the Eagle Army up the high road to investigate Malgren. Krowe will scout up through the wilderlands, and Miss Shestova and Master Flint will escort the Boar Army up the low road. May the gods be with us."

"All-right," Salome said, socking Flint in the upper arm. "Team Low Road! All the best stuff happens on the low road, if you catch my drift, and I know you do."

"Stop talking," Flint said.

Someone cleared a small throat on the far side of the hall, and the sound echoed admirably amidst the hiss of the candles and the ubiquitous dripping noises from one of the dark corners. The assembled party turned away from the map to look at the newcomer, and one by one stood straight.

A young woman stood in the doorway, ensconced in an opulent and impressive evening robe with a high collar. She couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen, but she displayed a familiar regal bearing, dark hair, and hard, intelligent eyes.

"Forgive me, my lord," she said, her voice small but confident. "But the captains are growing restless."

Valoril closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then he inhaled, squared his shoulders, and forced them open again to look at each of his guests in turn. "Of course, we're just finishing up here," he said. "This is my daughter, Adette."

Adette smiled charmingly, if a bit uncomfortably, but she performed a textbook curtsy. The look she gave her father, however, said that there was little time for pleasantries. Each of the party gave their own greeting, after a fashion: Marcus bowed, Salome raised her glass, and Krowe and Flint nodded with vague disinterest.

"If you'll excuse me," the duke said, "my attention is demanded elsewhere. My armies set out the day after tomorrow. My majordomo will liaise for you with the services and vendors at our disposal. Consult with him on anything you'll need from my magicians, apothecary, physicians, or from the quartermaster. I'll do my best to speak with you before your departure but...well." He shrugged helplessly. "If I can't see you...good luck, ladies and gentlemen. And thank you."

And with that, the duke hurried off to his daughter's side. As they left the hall, they began speaking in quick, low tones. Salome took a sip from her cup.

"That was awkward," she said, licking wine from her upper lip. "That could have been my kid. I really dodged a bullet, huh? This guy knows what I'm talking about."

She lifted a finger from her cup and pointed at Marcus.

"I hate you," he said sincerely. "And I hope you die."

[Salome]

Salome felt like a sacrificial virgin being fattened up for a date with something nasty.

The charms and resources of Valoril were being heaped upon her without hesitation or question, which was making it difficult for her to properly partake. It should have felt like stealing, which would have been fine, but she couldn't shake the notion that she was being paid for her life. She considered slipping away, and not for the first time. It was only curiosity that stilled her. And greed. And alcohol.

The sun was setting on the last day before the armies were set to march, and Salome wandered the tiered streets of Valoril proper like a shopper at leisure. Every few blocks she caught a glimpse between the banners and rooftops of the gate below, swarming with bodies. A steady stream of refugees poured in on one side, herded by guardsmen, and on the other were the legions of the Boar Army marching out, sixteen across shoulder-to-shoulder. If she stayed, she'd be seeing the outside of those gates in less than ten hours. She'd be among those buffoons in their tin cans, instead of looking down on them. She rather didn't like the thought.

But still, curiosity nagged at her, so she followed the curved street west until it split, as they all did at the ends. One fork sloped down, the other up. She chose the former, reaching out to let her fingertips dance along the counter of an abandoned stall. The merchants all worked for the duchy now in some strange wartime agreement: paid flat rates at consistent intervals for their goods, which were distributed to the citizenry by need. Salome figured there must be a budding black market here, somewhere, but she didn't have time to find it. A shame.

She threaded her way through the streets that way, drifting farther and farther down and out away from the castle. As she descended deeper into the city the buildings seemed taller, more ominous. The forks and alleys and side streets were darker and more foreboding down here, the shadows longer, and the castle seemed an unreachable bastion of glorious light and wealth in the high distance. She might ply her trade up there, but this is where she felt at home - this is where she would have made her den, given the choice.

And she wasn't alone in that.

These isolated northern provinces were basically independent states, paying a pittance in tribute to Knife's Edge. As long as some thin stream of gold made its way south, the Church coffer-keepers and crown taxmen couldn't find the worth in sending enough people north to check for more. And these days, the Church and the crown had their eyes on one another right at home, and little extra attention to spare for some snowy backwater in the sticks.

The feud between Proper Salvar and the far northern kingdom of Andvall, then, wasn't felt as keenly here. Expatriates, exiles, and wanderers from the highlands tended to spread out and make themselves at home. Since the far-flung almost-kingdoms didn't owe much to Knife's Edge, they rarely saw a reason to persecute people from Andvall, but some level of racist animosity existed just because there was an excuse for it. Humans only need the smallest perceived reason to hate different humans.

Valoril wasn't an exception. Like every other kingdom of its kind, it had its slum, and by social pressure and economic punishment it kept its cultural Andvallans segregated there. It wasn't hard for Salome to find it: she just chose the lowest, dirtiest paths, followed the poorest people, watched where the money flowed and went the opposite direction. The clothes got more spartan, but also more colorful, the bodies got bigger and were covered in tattoos, and the language turned brusque and heavily accented and nobody but nobody bothered with tradespeak.

If it set them apart as Norrlanders they embraced it fiercely, even though doing so doomed them to poverty and oppression.

Salome sought out the biggest, loudest gathering she could find. It was in a tremendous longhouse built into and under the wall where a sewage port had run dry and fallen into disuse, and a dozen shacks and shanties had been built on and around it. The shacks had dingy blankets and tattered banners for curtains and doors, but the longhouse was a proper establishment with massive oak doors thrown open to the night air. It had even once had glass windows, but every single one of them was shattered now.

Jaunty music, smoke, and firelight rolled out of every opening in the longhouse wood, from its doors and windows and from between the logs, planks, and driftwood that it was comprised of. "Come in!" a girl cried from beside the door. She spoke Salvic but her accent was almost indecipherably thick. "Dance with us!"

Salome smiled. "Okay."

Inside the music was deafening. The musicians were spread out throughout the drinking hall, individuals in the rafters and the corners and dancing on the tables while they played, whole bands spread out between the makeshift furniture, but everyone played the same tune with symphonic harmony and accuracy. Most played drums, drums that boomed and thrummed and rattled the floorboards and made Salome's heart forget its rhythm. Others played woodwinds and Uilean pipes, guitars and nychelharpa, and those that didn't play chanted and stomped and beat their chests. Everyone knew the song in its entirety, though it was clearly extremely long, and every few moments they would shout a deep "Huh!" in time with the music, followed by a thunderous stomp, and then the voices would grow quiet so the strings or pipes could sing out some high, haunting melody. If the song ever ended it was impossible to tell, because they just picked it up again right where it left off.

Despite herself, Salome blinked away tears. There were hundreds of people jammed into this sprawling hall-turned-pub, burning furniture in tremendous stone hearths and fire pits, pouring honey mead from casks without trading coins, dancing and brawling and sneaking off to dark corners to make love. They were celebrating, harder and more honestly than she'd ever seen anybody celebrate anything before, and the sheer verve of it was literally staggering. She - yes, even Salome - was moved.

She passed arm wrestling competitions and drinking competitions, and lifting competitions that had progressed to tattooed hulks lifting whole tables covered in giggling girls. This was except for one table, where six men struggled to hold it down while one tall woman hoisted them all into the air. Salome passed dice games and knife games and bare knuckle boxing matches held in rings drawn onto the floorboards in chalk and dried blood.

And in the center of it all was Flint Skovik.

He sat upon a colossal high-backed seat, hewn from bone and stone and wood and crowned with antlers and horns, and draped in luxurious furs and thick leather. He was leaned forward, one forearm draped over his knee. The other arm he held straighter, palm on the other knee, and he was watching while a gaggle of women painted runes on the left side of his body in Skavian woad, all down his arm and across his left pectoral and over his ribs. They were dressed in ceremonial finery, these women: light tartan togas, woad of their own, and little else. Their hair was worn long and free, and they performed their duties with solemn care.

"You realize," Salome shouted to him, "that these silly hedge-witches have drawn those runes completely wrong. The wards are aimed outward. They'll protect everything but you."

"Then they have done exactly as I have asked," Flint boomed back at her.

Salome gave him a baffled look. She was positive he'd gone completely mad when he smiled at her in response. "What the hell happened to you?"

"What ever do you mean?"

"Fucking look at you," she cried, waving her hands at him dramatically. "You're a foot taller and somehow managed to pack on more muscle, and you're smiling. You're a freak of nature!"

She had thought him an imposter when the duke had introduced him the night before, at first glance. She'd known Flint Skovik. He was impressive when he'd helped free her from the Gaol Occulta, but nobody but a gnome would have called him tall back then. Now he towered over even the men of Andvall, and was as wide across as any two of them. Once it would have been a challenge to wrap both her hands around one of his biceps, now it was a better game to measure them with her arms.

And his forearms were bare.

Even his beard was longer, thicker, wilder. If not for his distinctively bald head and the unmistakable intensity of his eyes, she would call him imposter even still. But it was him. His build was the same, she realized, his proportions identical just...bigger.

"The agent did this to you?" she said, pointing at his naked forearm. "Or was it something else? Did you get it removed from your blood, somehow?"

"No," Flint said, and shrugged. "How do I know how it works? I was forced to take the vambraces off, and I learned not to die. And I got stronger, which I deduce required getting larger."

"Are you still growing?"

"Who knows? Not me."

"Fascinating."

"Thank you," Flint said. "Why are you here?"

"Curiosity," the witch said. "I had to find out if you were you, and if so what you were."

"A dangerous pastime. Are you satisfied?"

"No," Salome admitted, reaching out and poking his bare and unpainted shoulder experimentally. "Why are you here?"

"I was invited."

"Invited? By who?"

Flint raised his free hand and waved at the assembled throng.

"Why would they invite you?"

Flint smiled wide - she would never get used to that, never - and moved to his feet. The body artists stepped away from him to give him space while he spread his arms wide - he was massive! - and he roared over the music so loud that Salome winced. "WHO AM I?!"

The music died away while a incredible and deafening cheer went up amongst the patrons of that strange hall. "Son of the Dragon-Breaker!" someone shouted.

"Son of Brigid!" someone agreed, and they began to cheer and stomp their appreciation for each epithet, but they all meant the same thing.

"These people think you're a hero," Salome said quietly to him, raising an eyebrow.

"So they do," he said, looking over the crowd as they cheered for him.

"That's not what you told me," she said, following his gaze. "You told me you were fear."

Flint shrugged his painted shoulder. "Perhaps I am something different now."

"What?"

He smiled down at her - gods, she was beginning to hate it.

"Hope."

[Krowe]

The huntress slipped into the empty room swiftly, but she did not let her haste make her sloppy. She snatched a sweet roll from a short table laden with breakfast delicacies, stuck it in her mouth with a decidedly unladylike chomp, and then began to climb. The doorknob made a fine foothold - she shoved herself up off it, kicked off the far wall in the nearest corner, and caught a rafter in both hands. With a silent exhalation, she pulled herself up onto the rafter and perched there. Her feet cleared the top of the door just as it opened from outside and the duke entered. She heard the creak and clatter of his guards' armor as they took up positions to either side of the door.

Salome stepped into the room after him, mid-complaint, and slammed the door closed.

"Come on, Silas," she said, "you have to know how hard it is for me to agree with him, but Marcus is right. This isn't a good idea. Maybe in their respective heydays this band of misfits you've put together might be some kind of useful, but now...look, Marcus is a crazy-psycho pitiless zealot. Flint is a giant, but he's gone soft. And Marcus wasn't wrong about me, either."

Krowe took a bite out of her sweet roll and chewed slowly, watching the exchange with interest.

The duke shook his head. "I know who you are, Sal. And you know me."

"That was almost twenty years ago, Silas. You got married. You had a kid. You ruled a nation. I spent most of that in the Gaol Occulta. All those are things that change a person."

"Not you," Valoril said. "Not in the ways that count. What would you have me do?"

"Petition Knife's Edge for help."

The duke was already shaking his head, eyes closed, but Salome went on more insistently: "What good is your fucking pride and wealth if you all starve to death? Close down the walls and petition the crown, and hold out for aid."

"And then pay them for their trouble with everything we have left. We'll starve anyway, Sal. I won't buy safety for the richest few with my peoples' lives, with their children's lives. I already have an army, Sal, all I need are champions to inspire it."

"I'm trying to tell you, these aren't champions you've got here," Salome said. "I was teasing Krowe this morning because I thought she wanted into Flint's pants last night, but the more we talked the more I realized she wasn't hot for him, she thought it'd be fun to kill him. She's been sneaking around thinking up how easy it would be to kill each and every one of us."

"Hey!" Krowe called down around a mouthful of roll. "I told you that was a secret."

Salome let out an adorable and exceedingly un-witch-like shriek and jumped a full foot in the air, and then she spun around and glared up at the huntress. Silas was less startled, though his shoulders did tense. Krowe looked down at them evenly.

"How long have you been there?" Salome said lowly, dangerously.

Krowe sat herself down on the rafter, pointing down at the witch with what was left of her roll. "I told you, it's a thought exercise."

"Fine," Salome said with finality, "you're still insane. Silas..."

The duke shook his head. "You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to go, Salome. I'm asking for help, not demanding. I'll arrange for a ship out immediately, if that's what you want."

The witch threw up her hands and stormed out of the room, and Silas sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before glancing up at Krowe.

"How are the rolls?" he said at last.

"Delicious," Krowe said.

"You set out in two hours."

Krowe nodded. "I've been ready since before the sun rose."

"Good," Valoril said. "At least there's one of you I can depend on. Even if you are planning out my death."

"Just planning," Krowe said. "What's the harm in planning?"

[Warpath]

Bells were ringing throughout the city, from the churches in midtown to the gongs in the slums. They were ringing in the castle towers too, echoing on the cliffs. The noble-folk were gathered in the windows and on balconies, clapping and calling out. Someone was raining white rose petals down on the walkway, and Flint passed through the velvety cloud as if oblivious to it all. A tattered brown banner was draped over his shoulders, and on it was a stylized bear paw above Salvic stars. It was the mark of the Ironari, the Free People.

As he emerged into the early morning sunlight, Flint pulled the banner off his shoulders, adroitly folded it, and then wrapped and tied it around his hips. He was naked from the waist up, but for the woad runes stained on his flesh and a waistbelt doubled and set in the center with a square bronze plate. The leather breeches at his legs were reinforced and well-oiled, and his boots were gargantuan and capped with rounded steel plates over the toes and at the shin. His head was freshly shaven, and the Andvallans had tamed his beard into four long and sinuous braids, each ending in a yellow-white drave fang.

The fangs danced against his upper chest as he looked down and adjusted his vambraces. He hated wearing them now that they were unnecessary for his survival, but they were the weapons to which he was most accustomed. Recent months had seen them become even more effective, now with thick metal bands on the ends, which rested across his knuckles and made his punch all the deadlier. That they had grown with him would have been of particular interest to the witch, but he saw no reason to get her excited and unfocused.

The brute was followed by what sounded to be an ambulatory armory. Marcus Book emerged into the sunlight and his armor gleamed blindingly, and that he was able to move in it at all was a testament to the man's strength and endurance - even Flint was impressed. There was padded armor under chainmail, each gifts from the duke's quartermaster, and then a fighting harness to hold gilded steel plates over his chest, shoulders, and back. The shoulder plates were particularly impressive, and Flint imagined they were fifty pounds apiece at the lightest. The paladin's legs were similar attired: gilded plates over studded leather, and plate greaves that boomed and rattled with each colossal step. Marcus wore no helmet, but he made up for the lost weight by carrying two bastard swords on his back, a round steel shield on his left arm, and a wicked looking flanged mace at his left hip. His hair was slick and black as a slice of night, and the skin of his face was dry and even-colored despite the burden of his attire.

Krowe emerged next, bow unstrung in her right hand. She wore light leather armor, well aged and oiled for silence and smoothness, and her hair was gathered up in long braids that were themselves gathered up in a long heavy tail. Most of the skin of her arms and legs was exposed, the color of shadowed honey, and she'd smeared a crude, thick black line of kohl across her eyes. Her armor was mismatched and worn for economy of motion and only the most basic protection: a bracer on her forearm, wraps around her feet from the base of the toe to the bottom of the knee with the heels of her feet exposed, and fur-lined harnesses and wraps around her shoulders and upper torso. It quickly became clear that the haphazard strips of leather that covered her existed primarily to hold the small throwing knives that peppered her person. Across her upper back was strapped a large quiver bristling with arrows and a pair of javelins, with a smaller quiver strapped horizontally across her lower back.

"Just three of us, then?" Flint said.

Krowe shrugged, and Marcus said, "Good."

On queue, the clap of heels began to echo down the hall, followed closely by Salome as she rounded the corner.

"For gods' sake," Marcus sighed.

She smirked, knowing exactly how she looked: it had taken her more than two hours to put her war paint on. Her hair was the most striking thing: stuck straight up in a tall, fluffy, broad mohawk and made all the more intensely blonde by the alchemical concoction she'd used to manage it. Her lips were stained black, and she'd drawn dark circles around her eyes with Fallieni kohl, which made the fairness of her skin all the more striking, and she had silver and iron rings running all the way up the outsides of her ears, and a few more on her nostril for good measure. She wore leather on her legs, stained black and stretched too thin to offer even the slightest protection. Her boots were equally impractical, ornate and stiletto-heeled. She wore an unadorned, plum-colored corset over a black silk shirt with tasteful frills at the high collar and at the cuffs. What might have been mistaken for an honest wizard's robe was in fact a long fur coat, heavy and black as sin. When she walked, one could hear the myriad vials and trinkets and charms and wards she carried, all jingling and rattling against one another.

"It's good, right?" she said. "Yeah, it's good."

"It is not good," Marcus said, frowning. "You're going to snap your ankle inside an hour in those boots. And your hair...you look like a peacock."

"I'm a sorceress, baby, I can handle high heels."

"You're going to take an arrow to the chest and get split in half. My only regret is that I won't be there to see it."

"I like it," Flint interjected.

"Thank you, Flint," Salome said. "See? Flint likes it."

"I will still leave you to die if you snap your ankle," the brute said.

"That's really touching," she said, "thank you for the heads up."

Krowe said nothing but seemed to be leaning steadily closer in an effort to look down the witch's cleavage.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" cried the sudden voice of Duke Silas Valoril. "Citizens of the duchy. My honored subjects, my wards, my friends. A threat of unknown strength is harrying us from the north, cutting us off from our allies, and menacing our livelihoods. I will not stand idly by, nor will I meet our unseen foes with an infirm hand. Valoril is a mighty state, fierce and independent. It has been since days of yore, and it will be the same a thousand years from now. Tonight you rest safe behind yonder walls never breached, while your defenders march out to wrest peace and safety from the cravens without. I vow to bring this crisis to its conclusion in but a little more than a week. I vow to bring home answers, and to return you swiftly and safely to your farms, mills, and homesteads."

The duke's voice carried far and wide, evidenced by the sudden uproarious applause rolling up from the city streets below in response, and from the castle above. A fresh ejection of flower petals swept out from the towers and were caught up, swirling in the wind before raining down on Valoril proper.

"To assure this promise, I have called upon these champions. Even here, in the far-flung north, high atop these proud hills and mountains, we have heard of their deeds both great and terrible. They are modern wonders: slayers of armies, of monsters, conjurers and conquerors all. They have agreed to stand resolute, to go into the unknown night and bring home another dawn for you and your children. They will succeed, because they have never failed. Truly, to secure any one of them would guarantee the satisfaction of my oaths to you, but I will accept nothing less than total dominance. We will put the fear of our righteous anger in the hearts of all villains for generations to come. What say you to that, Valoril?!"

A second wave of feverish cheers and applause rose up, and sustained itself.

"Then to war!" Valoril shouted, raising one fist dramatically into the air.

"Well," Salome said. "Now it's really too late to back out, huh?"

"Have faith, my friends," Marcus said. "Flint, fight with honor. Krowe, good hunting. Salome...die screaming."

"Oh man," Salome said. "The lust rolling off of you is just...please control yourself."

"The dragon is mine," Krowe told Flint.

"There might not be a dragon," Marcus said.

"If there is," Krowe said, "it's mine."

Flint grinned, already turning to the east. "We will see," he called over his shoulder.

Krowe glowered, and turned to follow the paladin as he turned west, greaves beating out a heavy, metallic rhythm on the flagstones.

Salome walked backwards for a few feet, sharing a solemn look with Silas across the petal-strewn gulf between them, and then she turned around and followed Flint toward the low gate, head down.

[Amen]

Marcus strode through the low gate with the bells and the cheers of thousands ringing in his ears. A strong breeze swept through his hair the moment he was beyond the cyclopean stone threshold, and he squinted against a flare of sunlight. Beyond was rolling green hills and sprawling farmland, with forest in the far north and east and haze-blurred mountains in the north and west.

Hundreds of men were gathered to the west of the gate, leaving the desolate remains of a standing camp. The last of them were jogging to and fro, shouting out departure orders and finding their ways into formation with this unit or that, pulling on helmets or tying down pauldrons as they went. An armored man in a captain's winged helmet emerged from beside one such unit. He had a retinue of four that followed behind him, and one split off to continue shouting orders.

"Marcus Book, I presume?" the captain shouted on approach, raising his visor.

"I am," Marcus said. He raised his right hand as he felt a presence lurking up behind him. "And this is Odessa Krowe. You're Captain Vivode."

"You have it right," Vivode said. "Get these two their horses. A warhorse for Commander Book, something lighter for the girl. She'll not be going far with us, I wager."

He looked to Krowe for confirmation and she nodded. "No farther than you sit," she said.

"The trappers' paths all branch off of one of the roads," Vivode said, "but I expect you know that already. Just be prepared for rough going at the edge of the farmlands, the undergrowth hasn't been cleared there in an age."

Krowe nodded. "The horse is just to get me to there, no farther. It would just slow me down beyond the tree line."

"Fair enough," said the captain. "They're trained to return to the garrison if they're not tied down. Here we are, speak of the devil."

Two horses were indeed being drawn along behind the man sent to retrieve them. He handed the larger off to Book, who mounted with deliberate care thanks to his greatly augmented weight. Krowe, in contrast, sprung up onto her saddle like a squirrel with a hound on its tail. She nodded to the armored men once, turned her mount north, and kicked it into motion. In an instant, she was a fading memory.

"Well," Vivode said with a chuckle, "she's motivated, I'll give you. Ride with me to the front of the van, Commander, let's let everybody have a look at that armor."

"Lead on," Marcus said, and the captain did.

Book had had some conception that Valoril was no flailing backwater, but he didn't grasp the full breadth of their wealth and ability until he saw Eagle Army arrayed all along the long road from the city. They marched in lockstep, all in chainmail that glinted and glimmered with fresh oil, four deep in regimented lines that went as far back and forward as the eye could see.

And this was only a third of what Valoril could muster.

"This is an impressive army, Captain," Book said. "Well equipped, disciplined, strong, and large."

"Thank you, Commander," Vivode said. "I'm relieved to see four years of drills and games pay off, if I'm being honest. The plateau hasn't seen an army this size in generations. It's not as if we have an abundance of real-world experience in deployment."

"Forgive me here, but I'm too hard-headed to be anything but blunt," Marcus said. "Are the roads dangerous enough to justify the need? I was under the impression that Valoril's relationship with Sindragar was good."

Vivode let out a wry chuckle. "It's...complicated. Go back fifteen years and there was a lot of mistrust between the two cities. Economic competition is fierce here, you understand: importing from the south is difficult, and Valoril has it easier because we're right up against the sea. Sindragar had to get aggressive to stay competitive, which pissed off the merchants, and that pissed off the nobility. Duke Silas and Duke Odo were struggling to keep a lid on a pot that wanted to boil over when Knife's Edge decided civil war was a good idea, and it was just the thing to take our minds off of each other.

"Both Church and crown petitioned the cities for troops and resources, sent up a lot of threats. Sindragar and Valoril...we're not all so different, in the end. We're all stubborn, and we hate being told what to do by somebody a thousand miles away. So both cities built up their armies, not to send south but to hold the homestead, so to speak. Everybody got to talking a lot in those days, trading plans, worrying about the future. There was a lot of talk of formally allying under one banner and declaring independence, even after the civil war ended. That...well, that fell through a few years ago. Some bad times happened. I think everybody thought we were starting to come out of it when this happened."

Marcus nodded slowly, silent for a long moment as he digested everything he'd been told.

"You speak with great neutrality for a military man," Book said. "Ah. Apologies, I intended that to be a compliment."

"No," Vivode said, holding out a hand with a smile. "No, I'm not offended. It's just, you hit the nail on the head. I was born in Sindragar, you see."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. He considered his words carefully for a moment, and then spoke the way a husband walks when he comes home drunk at three in the morning. "You don't think...that is, what if...you realize, Captain, it seems to some that there's a possibility..."

Vivode nodded. "That this is Sindragar's doing? I can't believe that, Commander Book. I grew up in Sindragar. I rose through the ranks in Valoril. There are plenty of people who would argue with me until they were blue in the face, but they'd be wrong: the two cities are the same. It's like any family, yeah? They'll fight and argue and spit, but when it counts they stand together.

"This isn't a scouting mission, Commander Book. This is a rescue."