The trees thinned, and the looming power of the deep woods faded behind us. I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t think I’d ever enjoy being that far from civilisation. The wolf attack had only deepened my disdain for the fae places of the world. This disdain was further compounded by the itch I’d felt between my shoulder blades—a sense of being watched by familiar eyes. I couldn’t decide whether the orbs watching me were mirrors or lakes.

  “So, where else can we do better?” Kay’s call snapped me out of my reverie. The Knights, of course, weren’t as affected as I was, and after clearing the battlefield, they had thrown themselves into a post-battle dissection of their successes and failings.

  “Lance and Gring can remember to catch people they startle out of trees,” Sephy’s voice called out. She hadn’t found my fall as amusing as some of the others. There was a grumbling whinny from Gring, who flew above our trotting column, probably arguing that he was trying to help. ‘Help’ that I was still recovering from.

  As I fell, Gring had remembered he had air glamour just before I struck the ground and tried to cushion my fall. This not only destroyed the blanket of ash I had been desperately forming, but his panicked bursts of air—geared for a Knight in full armour—launched me skyward again, and then again. Finally, after his third attempt to catch me, I was able to use my own ash to snag a tree branch and save myself from my ‘rescuer.’

  This was of great amusement to everyone except me, Sephy, and Kay. Maeve only remembered to act concerned after the laughter had run its course. I personally was more annoyed at my initial reaction than anything else. However, Kay and Sephy both took personal affront at the cavalier attitude of the group towards injury.

  Our Marshal was displeased with our nascent Order’s showing against the wolves. She picked apart the group’s behaviour with exacting detail. While I’d assumed it had gone well, from her analysis it became clear that the victory was more a result of our Order being made up of competent individuals than any semblance of teamwork. Her biggest compliment was that they weren’t actively getting in each other’s way. For the most part, everyone fought their own enemies and did little to build upon each other’s strengths.

  The pair who earned her greatest praise were Bors and Maeve. Bors had steadily pushed forward, using defensive walls to press the enemy back or pinning them in place with spikes of earth. Maeve had made great use of this, darting out to deliver killing blows before retreating behind the giant to wait for the next opportunity to strike.

  I listened with half an ear as Kay took Sephy’s complaint and turned it into a lecture on the importance of not becoming arrogant about how our bodies could handle punishment. “One injured member of our column slows us all,” she emphasised. To her credit, she was a good speaker, and her audience was mostly attentive.

  I wasn’t listening as closely as the others, too busy planning our next steps.

  After quickly harvesting the cores of the wolves and throwing their bodies into our storage rings, we began trotting up the river. The river appeared on our maps and ran near the imperilled town. Given it was the midst of spring, the river should have been in full swell, not the anaemic trickle we now saw. The group’s assumption, backed up by the sense Gaz and Gawain got from the water’s glamour, was that the river was blocked due to the frozen den of this unknown monster.

  With the benefit of the dried riverbed, we were making better time than expected. Even at a trot, we could reach the town by the end of the day. Some among the Order had wanted to head straight to the monster, reasoning that the sooner it was dealt with, the better.

  They were overruled by our designated monster expert, Gawain. He made a good case that we only had strange ramblings to go on and could easily find ourselves fighting something far more dangerous than anticipated.

  Which meant our Order’s introduction to the public was imminent.

  When there was a lull in Kay’s lecturing, I called out to everyone, “All right, last call for name suggestions.”

  There were groans from some and shouts from others.

  “I’ve got a new one: Order of Concorde,” Sephy said. I might have been biased, but so far, her ideas were the best—if you overlooked her inability to correctly judge the limits of others’ vocabulary. Lance, Bors, and Kay were all looking at her, mystified.

  “Isn’t that just a different way of saying the Order of Agreement? I’m afraid the average peasant might not recognise it,” Gaz cut in diplomatically. Sephy began to blush; that was her third idea that had been shot down for the same reason. We wanted the title of the Order to be clear to both cultivators and mortals alike, making our philosophy easily understood.

  “I still think we had it with the Bannerless Order,” Lance called down from Gring.

  “It sounds like we’re cowards who’ve surrendered our banner,” Bors retorted.

  “We don’t have a banner!”

  “Which is the first thing they’ll point out!”

  “I still don’t see why we can’t be called the Order of Balanced Justice,” Arthur grumbled quietly beside me. I stayed silent. The others had already ripped the idea apart earlier. The biggest complaint was that it sounded eerily similar to a virtue claimed by the Inquisitors. I kept my own opinion—that it sounded like the title for a stuffy group of bureaucrats—to myself.

  I wasn’t actively annoying Arthur. This was progress.

  “Does anyone want another vote?” My offer was met with a chorus of boos. The Knights didn’t like voting but accepted that all the other methods of governance were worse. So far, it had been working—the one exception being choosing a name.

  “We still have time before we properly go questing. We’ve got our working name until then,” I said. We’d had to put something down so we could start requesting recognition from our Houses. The Knights weren’t enthusiastic about my suggested title.

  “I still feel like a damn fool marching under the name of some furniture,” Bors grumbled.

  “I, for one, like it. It matches our goals while sounding appropriately humble,” Arthur called back. In an ironic twist of our usual dynamic, he was the only Knight who didn’t have a problem with the name. I begrudgingly accepted his support and forged on.

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  “Thank you, Arthur. We all agreed it works, at least for the time being. And as this is our first outing, contained entirely within the Artoss lands, I doubt it will—”

  “Are we sure we should use that name? What if it sticks?”

  “Well, you’ve not got long to work it out. Gawain has just signalled he’s seen the town,” Lance called down as Gring flapped his wings, taking mount and rider to meet their airborne counterparts.

  “Taliesin, you still good with being our Herald when we arrive?” Kay asked, and I smiled in return.

  “I’ve not forgotten, and yes, I’m hale and pleased to be of use.” As Sephy had suggested, my role was to act as Herald. Similar to Kay’s role as Marshal, the group had put me in charge of the general speaking tasks.

  “All right, form up, people. I want a flawless column. Get ready to get your cloaks out.”

  “We’re still miles out, though,” I heard Bors comment, and Gaz chuckled.

  “Ah, I see you’re yet to learn the ancient rule that governs all military, from a levy of peasants to a gathering of Steels,” Gaz said, a wry smile on his lips.

  “Please enlighten us, oh veteran!” Lance quipped.

  Gaz and Kay shared a knowing nod, then called out, “Hurry up and wait!”

  Atop Elphin, I stood staring up at the gates, my fake smile in danger of cracking. We’d arrived as the sun was setting, and the gates around the town had already closed. I’d approached, and for a moment, it seemed as if we’d enter without issue. The guards, seeing our column, were practically falling over themselves to let us in.

  The cohort of seven Knights and their steeds looked stately. The setting sun painted their armour in gold. None wore their houses colours; instead, they all bore unadorned red cloaks. The colour was chosen for its striking impact and because it wasn’t the primary colour of any of our supporters. It was in no way due to the fact my outfit refused to be any other colour.

  Lance and Gawain were both off surveying the surrounding lands, getting a look before night fell. Should this clucking beast attack tonight, we’d at least have an idea of where to pursue it.

  Even I looked good. I’d switched to my noble troubadour outfit, the red and black fitting with the rest of the Knights. My enchanted black cloak billowed in the wind, matching nicely with Elphin’s black coat.

  All was going well. The town was simple, mostly wood, but it had a pleasant air to it. The buildings we could see were in good condition, with enough paint to give them some life. Smoke curled from their chimneys, and the smell of cooking promised us good fare. I even spotted some children who’d snuck onto a roof to see us over the simple stone walls.

  It would have been a rather perfect picture of rural life if not for the glaring face of Sir Spendlove, the local Knight.

  Our smooth entry had fallen apart after someone had the bright idea to drag out this example of pig iron from the muck it had been rusting in. So now I found myself trying to explain myself patiently for the third time. It was a challenge, given Sir Spendlove’s constant oinking and the murderous intent I could feel radiating off my cohort.

  “You dare insult the Artoss, you dirty string-plucker! I ask again, send out the leader of your cohort,” the hog-faced man roared. Beside him, a functionary or servant winced and cleared out his ears.

  I’d never viewed another cultivator’s rank as ‘pig iron’ before, but the man was uniquely deserving of it. Pig iron was scrap, refuse, little better than slag, and was considered the highest insult to a Knight. It didn’t question your morals or your individual skills; it branded your very core as being unworthy of the rank you held.

  Sir Spendlove had capped out at low Iron, which, I was acutely aware, was nothing to be ashamed of. However, he’d then wallowed in his power. He’d fallen to decadence. Even his armour couldn’t hide his fat, the excess weight saying far more about a cultivator than it might for a mortal. I didn’t need his words to tell he took my presence as an insult, not with his unceasing glower from a pair of particularly hoggish eyes—overly small on his face due to his erratically shaved jowls and receding hairline.

  “Please educate me on what offence I could have offered the Artoss family, Sir Spendlove?” I decided on one last overture of peace. We were new to this, after all; perhaps there was some aspect I was missing.

  “It is appropriate for the commanding officer or their second to greet the ranking cultivator of the town they visit. You disrespect me, and that disrespects the governance of this town and, by extension, the Artoss—our sponsors. I am a tolerant man but cannot abide an insult to our protectors.” The last words were a total lie, which made it clear this was all because he felt slighted. My patience was wearing thin.

  “Not your sponsors for bloody long,” I heard a faint mutter from Tristan behind me. That comment helped me rally. I was no longer aiming to just get past this swine. Time to fatten him up before leading him to slaughter. Besides, I also wanted to answer one question for my own satisfaction: what confidence drove this man to be so brazen?

  “As I have explained thrice, I am the Herald of the Order of the Round Table, a cadre of Knights who believe in putting aside their personal power to protect mortals in these trying times. We are equals without a commander to put forth. Our Order is recognised by Pellinore Artoss, among others, and we were sent here to aid you.” The last bit was technically true—even if our founding document was yet to host any other seals. I recognised the Order and counted as an ‘other.’

  I saw him absorb that, shushing the pained-looking man beside him. Given how the man was holding up under the Knight’s ire, I assumed he was Squire Lucan, who had written the letter. Lucan was his master’s opposite: neat and trim, dressed in clothes that made him look more like a butler than a warrior. He alone dared to speak, though not loudly enough for us to hear him. A model servant.

  “Well, I’ve never heard of you. You must be a pretty weak Order to not send a single Knight.” There was a brief shade of worry as he looked over us, and finally, it all clicked. His ability to sense our auras was likely as rusty as the rest of his skills. He didn’t know what strength we held. He wasn't just arrogant, he was scared.

  So, he was making assumptions. From his perspective, seven Knights and a Bard from some unknown Order couldn’t possibly all be Irons. The idea that every one of us was Iron hadn’t entered his mind. Not only did this explain his arrogance and condescension, but also his derision. If the monster we hunted was Iron, as expected, we might succeed in slaying it—but most of us would likely die. If we failed, the beast would be empowered from eating our glamour infused bodies. Then it come hunting for more.

  To him, we were represented a new threat. Either a group of low-ranked optimistic idiots or some unlucky fodder sent here as part of a distant political game.

  Did that excuse his insults and disrespect? No, it did not. But at least I now knew what to avoid next time. I was about to speak—to give him more rope to hang himself with—when he deliberately spoke over me, rubbing in the insult.

  “I’m not sure we have space for you in town. There’s a farmste—”

  “Sir, I must protest.” The butler spoke up, horrified. Clearly under the same misapprehension as his master, he recognised that billeting us at some farmstead was akin to using Bronzes as bait.

  “Silence, Lucan. Don’t embarrass me,” Spendlove snapped. From Lucan’s flinch, I knew he was using the Evil Eye. Thugs like him always did. Of course, a bully like him wouldn’t have let that skill wither. My smile disappeared. My fun was ruined. I wasn’t about to let him torture a man in front of me.

  “Before you billet us somewhere, I should mention that we have two others with flying mounts. They are currently surveying the nearby lands.”

  “Flying mounts? They must be your Irons.” The little piggy smile came back—only so I could dash it.

  “Indeed, they are both Knights, but I sense there has been some confusion. All of these fine souls are full Knights,” I gestured to the still and silent cohort behind me. Well, silent because I could feel Gaz’s sound glamour muting the laughter that at least a couple of helmets were helping conceal.

  “All of them are Iron?” he asked breathlessly, his flushed face turning pale.

  “All of us,” I emphasised the final word and watched the piggy face crumple as he realised just how badly he’d screwed up.