At dusk, soldiers in hundreds were glumly standing in line with bowls in their hands. Awaiting them at the end were cauldrons of simmering stew, smelling of beets and onions and of other things no one knew for sure. Many men were adorned with a hint of green, some in scarves, others with strings around their wrists. The faery men, as they were called, were the soldiers from the southern lands who had fought for Elisa Rhinell—the faery queen—the queen who lost.

  All heads turned at the supper lines when a bright-eyed soldier with long brown hair and a sharp goatee approached. Captain Leon Dace was dressed down from the day in a common tunic over trousers with a knife sheathed to his belt. The captain walked with a song in his step and a glimmer in his eyes. Around his neck, he also wore a bit of green. A torn piece of fine ivy-green silk billowed gently over his shoulder. Leon claimed it was from the last gown of the faery queen when she met her doom. His soldiers met him warmly and the misery any soldiers carried with them seemed to melt away in his presence. A mirthful aura seemed to pervade Leon. He had an uncanny easiness as he embraced the southern men, slapping shoulders and playfully returning boastful laughs with them. But soon, Leon Dace left, leaving his men with higher spirits than he found them before making his way to a nearby wide tent. A few paces away, the captain paused, feeling suddenly drained. He deeply inhaled as a feeling of dread came over him—the same one which kept returning since he lost the war. After allowing the feeling to pass, Leon marched confidently past the flaps and announced in grand style, “Hail, friends!” The faery captain stroked his goatee and took a cocksure pose with a smiling face. All inside hailed back.

  In the supper tent, a long trestle table was set, covered in a blue and gold trimmed cloth. On one side, sat Michael Athyus Thorn, a disgraced mage, and a captain in the legion. Captain Thorn sat slightly hunchbacked at the table. His years at an alchemist’s bench crafting love potions for aging ladies and secret poisons for married ones had taken its toll on his posture. Thorn had a round face, stocky build, and hints of grey in his thinning black hair. Around his neck hung a circular steel amulet with small turquoise gemstones lining the edges. His companion next to him was a beauty from the islands across the sea, young and exotic, and was called Eillandi. Her long fingernails were colored violet, the same shade on her lips and over her eyes. She nibbled at her plate, carefully avoiding a mess on the long sleeves of her dress.

  Opposite the mage and the islander, and strikingly different, was the Vinndash captain Wylen and his older sister, Sherral. As all Vinndash, they were barbarians from the iron mountains. Wylen’s majestic beard, curly and soft, fell to his chest. His older sister, Sherral, was in a white-wolf cloak and sitting quietly, observing her brother and the others. Her hood was discreetly moved over the right side of her face, attempting to conceal a grisly scar from a giant claw mark going from her forehead down to her chin.

  When Leon found his place at the end of the table, he carefully removed the ivy-green silk from his neck and placed it in a small mink-skin pouch and kept it on his belt.

  A feast had been prepared, as much as it was, of sliced onions and turnips, a bowl of wild berries, venison, and fowl on two bronze plates, and of course a large bowl of stew. Picking at her plate, Eillandi wrinkled her nose. “Must we dine like this?” She puckered her purple-colored lips, sucking in a moss-berry from her fingers.

  Thorn answered, “Not a perfect supper, I give you that. But more than adequate, flower.”

  Eillandi corrected him, “I mean the stink.”

  “Oh,” said Thorn, “the burning. Well now, you must grow accustomed to these things, flower. We are in the corpse-burning profession, after all.”

  Eillandi said, “The lord master needn’t have made the fire so close.”

  Sherral, looking up from her stew, said, “It is a little thing.”

  Eillandi replied, “Is it a little thing for the children? Smelling the burning of their fathers and mothers?”

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  Sherral turned away. But Wylen spoke, “I hardly smell it.” The barbarian captain dug into his plate of food. “And why worry about those children? They will be joining those corpses soon enough.”

  Dace stabbed a morsel on his plate and circled it in the air on knifepoint. “I beg to differ, captain. The lord master will not harm them. He will free them.”

  “Heh. He will not. They will only grow and seek revenge or return to banditry. The lord master will bring order to the lands any way he can. He has said so.”

  “He did not mean without exception.”

  “The queen will command it and he will obey.”

  Leon stroked his goatee. “We shall see.”

  The barbarian returned to devouring his supper. And as he chewed on a tough piece of meat, he mumbled, “As you say, faery man.”

  “It isn’t the smell that bothers me.” Michael Thorn said with an insolent look on his face. “It’s having to watch someone; licking, grunting, and crudely chewing as an animal.” Thorn eyed Wylen, intently. “Is it in your folk’s tradition to eat as beasts? Or is it only you that’s such an uncouth lout?”

  A tense silence fell under the tent. Wylen tightened his grip on his supper knife. His face hardened and his eyes became inflamed as the mage retained his insolent stare on him. But Leon chuckled, attempting to break the tension, and said, “It does not matter how a man eats, Thorn, it all goes to the same place.”

  “True,” said Thorn. “It matters not to your gut how food arrives. But does one absolutely need to behave as a wretched mountain savage when putting it there? I’m only asking for decency at the table.”

  Wylen jumped from his chair, knife in hand, blood from the meat running down the blade. His eyes burned on the mage.

  Leon spoke, quickly, “Captain, collect yourself. The mage is toying with you.”

  Thorn, delighted at his handiwork, giggled.

  Wylen grunted back at Leon in defiance. But a gentle touch from his sister paused the fury in the Vinndash captain. Sherral pressed against him and softly spoke into her little brother’s ear as she gracefully lowered the knife down. “Ignore this petty mage, brother. He insults you purposely—to provoke you. It’s all a game to him.”

  “Yes, dear Sherral,” Thorn smiled, wryly. “Only a game, merely playful banter, to test one’s wits.”

  Wylen slowly sat down. And as his face cooled, a grin widened on his bearded face. “Games. Like a child plays.” The Vinndash then stabbed his knife’s tip into the meat on his plate with a hard clink. “Games always have a victor.” Matching eyes with Thorn, he raised meat to his mouth and ripped it with his teeth.

  “See that,” Eillandi said to Thorn, “eating like a man. One, who wasn’t sleeping in his tent as others fought in the field.”

  Thorn raised an eyebrow. “I suppose so, flower.”

  Sherral quietly watched over her stew as Wylen and Eillandi subtly made eyes at each other.

  After seeing the situation had deescalated, Leon Dace motioned to the empty spot across the table. “Captain Joanne is missing from supper again. But we should show our respects and drink to her regardless.” He raised a cup to the air, followed by the others—all except for Thorn—and drank.

  After sipping from her cup, Sherral said, bitterly, “Joanne has no use for us.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” said Leon.

  As Thorn coyly toyed with a moss berry in his fingers, he commented, “It does make one wonder why the witch joined the legion in the first place. Was it out of selfless duty for our beloved queen? No. No one believes that. It’s strange... a dedicated volunteer that never fraternizes with anyone. Expresses little interest in affairs other than her own. Why, one might begin to believe she doesn’t like to be here at all. Curious, isn’t it? A mystery.”

  Leon said, “I imagine she has her own ends, Thorn. And what they are; she only knows.”

  In between chewing, Wylen blurted out, “She’s a servant of the arch-mage—here to spy on us.”

  “Ah,” Thorn said, “that may be the cleverest thing that’s ever came out of your mouth, my barbarian comrade.”

  Sherral spoke up, “And if the mage agrees with you, brother, it’s proof enough you’re wrong.”

  Thorn giggled again. “My little mountain rabbit, whether you agree with me or not, your brother is right—more than you think. The witch is not what she seems.”

  Leon commented, “The daughters of the grey are not known for their fraternizing, but for their solitude. Her and her Lysaneea riders have been nothing but a boon for the legion. More than we could ever ask from them. So, let’s not entertain idle talk about things we do not understand. And my friends, if she is in service to the arch-mage, then consider… aren’t we all?”

  “Well said, captain,” said Thorn. “We certainly all work for him… we must. Only some do so freely.” He plopped a moss berry in his mouth and started to chew.

  “Yes,” Sherral said, “well said.” She stared sharp-eyed across the table at the mage, watching the blood-red juice leak down his chin. When Eillandi caught sight of it, the islander swiftly wiped his face with a cloth, cleaning every drop.

  “Oh mercy, flower,” said Thorn. “Mercy.”

  Sherral quietly returned to her turnip stew, brooding.