There were only modest bouts of merry-making heard throughout the camp after the wine casks were opened, the mood certainly muted by a hanging dread, as Derrek Halloway traversed through, guiding his way by the bonfires. He steered clear of the south men, believing it good to avoid them this night, and wandered into the hold of the Vinndash, where mighty roars and hardy laughs were heard more than any place in the legion camp. At a great bonfire, mail armor gleamed as the bearded men drank and raised their cups in song completely undaunted by any thought other than their own merriment. Astonished by this, Derrek watched for a quiet moment as the barbarians hollered and heaved in their crude tongue and threw themselves to the ground, grappling each other in mad delight.

  Suddenly, Derrek felt a slam from behind as if a wild beast had tackled him. He smashed to the earth, sliding against the rocky ground, as his hat fell away. A mad-looking Vinndash with wine-red lips pressed down on him, laughing. His breath smelt of sweet wine and sour meat. “You can do better than that, boy,” said the Vinndash, his bushy mouth sputtering wet.

  Under the barbarian’s weight, the boy struggled on the dirt and cried out to the mountain man to release him. But the Vinndash ignored his pleas and laughed more, even slighting the boy by calling him a pretty girl. But a woman’s voice came to the boy’s aide. “Let him go.” Her voice was subtle but her tone demanding. “Find another plaything.”

  The Vinndash immediately went to his feet and gave the woman a respectful glance. The woman watched him sternly, with her face half hidden under a white-fur hood, as the barbarian stomped away grinning savagely. A glint of steel flashed at her belt as the wind blew the cloak.

  Climbing back to his feet, Derrek realized who had saved him—it was Captain Wylen’s sister, Sherral.

  “This is no place for you, boy,” insisted Sherral, fixing her gaze on him. “Our kind do not mix.”

  Derrek nodded, brushing himself off. “Much appreciated, my lady.”

  She huffed. “Squire, if you have a place to be, then be there.”

  After the boy took his leave, Wylen came wandering up to his sister, cup in hand. He asked with a small slur in his voice, “Why are you dressed with a sword, sister?”

  Sherral answered, “I’m on watch. Since no one is.”

  He laughed. “For what? The ghosts in the Morglade? It is dead here for leagues.”

  “There could be trouble over the children.”

  “No, there will not,” he assured her. “Come, put the sword away and drink with your kinsmen.”

  She eyed him carefully, “You should be more wary, little brother. The faery men might attack in the night.”

  Wylen chuckled loudly. “The green knight is an old fool. More bark than bite. He will submit to the lord master, I promise you. And as for his men, they love their captain too much to ever act without his consent.”

  Sherral gave her little brother a hard look. “I pray you are right. But still, I will stay at watch in your men’s stead since they choose to drink. Someone must.”

  Wylen groaned, slowly raising his cup to his mouth. “Do as you desire, sister.” He turned back to the bonfire and walked singing with a slight wobble in his step.

  A gruff voice spoke to Sherral from the shadows. “We should kill them.”

  Sherral turned and saw a black-bearded figure on a rock at the edge of the campfire’s light. A black fur cloak came over his shoulders and a battleaxe sat on his lap.

  Sherral asked, “Kill them?”

  The man scratched his beard. “Aye. While the faery men are distracted with drink. If I was captain that is what I would do.”

  Sherral said, “But you are not, Croy. The lord master chose Wylen.”

  Vilmer let out a low grungy chuckle. “Aye, someone chose him. And he, our dear captain, prefers to drink and sing and carouse with women more than be a leader. He is not fit.”

  Sherral shook her head. “Watch your words, black wolf.”

  Vilmer eyed her. “You see what I see, don’t deny it.”

  She stormed away without another word and continued her patrol alone around the camp.

  When Derrek finally arrived at the provision wagons, he heard a strange music in the air, seemingly beckoning him. He followed his ears to the back of a cask wagon, where he found the two sisters. A small fire nearby was burning empty casks and casting enough light to see clearly. Mel and Gai were perched high on stacked wine casks with their bare feet dangling freely in the air. The girls were now relieved from their leathers and wore soft woolen skirts with their dirks still belted on their sides. Mel cradled a minstrel harp in her lap, plucking away. Gai was munching on a winter apple. The men of the legion were coming and going, dipping cups into an open cask, before ambling away.

  The red-haired sister spit a chunk from her teeth when she spotted Derrek. She elbowed her sister before licking her teeth and announcing, “Oh, there’s our poor squire, he must’ve come for his last sweet taste of wine.”

  Derrek, still thinking of his knock in the Vinndash camp, asked the sisters, “Ladies, should you be out here alone? With all these men and drink?”

  Gai smiled. “Oh, baby knight, we are perfectly safe. Your worry shouldn’t be to us.”

  Mel stopped playing and swiped a loose lock from her eyes. “Fear not, squire, no man would dare touch us. The lord master would take their head. And besides the men fear Joanne more than him.”

  Gai added, “Aye, and we could prance around naked as a babe in the camps if we liked.” Gai swiftly turned to her sister, excited. “That sounds like a bit of fun, doesn’t it?”

  “And if we dared to,” Mel said to her sister, “our lady would give our backsides to Otis’s whip.”

  Gai laughed. “I would rather lose my head.”

  Derrek asked, “Then to what reason are you out here?”

  “We’re in charge,” the blue-haired sister answered, “making sure the men drink no more than two cups. Lord master’s orders.”

  “Aye,” Gai said, “we’ve been counting too. See here, Rodger is back for his fourth second cup.” She pointed to a man, cup in hand, who was wobbling to the wine cask. He was dressed in a cloak with colored chicken feathers sewn to the shoulders and wore a green ribbon tied on his wrist. After dipping into the cask, the feather-cloaked man saluted by raising his cup and making a wretched smile, revealing missing front teeth. “To the queen!” He shouted.

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  Gai returned with a smirk, raising her fist to the sky, as Rodger walked away, nearly tilting on every rock in his path.

  Derrek spun back to the sisters. “You allow that?”

  Gai said, “You try telling these men, I dare ya. All of them know the lord master’s orders as good as you or me.”

  “Grab a cup,” Mel said, “and take your due, squire. You deserve at least one cup.” The blue-haired girl’s eyes fanned sweetly at the boy as she began softly strumming again. As she played, a subtle wind blew in the valley, making the nearby fire dance.

  At a water cask, he stared down. Nothing clean about it he knew. Tin cups floated inside with a thousand men’s spit in the water. A few half-eaten apples stirred inside as well. But out of worry for looking craven in sight of the sisters, the boy grumbled and plucked a tin cup from the cask and shook off the water. Yet at the wine cask, he stopped himself from dipping in and only stared into the sour-smelling wine which looked the color of a black moat in the moonlight.

  As he stood there, Derrek thought of the black-shrouded woman who talked to the dead, the unwashed barbarians who lived for nothing more than pleasure or violence, the mage who only cared about costs when brewing poisons for victims, and all the treasonous southerners, too many to count, who may rebel at any moment. And all under a man who would sentence orphans to death for the sake of his honor. Derrek felt he understood, or so he believed, why the last squire ran away. I should too, thought Derrek, while I can. Derrek returned to the water cask and tossed the tin cup back in.

  Gai raised her voice. “What are you doing? Can’t you drink right?”

  Derrek replied, “It’s not a night of celebration. Not for me.”

  Gai said, “because you’re worthless?” The red-haired girl threw her bitten apple, missing the water cask and bouncing it off the lip.

  Derrek shook his head. “No… something else.”

  Then an unknown feminine voice spoke from the shadows. “Why so troubled, squire?”

  Derrek turned to see a shrouded figure emerging from behind the wagons. Moving into the light of the fire, a fair face began to appear behind the frayed edges of a shroud’s hood.

  “Captain Ballessteer?” Derrek said, surprised.

  “You seem lost,” said Joanne. “Come squire. Have a drink with me in my tent. Let us talk.”

  In shock, or maybe horror, the boy couldn’t answer. Instead, he went over words in his head to politely refuse her. But Joanne insisted. “Consider it a favor, squire. Or a command from a captain if you prefer. But please, drink with me.”

  Gai said, “Don’t be a coward, boy.”

  “You should go,” said Mel, strumming on her harp. “She only desires to talk.”

  Seeing no way out of it, Derrek finally nodded and said, “If I must.” He left following the dark lady.

  After Joanne and Derrek were gone, Mel spoke to her sister. “Joanne has taken interest in him. She must know something.”

  Gai said, “I told ya, sister, the boy is doomed. I shall mourn him.”

  Inside Joanne’s pavilion, smoky grey linens, sagging in waves, were hung from the rafters down to the carpeted ground. Colorful and exotic gourds were hooked and placed everywhere. In the center of the tent, a comfortable divan framed in curved black wood sat prominently with soft pillows lain upon it. To the right of the divan, sunfly worms crawled freely on a leafy herb rising out of a clay pot and were slowly spreading throughout the tent. The worms glowed with a soft light.

  But what caught Derrek’s eye, and unsettled him the worse, was a strange glass vessel on a pedestal, its top capped in wax with a coiled vine inside. The vine appeared browned and brittle-looking, seemingly dead, but was teeming with nasty thorns as large as wolf fangs. Derrek wondered why the captain would keep such a thing. He approached and inspected it, curiously.

  “You should be wary of that,” said Joanne.

  “What is it?” Derrek asked.

  The dark lady crossed over and tenderly touched the glass vessel. She said, poignantly, “It’s a memento from a deep place in the river wilds… to remind me there are things in this world which only exist to bring pain and death.”

  He carefully stepped back wide-eyed.

  “Allay your fears,” said Joanne. “Sit.” She motioned to the black wood divan.

  Derrek took a seat on the edge and waited as Joanne slipped behind linens. When she returned, she came bearing two silver cups in each gloved hand. Her shroud’s hood had been lowered, and her face, white and clean, was bare to see. Her warm amber eyes glowed in the dim light and her smooth long hair, black as midnight, flowed to her shoulders and softly around the white skin of her neck.

  She sunk down on the opposite end of the divan and bid him a silver cup.

  “Rose wine,” asserted Joanne. “You’ll find it pleasing—at least more than the cask wine anyway—I promise you.” She smiled, gently.

  Derrek leerily took the silver cup from Joanne’s hand and studied the wine. It smelled faintly of flowers and had a bluish-red hue. As he gazed into his cup, Joanne asked, “Tell me, Squire Derrek, why do you wear such a hat?”

  He looked up. “Oh, it’s my father’s lucky hat. He gave it to me when I left for the legion. Always wear it he said—always—it could save your life. He claimed it helped him when he was younger and made him his fortune. So, I wear it and I hope for luck.”

  “Ah,” said Joanne, “Then let us drink to your father—and his lucky hat. May it bring you fortune as it did for him.”

  Joanne drank from her cup and sighed pleasurably. Derrek raised his cup to his mouth and took a small taste. And he found it pleasant enough with only a small hint of bitterness in the aftertaste.

  After Joanne placed her silver cup on the ground, she asked the boy, “May I see it?”

  Derrek asked, “My hat?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Derrek removed his wide-brim hat and handed it to Joanne. She looked closer at it for a moment and said only, “Intriguing.” After she was done, she placed the hat between them on the divan and leaned in closer to his eyes. “Now, I see you better, squire,” Joanne spoke, “I can see you have a good soul. I can always tell. Which is why I am worried.”

  “Worried?” Derrek asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “because you are tempted, are you not, to run away?”

  He sat back, wide-eyed. “No. I would never do that.”

  “No?” She smiled. “I thought you might be bothered by the fate of the children. I will confess to you, I am. I believe children shouldn’t be punished for the crimes of their fathers—or mothers. It’s not the way it should be, I believe.”

  A spark lit inside Derrek’s eyes. “Captain, do you mean to stop the execution?”

  Joanne reached under a fold of the black shroud and retrieved a crystal blue vial. She held it in front of Derrek as she rotated it slowly in her gloved hand as the crystal shimmered. She asked, “Do you know what this is?”

  He shook his head and drank from his cup again.

  Joanne explained, “The mages call it deadman’s ale. By luck, a full chest of these little vials came to me in the supply train this morn directly from the arch-mage. A small drop of this substance will put a man in a gentle sleep for an hour. But mixed with alcohol, such as wine or ale, the man won’t wake… not for hours. And the slumber would be so deep, so paralyzing, he could pass for dead. There are horrible tales told of men being entombed alive from this.”

  Derrek asked, “Why would the arch-mage send those to you?” He suddenly felt a rush come over him as the sting of the rose wine struck.

  Joanne concealed the vial back under her shroud. “In case,” she said, “the legion needed put down. The arch-mage is a most cynical creature. He does not believe the legion will succeed.”

  Derrek asked, “Does the lord master know of this?”

  “No. Only I—and now you.”

  Derrek asked, worried, “Why tell me?”

  “Because my young squire, I might know a way to stop the executions. Someone could replace the poisoned wines in Captain Thorn’s tent with ones with a drop of this. The children would appear dead. And then after saying their last goodbyes, I could order my Lysaneea riders to take the bodies away. When the children awake, they’d be alive and free from the legion. But I’d need someone the mage would never suspect. It would be a dangerous task sneaking into a wizard’s abode, one where success wouldn’t be likely.” Joanne’s gloved hand gently touched Derrek’s. “It would take someone daring. So, tell me sincerely, Squire Derrek, are you him? Are you at least tempted?”

  Derrek felt a slight dizziness but immediately answered, “Yes, my lady. I will do it. But I…” He started to feel strange, his limbs were growing heavy.

  “I thought so,” Joanne said, bittersweetly. “As I said before—I can tell a good soul. Which is why I had to do this.” Joanne’s face sharply changed to cold. She lifted her silver cup from the ground and eased back into the divan. As she sipped, she asked, “How is your wine?”

  But Derrek couldn’t speak. He felt obliterated. He staggered to his feet, nearly losing balance, before glancing at his silver cup and then back to Joanne. She was watching him with pity.

  Joanne said, “Did your father never teach you—never drink with a witch? Hmmm. But so you know, you have my deepest sympathies. There was no other way.”

  As his body began to tilt, he made a last desperate move to grab his wide-brimmed hat on the couch. But before he could touch it, Joanne deftly moved the hat out of reach with a subtle finger. He tumbled to the ground before the divan, clawing for his hat, before his body froze. The boy remembered nothing else as the world disappeared around him—only Joanne’s voice saying, “You’ll see, boy…”