The Northern Border - Algrim, 13th Moon, 24th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  Beneath the dappled shadows of a weatherworn canvas tent, Ser Drake sat motionless, his face a mask of quiet repose as the camp stirred around him. A pair of squires moved briskly, their booted steps crunching on the dry earth, while servants scurried to and fro, bearing firewood and rations. The soft snort of tethered horses mingled with the rustle of wind through the surrounding trees. In the fading twilight, melancholy often found Drake like an old companion. His thoughts wandered to better days—if they had ever truly existed—or lingered on the choices that had bound him to this path. At times, he loathed his own unwavering loyalty, questioning the worth of a charge who did not deserve it.

  Tonight, his emotions resisted naming. Behind him, through the thin linen walls of the commander’s tent, came the muffled sounds of exertion—gasps and groans, obscene and shameless. Drake did not blink. Lord Sean, His Lordship, as the self-styled Heir preferred to be addressed, had long since shed any pretence of nobility or restraint. Once a gilded figure of moral righteousness, Sean’s true nature—arrogant, rapacious, and insatiably cruel—had blossomed in full once the mask had slipped.

  The noises reached their inevitable crescendo, and soon after, the flap of the tent stirred as a young serving girl emerged. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, her hair in disarray, and her gown askew, clinging to her sweat-dampened frame. She kept her eyes low as she passed, but Drake caught the faint musk that lingered about her—evidence enough of what had transpired. She mumbled a greeting, her voice trembling, then hurried away on unsteady feet. Drake watched her go, impassive. A silent prayer passed his lips, though he knew it was fruitless. The girl's fate was carved into the cruel stone of her station, her life as expendable as the fuel they used to build the campfires.

  Drake turned his attention back to the tent. The sounds within had ceased, leaving only the crackle of distant flames and the muted murmurs of the camp. Clearing his throat, he called out, his voice calm and measured.

  "Your Lordship. May I enter?"

  From within came a languid reply, tinged with weariness. "Ah, Drake. Yes, yes, come in."

  Drake pushed aside the tent flap and stepped into the heavy air. The cloying scent of sweat, musk and wine assaulted him, but his expression remained carefully neutral. Lord Sean reclined on a heap of silken cushions, his golden hair tousled, his bare chest gleaming in the light of a single flickering lantern. Despite his dishevelled state, he carried himself with the effortless arrogance of one born to command—or who thought himself so.

  "Pardon my appearance," Sean said, gesturing vaguely at the disarray around him. "I’ve had a… demanding evening."

  "It is not for me to judge, my lord," Drake replied smoothly, taking his place across from the Earl. "I come bearing news of the task you set before me."

  "And?" Sean prompted, a faint smile curling his lips.

  "Your suspicions were correct, my lord," Drake said, his tone steady. "Ser Blumun and Ser Ralph conspire against you. I believe they will make their move tonight."

  Sean’s smile did not waver. He leaned back against the cushions, stifling a yawn. "So predictable," he mused. "Men of their ilk cannot stomach ambition greater than their own. They think themselves my betters simply because they have years and numbers on their side. Fools. They’ve done nothing but squabble since we crossed the Border, while I’ve forged this rebellion from the ashes of their cowardice."

  Drake inclined his head, saying nothing. Sean’s vanity required no encouragement, and the knight had long since learned the art of silence.

  "And the preparations?" Sean asked, his tone casual, as though inquiring about the weather.

  "All is in readiness, my lord," Drake assured him. "Your orders will be carried out."

  "Good." Sean's blue eyes gleamed in the dim light, his smile growing sharper. "Let them come, then. I shall show them the price of betrayal."

  Drake nodded once, though his thoughts remained his own. The Earl's confidence was unshakable, but the knight could not help but wonder: how much longer would loyalty bind him to a man whose ambition burned so brightly, it threatened to consume them all?

  ???

  Faywyn

  The sun dappled the earth in golden light, pouring through the thinning canopy of autumn leaves like honey spilling from a jar. The sky was a vast and vivid blue, unmarred by even the faintest wisp of cloud, while the crisp air carried the scent of dying wildflowers. A zephyr stirred the grasses, their brittle stalks swaying and murmuring in the gentle breeze. By the banks of a narrow stream, water babbled softly as it danced over stones polished smooth by time, while a family of ducks floated idly in its shallows. From somewhere beyond the rolling hills came the faint sound of children’s laughter, carried on the wind like the echo of a memory.

  It was a day Levi thought poets might immortalize, a day as perfect as the first note of a song. And yet, perfection had a cruel way of juxtaposing itself against brutality.

  “Gilbert, my dearest,” Levi murmured, tearing his gaze from the pastoral serenity to the man before him. His voice was soft, almost tender, as he addressed his captive, bound and shivering beneath a drenched cloth. “Why must you vex me so on such a flawless morning?”

  With the grace of a host tending to a guest, Levi lifted a bowl of water and tipped its contents slowly over the cloth covering Gilbert’s face. The man sputtered and gasped as the liquid poured down, his body writhing against the ropes binding him. Ser Drevos, Levi’s ever-loyal assistant, removed the cloth with an efficient flick of his wrist, granting Gilbert a moment to cough and gulp the precious air he’d been denied.

  “Why, indeed?” Levi continued, crouching to meet the man’s terrified gaze. His lips curled into a gentle smile, though his eyes held none of the warmth his tone suggested. “Why must you compel me to cause you pain, Gilbert? Is this the kind of friend you wish to be?”

  Gilbert groaned weakly, his chest heaving as he struggled to form words. Levi silenced him with a raised hand, brushing a fleck of dust from his embroidered doublet as though the interruption had sullied him.

  “You wound me,” Levi said, his voice lilting as though reciting poetry. “A poor friend you’ve been, my dear. My uncle Josh arrives at Norcastle, and you—dear, sweet Gilbert—fail to inform me? Ah, but do not feign surprise. Your bannermen are not as loyal as you might think. Some now wear my colours, their oaths sworn anew in exchange for clemency. Do you think me blind to such treachery?”

  Gilbert trembled, his head shaking weakly. “I know nothing,” he croaked, his voice barely audible.

  “Come now,” Levi replied with a sigh, standing and brushing his hands together. “We both know that isn’t true. Lies waste time, and my patience is not infinite.”

  He leaned down again, his face close to Gilbert’s. “Your noble blood means nothing to me, you know. You are a nuisance, a problem to be solved. But I am nothing if not a man of mercy. I’ve no desire to see you harmed unnecessarily. You can spare yourself so much suffering, my friend, if you’d only tell me what I wish to know.”

  The captive scion of House Hera met Levi’s gaze, his own eyes bloodshot and rimmed with despair. “A-are you going to kill me?” he stammered, his voice trembling.

  “Kill you?” Levi’s smile widened, a wolf’s grin masquerading as benevolence. “Oh, no. Not while you have value to me. Afterwards… well, let’s not dwell on unpleasant possibilities.”

  Gilbert let out a broken sob, his resistance crumbling. “I’ll talk,” he whispered. “I’ll tell you everything. Please. No more.”

  Levi’s expression softened into something almost fatherly. “Good lad,” he said warmly, standing and placing a hand on Gilbert’s trembling shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  He glanced at Ser Drevos, who stood silently in the corner. “Fetch parchment and ink. Our friend here has much to say, and I wish to remember every word.”

  Levi’s expression was serene as he watched the bound and broken Gilbert Hera being led away. Two guards flanked the captive, their hands gripping his arms with practised firmness as they escorted him back to the dungeon. He smiled faintly, satisfaction curling at the edges of his lips.

  It had been a productive day, James mused. Efficient, economical, and—most importantly—effective.

  Turning to face the men gathered in the hall, Levi allowed the faint smile to fade, replacing it with a serious, almost scholarly expression. These were his knights and bannermen, his closest confidants, summoned to witness what he had termed a "demonstration." Their faces ranged from troubled to grim. Ser Lancelot, ever the moralist, wore a conflicted frown. Ser Carter stood stoic, his arms crossed as if to shield himself from the sight of what he’d just witnessed. Behind them, Ser Justin’s sombre gaze lingered on the corridor through which Gilbert had been taken, while Ser Drevos—Levi’s chosen assistant for the occasion—stood with his head cocked in quiet contemplation.

  Levi spread his hands, his tone measured and instructive as he began to speak. “I term it waterboarding,” he explained, the playful lilt of earlier conversations gone. “You have now witnessed its efficacy firsthand. It is a method of interrogation wherein water is poured over a cloth placed across the prisoner’s face, inducing the sensation of drowning. Unlike cruder tortures, this inflicts no lasting physical harm, which makes it particularly well-suited for extracting information from captives who cannot be subjected to traditional means of interrogation.”

  His gaze swept the room, lingering on Ser Drevos, who nodded slightly in agreement. “That said,” Levi continued, “this method is not without its risks. Improper execution may lead to lung damage, brain injury from oxygen deprivation, or even death. Broken bones from struggling against restraints are also a possibility. Caution, therefore, is paramount.”

  Levi paused, surveying his audience. The hall was silent save for the distant shuffle of boots and the low murmur of voices from the courtyard beyond. “Any questions?” he asked, his voice calm.

  Ser Justin shifted uncomfortably, breaking the silence. “That was… harrowing, my lord,” he admitted, his voice tinged with unease.

  “Yet effective,” Levi countered smoothly. “The information gleaned today may very well be the difference between life and death when spring comes and Lord Josh returns with the rest of his men-at-arms to find us holding his family hostage.”

  Ser Lancelot sighed, his brow furrowed. “But, my lord, why conduct such a display in the open? Matters such as these belong in the privacy of the dungeons. They breed terrible rumours.”

  “Let them breed,” Levi said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The people must understand the consequences of treachery. The von Grifenburg name must inspire loyalty and fear in equal measure. Sean would have been the ideal scapegoat, but as he remains beyond my reach, the Heras shall suffice.”

  He tilted his head, a wry smile playing at his lips. “Besides, the dungeon is unpleasant—stale air, grimy walls, poor lighting. How could I offer you a proper demonstration if you couldn’t see what transpired?”

  The knights exchanged glances but said nothing. Levi regarded them for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before turning on his heel. “Come,” he said, beckoning for them to follow. “I have something less dreary to show you.”

  “Where are we headed, my liege?” Ser Justin asked as they fell into step behind him.

  “The smithy,” Levi replied without looking back.

  “Ah,” Justin said, his tone shifting as if remembering something. “The detained merchants have begun acting up again, my lord. They’ve grown quite insistent about their release.”

  Levi frowned, his steps slowing. “Did I not instruct negotiation for tax exemption in exchange for cooperation? A little patience is not beyond them, surely?”

  “You did,” Ser Lancelot confirmed. “No, but apparently, it is damaging to their businesses. You must find time to pacify them, my Lord, lest they begin to avoid trading in Faywyn or Mallowston altogether. That is a possibility I assume you would want to avoid. Especially amidst the burgs' rising expenditure.”

  Levi exhaled deeply, smothering his frown. "I shall attend to them come today's eve," he decided. "For now, let us proceed."

  The smithy was a living, breathing thing, a beast of flame and iron. The moment Levi stepped inside, the heat hit him like a physical force, a wave of smothering warmth that clung to his skin and filled his lungs. The air was thick with the acrid tang of burning oils and molten metal, and the constant crackle of the forge was accompanied by the sharp, rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil. The dim light of the space was punctuated only by the glowing heart of the forge, its orange-red maw casting a hellish glow on the stone walls.

  The interior was chaos given form. Tools of every size and shape lay scattered about—hammers, tongs, chisels, and files—as though abandoned mid-use. Shelves lining the walls bowed under the weight of raw materials: metal bars, coiled chains, and unformed ingots waiting to be transformed. At the forge’s edge stood a massive leather bellows, its presence a reminder of the delicate balance required to maintain the searing heat.

  Two blacksmiths worked within, their labour a dance of precision and power. One, a mountain of a man, swung his hammer with relentless force, fixing a sharp iron spike to a wooden pole. A pile of completed pikes leaned against the wall behind him, each a testament to his tireless effort. The other, leaner but no less focused, worked with deft hands at a smaller anvil, shaping a glowing hunk of steel into the semblance of a blade. The cacophony of their craft reverberated through the room, a symphony of labour.

  Levi’s sharp voice cut through the din. “Blacksmith Braun!”

  It took a moment for the call to register amidst the noise, but the apprentice—young, wide-eyed, and smudged with soot—tugged at the arm of the larger blacksmith. The man straightened, wiping his hands on a filthy rag, and turned toward Levi. Spotting him, the blacksmith turned and strode forward, his heavy apron swaying with his steps.

  “Good day, m’lord,” Braun said, offering a quick bow. His voice was rough, like the scrape of stone on iron. “How fares you this fine day?”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Well enough, Braun,” Levi replied, his voice light. “And the smithy? Are your fellow craftsmen adjusting to their newest accommodations well enough?”

  The blacksmith scratched at his beard, his expression one of mild exasperation. “Aye, m’lord, though it’s been a trial. Me smithy is stuffed full of men unfamiliar with 'er. All sorts of trouble keep popping up like rats in a granary, but we blacksmiths are the hardy sorts. We'll learn to manage.”

  Levi nodded thoughtfully. “I plan to construct a larger forge come spring. Do you think you can manage until then?”

  Braun’s face lit with relief. “We’ll make do, m’lord. Thank you.”

  “Good. My steward… he mentioned my order was completed?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Braun said, his voice brightening. He turned to the apprentice and barked an order. “Lad! Fetch His Lordship’s order—third rack, by the oil bath!”

  The boy scurried off and returned moments later, carrying three bundled packages wrapped in oiled cloth. Braun received them and laid them on a nearby table. Levi gestured for his companions to join him as the blacksmith carefully unveiled the contents.

  The first bundle revealed a firearm, a matchlock handgonne. Its lacquered wooden stock gleamed in the forge’s light, revealing a wrought iron barrel adorned with intricate carvings. Levi lifted the weapon with care, inspecting the mechanism with a practised eye.

  “Is that not your father’s handgonne?” Ser Lancelot asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

  “It is,” Levi affirmed. The weapon was one of the few treasures to escape Sean’s grasp during the insurrection. Its value to Levi was more than sentimental however—it was a piece of history, and its design held untapped potential.

  Satisfied with the weapon’s condition, Levi set it aside and moved to the second bundle. He unwrapped it to reveal another firearm, longer and simpler than the handgonne. Its wrought iron barrel was smoothbore, and a bayonet was clipped to the end. A leather strap extended across the stock.

  Ser Carter leaned in, his brow furrowed. “Another handgonne, my lord?”

  “A flintlock musket,” Levi corrected, handing it to Lancelot. “The one in the other bundle is a pistol—smaller, but of similar design.”

  From within his cloak, Levi drew a scroll, its surface marked with hand-drawn schematics of the weapons. He unrolled it, comparing the sketches to the finished products. “Five and a half feet long with the bayonet,” he murmured. “Weight, ten pounds. Smoothbore barrel, half-inch diameter.” He glanced at Braun. “Everything crafted to my specifications?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” the blacksmith said with pride.

  “You’ve not tested them yet?”

  “Nay, m’lord.”

  "Very well. Shall we?"

  The forest clearing stretched wide and open, dappled with the light of the midmorning sun filtering through the branches above. Levi led his retinue with measured strides, the crunch of boots on dry leaves the only sound for a time. In his hand, he carried the flintlock musket as if it were an heirloom, though his eyes were alight with a gleam of innovation, not nostalgia.

  “The hand cannon,” Levi began, his tone conversational yet edged with purpose, “has existed in Udoris for over half a century, has it not?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Lancelot replied, though there was a flicker of confusion in his voice.

  “And in that time, they have been refined and improved upon, driven by a reverence for their devastating might,” Levi continued. “Yet, despite this, the hand cannon has found itself relegated to the status of a toy for the amusement of nobles, rather than a tool of war.”

  “They are impractical implements of war,” Ser Carter interjected, his tone calm but firm. “They are costly compared to bows, imprecise at any useful range, and burdensome in combat.”

  The elder knight cast a glance at Levi, his brow furrowed with concern. “My liege, though Gilbert’s words of an impending threat may spur haste, I counsel caution. Many have sought to revolutionize the use of handgonnes in warfare, and all have failed. ‘Tis a dead end, my lord. I would not see you squander coin and resources on what cannot be realized.”

  Levi halted mid-step, turning to face Ser Carter with a raised brow. The others stopped as well: Lancelot, watchful and silent; Blacksmith Braun, trailing a few steps behind, his expression unreadable; and Ser Drevos and Justin, lingering further back, whispering quietly to one another.

  “A dead end?” Levi repeated, his tone incredulous. He exhaled through his nose, a faint scoff escaping his lips. “Ser Carter, I have pored over countless accounts of failed experiments with handgonnes. Their creators faltered not due to the inherent flaws of the weapons, but their inability to imagine beyond rigid traditions. They glimpsed the future but lacked the means—or the courage—to seize it.”

  “And you have those means, my lord?” Carter asked, sceptical.

  “Indeed, I do,” Levi replied, his voice carrying easily. “Else, I would not broach this matter.”

  Carter exchanged a doubtful glance with Lancelot, but Levi pressed on, producing a scroll from the folds of his coat. “This,” he said, handing it to Lancelot, “is a transcription of Ser Kyrillos’s treatise on the future of infantry arms. He described a formation he termed ‘the countermarch infantry volley.’”

  Lancelot’s eyes widened as he unrolled the parchment. “Ser Kyrillos? The Ser Kyrillos? Verum’s Iron Gilmore?” His voice cracked with astonishment. “How in the Seven Hells did you acquire this?”

  “A merchant from the north,” Levi said casually, his tone betraying no hint of the lie.

  Lancelot’s gaze flicked between Levi and the scroll, his astonishment unabated. “Ser Kyrillos was a visionary,” Levi continued, “but his ideas were doomed by circumstance. He proposed introducing matchlocks into warfare, but the peace before the invasion left no appetite for such innovation. His work was shelved, dismissed as folly. A pity, for his plans had merit.”

  “And yet, how can you be sure of their efficacy, my lord?” Carter pressed.

  “Reason,” Levi replied simply. “Reason, tempered with instinct. And the timing, Ser Carter, is ripe. The circumstances that stifled Ser Kyrillos no longer exist. We face a realm at war, and desperate times demand daring solutions.”

  Lancelot sighed, shaking his head as he examined the scroll. “While the theory seems sound, my lord, its execution may prove… less facile.”

  “Execution is always the challenge,” Levi acknowledged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But that is why I do not plan to deploy this on a grand scale. Not yet. First, we will test it. If the trial fails, we lose but coin and a handful of soldiers. But if it succeeds…” He trailed off, his meaning clear.

  The knights exchanged another glance, the weight of Levi’s ambition settling over them like a shroud. Carter finally relented, his voice cautious but resigned. “You did mention testing, my lord. How do you plan to conduct it?”

  Levi’s smile sharpened. “Mine dearest Count shall arrive come spring, as Gilbert promised. He will bring his men. Test subjects. They shall suffice.”

  The wire tree cast its dappled shade over Levi, who reclined against its knotted trunk, a picture of ease amidst the controlled chaos of the clearing. Before him, his military advisors handled the flintlocks with a mixture of solemnity and barely restrained enthusiasm. Their faces wore the stern expressions of seasoned warriors, but their actions betrayed them—testing the weight of the weapons, experimenting with their aim, and sharing hushed remarks like boys with a stolen toy.

  The clearing bore the marks of their experimentation. A tree at the edge of the field stood riddled with holes, its bark splintered and scarred. The ground was littered with the remnants of their targets: a shattered iron breastplate, logs reduced to jagged shards, and the disembowelled carcass of a boar, its hide still smouldering from a near-direct hit. Every report of gunpowder brought fresh laughter or muttered curses, and Levi watched it all with an amused smirk, his fingers idly tracing the curves of Lord Aden’s handgonne.

  The elder weapon, once the marvel of the collection, now lay neglected in favour of the sleeker flintlocks. Levi rested it across his lap as he turned to Blacksmith Braun, who stood a few paces behind him, hands clasped respectfully.

  “Fine craftsmanship, Braun,” Levi remarked, his tone casual but edged with genuine approval. “Truly commendable work.”

  “Thank you, m’lord,” Braun replied, inclining his head.

  “How long would it take you to forge another?” Levi asked, his gaze drifting back to the clearing.

  Braun hesitated, calculating. “A week, perhaps, if I work alone, m’lord.”

  Levi nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I shall speak with Steward Robert about acquiring more hands for you. Apprentices, preferably—younger, more pliable. That should ease your burden and free you to focus on more intricate work.”

  Braun nodded, his gratitude evident in the slight bow of his head. “Much appreciated, m’lord.”

  Levi reached into his coat and produced a scroll, unrolling it to reveal the schematics for the flintlocks. With a deft motion, he flipped the parchment to its blank side and retrieved a charcoal nib from his pocket. Braun watched with curiosity as Levi began to sketch.

  When Levi finished, he held the parchment aloft, the rough outline of a strange contraption etched across its surface. “Can you fashion this?” Levi asked, extending the scroll to Braun.

  Braun squinted at the design, his brow furrowing. “I… I’m unsure, m’lord. Forgive me, but it’s unlike aught I’ve seen. Is it a furnace? A boiler of some kind? The parts are unfamiliar.”

  Levi frowned. “It’s labelled, Braun. The components are clearly marked.”

  The blacksmith’s shoulders hunched slightly, his face reddening. “I cannot read, m’lord.”

  Levi’s frown deepened. “How, then, did you craft the flintlocks?”

  “Steward Robert read the schematics to me, m’lord,” Braun admitted, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

  “This will not do,” Levi declared, shaking his head. “No progress can be made if such obstacles remain.” He straightened, his voice firm. “Before nightfall, send your brightest son to me. I will see that an arrangement is made so he is taught to read and write. This matter will not impede us again.”

  Braun stared, stunned. “Th-thank you, m’lord.”

  Levi waved a dismissive hand, rising to his feet and brushing leaves from his cloak. “See to it that you satisfy my expectations, Braun. Do so, and your loyalty will be rewarded.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Braun stammered, bowing low.

  ???

  The Northern Border - Algrim, 13th Moon, 24th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  The moon hung low in the sky, its pale crescent light casting jagged shadows through the thick canopy of trees. Baron Blumun rested a hand on the hilt of his blade, his grip taut, his brow furrowed with unease. His eyes darted toward his companion, Baron Ralph, who stood with his arms crossed and a smirk on his lips.

  “I have a gnawing unease, Ralph,” Blumun murmured, his voice low and tight.

  “What’s the matter, Blumun?” Ralph replied, the faintest hint of derision in his tone. “Life flashing before your eyes?”

  “Nay,” Blumun retorted with a snort, though the edge in his voice betrayed his nerves. “Yet I fear we’ve underestimated the lad more than is prudent.”

  Ralph chuckled, the sound grating against Blumun’s tension. “Age has dulled your senses, old man,” Ralph said, his tone mocking. “We skulk beneath the cover of night, armed with our best knights, not to face Aden in the field but to slit his treacherous son’s throat while he sleeps. If you lack the stomach for killing a sleeping cub, then tell me, what emboldened you to steal from the Dark Gryphon himself?”

  Blumun’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue. Ralph’s words stung, though there was truth in them. Perhaps he had grown too cautious, too wary of shadows. With a resigned sigh, he rubbed his face, his fingers tracing the lines of his grizzled beard. His gaze flicked to Ralph, who still grinned, his mirth unrepentant. For a fleeting moment, Blumun’s hand twitched toward his blade, his eyes dark with a murderous impulse.

  Not now, Blumun told himself, forcing his anger beneath the surface, his expression smoothing into something unreadable.

  “It’s time,” Ralph declared, his voice cutting through the silence as he gestured toward the waning moon. “We’ve lingered long enough.”

  Blumun glanced skyward, noting the crescent moon sinking toward the horizon. He nodded. “Aye.”

  Their group moved swiftly, slipping through the woods like wraiths, their footfalls muffled against the forest floor. They reached Sean von Grifenburg’s camp under the shroud of night, pausing to observe the guards stationed outside. They were alert, but their posture was lax—a false sense of security born of familiarity with the quiet woods.

  It was their last mistake.

  Three guards fell silently, their throats slit, their bodies dragged into the underbrush. Blumun and Ralph stood before Sean’s tent, their knights encircling it, blades gleaming in the moonlight. Without a word, Blumun raised the tent flap and stepped inside, his dagger poised.

  The figure within barely stirred before Blumun plunged the blade deep into its chest. A wet gasp escaped the victim’s lips, and warm blood spilt over Blumun’s hands, thighs, and chest. He clamped a hand over the dying man’s mouth, muffling his final thrashes until at last, he went still.

  Blumun exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. Not as challenging as I feared, he thought. Perhaps his caution had been unnecessary.

  Emerging from the tent, Blumun wiped his bloodied hands on his cloak, his expression calm but wary as he met Ralph’s gaze.

  “Well?” Ralph asked, his tone almost bored.

  “’Tis done,” Blumun replied curtly. He gestured to his men. “Remove the body.”

  Two knights stepped forward, but Blumun froze, his eyes snapping to the corpse at his feet. Something was wrong. His gaze flicked back to Ralph, and his hand went to his sword.

  “What treachery is this, Blumun?” Ralph demanded, recoiling as he drew his own blade.

  “I should ask you that,” Blumun growled, kicking the body. The motion sent the cloak covering it sliding away, revealing not Sean von Grifenburg but a manservant, his wide, lifeless eyes staring up at the night sky. “Where is Sean?”

  “What—” Ralph began, but the question died on his lips as an arrow struck him in the side of the skull. He crumpled without a sound, and six of the knights surrounding the tent fell in the same instant, arrows finding their marks with deadly precision.

  Blumun froze, his breath catching as something warm trickled down the side of his neck. He reached up, his gloved fingers coming away slick with blood where an arrow had grazed him. Footsteps echoed from the darkness, and from the shadowed undergrowth emerged a dozen armed figures, their weapons gleaming coldly in the moonlight.

  At their head was Sean von Grifenburg, his serpentine gaze fixed on Blumun, and behind him stood Ser Drake Faywater, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

  Blumun’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. His ally lay dead, his men were injured or slain, and the realization settled over him like a shroud.

  ’Tis no gryphon cub, Blumun thought grimly, meeting Sean’s cold, predatory stare. But the beast himself.

  Earlier.

  The night was moonless, the world veiled in a cloak of shadow. Sean knelt in silence beneath the cover of a gnarled oak, his longbow resting lightly in his hands. His sharp gaze was fixed on the tent that stood in the distance, a pale shape just within the bow’s effective range. The air was still, unnaturally so, save for the occasional anxious whinnying of horses. Even the beasts, unknowing as they were, seemed to sense the treachery afoot.

  Sean, however, remained patient, his breathing steady and controlled. The corners of his lips twitched into a sardonic smile as movement stirred at the edge of the encampment. Ten cloaked figures emerged from the darkness, slinking toward his tent with what they no doubt believed was the grace of predators. Fools.

  He watched as the group approached his tent, their leader slipping inside. A muffled cry followed, abrupt and strangled. The sound barely broke the stillness before it was swallowed by the night. Sean tilted his head slightly, his amusement growing. At his side, Ser Drake crouched, tense and ready. With a curt nod from Sean, Drake melted into the shadows.

  Sean turned his attention back to the would-be assassins. They dragged a body from the tent, confusion rippling through their ranks like a pebble dropped into still water. Panic flared as the realization struck—this was not the prey they sought.

  With practised ease, Sean drew his bow, the string taut beneath his fingers. He loosed the arrow with a resonant twang, its shaft whispering through the air before finding its mark. One of the group crumpled with a choked gasp, an arrow buried deep in his throat. A moment later, a volley of arrows rained down from Sean’s concealed men. Six more fell, their bodies collapsing in broken heaps.

  Discarding his bow, Sean stood, brushing dirt from his knees. He strode into the open, his sword drawn and gleaming faintly in the starlight. The survivors of the ambush turned toward him, their panic plain as their remaining numbers dwindled. His expression was calm, almost congenial, as he addressed them.

  “Ser Blumun,” Sean said, his tone laced with mockery. “You should have sent word you’d be stopping by. It’s rude to drop in unannounced.”

  The traitorous noble, his face pale and drawn, turned to face Sean. His sword trembled slightly in his grip, though he tried to hide it. “You bloody son of a whore,” Blumun spat, his voice thick with fury and fear.

  Sean’s gaze flicked downward to one of the corpses littering the clearing. With a dramatic sigh, he nudged the body of Baron Ralph with the tip of his boot. “Oh, how dreadful,” he lamented, his voice dripping with theatrical regret. “It seems the venerable Ser Ralph is no longer with us. Such a loss.”

  Blumun growled, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his sword tighter. “Cut the crap, you slimy snake,” he snarled. “I should’ve known better than to trust you wouldn’t be ready for this.”

  “And here I was, hoping we could speak civilly,” Sean replied with mock disappointment. He gestured lazily with his free hand, a smile tugging at his lips. Around them, the camp had begun to stir. Men roused from their sleep, drawn by the commotion, and now they converged, forming a ring of silent witnesses.

  Blumun glanced at the onlookers but said nothing. He knew no aid would come from them. He was a dead man, and he knew it.

  Sean saw the resolve harden in the man’s eyes, and he couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. “Oh, Blumun,” he said, his voice light with amusement. “You should’ve stayed in your hole.”

  Sean raised his blade, bloodlust flickering in his eyes. “Kill them!” he bellowed, his voice slicing through the night like a blade. Then, with a roar, he surged forward.