now, that rightful lord is Sebastian Hemman. All else matters not.”
“Of course,” Nicholls said, saluting. When he was gone, Gregane scowled. His anger toward Nicholls was misplaced, and he knew it. The younger knight had only voiced a gnawing doubt that he himself had been trying to ignore. Arthur, the older brother, was the one who should have ruled, if not for forsaking his claim. Arthur, the one who ruled all aspects of his life with honor, and patience…
He slammed his fist atop the table, banishing such treasonous thoughts. Sebastian was lord. That was that. Gregane couldn’t toss a bag of coins to beggars, then demand it back the following year. It was foolish, and neither could Arthur try for similar. Such threats to the North’s stability needed to be ended, and quickly. His duty wasn’t to like it, only do it. Come battle, he would defeat Arthur, and bring him bound to the Yellow Castle for his lord to decree his fate.
A cold wind blew, and he shivered. The tent flap rustled, and he turned thinking it only the wind. Instead, a man in black robes stood before him, his pale face smiling and his eyes alive with fire. Gregane reached for his sword, but stopped when the man said a single word.
“Halt.”
Despite his struggle, Gregane could not move. It was as if a hundred invisible chains had latched to his body. He stared at the intruder, feeling anger and panic swelling in his chest. His heart pounded, the sound thunderous in his ears.
“I mean you no harm,” said the man in black. “And I stop you not out of fear or malice, but to prevent you from doing something you might regret. If you remain calm, I will release you.”
Unsure how to answer, Gregane stared at the man and did his best to show that he was under control. Apparently it worked, for the intruder waved his hand, and the chains were gone.
“Who are you?” he asked, crossing his arms to fight against the impulse to draw his blade.
“I am Velixar, voice of the Lion, prophet to our glorious god Karak. I come offering counsel, and my aid.”
“I have enough men whispering in my ears.”
“Yes, but I offer no whispers, and most important of all, my voice speaks truth.”
Gregane swallowed. Truth, he thought. He highly doubted it. Still, if this was a holy man of Karak, he had to tread carefully. Sebastian’s loyalty to their deity was well known throughout the North.
“Then tell me what you wish to say, and I will take it into consideration.”
“Consideration?” Velixar chuckled, though Gregane could not begin to guess the reason for his amusement. “When men with wisdom speak, you should listen, and obey, my dear knight. Not pretend. Not take it into consideration.”
Gregane found himself entranced by the prophet’s face. At first he’d thought he imagined it, but he realized the man’s features were slowly shifting, as if his face were a liquid in constant, miniscule motion. His blood ran cold as he wondered just what really lay behind that mask.
“As you say,” Gregane said, trying to play it safe. “Then speak, and I will listen.”
“Much better. I have seen many battles, Sir…?”
“Gregane.”
“Sir Gregane. I’ve seen many, and started more. I know the minds of men, the simple strategies they employ. Let me stay at your side, and I will help you crush Arthur’s rebellion. The North’s worship of Karak must not be disrupted in any way.”
Gregane thought of that priest standing beside him come the battle, and he knew any orders he gave would not be suggestions. Once more he felt another clawing at the prestige that was to be rightfully his. And staring into those red eyes, he knew within lurked a man who would laugh at the very notion of honorable combat.
“We go to meet Arthur’s men,” he said. “We have agreed to a place, and will arrive within a few day’s march. Would you accompany us, or wait for our arrival?”
It was a gamble, he knew, but he had a feeling such a man would not casually walk among the living. His very presence seemed counter to daylight.
“I will await you there,” the priest said, his smile growing. “Show me where.”
Gregane knelt before his chest, opened it, and pulled out his map. Carefully he unrolled it upon the lone table of his tent, placing weights on all four corners to keep it open. With every bit of his self control, he willed himself to believe with absolute certainty the lie he spoke.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a place labeled Deer Valley, several miles east of the Green Gulch.
“A valley?” Velixar asked.
“We will leave them nowhere to run, and our horsemen will run rampant through their lines.”
The prophet nodded in approval.
“My faithful and I will await you there, my good knight. Your cooperation will never be forgotten, I promise.”
The promise felt just as much threat, but Gregane kept his face composed, the rigid gaze of a commander. Velixar stepped out from the tent. Once he was gone, Gregane collapsed to his knees, tore off his armor, and called out for one of his servants to bring him a very, very full pitcher of wine.
14
Jerico rode into Lord Arthur’s camp with his head held high, as beside him Kaide busily counted and made estimations. Finding the army had taken little questioning, considering every farmer and trader seemed to know of its location. As they neared, they’d encountered villages Arthur’s men had passed through, accepting gifts of food and supplies. From there, they’d found the army with ease. Kaide’s group had been stopped at the outer edges of the camp, but the guards were aware of their coming, and let them pass.
“I hate the way they look at us,” Bellok said, guiding his horse between Jerico and Kaide. “Like filthy rabble.”
“Are you saying we’re not?” Kaide said, but he didn’t smile at his own joke, instead too busy glancing about at the tents.
“Nervous to meet Arthur again?” Bellok asked.
“Or have your men embarrass you?” Jerico added, glancing back to the farmers, thieves, and bandits that formed their diminutive group. Most seemed intimidated by the armored soldiers that watched them trot toward the center of the camp, marked by Arthur’s enormous tent atop a cluster of hills.
“No,” Kaide said, frowning. “I count only a thousand, maybe fifteen-hundred. I hoped for more.”
“More might come,” Bellok said, but he sounded like he doubted it.
At the commander’s tent, they halted and dismounted. A soldier guarding the entrance motioned to a field in the far distance.
“We’ve prepared a place for your… group,” said the man.
“That’s a damn long walk,” Kaide said.
“We have some food to spare, and the land is flat. Do you have a problem?”
Jerico and Kaide exchanged looks.
“So be it,” Kaide said. “Bellok, spread the order, then join us inside.”
As they went to enter, the guard refused to move. Instead he pointed to the mace, shield, and dirks the two wore.
“Your weapons,” he said.
Another look between them.
“No,” they said in unison.
The guard didn’t seem flustered in the slightest.
“Surrender, or no audience.”
The tent flap opened, and Lord Arthur stepped out long enough to gesture them inside, as well as whisper a word to the guard. The guard shot them an annoyed glare, but held his tongue. A fire built in the center of the tent made the interior feel warm and welcoming, the smoke escaping through a hole in the very top where the poles came together. A table was on one side, adorned with maps and sheets of parchment detailing numbers and supplies. On the other side was Arthur’s bed. The lord walked over to the table and sat in the only chair.
