Reyna gave the northman a warm smile and placed a loving hand on his arm. “This city is home to us all. We will not give it up.” She squeezed his arm affectionately. “And you will always be a king to these people, whether you win a battle or the war itself.”
Vighon nodded his appreciation and hoped that they saw his love for them in his eyes. “Has there been any word from Qamnaran?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“No,” Nathaniel said definitively. “But we shouldn’t expect one. They have no idea we’ve taken Namdhor back. The last they heard, we were still looking for Asher in the hope of tracking you down.”
“Hopefully,” Reyna added with a lighter tone, “either Doran or my mother has sent word back to The Black Wood and we will receive news with the rider.”
“I dare not keep a hope,” Vighon uttered, always one to trust the strength in his arm over all else.
Nathaniel planted a heavy hand on the king’s shoulder. “Keep the hope alive,” he beseeched.
Vighon narrowed his eyes at the knight. “Those sound like Inara’s words.”
Nathaniel beamed with pride. “That’s because they are.”
The quip on the end of Vighon’s tongue was held back under the barrage of thundering hooves. A single rider brought his mount to a halt at the tip of Karsak’s tail. The man could have held any number of professions by his garb, but his build suggested he had once served in Namdhor’s army.
“Your Grace!” he called from atop his horse.
Vighon frowned. “What now?” he mumbled as he made his way towards the rider. “Why the haste?” he asked.
“It’s them, your Grace. They’re… They’re doing something.”
The king opened his mouth to reply but, instead, turned to Nathaniel and hissed, “Horses!” Reyna though was already running back to the keep to retrieve them from the stables. Within minutes, Vighon had mounted beside the Galfreys, and the trio set off down the slope at a gallop.
From top to bottom there were signs of battle. The Keepers had called on every destructive spell in their repertoire to fight the Reavers stationed in Namdhor. Numerous buildings had lost their windows and brickwork while others had lost portions of their roofs. Thankfully, there were no more scattered remains of their foe, having been collected and burned outside the city.
Here and there, outside their homes or shops, Namdhorians stopped upon seeing the king. They raised their fists into the air or bowed their heads in respect. Vighon would have slowed to offer his own respect, but it was their safety he now feared for… again.
Reaching flat ground, they navigated the lower town that sprawled around the capital’s base and made for the snow-covered plains of The White Vale. There, Vighon’s eyes quickly found Kassian Kantaris. The ragged mage knight was resting on a barrel with a pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His torn coat draped over the sides, the man looked right at home among his Keepers. Surrounding them was a larger group of Namdhorian soldiers who had raided the barracks and reclaimed their armour, cloaks, and weapons.
Vighon felt his spirits lift at the sight of the flaming sword emblazoned on their shields. It gave him hope. It was, however, tested by the sound that came from beyond them.
Jumping down from their horses, the trio were given a clear path to the vale and Kassian’s perch. Vighon didn’t pause to greet the Keeper, his attention entirely stolen by the clamour before him.
“What are they doing?” the king asked aloud to anyone who might have the answer.
Kassian shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine… your Grace.”
Vighon scrutinised the three hundred Reavers who had withdrawn from the city. They still couldn’t say why the fiends had retreated to the snows in the first place, for Reavers weren’t known for giving up. Since then, they had stood as sentinels, unmoved by winter’s sweeping hand.
Now, however, they were beating their gauntlets into their armoured chests. It reminded Vighon of orcish war drums.
“When did this start?” he pressed.
“Oh they’ve been like this all day,” Kassian quipped, exhaling a breath of smoke.
Vighon resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Nathaniel cleared his throat and shot the Keeper a look before saying, “They’ve been standing here since they withdrew and not made a sound. Why would they do this now?”
Slowly, but surely, the answer came to Vighon, and with it the icy hand of Fate gripped his insides. He turned to see Reyna, whose expression suggested she had arrived at the same conclusion.
“He’s coming,” the king declared, turning more than a few heads in his direction.
Kassian looked at Vighon and let his pipe hang loose in his mouth. “Finally,” he said with determination.
Nathaniel’s response to the Keeper sounded harsh, but Vighon failed to take in a single word of it. Alijah was coming. His minions were beating their chests in anticipation. Such a command could only have been received from Alijah himself. Of course, if The Crow’s protégé was indeed coming to Namdhor, he would be coming on the wings of Death itself.
Vighon could hear the screams of dying men across dozens of battlefields, their bodies being ravaged by dragon fire. Behind it all was Alijah’s booming voice.
“ANYONE WHO SIDES WITH YOU WILL BURN! AND, VIGHON, YOU WILL BEAR WITNESS TO IT ALL! YOU WILL WATCH THEM ALL DIE CLINGING TO YOUR BANNER!”
Backing his way out of the group, Vighon turned around to see all of Namdhor rising before him. The entire city had rebelled against Alijah’s reign and sided with him. Now they would all burn for it.
Vighon’s throat felt as if it was constricting and the only cure was a strong drink. His eyes scanned the lower town and discovered more than one tavern, but all were closed. Then his sight landed on his horse and
