Relentless Blades - Prologue & CHPTS 1-3

PROLOGUE

2675 AV

   

R

avenger Quixxon placed the crimson egg in its earthen grave, relieved it was the final one to hide. Even now, the sounds of battle grew close, and her troops were being overrun. After covering the hole with loose dirt, she used a nearby broken tree stump to disguise it. She surveyed the clearing, satisfied that it appeared undisturbed, with no visible traces of the four hidden holes.

She harbored no regrets for leading her troops back toward the empire. Her superiors ordered her to bury all ten eggs in the canyon, but that made no sense to her. Although her gambit failed, and the vast enemy forces overtook her group, the risk had been worth it. Separating these eggs from the others ensured their survival, even if the empire did not know their location.

Neither victory nor escape was obtainable, but she drew her jagged sword and steeled herself to slay as many enemies as possible. Faith in the prophecy cloaked her in an invisible shield. Someday, the vragoths would charge the scepter and awaken Mazzinoth’s Children. Death did not frighten her, for she was confident their ultimate triumph was inevitable.

   

CHAPTER 1

MARCHING ORDERS

(3690 AV)

  

S

ire Odairr, we have discovered ancient Vragothian artifacts, including an exquisite onyx scepter, adorned with red flames and various tomes and parchments. The vragoths are eager to acquire them. Please send a philologist to Oxglen at your earliest convenience. Your loyal subject, Envoy Balcot.

After reading the missive three times, Mathias still found the details vaguer than he would like. Such were the constraints of communication by carrier pigeon. Given the limited information, he found it peculiar that his superiors chose someone of his rank to lead the mission. This type of assignment typically fell to a sergeant. For them to have selected him meant they deemed it important, yet they limited him to bringing five knights with him. Despite the mixed messaging, he was flattered to be chosen and understood the importance of being successful, which is why he hand-picked the men himself, all of whom he knew well. He folded the note and slipped it into a pouch at his waist.

“Are you ready?” he asked his companion. Upon receiving an affirmative nod, he pushed the heavy doors open and strode into the Order of the Cloak’s meeting chamber in Valadon, his steel boots echoing off the brick floor with each step. Light from a large chandelier glinted off his silver breastplate and illuminated the room in a soft yellow glow. Broadswords, longswords, halberds, and shields of assorted sizes adorned the walls.

As he entered, the five soldiers seated along the sides of a long rectangular table that stretched half the length of the room sprang to their feet. They greeted him with the traditional Valadian Knight salute, raising their right arms and extending them across their chests while maintaining a perpendicular position to the floor. Mathias noted with pleasure that each salute displayed perfect precision, a testament to their rigorous training.

He returned a crisp salute. “At ease, men.”

“Sir, yes sir!” they said in unison, then assumed relaxed but attentive postures.

“Time is crucial, so I’ll get right to the point. Lord High-Imperator Dalgaard has assigned us a most urgent mission,” said Mathias, his bright tenor voice reverberating off the stone walls. The knights stiffened and glanced at each other. He directed their attention toward the still-open door with a sweep of his arm. “I’d like to introduce you to Master Dardariel.”

The men’s gazes shifted to the door as the farishar entered. He resembled a tall, lithe human, with bushy eyebrows and long silver hair tied loosely behind his back. His long robes of green and brown exposed only the delicate features of his dark face and the elegance of his long slender hands. Even within the bright chamber, the exposed flesh emanated a faint glow.

Before Dardariel, the only farishar Mathias had ever met was King Odairr’s chief advisor, Saeval, and he had no meaningful interactions with him. He wondered how many of the knights had ever seen a farishar and expected surprised looks from at least a few of them upon seeing the feathered wings sprouting from Dardariel’s back. To his satisfaction, all his men maintained their discipline.

With his hands clasped in front, Dardariel’s wings gracefully carried him over to Mathias, such that he appeared to be gliding. “Thank you, Knight-Lieutenant Braunstone, and greetings, Valadian Knights,” he said in a soothing and ethereal tone.

“Well met,” they responded in unison.

“Take your seats, men.” After his men complied, Mathias sat himself at the head of the table, with Dardariel taking the chair beside him. “The six of us leave tomorrow to escort Dardariel to the town of Oxglen, where ancient Vragothian tomes and artifacts have been discovered,” he began. “Once there, we’re to rendezvous with the Valadian Envoy, Maya Balcot, and the small contingent of knights stationed there. Our mission is to ensure Dardariel is not disturbed while he inspects the discoveries. It’s imperative for him to determine if any of it poses a threat to Valadon.” He met each knight’s gaze. “Any questions?”

Xavier Gibbs’ hand shot up. He was the junior member of the unit and always the first with a question.

“Go ahead, Gibbs.”

“How long will we be gone, sir?”

“No way of knowing with certainty.” Mathias glanced at Dardariel for confirmation. The farishar raised his hands and shrugged. “Expect to be gone at least a month.”

Gibbs nodded. The senior member of the team, Jukel Goldwell, raised his hand. Mathias pointed to him.

“No disrespect meant to Master Dardariel, but we’re sending an entire unit, with a lieutenant leading us, to watch over one farishar? What’s so important about these artifacts?”

“That’s a fair question. To be honest, we have limited information. All we know is that the Valadian Envoy has them and the Zoth’tolluz Empire wants them.” He turned toward Dardariel. “Anything you’d like to add?”

Dardariel rubbed his hands together. “Lieutenant Braunstone is correct; it is a bit of a mystery right now. The long onyx scepter etched prominently with small, red flames is a noteworthy item. We know that in the distant past, the vragoths possessed a similar scepter and visited several of Mazzinoth’s Skulls.”

Gibbs raised his hand again and, after Mathias signaled for him to proceed, he asked, “What are Mazzinoth’s Skulls?”

“They’re those big dragon skulls. There’s one near Swinten in House Lozano’s domain,” said Goldwell.

“You are correct.” Dardariel inclined his head in Goldwell’s direction before turning his attention back to the group. “Mazzinoth’s Skulls radiate immense energy, which is why the Magi Imperium studies them. However, nobody knows what the ancient vragoths used the scepter for or why they visited the Skulls. We must know if this is the same artifact.”

Mathias swelled with pride upon observing the looks of determination and resolve etched on his men’s faces. Without warning, Makart Kubin thrust his fist in the air and declared, “Making sure those dirty vragoths don’t get their stinking hands on anything they want is good enough for me!”

The other knights raised their hands and joined Kubin in shouting, “Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah!” Mathias considered admonishing the men but understood the value of permitting them to express their emotions. Rather than stopping them, he joined in, which caused them to chant even louder.

When they finished shouting, the room erupted with boisterous cheering. Dardariel shook his head in puzzlement as he raised one eyebrow and tilted his chin, his piercing stare locked onto the exhilarated knights.

Although still young, Mathias had served with most of these men for years, creating a brotherhood. Their spirited response to the assignment invigorated him. He waved his hands to calm them down. When the chamber was quiet, he cleared his throat and continued, “Pack your things, sharpen your blades, tend to your horses, make love to your wives or girlfriends, and meet back tomorrow morning when the first rooster crows.” He gave the knights a sly grin. “Maybe not in that order.” This caused the men to laugh uproariously, with several of them whistling and hooting before Mathias dismissed them.

After the knights had departed, Mathias stood in silence, watching Dardariel glide toward the door. Despite his confidence in the mission’s success, something compelled him to ask, “Should we be worried?”

After a brief pause, Dardariel glanced back. “Where it concerns the vragoths, I am always worried.” Instead of his usual tranquil tone, his words resonated with a somber timbre.

Mathias didn’t know what motivated the farishar or what they were capable of and wondered how many did. They were reportedly older than the world of Zarune itself, with unmatched knowledge of its history. What he knew was that the seriousness of Dardariel’s response was not to be taken lightly, and that unsettled him.

Upon arriving home, Mathias packed his equipment, ensuring everything was ready for his mission. He ate dinner with his wife, Lili, and their two young sons, Griffin and Jaxon. After dinner, he and the boys played together before Lili sent them to their room to prepare for bed. As the boys toddled down the hall, Mathias leaned against the wall, sadness tugging at his heart. They were growing so fast; a month might as well be a year. Long assignments made him regret being a knight, bound by duty to follow orders. But he had sworn an oath and would honor his responsibilities.

His mood improved when he felt Lili’s arms wrap around his waist and her head rest against his back.

“Don’t worry, my love, the children and I will be fine.”

“I know. I just hate to be away from you all for so long.” He twisted in her grasp until he faced her. He ran his hands up the soft curves of her hips, past her breasts, and settled them upon her cheeks in a gentle caress, savoring the smoothness of her skin. Her reassuring smile and sparkling hazel eyes displayed her inner strength. She was the pillar of the family. He was a lucky man, and he knew it. “You’re amazing,” he said, gazing into her eyes.

Lili’s rosy cheeks plumped in a wide smile. “So are you.” They embraced and kissed passionately. He savored the taste of her lips and the intoxicating smell of her perfumed skin. A knock sounded at the front door. They pulled apart but flashed each other understanding grins.

The visitor could only be one person. His mother and, as usual, her timing was terrible. “Sorry,” said Mathias.

“No need to apologize. See to your mother while I tend to the children.” Lili leaned in, her lips parting slightly and curving upward, while her eyes danced with mischief, and she kissed him again. “When she leaves, say your goodnights to the boys, then join me and we’ll have our time,” she said in a husky voice.

The lines around Mathias’ lips softened as he affixed her with a hungry smile. “I can’t wait.” He pulled away, jogged to the door, and opened it. “Mother, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you come in?”

Lili peeked around the corner. “Hello, Camella. Please don’t think me rude, but I’ve got to get the boys down for bed.”

Camella waved and cheerfully said, “Of course not, dear. Be sure to kiss them for me.”

“I will.”

Mathias shut the door. “Have a seat, Mother.” He motioned her toward the couch nearest the blazing hearth. They sat down together.

“I had to see you before you left and for who knows how long.” She reached out and clasped his hands in hers.

Mathias nodded and smiled.

“Your father can’t tell me what your assignment is, but I know you’re going to Oxglen. That place is dangerous. Please be careful.”

“It’ll be okay.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got my unit with me. They’re good men, and they’ve never let me down.”

“I know you can handle yourself, but a mother always worries.” She pinched his cheek, and her lips curled upward in a smile, but her eyes remained distant.

“I understand.”

“How’re the kids?”

“They’re doing well; growing like weeds.” She had watched the boys only a few days prior. She was stalling, mustering the courage to say what she really wanted. Mathias didn’t mind and hoped she wouldn’t mention what he knew she was thinking.

She stared into the crackling fire, transfixed, before saying, “You know Oxglen—”

He cut her off. “Are you warm enough? I can put another log on the fire.”

Although she said, “I’m fine, dear,” her eyes darted toward her lap. She withdrew her hands from his and wrung them together.

Noticing the tears glistening in her eyes, Mathias took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Please say what’s on your mind.”

Her chin trembled and her voice was a whisper when she spoke. “Oxglen is the last place we heard he was going.”

“I know.”

Her voice grew stronger, and she grasped both his shoulders in a firm grip. “You’ve got to find him.” She leaned forward. “Promise me you’ll find him and bring him home.”

Mathias averted his gaze and stared into the flames. “You know Father won’t approve.”

With a soft touch, she guided his face toward her. “His feelings be damned! I love your father, but he’s my son and your brother, and I need to know he’s okay.”

Mathias flinched, stood, and turned away. In a hushed tone, he said, “Maybe it’s for the best that he stays away after the dishonor he brought to the family.”

He caught the sound of his mother’s dress rustling as she rose behind him. “Don’t you say that to me!” The mix of conviction and anger in her voice surprised him.

To combat his rising irritation at her, Mathias added more wood to the fire, forcing himself to focus on its earthy scent. The burning log released its resinous sweetness, transporting him back to his youth and happy memories of when his mother would read stories to him by the fire. How could he be mad at her because she was worried about her son? Guilt mixed with his annoyance.

“Mathias.” When he did not respond, she raised her voice and yanked his arm, twisting him in her direction. “Mathias, look at me!”

He lacked the courage to meet her gaze, fixating instead on the floor, one hand resting on his hip. With a frustrated sigh at himself as much as the situation, he muttered, “We don’t even know if he’s still there. It’s been almost three years.”

“You boys are my life. I’ve been sick since he’s been gone.” Camella’s voice caught in her throat. She took several deep breaths to steady herself. “If he is there, you need to find him or find where he’s gone … for me.”

When he raised his head to meet her gaze, there were tears streaking down her cheeks. Any trace of animosity vanished when his mother laid bare her love for his brother and showed her resolve at the same time. It was a love he knew she had for all her sons.

He closed his eyes for a moment, pressed his lips together, and nodded before reaching out and gently wiping her tears away with his hand. “I’ll do my best.”

She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him tight, and sniffled. “I know you will. Bring him home,” she pleaded and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

As his love for her swelled, he resolved not to disappoint her, even in the face of his own misgivings and his father’s inevitable disapproval. After a deep breath, he returned her kiss on the cheek and whispered, “I love you too.”

After showing his mother out, he checked on Griffon and Jaxon, giving each sleeping boy a kiss on the forehead, before scampering to the bedroom and Lili’s waiting embrace.

 

CHAPTER 2

THE HUNT

    

G

rimlock carefully considered the task of hunting multiple rhyghars when choosing his equipment. Rhyghars were commonly referred to as bloodhorns, which he had to admit was a fitting moniker. Tackling these fearsome predators required the right combination of sturdy but light protection that allowed for both flexibility and speed of movement. With all the ground he would need to cover on foot, maintaining his stamina was crucial, ruling out heavy armor. He settled upon a dark metallic chain vest with leather breeches and his comfortable hard-soled boots. For added defense, he slipped on long leather gloves, overlaid with steel vambraces.

To prepare for the sweat he would generate, he tied a red bandana around his forehead. He slung his longbow and quiver across his back, affixed a dagger, more like a shortsword, to his right hip and fastened a broadsword to his left. His favored blade was a greatsword, but it was too cumbersome when fleetness of foot was required. A small coil of rope, some dried jerky, and a large burlap sack almost completed his supplies. All that remained was to fill his waterskin.

Upon opening the water barrel, he winced at the sight of his own loathsome reflection in the clear liquid. His smoky-blue skin was neither blue enough for a full-blooded skron, nor pale enough to pass for a human. Similarly, while ridges lined his brow, a bony crest had never developed. He sighed when he thought of the many times other skron children had teased him about his “deformity.” Even his nose was disgusting. The grooves on its surface, though shallow by skron standards, appeared pronounced to humans. He didn’t hate the garnet-colored beard that covered his chin. It served its purpose of obscuring the bony protrusions underneath, preventing skrons from mocking their short length and camouflaging their appearance to avoid judgment from humans. The beard was the one feature accepted by both species, unlike his sapphire blue eyes. They were a gift from his mother and appreciated by humans, but deemed hideous by skrons whose eyes were never that color. Like humans, his ears were small, but with distinctive, skron-influenced webbing and pointed tips.

In disgust, he yanked the stopper out of the leather bladder and thrust it into the water, thankful that the ripples distorted his reflection. After filling the waterskin, he slammed the lid on the barrel shut. Maybe someday he would embrace his mixed heritage and realize that it did not define his worth, but today was not that day. He chose instead to focus on the task at hand.

The sun crested the horizon as he led Rex, his gray and black draft horse, from his stall, released him into a large corral, fed, and watered him. The mammoth stallion was over nineteen hands high, such that Grimlock’s nearly seven-foot frame only enabled him to clear his withers by half a foot. “Can’t take you, boy, it’s too dangerous,” he said while scratching the horse behind the ears. Rex wasn’t simply a horse but a loyal friend and a favored meal of bloodhorns. He dared not risk his safety on this journey. He admired how his coat shimmered in the sunlight, and how he practically pranced when he walked, but that wasn’t always the case. A toothy smile stretched across his face when he remembered their first meeting.

He had struggled during his first few months in the Nature’s Vanguard. His mentor, Tevarious, brought Rex to him and commanded him to care for the animal. He’d not seen such a miserable excuse for a horse in his life. He was emaciated, his coat was dull, and he had a limp. Even worse, he was skittish and slow. Horses never got this bad with the Bonebreaker skrons. Once a horse broke down, they slaughtered it for meat and replaced it.

To a fourteen-year-old boy raised with skrons, it seemed ridiculous to spend energy on such a worthless creature. That type of behavior showed the deplorable softness of humans that his father always preached about and led to one of his many early clashes with Tevarious. As usual, Tevarious was right, and he was wrong. He learned the value of caring for a living creature, despite it not yielding immediate benefits. He thought he was healing a broken horse, but after months of work, he realized they healed each other. Seven years later and he couldn’t imagine having a stronger bond with any other creature than he did with Rex.

After rubbing Rex’s cheek one last time, he departed. The sun filtered through the trees, providing enough light to make his way. His long legs covered considerable ground with minimal effort. It was an easy, but not slow, pace. He took the most direct route to the Grobben farmstead, where he’d pick up the predator’s trail. This meant sticking to the less densely populated areas, comprising rolling hills and forested meadows filled with small trees and shrubs.

The farm was not yet in sight when he smelled the familiar, pungent, metallic odor of blood. Within moments of arriving at the Grobben’s property, he spotted great splotches of the congealed crimson fluid on the ground, rocks, and bases of the trees. Yesterday’s inspection of the farmhouse and barn had confirmed the Grobben family, along with their farmhands and all their livestock had been slaughtered. All save their oldest son, who was missing. The level of carnage made it easy to determine bloodhorns were the attackers. More difficult was discerning how many.

As he plunged into the forest following the blood trail, the paw prints stood out against the leaves, pine needles, and loose dirt covering the ground. He noted the large tracks matched the inside of the Grobben house. Based on their length and depth, these belonged to an enormous male cat, weighing at least six hundred pounds. The imprints revealed an awkward gait, piquing his curiosity. Upon closer inspection, the leaves and dirt were displaced to the sides, parallel to the tracks, confirming his suspicions. The male was dragging something.

He continued following the trail and soon discovered much smaller tracks running side-by-side with the male’s. The size of the prints indicated it was a female, and she was at least three hundred pounds.

A mated pair made sense, but his intuition nagged at him. Something seemed off with the smaller set. There were almost imperceptible differences in depth and size here and there. A juvenile must be with them, running behind the female. Bloodhorn cubs stayed with their mothers until they were two to three years old. Whether it was an older female, or a young male didn’t matter, both were big enough to be deadly.

He followed the trail for hours, stopping occasionally to take a swig of water and wipe his brow. The sun neared its zenith, with great patches of light filtering through the canopy of trees. A slight breeze blew north to south, threatening to broadcast his scent. This wouldn’t pose a problem so long as he continued a general westerly route. The season of leafwane’s arrival was welcome, for it brought with it more comfortable temperatures. In the bustling forest, birds darted and sang in the treetops, while squirrels dashed and rustled through the foliage in search of nuts.

As he ventured further, and the incline increased, the blood trail grew fainter. The tracks, however, were still clear. The pursuit led him to the Red Butte Hills, named for the soil’s changing color from sandy brown to rust-red. Lake Otterro was over the next bluff.

Although he saw nothing, his gut warned him to stop. He crept behind a large tree and froze. He steadied his breathing and listened. The silence confirmed something was amiss. No longer did he hear the chirping birds or skittering squirrels. He peered around the tree into the thick forest. A flash of red in a small rocky outcropping overgrown with weeds and fallen branches some thirty yards ahead caught his eye. Rhyghars derived their nickname from the red horns, lighter at first and darker with age, that sprouted from their muzzles. However, their orange-yellow fur and black stripes provided excellent camouflage. He continued straining his vision until he sighted the red flash again against the shrubs and branches.

A moment later, the branches rustled, and twin crimson horns extended above the brush, followed by the bloodhorn’s black-maned head. The cat lay under the outcropping, with only its head and neck visible. The horns were far too small and light to belong to the adult male but were larger than any horns females possessed. This was a juvenile male. It yawned and stretched, nestling into the tall grass, unaware of his presence. All indications suggested it was alone.

A thick scattering of twigs, branches, and leaves cluttered the ground, preventing him from getting closer or having a clear bow shot. With limited options, he gingerly grasped the riser of the bow with his left hand and pulled it over his head. He slid an arrow from the quiver and pushed it into the ground in front of him, then picked up a palm-sized rock with his right hand.

Before flicking the stone, he glanced to make sure the juvenile had not moved, then sent the rock flying toward a distant tree, where it clattered against the trunk. The beast sprang to its feet, ears alert, eyes following the bouncing rock.

Grimlock nocked the arrow onto the bow by locking the arrow’s notch snugly into the bowstring. He stepped right, emerging from behind the tree, while simultaneously raising the longbow, drawing back the string, and taking aim at the creature.

The bloodhorn spotted him and tensed its back legs, prepared to spring. WHAP! Instead of springing, it staggered awkwardly. It opened its mouth to snarl but did not make a sound. With a wobbly step, it fell, the arrow’s fletching protruding from its left eye. It gasped and shuddered before dying.

Grimlock remained frozen, holding his follow-through. After the cat toppled, he turned a complete circle, scanning the forest for any movement. Once satisfied no attack was imminent, he approached the beast with measured steps. Dispatching animals that acquired a taste for humanoid flesh was part of his obligation as a ranger with the Nature’s Vanguard. Although often necessary, he hated doing it. He bent over and stroked the beast’s head. The fur was coarse but soft. He pulled the arrow from its eye. It was still intact and sharp. After cleaning the fluids and bloody membranes from it, he placed it back into his quiver.

Not knowing how much time he had before the remaining bloodhorns discovered him, he simply covered the body with leaves and dirt. This wouldn’t hide its scent, but upon any cursory examination, it would blend in with the surrounding foliage.

One down, two to go.

Its parents would not be far. Vigilance was the key. Bloodhorns were mighty hunters, and he could easily go from hunter to prey. He continued ascending the hill, measuring his steps and maintaining his focus. The trees grew denser and the ground rockier the higher he progressed. Many caves and rugged crags dotted the hillside, any of them an ideal location for a bloodhorn’s den. The blood trail disappeared, and the hard ground did not give up tracks as easily as the soft dirt and leaves on the forest floor.

Upon reaching the hill’s summit, he inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet, pine-scented air. The bandana around his forehead absorbed the perspiration that formed on his brow from the climb. He released the stopper from the waterskin slung over his left shoulder and quenched his thirst with a satisfying gulp. As he drank, he surveyed the valley below. From his vantage point, he could see the southern expanse of Lake Otterro. The water shimmered with a radiant, translucent blue hue, reflecting the brilliant sunlight. The coniferous forest crept towards the shore, composed of rough sand and scattered rock formations. There was no sign of the predators below.

His eyes scanned the shoreline, moving from one end to the other, but always gravitating back to a cluster of rocks nestled at the water’s edge, a hundred yards below him. At this distance, he could not be sure, but felt certain he spied the corpse of an animal, or perhaps a boy, nestled within the rocks. He corked the waterskin and draped it over his shoulder before descending the hill.

With ease, he hopped from rock to rock. Along the way, he detected partial tracks and tufts of orange fur entangled here and there on rocks, bushes, and branches, affirming his course was correct. As he drew nearer to the lake, his suspicion grew stronger that the lifeless figure belonged to the eldest Grobben boy.

Before proceeding, he noted his surroundings and spotted a small boulder. With abundant trees, it was easy to find a thick branch that would serve his needs. He tied the coil of rope around the boulder, then looped it over the stout tree branch. He set a simple snare on the ground and hoisted the stone into the air. The boulder was dense, but he pulled it up with relative ease before covering the snare with leaves.

After camouflaging the snare to his satisfaction, he prepared to leave the tree’s safety, aware that doing so would expose him. Unseen eyes were likely watching him; he counted on it.

He grasped the broadsword in his right hand. It felt light in his powerful grip. Although he was tall and strong, overpowering these adversaries with strength alone was impossible. Success depended on skill and precision. After taking a deep breath, he flexed his brawny legs and sprinted for the corpse. When he reached the rocks near the body, he spun around, half-expecting the predators to spring at him, but all was still.

Grimlock straightened his twisted chainmail and gambeson before crouching to examine the body. It was the missing boy. The garish wounds matched those inflicted on the rest of the family.

He didn’t know the Grobbens, aside from the fact they were a family of human farmers, likely to have treated him with disdain as most humans did to half-skrons like him. While he didn’t mourn their passing, he couldn’t deny the unfortunate circumstances of their demise. Life was harsh in the Unfettered Expanse. Preventing a similar tragedy was his goal now. Fresh wounds on the body suggested the mated pair were close.

A low, rumbling growl broke the tranquil serenity of the beach. Grimlock gripped his sword, the knuckles tightening until his smoky-blue hand turned white. He couldn’t see the carnivore, but maintained slow, rhythmic breathing and an alert but relaxed posture. It wasn’t long before a bloodhorn emerged from the tree line some thirty feet from him.

The beast’s ears flattened against its low-hanging head. It crouched down and slunk onto the rocky beach. The cat resembled the juvenile in size, but lacked the black mane, marking it as the female. He admired her beauty and grace and hated what he had to do. He leaped sideways toward the trees as the feline sprang. She landed in perfect balance on the rocks where he previously stood, but his long strides already carried him to the forest. He sprinted toward the snare. Another great leap had her on his heels. With quick, zigzagging movements, he made himself a difficult target. The bloodhorn sprang, but a well-timed leap sent him over the trap as the cat landed in the snare. A quick kick with his left foot as he tumbled past dislodged the stick that held the large, suspended rock. In a flash, the rope constricted around the female’s left rear leg and jerked her into the air with a piercing yowl. She squirmed and thrashed, razor-sharp claws and spiked tail flailing.

In his peripheral vision, he glimpsed an immense shape flying toward him, so he ducked and rolled forward, and it passed over his head. As he stood, he wheeled around and assumed a wide stance, setting his right foot back and left forward. He gripped his sword in front of him with both hands.

The bloodhorn landed and faced him. It was massive! The two maroon horns sprouting from the bridge of its muzzle were as long as Grimlock’s forearm. Its tail flicked side to side, brandishing long spikes. Aside from a furry black mane around its head and black stripes running horizontally the length of its torso, the rest of its fur was orange. By his guess, the great feline was ten feet from tip to tail and every bit of the six hundred pounds he had estimated. The male opened his mouth and displayed his long canines before uttering a loud, guttural roar.

Grimlock bellowed a similar roar to answer the challenge, revealing his own pronounced canines. The predators sized each other up. Grimlock backed up cautiously, avoiding the thrashing female. The thick, tangled forest made it impossible for him to swing his sword effectively. He needed to get back to the beach and open space. The male stopped to regard his mate hanging from the tree. She stopped thrashing when they touched their noses together.

The male was reassuring her, letting her know he would deal with this threat and set her free. Grimlock almost felt sorry for the beast’s coming disappointment as he broke for the beach. His foot had barely touched the sandy ground when a twitch of the male’s sinewy legs propelled it toward him—massive paws, with razor-sharp talons extended for the kill. Grimlock pivoted on his left foot, rotating his hips to avoid the beast while slashing his sword across. The sword bit into the carnivore’s flank, but not deeply. In return, the cat’s right claw raked his left forearm, catching the steel bracer and ripping it off, tearing flesh. He grunted and glanced at his wound long enough to know it wasn’t serious.

In a fluid motion, the great cat landed, turned, and swatted at him with its claws. He batted them away with his sword. The bloodhorn snapped its spiked tail left and right. Grimlock’s dodging and weaving prevented any injury but left him unbalanced and unable to launch any counterattacks.

With lightning speed, the great cat sprang again. Grimlock couldn’t evade it, so he yielded and fell back, kicking his right foot up and out, jamming it squarely into the bloodhorn’s abdomen. As he landed, he pushed up, and the momentum sent the animal flying behind him. He received a nasty slash along his right calf, above the top of his leather boot. The cat twisted in the air and landed on its feet.

Again, the male came in a rush, swatting with its right paw. Grimlock expected this and brought his sword down and around, cleaving the paw from its leg. The cat howled as blood spurted from the stump. It limped backward, unable to put weight on its front leg. Seizing the opportunity, the cunning ranger quick-stepped forward, swinging his sword in deadly arcs. Despite having only three legs, the bloodhorn hopped left and right to avoid the blade.

The creature jumped right and turned sideways, snapping its tail out and smacking his hands. If not for the tough leather gloves, his hands would have been shredded. The powerful impact loosened his grip on the sword, so he released it and rolled left. The beast leaped, claws extended, mouth open wide, killer white teeth gleaming in the sun. As Grimlock rolled, he pulled the long dagger from its sheath and thrust it into the air. The bloodhorn landed on him, driving the breath from his lungs, but also impaling itself upon the dagger. As the blade drove through its flesh and into its lungs, it yowled in agony.

Injured though it was, the male cat wasn’t out. It tried to clamp its jaws around Grimlock’s throat, but he wedged his right forearm into its mouth. The steel bracer prevented its fangs from penetrating into his skin. The cat thrashed back and forth, but the ranger’s powerful muscles flexed and strained, minimizing the thrashing and preventing him from being rag-dolled in its iron grip.

While the huge cat continued to yank painfully on him, draining the strength from his right arm, he stubbornly maintained his grip on the dagger with his left hand. If his right arm gave out, the beast would clasp its jaws around his throat and finish him. He had little time remaining, so with a powerful jerk, he tore the dagger free and plunged it deep into the feline’s throat. Blood splashed across his face. The bloodhorn made a hissing, gurgling sound as Grimlock ripped out its windpipe.

The cat released its grasp and staggered sideways. Grimlock dropped the dagger and picked up the sword while scrambling to his feet. The beast shook and swayed but remained upright. While wheezing and gasping, the wild creature glared at him. He recognized the hatred in its eyes. Though trembling to remain standing, the beast roared. How it uttered a sound, let alone a roar, with a torn windpipe he’d never know. The maimed feline limped forward, unable to put weight on its severed right paw, but its wounds overcame it and it fell face first onto the ground.

Grimlock raised his sword over the bloodhorn’s head. It remained still but defiantly curled its upper lip. “You honor me with your sacrifice,” the ranger said, as he plunged the sword into its skull. “Your strength will live through me.” With a final twitch, the great carnivore went limp. With the male finished, Grimlock humanely dispatched the snared female. He dragged her body and the juvenile’s to the beach and laid them next to the male. He could not take the bodies back but needed proof of his success. After severing the male bloodhorn’s head, he buried the bodies on the beach, along with the Grobben boy’s remains.

He cleaned the gashes on his forearm, shoulder, and calf and dressed them as best he could. Without the time-consuming burden of following tracks, the journey back was much faster. The sun set by the time he arrived home, exhausted.

The next morning, he donned a short-sleeved cotton tunic and trousers. He cinched Rex’s saddle girth and after affixing the sack containing the bloodhorn head to the saddle, he climbed on. The ride was fast and enjoyable, but he dreaded the hostile reception awaiting him in Oxglen. He remained on the town’s perimeter until his destination forced him to use a busier road.

His stomach churned as the musky, sour scents from the abundant horse droppings mingled with the acidic aroma of urine, and the pungent emanations from the crowded street teeming with citizens, horses, and wagons, assaulted his senses. Adding to the discomfort were the clouds of dust and buzzing flies swarming over the dung piles. The combination threatened to gag him, making him long for the crisp, clean air of the countryside where he felt at ease.

The city’s population was diverse. Humans comprised the majority, but other sentient beings like dwergs, hundurans, tiddlors, inkeli, feliosians, and vragoths, also lived there. Skrons and goblinoids were the glaring omissions. He had hoped the diversity would allow him to blend in, but even with its varied racial mixture, he stood out, in part because of his immense size, but also because of his heritage. In every direction, disapproving eyes stared him down. By now, the glares should not have bothered him, but they did. He snorted and pushed forward.

He passed some of Oxglen’s finest establishments, such as the Hidden Pepper Tavern, the Perfect Needle, and Hammers Down before reaching Constable Hall. It was a one-story structure, made of smooth pine. Small windows adorned each side of the double-wide main entrance. A scale hung above the door holding a shield and a sword.

After tying Rex in front, he grabbed the sack containing the rhyghar head and strode in. Candles in sconces provided some light in the otherwise gloomy room. A large brick and stone fireplace dominated the left wall, empty and cold. Across the room from the fireplace, sat an unused iron cell. Four simple wooden desks comprised the room’s core. Two desks were empty, but seated human constables glanced up from the others. Both wore leather jerkins and matching leather vambraces with thigh guards and knee-high boots. Short green cloaks hung off their shoulders.

Grimlock recognized them from the Grobben farm. One of them was Deputy Constable Arzin Shirazi. The other was Constable Ethan Demak. That one needed to learn manners. Ignoring Shirazi, Grimlock focused his steely gaze on him.

Demak was young and clean-shaven, about average height, with short blond hair and a slim build. He sat slack-jawed and staring as the ranger marched toward him, the large sack slung over his shoulder. “You’re back?” he stammered.

“You sound surprised. Guess you didn’t expect the skron vermin to return. That’s what you called me at the farm, wasn’t it?” replied Grimlock with a sneer.

“Uh, n-no.” Demak trembled. He tried to stand, but the towering half-skron stepped closer and motioned for him to remain seated. Grimlock ran his tongue over the pronounced canines jutting from his lower jaw and glowered down at him. Sweat beaded on the constable’s brow and his eyes pleaded with Shirazi.

“Easy, Grimlock, we don’t need any trouble,” Shirazi said as she walked toward him, spreading her arms out and gesturing for him to simmer down.

Grimlock’s blue eyes bored into Demak. Without averting his gaze, he said in a baritone growl, “Go get Constable Rarran and there won’t be trouble.”

“Okay. Just relax. I’ll fetch him.”

“I am relaxed. Demak’s probably not.” This time, Grimlock scrutinized Shirazi. Her supple, khaki skin gave her a youthful appearance, but small creases around her forehead and eyes revealed she was middle-aged. With short raven hair and dark eyes, she was striking and tall—closer to six feet than five. He didn’t know her well, but Rarran trusted her, so he would give her the benefit of the doubt. “Better hurry.”

Shirazi ran to the wooden door set against the right wall, knocking several times. After a moment, Chief Constable Eldrick Rarran opened the door and spoke with her. Grimlock couldn’t hear what they said, but the chief’s eyes widened, and he glanced in his direction.

Rarran rushed over and stared up at the ranger as he shook his massive hand with both of his and with an ear-to-ear grin said, “Welcome back, Grim. I didn’t expect you so quickly.”

He respected that the chief’s hands were almost as hard and calloused as his own, hands used to hard work. With a glare toward Demak, Grim said, “Yeah, I’m getting a lot of that.” His gaze settled back on the chief, one of the few people in Oxglen he called a friend. Rarran wore the same attire as his constables. His close-cropped hair was once dark, but was now peppered with white, as was the ragged stubble covering his cheeks and chin. Deep lines crisscrossed the man’s forehead and framed his eyes and mouth. He was over six feet tall and large for a human, but he appeared small next to the half-skron.

“Did you find them?” asked Rarran.

In response, Grim slung the sack off his back, grabbed it with both hands, upended it and spilled the bloodhorn head onto Demak’s desk. Demak screamed and jerked back, falling off his chair with a clatter. He scrambled to his feet, frantically brushing himself off.

Rarran and Shirazi gasped as the bloody head bounced and rolled off the desk and thumped onto the floor. Rarran shook his head and chuckled. “You sure you got all of ‘em?”

With a slight shake of his head, Grim rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’m sure. Only brought the one head back, but there were two others. I buried all three, along with the Grobben boy’s remains, on a beach near the southern portion of Lake Otterro.”

Rarran raised his hands plaintively. “Sorry, didn’t mean to imply you didn’t.”

“That’s wise. Better send a couple of your constables to go fetch the boy’s body.”

“We’ll take care of that.” Rarran said. “You’re crazy.”

“I might be crazy, but never doubt me.”

“I won’t make that mistake again.” Rarran put his hands together as if in prayer. “Looks like one of them got you.” Rarran pointed at the gash on Grim’s arm. “Might want to have that checked out.”

“Bah,” Grim snorted in response.

“Suit yourself. The town owes you for sure though.” Rarran reached up and patted Grim on the shoulder. “I owe you.”

Grim shrugged.

“I can pay you ten silver quarks.”

“That’ll do.”

Rarran motioned to the bloody head on the floor. “Demak, clean this mess up.” He gestured to Shirazi and said, “Fetch the quarks.”

Shirazi was already jogging toward the office when she said, “You got it, Chief.”

Ashen faced, Demak trudged to cabinets along the back wall. He returned with a burlap sack and some old towels. He covered his hands with a towel and grabbed the longest horn on the bloodhorn’s head. Demak struggled, arms trembling as he tried and failed to lift it. After a few choice words mumbled under his breath and another unsuccessful attempt, he finally managed to drop the still oozing head into the sack then turned away, gagging.

Rarran and Grim exchanged smirks as they watched the young man try to wipe the blood off the planked wood floor. All he did was smear it around. “You’re gonna need a pail with some soap and water,” said Rarran. Demak’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed.

Shirazi returned and handed a pouch to the chief. He fished through it, counting to himself as he did, until he produced ten small silver quarks. The quarks jingled when he dropped them into Grim’s hand. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Grim put the quarks in his pocket and contemplated the invitation before responding, “Thanks, but I’m heading home. I don’t like it in town.”

A soft smile played on the corner of Rarran’s lips. “I know you saved a lot of people in town, even if they don’t.” While tapping himself on the chest, he said, “You can always count on me.”

“Appreciate it, Chief. Likewise.” With a sideways glance toward Demak, Grim marched out. As expected, Demak didn’t look back.

   

CHAPTER 3

LAMBERT HENSHAWE

    

V

igilanton awoke from a fitful night’s sleep to find a note under his door directing him to the Hidden Pepper Tavern at 9 am sharp. The public meeting with Lambert Henshawe was a good sign. However, he remained wary. After stumbling out of bed, he splashed water on his face and cut the stubble away from his cheeks so his goatee stood out, before slicking back his chestnut-colored hair.

He contemplated dressing up for the occasion, but Henshawe would already be in a foul mood, so it wasn’t prudent to risk upstaging him. Instead, he opted for simple black breeches, a plain tan shirt, and worn boots. He considered bringing his single-edged, curved-tip falchion, as he felt naked without it, but he didn’t want to appear aggressive. It wasn’t wise to go unarmed, though, so he tucked a dagger into his boot.

With a frustrated sigh, he rubbed his pounding temples. Why did Grykk have to be stupid and force his hand? Though he never liked the hunduran, he hoped they could finish one job with civility and go their separate ways. That didn’t work out. He’d replayed the events of the mission in his head all night and always reached the same conclusion: Grykk had to die.

When he stepped outside onto the dusty, dirt road, he was thankful leafwane had just begun and the heavy rains that would transform the streets into a soupy quagmire were still months away. Oxglen may have grown into a large town and thought itself sophisticated, but until it boasted properly paved streets, he would always view it as a backwater village.

Although it was still early, the streets were crowded. Prospectors creaked past him in loaded wagons bound for the Fractured Crags. Some had guarded escorts, others rolled by alone. Riders on horseback galloped ahead, hoping to arrive first at a good mining spot.

Once a small village, Oxglen experienced a population boom after the discovery of aurium in the nearby Fractured Crags. People from all nations flocked to the town, eager to find their fortune.

Buildings and businesses sprang up overnight, each one’s style matching the kingdom responsible for building it. Some structures resembled little more than round mud huts with thatched roofs, owing to the hunduran influence.

Human dwellings were the most common and sturdy pine the lumber of choice, but a few, including his own townhouse, boasted elegant redwood. They either had rectangular or square bases, shingle roofs, and square windows with simple wooden doors, functional but uninspired.

The allure of wealth brought him there, but the difficult and drab life of a prospector didn’t interest him. However, he knew the free-flowing quarks would lead to plentiful opportunities for someone with his martial skills. At first, he had ample work, until he lost his discipline and direction. With a shake of his head, he chased the miserable thoughts away.

He trotted across town, weaving between the wagons and riders, waving his hands to keep the dust they kicked up out of his face. His talent for passing by unseen, unless he wished it, ensured that nobody paid him any attention, which suited him fine.

As was his habit, he arrived at the tavern early. It was unmistakable with its rich mahogany finish, accentuated by the bold gold lettering and rows of bay windows that lined the sidewalls. He only knew it was the Hidden Pepper Tavern because that’s what people called it. Knowing the name allowed him to sound out the letters and read it for himself. The process was slow, but it worked. His near-illiteracy made memorizing names of people and places a necessity. The familiar feelings of inadequacy threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed them away. Although it required effort, at least he could read to a degree. That hadn’t always been the case.

Wistfully, he remembered one of his last escort missions, a little over a year prior, when he’d met a wise woman named Cora. She explained that his academic struggles resulted from a disability, not a lack of intelligence. If he had encountered her during his childhood, his life would have taken a different course, one that would have prevented him from crossing paths with Lambert Henshawe, leader of the Saber Syndicate and Oxglen’s most notorious crime lord.

Ever prepared, he jogged around the building, examining all the exits and identifying any potential obstacles that would impede a hasty retreat. When he spotted the kitchen’s unobstructed back door, he knew he’d found his escape route if the meeting soured.

After returning to the tavern’s entrance, he took a deep, steadying breath and cracked his knuckles. He stood tall, puffed his chest out, and strutted in. As one of the superior establishments in Oxglen, the tavern was predictably crowded. The odor of alcohol and smoke greeted him, but he expected that. To his relief, the aromatic scent of smoking meat offset the unpleasant smells. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten yet.

The sun shone through the windows, bathing the inside of the tavern in a warm glow. Rows of cushioned booths adorned the side walls, with covered tables arranged in the center. A polished oak bar with brass edges stretched across the entire back wall. Displayed on shelves behind it were rows of multi-hued bottles.

An auburn-haired barmaid with ample red lips and walnut brown eyes approached him. “Can I help you, darlin’?” she asked with a wide smile that ended in deep dimples. She had smooth porcelain skin and a curvaceous figure evident even under the drab black serving gown she wore. Vigilanton prided himself on knowing the attractive women in town but didn’t recognize her. He’d have to change that.

Wearing a devilish grin and with a glint in his green eyes, he said, “I would love that. What’s your name?” His tone was velvety.

“Kendra. What’s yours?” she said as she twisted her finger through a long strand of her wavy hair.

“Kendra … what a beautiful name.” He leaned in, savoring the sweet yet delicate scent of lilac surrounding her. Brushing her hair back from her ear, he purred, “Kendra, my name’s Vigilanton, and I’m here to meet an associate of mine, Mr. Lambert Henshawe.” It satisfied him when he noticed goose bumps rising on her neck.

Kendra’s breathing quickened, and she rested her hand on her chest. “Oh, he’s in the large corner booth.” She pointed to the back. “He said he was expecting someone.”

Vigilanton followed Kendra’s gesture and noticed Henshawe signaling him to come over. In response, he raised his hand. The sight of the solitary crime boss concerned him, as he was seldom without armed guards.

“I’ll take you to him,” said Kendra.

“I can manage, beautiful, but thank you so much.” His mouth curved in a broad grin as he observed the blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.”

Vigilanton winked and said, “You can be sure of that.” He’d never had problems talking to women. It came as easily as swinging a sword. They were attracted to him. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but whatever the reason, he wasn’t about to complain.

He weaved through the congestion of tables and patrons toward Henshawe’s booth. With each step, his eyes scanned the crowd. A short-furred gray hunduran, two booths to Henshawe’s left, took a drink and stared out the bay window. His long canine ears pricked up and swiveled in Vigilanton’s direction. The slight curl of the lips on his upper muzzle was a dead giveaway. He was one of Henshawe’s men.

A well-dressed human male, seated at the table closest to the crime lord, drank a mug of beer and read a book. As Vigilanton approached, the man dipped the book and allowed his gaze to linger on him for a split second too long. That made two henchmen, and he suspected at least two more. He glanced toward the short hallway that led to the kitchen and his escape route if things went badly.

As Vigilanton approached Henshawe’s booth, he studied the man. Henshawe wasn’t large, shorter than himself by a couple of inches, but wiry. He judged him to be in his mid-forties, although he’d never asked his age. He had short, well-coiffed hair, still dark but with streaks of gray at the temples, and a well-manicured beard. Today he wore a red silk blouse, dark slacks, and shining black leather shoes. Although he appeared every bit a fop, looks were deceiving, especially with this one. He wasn’t helpless, despite appearing unarmed.

The corners of Vigilanton’s mouth stretched toward his ears, revealing his sparkling white teeth, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he greeted Henshawe with an enthusiastic, “Morning, Boss.”

The crime lord’s expression was devoid of amusement as he nodded toward the empty booth opposite him and replied in a gravelly tone, “Is it?”

Vigilanton slid into the seat and said, “Sun’s shining, birds are chirping. We scored a large haul. Yeah, I’d say it’s a good day.”

Henshawe pursed his lips, rolled his neck about his shoulders, leaned forward, and hissed, “It’s not.”

Kendra approached the table. Henshawe’s glare stopped her mid-step. She spun around and hustled away.

“That’s rude and I’m hungry—”

“Shut up!” Henshawe shook his head. “What am I going to do with you, Vig?

“I don’t know what you—”

Henshawe pointed at him. “Don’t say another word!” He inhaled deeply, held it, and let it out slowly before continuing. “On the one hand, you brought me a large haul, but on the other, you killed one of my best earners.” He drummed his fingers together. “Although you weren’t making anything on that job, anyway. Not with the debt you still owe me.” Henshawe’s eyebrows drew together, and his intense stare bored into Vig. After a moment, he sat back and relaxed his gaze. “But now I’ve got to recruit someone to take Grykk’s place, and that’s going to cost me. That means it’s going to cost you.”

Vig felt his face flush, and he gritted his teeth. “He killed an innocent man for no reason and tried to kill me. What the hell was I supposed to do, let him gut me? You can ask Bumdin and Gage. They saw the whole thing.”

Henshawe raised a single eyebrow and cocked his head. “Do you think I give a shit about some dead sellsword?” He held up his index finger to silence Vig. “I don’t. As for you and Grykk,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I don’t care what went down, but it’s bad for my reputation having my own men killing each other.”

Vig breathed deep and exhaled with a loud snort. He fought the urge to respond to the irony of Henshawe’s assertion—as if he didn’t routinely order one underling to kill another.

“However, you do always come through for me, and it was a big score.” Henshawe cupped his chin in his hand and tapped his index finger on his lips. “Okay, I’m going to let you walk out of here, but with two conditions.”

“What are they?”

“First, you’re taking over all Grykk’s collections, besides your own, until I find a suitable replacement. Of course, everything you collect comes to me.”

Vig expected this. “Go on.”

“To compensate me for my inconvenience, I’m adding ten percent to what you owe me. Call it a hardship fee,” Henshawe snickered.

“What the Fu—”

“Careful, you’re liable to make me angry. I may reconsider my generous offer.” The crime lord wagged his finger at Vig.

Vig sat back hard against the booth, crossed his chest with his arms, and inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Relax, kid, you did good.” Henshawe grinned, reached out, and patted Vig’s cheek. “Grykk was supposed to collect from Levi Sincock. I assume you know him?”

“Yeah, he owns the Motherload Mercantile shop.”

“You’re gonna pay him a visit tomorrow. He’s been late on his payments recently. Tell him he owes four gold quarks now instead of three.”

Although he didn’t know him personally, Vig felt sorry for Sincock. Even for a prosperous merchant, paying four gold quarks every two weeks was steep. He considered challenging Henshawe but knew better than to push his luck.

“One more thing. Keep your ear to the ground. There’s a dispute between the Valadians and the vragoths. The Valadians hold valuable artifacts the vragoths want. Gonna be a council vote in a few weeks to decide ownership.” Henshawe raised his hand and beckoned Kendra over. “Some Valadian Knights showed up last night. Vragoths arrived the day before.” He lowered his head and gazed down his nose at Vig. “If there’s gonna be any trouble, I wanna know about it ahead of time.”

No doubt to profit by it, Vig thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he nodded his understanding.

“Now get outta here so I can enjoy my breakfast.” Henshawe waved Vig away. “And don’t worry, I’ll have another job for you soon enough. Hell, might even be enough to offset the ten percent I just tacked on.” He chortled.

Vig glowered at the crime boss, which only made the man laugh harder. There were worse alternatives than owing the mobster more quarks. At least he was walking out instead of running, or worse, dead.

When he stood, he stretched his arms and legs before departing. As he passed Kendra near the end of the bar on his way out, he stopped her. “Excuse me, Kendra. My throat is so parched. Would you be a peach and fetch me a tankard of cider?” He took her hand and kissed it gently.

She blushed and with a wide smile said, “Okay.”

“Can you bring one to my friend over there as well?” He pointed to the gray hunduran in the booth. “And my associate, seated at the table next to Mr. Henshawe.”

“Sure.”

“You’re doing me such a favor. Thank you so much.”

She hurried back to the taps and returned promptly with three ciders.

Vig took one of them. “Mr. Henshawe said to add these to his tab.” He took a deep drink of his cider and grinned at her. This was a poor decision, but making poor decisions wasn’t new for him. Even though it’s what got him into his current predicament, he couldn’t help himself.

She winked at him. “Sounds good.”

“What time do you leave today?”

“Three.”

“How about I come by?”

Her eyes twinkled when she said, “I’d like that.”

As Vig departed, his mind drifted back to when he was a Valadian Knight. Regret colored that memory. Vragoths were the sword enemies of Valadon, so he'd keep tabs on them, but he was more interested in the Valadians. Not for Henshawe's sake, but for his own.