The men howled with laughter. "Fortune smiles on you today, Forlin," Carnegie slapped his comrade's shoulder roughly. "Not only has she got that pretty young face, but she's unspoiled." He leaned in, his hot breath tickling the bald man's ear. "So stop wasting my fucking time, you worthless sack of shit."

  Forlin stood frozen, visibly hesitant.

  "Get on with it, you idiot!"

  "Alright, alright. Must be my lucky day." The bald man fumbled nervously with his belt. "Monster Slayer or not, underneath it all, she's still just a woman."

  "If you don't stop stalling, I'll—" A thunderous crash cut Carnegie's threat short. The sound, accompanied by a tremor that rattled cups and plates, plunged the Six Hoofs Tavern into immediate silence.

  Carnegie stood with his fist still raised, head cocked as he tried to identify the source. "What in all the hells was that?!" he demanded of his two companions. They exchanged blank looks, shaking their heads so vigorously their empty skulls seemed to rattle. "Where did it come from?!" No one answered him.

  "West," said Irene, her voice uncommonly calm. She approached the window and pulled aside the crude straw blinds. "Likely from the direction of the city wall."

  "Damn it all..." The Kadenford militiaman's complexion shifted from flushed crimson to ashen gray, the alcohol seeming to evaporate from his system. "Impossible." Carnegie sank into a chair. "The Godmans couldn't possibly have found a way through our walls..."

  Another deafening crash followed—the grinding of stone against stone, then a chorus of inhuman roars. "What's making that sound?!" The tavern's patrons, suddenly and completely sobered, huddled together in growing terror; the young clerk had already taken refuge beneath a sturdy table. Carnegie seized his sword and crept toward the window, his back pressed against the wall. The tavern wasn't far from the city's defenses, but trees and buildings obscured their view. "What creature makes such a noise?" he asked the Monster Slayer, his voice barely above a whisper.

  "The roaring makes it difficult to identify with certainty. But I've encountered this sound before." She turned and announced loudly enough for everyone to hear: "It's a Troll."

  Half the tavern's occupants had never heard of such a creature; most were born in Kadenford and would likely die there, their horizons limited to the town's walls. "Can you kill it?" The question came from the clerk, who had cautiously peeked out from beneath his table—perhaps the most practical inquiry of the moment.

  "I don't understand your meaning," Irene replied with practiced indifference.

  "I'm asking if you can kill that... Troll thing, or whatever it is."

  "Why would I wish to kill it?" The Monster Slayer folded her arms across her chest, impatience evident in her tone. "It has done us no harm. And naming it a Troll is merely conjecture."

  "Whether it's a Troll or some other beast, it's still a monster, isn't it?" a ruddy-faced farmer interjected. "That noise certainly doesn't sound like a man stretching after a nap. Just tell us if it can be killed, Monster Slayer."

  "Perhaps."

  "We can negotiate your fee, master."

  A cold, mocking smile touched Irene's lips, tinged with something almost like sadness. "I can kill it. If it proves harmful to us."

  "Or if it threatens our livelihoods—our crops and fields." Suddenly, they had developed a profound concern for their previously unmentioned farmlands.

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  The roars continued, one after another, like vast fury seeking release. "Is this some Godman deception, or is there truly a monster outside?!" Carnegie's sword hand trembled visibly. "We need to see for ourselves." He turned to his two cronies, now cowering against the far wall. "Or... perhaps the Monster Slayer should investigate first!" They pointed eagerly at Irene.

  Roaring. Impact. Roaring. Impact. The sounds alternated with terrible regularity, each one seeming louder than the last. People clapped hands over their ears, but couldn't prevent the cutlery and tankards from sliding off the tables with each tremor. "It's battering the wall!" Carnegie shouted above the din. "That cursed beast is trying to break through!"

  All around the tavern, faces contorted in pain and fear, hands pressed futilely against ears.

  "Now, whatever that thing is," the Monster Slayer said, turning from the window, her voice even. "This problem is past solving with coin."

  The crowd huddled closer together, their expressions as grim as seasoned soldiers facing battle.

  The new squire's hands were hopelessly clumsy; it had taken him a full quarter-hour just to unfasten the gorget. "Perhaps I should replace you, Reid." Tyler Wynlers rested his chin on his fist, watching the boy struggle. "Send you off to dig latrines instead."

  The boy hugged the gorget to his chest as if it were a shield, eyes starting. "Only teasing, lad," Tyler chuckled. "Or you could ask my last squires. They're still down in the pits, as it happens."

  "I've no time for your humor." Carl Clawyn thrust aside the tent flap impatiently. "Devalosfang is about to address the company, and you're not even half-armored yet."

  "Don't look at me," Tyler pointed accusingly at the fumbling squire, his expression comically exaggerated. "The blame lies entirely with him."

  This assembled force numbered nearly three thousand men. Twelve days earlier, Field Commander Duke Raveirmom Dear had personally selected them from the ranks of the Royal Knights, the Grey Knights, and the Highland Infantry. Their mission: to coordinate with the dwarven "trebuchet" attack against Cynthia's western wall, creating a multi-pronged assault against the city's defenses.

  "Make haste—we have no way of knowing precisely when the dwarves will commence their attack." Carl settled himself in the tent. "'Dawn' is a frustratingly imprecise term, especially on days like this with an unusually early sunrise," he reached for a small, leather-bound volume nearby, "early enough to murder any poetic sentiment."

  "Put down that third-rate collection of verses. Those market-stall publications contain nothing but the uninspired romantic escapades of fourth-rate versifiers." Tyler Wynlers secured his helmet with practiced ease. "I harbor no illusions about our chances of successfully breaching Cynthia's defenses. Even if the dwarves somehow manage to create an opening in the wall, who can say if it will be large enough for our forces? Or even positioned where we can reach it? None of this is guaranteed." He stepped aside to allow a column of spearmen to pass. "I strongly suspect we'll accomplish nothing of significance today."

  "Don't let Cynthia's high walls wall in your thoughts," Carl Clawyn chided gently. "This plan comes from Duke Raveirmom Dear, remember -- Devalosfang's own brother. And the Duke rarely loses."

  "Let us hope this campaign doesn't become the exception that proves the rule." Tyler shrugged philosophically. "Ironically, I wished for precisely such an outcome about a decade ago."

  The hastily constructed assembly area swarmed with soldiers; numerous officers of knightly rank or higher stood upon a wooden platform, exhorting the assembled troops below. Companies were organized into units of approximately one hundred men—a formation standard dating back to the Ptolemaick Dynasty, valued for its tactical flexibility, though heavily dependent on individual soldier quality. Devalosfang Dear had not yet made his appearance on the raised dais. The two knights pushed their way through the crowd, neither particularly tall among the masses of Godman soldiers, attempting to secure a better position near the front. Carl inadvertently collided with another knight's shoulder and offered a cursory apology.

  "Do you believe we'll capture Cynthia today?" the knight inquired unexpectedly. Carl glanced up in surprise—the man stood a full head taller—and noticed his remarkably distinctive milk-white hair. "I wouldn't wager on it," Tyler answered candidly. "This endeavor feels remarkably like hurling eggs against a stone fortress."

  "If Raveirmom is genuinely relying on our small force to capture Cynthia, then your analogy is entirely apt." The white-haired knight folded his arms across his broad chest, his posture impeccably straight. Carl and Tyler didn't recognize him; few soldiers in this hastily assembled company were well-acquainted with one another, though they conducted themselves adequately for a force assembled from disparate units. "The unfortunate reality is that we serve primarily as bait—or, to speak plainly, we're expendable. Nevertheless, our presence here serves some purpose, however minor."

  Carl waited expectantly for the stranger to introduce himself, but the knight seemed disinclined to offer his name. "Expendable? I'm afraid I don't follow your meaning."