A basalt and slate roof glinted in the distance, catching the last rays of fading sunlight yet paradoxically silhouetted against the fast-rising moon. Ethan took a moment, free from worries and the military concerns that had driven their frantic pace, to just enjoy the image. Of a tower basking in the reflected light of both celestial bodies against a backdrop of the wide silver mirror that was Promise Lake. Then the moment passed and the more practical details of the image came to the fore. This was nearly the end of the journey. That simple fact drew a ragged cheer out of Ethan.

  A cheer that was taken up, equally raggedly, from the ten men jogging behind him.

  Hell, Ethan could swear the horses neighed their relief as well! “Quickwalk – walk!” He called softly, taking a few extra steps to slow down. Refusing to further tax overtaxed muscles with sudden changes.

  And all the while, he kept his eyes roving. This was the most dangerous portion of any journey. Right before the end when dreams of a hot meal and a well-deserved rest stripped men of their caution, their watchfulness.

  Or at least stripped poorly trained men. He prided himself that his men were not that! And they did not disappoint him. A small glance back showed every head upright and on a swivel. Weapons gripped, not tightly, but with the secure confidence of men who didn’t just use them, but lived by them. And the eyes above scanning the small stretch of valley bottom and the skirt of trees that girdled the mountain’s base not a stone’s throw away. Looking ever outward, but not ignoring their mounts either.

  It wasn’t something a wise man counted on. Not exclusively. But well-trained horses could spot ambushes even skilled scouts missed. That long nose wasn’t just for show.

  Even so, the long march was nearly over and something in him rebelled at slowing down. When food and rest beckoned ahead. He could push onward. Men in the second tier didn’t suffer much from the symptoms of exhaustion. They’d recover with a bit of rest.

  But the horses were a different matter. Foam streaked their heaving necks. Ethan didn’t like pushing them this hard. They’d survive it; he wasn’t fool enough to push those limits. But even with remounts and running beside them every other hour, it had been a brutally hard march.

  Nor was he alone. Men moved back to pat their horses, whispering promises through gasping breaths of their own. Almost there. Hot mash, water and a comfortable stable. Almost. Just stretch those legs out a little first. Catch your breath. A cavalryman who didn’t treasure and protect his horse wouldn’t remain a cavalryman for long.

  But a short cooldown walk was just that and the eleven men and twenty-two horses soon drew up in front of the tower. The men, after a last pat and whispered word of thanks, handed the exhausted animals off to waiting grooms.

  But as inviting as the light spilling from the tower’s doorway was, it wasn't to be. They grabbed a hot bowl of stew and a small round of flat bread, then stepped onto the waiting boat.

  He’d have preferred a full night’s sleep and to face the Baron in the morning. A battle of wit and word wasn’t something to approach exhausted. Even so, he couldn’t afford to delay.

  If he were in the good Baron's shoes, he’d not wait. No matter what a messenger said. He’d push past the town and get a good look at the surrounding terrain, and perhaps a hint on where to look for a mountain route. With a possible demon rift as an excuse, Ethan’d not be able to object either. No. The only thing to do was get there before he could. And suffer through what was to come. He glanced back, letting his eyes land on the small box wrapped in grey fur where it sat between the rower’s benches. At least he didn’t come unarmed.

  He took a large spoonful of the meaty wild stew. Prong Horn, he judged. Filled with smashed turnips, onions, carrots and even minced turnip greens, it was a heavy, hearty meal by itself. Add the flat bread on top and it was just the fuel his body needed. And it did need it! A day spent at faster than forced march speeds. Trading off mounts at first, then running beside them until both men and horses neared their limits. Slowing for hot food and water at the Towers along the way, but barely stopping to answer nature's call or to feed the horses. And doing it hung over!

  Good training. He hid a smile. At least they’d sweated that out in the first hour or two.

  He took another large bite, alternating with a bit of dipped bread. Forcing himself to take it slowly, and giving a quick glance around to make sure the rest were doing the same. It wasn’t just horses that could founder, stuffing your face after a hard run. He needn’t have bothered. These were not green troops.

  Even so, they were done long before the boat, navigating by moonlight and the lit torches ahead, reached their destination. Enough time to wipe down the dust off each other’s armor and weapons. Removing the worst sweat, blood and grime built up over a not-uneventful trip. Ethan patted a pouch filled with six-inch mountain lion fangs. They’d make a fine trophy. Or better yet, a few arrowheads.

  Still, it wasn’t much time, and they could clean little more than the worst. Then the ten rowers on the port side were lifting the oars upright as they coasted up alongside the docks. A few tossed mooring lines and a bit of brute force from the waiting dock workers brought the boat to a stop.

  But not the men on it. Ethan leapt free even before it came to a full stop. He waved to the decade on watch duty inside a pair of small towers beside the open gate. Nodding softly to himself at the state of the shoulder-high walls attached to either side of that gate.

  More tamped earth, rather than stone he’d have preferred, but not bad for a few months of work. He jogged through the gates and down narrow streets half-filled with armsmen. And not his armsmen either. The armor was all wrong. As were the symbols of rank, he reflected, giving a courteous nod to a tough-looking figure wearing a bright green Centurion’s crista, the sideways flare of feathers or hair that let men know who to follow in a fight.

  Nor was he the only one to notice such. He could feel the decade of lancers tight on his heels, bracketing him with perfect positioning and moving in lock step. Giving every appearance of being fresh as daisies. And if there were a few splashes of blood on the armor. A few scratches and dents that spoke of heavy, violent usage? Why that was just the climate, pay it no mind.

  Right.

  The strange armsmen split apart to let them through without comment or objection. Not afraid, but giving an obvious Noble and his bucellarii the respect they were due.

  And as to why they weren’t afraid of a decade of top end tier 2s? Of power enough to put down a century of these lesser troops? Well, because there were rather more than a century of them! Quite a bit more.

  James fell into step beside him. Without additional guards, he was happy to see. Good man.

  “How many and when?” He subvocalized, letting his skill carry the message.

  “I was half expecting you by dinner My Lord. There is a thing or three-“ His eyes tracked to the Centurion Ethan had marked earlier as he continued talking, “-that needs your attention. But that will have to wait. Miro is entertaining the good Baron in the Longhouse, as was I before the scouts brought word.”

  He paused, then continuing on in the same tone and volume, one that no more than 50 nearby men could hear, “I made a point of informing Baron Clovis of your impending arrival. He is expecting you.”

  Not that he would need the warning. Not with three hundred of his men about! Between the bars, packed, and the outdoor market, without the room needed to swing a cat, it would be hard for anything to happen without the man learning of it.

  And quickly.

  And at least half of them quietly trying to suss out the burgeoning town’s secrets.

  Still, appearances were an armor of their own. Aimed at blades and arrows of a social, or moral, nature. But that didn’t make it any less necessary. Skill, skills, stats and gear might win a fight. But morale won, or lost, battles.

  And the social arena often determined when those battles would occur!

  In a voice that barely carried, James added a few more words. “The Baron had a massive bow cased on his back. That and a Spatha at his side.”

  “Ranger type you think?” Ethan asked.

  “Most likely. The knight with him is pure Principes. Get into it up close and personal with him and you will regret it.”

  Ethan nodded. He wasn’t about to fight a heavy infantry specialist on foot. Even without the rights of free passage and hospitality required by his Exterminatus call.

  Ethan filed that away. "Mood?"

  "Controlled. He's been polite to Miro and I. Very polite." The words were formal, correct. They implied something else entirely.

  "Anything else?"

  "His men are well disciplined. Not a brawl, not a broken shutter. Three hundred men in a town this size and I've had nothing to deal with but overcurious eyes."

  Just eyes. Ethan gave him a speaking glance.

  "Everywhere." James confirmed quietly. "Centurion Sigismund is holding down the reaction force while Miro and I keep the Baron entertained. She'll be glad you're here."

  The longhouse appeared at the end of the street. Low, squat and dark against the moonlit sky. It was built for cold winters and survival. With thick walls, narrow windows set high under deep eaves to let the smoke out and a roof of actual living sod. It was a practical building for the climate and made no pretensions otherwise.

  A pair of the Baron’s guards stood sentry to either side of the doorway. They stiffened slightly. At the nobles perhaps, but more likely on the ten Lancers behind them.

  Ethan caught Decurion Fenrick’s eye, then walked through the opening without slowing as two Lancers split off to join the other men. The rest followed him into the long narrow room.

  Inside, the longhouse smelled of woodsmoke, roasted meat and the particular sweat, wool and rust smell of armored men. Trestle tables filled the lower hall, sparsely seated along it were a dozen more of Baron Clovis's men. Nursing drinks with the careful restraint of soldiers under orders. They watched Ethan's party enter with professional interest that turned into something a good deal more thoughtful as the lancers filled in and joined them for a cup of wine.

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  At the high table, Miro sat across from a lean man in his middle years. His hair was greying, but you wouldn’t expect it from the rest of him. Fit, stocky even. With muscles rippling under his exposed forearms and across well-developed shoulders like aged oak roots.

  It didn’t take much to picture him with a bow in hand.

  "Baron Clovis." Ethan stopped at the prescribed distance, inclining his head to precisely the correct degree. Not a fraction more, not a fraction less. Rainer had drilled him on this until he could do it in his sleep. Then Ermina had put the polish on. "I trust my people have extended hospitality and made your stay comfortable."

  "Baronet." Clovis returned the inclination with equal precision. His voice was measured, pleasant even. "They have, and it has been comfortable enough. The young sa-Sir-“ He gestured to Miro casually, “-is quite the conversationalist. I make you known to Sir Coswald, the captain of my guard force.”

  “Sir Coswald.” Ethan repeated, giving the wizened plug of a man another, and much shallower, precise bow. More nod than bow. A fact dictated by their ranks, not by his instincts. James had not been wrong. This was a dangerous bastard. There might be thick wrinkles on his face, but they didn’t affect the ease he showed, moving beneath a suit of heavy plate and mail. Nor the way his elbow absently adjusted the hilt of a well-used gladius as the man stood to return the curtesy.

  “Baronet Ethan.” He offered with a much deeper return bow.

  “And of course you have already met my Knight James?”

  The man in question offered another bow, then following Ethan, found his seat beside his wife.

  “Of course. An interesting man. And an equally interesting town, this Promise of yours. More than it appears at first glance." The town or the man, Ethan couldn’t quite tell. But then, it didn’t really matter. Both were true.

  "Most worthwhile things are."

  Clovis smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Indeed. It is your fire, Baronet.” He raised a cup, and nodded to another already filled beside it. “And your wine. A surprisingly palatable vintage.”

  “It shouldn’t be. Surprising that is.” Ethan offered, picking it up and taking a welcome sip. “It’s from your cellar.”

  The baron smirked. He knew of course, but getting Ethan to admit it had its own benefits. The great game is played as such.

  "I had expected to find you busy. Busy and a great deal north of here." The Baron remarked. "You do appear -hmm. Well used. The rift was not what you expected then?"

  "Jealous Baron?" Ethan grinned easily. Blood and dented gear were not signs of shame. But badges of honor. And both men opposite him were warrior enough to know it. "This is not from the rift. My land is a fractus place yet. It requires a firm hand. And on a weapon more often than not."

  The Baron grunted, giving Ethan the win on that one. "Still, you finished it rather quickly." He continued. "An easy rift then?"

  "If we are talking of speed, I must congratulate you. Your honor is well kept, Baron. And your men well supplied to manage a deployment in so little time. I regret that you were troubled unnecessarily." He deflected again. Not yet.

  "Oh, I wouldn't say unnecessary. The benefits, they are already not small. And not just the opportunity to see men-" He did not say his men, Ethan noticed, "-react under pressure."

  Ethan hid a grimace. Point back to the Baron, benefits indeed!

  "Why the towers fronting the river alone are worth the trip. Such stone work! I've not seen it's like short of the mining cores in the Falxian regions."

  "Your Lordship is well-traveled." And he’d very much prefer if he’d traveled to another region. Nearly any other region.

  "A Noble must not be shortsighted. If he is to become wise, he must travel far, see much and do it in the right company."

  Ethan froze for a moment, not tracking. Only for the Baron to grin and press onward. "How is that squire of yours? Not too healthy I hope."

  Ah, Ethan hid another grimace. he should not have needed that spelled out. "A few minor wounds in the recent rift. But all in all, he accounted for himself well."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. A man must always pay for his choices."

  And they weren’t just talking about a boy doing something stupid now. "It is an honorable calling, to raise a man from a boy. Redemption of one noble of heart, is this such a bad thing? If it had been your son, I’d have done much the same Baron." Their antipathy had not been necessary.

  "A man from a boy. A nice turn of phrase, but it lacks something. Specificity. That man from that boy. But you are no boy and it was not my son. It was my enemies. And all decisions have consequences. Even when their maker lacks the sight to see them coming."

  Ethan shook his head; this was not an argument he could win. And in many ways the man was correct. It was a choice. He made it, and he didn't regret it. But it came with consequences. Good and bad. He could not take the one and forgo the other.

  "Then so be it. The choice was long since made. Neither rehashing nor regret have much meaning now."

  The Baron raised his cup with a small, sharp smile. "This, this I will drink to. To consequences."

  Ethan stared for a moment, then with a short, ugly laugh, raised his cup, not just to the baron but to the room. "To consequences!" He repeated with the room echoing him, then tossed back a large swallow.

  Careful there. Exhaustion and wine were cumulative.

  “And speaking of consequences, you seem underworried for a demon rift. You have rather adroitly dodged the question several times now. Was the call to Exterminatus perhaps a trifle hasty?”

  “Hardly.” Ethan offered easily, "I was quite clear in the missive I sent about what I knew and didn’t know at the time. It was potentially Demonic. The similarities were considerable and it’s not the sort of thing you can afford to underestimate. I felt honor-bound to call it as such. And would do so again, considering what I knew at the time. Even if it results in this meeting. Though believe me, I'd much prefer your lordship some miles east of here."

  "What, no protestations of welcome and hospitality?"

  "My fire is yours, Baron. Your honor and mine require that. But I'll not trouble myself to lie. Neither of us are fools. We share wine today, but it may be blood we share soon. Will it not?"

  The Baron gives him a long, considering look. "You are not wrong, Baronet. You present unanswered questions. Too many of them. I’ll not leave such unexamined. It’s just not wise. You might consider that. Mystery does not make a good neighbor."

  Ethan crooked an eyebrow. "Mystery is it? Merchants and traders need only know the roads and the threats to them. The general shape of the lands and their inhabitants. It’s only for raiding or war that you need the details. No Baron, it’s not openness that makes good neighbors. It’s high walls and the men to man them."

  The Baron grinned. "I'll not deny both are a good place to start. But I stand by my statements. A man who plots and schemes, who hides as much as he shows. This is not a man to trust. Nor a man to give time to scheme further. Better to meet on the battlefield early and know him for who he truly is."

  "The truth of the battlefield? I'll not gainsay you there, Baron. In fact, I do believe that is a better explanation then I had."

  "For?"

  "The rift. Appearances can be deceiving. Especially with this rift. But shed enough blood..." Ethan trailed off meaningfully, even as he waved a hand. A lancer walked up, carefully watched by a dozen of the Baron's men at the table, with the fur-wrapped box. He placed it down in front of the Baron, the attached, preserved wolf head facing him.

  Ethan waved again. This time an invitation to the baron. He gave Ethan a considering look, then pulled loose the looped twine knots. Pausing briefly to run his finger through the luxurious tier 2 wolf hide, before unwrapping it to reveal the thin wooden box within.

  A box etched with slightly glowing arcane inscriptions and a single minor beast core embedded in its close fit lid.

  He stared at it, envy visible for the briefest of moments; it wasn't every baron who could call on a Magister's services, much less have one in the family. Then pulled the lid from the box.

  He looked in, his face carefully blank for several seconds, then he reached in and lifted the severed head of a Rakshasa spawn free. Carefully studying the ugly, horned and fanged head. Unflinching before the still present oily blood and sewer-like smell. He handed the head to Sir Coswald and reached into the box again, pulling several sheets of vellum from a partition along one side, mercifully free from the black, oily blood.

  The first depicted several variants of Rakshasa spawns. Multiple arms, scales, chitin, fur, the chaotic mess that each of the little bastards were.

  He shuffled the thick slab of scraped hide to the back and stared at the Rakshasa itself. Chaotic still, with its six arms and snake tail. But not a mess. A designed product. Proportionate and deadly.

  "The rift boss?" He asked.

  "Yes. The Rakshasa, while the rest-" He pointed to the head. "-inspected as Rakshasa Spawn."

  "How did it fight? Harder or easier than a greater demon?"

  Ethan considered the man for a moment. That would be revealing. Deeply so. But then again. While complete openness was for fools, a bit of knowledge could inspire healthy caution. So be it.

  "Different. The rift itself was easier. Swarmers like the demonics and in truly disgusting quantities. But they broke easily and attacked foolishly. You could lead them about by the nose like a matador. Wave a bit of red cloth and lead them to the slaughter. "

  "The Rakshasa boss. That was something else. Worse than a greater demon. Potentially at least." The Baron raised an eyebrow. His doubt visible, but unstated.

  "Not because it was bigger or tougher. It was neither." The baron nodded, leaning forward as he listened. "It was tricky. An illusionist. It was never where it appeared to be. Never what it appeared to be. At one point, it turned into one of my Lancers. It might have fooled his own mother. You tell me, Baron, how dangerous that might be inside a formation."

  The Baron grimaced and made a gesture to concede the point. Ethan nodded and continued.

  "And despite that, it was merely annoying. With appropriate tactics, we handled both with minimal casualties. For the spawn, bait and shock tactics. Sucker them out with noise, then smash them with cavalry charges and massed archery. For the boss? We hedged it in with Sarrisas, long spears, then collapsed the hedge. Didn't matter where it appeared to be, when spears pierced through everywhere it could be."

  "What worries me is the thought of the two together. A bit of leadership would go a long way. Like greater demons driving the lesser. Though it pains me to describe whip work as leadership. Quantity is only a quality of its own when it’s used well."

  The baron took a moment and a sip at his wine, while he considered.

  Ethan fought himself not to do the same. The wine sounded so very nice. A bed would be better. But if he drank much more, as tired as he was, they’d have to pour him into that bed.

  "Better and worse. Unpleasant at best, but what is the truth you found?" The baron’s words jerked Ethan from his thoughts.

  "No portal appeared with the rift core.” Ethan stated firmly. “It was not an invasion. Just a standalone rift."

  Just. He wasn’t about to admit to what he was beginning to suspect. That it wasn’t a standalone rift either, but a regional type. For someone who'd traveled to the Falxian domain and their Fortress core, that would be telling. And while he did not envy them their minotaur rifts, they might say the same about him and the Rakshasa someday.

  "That is the truth. But I don’t regret the call. And while I won't make it again, I fully intend to stomp every 'Malefic' rift from existence. With the highest tier troops I have available. No holding off to train recruits, no farming for resources. Extermination if not Exterminatus."

  "Harsh." He mused, searching Ethan’s face closely. Then, apparently finding what he was looking for gave a single firm nod. "But not one I can find fault with. I'd just as soon these," he paused and rolled the unfamiliar term around in his mouth, "these Rakshasa never escape their rift."

  Ethan heartily agreed. One slipping in and cutting throats while they slept was a private nightmare. And one he'd set Blake to solve. A targeted ward, keyed to the severed head of the boss, should make the Stone safe.

  He hoped.

  "A detailed response." the Baron continued. "Far more so than I expected. And after all that about openness. Why?"

  Ethan considered the man, trying not to let the growing haze of exhaustion mangle his thoughts or voice. "You dropped everything and came. Baron Clovis. Enemies or not, you came. That deserves a response. Honor deserves an honorable response. I want you to remember this moment. We will have wars between us. But we will have peace as well. I'd just as soon the two remained separate and distinct."

  Ethan waited a half beat, then shrugged. "Besides. It's information freely offered. Believe it and react as I expect, or don't and waste the opportunity. I don't mind either way."

  The baron stared at him. Shock barely hidden. Ethan grinned. "How effective is my 'scheming' now?"

  "Honesty as a weapon.” He spoke, the words a revelation rather than question or statement. He stared a moment, then shook his head. “Your wife will hate you.” Ethan hid a wince. That, well he’d leave that one alone. “Do you think it makes you any less dangerous?"

  "Less dangerous? Why would I want that? I am a dangerous man, Baron. I own it proudly. But also a trustworthy one. Promises or threats."

  The Baron laughed.

  Leaned back in his chair and guffawed with abandon. "Ah, Baronet. I almost like you. Almost."

  Clovis looked at him for a long moment. The fire crackled, filling the silence comfortably. To comfortably. "You're tired." The Baron said abruptly.

  "Exhausted." Ethan agreed.

  The corner of Clovis's mouth moved. Not quite a smile. But something. "Then we'll continue this another time, Baronet."

  He rose, and the room rose with him. "My men will be moving downstream by dawn."

  "Safe roads, Baron." And good riddance.

  "High walls, Baronet." He was out the door before Ethan realized the man had gotten the last word.

  And he was too tired to care.

  ___