After a few days on the march, Aeolwyn’s army came upon a small village. According to the new imprisoned Captain Flosin, it was named Branford. It had apparently once been a thriving city, until the Bran River dried up after farmers diverted it to their crops further upstream.

  There was still a small creek that provided the village with its water, but the heyday of Branford was long gone. Abandoned houses littered the landscape. Many were in various states of decay, some only showing a little wear, while others being only wooden skeletons collapsing in on themselves.

  Aeolwyn called the army to a halt about a mile from the village. It wasn’t the first they’d seen, but it was the first that was along the road they were marching. The village sat in a small bowl surrounded by farmlands. It was a good place to stage an ambush—if the attacker didn’t care about the lives of the villagers.

  He wasn’t willing to needlessly risk their lives, so he wanted his scouts to explore the area first and get the lay of the land. Meanwhile, he was planning to head into the village and see if they could acquire some provisions for the army. The village wouldn’t have much, but being surrounded by large farms made him hopeful that they would have an excess amount of food they’d be willing to part with.

  Count Wollams, of course disagreed with just about every part of the plan. He wanted to go in, raze the town, and take what they wanted. It was war, after all. Any one of the villagers could be a spy or an enemy combatant, and he was unwilling to take the risk.

  He also wanted to be the one who explored the town, again saying that Aeolwyn’s status as general made the proposition of sending him too dangerous. With the count’s attitude towards the townsfolk, Aeolwyn prohibited it. He wasn’t willing to risk the lives of innocent citizens, whether they were his countrymen or not.

  Instead, he put Wollams in charge of setting up the camp with strict instructions not to provoke an attack unless they were attacked first. Wollams assured Aeolwyn that he would obey the orders and see that they were done promptly.

  He brought Reiva, Egne, and Galafar with him to the town. Strangely, Jor Bashi decided to accompany them as well. The mage planned to follow them as far as a village he called Riverfork, where the road to Fenn Castle met with the road to Shatham. From there, he would head to Shatham where he would take a boat to Gavinholm Isle.

  Aeolwyn agreed. He liked having his father’s mage around.

  Captain Flosin had provided very little information. He was a commander of a lowly outpost on the fringes of the nation, so wasn’t considered important enough to be trusted with valuable intelligence.

  He told Aeolwyn that General Fisborne, the commander that was in charge of the Western Reaches, had been recalled after their disastrous loss at the battle of Lannic Outpost and imprisoned. He didn’t know anything of the general’s fate beyond that.

  His army too had been repositioned. While they hadn’t been recalled all the way to Fenn Castle, they had been pulled back from the border and were somewhere further ahead. Flosin said he didn’t know their exact position, but Aeolwyn thought he was lying. The man was still a loyal Fenn and Aeolwyn could respect that. But he would be sending scouts deeper once they left this village behind them.

  Flosin also claimed he hadn’t known anything about the plan to occupy Fort Camulan. He actually got quite angry, shouting, “No one tells me anything!” Aeolwyn found that hard to believe. As the closest outpost to Fort Camulan, that was where the feinting army would have spent the night before the attack.

  Wollams believed the man was lying and demanded that he be put to the question. Aeolwyn had resisted so far, but the deeper into Fennland they got, the more he was realizing that he couldn’t show such kindness to his enemy. Not at the cost of his own soldiers’ lives.

  “Do you think I am too kind?” Aeolwyn asked. “To Flosin, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Galafar said without hesitation. “He’s obviously lying.”

  “He needs to be put to the question and then killed,” Reiva said. “The man is a monster.”

  That was the second time Reiva had said such a thing about the captain. She wouldn’t elaborate why she felt that way, no matter how hard Aeolwyn pressed her. He could order her to tell him, but he felt like that was an abuse of her oath.

  “Jor Bashi, is there a way to get the truth out of someone without putting them to the question?”

  The old mage shook his head. “If you’re asking if you can magically force a man to reveal something he’s keeping hidden without injury, then the answer is no.” He paused for a moment and then frowned. “If you’re asking if there’s a way to compel a man to tell the truth, well…it’s not a magic I would use. There are consequences for delving in magic’s darker aspects.”

  “Just get him drunk and act like his friend,” Egne said.

  “Beg alms, sir?” a street beggar said. It was the third beggar they’d encountered so far. This one was much younger than the other two. His matted dark brown hair clung to his head, and dirt stained his face. One arm hung limply at his side, and his clothes hung from him in tatters. They were several sizes too large for the small frame that was underneath.

  Aeolwyn stopped and reached into his purse. Why did the king allow these people to suffer? This was a major thoroughfare through the kingdom that messengers and the army frequently traveled. There was no reason for it but cruelty. This young boy would be dead before the end of winter.

  He reached down to the boy’s outstretched hand and stopped cold when the boy looked up to him, with those high cheekbones and narrow chin. For a moment he felt a flush of anger. Ulfnar was still missing, and no one could find him. His father was dead, and Alfyn was the one who poisoned him.

  “Aeolwyn,” Galafar said softly.

  Reiva came to stand beside him, knelt down and took the boy by the chin. She looked deep into his face, turning it left and right, and up and down. The boy made no effort to resist. He just watched her while still keeping his hand out for Aeolwyn’s gold.

  “It’s uncanny,” Egne said.

  “How old are you, boy?” Jor Bashi asked.

  “Fift’en,” the urchin replied.

  Aeolwyn didn’t understand. They all seemed to see something in this street urchin that he didn’t. He was starting to feel left out. “What? What’s going on?”

  “Give this boy some nicer clothes and dye his hair, and he could be your twin,” Jor Bashi said. “A useful thing to have.”

  Aeolwyn stared at him. He did resemble his brother Ulfnar slightly, but not him. He was too thin, his nose was too wide, and he looked much too old. How could the others see that?

  “What’s your name?” Reiva asked.

  “Trint,” he said. “Am I handed your gold, or what?”

  “Where are your parents? Your family?” Aeolwyn asked. If they were right, and this boy did resemble him as much as they claimed, useful would be an understatement. His mind was already thinking of a dozen different scenarios where he could use him to fool others.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “All dead, sir. Starv’d after Moot Hivans took their shop. ‘Rest died of the sickness.”

  “Sickness? What sickness?” Jor Bashi asked, suddenly alarmed. He was well to be concerned. Sickness killed more soldiers than the enemy did.

  “Dunno, sir. Years ago, t’was.”

  Jor Bashi visibly relaxed at that comment. If the sickness was years ago, the chances of the soldiers getting infected was small. Still, perhaps they should go back to the camp, stay the night, and move on.

  Jor Bashi suddenly glowed slightly as he stared into the boy’s face. A slight blue light washed over the urchin’s entire body. “Ah. You have the residue of field pox.” He turned to Aeolwyn. “Highness, it would be safer to give this town a wide berth.”

  “What about him?” Aeolwyn asked. “Is he contagious?”

  “No. There is no doubt he had the pox but survived it. There’s no change of him infecting anyone.”

  That was good news. It would be an awful defeat if his army was devastated by disease even before he reached the Fennish capital. It wouldn’t be unheard of though. The sagas were littered with stories of ambitious men’s plans being thwarted by disease.

  “Let’s head back. We’ll follow your advice, Jor Bashi,” Aeolwyn said. He turned back to the street urchin. “Master Trint, would you like to come with us? I can’t promise you comfort, but I can promise you food, clothing, and purpose.”

  “I’d be likin’ that, sir,” he said. “My pa said this winter was going to be harsh, and without somewhere warm to sleep, I ‘afeared that I would be dead before spring come.”

  “Then come, Master Trint,” Aeolwyn said.

  Reiva helped the boy to his feet as they headed back to the camp. He told them all sorts of stories about the place. The field pox had run its course three seasons ago, killing most of the residents, except for the wealthy Moot Hivans, who owned most of the shops in town.

  A moot was the title they gave to the man in charge of the town and was functionally equivalent to what most towns called a mayor. Trint had nothing good to say about Hivans, and Aeolwyn was tempted to go back, find this moot and burn him alive.

  He didn’t though. Instead, he gave strict orders at camp that anyone who snuck out to try and visit it would not be allowed back. They couldn’t take the risk of field pox infecting the rest of the army.

  When things had quieted down, and Aeolwyn had settled into his tent for the night, Jor Bashi came to him, unannounced. He was happy to see the old wizard.

  “Can I offer you some wine, jor?” Aeolwyn asked. He hoped he was using the mage’s honorific correctly, but if he was wrong, Bashi didn’t correct him.

  “No thank you, Your Highness,” he said as they sat at the small table. Aeolwyn’s tent was the largest in the camp. It was the benefits of rank. Not only that, but the men of his personal guard often fought over who had the privilege to set it up. He disliked the pretense but made no effort to stop it.

  The tent was large enough for a comfortable bed and a small table. For a while Reiva was making every effort to sleep on the floor inside his tent, but his mother put a stop to it. It was unseemly, she said, for a woman to be spending every night in the prince’s tent, even if she was a bodyguard.

  Instead, Reiva had a tent of her own set up nearly on top of his, where she kept a close eye on who came and went, and was within close earshot if Aeolwyn were in trouble.

  “I wanted to commend you on the mercy you showed that boy, today.”

  “How is he settling in?” Aeolwyn asked.

  Bashi smiled, “Well from what I can tell. He gorged himself at dinner, vomited three times, and kept eating. I urged him to slow down, but he wouldn’t be dissuaded.”

  “Do you think I’m too merciful?” Aeolwyn poured a cup of wine. He tried to avoid the stuff when he could but allowed himself a cup before bed every night.

  “Perhaps, but I am not a soldier,” Bashi said. “Mercy is an important trait, highness. Hold onto it as long as you can.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have seen many men get corrupted by the hard choices they had to make. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”

  Aeolwyn shook his head. He wouldn’t allow that. His father had been merciful, and the populace had loved him for it. Alfyn was just the opposite. He would rather be like his father than like his brother.

  “I have a gift for you, if you will allow it. A thanks for the privilege of escorting me to Gavinholm Isle.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Aeolwyn said.

  “Please, Your Highness.” Bashi held out his hand. “May I see your sword?”

  Aeolwyn saw no harm in it. He had grown up with the mage and had no reason to question whether the mage would use Woebringer to run Aeolwyn through. He unsheathed it and handed it over, hilt first.

  “A marvelous weapon,” he said. “Does it have a name?”

  “Woebringer,” Aeolwyn said.

  “A fine name for a prince’s weapon,” Jor Bashi said, though Aeolwyn wasn’t sure if he actually approved. It was too late now. That was the weapon’s name, and he wouldn’t change it.

  Bashi set the sword down on the small table and raised his arms. A bright orange glow enveloped him, slowly increasing with intensity. The glow oscillated up and down his body before being focused on his hands as the brightness increased. Aeolwyn had to shield his eyes from it.

  The glow left the mage’s hands and flowed into the weapon, causing it to glow with that same orange brightness. For a moment, Aeolwyn thought the weapon was going to melt from the power of the magic, but it held firm.

  Slowly the glow faded, leaving only a small hint around the sword.

  “What have you done?” Aeolwyn wasn’t sure what to make of Jor Bashi’s so called gift.

  “I have enchanted Woebringer,” the mage said, handing the weapon back to him. “May it ever make you victorious in battle.”

  The weapon felt lighter and stronger. It seemed to jump ahead as Aeolwyn swung it. He couldn’t tell exactly what sort of enchantment Bashi had put on it but could feel its power.

  “Thank you, Jor Bashi,” he said.

  The mage nodded and stood. He bowed to Aeolwyn before leaving the tent.

  ***

  When Sir Jom reached Fort Camulan, the gates were closed to him. Both to the fort itself and the city that surrounded it. They refused to allow him entry, even when he identified himself as Sir Jom. One of the gate guards actually threatened to run him through if he didn’t leave. It made absolutely no sense. Aeolwyn had offered him a job. Why would the prince refuse him entry?

  He wandered around the outside of the town walls for a while, trying to find a gate that would let him in, but was denied at all of them. All they could say was that Commander Flint had given strict instructions that no one from the king’s household was allowed to enter on pain of death.

  Commander Flint had been one of General Alaric’s men. According to the reports Aeolwyn had sent after the battle of Lannic Outpost, he had been killed. If he were dead, how could he be the one giving the orders?

  Something strange was going on, and Sir Jom hadn’t understood. He decided to make his way back a mile or so where he could spend the night before deciding what to do. While scouting for a good campsite along the Camulan Road, he found a spot where a large army had recently camped. It had to have been Aeolwyn’s men. Only their tracks didn’t lead east towards Fort Camulan. They led north.

  Whatever had happened, Aeolwyn hadn’t returned to Fort Camulan. So, Sir Jom followed the trail. He would find Aeolwyn and get to the bottom of this.

  ***

  Drahius was very pleased with the treaty that Lord Avaris had drawn up and Traxxus had signed. It had a subtle provision for the Fenns to back out of supporting the elves if they were attacked but compelled them to help the Fenns in a similar situation. It was really the best of both words. The only compromise was that he would have to pay the elves a sum of ten thousand gold a year for the life of the treaty. It was really a pittance, considering the security he received.

  His door burst open, and Lord Avaris ran in. Drahius was in his bath! Avaris should have known better than to interrupt him. He was going to have the man whipped for this!

  “My Lord King!” Avaris shouted as soon as he entered.

  “What are you doing in here?” Drahius demanded.

  Avaris ignored the question. “Your Grace…” Avaris paused as he realized the king was naked. His face reddened, but he made no attempt to look away. If anything, he peered into the water to get a better view.

  “Lord King,” he picked up again. “Tinar Outpost has been attacked! All the men have been killed!”

  “What?” That was the outpost that had contained General Fisborne’s supposed stolen letter. The one that he said gave him permission to attack the Camulani outpost and tale Fort Camulan.

  “Who would dare?”

  “The messengers reported that an army has been seen traveling down the King’s Road heading straight for Fenn Castle. With their new weapon, who else would it be but a Camulani army?”

  “Send an army!” Drahius shouted. “Raise the fyrd!”

  “General Fliree has already moved to intercept them, sir.”

  Drahius thanked Laryn’s fortune that they had signed the treaty with the elves. If they hadn’t, it could spell doom for him. If an attacking army were to take Fenn Castle and killed him, then by tradition, they were to offer the crown to the conquerors.

  Of course, the conqueror wouldn’t take it. They were to hand it to the next highest-ranking member of the royalty. In this case, his son Fillem. But would the Camulani respect the tradition that had held for a thousand years?

  “I still want you to raise the fyrd,” he said. “I don’t care if winter is coming. I need soldiers to defend the capital. And send a message to Ambassador Traxxus. It looks like we’re going to need their help sooner than we all anticipated.”

  “As you command, Your Highness.”

  Avaris took one last look before leaving the room. Drahius got out of the bath, his mood spoiled. He unconsciously rubbed his neck. King Alfyn wouldn’t take his throne, would he? Of course not. It was Alfyn’s ancestors who had started the tradition in the first place. His family’s hold on his kingdom was secure.