Author's note: This book picks up the events from my previous work called Legacy of Darkness. If you are not familiar with it, you may check it out, although the story is solid enough to act as a stand alone novel. I will also split some chapters into two parts, like I did with this one. The reason is simple: I want to make it easy on the reader and also update faster. Enjoy, and please tell me what you think about it :)

The door whined when Nasuada pushed it open, a jarring creak that brought a frown upon her face every time she visited the council chamber . "We'll discuss supplies and sheltering," she said. The other four abandoned their maps, papers and quills, but none broke the silence. Nasuada took her seat at the round table and glanced at each of them. Jormundur, ever frowning, as if the words upon his tongue had a constant bitter taste. Falberd, who only looked at her with the corner of one eye while his hands caressed the bitch lying under his seat. Orik, the dwarf king—or the dwarf who used to be king. She knew not who he was anymore, or where his allegiance stood: to her, or to his people. Sabrae, the last of them—and the most despicable—lounged in her chair, trapped in a state between slumber and alertness, her emerald eyes half closed.

None greeted her, and none acknowledged her topic more than they acknowledged her. Lassitude and cowardice. That's what defined them. But the people asked for a council, and Nasuada had to respect their wish. So she repeated in a more commanding voice, "Supplies and sheltering. Jormundur."

His cerulean eyes regarded her warily. "Could use more of both, my lady. Cold winds are rising, and less bread is baked with each passing day. Most of the winter shipments arrived not half a moon cycle ago, and a quarter is already gone. More and more homeless hug the walls of a house in search of a warm spot or a stretch of roof." He lowered his gaze and sighed. "Feinster can't house both army, commoners and peasants."

"That's three categories of people," Sabrae cut in. She had a knack to correct bad language, bad manners, and annoy everyone in the process. "There's only room for two in your sentence. Same goes for Feinster."

"We discuss supplies and sheltering," Nasuada emphasized with an increased tone. "Not who to send away to the villages to die of the issue at hand. And if the cold, malnourishment and lack of shelter doesn't get them, the Empire bandits will."

Falberd coughed. "And what is there to discuss, pray tell? Numbers on a piece of paper? We'll go through them until the sun sets, and by the time it does, urchins will still prey on the old with hunger to make them bold."

"Laryth the Rebel," Sabrae said. "He said that one, didn't he? When he conquered some nameless city in Surda. There's a piece of wisdom for you, Nasuada. Hungry men are dangerous."

"Quotes, books, japes." Nasuada twined her fingers and rested her chin on the bridge of her hands. "Do you have something solid for me, apart from the words of a dead man?"

"The dead left us this inheritance. Ignore it if you will, but it made kings fall or kneel," Falberd said. The bitch underneath the table barked twice in approval.

Jormundur got up. With his muscular built and height, he towered above them all like a tired sentry. "My lady, Sabrae and Falberd, while blunt and inconsiderate towards our people, do have a point. The villages we left behind are the homes of many. Giving them leave to go back to their wives and fields is a blessing."

"A curse in disguise, you mean. Marauders will be upon them before our stretched forces get to act."

An eerie silence spread across the room. Not even the bitch dared disturb it with one of her usual whines. Hard times for the people meant hard times for the commanders. Nasuada knew it. She had witnessed firsthand just how ephemeral power is when the people learn that a leader is but one person. How's a pebble supposed to stop a crashing wave?

Motes of dust floated lazily in the beams of light that streamed from two side windows. The day was warm, unusually so for late autumn. The heat brought out a musty stench from the layers of paper, leather and ink stained parchments.

"What about mine people?" The hard, guttural words belonged to Orik. "The Varden welcomed us alright when they had need of our steel." Two thick fingers moved through his neatly curved mustache slowly while his hard stare fixed upon Nasuada.

"We still welcome you, no matter the hard times we face."

"Does Varden hospitality extend towards mouths, or it's just meant for the weapons we carry? Steel don't require much attention and it be far more valuable during those…" he frowned, as if the word he wanted to say vanished from his lips. "Hard times, as you put it." He nodded twice to get his point across.

Nasuada walked on rotten ice. A bad word could send five legions of well armed, well trained dwarves back to the rock they used to call home. Murdi the Usurper stripped it from them, just as Orik's men stripped the Varden of valuable resources.

"The Varden looks after its people, be it men, dwarves, or elves."

"She means to say that nothing is certain," Sabrae said. "Hard times often see allies turn on each other."

"Sabrae—"

"If we do not act now," Sabrae interrupted.

Nasuada eased back into her chair, her grip on the armrests lessening. Jormundur reached forward to grab one of the maps.

"The fishing villages along the Leona river. Their nets are close to full during this time of the year. Look here." His finger traced a path. Nasuada craned her neck to make out its meaning, but the light fell on the wrong portion of the map. She merely nodded to encourage Jormundur to continue. "The coastal villages. Brun had not yet sent its caravan. The others too. The saltwater fish seeks the warm waters close to the shore for a good moon cycle."

"Winter not last a moon cycle only," Orik said.

"It does not," Nasuada said. She leaned back on her chair and studied her councilors. Grim, as always. Only Jormundur stretched his meaty lips in a forced smile.

"Soldiers focus on today's hardships. They do not worry about what tomorrow will bring. It may be a sword in the belly or a cold night in a tent," he said.

Nasuada nodded. "A moment of respite is what we need. Is what the people need. Falberd and Sabrae, go through those maps and mark each village that sent its caravan. Charcoal for them, and wax drops for the ones that can house some of our people. We'll know the ones who do not make their contribution to our cause."

Sabrae rolled her eyes and reached towards the maps, but Nasuada raised her hand to stop her. "Not now. Food will keep the army content for a month, but no more. When the snows come and hunger gets the best of them, any man with a sword will put it to good use." She swallowed what little moisture dwelled in her parched mouth. "We have to keep moving."

Every councilor voiced their protest at the same time in a cacophony of words and barks, but Jormundur's deep voice muffled them. "She is right! Soldiers only have a purpose on the move. Keep them in Feinster, and they'll soon replace it with another, more sinister one."

"Is folly to consider such when you ate at lunch so much," Falberd said while he soothed the dog with slow, gentle strokes.

"Snow is deep and dwarves have short legs. That why we never march during the Frost Months."

"I take no part in your madness," Sabrae said after Orik. "Give me my maps and ignore me for the rest of the meeting."

Nasuada shifted her seat away from the sunlight. Frost months came, yet she seethed inside her dress. Beads of sweat formed on her brow as tension mixed with heat. A breath of fresh air would have calmed her turmoil, yet the windows were stuck, and the room was small. She had to get out.

"We'll discuss it on the morrow then. Anything else?"

"The surdans," Orik said.

"We can barely house our own, yet—"

"A delicate topic needs a more favorable context," Jormundur said as he rose. "My generals need me."

He walked towards the door and opened it. Several boys awaited outside, but only one rushed in.

"Pardon my interruption, but the Surdan ambassador requires my lady's presence." His voice was thin, much like his constitution. Nasuada wondered if there was any meat under the rags he wore.

"I'll come." She turned towards Sabrae and Falberd. "I want the maps done before the sunlight dims." Sabrae yawned and Falberd stroke his dog's chin, a pensive look on his face. "Council disbanded," she said, just to make sure they heard.

A gust of wind brought much needed relief to Nasuada once they left the council chamber. On the outside, it looked like a peasant's cottage. Nothing conspicuous about it.

She inhaled the sharp air and eyed the boy. "Lead me there."

The boy gulped, extending a frail hand. Nasuada shook her head and motioned him to move forward.

"Tell me more about Lazlo."

"Well," the boy began, "Lazlo is quite a figure among his own kin, if you know what I mean." Nasuada didn't, but she still nodded. Boys had the habit of turning into mutes if she didn't play their games.

"His army is made up of all sorts of warriors: pirates, soldiers, alchemists." His voice softened suddenly. "Which are some sort of mages."

"Pirates?"

The boy giggled at Nasuada's question. "That's what I said a moment ago. Pirates, thieves and other wretches are trained and recruited into their army. They're a funny people."

Once the cobblestone main road gave way to a meandering path, Nasuada's steps slowed down to a shuffle. Mud clung to her hard leather boots, and she had to accept the boy's hand to keep her balance. His bare feet had no trouble adjusting to the soaked alley.

"Surdans also have an art called fermentation. The Surdan ambassador said so. It's complicated, so that's all I know."

Nasuada found it difficult to focus on the boy's words as they sloughed through the mud. Few soldiers visited these parts of Feinster, but the ones who passed by saluted her in the Varden fashion. Even the urchins stopped their play to point and smile at her.

"Those houses." Nasuada pointed at several dilapidated structures. Some had a patched roof, while others had no roof at all. "Do people live in them?"

The boy nodded in his curt way. "Ya, and we call this area The Mud. It's better than the outskirts. Some people sleep next to the wall, I heard, and use tree branches to keep themselves warm."

By the time they left The Mud, the lower parts of Nasuada's dress turned brown. The soaked silk clung to her shins, and each time it did, Nasuada winced from its freezing touch.

"All of Feinster is The Mud after past day's rain." The boy looked at Nasuada and smiled. He was such a young and frail thing, yet he paid no attention to the mud and the cold. Where Nasuada saw suffering, his big, brown eyes noticed an alternative.

"We're almost there."

Nasuada followed the boy through a narrow corridor created by two squat houses. There was no mud here. Only foul smelling trash.

Something whined.

Nasuada's heart pounded in her chest as she caught a glimpse of movement with the corner of her eyes. The piles of junk moved!

"Homeless," the boy said. "They're just stretching their aching limbs."

How can they live like this? Nasuada wanted to ask, but thought better of it. The Council found no homes for them, so they sent them here. Her decisions tossed these poor wretches on the streets.

"Lady." A gnarled hand tugged at her dress. "Lady, lady, lady."

Nasuada jerked free from his frail grip and hastened her pace. She dared not glimpse at the man whose haunting mantra followed her until a stream of light enveloped her.

"You're shaking."

She was, but she did not notice it until the boy took her hand. Why was she shaking?

"It's cold," Nasuada said. She quickly retracted her hand and motioned for the boy to lead. She found it impossible to hold his gaze. His brown eyes, wide with worry, made her feel even worse.

"Lucky this path is always sunny," the boy said as he dashed across the slick cobblestone road "The Surdan's that way! Was an honor Lady!"

A merchant whistled at him as he drove his wagon past Nasuada. His guards reached for their cudgels, but they dismissed the thought. The boy had the agility of a cat and similar stealth skills. One moment, he stood next to Nasuada to comfort her, and disappeared on a dark alley the other.

It was indeed fortunate that nobody stopped to greet her. Nasuada could barely salvage enough moisture to dry her parched throat. Pleasantries were the last thing she needed. At least her trip through the muddy alley served a purpose. Dirt had a way of turning leaders into common folk.