Chapter 13

Hour of Knives

The drizzling rain did nothing to improve Lord Odney's temper, and the cravenly approach upon which Lord Saentz was insisting was already fraying at the edges of his equanimity. He squinted through the poor visibility, his temper steadily rising. The damp chill of the fog was settling into his bones, his cloak, and, more importantly, his horse. The skittish beast pawed at the ground, unsettled.

Lord Odney finally cleared his throat. "The Gransi doubtless will be even more disadvantaged by this fog, ensconced in the trees as they are…"

Lord Saentz glanced at him, his sad face disinterested. "Patience will serve you well, my lord. I understand that waiting is difficult for a man's first battle, but the Lord Regent means us to crush Lord Bowie." He shook his head, and the half-light of the grey sky played in eerie patterns across the dead birthmark disfiguring his throat and face. "We must make a cautious approach and keep our foe penned in…"

"Lest we lose the advantage and the inclement conditions be turned against us," Lord Odney finished in a bored tone. Lord Saentz might think that he was ignorant of the ways of war, but Lord Odney was far from uneducated. "What glory is there in being discovered whilst this pause makes us vulnerable?"

"You overstate the danger, my lord." Lord Saentz turned his attention away, a clear dismissal.

Odney fumed. His hand tightened on the reins for a moment, and his horse shied nervously. Colder now, he slid his hand down to his belt, touching his knife hilt, feeling the smoothness of oiled steel. "If we have the location…" He could hear his words. They sounded wounded, churlish. An angry flush rose through his face.

"My lord," Lord Saentz murmured in a completely distracted voice, "shut up."

Odney's gauntleted fist clenched and unclenched as the blood thundered through his head. I should kill him for that. But he wouldn't. Lord Odney was many things, he supposed, but a traitor was not one of them. No indeed; hadn't he repudiated Lord Paul Chelsted in entirety? Hadn't he volunteered for this most crucial of the Lord Regent's battles? Hadn't he proven himself?

He clenched his fist again. Proven. That was bloody curse of a man. The unceasing process of measure. Lord Odney had volunteered for this mission, and Lord Kronos had given his leave, less in any belief that Odney was necessary to the war effort than out of the courtesy that a liege may grant his supporters. All because Odney did not have a proven record on the field of battle. And now Lord Saentz seemed determined to keep him from building a reputation.

"My lord," said Odney, controlling his irritation with only the greatest self-restraint, "if we are to linger here in uncertainty, at the least grant me leave to take a small party ahead, to probe better information on our own standing here."

"No." Lord Saentz abruptly turned about to face him again, and Odney only barely restrained an oath. The gods alone knew that it was trial enough having to look at Saentz's marked face let alone subordinating oneself to his orders. But, Odney reflected in disgust, he is proven and in more than one battle. Faugh.

"We shall not, I think, be here much longer," Saentz said in a tone that might have been meant to be kindly, but sounded merely patronizing. "I have not forgotten my pledge that you shall join me in the center, Lord Odney. The fighting will be heaviest." He arched an eyebrow; his lips twitching as though thinking better of a smile that he very nearly let lose anyway.

"I… have not forgotten," Odney stammered in a rush. "Yet I…"

"Are you scorning this honor, Lord Odney?"

He sat there as his horse pawed at the ground, lost for a graceful exit. "If, Lord Saentz, then certainly," he finally said. His words were slow again. Wounded. Saentz's lips twitched upwards again, but he turned away, apparently satisfied that the matter was concluded.

He searched for something to say, and found nothing. Being permitted a minor command of sorts in the center of this most important battle was prestigious. But it was little good with Lord Saentz's approach. All that heard of the battle would know what had won it, and the name Odney would not be on their lips. It almost made him angry enough to forego good sense and kill his disfigured compatriot. Almost, but not quite.

There is still Granseal itself to consider as well. Should I conduct myself well enough here, Lord Kronos perforce must offer me a true command come that battle, should I ask it. Lord Saentz is not like to stand in the way of that, not when expectations of me are all so cursedly low. It was a point worth considering. But Odney would be happier when his blade was graced with the blood of Bowie. Nothing less would suffice.

There was the crunching sound of heavily booted feet running through the undergrowth. Saentz murmured, "Mayhaps we have already secured the perimeters enough to grant your wish, Lord Odney."

"Already," Odney started to ask, sharp with concern over so fraught a word. The question was too late by far. There was a sharp, thrumming sound and a war bolt burst free of the foliage.

He heard, dully, a roaring in his ears and an agony of burning. It took him a moment to fully recognize the bolt protruding from his left shoulder. His horse reared, and Odney, cursing cogently now, realized that he had nearly lost his seat. "Men," he shrieked. "Lances at the ready! We ride."

He swayed into a surer seat, scrabbling vainly at the reins. One handed. The world lost all cohesion, became a dizzying swirl. How the fuck could a man steer his horse one handed? His left arm hung limp and dead at his side.

"Odney!" He stared at Lord Saentz's moving face. The dead marked skin was even more apparent, when the whole world spun about. "Stop! We need order to respond to this, not-"

More arrows thrummed from the cover of the trees. Saentz cursed, ducking his head, spinning about in his seat. "It may be isolated," he grated, "but after this racket it won't remain so. We press forward to the center of the camp. Advance cautio… damn you!"

Heedless, Odney had begun forward. Saentz's plan had collapsed. If Odney saved it now…

"Stop them," bellowed Saentz.

Swaying the saddle, Odney spun about, his arm pulling at his sword hilt. The wrong arm, he realized, too late. He nearly fell backwards off his horse. "You can't even ride, you arrogant pup," Saentz snarled. Saentz's men were drawing in around him.

"Your orders, my lord?" It was one of Odney's lancers.

Odney stared into Saentz's pale treacherous face for a moment, weighing the chances. Saentz had more men than he, and the Gransi were the true target anyway. However… his fingers twitched towards his dagger again. With difficulty, making no attempt to conceal his actions, Odney drew his sword. Saentz's eyes were expressionless. After a moment, Lord Saentz sighed. "We'll advance in smaller groups to start with, and somebody needs to flush out this archer now, but…"

"Ride," Odney snapped to his men, wheeling about abruptly, knowing that he had Saentz now. It would take the marked lord a moment to realize the orders and by then Odney's lancers would already be galloping away.

"You fool!" Saentz's horse pushed hard forward, one of his hands on the reins, one clinging to his sword. "You'll lose us the battle, Odney! It's not worth it, man. It's not…"

There was a roaring sound as Odney turned yet again, this time ready to kill, for the die had been cast. Saentz's face was golden, however, illuminated and the heat… Odney's horse whinnied, and reared, screaming in terror even as Saentz came hard forward, an oath on his lips. Saentz's sword came swinging down as Odney fell from the saddle. The horse caught the worst of the blow and fell as well.

Shaking Odney tried to push his way forward. His midriff groaned in protest, and blood blocked his vision. "Where…?" His fingers dug into the earth as he pushed the hair from his eyes. "What…?"

Saentz, high above him, snorted. "I'll trust you to sort out this latest attack on our rear. I need to go and salvage this battle you've trapped us with." The lord galloped off, his men in large part joining him.

Fires burned, quite close to Odney and he heard a high-pitched screaming noise. The horse… Exhaustion swamped him, his limbs shook, and his eyes burned. He fell face first into the ground again, just missing being kicked in the head by the treacherous horse. "Fucking beast," he hissed. Where was his sword? Had he dropped it? Odney didn't know. His good hand fumbled towards his waist for his dagger. After a few moments, he had it.

Pushing himself back up to his knees, Odney glared at the carnage. Men were running about, yelling, fighting… The fires, he realized abruptly. An enemy mage behind our lines? But how? He heard the scream of the horse again, and only barely avoided another kick. "Damn you," he rasped, flinging himself forward and burying his dagger in the animal's eye. He ripped it out, and fell again to his hands and knees.

A mage behind them. The unknown archer ahead. Chaos… his lancers had already left and Saentz had… Left me. In the middle of this! "Saentz," he bellowed the name a wounded cry. "Saentz!" Holding his good hand up to his face, trying to improve his blood streaked visage, dagger clenched in his teeth, Lord Odney began to crawl.

Zellar paused at the great carven doors, his hands fumbling at the clasp to his cloak. Fortunately it was little more than damp now. He glanced at Will, wishing that the soldier would leave, the better that he could linger outside, learn of the ground that awaited him. He cleared his throat, fingered his beard. "I am… to impose myself on their meeting?"

Will flashed him that easy arrogant smirk of his. "The Lord Minister sent for you, yes."

Zellar resisted the urge to bristle at the casual insolence in the guard's posture. A pup. An arrogant young pup and a lickspittle besides. Will had always been one of Bowie's hangers-on, but out of ambition more than genuine admiration. If Zellar was certain of anything, it was that Will admired no one other than himself.

And even aside from Will's more mercenary qualities, the guard had never been a friend to Zellar. Never had the time of day for Zellar. What better reason did he need to hate him?

The guard must have seen something in Zellar's face, some inkling of the smoldering fires of his soul, because he abruptly stepped back two paces. "I'll leave you to it, Colonel." The voice was the same, unctuous, easy, and unconcerned. But the face was no longer nearly as amused. "I have other duties."

The guard turned away, fairly flying down the halls, his long grey cloak fluttering after him like a moth. Zellar sneered at the retreating figure, turning back towards the door.

He chanced a brief glance about the hall to assure himself that he was alone. His shoulders slumped slightly in relief. Zellar leant against the door, pushing at it only lightly, yet lightly… Dimly, the voices could be heard.

"Gone?" The king sounded sullen. "Gone?" Earnest pause. "To answer the insult."

A softer voice, but tighter. Old Graig. "Rip the caul from your eyes, Your Grace. You know what his intentions were. You have heard… what I have learned."

"Learned," the king complained. "Dammit, Graig, what means any of that? A man has a man's hungers. You're just here to bother me."

"The gates are sealed, Your Grace. And what of the princess?"

King Granseal's rebuttal was not fast in coming. "Who else would I have offered her to? Besides, all of this…"

"Treason!" Graig's voice was losing control. "All I ask is the ability to do my duty! You would not give it me before. Know well enough, that it matters not what you decree in this, unless you would see the streets running with blood. All I have done is for Granseal. And…" The lord minister's voice fluctuated for a moment. "Do this for your people, Your Grace, and the head of Lemon is yours."

"You dare dicker with your own king? Dare use words like must with your own king?"

Strained silence. "Granseal," Graig said at last, his voice struggling with rage, "is eternal. Not you, nor I, Your Grace. Only Granseal is eternal and to her all our devotion should go. I would have preferred other means and ways, but this is the course that a man must take. When we are betrayed, we must respond in kind." The king muttered something too low for Zellar to catch. "Lemon is taken care of; one of my men is out bringing him even now. I would use him other than you would, Your Grace, but if it shall win your agreement, then you may have him to execute."

Sharp clanging. The king must have thrown a goblet or a tray. "Are you calling me a coward now? A true man would not simply execute a foe who was not lost to honor…"

"Of course, Your Grace." Another pause, less fraught, less strained.

He is winning him over. But winning him over to what? Zellar raised his hand to knock upon the door, then let it fall again, hovering in indesicion. A little more. He wanted just a little more…

"Granseal stands on the brink of a new dynasty whatever you choose, Your Grace. Your line will only be carried out through female descent from here on out. That should be consideration enough."

There was long still pause, and Zellar could feel the air coiling with anticipation. Coldness. Finally, the king's voice came, sullen, muffled, tired. "Do whatever you want."

Zellar sharply rapped his boot heels against the stone tiles and pushed the door open, thinking on the Lord Minster's phrase "the gates are sealed…" Hadn't that old goat Mrell also spoken of the gates? Referring to Bowie… Zellar shook his head gleefully. Oh, my lord you've really dirtied your hands this time!

The two old men looked up. King Granseal held an enormous goblet in one hand with a sad expression on his face. "Zegal… no, Zellar. Pardon's m'boy. Lord Minster's asked for you. Graig." He shook his head. "Damn fine knight, son. Second in the tourney… years running."

Zellar's gorge began to rise. From anyone less obviously distressed, he would have taken it for a slight. From his king, however, who had just been berated by his own Lord Minister… Look at what you've done to him, Bowie. Your own king. But no, you just had to rush after glory. He bowed curtly, turning to the Lord Minster. Graig frowned at him. "I'd expected you sooner, Colonel."

"I…" He paused half a moment, realizing that it would not be best to draw attention to the fact that his circuit of the city had been the most recent one. "Stable boy reported some trouble with my horse, Lord Minister."

"Ah." The bald head inclined, slightly. There was distaste in those old eyes, but Zellar didn't let that bother him. Bowie had been discredited here, somehow, he knew that. How could Graig ruin his evening with that prospect before him? And even beyond that, Zellar hated Graig. What did he care if the feeling was mutual? "Well, I've finished here. If you would walk with me, Colonel."

As fast as that, he was back out in the hallways. The Lord Minister was not slow coming to the point. "Granseal has suffered a grievous betrayal. Lord Bowie's forces seek to supplant the king."

Zellar smiled, enjoying this. "Bowie rode to defeat Galam, no more."

Graig turned, his face reddening, an angry finger pointed at him. "And do you not see the danger in that? He has already killed one king. He seeks any means to rule, be it by the sword or by… other means." Graig's mouth became a hard line. "Are you my man, or Mrell's, Colonel?"

Zellar smiled for a good long moment, savoring the way that sooner or later every single one of Bowie's enemies came to him. They always did, for no one else had ever challenged Bowie and lasted the way Zellar did. "My dear Lord Minister, I am the king's man."

High pitched screams. The crunch of steel against chainmail. The sweet shock in his hands. Jaha's axe slammed forward again, into the legs of another opponent. The man screamed piteously. Jaha moved forward, the fires illuminating his face.

He hopped forward another half step, jerking the axe head upward. It slammed into the chest of an opponent, already half un-armored. Jaha brayed wild drunken laughter. Others might have moved with more caution. Others might not have taken advantage of such chaos. But Jaha? Jaha burned with a magnificent madness, an overwhelming yearning to surmount every obstacle, destroy his foe as only he could, return to Granseal covered in glory and to claim his glorious destiny. To prove himself worthy enough that even Princess Elis would kneel before him.

Laughing like a madman, Jaha flung himself forward at a centaur who, a colder part of his mind informed him, seemed to be trying to rally some sort of organized resistance. His axe sliced outwards, scoring a crippling blow against the legs. The centaur shrieked, kicked, lost its balance and fell.

Jaha scrambled to avoid being crushed; only instinctively recognizing the flaw in his successful strike at this last moment. One hop, two half of another… he stumbled over some moving thing, and fell over backwards. The thing cursed him, and he only barely managed to keep hold on his axe shaft.

Awkwardly reversing himself, Jaha found himself flat on his back, looking at a hunched over man. No, not hunched over. On his hands and knees. Bloody face, but rich raiment. Fleeing his death? Jaha crowed with exuberance. Another foe to be crushed. The man snarled, however, and was suddenly upon him, a knife glinting in his mailed hand.

Jaha started to try to bring his axe up, but a heavy forearm suddenly pressed down on his throat. Wheezing, his hand fell back and the axe nearly sliced his own nose off. He kicked ineffectually at man's side. His side… something seemed important about that. His side… his fingers twitched, trying to get a hold of the axe…

"I," the man snarled, making a cut along the side of Jaha's neck up onto his cheek, "fucking hate you."

His head snapped around, the pain dizzied him. His arm splayed out to the side, his elbow slamming the axe forward. It crashed into his assailant's side. The man roared, and staggered to his feet, like a drunk, cursing and spitting.

Jaha looked dazedly at the demonic, bloody face above him. Like me, he realized inanely. An arrow thrummed by overhead, and the man cursed again, falling back to his knees, scrambling away. Fires blazed into life, galvanizing Jaha to grab at his discarded axe again. Where had his enemy gone?

A green-gloved hand reached out towards him. Gloved… but why was that…? Jaha staggered upright, his axe swinging outwards. It crashed into a hip, caught, wrenched itself out of his hands. Jaha fell face down, abruptly drained. The ground seemed very cold. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder where he was. How had he ended up here?

Weakly, he lifted his head and stared at the carnage he could see. "A…battle?" He had been going to replace Frayja on sentry duty. "I walked into a battle." But how? How had an enemy force gotten this close? Why was he all alone? With a monumental force of will, he pushed himself to his knees, crawled forward a few paces.

He stared at the body in closest proximity to him, dressed in rough-weave green cloak and tunic. Jaha tumbled forward, his fingers probing at the wrist, searching for a pulse. "Elric?" His voice trembled.

Odney staggered back up to his feet, his hand clenched against the blood flowing out of his side. He fell down again, his stomach screaming in protest. Had he broken some ribs? He lay there, for a moment pondering the possibility that he might actually manage to survive if he just pretended to be dead. But no, none of the charging centaurs or knights on their horses would pay any heed to the dead things that they trampled. And others might attack him by carelessness.

Gritting his teeth, Odney dug his fingers into the sod, dragging himself forward inch by burning inch. The pain was making it hard to think. The only truth he cared to contemplate was that the battle was effectively over. If Saentz had followed my lead… well, fuck him.

The sounds of screams were beginning to recede, he realized abruptly, and Odney went so far as to rise to his knees. If he could slip off amongst the trees, mayhaps there would be enough time to understand what to do next. Mayhaps.

Yes, even the ground seemed cooler. His hands felt numb. Blood loss? Shock? His mind was starting to function a little better though, and that was something. With a hiss of agony, he threw his arms- tried to throw his arms, but the one was dead from that dammable war bolt- used his good arm to start to straighten himself up with the help of the trunk. Breath hissed through his ears. Oh gods, his fucking ribs.

"You were one of the commanders!"

Rasping in shock, he staggered drunkenly around, only to take a crunching blow in the face. His head swung around, his balance lost. Blood flowed from his nose. Through puffy eyes, he saw a woman dressed in long purple robes, holding a… "Healer's staff?"

The knotted end of the wood slammed into his gut. He fell to the ground, tears spring unbidden to his eyes. He was too damn wounded… too. His hand tightened on the dagger, his gauntlet slick with blood. He looked up at her, steeling himself for the possible opportunity. She was gazing down at him, her staff raised to deliver a finishing blow, but it hadn't come yet. He flung the dagger out.

She saw the flurry of motion, started to swing her staff downward. Too late. Odney was battered and abused, yes, but his aim had always served him well. Her eyes widened with shock as blood welled out around the dagger stuck in her midriff. Her lips moved even as she fell down, and Odney, with a brief flash of panic, realized that she could heal herself. Throwing himself forward with all the strength he had left, his hand outstretched and crunched satisfyingly against her head. Her eyes widened again and she fell on her side, unconscious.

Good. She could bleed to death, and hell was welcome to her. He… Rasping, Odney realized that he had absolutely no way of getting to his feet. He tried to summon the strength that had brought him this far, but he felt completely immobile. Didn't help that he could barely use his left arm. His eyes fluttered as a shadow descended on him, green eyes burning in wrath. The last thing he remembered was the following kick in the head.

Bowie's eyes raked the oncoming enemy forces for any potential weakness, all the while berating himself for a fool. How the bloody hell had the company of lancers just gotten into their camp? And they were too isolated, the few of them that Bowie had rallied around himself. He didn't know what was happening elsewhere and he needed to know, now.

"Keep it together," he rasped, bringing up his blade sharply to deflect a desultory arrow. There weren't that many archers and the company of lancers seemed exhausted for now. "They'll have to fight us more closely if they don't have any more than this," he told the small group around him. "We just have to hold out, defend each other."

It was, he knew, very nearly hopeless. But not quite. "Taya," he said as quietly as he could, "that one there is the leader. He's rallying them. If we kill him, we might have a chance…"

"How?" She was nearly hysterical. "He keeps them in good order, sorcery is no good against that wide a spread of enemies, I don't know enough basic combat, I don't…"

Bowie clenched his teeth, looking from face to face. Taya, Gyan, Sheela, Kiwi and Chester. Not enough. It was not enough. "For Granseal," he told them, hollowly. "We've got to stay together and make them pay for this. Pay for it."

"There is another way," Chester said. He took half a step forward, and Bowie was too numb to stop him, to think of anything else. Curiously enough his thoughts in these last moments were turning towards Kazin and Sarah, the mission he'd sent them. Thank the gods they'll be able to muster Granseal. It's the last chance if we all… He swallowed.

"You craven dog!" Chester's voice was easy, practiced. Bowie frowned, finally paying attention. Should he really be insulting them at a time like this? "What kind of a man hides behind his forces? My lord will fight single combat with you. The stakes being no less than this battle!"

"Chester, no," Bowie rasped hoarsely.

Opposite them, the lord with the eerily disfigured face laughed. "A Gransi trick. When have any of your people relied upon the ways of honor? We'll easily crush you." He waved a lazy hand. "Advance."

And so it came. Or would have, but Chester abruptly galloped forward, his lance out at a sharp angle. The lord stared, much as Bowie did, momentarily uncomprehending. Then his eyes grew wide. Before he could so much as issue another order, Chester had crashed full into the ranks of his soldiers.

Bowie came forward, the others backing him. "Now. We have to… there's a chance, dammit!"

Chester spun about, kicking with his back hooves, his lance stabbing forward. As the enemy soldiers scattered around him, Taya chanted a spell of destruction, catching the fastest, and therefore most dangerous, of them. Sheela came flying forward, gauntleted knuckles first, even as Bowie's sword took the first startled soldier before him.

The enemy lord moved then, jumping cat-like backwards, his massive broadsword out swept before him. Chester came forward then, as the lord's feet just touched the ground, at the moment of his least balance… The lord dropped low, avoiding the lance point, and broadly swept his blade out, gashing deep in Chester's equine stomach. The centaur shrieked, tumbling forward.

"No," said Bowie, but the lord was already upon him leaving him no time to think. Their blades clashed together, and Bowie took half a step backwards. This man was stronger than him. Their blades clashed again, and then a third time. The lord smiled, confident, as he abruptly dropped his point low for a charge. Bowie was already committed forward…

There was a bellow and Bowie fell off-balance as Gyan barreled between him and the oncoming sword. It slammed into his plate mail, and the dwarf fell back, the chest armor cracked open. Bowie stared, in horror, but still had enough presence of mind to press his momentary advantage, coming back forward with a sweeping slash.

The lord moved back, his face grimly serious. Bowie didn't let up for a moment, knowing that his advantage lasted only so long as he could own the offensive. There was a slight tightness about the lord's eyes, a relaxing tension as he parried a blow or two… Bowie's senses were too slow to realize the obvious, and a spear butt struck him in the back of the legs.

Stunned, he fell to his knees, his sword held loosely downward. The lord came forward, his broadsword covering Bowie's neck. He would have kicked, forced his way forward somehow, but the broadsword had the range on him and he knew it. He glared.

The lord smiled, the expression oddly fitting his disfigured features. "Now you die." He started to swing, paused and added in a perfectly serious voice, "By the sword, at the least."

The blade came on. A shout rang out behind Bowie. "My lord Saentz!" The air behind Saentz seemed to crackle, and glow. A golden burst of flame exploded behind Saentz, and the lord arched forward, a scream on his lips. Acting more by instinct than design, Bowie dodged his head to the side of the oncoming sword, cursed the cut that sank into his shoulder, and lunged his own sword forward, taking Saentz straight through the throat.

The lord stood perfectly still for a moment, blood gushing from his wound, and then toppled down. There was shouting, and Bowie looked at various fleeing soldiers. Not all of them, but Sheela and… "Kazin?" His voice rasped sharply. "Kazin? Here?"

The mage looked to him, and then away, obviously upset. "Sarah. She was wounded… back there. We've got to get someone to her."

"Kazin," Bowie repeated, unable to take in much more than that.

The world was a cold grey thing, it seemed. And, gods his head hurt. And his mouth, chance to think on it. His neck and his ribs. Odney retched and then blinked several times, heaving in hideously painful breaths.

There was… a body. A woman? The healer, he recalled. The battle. He whimpered in disgust, tried to push his way upright and gave up fairly quickly.

"A live one!" The voice was peculiarly boisterous. Odney looked up in a sudden panic. Approaching him was a cloaked, hooded man somewhat rotund in appearance. "You were one of the commanders, weren't you? Your cloak is too rich…"

"Who?"

The voice became coolly unamused. "You may call me Arlan. I suppose I should see to you, for the sake of my vow." The figure shook his head, and Odney caught a momentary glimpse of his features. It was too dizzying to make out clearly, but seemed homely. Older, perhaps. The head bowed towards the woman for a moment, and then turned back to him. "If I heal some of your injuries, can you make it back to Galam?"

"Some?"

"My strength is needed for many things, child." There was a stern pride to his voice. "Do not speak my name to just anyone, if you value your life."

Odney's mouth opened, then closed. If the man would heal him at all, he'd have time enough to reason the event out later. Still. His stomach roiled at the thought of returning to Galam, alone, disgraced. And there seemed to be something important about this… Saentz. Why was he so confident? Was it to do with this… Arlan?

There was bile in the back of his throat. Odney did not like the taste of this. He smelled a set-up, and if Lord Saentz was its originator then even Lord Kronos might… Oh gods. Was Lord Paul right? Was he right all along? Odney gritted his teeth, submitting as Arlan's hands started to feel over his injuries. There was still a third way between Lord Paul and Lord Kronos. A third option. A third man to speak with. And just now, Lord Odney was not inclined towards trust. Betrayed,he thought blackly.