Interlude: The Man Who Would Be King

Foresight

In his unsung but highly eventful adventuring career, Hekkeran had seen a lot.

The Grand Arena of Arwinter, forty thousand voices crying out as one for blood and death.

An iron-shelled turtle that breathed fire, twice as large as a bear and with a temper to match.

Giant sharks that swam through earth and water alike.

An Elder Lich and his army of the dead, intent on covering the lands in darkness as soon as they found that damn ring.

All-in-all, he considered himself something of a connoisseur of disaster. After all, he'd been there when things went terribly wrong, from both the winner's side and the sharp end.

When a job went bad, when a payday went sour, you could grin and bear it, or cut and run. Brave Workers did the former, but those with longer careers did the latter. There were no take-backs in the highly volatile world of freelance adventuring, no assurances other than death and taxes, so you did what you had to do to stay alive and came to terms with it later.

And this was bad. Worse than the Lich, worse than that time with the dryad. By Hekkeran's reckoning, a full third of the capital was descending into fire and madness, and it was spreading.

Spreading fast.

Too fast, in fact.

He'd thought it was like the food riots in Arwinter, but he'd been wrong. This was more like the bad old days after the old Emperor's assassination, with the Imperial Knights purging the nobles and the nobles purging them right back. Blood had run in the gutters, and the Five Great Families had - after a brief, brutal war fought between their private armies - become two.

In the end, the Bloody Emperor had taken the throne. Things had gotten substantially worse, at that point, but - thankfully - not for long. By the time he was done, there was one Great Family left, and (once the dust had finally, definitively settled) order had been restored.

The new Emperor had a firm hand, and a better grip on the realities of ruling: He'd brought things to a close, shedding no more blood than was absolutely necessary, and the populace - reeling, off-balance from the aftermath of civil war - had hailed him as their savior.

This, however, was different. More than the unfocused rage of the cold and hungry, more than some spontaneous outpouring of discontent. It felt like no-one knew quite what was going on, and that was a disturbing thought. Oh, revolution of some kind was scything through the air - like change, but with more stabbing involved - though Hekkeran had no idea what they were fighting for, let alone who the revolutionaries were.

Perhaps revolution wasn't the right word. This felt more like a war, waged by an invisible army against an oblivious populace. An ambush, maybe, on a grand scale: the ugly kind where the knives came out in the dark, the kind you didn't walk away from.

He might not be an adventurer, but Hekkeran had his pride. A bad reputation travels further than one might think, after all. But there was the rest of Foresight to think about, and he knew - deep down, in the very core of his being - it was past time to up stakes. To make a break for E-Asenaru, maybe even the Council State, and let the rest sort itself out.

But sometimes - as his father had always said, deep in his cups - you had to see things through. Had to take your lumps like a man.

Not because you wanted to, of course, Four forbid. But because the alternative was worse.

"Faster! Faster, Imina!"

The wagon's wheels shrieked like the dead in hell, sparks showering up from both sides as it jolted around the corner. It felt like every plank, bolt and fixing was a heartbeat away from wrenching apart, the horses foaming at the mouth as they plunged blindly ahead.

"Hold on!" Imina warned, her teeth gritted. Tendons stood out on her neck as she hauled on the reins, violet twintails whipping in her wake. It was taking all she had to keep the horses under control, to stop them from wrenching free from their traces: Clinging to the bouncing contraption of death, Hekkeran could feel his teeth rattling in his head, his muscles burning from the simple effort of not being flung to his death-

"Miss Imina, they're catching up! They're gaining on us!"

It was rare for Arche to sound her age, but this was one of those times: Wide-eyed, swathed in a too-large cloak, she had both arms wrapped around the back of her seat, the gleaming crystal of her new staff slanting over her shoulder. Not for the first time, Hekkeran wished she'd longer to recover - Back at the brothel, when he'd seen what they were facing, he'd told her to cut loose and worry about the consequences later.

Well, they were paying for it now, all right. A man like the Grandmaster made potent enemies, that much was clear: What he'd neglected to mention, however, was exactly how potent they were, and how many enemies the Paladin had.

They'd made it about a quarter of the way, before they'd run head-first into trouble. Hekkeran would've preferred to keep a low profile, to slip through the city's byways and trade paths, but that hadn't lasted long.

When the first rider had cantered into view from a side-street, he'd had all of a moment to feel a spike of relief. Good, he'd thought. The City Guard was getting to grips with the problem. Damn good, in fact. Far better response that he'd expected-

But then Rober had seized his arm, kindly face going white, and shouted "Go!" like all the devils of the many hells were on their heels.

And then, right there, Hekkeran had realized that the rider didn't seem to have a head. Just a terrible, bloody light welling forth from the high collar of his tarnished armor, marked with the hellish sigils of King Death. The ebony steed beneath him had looked up, the same hell-light burning in empty sockets, and spat fire through a sneering muzzle-

That had done it. The horses had bolted, braying in terror, and the wagon had rocketed forward so fast the wheels nearly parted company with the cobblestones.

Arche, her teeth gritted, had shouted something. One hand on the wagon's railing, almost flung over the footboard with each jolting impact, and she was still the finest caster Hekkeran had ever seen. A seething blot of flame, impossibly bright, had gathered at the crystal orb of her staff - It'd arched forward, plunging down right before the dullahan, detonating in a ragged blast of hot cinders and pelting stone.

Roberdyck pulled her down, shielded her with his armored bulk. Hekkeran, wisely, ducked beneath the wagon's side as soon as he'd seen the flash. He'd looked up, through the churning smoke and hailing debris, and thought: That's the end of-

But then something had cried out in the dark, and he'd seen it. The dark rider on his darker steed, surging out of the smoke and the flame. Scorched cloak fluttering like a bat's tattered wings, long-handled axe raised in silent challenge.

Coming for them.

Directly.

He'd sworn out loud. Too early: One rider had become three, and three had become five - Sweeping in from the side-streets, riding with the military precision of imperial knights. Riding so fast that they caused weird eddies and curls in the drifting smoke, rusted blades fuming with unholy light.

"In the name of the Four!" Roberdyck bellowed, brandishing his holy symbol. Amber light shone from the icon, bright as a star in his gauntleted fist. "In the name of the Great God of Earth, I abjure thee! Back to the grave, beyond the sight of the Pure!"

One rider, barbed spear couched and ready, flinched. His unholy steed, dark as twilight, came on anyway. The percussion of its milling hooves never slowed, skeletal ribs showing through gashed and suppurating flanks - It was a walking corpse, yet the simple truth of its death had failed to take hold.

"I don't think they're listening, Rober!" Hekkeran shouted back. This was a bad place for a fight: As a matter of fact, he couldn't think of worse. He risked a glance at their passenger, his form swathed in an all-concealing cloak - the boy had borne the journey stoically, his pale features set in a mask of grim concentration.

Hekkeran had seen that exact expression before. He'd seen it on men nursing mortal wounds, the kind that killed you by inches - Men who clung to life with a white-knuckled grip, because the task at hand was that important.

Because they didn't have time to bleed.

"Take the reins!" Imina shouted, thrusting them at him. Hekkeran had serious doubts about that, but hauled himself into the shuddering seat anyway.

He hunched down low, cracking the reins as the wagon roared through the neighborhood, past manses and their gardens: At least it was a straight stretch, thank the gods. They were on a road leading to an open gate set between crumbling walls, and all he had to do was to keep them true.

All he had to do was-

Instinct alone saved him. Hekkeran ducked, as the blackened axe whirred out of the night: It missed him by inches, close enough to part his hair. He could feel his skin crawl from the near-miss, his entire body going cold.

Lucky, he thought. The next one won't-

He set his jaw. Put the thought out of his mind.

"A little close!" he called, the wind snatching his words away. "What's going on ba-"

Another flash. A whoosh of acceleration, then the cudgeling concussion of a distant blast.

Imina had dragged herself over the wooden divider and onto the wagon's battered roof, heedless of the way it bucked beneath her feet. She shrugged her bow off into her hand, sighting along her arrow's broadhead point-

A flare of fiery light sped away from Firedrake, blossoming into an orange gout of rushing flame. The first arrow blasted a dullahan from horseback: the headless rider's arms snapped up as it turned into a lurching torch, toppling from the saddle - Directionless, the hollow knight's steed galloped on for four long strides, dragging its fallen master along by the stirrups as it slowed to a canter.

"Again!" Arche shouted. "Again, Miss Imina-"

The second shot took an undead steed in the chest, and detonated it from within. Even from here, the distressing smell of burning hair reached them, chunks of meat and desiccated organs blown free from that already-sparse frame. Somehow, it kept going - flames streamed from the nightmare's blasted-open chest as it veered to the side, toppling sideways into its partner.

Legs tangled, both horses went down into the roadway, flailing and kicking, hooves churning the air like automatons left to run amok. Their riders went down with them, now part of an eight-legged, four-armed creature thrashing itself to pieces.

A ragged cheer rose up. Mostly Rober, but Arche shook a tiny fist too, swept up in the moment.

"Three," Imina said, nocking another arrow. "That's thr-"

"Look out!"

Calmly, as if the loss of its companions troubled it not at all, the rearmost rider raised its barbed spear. Cast it overarm.

Imina cried out, as the missile gashed her side. Iron thorns ripped and tore, taking meat with them: she fell, her body rolling and tumbling as the wagon jolted beneath her. Her face white with shock, she clawed at the tar-painted roof with her remaining hand, scrabbling for purchase-

Roberdyck made a desperate lunge. He caught her by the wrist as Firedrake fell from Imina's nerveless hand, rolling and clattering beneath the seats. Her body slammed into the sideboard of the wagon, hard enough to punch the breath from her lungs, an unreasoning yowl of pain forced from her lips.

"Got you-"

"Pull her up!" Arche's voice, agonized. "Pull her-"

Climb's cloak whipped away, his arms closing around Rober's waist. Dragging him back and up, hauling Imina's limp form back into the wagon. They went over together, collapsing to the rattling wooden floor. Blood drooled from the hideous wound in Imina's flank, a foul miasma crawling over the weeping edges of the tear.

"There's still," she panted out, between gasps. "There's one more…!"

But the last dullahan had closed the distance. There was something terrible, something inevitable, about the dark rider's single-minded intensity. Scorched and blasted by the fireball, flames licked at its heels and clung to its shoulders in a burning shroud, yet slowed it not at all. The undead rider's axe was gone, lost somewhere in the burning night: Disarmed, it crouched low in the saddle, like a serpent coiling to strike-

It hurled itself forward. Across the last body-length of distance, leaving its galloping steed behind. The headless knight crashed into the wooden parapet of the wagon, iron fingers digging into the frame as it hauled itself inside, mutilated silhouette framed stark and terrible against the light.

Roberdyck found his footing first. Lightning wreathed the head of his mace as he swung. It was a huge blow, driven by the considerable strength of his arms, the lightless stone of the maul whistling as it split the air-

But he had to check his swing. A weapon like this left no room for error: If he missed, the concussion would shred the entire contraption from within.

A mailed fist cannoned into his face. There was a merciless strength behind the blow: If he hadn't turned with the impact, it'd have shattered his jaw - Instead, it ripped open his cheek just beneath his eye, shreds of his flesh clinging to spined knuckles.

Roberdyck dropped, as surely as if he'd been poleaxed. The mace bounced from his spasming hand, lightning still dancing across the haft.

"Rober!"

A fireball would've turned the wagon into a ready-made crematorium. Lightning would've blasted it to pieces. Instead, blue-white magic bolts hammered into the dark rider's cuirass, ringing it like a bell. Smoke wisped from the new craters blown in the tarnished metal, black ichor bleeding from the ragged holes.

The dullahan turned. Like magic, a wickedly serrated blade appeared in its hand.

Arche got her staff up in time. The clear crystal chimed, sparks flying as it turned the thrust; She had a moment to speak, to shape the first syllable of the invocation, before the iron-shod gauntlet took her in the side.

There was a snap of breaking ribs. Arche slammed into the wood-and-canvas wall and slid down. Her face had gone white, whiter than a doll's, her mouth working without sound. The dullahan took a step forward, heedless of the juddering wagon, raising the dagger to finish her-

"Bastard!"

Firedrake was lost, beyond the reach of Imina's clawing grasp. She still had the quiver. The arrow in her hand rammed through the back of the undead knight's leg, bursting through the front of its shin. It stuck fast, black blood drooling from the gleaming point.

A vile hissing boiled from the hideous void of the dullahan's gorget. It kicked Imina in the face, the way a man kicks an unruly dog. Her head snapped back, a sharp, startled cry wrenched from her lips - She rolled, and landed on her bad arm. The pain seized her by the throat, so all-encompassing, so overwhelming, she couldn't even scream.

This all happened in the span of a few seconds, almost too fast to follow. There was a grinding jolt as the wagon plunged through the gate, hard enough to clip the stone. Wood shattered beneath the glancing impact, the wheels whirling madly as they tilted-

Hekkeran had seen this, seized by the unique terror that only a leader ever feels: the horror of having led your friends to their deaths. He was a heartbeat from flinging down the reins, collision and the chase be damned, and hurling himself into the fight.

Because you took care of your own, always. You did right by them, no matter what.

And then Climb slammed into the dullahan, tackling it low. There was no space to draw Daegal, no room to swing the magnificent star-silver blade: Weak, shaking, still reeling from the effort of hauling Roberdyck back, all he had were his fists. The wagon bounced as he cannoned into the undead terror, hard enough that the dagger bit into the wooden frame rather than his flesh.

He clawed for it. For the fallen mace. Anything to finish this, anything to put an end to this horror.

The dullahan seized him by the throat. Iron fingers tightened around Climb's windpipe, like the merciless jaws of a vice. Choking, gagging, his face went red, his lungs burning with the need for air-

"Climb!" Hekkeran shouted, and ripped Sylpheed free. He hurled it, sheath and all: It thudded against Climb's arm, but the boy caught it by the grip as the wind dragged the scabbard away.

He plunged the winged blade into the dullahan's armpit. The point sheared through rusted chainmail without stopping, burying itself to the hilt. Blood, black and stinking, gushed forth as Climb twisted the shortsword in the wound, his face going purple-

The throttling hands fell away. A terrible, voiceless screech rose from the neck cavity of the burning armor, tongues of flame shooting from the furnace of the torso.

But it refused to die.

One gauntlet clamped down around the gouging blade, trying to rip it free. The other slammed into his breastplate, smashing new dents into the gleaming metal. Climb wrenched the blade in the wound, but he could feel the bones in his hand beginning to give beneath the relentless pressure-

And then Sylpheed glowed.

A pearlescent radiance flared around the blade. It bled white light into the smoke-filled air, streamers of cold, sterile illumination flickering fitfully as it oozed from the wound. The razor-edge of the blade sheared through the black iron of the dullahan's armor, as if all resistance had momentarily vanished - It carved into the creature's wretched core, stabbing deep into the rattling floorboards, leaving a slicing track.

Something without a mouth screamed. The headless knight's boots drummed against the planks, a vile black miasma boiling from the joints of its armor. With a gasp, Climb tore the sword out, toppling to the side as the dullahan thrashed out the last of its unholy life. His throat was terribly bruised, breath coming in wheezing gasps as he fought for air.

With a grunt of effort, he kicked out. The headless metal ruin of the dullahan went tumbling from the coach, still trailing smoke. Before it even hit the ground, it burst into flame, a brief but ferocious fireball that ate it away to nothing: Liquid flame wept from the conflagration, black vapor twisted into hideously familiar shapes in the moment before the wind tore it to shreds.

Behind them, the last rider shied back. His dark steed reared up, hooves flailing blindly in the air. A terrible, shuddering wail issued from the gloom, made more so because it was impossible to tell whether it came from horse, rider, or both.

But then it was gone, receding further and further into the distance as the wagon hurtled on. The wheels rattled harder than ever, as Hekkeran twisted in his seat, surveying the aftermath for himself.

"Gods," he said. He couldn't risk stopping, not until he was sure they'd escaped: Instead, he worked his cramping fingers against the reins, exhaling a shuddering breath. "Rober, can you stand? The others-"

With a groan, Roberdyck sat up. He spat blood, one hand pressed to the flayed mess of his cheek. The prayer came out mumbled, half-slurred, but his fingers glowed anyway - the ragged flaps of skin drawing together, stitching themselves into a jagged scar. He shook his head, instantly regretted it, and crawled over to where Arche lay.

Somehow, somehow, Imina had pulled herself into a sitting slouch, her back against the side of the wagon. Her fingers reached for - but didn't quite touch - the bleeding ruin of her arm, green eyes hazy with pain.

"I," she began, her gaze settling on Climb. The wagon hit a bump, and she clenched her teeth to fight down her scream. Tried again: "I didn't know - didn't know you were a Paladin," Imina said, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat.

It took Climb a moment to realize what she meant. He looked down at Sylpheed's glowing edge, at the ghostly illumination that crawled over his fingers and down the blade. Even as he looked on, the light flickered one last time, then faded out.

Flecks of silver, like fireflies, danced in the air. Carried away by the breeze.

"Neither did I," he said, his voice hoarse from the throttling he'd taken.

"-Neither did I."

The Golden Ogre

The army had encamped beyond the walls of Re-Estize, in preparation for the long march to E-Rantel. It wasn't the first cohort to embark upon the journey, and it wouldn't be the last: But they were the first to have the Crown Prince and his entourage with them, the gleaming knights of the Royal Guard and the archons of the Nobility Faction's contingents standing attendance like drones around a hive queen.

Or King, as it may be.

A spontaneous city - or a town, perhaps - had sprung up, the ground already rubbish and tent-strewn. It was a sprawling maze of canvas, a thick fog hovering above the flattened grass of frozen fields, miserable sentries huddling close to the orange blooms of braziers.

It was late, but no-one was sleeping well. Out here, the cold was brutal, enough to turn one's breath to smoke. The tents were clustered as close as possible to the communal blazes of campfires, heedless of the risk of fire: To the vast majority of the conscripts, death by burning held no particular attraction, but at least it was better than the killing cold.

There was a manse in the distance, close enough for some of the men to gaze longingly at the high walls and lime-washed grey stone of the main house. It had been suggested as the ideal shelter, but the Crown Prince had insisted otherwise.

"The men are soft," he'd said, as his personal chef tended to his dinner - Poached salmon and duck confit, with a dessert of pears in syrup. "Some hardship is what they need, by the Four! Toughen them right up."

As a point of order, the retreat was owned by a cousin of Baron Claude Raunales Lokia Culbelk, a leading member of the nobility faction and a close personal friend of the Crown Prince. And the Prince, of course, could hardly repay his hospitality by having the common soldiery tramp through his vineyards and cower behind his walls.

Besides, as the Crown Prince had asserted, he'd never shied away from sharing the rigors of the campaign with his men. A little cold was nothing to him, he'd said, warming his feet by a fire. He was setting an example for those under his command - If his Royal Highness could endure winter's bite, those serving under him had no reason to complain.

As always, like everything Prince Barbro said, the bon motte had been accepted as the gem of wisdom it no-doubt was.

Lieutenant Aaren hated being the bearer of bad news. He was twenty-five, old enough to worry that he would remain a Lieutenant for the rest of his life: As he'd learned, time and time again, rising in the ranks was largely a matter of avoiding mistakes and having the right blood.

The son of impoverished patricians, he'd failed at the latter, but excelled at the former. He was acutely aware that he'd climbed about as high as he could possibly hope to go, but even more aware that there was much, much further to fall.

But the scouts had returned, and someone had to tell the Crown Prince. He'd corroborated their accounts himself, with a sinking heart, and come to the unhappy conclusion that his standing in the world was about to change for the worse.

And yet, in spite of everything else, he prided himself on being a man of scrupulous honesty. He'd ordered his life with a quiet, efficient competency that kept him out of trouble, and part of that involved a clear and unflinching look at the facts.

So he'd bitten the bullet. Grasped the nettle, and other such metaphors. His half-armor clinking, the Lieutenant made his way to the command tent, nodding to the knights standing guard with their great halberds at the ready. They were big men, fur mantles draped over their shoulders, armor polished to a silver sheen that had survived the cold and wet - Aaren could feel their cool, wary gazes as the tent flap was jerked back to let him through.

The Crown Prince's quarters were less a tent and more a huge hall of crimson cloth. It towered over the tent-city, the way Prince Barbro eclipsed all others in importance: A stark reminder of the privileges of royalty, if there ever was one. Hung with tapestries and floored with rich carpets, it was like a slice of Ro Lente castle, uprooted and moved - with considerable effort - here.

The furniture was in the royal style, too: Carved wood, dark and heavy, enough that it required a small army of servants and three fully-loaded wagons to haul. Two highly-polished tables had been pushed together to hold an impromptu feast, golden plates gleaming beneath piles of heaped-up delicacies, cold meats, cheeses, diced fruit, salads all artfully arrayed like faintly glistening works of art.

It was strange to think that, less than three hundred paces away, rations were one pound of bread (or flour, if they couldn't get it), a half pound of dried fish or meat, and a pound of peas or beans a day. Less, if supplies ran short: To a conscript, eggs were a rare and treasured delicacy.

Prince Barbro sat sprawled in an ornate chair - a throne, really - of the same dark wood. Around his Highness were six of his staff, all impeccable in their dress uniforms, heavy with medals. They had glasses in their hands and had obviously been drinking for a while. Faces were flushed, and jackets undone.

The great man looked bored. Sullen, almost, swilling his brandy in its glass. Perhaps that was due to Baron Cheneko, his intricately curled mustache looking more ratlike than ever as he lavished effusive praise on the Prince:

"This was a marvelous idea, your Highness," he was saying, a thin black cheroot clamped between his teeth. "The common soldiery should always know that, ah, their betters are amongst them. If I may say so, it was churlish of Wolfgunblood to turn down your most magnamious offer of-"

The Baron looked up as Lieutenant Aaren came in. Scowled, like he'd spotted something unpleasant on his exquisitely polished boots. "What's this, now?" he said, casting around for an explanation. "What's this man doing here?"

Not a good start. Lieutenant Aaren saluted, uncomfortably.

"I," he began, and cleared his throat. "Lieutenant Aaron, my Lord. Fourth Regiment, under Colonel Birger-"

Baron Cheneko looked like he had something to say about that, but the Crown Prince silenced him with a hard look. With a grunt, his face flushed, Prince Barbro put his drink down and waved for Lieutenant Aaren to stand at ease.

"Make your report, Lieutenant," he said, brushing crumbs from the gold braid on his uniform.

Aaren swallowed. This, as they said, was the hard part.

"The capital is on fire, your Royal Highness," he said, unhappily. "There was an explosion in the Poor Quarter - The City Guard moved to investigate, but…"

His voice gained an octave, without knowing it. "But they seemed to have come under attack, your Highness."

"Attack?" This from Baron Suric, heavy-jowled and wide-shouldered, his uniform visibly straining at the seams. "By who?"

"We don't-" the Lieutenant began, then started again. "Rioters, my Lord. There have been…multiple deaths. The fires appear to be raging out of control: About a quarter of the city is aflame." His starched collar felt like a noose around his neck - It took all his self-control to stop himself from tugging at it.

"Reports are still coming in, but…" He was sweating freely now, never mind that he'd just come in from the cold. "-The scouts say they were shouting 'Down with the King', your Majesty."

Uproar. There was a babble of voices, everyone talking at once:

"Treason! The very idea of it - Just before the Annual War…!"

"It's the Empire, damn them. That bloody Emperor of theirs has rabble-rousers everywhere-"

"Best to let it burn itself out, the capital would be better off-"

"-always knew the City Guard was incompetent, by the Gods-"

"Gentlemen!" Count Polderman's voice rose above the hubbub. He was slimmer than the others, younger, but with a pedigree as long as his arm. The Lieutenant felt a rush of dread, as the Count fixed his flinty grey eyes on him.

"Finish your report, Lieutenant," he said, evenly. He turned to Prince Barbro, as if seeking confirmation, and the Crown Prince nodded, just once.

"The City Guard is requesting reinforcement," Aaren said, glad to be coming to the end of it. "Captain Coesil's men are ready to move out, but the Captain's waiting on confirmation-"

"What is that fool waiting for? Some backbone and a quick thrust, that's what's needed," Baron Suric cut in. "Nip this in the bud, here and now - Lance the boil. Make an example of the ringleaders, and the rest of the rabble will melt away."

There was a murmur of affirmation, a general thumping of the table.

"Grasp the nettle-"

"One company of lancers, that's what they need-"

Count Polderman's eyes went wide. He was a contemporary of Marquis Raeven, it was said, and some of Raeven's caution - or just good sense - had rubbed off on him.

"We can't just-" he began, then caught himself as the Crown Prince raised a beringed hand. His signet ring, a lion's head worked in heavy gold, flashed as it caught the light.

"Marshal Guis," he said, "-What is the status of the cavalry contingent?"

"Eight hundred men, your Majesty," Guis said, carefully. He was a severe-looking man at the best of times, out-of-place in the Crown Prince's inner circle: The news had worked deeper creases into his already-lined face, his mouth working as if chewing on it. "If I may suggest…"

The Crown Prince didn't bother to let him finish. With a surge of effort, Prince Barbro rose, his uniform glittering magnificently.

"Get them ready. Get them all ready," he said, one hand sweeping out in a grand gesture that backhanded his glass from the table. "Treason? In my city? We'll bring the fight to them, by the Gods!" His fist slammed down on the table, with a dull thud that made the golden plates jump. "Give the orders, Marshal! We ride now!"

"As expected of his Royal Highness!" Baron Cheneko shouted, the first to voice his support. "Magnificent! A capital idea!"

"Teach them a lesson!"

"Bring the hammer down!"

Oaths were sworn, and drinks downed in a renewed martial spirit. Count Polderman simply looked ill - He stared at the Crown Prince, then the Marshal, but no answer came. Instead, he shook his head, looking grim behind his well-trimmed beard. The weight of command, one supposed.

Forgotten, and entirely aware he was now surplus to requirements, Lieutenant Aaren trudged out of the tent. He supposed it was all out of his hands, now: He preferred to leave strategy to his superiors, but storming one's own city with cavalry seemed like the opposite of a good idea to him.

Personally, he was just glad to be out of it.

After all, he thought - with the closest thing to happiness he'd felt the entire day - it was someone else's problem now.

Next: God Flash