Session One Hundred and Sixty-Four - November 6, 2021

[Matt]

Larane 9, 733

“Ah, Lord Ewen. It’s a fine day.” The Lord Marshal of the kingdom of Kaldor, Orsin Firith, is atop the walls of Caer Olokand, inspecting the defenses and surveying the surrounding terrain.

“It is indeed, my lord. I hope you find that the castle’s defenses remain serviceable.”

“I haven’t seen anything so far that would make me believe otherwise. I like the addition of the palisade.”

“Yes. You will note, my lord, that the small span of ground between the bridge gate and the gate to the bailey is quite exposed and treacherous to cross under duress.”

“Indeed.” Firith squints his one good eye in that direction. “It’s almost as if the expectation is the enemy will be coming from the other side of the river,” he growls. “Not unlike the defenses of Heru, come to think of it. Something is mighty amiss between those two bridges.”

Lord Ewen concurs. The two men are silent for a moment, each considering the niceties of siegecraft under a warm and overcast Harnic sky. The Baron of Ternua breaks the silence first.

“My lord, I would return to the previous discussion of a means of releasing the prisoner and misleading the enemy.”

“Capital idea,” says Firith.

“It seems that the most direct method of returning our prisoners would be through a prisoner exchange. If we were to give the impression during the negotiations that a more lenient hand were on the tiller, so to speak, and our forces were to appear more depleted than they, in actuality, are, then the prisoner may be liable to bring back to Setrew the impression we wish to convey.”

“Interesting notion,” Lord Firith turns a narrowing eye on Lord Ewen. “If only I had a lenient hand on the tiller.”

“You put your finger on the crux of the problem, my lord. A certain degree of dissimulation would be involved. Or perhaps an actor of sorts.”

“Actor? Put this operation in the hands of an actor?”

“No, of course not, my lord. Just to give the impression that a weaker hand is in charge. It may coax the vikings to miscalculate and attack.”

Lord Firith harrumphs, still not sold on the idea. “You want me to be the weaker hand?”

Lord Ewen shakes his head. “The prisoners have not met you, my lord, and if they had it would spoil the ruse. They do not know who is in charge at this time. The last time they attempted to invest the castle was when they knew I was out in the field. If they could be convinced that I had been supplanted, or absent, they may try again.”

Lord Ewen patiently walks the Lord Marshal through the notion of presenting the prisoners with someone pretending to be ineffectual and newly in charge of Caer Olokand. Lord Firith takes some time to warm to the idea, and then a slight, mischievous smile overtakes his features.

“It might just work, Lord Ewen,” he allows. “And I think I have just the fellow for the job ...”


Some time late that afternoon, prior to dinner, Sir Haldavis Legith, his boots shined and his soldier’s uniform freshly spiffed up, descends the steep stairs to the cells below the tower containing the warband leader Torvald Ironhead, Harbaalese prisoner of war. The knight is accompanied by the translator, Yurk, and two sullen tower guardsmen trailing behind. Torvald Ironhead does not look good, Sir Haldavis notes, and in fact does not smell any better than the overcrowded pigsty the castle bailey has become above.

Torvald rolls over, grimacing at the invasion of his solitude, but then appears to take some mild interest in the appearance of four persons at once outside the door of his filthy cell.

“Is this the prisoner, Torvald Ironhead?” Sir Haldavis asks rhetorically, projecting an unmistakable tone of outraged indignation. He waves his hand at the cell. “Why does he look so slovenly? This does not befit a man of his station!”

One of the guards shifts uncomfortably under the sudden barrage.

“Torvald Ironhead? Yurk, please introduce me. Tell him I am the Deputy Commander of the Oselmarch Army.”

Yurk dutifully begins translating. Torvald Ironhead slowly sits up, his eyes narrowed against the torchlight, as Yurk supplies the phrases in Ivinian.

“I have been brought here to rescue the situation in the north as best I can.” The knight gestures dramatically above his head. “Pigs everywhere, no order to the men, and prisoners in the dungeon who no one thinks to mention ...” Sir Haldavis is clearly beside himself with exasperation. He peers in at the prisoner. “How is your condition?”

Torvald responds with a slow growl, which Yurk translates as, “I’ll trade places with the pigs.”

The knight shakes his head, aghast. “I am not sure the men would prefer to eat you, and not the pigs. Have you had a bath?!” Before Torvald can answer, Sir Haldavis pivots to one to of the guards. “You there! Make sure hot water is brought for this man.” He turns back. “Yurk, ask Torvald how the food has been.”

Torvald spits. “You trade places with pigs. Food is less than pig slop.”

Sir Haldavis, scandalized, points to the bowl on the floor. “Is that pig slop?” It appears in the flickering light to be thin pottage. “Give me that bowl.”

Torvald, appearing now to be slightly entertained by the exchange, bestirs himself to thrust the encrusted bowl out between the bars.

Sir Haldavis snatches up the bowl, smells the contents, and screws his face up. He throws the bowl down at the foot of the first guard. “This is unworthy of this prisoner’s rank! After his bath, bring him the best portion of pork which we have.”

Yurk, glancing uncertainly at Sir Haldavis, translates all of this for the prisoner.

“You have been kept in this cell for a month,” Sir Haldavis observes, apparently shocked by the very barbarity of it. “Have you been able to exercise your legs? Have you had access to fresh air?”

Torvald assures him, through Yurk, that he has not.

Sir Haldavis radiates indignation. He flings a hand in the direction of the second guard. “You there! At dawn tomorrow, take the prisoner up to the outer bailey. He is to have a half hour to exercise. Observe him, and see that he gets fresh air. Yurk, tell the prisoner that I will see that he gets a half hour of exercise at dawn every day.”

Yurk burbles in rapid Ivinian for a moment as Torvald stares at him, obviously unsure what to make of these strange developments.

“Yurk, please ask the prisoner if he is a religious man.”

One of the guards fails to suppress an involuntarily snort, drawing a wrathful glare from Sir Haldavis.

Torvald Ironhead shrugs. “I honor the gray slayer, but not in excess.”

“Is there anything we can provide, to allow you to make your observances as you would like?”

“Axe.”

Sir Haldavis throw back his head and chuckles genially. “Well, I see they haven’t squashed your sense of humor! Torvald, Lord Ewen has been sent on other errands. One of my priorities is to arrange a prisoner exchange. We believe some of our men may be held by your forces. We hope, if we effect an exchange, that you will report favorably on the new leadership here.”

Torvald, considering this, smiles. “Happy to,” Yurk translates.

Sir Haldavis nods, gratified by this. “Enjoy your constitutional tomorrow morning.” He wheels on the guards. “You there! Now take me to the armory! I have to find out what happened to all those arrowheads that were supposed to have been delivered!”

Whether deliberately or not, Yurk translates this last bit into Ivinian as well. They all depart up the stairs, leaving Torvald Ironhead, standing nonplussed in his cell, plunged back into darkness.


Larane 10, 733

Sir Haldavis Legith, accompanied by Lord Ewen’s squire Goreg Ocazer and a half-dozen nondescript knights from the Oselmarch army, approaches the abandoned village of Halperin by mid-morning. They have found the road up from Caer Olokand to be fairly passable, it having finally begun to dry out following the recent rain. Goreg bears a miscellaneous standard flapping on a pole. It had been hauled up atop the castle that very morning for the benefit of their prisoner, blinking in the dawn light and wandering aimlessly around the outer bailey during his morning constitutional, and then promptly hauled back down and fixed upon the pole for the present bit of playacting.

It is clear as they ride up to Halperin that the vikings have not re-established their foothold on the east bank of the Kald. Peering across the river and along the bank on the Setrew side, Goreg counts only eleven warboats tied up, suggesting that two of the vessels are out or otherwise missing. Interesting, he thinks, Lord Ewen will want to know this. Surveying the Harbaalese activity on the western bank, it is difficult to tell if the viking numbers have changed since his last time here.

Sir Haldavis gestures at one of the knights, who is caught holding a battered trumpet which has been passed amongst them like a hot potato all morning. The knight grumbles. “Alright, I’ll blow your damned trumpet, but you're going to find something other than pork for me to eat…” He raises the instrument to his lips and smirks. “Ready to blow.”

Sir Haldavis ignores a derisive chuckle from one of the more fortunate knights and gives the signal.

The trumpet warbles, weakly at first and then stronger. With no evident response from the other side of the river, the poor knight sighs. Someone snickers. The trumpet warbles again.

A few of the vikings now wander over to the edge of the river. Sir Haldavis rides briskly to the front of his group and turns as Yurk, dismounted from behind another knight, comes up alongside him.

Sir Haldavis calls out loudly. “I present myself, Sir Haldavis Legith, Deputy Commander of the Oselmarch Army.”

Drawing a deep breath, Yurk shouts across the river in Ivinian, projecting his voice as best he can.

“We wish to negotiate over a prisoner exchange. Please send somebody who can speak to that matter.”

A few of the vikings look at each other, then one heads off to the castle.

Goreg nervously scans the landscape to their rear, concerned about the risk of an ambush despite the advantage of their mounts.

The warrior soon returns accompanied by another viking with a flamboyant mane of brilliant red hair. By the look of his gear, Goreg judges him to be of at least middling importance.

The redhead bellows a string of lusty Harbaalese, which Yurk translates as, “I am ready to receive any prisoners you wish to give back.”

“I am Sir Haldavis Legith, Deputy Commander of the Oselmarch Army. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

A small crowd of curious vikings have gathered on the far river bank.

“You may call me Red.” The viking warriors all chuckle at this witticism.

“We’ll then, Red, you should know that we have Torvald Ironhead at our castle, and he is being cared for most excellently.”

Red says something to the viking to his right, and then calls back across the river. “Well, good for him!”

Sir Haldavis takes this in stride. “We inquire after Sir Romlach Ethasiel, scion of this very keep.”

No response. Someone coughs.

“Do you have Sir Romlach there?”

“We have many prisoners here!” The red-headed viking’s expansive sweep of the arm is meant to include Setrew’s numerous captive peasants.

“We are interested in an exchange of worthies, Red. Surely Torvald Ironhead merits more than a few peasants.”

Red does not appear to be strongly moved by this logic. “If you wish to release him, we’ll take him back.”

“I hope you will see that we have not mistreated him. I am in charge of this district now. Some say I am too lenient, but you will find that this is not true.”

The sound of viking laughter greets Yurk’s translation.

“We’re sure that’s not the case, Deputy Commander. But if you want to trust us, send Torvald back, and then maybe we’ll ask about Sir Romlach.”

“Do I have your word that you have Sir Romlach, and he is well cared for?”

“He will be well cared for in the custom of our people.”

Sir Haldavis takes this offer at face value. “Perhaps I would be willing, in good faith, to release Torvald to you. This could be a prelude to further negotiations to stabilize conditions in this situation.”

Red hesitates, appearing to doubt the evidence of his ears, glances at several fellow vikings who are miming something off to his left, and then shrugs and throws his arms wide, calling back across the water. “A new day dawns!” Two of the vikings to his left appear to collapse for some unexplained reason on the river bank.

Sir Haldavis ignores it all, forging ahead earnestly. “If we released Torvald on this side of the river, would you be able to retrieve him?”

“Oh, yes. We have boats and all.”

“I am sure you are capable sailors. Perhaps we can trade stories about adventures at some future time.” Appearing satisfied with the state of these negotiations, Sir Haldavis makes ready to depart. “Look for us at noon tomorrow!”

He signals for the knight to warble a ceremonial goodbye on the trumpet, and the riders withdraw and make their way back to Olokand.


Larane 11, 733

Another warm and pleasantly overcast morning, with the same party as before departing at dawn to arrive south of Halperin well before the agreed-upon noon drop-off. Torvald Ironhead rides bound behind one of the knights. They draw up with Halperin still a good walk away, assist the viking warband leader to dismount, and then release him from his bonds.

Sir Haldavis, still playing his role, declaims as Yurk translates.

“Per the agreement I have with your flame-haired leader, I am releasing you here and you may walk to the docks. I am not so stupid as to release you there and be taken. We expect that you will bring Romlach tomorrow at the same time. If not, we will certainly have to factor that in.”

Torvald nods. “You’ll see him soon.” He hastily trudges away, hoofing the last half mile to Halperin. At a gesture from Sir Haldavis, a knight blows the trumpet and they return with haste to Olokand. It is only as they reach the bridge at Tentru that Goreg realizes, with a rueful grin, that the standard at the end of the pole has been flying upside down the whole time.

As they cross the bridge into Caer Olokand, they can just barely discern the distant sounds of an army on the march. The center elements of the royal army, it seems, has finally arrived.


Much fanfare greets the arrival of Queen Chelebin IV of Kaldor at her ancestral home of Olokand castle. The body of troops accompanying her, essentially an augmented contingent of the royal guard, is disappointingly small. Lord Ewen, cataloging the worthies as he and Lord Firith greet the royal party, observes that the Sheriff of Semethshire, Sir Rafe Delwarne, has also brought troops of his own at least. The Lord High Chamberlain, one of Orsin’s sisters, Lenera Firith, is by the Queen’s side. The Marshal of the High Guard, Sir Hedare Thaelbis, is a brother-in-law of Lord Prehil on his wife’s side, Lord Ewen recalls. The Lord Master Herald, Sir Migray Hosath, totters by. And the Queen’s household, of course, is attendant upon her grace, including the Lady Thilisa, Lord Ewen’s wife, one of the ladies in waiting. Rahel of Aerth, Lord Ewen’s half sister and lover, is along in her capacity as Master of Esoterica, accompanied by a pair of fellow arcanists: the well-upholstered rump of Aethel Atan hoves into view, as well as, last seen at Qualdris, Quillen of Rakot. The Thardan ambassador Sir Wesel Maytum is present as expected. No Laranian is in sight, Lord Ewen notes with interest. Once the procession has finally passed, Lord Ewen gives orders that a feast be prepared in honor of the Queen’s arrival at Olokand this very first time as monarch.

The next several hours turns the castle into a beehive of confusion and near collisions as various chests are brought in and incumbents are evicted from their quarters to make way for more exalted persons. At one point, in a corridor in the midst of it all, Lord Ewen is mildly surprised to find his own lady wife approaching him with an uncharacteristic smile adorning her aristocratic features.

Lady Thilisa responds to her husband’s small bow of greeting with a slight inclination of a curtsy, her smile actually softening of all things.

“Husband, I see I find you well.”

“You do indeed, my good wife. I hope I find in good health and spirits.”

“I am in both. Even more than that. I am in full measure pleased with the state of this kingdom.”

Given the general trend of recent events, Lord Ewen regards this statement with curiosity. “Having been in the field these several weeks, I am naturally eager to hear the state of the court and the kingdom at large.”

Lady Thilisa is focused on a more personal angle, however. “The news and rumors speak very well of your tenure here.”

“I am satisfied to hear it. We have been quite busy in the defense of this kingdom.”

“It sounds more like you are taking the war to the vikings.”

Lord Ewen nods. “I have been doing exactly that.”

“And then there is word of an un-late, and undoubtedly unlamented, father.” They both know Thilisa is referring to her own estranged parent, the Earl of Vemion. “It is rumored that he has seized Kyg.”

Lord Ewen raises an eyebrow in interest. The keep at Kyg, deep in the middle of Vemionshire, belongs to Troda Dariune.

“Has he indeed? And how has my lord the Earl of Balim responded to this?”

“To my knowledge, he hasn’t said anything. His cousin, who had been constable of the place, arrived in Tashal with a report. It has been very hush-hush since then.”

“Extraordinary.” Lord Ewen considers. “When did the constable arrive in Tashal?”

“Oh, some six or seven days ago. He was packed off to Balim House almost immediately.” She glances at the milling activity around them, the royal household settling into the cramped confines of the castle. “Speaking of packed off, I have had my things moved into your chamber.” She assays a coy smile. “After the feast this evening, to the victor go the spoils. Don’t be late.”

With that she sweeps away, leaving Lord Ewen standing in the corridor, astonished. He scarcely has time to recover when the Lord High Chamberlain materializes from the hubbub, wishing to know if Lord Ewen’s knights can double up to make room for the royal attendants.

Lord Ewen assents, having expected as much. “I will see to it.”

Lenera Firith nods briskly, then rather pointedly indicates that she disdains the innumerable pigs in the bailey.

Lord Ewen sighs. “We have been besieged twice thus far, Chamberlain, and the logistics of our provender unfortunately depend almost entirely upon the livestock in the bailey. What would you have me do with the innumerable pigs?”

She sniffs. “Slaughter and salt them all. And keep the blood for pudding.”

Given the number of swine involved, the suggestion is impractical. Lord Ewen opts not to say as much, making a mental note to give instructions to increase the rate of slaughter of the hogs, and to increase the frequency of muckraking as well. “As you say. I shall convey instructions.”

Lord Ewen is then saved by a close relative of the Chamberlain.

“AUNT LENERA! GOOD TO SEE YOU!”

“Prehil, dear, don’t shout.”

Lord Prehil lurches forward in amiable greeting, smelling strongly of alcohol. “I’M NOT SHOUTING!”

After the briefest of family interludes, the Chamberlain makes her hasty excuses and departs.

Sir Baris then comes tottering up the stairs, leaning against the stones to steady himself, utterly inebriated. Lord Ewen peers closely at the knight, who appears to have several items of his clothing reversed, while the remaining articles don’t seem to fit him at all.

“Shhh,” Sir Baris hisses loudly. “Don’t tell my wife I’m back!” Without waiting for a response, he crawls up the stairs to go sleep it off. Lord Prehil, watching, shakes his head in woozy disgust, and then withdraws as well.

“Howdy, neighbor.”

Lord Ewen turns. He is beginning to wonder if everyone in the castle has urgent business to transact with him, right there in the hallway, all to be completed within a span of fifteen minutes.

“Ah, Aethel,” he says. “For a man who enjoys the bounty of a well-provisioned board, I fear you are about to be disappointed by our hospitality at Olokand. I bid you greeting.”

“Well, I certainly hope not. The very smell of pork permeates the walls of the castle.”

“I am afraid it is soon to permeate every pore of your body.”

“That would be an expansive ham, indeed.” He smacks his capacious rump, as Aethel is wont to do.

Lord Ewen smiles thinly. “So tell me, Aethel, have you and your colleague moved on from your labors clogging up the ether to actually holding positions in the royal household?”

Aethel’s eyes widen. “Why, Ewen, I’m surprised at you. You should know I always hold a position in the royal household. I just don’t always fill it. As for Quillen, you would have to ask him.”

“Ah. Then how should I address you, Aethel?”

“Why, as you ever have.”

Lord Ewen wonders to himself, not for the first time, why it is that he invariably finds members of the Shek P’var tedious in the extreme. “You have arrived too late, I am afraid, to observe some interesting fireworks in the recent conflict. But perhaps there will be more excitement in the near future.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. I’d like to see you in action.”

“I wasn’t referring to myself, as it happens. Have you found accommodations here in the castle, or do you need any assistance?”

“No, I was able to get my own suite, immediately. Just as I left it. I must say, I wasn’t pleased to find the viking interloper in the adjoining chamber.”

Lord Ewen takes this oddity as par for the course. “Well now, that might make things somewhat malodorous for you. I wasn’t aware your quarters were located there.”

“No one is. That’s the beauty of it,” Aethel says complacently. “By the way, speaking of quarters. Astaroc sends his regrets, and wants you to know that if something untimely happens, he’s taking his house back.”

“Of course.” It is Lord Ewen’s turn to appear complacent. He smiles. “Astaroc. One of the more esteemed, and certainly one of the oldest, individuals who spend their time envisioning my demise.”

Aethel sighs. “Something tells me he’ll have to wait. Well. Until tonight.”

Lord Ewen offers a slight bow.

In response, Aethel Atan sketches an elaborate, sweeping courtier’s bow, doffing an invisible hat in the air with a flourishing flip of one long and elegant hand.


The young Queen enters the great hall for the evening’s feast with her uncle Orsin attending her. All of those assembled stand and shake the beams overhead with their hallooing. The Lord Marshal steps aside as the hall subsides. The Queen turns, her cheeks colored by a touch of pink and her eyes bright in the brilliant candlelight.

“My lords and ladies, I thank you. Pray be seated. Save for you, Lord Sheriff.”

Everyone sits as one, leaving Lord Ewen standing attentive.

“We wish to thank you publicly, in front of these assembled nobles, for your diligent, stalwart and imaginative defense of our realm. We understand that you have conjured up creatures out of legend, to create perhaps a new epic mythology for this, our kingdom. But we will not speak of it here. Trust that you have our thanks, which will be proven tangibly.”

Lord Ewen bows deeply. “I thank Your Grace.” The sheriff then takes his seat, and the Queen sits as well.

The meal proceeds, with a small amount of the dishes at the head table containing non-pork delicacies, while the rest of the room is elbow-deep in pork. The ale is plentiful and a great deal of wine evidently has been discovered in the Olokand cellars. After a time, Sir Haldavis takes the opportunity to seize a carafe and departs the hall, seeking out the two guards who assisted in his playacting the other day. The two are delighted to see the knight, having been good sports who seemingly took their late roles as a welcome change in their routine. The carafe is much appreciated.

After dinner, the Queen retires early but bids everyone to continue to enjoy themselves. Some moments later, Thilisa excuses herself, murmuring in passing her husband that she will “be about an hour”, and the ladies in waiting all withdraw as one. Lord Ewen retires to his chambers after an hour. There he finds his lady wife awaiting him, and much to his surprise the ensuing interaction is marked by an energy and fervor from the lady, of which their marital relations had previously been unacquainted.


Larane 12, 733

Lord Ewen, despite a late evening in his chambers, rises at dawn to inspect the battlements, accompanied by Sir Haldavis and Goreg. Intent on surveying the possible vikings routes of approach from the north, they check first the river side, and then work their way along the walls to the field side. The river is clear of anything concerning, a few shallops fishing in the early light. Atop the field battlement, they descry a small group: Orsin Firith and the Queen, and Rahel is there as well. Lord Orsin spots Lord Ewen with his one good eye, sketches a salute and points, as if to say, stay there. He turns to the Queen, completes an ongoing exchange with her, and the withdraws with a smart bow. He makes his way along the battlements to the apex of the wall’s curve, and on over to Lord Ewen’s position, while the Queen and Rahel descend to one of the towers.

“Good morning, Lord Marshal.” Lord Ewen has advanced some of the way to meet Firith, leaving Sir Haldavis and Goreg at a discreet distance.

“And to you, Sheriff. Out inspecting the defenses early in the morning. Commendable.”

“I see that her Grace the Queen takes an early and active interest in the defenses as well.”

“She’s a quick learner, that one. She has had success in the field, but siegecraft is new to her. I was pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of our defenses. I also briefed her on your little gambit, one designed to bring the vikings down upon us.”

“Excellent.”

“If they are to come, it will be soon. You said that there were eleven craft.”

“Two less than their full complement.”

“Hmm.” He scratches under the eyepatch. “Assuming sixty or so men to a boat, eleven boats aren’t enough, although it’s more men than we’ve got. Here’s the thing: the rule of thumb is three-to-one to attack a castle, so they don’t have the troops to do it. Now, if they have more than we think, they might be able to do it… They came by land twice before.”

“Yes.”

“That’s because they can’t transport enough troops by boat. Therefore, that’s exactly what I think they are going to do. Come by boat, and come by night. Not that we shouldn’t keep our eye open during the day, mind you. I think they’ll come by a way not expected, and at a time not expected, because they think the castle is weakly held. We need to make sure they can’t scout and find out that we are more than we were. I’m going to take a small mounted force north towards Satelton to act as a tripwire.”

Lord Ewen indicates that Captain Thorp’s men are currently split, deployed forward on either side of the river.

“Very fine move on your part, but we have more troops to work with now. Send the five horsemen on this side to join their compatriots on the east side of the river. If a viking force coming from Setrew is large enough, I will withdraw, if small I will engage them and drive them back. Your light horse squadron should behave the same way. If they see boats, half the squadron rides like hell for Olokand and gives the warning, while the remainder shadow the boats on the river. Either way, if they come by land or boat, we get advanced warning by night or day.”

The sheriff nods.

“One more thing. Well, two more. The forces are becoming patchwork. Your Ternuan troops, which by the way I notice are a lot for a barony, then the troops of the shrievalty. Then my troops. Now we have the royal guard, plus a few others. Like I said, a patchwork. None will know what to do in an emergency, who goes where, nor follow orders from someone who they are not used to. The Queen orders that there must be a clear chain of command. Well, she can order what she pleases, but I as Lord Marshal I am in overall command. You, as Sheriff of Meselyneshire, are second in command. And Hedare Thaelbis, as Marshal of the Royal Guard, is third. Everyone else delegates from us.”

“I understand, Lord Marshal.”

“While I am gone, I want you to determine who commands where: walls, river wall, town, keep, which troops are assigned where, what they are expected to do.”

“Understood."

“I’m sure you are up to it. One last thing. And I mean it this time.” He directs his unpatched eye in the direction of Sir Haldavis and Goreg, judges the distance to be secure, and then continues. “I’m sure by now you have heard the there has been some trouble in Vemionshire.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t need to tell you, this is the last thing Kaldor needs.”

“My very thought.”

“We tried to keep it within a select group in the know. But you need to be one of them, if only because the son of a bitch is your father-in-law.”

Orsin eyes Ewen, and then continues, gazing into the distance.

“Not everyone was happy with the resolution to the succession crisis. Among those was Tulath Kaphin, who thought he would be king himself. So he threw in his lot with Vemion instead. And then Vemion seized Kyg, a castle of Lord Balim’s. And there is Pendeth. And there’s whatever the Baron of Nenda is doing.”

The Lord Marshal hesitates, his voice lowered to a growl. “Here’s the thing. None of this would matter much, except for this. And almost nobody knows.”

Orsin glances around them, and then fixes Ewen with his gaze.

“Haldan III has escaped. We don’t know where he is. We don’t know what he’s doing. Even if he’s in a rational state of mind. It’s possible he might have made his way to Vemion, in hopes of restoring himself to the throne.”

Orsin grits his teeth, his words grating and harsh.

“And if that has happened, there’s no telling how many heads will end up in baskets.”