The Sword Of Angels

27

Night draped its dark arm across the Novo Valley. From a hillside by the river Kryss, Aric Glass watched the distant campfires wink to life. He had ridden hard by the last light of the sun, trotting quickly through the valley as dusk descended, but when at last he saw the camp of Raxor’s men he paused, reining back his lathered mount to marvel at the army. It had grown, the rumours had claimed, and Aric could see the veracity of those claims now, for the Reecian army stretched like the tail of a dragon across the Novo Valley, that great weary expanse of grassland that rested between Liiria and Reec. Divided by the river Kryss, the Novo Valley had long been the sight of numerous battles between the two nations, its trees fed by the blood of both sides. Now, with Raxor’s brooding army bedding down, Aric could see another feast of blood festering.

The road from Nith had been long and hard, and Aric Glass had not slept for days, not since he’d heard the news of Raxor’s growing force. In Norvor he had followed the Kryss north, occasionally crossing the river at its periodic bridges to enter Liiria. Without a genuinely safe route north, Aric had lived on his wits to avoid being discovered, stopping along the way at small villages to rest himself and hear the gossip of peasants, all of whom repeated the same ominous tale. The Reecian army was growing, they had said, waiting on the border for the battle with Liiria. Aric Glass let his eyes linger on the sight. In the gathering darkness he saw men and horses moving through the camp and fires coughing up sparks. He saw the armoured wagons lined up in long rows, their metal-covered hides studded with rivets, their sides cut with arrow loops for the soldiers inside. A company of horsemen drilled upon their splendid mounts, bearing spears with feathers and sporting gleaming Reecian armour. Stableboys and squires darted through the dirty lanes. Aric tried to number them, supposing at least a thousand men had come to face his father. Impressed, he rolled his head along his soldiers, stretching his tired muscles and hearing them pop. To the west lay Liiria, his homeland, shrouded in the coming night, hiding his father and his dark designs. Aric Glass peered closely through the valley and could not see any army gathering to oppose the Reecians.

The silence made him uneasy.

‘Father, what is your game?’

In Koth, miles away, his father Baron Glass brewed a poison potion for the Reecians. Aric knew this with certainty. Yet he could see no evidence of it in the quiet Novo Valley, only the Reecians and their army and the rolling river Kryss that divided the two lands. Unnerved, Aric hesitated. He had come so far to meet King Raxor and deliver the message of Prince Daralor, and only fate had steered him here, to this unexpected army. In the villages they had said that Raxor himself was coming to join the battle, and now that he could see the king’s army Aric no longer doubted this. Still, he had expected to ride to Hes to find the King, a prospect that would have added days to his journey.

Am I ready? he wondered.

Along the way he had rehearsed his words many times. He had practiced and was pleased with himself, but now his mouth dried up and his stomach pitched with nerves. How could he convince anyone to join with Daralor? The man was shunned by the rest of the world, a pariah among kings. For years he had kept his little principality safe from the storms on the continent, avoiding contact with outsiders and sending away foreign emissaries. But Daralor had courage, like the Reecians, and it was that lone similarity that had convinced Aric to take up his mission.

He’s there, Aric told himself, staring at the Reecian camp. Raxor.

The air around the camp seemed charged. Only a king could make the air tremble. Aric considered the danger, the very real possibility of his imprisonment. He was the son of Reec’s greatest enemy. Surely that might earn him a rope at the gallows.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he whispered.

It was a lie, but it made him feel better. Taking a breath, he took hold of the reins again and steered his horse onward, toward the Reecian camp. Quickly the gelding picked up speed as it hurried down the slope, and Aric Glass did nothing to slow it. Determined, he let the horse take him straight toward the heart of the camp, until at last he approached the outer perimeter where men on guard duty patrolled with spears. Aric could smell the powerful smoke and the dung of horses. The distant guards, bored and talking among themselves, seemed not to notice him as just one more horseman trotted toward camp. Wearing armour and red capes against the chill, the men ignored the cavalrymen drilling nearby as the sounds of Aric’s own horse were drowned by the pounding hooves of the parading teams. Aric sat up tall in his saddle, trying to look unthreatening, and trotted up to a pair of weary-looking guards, who at last turned to regard him.

‘Hello,’ Aric called to them, putting up his hand. He slowed his horse just a bit. ‘May I come forward?’

The guards blinked in confusion. ‘Who are you?’

‘A messenger,’ Aric replied. ‘I have business with your king.’ From the corner of his eye, Aric watched as a pair of cavalrymen quickly broke ranks with their team, spinning their horses toward him. For the moment he tried to ignore them. ‘This is the camp of Raxor, yes? I would speak to him.’

The guards looked stunned. One of them stepped forward, spear in hand. ‘Stay where you are,’ he warned, ‘and tell us what this business is.’

Aric eased back on his horse, bringing it to a stop. The two horsemen were coming forward now, one a furious looking man with shocking red hair, the other older and more seasoned looking. The younger, red-haired man quickly took the lead, galloping forward then jerking his horse to a stop between Aric and the guards.

‘Who are you?’ he barked.

He stared demandingly at Aric. Tall and thin, his cape was grand, trimmed with gold and silver threads. His horse wore armour over its flanks and face, snorting with the same anger as its master. Just his presence made Aric pale.

‘I’m a messenger,’ Aric repeated, not sure how much to reveal or how long he could keep up the pretense. ‘I have come to speak to King Raxor.’

‘No one speaks to the king, especially not a boy,’ said the red-head. He peered through the darkness, at last noticing Aric’s battered uniform. ‘And a Liirian!’ The man glanced at his older comrade, who seemed equally confused. ‘You’re a Liirian?’

‘Yes,’ Aric admitted. ‘A Royal Charger.’

‘There are no Royal Chargers,’ said the older man. From his place atop his horse he looked Aric up and down. ‘They’re all gone now.’

‘No, not all of them are gone,’ said Aric. ‘I am a Royal Charger, Sir. And I’m not one of Baron Glass’ men. I’ve come from someplace else.’

‘Are you one who fought at the library?’ the old soldier asked. There was a measure of respect in the question.

‘Aye, Sir, I am,’ Aric replied. ‘I fought under Breck at the battle of Koth.’

‘And now you’re here to see my father?’ the red-haired man burbled. ‘Why?’

‘As I said, I bear a message,’ said Aric. Immediately he knew who he was addressing. Like most Liirians, he had heard the name Roland the Red. ‘Prince Roland, what I have to say to your father is greatly important. If he is here. .’

‘You know who I am,’ said Roland, puffing a little. ‘Whatever you have to tell the king you can tell to me.’

Aric avoided his traps. ‘I should tell it to both of you, I think.’

Roland grinned. ‘You task me, boy. Give me your name.’

It was the question Aric dreaded. ‘Aric Glass,’ he said, then waited for the storm to come.

‘Aric. .?’ Roland looked again at his comrade, this time in disbelief. ‘Aric Glass?’ he sputtered. ‘Aric Glass?’

‘The son of Thorin Glass, yes,’ said Aric. He watched as the faces of the men twitched. ‘Prince Roland, I’m here because I have important news for your father, news about my own father that might help all of us. Please, I’ve ridden for weeks looking for help. If I can have an audience with the king-’

‘For what reason?’ asked Roland sharply. ‘You’re the son of Baron Glass.’

‘It’s not a ploy,’ said Aric, bracing himself. ‘Sir, I’ve come from Nith. I’ve come with a message from Prince Daralor to your father. I’m on your side in this, believe me.’

Roland put his hand to the pommel of his sword. ‘And I’d be a fool to let a snake into camp, boy.’

‘Prince Roland, please listen to me. I need to see your father.’

‘You are seeing me,’ said Roland, his ire growing. ‘Tell me what your business is. What is this message from Nith?’

There was enough steel in his words to make Aric ease back. He had seen men like Roland before — quick to anger, needing to prove himself. He had given himself away with every poorly chosen word. Risking Roland’s wrath, Aric shook his head.

‘I can only give my message to the king,’ he said. ‘It’s just by good fortune that I find him here. I was on my way to Hes to speak to him.’

Prince Roland turned an apple shade of scarlet. He started to speak, then caught himself as he noticed his men looking at him. Finally, the older man spoke again.

‘Your father will want to speak to him,’ he said to Roland easily. His tone was practiced. ‘Let the boy deliver his message.’

Roland smiled crookedly at the older man. ‘Is that what he would want, Craiglen? Then my father should have what he wants, shouldn’t he? He’s the king, after all.’

The man called Craiglen turned from the prince and ordered the guards to stand aside. To Aric he said, ‘Dismount. My men will take your horse.’

Aric did as ordered, and the guards came forward to take his mount. The older soldier then dismounted himself, handing off his own horse, and called to other guards who had gathered nearby to listen. These men surrounded Aric at his order. Prince Roland, still upon his horse, gazed down imperiously at Aric, yet nevertheless looked out of place.

‘Are you coming?’ Craiglen asked him.

Roland grimaced, then finally got down off his own horse. It shocked Aric how much things were out of his hands. Even the low ranking guards looked to Craiglen for direction.

‘Follow me,’ Roland said, then led the way into the heart of camp.

Surrounded by armed men, Aric followed the prince, stepping into the perimeter to the stares of dumbstruck soldiers. The men who had first greeted him led away their horses, and soon Aric was engulfed by the camp. He studied the war machines the Reecians had brought with them, the armoured wagons and carts laden with weapons. A few burly, bare-chest men sweated with an enormous catapult, cursing as they refitted its splines. Horse dung littered the ground, though gaggles of stableboys worked gamely to clean it, and men in armour and scarlet capes gathered around campfires to talk and laugh, falling quiet as Prince Roland passed. It took long minutes to cross the camp, and every step impressed Aric. King Raxor was taking no chances. Whatever his motives, he intended to win against the Liirians.

But Aric knew how impossible that was. Raxor might be brave and have an army with him, but he didn’t know what he was up against, or the sheer power of the Devil’s Armour. To think of it made Aric forlorn.

At last they came to the far end of the camp, where a pavilion stood alone and the camp fires had thinned. Here, more of the guards greeted them, though these were more alert than the ones who’d greeted Aric. Standing at attention, their uniforms crisp and clean, they glared at Aric as he approached, at once sensing the stranger in their midst. Prince Roland exchanged a few words with them, mostly ordering them to step aside. Backing up the prince’s order was Craiglen, who nodded at the guards. The guards parted reluctantly, letting all of them pass. Aric looked around and saw that more soldiers milled near the grand tent. Huge dogs — mastiffs by the looks of them — were chained to posts near the fire. Soldiers tossed them meat. Others groomed the howling beasts. Aric noticed another campfire, this one apart from all the others. A single man enjoyed the fire, surrounded by unleashed dogs. The dogs knelt dutifully by him as he went from one to the other, giving each of them treats and patting their heads. He was an old man, older than Craiglen, dressed in a long coat with a collar of wolf fur. Though he stooped to tend his pets, Aric could tell he was enormous. Except for his head, his entire body was draped by the dark coat, his hands and feet shielded in black leather as well. Enamoured of his dogs, he seemed not to notice the approaching men. The group paused just outside the light of his fire. Prince Roland stepped forward.

‘Father,’ he said, ‘someone is here for you.’

King Raxor didn’t bother lifting his head. ‘Who?’

‘A messenger. A boy named Aric Glass.’

The distracted king took a moment before he realized what had been said. He turned to look at Roland, then straight at Aric. Their eyes met, making Aric shrivel. Raxor had been legend once, a warrior of great renown, and had lost little of his ability to intimidate.

‘Glass?’ said the king.

Craiglen stepped forward. ‘My lord, this is Baron Glass’ son. He has come with a message from Prince Daralor of Nith.’

‘I am more amazed each time someone speaks! Nith, you say?’ The old king examined Aric. ‘And this is the Black Baron’s son?’ He laughed. ‘It’s a day of miracles.’

‘This isn’t a joke, Father,’ said Roland. ‘He claims he’s the son of Thorin Glass.’

‘I have never seen a son of Thorin Glass and would not know him if I did,’ said Raxor. He took a bit of meat from the bag at his belt and tossed it to one of his mastiffs, then frowned at Aric. ‘A trick? Because I expect tricks from you Liirians, boy.’

‘No,’ Aric assured him. ‘It’s no trick, my lord. I am who I claim.’

‘You’re wearing the uniform of a Royal Charger,’ Raxor commented. ‘The Royal Chargers are dead.’

‘He says he fought with Breck at the library,’ said Craiglen.

‘It’s true,’ said Aric. ‘I am not an ally of my father, my lord.’

‘Why were you in Nith?’ asked Roland. ‘No one goes to Nith.’

‘I went to ask their help against my father,’ Aric said. ‘I went to all the kings of the southern lands, and everyone turned me down. Except Prince Daralor.’ He looked at Raxor earnestly. ‘My lord, he’s the only one besides you who understands the danger. I went to Marn and Farduke and even the Viscount of Lonril, and all of them sent me away.’

Raxor looked intrigued. ‘But not Daralor?’

‘How do we even know you are who you claim?’ argued Roland.

Raxor nodded. ‘My son makes a point, boy. You say you went to Nith to ask aid against your father? Why would you do such a thing?’

‘Unless he’s just a traitor,’ sneered Roland. ‘Maybe you want gold to sell out your own flesh? I would believe that of a Glass.’

The insult riled Aric, but he let it pass. ‘I’m not a traitor,’ he said evenly. ‘I loved my father once. I still do. But he’s not my father anymore. He’s been corrupted by the armour he wears.’

Raxor’s eyebrows shot up at once. ‘You know about his armour?’

‘Yes,’ said Aric. ‘Not much, but enough to know what a danger it is. It’s a magical thing, my lord, a weapon made by an ancient magician.’

‘We know this,’ said Roland. ‘Tell us something useful.’

‘I can tell you that I’ve seen my father in battle,’ Aric shot back. ‘I’ve seen what the armour has done to him, and what it can do to an army like yours. That’s why I went to Nith and the others. None of you alone are strong enough to stand against him.’

‘An alliance? Is that what Daralor proposes?’ asked Raxor.

‘Yes,’ said Aric. ‘My lord, Prince Daralor knows of this army you’ve massed on the border. He honours what you’re doing here. He told me that you’re the only brave king left on the continent, and to be true I think he’s right. All the others want to wait and see. They’re not willing to join up and face down my father.’

Roland grimaced at this. ‘They want others to do their work for them.’

‘That’s right,’ admitted Aric. ‘But Daralor is ready to fight with you, if you’ll have him.’

One of Raxor’s mastiffs came to stand beside him then. The old king patted the dog’s head, commanding it to sit. He stared pensively at the beast for a moment, his lower lips disappearing.

‘Can you imagine how this sounds to me, boy?’ he sighed. ‘How do I know that anything you’ve said is true? You come into my camp, you make fantastic claims and ask me to trust you. But what proof have you brought with you?’

Aric patted his pockets remembering the note Daralor had penned for him. He looked sheepishly at the king.

‘In my saddlebags there is a letter from Daralor,’ he said. ‘To you, my lord, written in his own hand and sealed with his own seal. Your soldiers have my horse.’ He looked around frantically. ‘If I could get it. .’

Raxor held up his hand. ‘I’ll see your letter in time, boy. What else have you brought?’

Aric shrugged. ‘Nothing. Just my own tired self.’

Roland was unmoved, but Craiglen looked sympathetically at his king. Aric hurried to explain himself.

‘My lord, I have been on the road since the fall of Koth, knocking on doors like a beggar, trying to get people to listen to me. I’ve explained myself a thousand times. I can show you my blisters, but that’s about all. I am Aric Glass, son of Thorin. And believe it or not, I’m here to help you.’

‘Look around, boy,’ directed Roland. ‘We have an army of our own.’

‘I have seen it,’ said Aric. ‘It won’t be enough.’

Roland turned to his father. ‘He tricks us. Send him to Asher to see what he knows and let’s be done with him.’

‘Asher?’ Aric probed.

‘Our interrogator,’ said Roland with an ugly grin. ‘At least then we’ll get the truth from you.’

‘But I have told you the truth!’

‘And I believe you,’ said King Raxor. ‘I do, boy. Be at ease.’

‘Father. .’

‘Quiet,’ Raxor ordered his son. He knelt down next to his heeling dog, running his wrinkled fingers over its black scalp. ‘You’ve been honest with us, Aric Glass. I can tell that about you, at least. I don’t know what motivates you to betray your father. It doesn’t matter I suppose. So let me be honest with you — we have already sent word to your father to talk. We don’t want war, and we’re only here to protect ourselves. Somehow I have to convince your father of that.’

‘It won’t be easy, my lord,’ said Aric. ‘As I said, the armour has changed him. He doesn’t reason the way a normal man does. There’s a demon in the armour that possess him.’

‘A demon?’ said Raxor with disgust. ‘Black magic from the desert lands.’

‘Has he replied to you yet, my lord?’

‘No.’ Raxor stood. ‘It’s been three days and still no word. He plays games with us.’

‘He means to intimidate us,’ said Roland. ‘Every day his army grows. Our spies have seen it.’

‘But he hasn’t moved troops to the border,’ Craiglen pointed out. ‘Perhaps that is hopeful.’

Raxor looked at Aric. ‘Is it hopeful, boy?’

Aric thought for a moment, unsure how to answer. Growing up, his father had been a gentle man. A taskmaster at times, but kind enough to his sons. What happened to that kindness, Aric wondered? Had Kahldris devoured it all?

‘My father cannot be trusted,’ said Aric. ‘The demon that controls him will not let him rest. I have seen the things my father has done. The man who raised me would never have done those things, like betray his friends at the library or join with Norvor.’ The dark seemed to settle over Aric as he spoke. ‘There were hundreds of men at the library, and they all thought my father would help them. He came with promises and made us all believe in him. And then he betrayed us to side with Jazana Carr. He and his men killed Breck. He tried to kill Lukien, his best friend. No, my lord, I don’t trust my father. And neither should you.’

Prince Roland seemed stunned by Aric’s admission. Like Raxor and Craiglen, he was quiet. The guards kept their eyes to the ground. Even the dogs fell silent. Aric waited for someone to speak.

‘Roland, Craiglen, leave me with the boy,’ ordered Raxor.

Roland turned to him. ‘Father?’

‘Let me talk to him alone. Please, all of you go.’

Craiglen hesitated, then carefully touched Prince Roland’s arm. Roland hesitated, but a glare from his father changed his mind. Craiglen ordered the guards to step back, out of earshot, but to keep on eye on the Liirian. When they all had gone, leaving only Raxor and Aric in the light of the campfire, Raxor went back to his dogs. The old king smiled forlornly as he fed the beasts treats from his pockets. Confused, Aric watched silently as the mastiffs ate.

For a long time King Raxor ignored Aric, but Aric could tell the old man was thinking. Tonight, a lot had landed in his lap. He fed his mastiffs one by one, sometimes scratching them or checking their ears. And when at last he had run out of treats he stood and faced Aric. The king shrugged.

‘So, your father has trapped me,’ he said. ‘You have seen that, yes?’

‘My lord? I’m sorry, I don’t take your meaning.’

‘I had to come here, Aric Glass. I had to defend what is ours, what we fought for over too many years. Your father knows that. He has trapped me. He wants this war, I fear.’

‘I think you’re right,’ said Aric. ‘But you don’t have to accommodate him.’

‘I do. That’s something I have to do, you see. I don’t want to be here, but I must because honour demands it. I cannot let your father take the Kryss from us, if that is his design. I cannot yield an inch of Reecian land. My son — he’s anxious for this battle. I’m sure you’ve already seen what a fool he can be.’

Aric smiled at the king. ‘I’d rather not say, my lord.’

Raxor answered him with a grin. ‘These men who’ve come here — they came because of me. They’ll fight because they’re loyal to me, no matter what your father and his whore-queen throw at us. But Roland. .’ The king grimaced. ‘He doesn’t inspire them. And so I’m here, an old man in the cold, fighting a battle he’s desperate to avoid.’

‘Maybe you can avoid it, my lord.’ Aric went closer, sensing his need. ‘If you join with Prince Daralor, others might join as well. And then my father might be convinced to stop with Liiria and leave Reec alone.’

Raxor shook his head. ‘It’s too late for that. I’ve sent my message to your father. It’s time to talk. Or to fight.’

‘And what if he chooses to fight? What then? He has the Devil’s Armour, and the fortune of Jazana Carr. ‘

‘We’ll defend what is ours,’ Raxor assured him.

‘My lord, you mustn’t fight,’ Aric warned. ‘No matter what my father says or doesn’t say, no matter what he replies to your message, you can’t fight him because you can’t win.’

‘Can’t?’ Raxor gave a sceptical laugh. ‘I have enough men here to defend the border, boy. I may not win, but I don’t plan on losing, either.’

‘My lord is mistaken,’ said Aric. ‘My father is invincible in his armour. You won’t be able to stop him.’

‘Boy, he is but one man! An army cannot stop him? You think too much of this armour he wears.’ The king eyed him shrewdly. ‘If you have secrets you’re not telling me, I can get them out of you. Roland was right about Asher — he can make you talk.’

The threat came impotently from Raxor’s mouth. Aric could tell he didn’t mean it.

‘I’ll tell you anything I can about the armour, my lord. What little I know is yours.’

‘I’ve heard things about it,’ said Raxor. ‘From. . people.’ He shrugged. ‘Rumours, mostly. No one seems to know much about it.’

‘It’s a mystery, even to me. Even to my father, I think,’ said Aric. ‘We talked about it once, before he went over to Jazana Carr. He said it made him strong, made him whole again. He said it was magic.’

Raxor nodded. ‘Yes. I have heard this.’ His eyes grew distant and he looked away, surveying his camp but not really seeing. ‘I have a woman back in Hes,’ he said.

Surprised, Aric replied, ‘Yes, my lord?’

‘She’s young and more beautiful than you can imagine, Aric Glass. She makes me feel like a whole man when I am with her. That is how your father feels in his armour. I know it. I know what it is like to get old.’

The sadness in his voice struck Aric. ‘Yes. That is how my father feels. You’re lucky, my lord, to have such a woman.’

‘Not luck. I have made her care about me. But I want to go back to her.’ Catching himself, Raxor straightened abruptly. ‘What you’re asking is impossible, Aric Glass. I cannot run from this fight.’

‘But you can wait, surely. Unless my father crosses the Kryss, you can wait. And you can join with Prince Daralor and give me some time. Maybe others will join if they see that you have joined, my lord.’

‘Who will join us? The cowards of Marn? They have already sent you away, boy.’ Raxor set his jaw. ‘This is our fight, a Reecian fight. We will settle old scores with Baron Glass, if that’s what he wishes.’

Aric felt the hope drain out of him. ‘I beg you not to do this, my lord. Don’t fight my father unless you have a death wish.’

‘I should be insulted by that,’ Raxor warned. ‘But I assure you, I want to live and go back to Hes to see my woman again. I’ve brought an army to secure that future, and I don’t think any man — demon driven or not — can stand against an army.’

‘My father can,’ said Aric. ‘The Devil’s Armour can.’

‘Tantalizing hints,’ growled Raxor. ‘That’s all I hear about this armour. I will find out for myself if that’s what it takes.’

‘I wish I could tell you more. All I know is what I’ve seen.’ Aric held his breath a moment. ‘Except for one more thing, my lord.’

Raxor stopped fidgeting. ‘What?’

‘There is something else I haven’t yet told you, another reason for you to wait. There may be a way to defeat my father and his armour.’

‘Then tell me what it is!’

‘It’s nothing you can do, my lord. It’s a sword. A special sword called the Sword of Angels.’

Raxor rolled his eyes. ‘More magic?’

‘Lukien is questing for it, my lord. It is said to be the only way of defeating the Devil’s Armour.’

‘I know Lukien,’ drawled Raxor. ‘Too well. You’re asking me to trust another enemy.’

‘I’m asking you to wait, my lord. Just wait. If Lukien finds the sword-’

‘It’s nonsense, Aric Glass! There is not a suit of armour in the world that can save a man from a thousand knives. The Bronze Knight wastes his time. He should find himself an army instead of searching for a sword.’

‘He had an army, my lord,’ Aric reminded him. ‘I was part of it.’

‘And you lost. I know. But I cannot wait. It won’t be magic that saves us from Baron Glass, young Aric. It will be Reecian blood.’

The king was done talking. Aric could hear his finality.

‘So I’ve come this way for nothing,’ said Aric wearily.

‘You did what you were supposed to do. You have delivered your message.’

‘To no good at all,’ keened Aric. He shook his head in defeat. ‘I’m sorry for you, my lord. Prince Daralor was right — you are a brave man. The Chargers at the library were brave too.’

‘You mean to frighten me, boy? I am already frightened.’ Raxor eyed his quiet pavilion. ‘I’m tired. I want to sleep now. You have a decision to make, Aric Glass. What will you do now?’

‘I can’t go back to Liiria, my lord. If you will have me, I would rather stay and wait for my father’s reply to you.’

‘And then?’

‘That’s up to you,’ Aric told him. ‘It’s all up to you, my lord.’

Alone in the firelight, the two men fell silent. A mastiff snuffled its fleshy jowls, looking questioningly at its master. King Raxor searched his pocket for a treat, forgetting it was empty. The dog barked unhappily. Raxor snapped at it to be quiet and tugged his coat around his neck. He told Aric to have the guards find him shelter for the night, then turned and walked toward his lonely pavilion.