From Tylen’s seated position he looked over to the far corner of his cell and watched as shadows danced a stately waltz across the intersection of stonewall and dingy floor. The air was filled with dark aromas wafting from a slow burning torch placed just out of sight of the prison bench. The bench was crudely crafted from rotten pine planks held together with wooden wedges and frayed ropes; it bowed dangerously close to cracking under his weight.

Tylen did not have much experience with prisons. His court duties occasionally required him to tour them, but it was mostly a cursory affair, which was performed to offer assurance to the wardens and bestow fear in the hearts of the convicts. He never had much reason to pay attention to the accommodations. The convicts would kneel on the charcoal floors and silently beg him for mercy with their eyes as he passed. Tylen did not think of himself as a man without compassion, but at the time he believed convicts to be wicked people, unworthy of his sympathy or understanding. The thought never crossed his mind that he would one day be such a prisoner.

The ironic smile that had formed on his face was chased away by the sound of approaching footsteps. Two jailers flanked by a well-dressed man came into view down the hall. Tylen rose from his bench and stood before the barred entrance to the cell.

The three men walked quickly down the hall until they reached his cell. After halting before the cell, the thinner of the two jailers performed a sweeping bow in Tylen’s direction. “I greet the high and powerful Chancellor,” he mocked, “all bow before the sword of the empire.” He laughed and gave an exaggerated wink in the direction of the well-dressed man.

The man looked shocked at the jailer’s greeting. He raised his hand as if to scold him, but then thinking better of it, turned and faced Tylen. The well-dressed man was short and stout. The white tunic he wore was tucked loosely into close-fitting black trousers. Over his shoulder was draped a burgundy cape with the corners clasped together by a golden sun with a ruby eye in its center. His face was drawn and weathered, but still strong. He held a parchment roll in his right fist and his left hand caressed a dagger hanging on leather straps from his belt.

“Chancellor, I bring the Duke’s greetings,” the short man announced. His voice was deeper than his stature would suggest and had a cool, sickly-sweet cadence. Tylen did not recognize him from court, which meant either he was newly hired by the Duke or was a borrowed messenger here on other business.

“His highness is most distressed by the unfortunate turn of events. He has asked me to deliver this message to you and await your reply.” The man reached his right hand between the cell bars.

Tylen examined the parchment carefully, clearing his mind and carefully calling upon his arts to trigger the message without touching it. He remembered all to clearly what happened the last time he had physically opened a message from the Duke.

As he concentrated, the parchment began to glow an electric blue. The messenger pulled his hand back, leaving the parchment suspended in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Tylen saw the emaciated jailer back away from the cell. Not many people are trained in the art of reading, and the jailer was having second thoughts about his insolent greeting.

Tylen has always enjoyed reading. When a message is well written, as all the Duke’s messages are, the effort required to trigger it is slight. The parchment began to hum softly as he finished casting the remote trigger. After a couple of moments, the Duke’s voice echoed through the prison.

“Ser Tylen, what you have done is unforgivable.” The Duke’s voice was deep and commanding. When he spoke there was no question that his orders would be obeyed. Only part of his authority stemmed from his powerful charisma. Unknown to most of his people, part of his persuasive power was the result of training. Although he was not born incredibly gifted in the art, he was an apt student who mastered all that he was capable of learning. It had served him well in his rule and now added credence to his message.

“The laws of state were set down before my ancestors claimed the throne. They are adjudicated by the Council of Existence and therefore cannot be broken,” the Duke proclaimed. After a slight pause he added quietly, “not even for a friend.”

“In accordance with the laws set down by my predecessors I, Duke of Myr, sentence you for the crime of treason to be stripped of your title and hanged until dead. The sentence to be carried out by my new Chancellor, Ser Thomle, two weeks hence.” The parchment ceased glowing and fell to the ground in a soft clatter.

Both guards looked toward the messenger, whose face now had a dark cast. They both bowed to the messenger. “Greetings to the high and powerful Chancellor. All bow before the sword of the empire.”

Chapter 1

The sun formed an angry semicircle on the center of the oval table as its last rays glowed crimson through the heavy glass window overlooking the proceedings. Floating over the finished rosewood table was an animated depiction of the castle and its surrounding lands. The siege army could be seen lighting fires and preparing for the impending evening. The fires themselves were no larger than flickering points, and the soldiers appeared like ants laboring around them.

Baern looked around the table. Every chair was filled and at least one and sometimes two servants knelt behind each one awaiting their master’s bidding. Baern smiled as he listened to the general speak. The general was a soldier and Baern thought little of their kind.

“The attack must be made soon!” General Tielm slapped his chubby hand on the table to emphasize his statement. His tunic was stained with the remains of his evening meal and his pig-like eyes darted around the table as he attempted to gauge his support on this issue.

Although Baern disliked the general, he nodded his head in agreement. Every day that they waited the attacking army was better fortifying itself against counterattack. Baern was disturbed at the general’s insight. It was unlike the general to propose a course of action unless he benefited somehow. Such was the problem with soldiers. But then Baern remembered that the general’s real concern would be the gold required to hire the knights. The more the Duke spent on real men, the less he could spend on his soldiers.

Baern stood up to get a better look at the floating army. The image flickered slightly and Baern glanced annoyingly over to where the conjuror was seated. He was dressed in flowing green robes, as most of his kind favored, with sweat spots darkening the areas under his arms and down his chest. At the moment he was engaged in a whispered conference with his apprentice, a small boy who wore only a pair of badly cut canvas trousers.

Baern returned his gaze to the conjured scene. He studied the image for a couple of moments and then looked up. The members of the table looked expectedly at him. “The general is right, the time for attack is now. If we wait too much longer the enemy will have finished digging trenches here,” Baern caught the conjuror’s eye and he felt a wetness ooze in his head. After a moment the area Baern was thinking of was outlined in a mustard yellow. Baern continued his lecture, pointing out the enemy’s defensive strengths and their likely progress over the next couple of days.

After Baern concluded his lecture and sat down, Sem, the Duke’s son, spoke up. He was wearing a coat of well-oiled leather, studded with silver spikes. At the top of the armor was an iron collar, from which his skinny neck poked through, supporting a large and ugly head. “Yes, Sir Baern, I understand their positions, but wouldn’t it be wise to wait until after we negotiated with them?” He fidgeted with the straps of his coat. “Perhaps a ten-day from now? Or a moon, at the most?” His voice cracked a number of times as he struggled to get his point across. He nervously looked across the table at his father, who wore a disinterested expression.

Baern looked disgustedly at the Duke’s son. “No, your highness. The army camped outside is not interested in conversing. Instead, they sharpen their swords and shine their cocks, preparing to gut and rape the inhabitants of this castle as we speak. You will get no reprieve or mercy from them; they are little better than outlaws.”

“But they are men! Surely there is one noble enough among them whose desire is to parry with words instead of blades. A gentleman does not cross swords, except with thieves, murders, and beasts! Send out a convoy and we will negotiate.” Sem began to get excited and his speech quickened; his widely opened eyes looked towards the heavens and he began gesturing wildly. “I will lead this convoy! Yes! I will need twenty men-at-arms and a scribe, of course, for the treaty and to record this momentous occasion. We will be armed but not overly armed to show firmness yet compassion. We will also need. . . .”

“You live in a dream world, boy!” Baern cut the Duke’s son off. In a single movement he drew his blade, vaulted onto the table, crouched in the center of the darkening sunlight, and placed the tip of his sword under Sem’s neck. “Words do not flow sweetly from corpses.”

The room was silent except for Sem’s quiet whimpering. Shocked faces around the table glanced from Sem to Baern and back. Baern’s sword glimmered with the last of the sunlight, reflecting an angry red light into the onlooker’s eyes.

“Enough!” The Duke shouted. “Sir Baern, stand down.”

Baern glanced at the Duke and stood up, removing his sword from Sem’s neck. He held out his left arm and sliced a small, shallow wound across its top with a flick of his sword. He walked to the edge of the table near his chair and stepped off. His squire handed him a soft cloth that Baern used to wipe the blood from his sword, whispering something to it before returning it to his sheath. He gave his squire the cloth and sat down. The blood dripped slowly down his arm and onto the wooden table.

Sem glanced at Baern, his eyes filled with hatred born of embarrassment. An acidic odor permeated the room followed by the unpleasant musk of excrement. The Duke glanced contemptuously at his son. He looked over his son’s shoulder to where an elderly servant knelt. “See that he is cleaned up, Yuln. Send him to the kitchens where he will be of at least some use during the siege.” The Duke glanced away as Yuln led Sem from the room. Sem’s expensive leather pants dripped urine onto the stone floor.

After a couple of moments of silence the Duke stood and looked across the table, eyeing Baern. “We will leave the castle before first light and begin the attack when the sun clears the hills. Prepare yourself and your men, gentlemen. There will be blood tomorrow.” The Duke turned around crisply, allowing his crimson cape to flare behind him, and left the room with his servant and two men-at-arms at his side.

The room emptied slowly until only Baern and his squire remained. By that time, the sun was completely set and only starlight lit the room. Baern remained seated at the table, lost in thought. He motioned to his squire to join him at the table.

“The people you are hired to fight are not your only enemies, Greom.” As Baern spoke to his squire, he stared at Sem’s empty chair. “After this war, we will not be able to remain here. We will have to take our contract elsewhere.” Baern sighed softly. “I had hoped to stay on through the winter, but that will not happen now. We leave after the fighting tomorrow.”

Baern remained in his seat staring out the window into the night’s starred face. After a little while he got up and motioned for his squire to follow him as he walked toward the door.

Greom’s puzzled young face looked at Baern and after a couple of unsuccessful starts, he finally asked, “Master, why did you draw your blade on the Duke’s son?”

Baern turned around and faced his squire. “I had to know what sort of man Sem was.” Baern answered, his unfocused eyes staring out the window. “He will be given command of a part of the Duke’s guard for the first time tomorrow and now I know what to expect from him.”

“He did not handle himself very well, did he? He will make a poor commander. Perhaps he should have taken the robes.”

Baern chuckled. “Sem has the heart of a gentleman, he thinks everyone is as gracious and wise as himself. What he does not understand is the world outside his studies. He is unwise to mix man work with his teachings from school. His father has raised him softly, but tomorrow reality will be his new teacher.”

Before Baern left the room he glanced at the empty table. The conjuror’s map had been banished after the Duke had left the room, but a dim glow remained floating on the tabletop. In the faint starlight only the outlines of the chair and table remained. A chill went down Baern’s spine as he was overtaken by a viewing. “I will never again step foot in this room.” Baern declared with a note of sadness in his voice.

“Come, you have work to do to prepare me for battle tomorrow.” Baern looked his squire up and down. “You are almost full grown, Greom. Tomorrow will be the first battle you ride at my side.” Baern grinned. “It seems reality will have two students tomorrow. Let us hope you are the better prepared pupil.”

Baern turned and left the room with Greom following solemnly. Greom carried himself as Baern had taught him. His back was as straight as an iron rod and his hands were comfortably clasped behind him. If not for the huge grin on his face, he would have been the picture of an ideal squire.

***