The Crown of the Conqueror

IV

Gelthius stood up against the reed fence around the small plot of land attached to his house. The night was cold and steam rose from the stream of his urine. He took a deep breath, glad to be out of the cramped confines of the burrow-like dwelling; and away from the constant questions of his family. Gelthius had told them everything; being a debtor on Anglhan's landship, the rebels in the mountains, the arrival of the Askhans and the fall of Magilnada.

He had seen disbelief in their eyes and had shown them the tattoo on his arm of the symbol of the Thirteenth; he had been drunk the night the others had persuaded him and it was a blessing of the spirits that his companions' crude technique had not left him with an infection.

He smirked to himself in the darkness, remembering fondly his time with the legion. It was not like that at all, here in Salphoria. Everyone was a rival in some way; everybody was trying to get ahead at the expense of someone else. Even brothers and sons were potential enemies. In the legions, success and failure was collective, with everybody living or dying by the efforts of others as well as their own. It was not perfect; many a freezing night spent patrolling a camp had taxed Gelthius's spirit.

As he walked back to the door, Gelthius noticed firelight further down the hill. He carried on to the main track and watched as the glow brightened, seeming to come from the long hall. In the quiet of the night he could hear raised voices, though he could not tell what they were saying.

Something was not right, and Gelthius's earlier suspicions returned. It had been a mistake to stay, but Muuril had convinced him that the Linghar would not dare tempt Ullsaard's wrath by harming his ambassador. Gelthius should have insisted that such niceties were rarely observed between Salphors — hostages were taken all the time — never mind with an Askhan representative. Yet the temptation to stay with his family for a night had proved too much.

Ducking back into the house, Gelthius grabbed his knife belt and cloak.

"There's trouble," he said, looking at Maredin. "Grab what food and coin you have."

"What sort of trouble?" asked Gannuis, his eldest son, pulling a sheathed sword from a hook on the wall. Though barely turned sixteen, he was already taller than his father, with a crooked nose from drunken brawls. The younger, Minglhan, was asleep on a pile of blankets next to the fire hole. He stirred at a touch from his mother.

"Not the sort that we'll be able to fight our way out of," said Anglhan. He tapped Minglhan on the shoulder and pushed him towards the door. "Fetch your sister from her house. I'll head to the lodge and fetch my friends and the wagon. We'll leave duskwards and circle back to the army."

"Leave?" Maredin's voice broke. "Why would we leave? You go. We've been fine without you."

"Hush now," said Gannuis. "You think we'll be able to farm and hunt now that the others know about the Askhans? Just get your stuff."

Gelthius could not wait for the argument to be settled. Strapping on his belt, he jogged out into the darkness. There were more voices from around the long hall and he could see quite a gathering silhouetted against the light from the open doors.

Breaking into a run, he scrambled over the roof of another house and dropped down into the yard beside the lodging hall. Loordin was standing watch at the door.

"I think Kalsaghan and Mannuis are up to something," Gelthius said breathlessly.

"Not the chieftain?" asked Loordin.

"Maybe, but I don't think it's him, he seemed resigned to what was going to happen," replied Anglhan. "Get the cart ready and I'll fetch the others."

Loordin headed into the shadow of the stable without further comment while Gelthius stepped into the hall. It was one long chamber, a fire pit and hanging cauldron at one end, rough beds arranged along each wall with a scattering of tables and chairs in the middle of the room. The embers of the fire glowed dully and smoke drifted lazily through a vent in the thatched roof. There were only three men inside; the other Askhans. Gelthius put finger and thumb to his lips and gave a sharp whistle. Muuril was the first to rouse.

"What's happening?" he asked, snatching up his spear and shield, which he had left leaning against the wall next to his bed. "Is it a fight?"

"I hope not," said Haeksin, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I've only just come off watch."

Gelthius quickly explained what was happening and left the legionnaires to get ready. He ran back to the stables to help Loordin, arriving to find that he already had the small cart on its traces and was hitching up a recalcitrant abada. Gelthius ducked under the yoke and grabbed the ring through the beast's horn, holding it still while Loordin looped the cart ropes through the harness around the abada's body. Heaving with all his weight, Gelthius dragged the abada's head towards the door and then leapt up onto the wagon seat.

Muuril, Gebriun and Haeksin were fully armed and armoured, waiting in the courtyard. They pulled themselves into the cart as it trundled past. Haeksin slid onto the driving board beside Gelthius and took the reins from him.

"Go get your family, we'll see you on the road," said Haeksin.

Gelthius needed no second invite and dropped down to the ground. He cut up the hill at a run, jumping over small stone walls and vaulting the woven reed fences separating the small plots of the families living between the lodging house and his home.

He found Gannuis standing outside the door, a burning torch in one hand, drawn sword in the other. Aranathi, Gelthius's daughter, stood beside her mother, sharing a woollen shawl; her husband, a stocky youth called Faeghun, hovered protectively close by, a cudgel gripped nervously in one fist.

"Come on," said Gelthius as he heard the rumble of cart wheels coming up the track. He snatched the torch from Gannuis and waved it over his head, until he could see the outline of the wagon in the starlight. "Make room there! Maredin, Aranathi, Minglhan; get on board. Everyone else, we're walking."

Gannuis and Faeghun watched the legionnaires with narrowed, suspicious eyes as the Askhan soldiers helped the women and child onto the back of the cart. Gelthius split the two Linghars, one to each side, Gannuis with Loordin, Faeghun with Gebriun; he positioned himself at the front while Muuril guarded the rear.

The abada plodded up the hill under the urging of Haeksin, while Gelthius forged ahead, searching for the fork in the road that would lead to the duskwards side of the hill. A few faces peered out of doors as they passed, but most of the Linghars were asleep already, weary from a day's toil and expecting to rise before dawn.

The houses gave way to the open hillside at the crest. Here the rocks were too heavy and too close together for the Linghars to dig their homes. The track split, the main road continuing coldwards while a much less-travelled path switched back and forth down the steep duskward side of the mount.

"It's steep, be careful," Gelthius called back. Haeksin raised his hand in acknowledgement. "Watch out for rocks as well, this path don't get cleared too often."

"What are you saying?" Faeghun called back. "Who are you talking to?"

Gelthius ignored him, climbing down an embankment to cut out a loop of the path. As his sandaled feet scraped on the stonefilled dirt track, he froze.

There was torchlight at the bottom of the hill, about half a mile away as the Askhans measured it.

"Shit," Gelthius muttered.

It was too late to turn back into the village. They would have to deal with whatever was waiting for them. Gelthius carried on for a few hundred paces, stopping when he had a clearer view.

In the light of two torches, Gelthius saw a handful of Linghar warriors, perhaps a dozen at the most. He instantly recognised Kalsaghan amongst them. The tribesmen were sat on rocks beside the road, drinking and joking with each other, while Kalsaghan paced back and forth across the dirt road, hand on the hilt of a dagger at his hip.

Crouching in a bush, Gelthius listened but could hear nothing of what the men were saying. One or two seemed almost asleep. He glanced up the hill, hearing the creak of the cart axles and the crunch of the wheels. The hotwards face of the hill, above the waiting Linghars, was almost a cliff. The only way from the village to where Kalsaghan waited was down the track being followed by the wagon, or across the bridge over the river at the bottom of the dawnwards slope; neither was particularly quick.

Reaching a decision, Gelthius ran back up the hill to warn the others. He was panting hard by the time he saw the looming bulk of the wagon in the darkness. Gelthius hissed a caution as the abada almost lumbered into him, forcing him into a bush beside the narrow, steep track.

"There's men waiting for us at the bottom," said Gelthius as he pushed himself from a tangle of thorny branches, dried, dead leaves clinging to his hair and shirt. "They'll be able to hear the wagon, right enough."

At a word from Muuril, Haeksin hauled back on the reins and brought the abada to a halt.

"Let's not give them any warning, eh?" said the sergeant, advancing around the back of the cart.

Faeghun stepped up with Muuril, earning himself a glance of annoyance from the wiry legionnaire.

"Not sure we need you along, boy," said Muuril. Faeghun looked at Muuril with incomprehension, so the sergeant jabbed a finger into the Linghar warrior's chest and then pointed at the ground; a signal to stay put that crossed all language barriers. A stare from Gelthius silenced the youth's protest before he could give it voice.

"The others in the village might know we've left by now and come looking, so I need you and Gannuis to keep watch here and protect your family if they come," said Gelthius. He shared a glance with the other legionnaires, who nodded reassuringly; though they had no idea what he was saying, they could guess his intent. Gelthius patted Gannuis on the arm. "This ain't going to take too long, son. Holler if anything happens."

"What are you going to do?" asked Minglhan, head poking over the side of the cart. "You going to kill Kalsaghan?"

"Right enough," said Gelthius as he leaned past his son and grabbed his spear from the back of the wagon. "Don't worry, lad, I'll be back quicker than you know."

He nodded at Muuril to lead the way, and the group of legionnaires set off down the hill, padding quietly along the grass beside the stony track, shields and spears held ready.

"So, you gonna tell the king to attack or what?" Loordin whispered from behind Gelthius.

"The chieftain's thinking of heading duskwards, running away," replied Gelthius. "If he's clever, he'll head off first thing tomorrow and we won't see them for dust."

"Probably better that way," said Gebriun. "I remember my grandfather telling me about when the Askhans came to Ersua. Some joined up quick as a hawk, but some tried to hide in the mountains. Got short shrift from the Hillmen, and when winter came, thousands starved. I guess nobody learns, do they? We always try to fight what's going to happen."

Gelthius said nothing; he was far from happy about the whole situation. He had grown up in these hills, played in the river, hunted in the forests and even tried to raise a farm on the pastures to coldwards. He had no love for Naraghlin and his ilk, but it was another to condemn the whole of the tribe and the others of the Linghar people to brutal death and subjugation.

He silently cursed Aegenuis. If the Salphorian king had any love for his people he would tell them to lay down their arms and accept Askhan rule, just like the ancient Maasrites had done. That would never happen, Aegenuis was too proud, just like the rest of the chieftains; and too scared of what might happen to him if he showed weakness to his political enemies. Such men would rather have a glorious, bloody defeat than a peaceful, sensible surrender.

That was the problem with chieftains and kings, thought Gelthius. They always think they have more to lose than everybody else, but at the end of the day, they died with nothing just the same.

As the legionnaires sneaked through the bushes, the first fall of fresh rain pattered on the withering leaves around them. As the intensity of the rain increased, Gelthius hoped that the men standing guard at the bottom of the hill might be convinced to seek shelter. Peering through the dark, he saw that the flickering glow of the torches moved to one side of the track but not further. He adjusted his grip of his spear shaft, hand slick from the rain.

"How we going to do this?" he whispered to the others, who were nothing more than darker shapes in the downpour. "There's at least twice as many of them."

"We need to divide them if we can," said Muuril. "Loordin, work your way around to the right and attract their attention."

"How?" asked Loordin, face looming out of the night.

"I don't know," said Muuril. "Shake a bush, drop a stone, or something. We'll come up from behind them, from the left."

Loordin hesitated. From what Gelthius could see of the Loordin's face, the soldier was doubtful.

"I can't see my own feet," said Loordin. "What if I get lost?"

With a snarl, Muuril put his spear in his shield had to grab the collar of Loordin's breastplate and pull him close.

"I'm giving you an order, legionnaire," snapped the sergeant. "Stop whining like an unpaid whore and move your arse over there. Give us to a count of two hundred and then attract their attention, right?"

With a sigh of resignation, Loordin nodded. Muuril let go of the man's armour and slapped him on the shoulder to send him on his way.

"Follow me," said Gelthius, stepping to the left around rock outcrop. "We can come at them from the bottom of the cliff."

Water dripped from his helmet and soaked his shirt as he led the way, wet leaves slapping at his shins as he stalked through the grass and bushes at a crouch. Always keeping the glow of the torches in the corner of his right eye, Gelthius picked his way carefully down the slope, using the butt of his spear to test the ground for holes and rocks, knowing that any stumble now would be heard by the waiting tribesmen.

"One hundred," whispered Muuril, tapping Gelthius on the shoulder. "Try picking up the pace, will you?"

Gelthius eased himself across a stony hump and turned right, pausing for a moment to fix on the torches again before heading straight towards the flickering patches of light. The ground was levelling out and in the lee of the rock face the rain swirled about, blowing into his face with each sporadic gust of wind.

When he was about a hundred paces from the vague figures next to the trail, Gelthius found shelter behind the trunk of a tree. He dropped to his haunches and waited, eyes fixed on the Linghars. He counted eight of them moving around in the glow of the brands, but was sure there were two or three more that he couldn't see.

He took another step when the crack of a branch caused him to freeze on the spot. Ahead, the tribesmen had heard it was well. They looked to Kalsaghan, who picked out five warriors and sent them across the track to investigate

"He's fucking early," said Muuril. "He's counted too quick."

Haeksin rose up out of the grass but was stopped by Muuril's spear.

"Wait! Let them get a bit further away."

The tribal warriors that had stayed with Kalsaghan were focussed on Loordin's diversion; none of them spared a glance behind them to where the legionnaires lurked.

"That's it, let's go," Muuril told them when the flickering torch of the searching group was just a distant glow in the gloom.

The legionnaires stalked through the grass, almost shoulder to shoulder; Gelthius on the left, Muuril next to him, Haeksin on the sergeant's right, Gebriun on the other end of the group. They were less than fifty paces from the Linghars when Muuril snapped the order to charge.

In step, the four of them broke into a run, keeping pace with each other just as if they were not a group of four, but part of a phalanx one-hundred-and-sixty strong. The snap of branches and jingle of their armour warned the tribesmen, who turned around with astonished looks as the legionnaires burst onto the path.

Kalsaghan gave a warning shout as the legionnaires bore down on them, shields locked, spears jutting like the horns of a charging bull.

"At them!" roared the chieftain's son, breaking into a run. "Bring me the traitor's balls!"

Gelthius tightened his grip on the strap of his shield as the Linghars sprinted towards him. Kalsaghan and two others were the fastest and were a few paces ahead of their companions when the groups met.

"Take the hit!" roared Muuril.

The legionnaires skidded to a stop, sandaled feet sliding in the mud, a moment before the three Salphors reached them. Gelthius concentrated on raising his shield to block the two spear tips thrust at him, trusting Muuril to protect his right side. In coming for Gelthius, Kalsaghan and his two warriors had put themselves directly in front of the legionnaires, attacking the strongest part of the group. Their rush was met with the ineffectual crash of spears on shields.

"Strike!" bellowed Muuril.

As if guided by a single hand, the four of them jabbed forward their long spears. Gelthius aimed the point of his spear at the throat of the man directly in front of him. His aim was low, but the tip caught the Linghar warrior in the right side of his chest, easily punching through his leather jerkin. Muuril's spear took Kalsaghan in the gut, but the third Salphor managed to deflect Haeksin's blow. Shouts and curses accompanied the clatter of bronze and wood, a plaintive wail torn from Kalsaghan as he collapsed into the mud.

A sword bit into the rim of Gelthius's shield as the rest of the tribesmen arrived, the momentum of the warrior's charge knocking the legionnaire back a step. Without an order uttered, the small line broke. Muuril lunged into the Salphors, spearing one of the warriors in the side, while Gebriun tripped another with his shield before driving the point of his weapon into the man's back. Still regaining his balance, Gelthius stumbled again as a spear tip grazed across the cheek guard of his helmet and opened a bloody cut across his chin. He slashed at the warrior's legs with the edge of his shield, rearing up with his spear as the man jumped back.

Rain hammered on Gelthius's armour, the ground underfoot turning to slurry. The torch carried by one of the Linghars was lying next to the track, quickly guttering, plunging the fight into near-blackness. Gelthius swiped the point of his spear at the man in front, tearing through his arm. Dropping his weapon, the Linghar back-stepped, but not quickly enough. With an explosive breath, Gelthius lunged after him, stabbing his spear through the tribesman's thigh. The Linghar let go of his shield and splashed into the mud, cradling his wounded leg.

A startled cry on the right caused Gelthius to turn. He did not recognise who had shouted, but saw one of his fellow legionnaires dropping to his knees, red gushing from a gash in his throat. Gelthius had no time to wonder who was down; Kalsaghan was rising to his feet, one hand clamped to the wound in his midriff, a dagger in the other hand. With quick feet, the chieftain's son dodged the weaving tip of Gelthius's spear and closed with his knife, slashing at the legionnaire's chest. The blade rang against the bronze breastplate and scored across Gelthius's left arm. Gelthius kicked out, driving his foot into Kalsaghan's groin. Blood pouring down his arm, Gelthius rammed the rim of his shield into the fallen warrior's face, splitting open the youth's cheek with a crack of bone.

Another tribesman hurtled out of the gloom, tackling Gelthius to the ground in a spray of muddy water and flailing limbs, the legionnaire's spear spinning out of his grasp. The warrior punched Gelthius across the jaw, loosening several teeth. His hands tightened around Gelthius's throat. Stunned, the legionnaire swiped wildly with his shield, smashing the other man in the ribs, but the Linghar's grip did not weaken.

The helmet crest of a legionnaire appeared over the tribesman's shoulder a moment before a sword erupted from his shoulder. Kicking the man from him, Gelthius grabbed a proffered hand and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet.

"That's the last of this lot," said Muuril, wiping his bloodied sword on the dead tribesman's jerkin. The sergeant had lost his shield in the melee and held his spear on his left hand, the water washing blood across his kilt. Muuril looked around as Gelthius recovered his spear. "Haeksin's dead."

Gelthius paused to take a deep breath, and could hear the shouts of the warriors that had been sent after Loordin. Gebriun was down on one knee, ripping the shirt of one of the dead Linghars to make bandages.

"Do you think they've caught him?" asked Gelthius.

"Not yet," said Gebriun. He drove the butt of his spear into the muck and gestured for Gelthius to hold out his wounded arm. Binding the cut with a strip of the ripped shirt, Gebriun then turned his attention to a ragged hole in Muuril's calf. "We'll just get ourselves straight and head after Loordin."

Feeling groggy, Gelthius spat out a mouthful of blood and tested his teeth with a probing finger. He winced as one came out with little effort; two others wobbled at his prodding.

"We'll get that sorted out back in camp," said Muuril. "Let's get going. Give the word to the others to come down the track. There's no point fighting here if they get caught by a band coming from the top of the hill."

Gelthius's shout was answered by Gannuis, his voice almost drummed out by the rain. Hefting his shield, Gelthius signalled to Muuril and Gebriun to move off.

The Linghars pursuing Loordin were shouting to each other in the darkness. It was hard to be exact about their whereabouts, but it was clear they had broken into at least two groups, one of which was coming closer, their cries echoing from the rock face not far behind the legionnaires.

"Can't see anything," muttered Gebriun.

"Stop a moment and listen," said Muuril.

All Gelthius could hear was the thudding of his heart and the splashing of rain. After a few moments, there came a clang of metal, followed by a cry of pain and the splash of something heavy falling.

"Off to the right," said Muuril. "Not far."

They broke into a trot, grass and ferns whipping at Gelthius's bare legs, the thorny branches of bushes scratching at him as he pushed through the tangle of vegetation clinging to the shallow slope.

A hazy figure appeared in the gloom, running full pelt. Gelthius brought up his spear out of instinct, teeth clenched despite the pain in his jaw.

The shape resolved into Loordin, without shield or helmet, the broken haft of his spear in one hand. He shouted in alarm and turned away before Gebriun's call halted him. Wide-eyed, the legionnaire approached, wiping the rain from his face with a bloodstained hand.

"Fuck me," said Loordin. "I thought you were all dead."

"No such luck for you," said Muuril. He pointed at the blood staining the soldier's fist. "Been having your own fun?"

"Got the drop on two of them," said Loordin, chest still heaving. "Ran away from the other three. One of them's got a bow. Almost winged me, the bastard."

"Where's your shield?" asked Gebriun.

"Too fucking heavy by far," Loordin replied with a smirk. "I didn't want those arseholes catching me, did I?"

A warning shout from behind caused the legionnaires to spin around, weapons at the ready. The three surviving tribesmen emerged from the dark, looking this way and that as they headed back to the road. They stopped in their tracks as they saw the four legionnaires, ready and waiting. The two groups stood about twenty paces apart, eyeing each other cautiously.

"What's your names?" Gelthius called out in Linghar.

"It doesn't matter," the tallest of the three called back. Water streamed from the unkempt braids of his beard, his thick hair plastered across a helmetless scalp. He held up an open hand. "Look, we didn't have to see you, right?"

"You were going to kill my family," Gelthius said. "What makes you think I'm gonna let you walk away?"

"Nah, we weren't going to kill nobody," replied another of the group. He glanced at his two companions. "We was just told to stop you leaving."

"You tell me what Naraghlin's planning to do, and I might persuade my friends to let you go. It better be quick, cos they're not happy about having to leave their nice, warm beds in the middle of the night."

"We're abandoning the town," the first warrior shouted. "Naraghlin's got no stomach for a fight. It was Kalsaghan's idea to stop you returning to your camp. Him and Mannuis was going to use your family as hostages; send you back to your new king with a false surrender."

Gelthius thought about this for a moment.

"Naraghlin's right, you have to leave," he told them. "We'll be back with the legion in two days at the most, and another two days before they get here. The tribe's got three days to get moving."

"You want us just to up and leave our homes?" This was from the third man, the youngest of the group, his blond hair tied back with a leather thong, his beard not long enough to plait. "Kalsaghan won't stand for it. He'll fight."

"He's fucking dead!" snarled Gelthius. "You'll all be dead unless you leave. That's the choice, right enough. Stay here and die, or go somewhere else."

"What are you talking about?" said Muuril, stepping next to Gelthius. "They're keeping us busy until the others arrive. Tell them to fuck off, or we're going to kill all three of them where they stand."

"My friend here isn't happy," Gelthius told the Linghars. "If I was you, I'd start running now."

The tribesmen gauged the legionnaires carefully. Not liking what they saw, they backed away until the darkness swallowed them. Gelthius heard the splashing of their feet as they broke into run, until even that noise was swallowed by the downpour.

"Let's get the cart and get going," said Gelthius. "It's a ways around the mound back to the town, but it won't take them long to bring back more warriors. We need to get out of here."

V

The rain stopped after midnight, some time around the turn of Gravewatch by Gelthius's guess. His wife, daughter and youngest son dozed in the back of the wagon while Faeghun drove the abada. The others walked beside the cart, sloshing across the muddy plains in silence. As the first glow of dawn smudged the horizon in front of them, Muuril had to concede to the pain in his wounded leg and ride on the wagon; a decision that provided shallow entertainment for the other legionnaires for the next few miles.

The sunrise ahead revealed low cloud, the whole sky tinged with foreboding grey. The wind kept the chill of the night and Gelthius marched on trembling legs, his face and arm sore. Though occasionally he looked back towards the place he had been born, he doubted the tribe would have pursued them any distance; the death of Kalsaghan would have dampened any spirit amongst the Linghar warriors. He hoped that Naraghlin would heed the warning and move the tribe away without a fight.

As the morning brightened, the legionnaires agreed to take it in turns to ride on the wagon and snatch some sleep. All of them had been awake for most of a whole day and the fight of the previous evening had taken its toll, despite their conditioning and determination. Although Gelthius was supposed to be in charge, he was happy to defer to Muuril's organisation and gratefully sank into the pile of blankets next to Maredin when the sergeant judged it to be the start of Low Watch.

Gelthius slept in snatches, woken frequently by the pain in his arm and the jolting of the wagon. Eventually fatigue won over discomfort and he fell into a deep slumber.

He was shaken awake by Gannuis. The early clouds were thinning and Gelthius blinked in the light, guessing it to be coming close to noon.

"It's Gebriun's turn, ain't it?" he mumbled, sitting up.

None of the others said anything. Gelthius pulled himself up using the side of the wagon and stood swaying in the back. The others were looking ahead, slightly to coldwards. Gelthius turned to see what had caught their attention.

A ribbon of glittering sunlight was snaking over the crest of a ridge a few miles away. It took a moment for Gelthius to work out what he was looking at: hundreds of spears and helmets. It was impossible to tell the individuals apart at this distance, but the smudge of red and black was unmistakeable. There was other movement ahead and around the main body of men; outriders moving on swift kolubrids. It was the Thirteenth in full column of march.

Never had Gelthius experienced such mixed emotions.

On the one hand, the sight of his legion filled him with relief. Within the hour he would be back amongst his comrades, wounds properly tended, food in his belly.

On the other hand, it was sight that filled him with dread. This was Askhor embodied, bearing down upon the lands of the Linghar with full force.

Not even on that strange day in Thunder Pass when he had watched the Thirteenth butchering Aroisius's rebels had Gelthius feared so much what those legionnaires represented. They were the end of the Linghars, his people. He had fought in the legion, shed blood for Ullsaard, and even helped put the new king on the throne in Askh; only now did Gelthius realise that he was a part of Greater Askhor. When the Thirteenth reached the town, his past, the history and traditions of the people that had raised him, would end.

Muuril laughed.

"Looks like the king couldn't be arsed waiting for a reply."