The one called Mage sat in a high-backed oak chair, his green eyes studying the spy and the Bandit Commander.
Folkes took one of the high thick-stuffed chairs around the table. Dujahn stepped casually into a far corner and watched. He had a good view of the room. Folkes grabbed a goblet and filled it with ale. He took a deep swallow and set the cup down with a thump. Looking up, Folkes seemed to notice Dairron for the first time, leaning against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest.
“When is Ballinaire going to get here?” Folkes muttered at last, wiping a trail of ale from the day’s growth on his chin.
“When he pleases,” Dairron replied. “You know that.”
“Do you know why we’re here?” Folkes demanded, and Dairron shrugged and stood still, looking unconcerned and composed.
“I thought it was obvious. He wants to start the war.”
“And that doesn’t worry you?” Folkes challenged. “I’m surprised you’re not pacing and muttering about supply trains, sieges and sappers.”
Dairron smiled. “I’ve rather been looking forward to it, Folkes. We’ve been baiting the bear too long. It’s time to call down the wolves.”
“Oh cut your tongue for once, Stanjel. You know what we’re up against – what don Rion can put in the field. We’re in Landmoor for Hate’s sake! This is still one of don Rion’s cities. If he knew we were here, he’d have the knights swoop down so fast our heads would be spinning on a pike.”
Dujahn studied the Bandit General for a reaction. General Dairron shook his head, chuckling, and unfolded his huge arms. His hair was the color of dark soil with a few wisps of gray. He wore the armor of the Bandit Rebellion with pride, the mail shirt encased in black plate. Four gold general bars, pinned to his thin traveling cloak, glinted in the lamplight. Dujahn remembered hearing how Dairron had earned them. Even in the Gray Legion, he was a legend for what he had done. Nearly every kingdom outside the valley had offered him a military command. He continued to refuse them all. Dairron wanted Dos-Aralon. He wouldn’t leave.
“If is the keystone,” the General reminded Folkes, snapping Dujahn out of his reverie. “If he knew. I think the King of Dos-Aralon should spend less on his velvet court and polished knights, and more on intelligence.” He gave Dujahn a sidelong look iced with enmity. “Besides, Phollen’s Regiment is close enough. Quit fussing.”
“Be assured, Commander Folkes,” Mage said softly. “We would not be meeting in Landmoor if it were not secure.” His voice was like worn leather gloves that fit perfectly. Dujahn saw his eyes pierce right through Folkes.
“Where are the others?” Folkes asked the Sorian, trying to ignore Dairron’s mocking eyes.
“If I’ve heard correctly,” Dairron interrupted with an etched smile, “the Commander of the Shoreland Regiment is heading to Sol.” He chuckled again. “Probably chasing a serving girl.”
“Your ears listen that far east, General Dairron?” Mage said in his whisper-like voice. “That surprises me.” Dujahn caught the subtlety, but he saw that Folkes didn’t. No, Folkes never paid attention to the details. Dujahn understood that Miestri claimed the western half of the valley as her land. And Mage claimed the east. Dujahn thought a moment, trying to put it together. Dairron was a general and commanded a brigade – the largest force the Bandits controlled and he occupied the heights of the Kingshadow with it. Then there was Mage and Tsyrke Phollen, the Shoreland commander, who had a regiment of soldiers and the Kiran Thall. Folkes had the third regiment, the smallest, stationed in the Shadin Mountains. And all three of these men would start hacking each other to pieces if Ballinaire lost control of them. Dujahn had to cover a grin at their idiocy.
“You know plenty about chasing tykes, Dairron,” Folkes blurted out. He planted his elbows on the table with a rattle. Dujahn closed his eyes, knowing what was about to come out of his mouth. Ban it? Dujahn swore to himself. I shouldn’t have mentioned the Princess of Avisahn.
“At least Phollen can get the women he dotes after, Dairron,” Folkes blundered on. “What about the bleeding Princess of Avisahn? You fly over Silverborne’s castle on your pet Dragonshrike just to peek at her. Have you even seen her yet, or only in your dreams? Silk socks ready for the dance? You dote after the Shae like…”
General Dairron took several slow steps forward, his blue eyes cold and menacing. His shadow fell on the table. “Rather than using your tongue to spite me,” he whispered acidly, “You might learn better ways to use your brain instead. If you mock the Princess of Avisahn or the Shae again, I’ll cut out your tongue.”