“You may frighten my spy, but not me,” Folkes warned. “Don’t cross me Dairron. Or you’ll be facing the end of my sword.”
Dujahn saw granite resolve in General Dairron’s blue eyes, and he silently fumed. He wouldn’t get a higher position in the Rebellion if Folkes got himself killed so quickly. Folkes was a seasoned battle commander, but Dairron was stronger in every way that counted. That man fears nothing. Not the Shae, not Dos-Aralon, not a Sorian. Dujahn knew it was the ruthlessness of Dairron that Folkes coveted – which he found lacking in himself. It was jealousy, and it was poison to Folkes.
“Face the end of your sword? Trust me, Commander, it would take a bigger sword than yours,” Dairron answered. “You’ve had your warning. Another taunt, and you’re a dead man.”
The cellar door creaked open and a woman wearing velvety black robes entered. Her eyes were black and sparkling and a sly grin spread across her mouth. Dujahn stared – she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Not one in a thousand harlots in Zhoff could have matched her flawless face. And Dujahn had seen the harlots of Zhoff. The feeling in the room cooled with her presence. She smelled like cinnamon and bitter herbs. Midnight hair, inky and smooth, spilled down from the cowl as she pulled it down. She was a Sorian. Dujahn could feel it as she passed by him. Her voice was soft.
“I hope I have not missed any bloodshed.” She smiled playfully, but her eyes betrayed her contempt for Folkes. Folkes stared at her, and Dujahn could see the passion rise up in his eyes. He was half-drunk anyway, but not even he would dare to touch a Sorian. Not if he wanted to live.
“Choose your enemies wisely, Folkes,” Dairron warned, backing away. “We are equals only so long as Lord Ballinaire stands over us. When he falls, you will answer to me. I do hope you remember that.” Turning to Miestri, he added respectfully, “Welcome, Lady of Vale.”
The Sorian gave Dairron a sultry smile. Her face was beautifully cold and compelling. Dujahn thought it strange – ageless but young. She wasn’t the blossom of youth – not really. But was she just as ancient as Mage? Were all the Sorian alike in power, or were some greater than others? These were questions the Gray Legion would pay handsomely to have answered. It was one of the main reasons he was there on assignment. The Sorian were not found in every kingdom, yet this land had two. So strange…Dujahn wondered where her Shae escorts were. She supposedly never went anywhere without them. Or was that another false rumor?
“Welcome to Landmoor, Lord General,” she answered Dairron with a smile. Her eyes passed quickly over those in the room. “Lord Ballinaire will see us now. And I think he’s angry enough to kill one of you.”
Dujahn swallowed.
VII
The well-oiled shudder of armor sounded in the stillness of the underground tunnels along with the thud of marching boots. There were easily twenty men coming, Dujahn reasoned, cocking his head and listening. He had started to sweat again. The cellar door opened and the leader of the Bandit Rebellion entered – Lord Stroth Ballinaire. His white-plumed helmet was cradled in the crook of his arm, showing his long snowy hair down to his shoulders in the Inland fashion. His face was hard aged skin, split by wrinkled crags. He was easily seventy years old, but he wore his Bandit armor well. Five gold general bars and a golden star were pinned to his cape along the shoulder. The star, Dujahn remembered, signified the rank of Champion of Owen Draw. A title no knight had held since Ballinaire rebelled against King don Rion. Bloodshot blue eyes stared at them from beneath bushy black eyebrows flecked with gray. A thin white beard garnished his lower jaw. His voice was strong.
“Why are we missing one of my commanders?” Ballinaire said. His voice was strong and angry. Twenty warriors fanned out around him, filling the cellar. They were his personal guard, and he had seen to their training. The sculpted black ivy and leaves of their armor matched his. Had General Dairron ever been one of them? Dujahn didn’t know that. There was still so much to learn. He kept perfectly still, inconspicuous.
“Commander Phollen is near Sol, my Lord,” Mage answered, bowing his head slightly. “I will speak on his behalf.”
“Were my instructions not clear?” Ballinaire snapped. “I wanted all my commanders here tonight. Has he rebelled against me? Why isn’t he here?”