“You are wrong, General,” Ballinaire replied. “We already know that don Rion can put more in the field than we can.” He shook his head, his fist tightening. “But now numbers are of no consequence. A smaller force can withstand a mightier one through many advantages.”
Dairron’s eyebrows raised. “What? You will taunt him into attacking the mountains? You know he won’t. Or do you think this fortress is enough to stand against him?” His laugh was cold. “I could take this castle in a fortnight. It certainly won’t stop don Rion. Prince of Fire,” Dairron swore, “I enjoy your rhetoric, Lord Ballinaire, but you must convert my sword too. Our men won’t fight fed on stuffed morale or promises. We cannot match don Rion’s ability to wage war without an alliance. And the Shae are the only way. Their chief city is across the river from our enemies, vulnerable...”
“You are the one mistaken, General. I say that our forces not only can match don Rion’s, but can defeat them with minimal casualties. Listen to me, my friend, my cautious commander. Not even the Shae will be able to stand against us with their timid sparks of Silvan magic. I tell you that don Rion’s head will hang rotting on a spike in the entrance gate of Dos-Aralon!” Ballinaire reached into the pouch he wore at his belt and produced a handful of green moss with flecks of blue and violet. It dripped moisture on the floor. Dujahn stared at it. He remembered the digging crews in the forest. He hadn’t been able to get close enough to see what they were digging up.
“What is that?” Folkes said, his face pinching with curiosity. “It looks like...moss.”
“Where did you find that?” Mage demanded, leaning forward. To Dujahn, it looked like the Sorian was about to come out of his robes. “It doesn’t exist any more. It was all destroyed...”
“No, wise one,” Miestri countered with a trace of mock in her voice. “There is more of it…here.”
*
The sun sneaked through the gray folds of the cloudy sky, swelling the haze with golden hues. The morning fog lingered over the damp marsh grass, swirling thick enough in some pockets to gutter out a weak candle. The field beyond the northern walls of Landmoor was quiet, save for the lilting warble of swallows and the occasional shriek of a jackdaw. Dujahn crept up and nestled behind a droopy bush. He waited.
The Sorian Miestri stepped through the shrouded pasture, her black robes hissing against the thick stalks of marsh grass. Two figures flanked her, gripping ash longbows fitted with bodkin arrows. Each wore drab green cloaks that hid their faces and concealed the glint of fine mail. She walked straight through the field, not deviating at all as the fog roamed about her. A shadow loomed ahead, but she walked steadily toward it until the form coalesced. It was huge, hulking. Dujahn kept his distance, but stayed close enough to see them both. He could not stop looking at Miestri. He hadn’t been able to since the night before. This was his chance…what he had been preparing for. To get into a circle of Sorian and learn about them. The knowledge would be worth enough to buy a village…maybe even a castle.
The general’s Dragonshrike hunched forward, its glossy black scales shifting as its serpentine-scaled wings shrugged and its eagle-like head swung around toward her. It’s thick beak opened, hissing. Glassy black eyes blinked once. The leather shoulder harness creaked and General Dairron eased from the stirrup straps and landed on the grass with a soft sound. His glinting plate mail was gone, replaced by a black riding uniform made from thick sections of leather stitched tightly together at the elbows, shoulders, and knees. He tugged his gloves on securely. Dujahn squinted and cocked his head. He advanced to a closer shrub, careful of every step. Not too close…just enough to listen in…carefully…
“That was a brilliant performance last night, General,” Miestri said, stepping up to the tall Bandit. “You actually seemed surprised and angry. Did you see the look on Mage’s face?”
“I think he nearly choked,” Dairron replied smoothly. “You’ve done well down here, Miestri. Does the old fool have any other orders for me this morning?”
“Which old fool?” she replied with a silvery laugh. “Yours? Lord Ballinaire is growing impatient for you to leave. He had hoped you would be gone before dawn.”
Dairron shrugged. “Patience has never been his foremost quality.” He sighed. “I’m furious he ordered you to stay in Landmoor. I need you in the Kingshadow, not frittering your talents down here.”