MORAGON sat in a throne-like wooden chair, broad and high-backed, discussing the coming battle with Dain Barden.
The melding High Lord of Raj Tingara and the leader of the Akari were as different as two men could be. Moragon was tall, tanned and broad, with a shaved head and an arm of metal covered in silver runes. He wore a leather jerkin on his otherwise bare chest and tight-fitting black trousers with heavy brown boots. The yellow tint of his eyes gave him a feverish look, and the servant who topped up his mug with the oily black elixir looked fearful.
Dain Barden was taller even than Moragon, the top of his head nearly touching the roof of the command tent as he paced. His muscled legs stamped heavily on the ground and he occasionally looked at the war hammer at his belt as if wanting to use it on someone. Silver fox fur covered his shoulders and his leather armour had been bleached to a deathly near-white. His lips were turned down in a scowl and his brow furrowed in cruel lines to his eyes.
"We want to crush them, completely and overwhelmingly," Moragon said.
"And I keep telling you, we don't have the essence for such a long engagement. We're losing draugar daily due to rot and depletion," Dain Barden said. "You can't do it without us, no matter what you think. Their army is too large."
"Then, Dain Barden, what do you suggest?"
"We have to make this first engagement decisive, yet at the same time conserve our strength until the next carts of essence arrive from Tingara. We're fielding so many draugar, and spread so thinly, that if it weren't for the supplies coming from the Primate we would have headed back to the north long ago."
"Why don't you?" Moragon asked.
"The man you serve gave us a promise. We intend to make sure he fulfils that promise, and as long as he keeps the essence coming, we'll be able to make sure he does. As he strengthens our numbers to fight these rebels, he also gives us more draugar to make sure he fulfils his end of the bargain. We want this relic of the Evermen."
Moragon shrugged. "You can have it, for all I care. My task is to defeat our enemies."
"…And bring the world under one rule. Yes, I've heard the speeches."
"You don't think it's possible?" Moragon asked.
"I think it's possible. But is the Primate the man to do it? Are you?"
"We have the essence," Moragon said.
"You do. Using the techniques we gave you. I find myself wondering how you manage to glean so much, where we ourselves struggle to accumulate just a small percentage of what the Primate sends us. I've heard rumours, Moragon. They say you aren't just extracting the essence from your dead. They say that when you need more bodies you just go and kill yourselves some more."
"Rumours," Moragon said. "It's war. There's never a shortage of bodies."
"We'll see," Dain Barden said.
"Wait," Moragon said, holding up his hand.
"What is it?"
"I sense something," Moragon said, standing. "A presence."
Miro had been lucky to have escaped notice this long. Several times he had noticed Moragon tilt his head or pause mid-sentence. Once the melding had even shifted in his chair, glancing around the shadowed command tent.
Miro had been whispering under his breath, a trick he had used once before to keep the shadow ability of his armoursilk activated while he hid. But shadow drained his armoursilk at a phenomenal rate, and in his desire to learn more, he had waited, hidden in the dark corner of the command tent, too long.
Worst of all, he still didn't know where Amber was.
Miro let the shadow effect go, changing his song so that the protective power of his armoursilk was given priority. He drew his zenblade from behind his back, cursing that he hadn't brought his rail-bow — perhaps he could have ended it here, or at least taken down one or both of the enemy leaders.
"A bladesinger!" Moragon shouted. "Guards!"
Dain Barden pulled his war hammer from his belt, growling with menace, while Moragon didn't bother to grab a weapon; his grafted arm was weapon enough.
Miro spun and tore a huge hole in the side of the tent. He hadn't learned as much as he might have liked, but he knew the knowledge he had would still be vital to the struggle. He ducked as he heard a sizzling sound and Moragon's arm tore through the air where a moment ago his head had been.
Every instinct told Miro to turn around and face his enemies. He didn't know if he could defeat both Moragon and the leader of the Akari, but he could try.
But if he failed, the men he was responsible for would never know how sparse their enemy's supplies of essence were. If he failed, who would care about Amber in his stead?