iders hurried along the highway.

Owyn, Gorath, and Ethan Graves rode quickly down the highway toward Krondor. They had spent one night at Darkmoor, in a decent inn, indulging themselves in a bottle of good wine—which Gorath grudgingly admitted was better than that served by Baron Cavell—and a hot meal before sleeping on down-stuffed mattresses. The rest of the journey had been less hospitable, sleeping under the stars away from the road, bundled up in sleeping cloaks on rocky ground, and only twice in the rain.

They had made good time from Malac’s Cross to Krondor, less than fifteen days, and hadn’t killed their horses in the process. Now they were within sight of Krondor.

As they slowed their horses to a walk, Graves said, “I must throw myself on the mercy of the Temple of Ishap and confess my sins.”

Owyn said, “What will they do?”

“Execute me, perhaps, or exile me. I don’t know.” He sighed. “I don’t much care, but before that I have to get Kat out of the city.”

“Where will you send her?”

“To Kesh. I have connections there. Old trading partners in Durbin.”

Owyn said, “From what I hear Durbin’s a rough place.”

“So is Krondor if you have to live on the street,” said Graves.

Owyn was still trying to piece together all the relationships he and his companions had uncovered since he had first met Locklear. He wished more than once that Squire James was still with them. He asked Graves, “What about the Prince’s justice?”

Graves shrugged. “If the Ishapians turn me over to Arutha, he’ll probably hang me.”

Owyn reflected on that. In the two weeks he had spent in Graves’s company he had come to like the gruff old man. He was unapologetic about his early past, simply admitting he had been involved in smuggling, extortion, and had killed more than one man on behalf of the Mockers of Krondor. He made no brief excusing his behavior and only said that since he had heard the call of the temple, he was a changed man.

Owyn believed him, but also decided if a fight broke out, he’d want Graves on his side. He was still a powerful-looking man despite his grey hair and lined features.

The gate to the city was manned by armed guards, one of whom put up his hand, and said, “Halt!”

Owyn said, “Trouble, guardsman?”

Pointing at Gorath, the guard said, “Who’s this?”

“You can talk to me,” said Gorath. “I speak your language.”

“Well, then, who are you?” demanded the guard. “What’s your business in Krondor?”

Gorath said, “I bring a message from Prince Arutha to the magician Pug.”

The guard blinked in surprise at the mention of those names. He motioned them aside, and said, “We’ll have you escorted to the palace.” His tone made it clear this wasn’t optional. Another soldier hurried into the city and returned less than ten minutes later with a half dozen burly men wearing the tabards of the city constabulary. At their head was a tall man who bore a badge of office on his tabard. He conferred a moment with the sergeant at the gate, then came to stand before Gorath. “You claim to be carrying a message from the Prince to the magician Pug?”

Gorath replied, “That is what I said.”

“I am the Sheriff of Krondor. Is there someone at the palace who can vouch for you?”

Gorath glanced at Owyn. Owyn said, “We met a lot of people, but most of them are out in the field with Prince Arutha. If Pug is at the palace, he’ll vouch for us.”

The Sheriff spent a moment casting a baleful eye on the three of them, then said, “Come along.”

He started toward the palace, and Graves said, “I have to get to the Temple of Ishap.”

Over his shoulder, the Sheriff said, “You can visit the temple after I leave you at the palace. We’ve got orders concerning the comings and goings of suspicious-looking individuals, and you fit the description. If the Captain of the Royal Guard turns you loose, that’s his decision.”

“I am a member of the Order of Ishap, and I am under their protection,” said Graves.

“Then they can come and fetch you out if the Captain has any problems with your story,” said the Sheriff in a no-nonsense tone.

They reached the palace without any further conversation, and at the gate the Sheriff turned them over to the Royal Guard. A sergeant came, and said, “You lot look familiar enough, but I’ve no orders, so let me send word inside about what to do with you.”

Again they waited, and after a while a message came telling the sergeant to admit the three men. The sergeant ordered palace grooms to come take the horses and palace porters to carry their bundles inside. Then he led the three of them to the office of the Knight-Marshal.

A captain sat alone and looked up when they entered. Owyn didn’t know his name, but he had been present when last they had spoken with the Prince, and would know they were who they claimed to be. “Owyn,” he said in greeting. “You have a message for the magician Pug?”

“Yes,” said Owyn. “From Prince Arutha. He wishes the magician to join him, as he fears magic will come into play soon in the coming invasion.”

The Captain, a veteran of long years of service, looked openly frustrated. “I would prefer nothing more than to oblige my liege lord, but at present, the magician Pug is absent.”

“Has he returned to Stardock?” asked Owyn.

The Captain shook his head. “No one knows where he has gone. His wife came to us a few days ago with the news he had vanished in the night, leaving only a cryptic note. More than this, no one knows.”

Gorath said, “Could he have been abducted?”

The Captain shook his head. “I know little of magic, but my understanding of Duke Pug’s talents leads me to believe had he not left of his own will, much of this palace would be smoking rubble.”

“May we see this note?” asked Owyn.

“You’ll have to take that up with the Lady Katala. I’ll send word and see if she wishes to speak with you.”

A page returned quickly, with word the Lady Katala indeed wished to speak with them. They hurried after the page to the private apartment set aside for Pug and his family when visiting the palace, and found Katala waiting.

She was a striking woman, despite her diminutive size, dark-complected and showing a slight dusting of grey in her otherwise dark hair. While small, there was a strength about her that made her distress all the more apparent. She was close to being frantic, yet her emotions were under control.

Her accent was strange to Owyn, something akin to that of Sumani and the other Tsurani he had met in Yabon, but not quite the same. She said, “I understand you come seeking my husband?”

“Yes, Lady,” said Gorath. “We carry word from the Prince that Pug is needed.”

“Where is he?” asked Owyn.

“I don’t know. You remember our daughter, of course.”

Gorath nodded.

“She went missing a few days ago, and I went seeking my husband in his tower. He also was missing.”

“Perhaps they went someplace together,” suggested Graves.

Katala looked at the stranger, and asked, “Have we met?”

Owyn introduced them, and Katala said, “Abbot, my husband would never have left this message had that been the case.”

She held out a parchment, upon which was written, “To Tomas! The Book of Macros!”

“What does this mean?” asked Owyn.

“Tomas is Pug’s childhood friend,” said Katala. “He is now living in Elvandar.”

Gorath asked, “The wearer of the white and gold?”

Katala said, “Those are his colors.”

Gorath said, “There have been stories among my people, that when those who travel from the Lake of the Sky to the Green Heart come too close to the borders of the land of the eledhel, occasionally one garbed in the raiment of the Valheru appears. His powers are terrible.”

“Those are not stories,” said Katala. “Tomas exists, and he may be the only one on Midkemia with enough power to find my husband and daughter.”

“Did you send anyone to carry word to him?” asked Owyn.

“Not yet. The Prince took most of the army with him; those left in charge, like the Captain of the Royal Guard and the Sheriff of Krondor, are unwilling to exercise discretion beyond what they see as the clear requirements of their offices. Most of the other nobles are with the Prince or upon other business here in the West.” She looked very distressed. “There really isn’t anyone to send, and I’m not even sure if this message is intended for Tomas.”

Gorath said, “Perhaps Pug is instructing someone to take this Book of Macros to Tomas?”

Katala said, “I helped my husband catalog the entire collection at Sorcerer’s Isle, including those left behind there and those sent to Stardock. There was no single volume I’m aware of called ‘The Book of Macros,’ so it may mean something else.”

Owyn looked at Graves and Gorath. “Perhaps we should take this parchment to Elvandar?”

Graves said, “As much as I am in debt to you, Owyn, and your friends, my life is held by a short thread. I must make my way to the Temple of Ishap and face my punishment.” He glanced around, as if fearful of being overheard. “If those here who have authority know a tenth of what I have done, I would be in the dungeon below, I am certain.”

Katala looked confused. “Perhaps we can help?”

Owyn held up his hand. “Lady, he speaks true. He was moved by his love for another, but he has betrayed his nation and his temple.”

Graves said, “I must go to the temple and make my confession. If you will excuse me, I will leave.” Taking Owyn by the elbow, he led him aside, and said, “On your way north, stop at the Abbey of Sarth. They will have knowledge of this Book of Macros if anyone other than Pug does. Besides, they should know of what we have seen.”

Owyn said, “I was hoping to take ship.” He glanced at Katala. “If the magician’s wife can arrange it.”

“Take ship from Sarth,” said Graves.

Owyn looked as if he had no better suggestion. “Very well. What will happen to you?”

Graves shrugged. “Expulsion, certainly, and shame. I may be given a chance to redeem myself through years of penance, but I think I will be put on the street and told to leave. Perhaps a grace period or they’ll alert the Crown I have committed treason and the watch will be waiting for me when I leave the temple.” He seemed fairly indifferent to his own fate, but his manner and voice changed when he said, “But I must get Kat out of the city and safely away. I did this only to protect her, and if I fail in that, all is futility.”

“How will she get away?”

Graves smiled. “My Kat is a woman of no mean talent and wiles. She has her route out of the city already chosen, I imagine, and if I send her word, she will be gone by morning.”

“Can you get her word?”

“If I can reach someone in the Mockers, no doubt.”

“Then fare you well, Abbot.”

“Fare you well, Owyn.” He turned to face Gorath. “Take care of yourself, as well.” He bowed to Katala. “Lady, good-bye.”

He left.

Owyn turned to Katala, and said, “Lady, if you can facilitate getting us the means, we will take this note to Elvandar.”

“What do you need?” she asked.

“Funds, I fear, for we lost most of ours in the North. Fresh horses, so we may ride to Sarth. Then we should sail to Ylith and take horse to Elvandar. I fear I am asking a great deal, and you know little of us.”

“I know that my daughter touched Gorath’s mind, and after she said she felt no malice in him toward us.” She looked at the dark elf, and said, “I find it odd, for all I have ever heard of your race is an abiding hatred of ours.”

Gorath said, “Two years ago, Lady, I would have found it equally odd. All I can say is that life has turned, and things are not as they once were.” He stared out a window that overlooked the city. “The world is much larger than I once dreamed, or perhaps my place in it is smaller than I once realized.” He shrugged as if the difference was unimportant. “But whichever is true, it is far more complicated a place than I had ever imagined in my years in the icy North.” He went to the window and gripped the edge of it, his voice dropping. “I will help because I once had children. I can’t say more of them, for the pain still lingers, and that wound will not heal.” He looked at Katala. “I will help find your husband, and I will help bring your child home to you.”

Katala, born of a race of proud warriors, looked at the moredhel chieftain and her eyes were bright. No tears fell, but it was clear to Owyn that Gorath’s words had reached her. “I will see what I can do,” she said softly. “Wait here.”

She left, and Gorath and Owyn sat. Owyn said, “Is it safe for you to travel to Elvandar?”

Gorath smiled at Owyn, and said, “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

A note from Graves arrived at the palace the next day. It said, “We’re fleeing to Durbin. Tell Jimmy I’m sorry. Graves.”

With the note was a hastily drawn map, and some instructions on how to operate a secret entrance to the abbey from an abandoned dwarven mine below. Scrawled at the bottom was the note, “In case you have trouble getting in.”

Katala arranged for horses and enough gold to secure passage by ship from Sarth and get more horses when they reached Ylith. The Captain arranged for them to be accompanied by a patrol as far as the road leading to the Abbey of Sarth, and they left the following day.

Owyn memorized the map Graves had sent, then asked Katala to see that James got it if he returned.

The trip north was uneventful, either because things had moved to a point where Gorath’s freedom was no longer important to Delekhan and his agents, or because they just didn’t know where he was any longer. At the base of the road to the abbey, they parted company with the Kingdom soldiers and headed up the hill.

As they rode, Gorath said, “This must have been a fortress once.”

“I believe it was, a robber baron’s or something like that. The Prince of Krondor at the time gave over the property to the Ishapians.”

As the road rounded a curve, Gorath said, “It must have been a murderous battle to storm that position and take it.” He pointed to the abbey, now visible at the top of the mountain. High walls close to the sides of the cliffs provided a daunting image. Owyn was forced to agree that he would not wish to be among those storming this old fortress.

They reached the gate, and Owyn shouted, “Hello, the abbey!”

To the right of the gate a figure appeared up on the wall. “Hello, travelers. What do you seek at the Abbey of Ishap at Sarth?”

“I carry a message from Abbot Graves, late of Malac’s Cross.”

The figure disappeared and a moment later, the large door swung open. As they rode in, it swung closed behind them, and a very old monk, carrying a large warhammer, stood behind them. “By the beard of Tith! A Dark Brother riding into the abbey like he belonged here.”

Another monk put up his hands in a calming gesture. “Brother Michael, these fellows say they carry word from Abbot Graves at Malac’s Cross.” He turned toward the two as they dismounted, and said, “Brother Michael is our Keeper of the Gate. Earlier in his life he was a warrior, and occasionally he falls back into the habits of his youth.”

Gorath studied the grey-haired old man, still upright and strong, despite his age. With a slight incline of his head, he showed his respect. “If his task is to be vigilant, he serves you well,” said Gorath.

“I’m Dominic, Brother Prior to the abbey and in the Abbot’s absence, I am in charge. What may I do for you?”

Owyn introduced himself and Gorath, and replied, “We traveled with Squire James of Krondor, and made the acquaintance of Abbot Graves on our way to Romney, a few months ago, and we had reason to visit with Graves recently. He traveled with us to Krondor, to throw himself on the mercy of the temple.”

“Come inside,” said Dominic. He motioned to a monk to take their horses. “Please, follow me.”

Dominic appeared to be a middle-aged man, but one who moved with a quick step. His dark hair was showing grey, yet there was a light of curiosity in his eyes that was refreshing. He showed them to an office, and said, “Please, sit down. Would you care for something to drink?”

“Water, please,” said Gorath.

Dominic asked a monk to fetch mugs of water, and said, “I remember James from a visit here many years ago. He was quite a personality.”

“He still is,” said Gorath.

Owyn smiled at that. “Abbot Graves asked me to tell you what has occurred.” He summed up what he knew, then filled in details when Dominic asked him some questions.

Finally, Dominic observed, “Well, this is a matter for the mother temple in Krondor, but I fear the Abbot will be subject to the most severe punishment.”

“Why?” asked Gorath.

Dominic looked at the dark elf. “Why? For betraying us, of course.”

“Do you fault the tool for bad work, or the worker?”

“I don’t take your meaning,” said the monk.

“Your order selected this man. You subjected him to whatever rites and oaths you human priests use. Yet you admitted a flawed man to your ranks.”

Dominic sighed. “We are not perfect. We make mistakes. It was a mistake to admit Ethan Graves to our ranks, no matter how urgent he felt his calling was.”

Owyn said, “Well, at least he returned to pay his debt.”

Dominic sat back. “I wonder . . .” After a moment of reflection, he stood up. “In any event, I cannot help you in the matter of this Book of Macros you mentioned. Pug allowed us to copy certain volumes in his library in exchange for our sending him copies of a few volumes here in our library.”

“Could the Book of Macros be something that’s stored here, without your knowing?” asked Gorath.

Dominic motioned for them to walk with him. “No, every volume in our possession is cataloged and can be found easily by our master librarian.” He took them through the main building of the abbey, and said, “Rest, and eat with us. I will send one of the brothers into town to inquire after the next ship bound for Ylith. If you leave your horses with us, you may reclaim them should you come this way again.”

“Thank you,” said Owyn. They were shown to a room with two narrow beds. Gorath lay down and was quickly asleep. Owyn lay down, but sleep was slow in coming as his mind wrestled with questions for which he had no answer: what would happen to Graves and his Kat? Where were James and Locklear? And most of all, what was the Book of Macros and where could they find it?

James looked at the maps and shook his head. “We just don’t have enough men.”

His makeshift staff stood arrayed around the table. James had appointed new commanders, based on quick interviews with various soldiers in the keep. He had appointed temporary officers, sergeants, and reorganized patrols and duty rosters. The past week had seen things start to firm up, but now he was getting reports of troop movements to the north.

“Whatever trouble we caused with our pranks up there seems to have finally been overcome,” he said to Locklear, who stood to one side. “It’s clear they’re starting to stage for the move south. Another month at the outside, and they’re going to be heading our way.”

“Should we try to send another messenger south?”

“The Earl of Dolth has an outpost on the northern edge of the Blackwood. That’s about the only place we haven’t sent a messenger.” He looked around the room. “No, we’re here, and unless help is already on the way, we’re on our own. See to your posts and try to keep a brave face; our men need it.”

Locklear said, “Should I ride out and take another look?”

James shook his head. “No, they’re coming. This report says there are siege towers on the move, as well as catapults.”

“Then what next?”

“We wait,” said James. “Have a patrol sweep south and west, to make sure we don’t face surprises from unexpected quarters, then have the word go out to the surrounding villages.” James had recalled the horse soldiers from the town of Dencamp-On-The-Teeth, and was using them for patrols. That also had gained him one sergeant with experience. “I want militia gathered and brought here and those who won’t or can’t fight sent to the south.” He pointed to the map. “Start digging traps here, in the morning. By the time they get here, I want their engineers having to fill pits all the way up that road.”

Locklear nodded. “Shall I have crews start bringing up boulders?”

“Yes. There’s a ridge here”—his finger touched a spot on the map—“where a ledge overhangs a curve in the road. If you build a wooden cradle and fill it with boulders, we can pull out supports and rain stones down on them.” He considered his situation, and said, “If they don’t bring magicians against us, we might possibly keep those damn siege towers away from our walls.”

“Bah!” said a voice from the corner, and James and Locklear turned to see Patrus standing a short distance away. “If they bring their spellcasters, I’ll show them a thing or two.”

James smiled. “Good. We’ll rely on you.” He looked at his longtime friend. “Any luck in finding the assassins?”

Locklear shook his head. “And I’m worried. It could be someone in the garrison, in the staff, or someone who snuck in and then left. I don’t know. Two of the captains were killed while in the field, sleeping in their own tents, and the Baron was poisoned, while no one else at the table suffered so much as heartburn.”

“So we may have several Nighthawks still among us?”

“Yes,” said Locklear. “I wish we had a way to ferret them out.”

“Let me roast a couple of prisoners over a fire,” said Patrus with an evil cackle. “That’ll scare the rest of them into confessing.”

James paused a moment, and Locklear said, “You’re not thinking of taking his suggestion seriously, are you?”

“No,” said James with an impatient shake of his head. Then suddenly his grin returned, and he said, “But it gives me an idea.” Turning to Patrus, he said, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course not,” said the old man, then he laughed at his own joke.

“Good, because I have a secret I want you to keep, for, oh, a few minutes at least.”

“What’s that?” asked the old magician with as delightedly evil an expression as Locklear and James had ever seen.

James began to outline his plan, and the magician began to chuckle again.

James and Locklear stood above the common dining hall, looking down from a balcony that led into the late Baron’s meeting room. Soldiers were talking over their meal, their voices low. Locklear said, “It’s spreading.”

“Like a rash,” said James.

“When do you think they’ll act?” asked Locklear.

“If I know my Nighthawks, the second they think there may be a way to discover who they are, they’ll be looking for a way out. The longer they wait around, the higher the chance of being discovered.”

“You think they’ll believe Patrus?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” James asked. “Most of these soldiers know nothing about magic. As a group they’re tough, good fighters, and not very bright; else they wouldn’t be up here on the border.”

“I can’t argue that,” said Locklear, who had spent more time on the border than James. “You usually have to be pretty stupid to get banished up here.”

“Or if you volunteer, you’re even dumber,” offered James.

“Anyone looking nervous?” asked Locklear.

“Over there, those three in the corner.”

Locklear watched as three soldiers who had been sitting by themselves huddled with heads low over the table, talking and trying hard not to be overheard. One seemed to be arguing with the other two, but whatever they were discussing, they were keeping it to themselves.

Finally, the other two seemed to convince the dissenter of what it was they had been arguing, and the three of them stood up, one of them looking around the room suspiciously, while the other two tried to appear casual.

“Is the gate closed?” James asked.

“Of course, as you ordered.”

“Then it’s the postern gate,” said James.

“What about the sally port?”

“Too close to the front gate. No, they’ll try to sneak out the back way. Besides,” said James with a smile, “I left it intentionally unguarded. An ‘oversight’ by an ‘inexperienced commander.’ ”

“You’re an evil bastard, Jimmy the Hand.”

“Why, thank you, Locky!” said James brightly.

They moved away from the balcony and hurried down a flight of stairs, where two men they had decided could be trusted waited. The old sergeant said, “I saw three men leave a moment ago, Squire.”

“Do you know them well?”

“No. Two of them came in last summer, replacements from Romney, and the other came here but a few weeks ago.”

James nodded. “They’re the ones. If we check with the other men in the command, I’m willing to wager one of them was working in the kitchen the night the Baron died, while the other two were with the two dead captains.”

“Where are the others?” asked Locklear.

“There are ten men I know I can trust, Squire,” answered the sergeant. “Most have been here for years, and one is my brother’s son. They’re all waiting near the stable.”

“Good,” said James. “Let’s go.”

The four of them hurried through a tunnel at the rear of the keep, and came through a door that opened into the stabling yard. As James had anticipated, the three suspected Nighthawks were hurrying toward the stable.

The old sergeant put fingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly. From the stable ten soldiers appeared, running at the three Nighthawks.

Instantly one of them turned and saw the four coming from the rear. Seeing they were surrounded, they offered no resistance. But as James neared, he saw all three put their hands to their mouths. “Stop them! They’re swallowing poison!”

Soldiers sprang forward, but it was clearly too late. By the time they reached the three, the Nighthawks were already falling to the ground, their eyes rolling back into their heads, and their bodies twitching uncontrollably.

“Damn fanatics!” said James.

“Who are they, Squire?” asked the old sergeant.

“True Nighthawks. Perhaps some left from the Great Uprising or others recruited since then, but willing to kill and die for dark powers.”

He looked at Locklear, who nodded. “Search them for any papers, then burn the bodies,” said Locklear. “Now.”

“No priest?” asked the sergeant. “There’s a Temple Shrine to Lims-Kragma down in the village of Putney.”

“No,” said James. “Burn them within the hour. I want to make sure they stay dead.”

“Stay dead?” asked the sergeant.

James didn’t answer. No sense alarming the men, but he all too vividly remembered those Nighthawks in the basement of a brothel in Krondor who rose to kill only minutes after dying themselves. He hoped he would never see anything like that again.

“What do we do now?” asked Locklear as he overtook his friend.

James said, “Sharpen our swords, oil our armor, and wait for Arutha.”

Owyn had never liked sea travel, and Gorath admitted it was an alien experience to him. Yet both managed to bear up under the swift voyage from Sarth to Ylith. Favorable winds and no encounters with marauding Quegan war galleys had kept the journey to under four days.

At Ylith they had purchased horses with the gold given them by Lady Katala and, after consulting with the local garrison commander, discovered that things had turned quiet in the West. Whatever attempts Delekhan had made to convince the Kingdom he was attacking in the West had failed, and the attempts had been abandoned. Owyn could only conclude that was because the enemy now were preparing to direct their attentions elsewhere.

Gorath pointed, and said, “On the other side of those mountains lies the Green Heart. There hide some of my people opposed to Delekhan. They will aid us if we find them.”

“According to the Captain in Ylith,” replied Owyn, “we should find ourselves in dwarven territory, near a place called Caldara. The dwarves should be willing to help us get to Elvandar.” Gorath’s expression clearly showed he thought that an unlikely turn of events.

They rode toward Zn, where they would take a road into the mountains, which should be clearing of snow as spring approached. They had been given a clear warning that the short route to Elvandar was the most dangerous. If they wanted a safer way, they should go north to Yabon, insisted the garrison commander, then westward along the River Crydee from the Lake of the Sky, but that would add a month’s travel. Owyn and Gorath were both feeling that time was now their enemy.

The attack would come soon, for any timetable that sought to put an army in Sethanon by summer would have to begin soon. No matter which route Delekhan’s forces took, they would have hundreds of miles to cover, and supplies would be a problem. Forage along the way would be best in spring and summer.

Owyn knew that, even as they rode, the enemy might be launching his invasion of the Kingdom.

“Where are they?” demanded James. He stood on the battlements of Northwarden, staring up the gap as if he could see into the Northlands. He had expected the attack a week earlier, and still there was no sight of the enemy.

“Should I ride up and take another look around?” asked Locklear.

“No. It will probably look the same as the last time, lots of warriors gathering and arming.” James tried not to let the frustration show, but it was difficult. “They will come when they do, and there’s little we can do but wait.”

“At least Arutha and the relief should be getting here sooner,” said Locklear.

“Yes,” said James, “if Owyn and Gorath got through.” Then he looked down the road toward the enemy. “But if they had, I would have expected Arutha to be here by now. Something must have happened to them.”

“Then you think we’re not going to get help?” asked Locklear.

James shook his head. “There’s no force of size in the East close enough to help. Other than the Border Barons, all our forces are in the South, near the Keshian border, or in the East, ready to deal with the eastern kingdoms.”

Locklear sighed. He looked at James, then he smiled. “Well, it’s not the first time we’ve found ourselves in a hopeless situation, is it?”

James said, “No, but it’s the first time we’ve been in charge of a hopeless situation.”

Locklear’s smile faded.