Wargrach had once been a general. If his plans went well, he would be a general again. If his plans went very well, he'd be much more than that.
It had been four weeks since Wargrach had fled the disaster at Sleeto and gone straight to High Battilon, a refuge he'd prepared for such a possibility by putting a weakling in charge. This snivelling Clawed One had been too scared to rebel in Wargrach's absence. 'Moralon the Coward' he was called behind his back, too frightened to avenge the death of his brother. Wargrach had always found terror to be a useful tool, and it had proved so here.
Once Wargrach had settled at High Battilon, he'd sent messages out to saur he knew would be willing to join him. Of course, that meant deserting Queen Tayesha's Army, but Wargrach knew such deserters would be loyal to him. He would leave them no choice.
The arrival of these outlaws left the saur of High Battilon and in the neighbouring village of Lod in no doubt that dark days had come.
While his followers rampaged, Wargrach had grown tired of Moralon's gloomy presence and thrown him into a dungeon. After that, he simply announced that High Battilon had a new lord.
He limped down the stairs from the armoury to the courtyard, and at the bottom he paused, wincing. His joints ached and for a moment he thought of stretching out on one of the beds in the great bedchamber. He snorted and ignored the discomfort. He pushed open the door and emerged into the thin mountain sunshine, letting it warm his bones as he watched some of his soldiers practise.
Half a dozen saur were lazily wielding their swords. He scowled at their sloppy bladework. He decided to thrash them, later. They'd be better off for it.
Wargrach studied the walls of the castle. High Battilon was not large, but it was well made, with a number of deep wells. It had never been taken by siege or by assault. It was a strong base for his plans.
Power. Wargrach curled his hands so his claws cut into his palms. While he was general of all Queen Tayesha's armies he had had power. When he failed to bring back the fugitive Adalon of the Eastern Peaks and then lost a battalion at Sleeto, his power had vanished like smoke on a windy day.
He smiled his broken smile. Here, he would regain some of it. It was a toehold, a beginning. Soon he would be ready; soon he would be on his way to regaining greatness and to restoring the heritage of the saur.
He gnashed his teeth and ignored the many pains of his scarred and battered body. The days of blood and glory were coming; he could feel it.