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  The two leading riders were carrying lanterns, and Nuan could see them clearly as they approached. They would not be able to see him until the pool of light reached him. They were obviously on edge, as their heads moved continuously back and forth looking for signs of trouble. Each carried a crossbow and steered their horses with their knees, their chainmail and straight sabres marking them as Vander dragoons, the light cavalry of the Vander Army. Behind them, three Vander knights in full plate armour rode with lances pointing skywards, metal shields on their left arms. The two dragoons and one of the knights wore tabards of Fistorian blue with the broad vertical gold stripe of Lamar Hold. One of the knights had a crown emblazoned on his blue and gold tabard, marking him as the lord of Lamar Hold. The fifth and final knight wore his own unique coat of arms of red and yellow.

  Nuan called out long before they arrived, so as not to startle them. “Hail, Lord Lamar!” He paused and waited. The riders had all stopped, and were peering ahead into the darkness. “The north wind marks the change of the season,” he stated, providing the secret phrase that marked him as their contact. “May I approach without being shot?”

  “Come slowly, and keep your hands in the air.”

  Nuan complied and walked into the circle of light, hands open and far apart. “What happened to coming alone?” he asked.

  Lord Lamar snorted, “I’m not a fool.”

  Nuan bowed deeply. “We agree, and that’s why you’re here. Thank you for coming, I do realise it is dangerous for you.”

  “I’m safe enough, I have my finest soldiers with me.”

  “Interesting that I don’t see Sir Petra, although I recognise the crest of Sir Reinhard,” Nuan inclined his head slightly, “Well met, fine Sir.”

  The knight with the red and yellow tabard dipped his visored helm in return while Lord Lamar explained, “Sir Petra is a great knight indeed, but he and I do not always share the same world views. These are my most loyal soldiers, men I would trust with my life, and who share similar views to me. You may talk freely in front of them. Tell us some of your suggestions for improving this region of Fistoria.” He nodded and one of the dragoons slid from his horse. He unpacked two folding chairs and a travel table from behind his saddle. A crystal decanter with amber liquid and two goblets were set out.

  Lord Lamar dismounted smoothly, clearly comfortable in his suit of armour, and poured a measure of liquid into each cup with his own hand. Taking a seat, he gestured for Nuan to sit and then handed him a goblet.

  “In this world, one needs to be cautious to survive,” said Nuan as he held up the goblet, toasting the soldiers that surrounded him, “but, when the moment is right, it is those who are prepared to take risks that will prosper.” He drained the fiery contents and turned the goblet upside down to prove it.

  Lord Lamar’s helmeted head dipped in acknowledgement of the point, “The fact that I am here speaks to my willingness to take risks, and that your bait caught my interest. Tell me what you propose.” He removed his helm and drank deeply.

  Nuan poured himself a second measure and sipped it reflectively, “I represent a force which is not yet widely known within the Kingdom of Fistoria. Our proposal is to reorganise the wealth and power in a more satisfactory manner. My master believes it is time for new leadership and laws.”

  Lord Lamar gave him a long look, “You’re talking about treason.”

  “Yes,” replied Nuan comfortably, holding his gaze. “And war. Two hundred and fifty years ago, under the feudal system, your sons would have inherited your castle and your lands. You would have had the power to make and change the laws as you saw fit, and you would have been wealthy beyond measure. Your future would have been secure. Your knights here would have estates, slaves and concubines. But under this upstart political system imposed by the Ironfists…”

  “The meritocracy.”

  “Yes, under this meritocracy the Ironfists have installed, there is no guarantee that your sons will take over from you. Lamar Hold does not belong to you, and while you currently command the Lamar Battalion, it is not actually yours.”

  “The system works well. The best military commanders lead the army, the best administrators manage the land. Promotion and pay are based on merit.”

  “Yes, it is certainly fair. An ordinary peasant can become the general of the Fistorian Army, or the duke of Vander.”

  “Isn’t that good?” queried Lord Lamar.

  “Certainly. If you're a peasant. But personally, I don't want fair. I am a wealthy lord, and I want the odds staked in my favour. I don't want to be subject to laws made for commoners. I want power, privilege and position. I don't want my sons to have to compete against every other man in the kingdom to retain the wealth and power that I have earned. And you don’t want to risk your life day after day defending the weak and poor.” Nuan leaned forward, but his voice was loud enough to carry, “My master is proposing a new order, which will be substantially more beneficial to those in power. We offer wealth and freedom beyond anything you have imagined, and the opportunity to pass your legacy on to your sons.”

  “Why me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not the only one we’re approaching. All around the kingdom, conversations just like this are taking place. We are reaching out to all those that have influence and vision. Across Fistoria there are men of authority who chafe under the rule of Ironfist and are willing to support a rebellion that will give them real control over their lands.”

  “What will be required of me?”

  “Everything. You will not be able to sit on the fence.”

  Lord Lamar pulled his blue and gold Fistorian Army cloak more tightly around himself as he shivered in the cold night air.

  “You don’t need me to spell this out for you. The upside is great, but if it doesn’t work we will all lose everything, including our lives,” Nuan chuckled at his private joke. “Of course, if you choose not to take up our offer, your life will be forfeit when we win.”

  Lord Lamar stood, “Your proposal is tempting, but I need to know more before I decide. I also need to be convinced that you have the power behind you that you claim, that this group of which you speak has sufficient power to make a successful bid. Send me a token; if you are to take on a king, you will need resources to rival a king. I want to see some evidence of that.”

  Nuan rose gracefully to his feet and grunted in appreciation, “Clever. You are definitely the kind of man we need. You will get your token, and trust me you will be both impressed and convinced.”

  Lord Lamar swung smoothly up onto his warhorse, as the dragoon packed up the table and chairs. “We’ll see. It has been good to meet you face to face.”

  “Likewise. I have no doubt now that ours will be a mutually profitable alliance. Travel safely, Lord Lamar.”

  The lord’s gaze swept the moonlit wilderness, and he looked pointedly at Nuan. “I’m more concerned about you. I’d hate my message to be lost.”

  Nuan cocked an eyebrow and gestured to the darkness beyond the lantern lights. “My lord has given me power you cannot yet comprehend. There is very little out there that I fear.”

  Lord Lamar’s eyes widened fractionally in surprise. “Perhaps your lord is as powerful as you say. I look forward to your gift.” He kicked his horse into motion as he called to his troops, “Ride out, we’re done here.”

  Nuan waited until the soldiers were out of sight. With his business complete, it was time to hunt, and with his supernatural powers almost everything was prey.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Plan

  Chandor awoke with a start. The winter sun was shining in his face, and the hard ground of the Junction campsite bit into his side. He scrambled to his feet and looked around at the deserted camp. From the height of the sun, he estimated it was nearing midday. They left without me, he realised. He could understand it, they had taken a chance by letting him in at all and they probably hadn’t wanted to prolong their risk by inviting a stranger to travel with them.<
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  Suddenly his heart sank like a stone. He whipped around, looking for his horse and tackle, petrified that it had been stolen. Relief washed over him when he saw Sandy was tethered to a post, eating calmly from a pile of hay in front of her. His saddle, bridle and empty saddle bags were laid out on a bench next to her. He automatically breathed a prayer of thanks to the Gods and reached to his chest to touch his Holy Symbol before remembering that he had thrown it away the previous evening.

  He looked around. The campsite was perhaps forty yards in diameter, mostly surrounded by an impenetrable wall of thorn-bushes piled both high and deep. The exit was more formal, with an earth rampart, wood palisade, and large wooden gates secured by heavy wood bars. He had been sleeping by a four-foot wide fire pit from which some warmth still radiated.

  A trickle of a stream entered at the top of the camp and flowed into an icy pond. An earth channel led the outflow around the side of the camp to exit at the far side. A message had been burnt into a piece of wood above the pond: Remove water to use! No washing! The sight of the water made him realise how thirsty he was and how dirty he felt. He used his hands to scoop a drink from the freezing pond, resisting the urge to disobey the sign and wash. Then he used the long drop which was in the corner furthest from the pond.

  Near where he had slept, someone had left a pile of porridge on a flat stone. Normally he would have turned up his nose at the cold leftovers but he was ravenous. He dug a few coals out from the centre of the fire with a stick, and blew on them until they were hot and glowing red. He placed the stone on them to heat the porridge. Once it had heated through, he ate it slowly and deliberately with his fingers.

  After a while, he stood and stretched. Both Langstund and Lynmith were over twenty miles away and would take him a full day of riding. It was already too late to leave. Chandor was aware that with neither companions nor weapons he had been lucky to make it to Junction alive. He determined that he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He would have to remain at the Junction for the whole day and leave early the next morning, hopefully with a caravan but at least travelling by daylight.

  Without morning prayers, exercise, or work to do, he felt lost. Depression swept over him. He did not want to face thinking about the days ahead, what he would do or how he would survive. Instead he wandered over to Sandy, and brushed her down as best he could, using hay for lack of anything more suitable. When he was done, he looked around and noticed that the gates while shut, were not barred, so he hefted the sturdy bars back into place. Then he noticed a wood pile in one corner. Next to it was an axe on a long chain. He set to work, chopping wood for the fire. When his arms began to ache, he left the axe quivering in a stump of wood, and stretched out in the sun to doze.

  Sometime later he awoke, still feeling both restless and depressed. He climbed the rampart by the gate and stared out. Rolling hills, with long yellow grass, low bushes and occasional thorn trees stretched out in every direction for as far as the eye could see. Far to the north, he could see the blue shadow of distant mountains. The dirt road wound its way into the haze, branching out in three directions. In the distance, on the road from Tinsley, a moving spec suggested an approaching caravan.

  It was late afternoon by the time it arrived. There were four wagons, each drawn by oxen with two mercenary guards in chain mail riding ahead. Another two guards brought up the rear. Chandor watched its steady approach from the rampart, feeling nervous and uncomfortable. Will they know about me, that I ran away from the church? he wondered. When they got near, he walked down to the gates and removed the bars, then pushed them wide.

  “Thanks,” nodded the first guard in as he walked his horse into the stopover. He looked around carefully, his hand on the hilt of his sword, before calling the others in. As the caravan rumbled in, the guard turned back to Chandor. “You’re here early. Are you alone?”

  Chandor swallowed. “I’m here alone, I left Tinsley early.”

  The guard nodded, seemed to consider asking more, but then shrugged his shoulders. “Mind helping me reset the bar?”

  Chandor shook his head, and together they closed the gates and lifted the bar into position. The guard whistled to get another guards attention, and pointed to the ramparts. The second guard sighed, gathered a crossbow from his horse, and climbed up to take watch. The first guard nodded his thanks to Chandor and left to join the rest of the caravan unpacking. Chandor stood uncertainly, at the gate, not knowing what to do and feeling awkward. He headed back to Sandy, and pretended to be busy by cleaning his saddle with one of the white woollen bracers from his forearm. The others took no notice of him as they went through what was obviously a well-practiced routine of setting up camp.

  As afternoon turned to evening, another caravan arrived, this one from Lynmith. Chandor felt more and more miserable. The air cooled and he shivered, glad at least for his thick woollen socks and long leather boots. The merchants started to prepare for dinner causing Chandor’s stomach to rumble. Pride prevented him from going and asking for food, but his stomach ached as he smelled the aroma of beef and vegetable skewers sizzling over the fire. As the darkness deepened, his depression intensified. The merchants and guards pulled up logs around the fire, sitting in a large circle, joking, swapping stories and eating, and passing around a barrel of ale.

  Loneliness hit Chandor like a hammer. He slipped into the circle and sat down between the two groups near the warmth of the fire. What am I going to do? he wondered in anguish. He realised he had no plan for food or warmth, no goal, and no one to talk to. Until a few nights ago, at this time of the evening he would have just finished evening prayers with his classmates and been washing in preparation for dinner. I wish Anelle was here, he thought, wondering what she was doing. She probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone. A lump rose in his throat, and he stared deep into the flames, but they only served to remind him that he had no longer had any family.

  Around him, the other travellers started to pack up for the evening, cleaning their eating utensils, shaking out bedrolls, and arguing about watch duties. One by one, the guards and merchants headed off to their sleeping sacks and soon, Chandor was sitting alone by the fire, hugging his knees, rocking himself slightly. Tears started to leak from his tightly shut eyes, and he sniffed quietly to himself, surrounded by people but completely alone. A physical pain twisted in his stomach, and he wished he could just die, to escape his pointless and useless life. The future stretched out in front of him, black and bleak as the plains of the afterlife.

  A small, warm hand touched his shoulder. He looked up to see a young girl, no more than twelve, standing behind him in her sleeping tunic and cloak.

  She looked down at him with big brown eyes, full of concern. “Are you ok?” she asked.

  Chandor shook his head, and a flood of tears cascaded down his cheeks.

  The girl sat down next to him on the log, putting her arms around him. “What’s wrong?”

  “I miss my parents and my brother,” Chandor sobbed, feeling himself break apart. “I miss them so much. I’m so alone, and nobody even cares.”

  She held him tighter. “I care.”

  Chandor sank against her, and for a long time, she rocked him gently.

  Eventually she sat back and said, “Wait here.” She leapt up and ran off to the caravans that had come from Tinsley. She reappeared a few moments later holding something in her hands. She knelt in front of him, and opened her hands. In them was a large silver medallion in the shape of the Godstar. Chandor’s heart soared, it was his Holy Symbol.

  The girl lifted it and placed the chain over his head. “I found it next to the road today. You can have it.” She looked up into his face. “I must get back to bed before I get in trouble. It was nice meeting you.”

  Chandor smiled at her, “You too.”

  She jumped up and ran back to her caravan, leaving Chandor thinking of all the things he should have said. He lay back down on the ground. Clutching the Holy Symbol tightly he quickly drifted off
to sleep.

  In his sleep, flames roared around him, stealing his breath and scorching his skin. Unconsciously, Chandor reached up for his medallion. The icy cold metal jerked him from the unfolding nightmare. He gasped, sucking in cold morning air and sitting upright in one movement. He felt wide awake, almost supernaturally rested although the sky was only just starting to lighten. Looking around he saw that no one was awake except the two guards on watch at the main gate.

  His brain was racing and he felt charged with purpose. He fetched a handful of kindling and drew some coals together from the fireplace, blowing on them until they burst into flame. The night had settled his soul, and he had woken with the realisation that his anger was misdirected. It is not the Gods that have betrayed me, just the church. Otec has not suddenly changed His mind and Notomok has not given me a new sending, no matter what High Priest Hengel and the church say. I have felt nothing from Takatifu Roho suggesting that I am on the wrong path. This is all the fault of the priests! They are probably threatened because I can hear the Gods so clearly. They’re afraid that I will be blessed by Notomok more than them.

  Chandor added more wood until he had a small but stable fire. Then he settled down to pray. He started to kneel facing east as he had done for every morning meditation over the past four years, but before he did so he paused. Stuff the church and its traditions, maybe it’s time to find my own way, he thought. He chose to sit cross-legged, facing the fire, with his back to the warming rays of the rising sun.