“Sir Kenneth, can you bear arms?” Sir Jaime asked as he stormed into the inn. “Castellan Estienne de Flèche is calling all available knights to join the ranks. It’s a bloody mad house down in the city.”

  Cassia and Sir Kenneth had both been watching the chaos from the parlor window. They had been too far away to see everything, but the destruction was obvious from where they stood. Between the boom of explosions and the flashes of light, both the knight and the ‘young lady’ were quietly horrified.

  What especially horrified Cassia was that she knew her dragon was involved in it. The sensations of anger and pain he was experiencing crossed their connection at random intervals. She could tell that wasn’t on purpose. There were simply too many things for him to keep track of.

  It had taken Sir Kenneth physically restraining her to stop Cassia from charging down toward the battle. The poor man had suffered another cracked rib for his efforts. If not for some of the dirtier tricks Raban had taught him in hand to hand combat, Cassia would have completely overpowered him.

  This had the unfortunate side effect of leaving them looking disheveled when Sir Jaime arrived.

  “... Am I interrupting something?” The man said suspiciously. “Do you forget your honor, Sir Kenneth?”

  “Yes, no, and very much NO, in that order,” Sir Kenneth growled as he stepped away from the window. “If anything, the young lady and I were having a disagreement about the stupidity of charging off into battle.”

  Sir Jaime’s expression softened a bit. “Good gods lad, did Raban really put that much of a zest for battle in you? You can’t bloody well go charging off unarmed, that’s for sure!”

  The older knight stepped forward and clapped his hand on Sir Kenneth’s shoulder. Cassia folded her arms and ground her teeth. She was highly tempted to throw herself out of the window and run off just to spite the young knight. While they’d fought, the young man had yelled in her face about how her dragon didn’t need her distracting him.

  She absolutely hated that he was probably right.

  “We don’t have anything quite your size for armor,” Sir Jaime said with a grimace. “Best we can do is a spare gambeson and an arming cap, but that’ll do in a pinch. But I’ve got a good shield and a blade with your name on it. I presume an arming sword will suffice.”

  “Yes Sir Jaime,” Kenneth responded firmly. “Sir Raban always insisted that ‘a man twirling around a two handed sword is either very good, or very dead’. I’d rather ensure I remain ‘very alive.’”

  Sir Jaime gave a short barking laugh and patted Sir Kenneth on the shoulder. “Good lad. Let’s be off and get you kitted out. We’re marching down into the city in ten minutes.” Belatedly he cast a glance at Cassia. “Don’t worry my lady, I’ll keep your honor guard out of trouble. But alas, duty calls.”

  Cassia seethed silently as Sir Kenneth walked out without looking at her. She absolutely hated the feeling of not being able to do anything in this situation. It was foolish, but the only place she wanted to be right now was by Sanguine’s side.

  As she thought of him, she got another feeling across their connection. The sensation of claustrophobia had returned, along with pain. She could smell blood, but it wasn’t Sanguine’s. He tried his best to reassure her that he was alright, but her dragon was terrible at lying to her, even for good reasons. She could tell from the frustration and dejection he was exuding that something had gone very wrong.

  There was a strange undercurrent of ‘betrayal’ to his emotions that she couldn’t quite understand. It didn’t seem to be directed at Visk. In fact, she noticed that he was feeling a much greater mixture of concern and affection for the elf than she’d expected.

  The connection quieted down again with a final attempt at reassurance.

  Cassia stomped her foot on the floorboards. To her surprise, a crack was heard from beneath her foot. When she looked down at the floorboard, several wooden splinters were digging into her heel through her soft shoe. Pulling them out required her to go sit down and pull up her skirt. As soft and pretty as the dress was, it only ever seemed to get in the way.

  “If Kenneth gets into trouble and I’m the only one not doing anything, then what good am I?” Cassia muttered to herself. She silently began to plot how she was going to get out of the dress and over to Sanguine.

  Sir Kenneth had to admit that being back amongst other knights was a relief. Ever since he’d left Baron Reimse’s castle to ‘hunt a witch’, he’d felt alone and isolated. This was a bit of a surprise to him, as he’d somewhat resented the Baron’s other knights. They often went out of their way to imply that he’d only gained his knighthood due to his parentage.

  True, the brat named Geoffrey was kind of a twit. But Sir Jaime seemed determined to correct that kind of disrespect. Bernard was a cool and silent presence, always hovering behind Geoffrey’s shoulder. They were an interesting bunch, in some ways far more refined than the rough and tumble knights he was used to from the Barony. In other ways, they were exactly the same.

  Their sense of duty was what drew in Sir Kenneth most of all. The idle insults and fooling around vanished once the gravity of the situation became known. No one wanted to cause a fight when they could see black smoke rising above the city in the distance.

  As promised, Sir Jaime had acquired a clean gambeson and arming cap for Kenneth to wear. To his surprise, a serving girl had shown up just as they were getting ready to leave. Sir Kenneth’s tabard had been freshly laundered to the best of the Inn’s ability. Someone had even taken the time to fix the stitching on the Reimse Crest, a castle over a field of wheat, so that it looked pristine.

  That had to be Cassia’s doing. Sir Kenneth felt a moment of regret for how he’d spoken to her. She was clearly under a great deal of stress, just as he was. They were both fish out of water in this city. Nothing had gone right since they’d stepped off of Lucien’s wagon.

  He took a moment to think about the ‘distiller’ as he tightened a belt holding his new arming sword over his attire. It was far too convenient that a bunch of criminals had broken into the Inn they had been staying at. Sir Kenneth was almost certain the man had sold them out. The ‘why’ remained elusive for now.

  Sir Kenneth stood together with Sir Jaime and his former squires as the man who must be the Castellan rode out of the gate leading the Noble Quarter on horseback. Knights and men-at-arms had been streaming through the gate for the past several minutes. While Kenneth did not have an accurate count, he estimated that around a hundred full knights had gathered. Many of them had squires or personal retainers that filled out their ranks.

  The men-at-arms seemed to be mostly sworn to the Castellan’s house, indicated by the crest of a Tower they wore on small cloth favors that hung from their belts or shoulders. A smattering of other Noble houses’ crests showed up in the ranks of professional soldiers, but they were far outnumbered. The men-at-arms numbered around three hundred.

  “For a city this size, this is going to be like pissing in the wind,” Sir Jaime said out of the side of his mouth at Sir Kenneth. “If the Margrave were here, he’d have the other House’s guts for garters for sending so few men.”

  “It’s because it’s the Wizards, isn’t it?” Sir Geoffrey hissed from the other side of Sir Jaime. “They’d be bloody fools to send their-” A hiss of pain passed the brat’s lips as Sir Jaime jammed the pommel of his sword into Geoffrey’s side. Even with the chainmail he wore, the blow took the wind out of him.

  “Shut it, or I’ll tell your Father that you were speaking cowardice rather than doing your duty,” Sir Jaime growled. Kenneth was more than a little surprised at how harshly the man was treating his nephew. As he thought about it, Sir Raban hadn’t been any gentler, but he’d assumed that was due to his ignoble upbringing.

  Perhaps he ought to apologize to the man, next they met.

  “Men, Knights of the Empire!” The Castellan called from on top of his steed. He was heavily armored in gilded platemail, one of the only sets Sir Kenneth had ever seen. “The bloody Towers have made a mess of it! We all knew the day would come when the Wizards would go a step too far. I just didn’t expect it to be during my harking lunch!”

  A grim ‘smile at the boss’s unfunny joke’ laugh swept through the assembled knights and soldiers.

  “I know there are rumors that the Noble Houses fear the might of the Towers!” The Castellan wheeled his steed so that he could presumably sweep his eyes across those gathered. “I am here to tell you that’s a crock of shite! Look where their bleeding magic has got them. Half my city, our city, on fire! No doubt over some bauble one of them got their grubby fingers on.”

  “We are the sworn servants of the Empire!” The Castellan called as he raised his shield to the crowd, emblazoned with the Tower crest. “House de Flèche calls upon you! We are the Tower that Shields this city!”

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  A more enthusiastic cheer rose from those assembled.

  “We march to bring Order to Osteriath! Clear the streets. Rescue the wounded. If you spot a Wizard still casting their blasted spells, summon my honor guard and one of our Witch Hunters will put them in their place.” The Castellan’s words carried clearly across the crowd. “Now then, Forward!”

  As the knights and soldiers turned to march down into the city, Sir Kenneth cast his eyes over his shoulder to the Castellan’s honor guard. Each was clad in finer armor than he’d ever seen. He was more intrigued by the hooded figures keeping close to the Castellan. Each was garbed in a heavy cloak which obscured their figure, but he could see the glint of armor underneath.

  He only got a glance as he was pushed forward, but he was pretty sure they were carrying Wizard staves.

  “Sonofawhore!” Mortimer howled as he clutched his ruined hand to his chest. They were back inside the safety of the Tower of Baedain, but the rumble and crack of spells still echoed through the walls.

  Magnus stared in blank shock as his Teacher hobbled over to a locked cabinet. Rather than pull out a key, Mortimer spat a word that made Magnus’ ears ring. “Aiftaellna!”

  The cabinet doors slammed open. Racks of potion vials rattled inside of rows of padded racks. Mortimer reached up and snatched two vials from the cabinet. One glowed with a silver hue that made Magnus’s eyes itch. The other was a more subtle golden color. Mortimer pulled the wax stoppers out with his teeth and quickly downed one then the other.

  Unpleasant grisly sounds could be heard from the Wizard’s hand as the shattered bones forced themselves back into alignment. Magnus learned several new curse words in rapid sequence. Whatever was inside of the potion vials, it did not seem to dull the pain. A fuzzy memory wormed its way into Magnus’s thoughts that he knew someone who was much better at making potions. Just as the thought began to clarify itself, his head was pierced by a spike of pain.

  The boy dropped to the floor, holding his head in one hand. His shepherd’s crook trembled as his other hand clenched it tightly. Mortimer’s staff lay in two halves on the floor nearby. A savage backlash had exploded out of the item when the giant lizard’s fangs split it along with Mortimer’s hand. Both the Wizard and the Apprentice were peppered with crystal shrapnel. Every gem embedded in the staff had exploded when the backlash coursed through them.

  “Why didn’t you do anything sooner?!” Mortimer growled as he turned sharply towards Magnus. “So much precious material, WASTED… and for what?” Magnus could see that not all of Mortimer’s fingers had been repaired by drinking the potions. His ring and pinky finger were cleaved right off of his hand and were nowhere to be seen.

  “Do you have any idea how many years it took me to make that staff?!” the Wizard continued to shout. He didn’t seem to care whether Magnus tried to answer or not. “Each crystal was worth more than a whole village! Are you listening?” The old man’s remaining fingers on both hands dragged Magnus to his feet. “The Mistress will-”

  “-be quite unhappy with you, ‘Pet’.”

  Mortimer’s hands started to shake as he slowly looked over his shoulder. Magnus tried to focus through his splitting migraine. His vision swam back and forth as names and places that he ought to recall twisted just out of reach. Everything from before he came to the Tower was locked behind clouds of static in his mind.

  There was a woman standing at the entrance to the Tower floor. Magnus couldn’t make out her exact appearance. Each moment, her features twisted and flowed. His addled mind thought that she’d look very pretty as a blond, then suddenly she was. The next, her long locks were darker than night, or red as the afternoon sun.

  What he could say for certain was that the woman somehow seemed ‘more real’ than the world around her. Her surroundings fought to get out of her way. The floor itself seemed to rise and swell to aid her footsteps so that she did not need to expend any extra effort. All of the dust and cobwebs that had collected around the stacks of ‘research material’ vacated the premises.

  “Morrrtimeeer,” the woman purred as she approached the Wizard. “Do you have something you’d like to tell me?”

  The old man was shaking so hard that he rattled Magnus in his hands. One delicate finger reached out and touched the wide brimmed hat. It flew away and landed on a nearby coathanger. Magnus could see how Mortimer’s eyes were locked on that same finger as it approached his forehead. The old man began to sweat like it was a sword descending slowly towards his neck.

  Magnus watched as one pristinely manicured nail sunk into the Wizard’s forehead. It and the finger behind it seemed to push right through Mortimer’s flesh without any resistance. A musical hum that vibrated Magnus’s perception flowed from between the woman’s pursed lips.

  “Ohhh?” The single digit twisted between Mortimer’s eyebrows. “So he’s not just a shepherd’s child? Very naughty my dear pet. You know better than to lie to your Mistress.”

  Mortimer collapsed to the ground and his fingers let go of Magnus. The boy found himself suspended by an invisible force that held onto his robe’s collar. Once again, he was being scruffed like a cat.

  “I’ll be taking care of your little ‘project’ for a while, dearest Mortimer,” the Mistress said melodiously. “You’ve cost me quite a bit, to sort out all the trouble you caused. I’ll also be taking two of your Floors back, along with everything inside of them. You can keep the manservant though. You’ll need a scapegoat in the near future. The ‘Council’ would like a word with you.”

  Magnus was dragged through the air as the woman turned without another glance at the crumpled Wizard. As he flew towards the stairs and out of the Floor, he saw Howard the Bard staring at them from behind a shelf. Magnus had just enough presence of mind to wave weakly at the man as he sailed by. It was a shame that he’d not be around to change the bandages on the Bard’s burns.

  Already, Magnus could feel his headache fading. A blissful ignorance settled back over his mind. Soon enough he no longer remembered Howard at all. As the Mistress floated him up the stairs of the Tower, he idly wondered what she had to teach him.

  Sigurd stared at the village of Greenreimse. It was a quiet place with well tended fields. You wouldn’t think that it would even need a knight, let alone a squad of soldiers. But the Baron had declared that both were to be posted here.

  Sir Rothlain was to be his knight and caretaker. Sigurd understood that he was supposed to be trained as an adopted son of the Baron. He had imagined that he’d be staying in the Castle, but that turned out to not be the case. Instead he was assigned to Sir Rothlain and booted back out into the countryside.

  His new teacher only responded that it was ‘to keep him out of harm’s way’ when questioned.

  What confused Sigurd more than being sent to live in this village, was the strange emptiness he felt inside of himself. A fire had burned inside of him. It had carried him half dead to the Baron’s court to warn him of the Black Dragon. That same fire had kept him awake during the hard ride to hunt the beast down.

  After he woke up on the funeral pyre, the fire inside of him was gone.

  The burning need for vengeance was extinguished. Some guttering sparks of motivation lingered in the pit of his stomach, but he had no idea what to do with them. He had imagined a lifetime of training to bring the beast to justice, but it had died almost by accident. His legs had frozen in fear to place him at the wrong place at the right time.

  Many far braver men had sold their lives to wound the Dragon, to protect their families and loved ones from its ravenous maw. But everyone Sigurd cared about was dead before the battle even started. It seemed that the Baron had lost someone important to him in the beast’s rampage, but no one wanted to talk to Sigurd about it.

  “Something on your mind, lad?” Sir Rothlain said as he leaned forward on his horse. The man was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings that were suitable for the mid-spring weather. “You’ve got that broody look on your face again, like you’re laying an egg.”

  Sigurd grimaced sourly at the knight. Compared to Sigurd’s sixteen years, Sir Rothlain was in his late twenties. He had a wife and a child of his own, along with a couple of retainers which had moved with him to Greenreimse. The knight bore some freshly healed scars from the battle with the Black Dragon, but had left through the battle in glory rather than a grave.

  “Just wondering what we’re doing out here, Sir,” Sigurd said carefully. While Sir Rothlain was an earnest and hard working man, he could be quite stern if Sigurd spoke out of turn. “You had to leave your own manor to stay here, yes?”

  “Mmm, that’s true,” Sir Rothlain said as he idly stroked his horse’s neck. It was one of the few they’d managed to recover from the field of battle. Most of the others had died from fright or exhaustion, or had simply run off too far to be recovered. He doted on the beast as a result. One of the men-at-arms had joked that the Knight loved his horse more than his wife, which earned him a stern rebuke. “My missus wasn’t too pleased about that. But she’ll liven up when the furniture gets sent along. Very fond of our bed. I made it myself.”

  One of the men-at-arms gathered nearby snickered. He was promptly thumped by one of his compatriots. Sir Rothlain squinted in mild irritation at the men before looking back to Sigurd.

  “You might as well know, squire.” Sir Rothlain pointed into the distance, towards the Godeye Mountain. It loomed over the surrounding landscape. But the knight’s aim was towards the Forest at the mountain’s base. “Before that business with the dragon, we’d gotten reports of strange happenings from the woods over yonder. Someone was sent to investigate but… well, the dragon seems to have got ‘em. Two knights and a squad of men.”

  The dozen men-at-arms shifted uncomfortably. They seemed to already be aware of what Sir Rothlain spoke of. Many of them had lost either comrades in arms or family to the beast. More signs of its rampage were being found all the time as isolated homesteads and farms were checked. Many were left as little more than melted rubble and discarded bones.

  “So we’re investigating the Forst?” Sigurd asked. One of the small sparks in his gut grew a little brighter. That sounded like an adventure, which was a lot better than sitting around a quiet village.

  “No lad, we are taking this village under our protection,” Sir Rothlain corrected him sternly. “We will be setting up and accompanying patrols through the surrounding fields. The Barony can’t afford to lose any more men traipsing around on rumors. Our duty is to protect these people.”

  The knight gave a wry grin. “Not to mention, you may be called Dragonslayer, but you still don’t know the first thing about holding a sword. You’re years older than most squires when they get started. I can’t have you making a fool out of the Baron at your first Tourney.”

  “Then shall we have a stroll around the village, Sir?” Sigurd said with a sigh. “Survey your new domain?”

  “A capital idea Squire. You can start your training while we do. Pick up the heaviest pack from that pile over there and carry it on your shoulders.”