Amberwine- Book 1 of the Lich War Series

Amberwine

Book One of the Lich War Series

By KD Nielson

Copyright KD Nielson 2008,

eBook Copyright 2012

Published on Smashwords

Cover Art designed Ammanda Mathews

* * *

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

The right of KD Nielson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the New Zealand Copyright Act 1994.

* * *

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my loving and long suffering wife, Anita. The countless hours I drafted her into helping me are truly appreciated.

Also I would like to thank Debs, a kindred spirit who untiringly read the many versions, and lovingly designed the cover.

I would also like to thank Ruth, for the long and arduous task of editing my work.

Another person that deserves to be here is my good friend Wendy, or Max to her family.

Without all the help this book would not have made it.

The last person I would like to thank is Dale Caroline Russell for her input to my books and for writing the back cover write-up.

* * *

Other books by KD Nielson

The Lich War Series

Amberwine

Cassandra of Cr' Mere

A Line in the Sand

Tales of Menel Fenn

Osey

Fool's Quest

The Confederation Kingdoms of Bree

Mage's Mistake

Ghost Dancer

DSMR Series

Through The Portal

Copyright © KD Nielson, 15 July 2008

* * *

CONTENTS

Prologue

The Company

The Adventure

Justine

Revelation

Koldor

The Queen

Rebuilding

Telora

Blackwell

Coal Haven

Invasion

The Swords

The Wedding

The Brotherhood

Dun Lyn

The Widow Makers

The Rescue

Aftermath

Cast of Characters

About the Author

Preview of KD Nielson's New Novel

* * *

Prologue

Midnight, the time in which men lived and died. A shrouded full moon, hanging low in the sky, reflected the fires from the fiercely burning fortress. The dense clinging smoke from the inferno, and the smoldering burnt out defense works, drifted aimlessly, so thick men could taste it, eyes watered relentlessly. Everywhere fiery embers floated like black and red snowflakes singeing bare skin. The cries of the lost, the fearful, and dying echoed eerily off the stonewalls, in hostile obscurity, like the souls of the damned. In the acrid smoke blanketed ruins, men hunted each other; some dying quickly, others so grievously wounded they lay quiet, dying alone.

A man moved carefully in the drifting choking smoke, for to be seen would mean his death, as every shadow harbored a potential enemy. The mercenary company he had been attached to was gone; destroyed, as was the prince’s army. The man moved awkwardly, favoring his shoulder; a crude sling supporting the broken arm. The collapse of a dry riverbed bank had cost him his horse, his only means of escape. Breaking his arm in the fall, his sword had clattered off in the darkness from his suddenly useless hand. Unable to take the time to locate it, he scrambled for cover, cradling his injury. The pungent tainted air made him terribly thirsty. He knew there was a tiny spring near the embankment where his company had been dug in. Now, in the threatening sinister shadows, he tried to find this same place.

Sounds were all around, and he hugged the bank. His head cocked sideways, eyes bloodshot and stinging, he stared hard, trying to pierce the gloom; hoping to identify any threatening noise amongst the myriad assortment of sounds echoing about. He pushed up against the bank trying to blend into the darkness, making himself invisible. It was then he found the water he sought. Wearily dropping to his knees, he plunged his face through the floating ash and dirt to gulp warm brackish water. The snorting of a horse made him jump. Unable to tell if the rider was friend or foe, he frantically looked for a way to escape, but there was none. The wounded soldier dived for the hole the spring flowed from. He painfully squirmed on his stomach through the wet, grimy muck, and found himself in narrow tunnel. The claustrophobic crawlway tightened threateningly about him, and twice his body became firmly wedged. The injured man fought down the panic that hovered, ready to consume him. He fumbled awkwardly at his belt, his questing fingers grasping the dagger that hung there. His rapidly pounding heart skipping a beat as his arm lodged against his chest, stuck. Frantically working to free the trapped limb in the confining space, he whimpered when the strap on his haversack broke, quite unintentionally cut by the moving blade. He lay still, forehead in the grime as he steadied his breathing, waiting for his racing heart to steady and slow, then, he attacked the soft earth with the desperately won bit of metal. However, elation swiftly turned to despair when the dagger clinked on a hidden stone, shattering. His clawed fingers, digging frantically made headway. His breathing was harsh in the confined space; he could feel his blood pounding in his ears. Small rocks trickled onto him, and bits of earth wafted gently down. He blinked his rapidly tearing eyes to clear the grime that stuck there.

After wiping his face with a quick brush, from his torn and bloody sleeve and with an almost child-like sob he cried, Please God, help me!

Again, he attacked the debris holding him from freedom. He peered at the overhead, inches from his up turned face, and involuntarily thought of all the hundreds, or even thousands of feet of rock and earth that towered menacingly above him. Panic again threatened to rear its ugly head, and he had to ruthlessly fight down the terror of being buried alive, deep in the womb of the uncaring mountain; which would surely kill him, as quickly as any enemy’s sword.

After a fierce titanic struggle, he broke through into the bigger watercourse, falling into a torrent of rushing water. He gasped at the sudden coldness. The icy water quickly numbed his bruises, his torn bleeding fingers with shredded nails, and his broken arm. Gulping in great breaths of ‘fresh’ air, he lay, letting the soothing water wash over him. Suddenly gratefully to be alive he started laughing. The laugher started building, soon the hysterical noise echoed alarmingly off the stone tunnel. He rolled onto his stomach, eyes streaming tears from the fit he seemed unable to stop. Suddenly off balance, he toppled sideways, his injury smacking cruelly against the stone. Instantly blinding pain, shooting through every fiber of his body sobered him, allowing him to now to rein in the hysteria. After drinking his fill, the man stood awkwardly under the low ceiling, leaning against the uneven wall, supporting his injured arm. He stumbled off; it was time to make his way out of the hellish blackness. The man soon lost all sense of time or direction, but he kept moving. To quit now, would be to die, and the man had a strong desire to live.

Suddenly, rock began to shake and rumble. Dirt and other debris fell, accompanied by an ominous grinding noise from all around him. Without any warning, the stone gave way underneath him and he plunged down. His cry of surprise soon became one of pain. The thundering, crashing rocks and roaring, rushing water inundated his senses. The falling mass booming all around him drove out any fear in the need to survive. Battered and bruised, he desperately fought his way clear, then sank to the cold unyielding rock, and let darkness claim him.

Time had lost any meaning when he regained consciousness. The only thing that had any significance was pain. His body was racked with it. Everything he either touched or moved hurt, but the pain meant he was alive, for which he was grateful and gave silent thanks. Weakly he sat up. The water had drained away to form a small stream nearby. The man was thankful, for now at least his uniform had started to dry. He coughed in the cool air, blinking as sunlight probed his sensitive eyes. He glanced up at the light streaming in from a crack in the rock high above. From here it looked far too small for him to get out. He looked around. Seeing the cavern disappearing into the dark, the man dug into his bag and awkwardly pulled out a small candle, then the flint and steel. After a frustrating, agonizing few minutes, he succeeded in generating a comforting light to explore his new surroundings with. He followed the tunnel upwards, till he came to a pile of bones. From the look of them, they had been humanoid. The armor was now rotted and decayed, the weapons rusted. The man squatted on his heels and poked through the remains. He saw a glint in the flickering candlelight, so he moved closer, and putting the candle on the ground, picked up a crown. It was elaborately worked in the graceful flowing shape and design that the elves were noted for. It was a bit tarnished, but the rubies appeared flawless. He recovered the rapidly disappearing light source, now just a ball of wax. He found some half rotted torches in the pile of rubbish, and soon had the torches lit. The soldier, quickly casting around, found two more crowns of the same design; one with a black pearl and the third with a diamond. These looked to be extremely valuable. He took all three with him.

What attracted the man now, was the huge winged skeleton; it must have been close to thirty feet long where it disappeared under tons of rock. An ancient cave-in must have killed the dragon during the fight along with the hunters. The soldier idly wondered what titanic forces had been used. Maybe the combatants themselves had caused the collapse. But one thing was clear, the tunnel was blocked for good and there would be no way out. Despairing, the man turned and headed in the opposite direction. The tunnel opened into a massive cavern. Light poured from an oval hole in the roof, big enough for the dragon to fly through. This must be the crater of the silent giant that dominated the skyline near Marcastle Keep. It was this sleeping volcano that was responsible for the earthquakes in the area. That must be why the dragon had made its lair here, trusting that men would be afraid of an eruption.

Sun glittered off thousands of coins, some in chests, some in barrels and much, much more just scattered over the ground. The solider could see a couple wagons and even the remains of a mastless ship. The hoard also had armor, weapons of every sort from longbows to bastard swords. And what made the man’s heart leap; there was no rust that he could see. That could only mean one thing; they were magic. This dragon hoard would make any king give up his kingdom. The man sank to the ground, stunned by the enormity of what he had found. The sputtering torch started to singe his fingers, making him yelp in pain and surprise. He had enough money to buy and sell many of the kingdoms in the known world. Now, he could be the man he had always wanted to be.

Raiders had plundered his family’s coastal estate years ago. They had slaughtered most of the workers and his friends, taken his sisters and other girls captive, the same ones who had made him a slave for those many years. Things would change; someone would pay.

Sitting on the small mound of debris looking at the wealth strewn all around, he knew he was rich beyond his wildest dreams. Now, he began to think about what he could do with all this money. He was suddenly conscious of the stench of death that clung to him, the odor of dried blood and the smell of soot from the fires. The smeared mess down the front of his charred tunic was his friend, already dead even as the solider pulled him from the burning breastworks. The gruesome muck now dry and hardened. He suddenly gagged and bent forward, throwing up. Sitting back on his heels, his head sagged, and he closed his eyes in sorrow as he wiped the foul mess from his lips, spitting once to clear the fetid taste from his mouth.

He thought back over the last few months, the battle in the Meadow, the massacre at the Keep. He saw in his mind’s eye all the men he knew who had died. He re-lived again the day when his cavalry had run down the fleeing Dun-lyn soldiers, hacking and stabbing in a killing frenzy till they were all sickened by what they had done. There had been far too many deaths, and in light of all the death and destruction he had either witnessed or had been a part of, revenge didn’t seem so important now. No one could ever bring back his missing family, another dead friend, or give him back the fifteen years that had been stolen from him. For the first time in his life he had the ways and means to really make a difference. He straightened his back, suddenly determined that he would.

* * *

The Company

Bolinor d’Arcy walked through the dirt covered, rubbish-strewn streets of the port city of Coal Haven. The aromatic stench, both animal and human, pervaded everything and lingered in the clothing, and even the very pores of its people. Chimneys vomited black foul smelling smoke from dozens of stacks, the soot falling on the scenery below. The man, walking with long strides that ate up the distance, wrinkled his nose in distaste. This was one of the main reasons he stayed away from cities; but hard on the heels of that thought, the man knew in a day or so it wouldn’t even be worth a comment. The tall striking figure looked nothing like the soldier that had finally managed to climb from the dragon’s cave almost two months ago. His first course of action had been to splint his arm. It had still been sore but useable when he did finally leave. It had taken weeks of searching through all the stuff in the forsaken cave to find enough serviceable equipment. He had spent hours unraveling old rope and garments, and unpicking leather items and then splicing the bits and pieces together. Most of what had been found was too rotten, but in the end he had enough to help him climb out nearly five weeks later. The iron rations scrounged from disintegrating and tattered backpacks, ensured that he didn’t starve. The slit like cave entrance near the summit must have been the same one the hunters had used when they raided the dragon’s lair. It had been a good bet that the knowledge of the dragon had died with the adventurers, or the loot would have been taken long ago. Bolinor reasoned the secret should still be safe.

Bolinor had spent some days going through the gold and magical items, and when he left, took over thirty thousand gold pieces worth in gems. He wore one of the suits of plate mail armor that was pounds lighter than a normal set weighed. The broad sword was simple in appearance, but with a few practice swings, Bolinor knew he wouldn’t find a sword better balanced for him, unless one had been specially forged.

Bolinor now set about looking for men to hire for his own company. While the attack at Marcastle and Albert’s defeat made for a fascinating tavern story, and helped build him an interesting reputation, it didn’t encourage men to hire on, especially as he had been the sole survivor of the last mercenary company he had served with. The story which grew every time it was told, showed he could keep himself alive, but what about the soldiers who worked for him. So, he would have to do the next best thing, pay them extremely well.

Bolinor’s shoulder length blond hair was dancing in the light wind, most gave way to him, some eyeing his weapons, watched him warily. The man wasn’t rude or aggressive, but many paused or stepped aside for his sheer size; he stood well over six feet, weighed over two hundred pounds with no fat on his frame. What people did notice, was the smile, and in the filthy streets, he did more than one dance with an unobservant pedestrian. Certain women would call out, striking a suggestive pose, or simply opened the unbuttoned shirt they wore, the man would pause, his piercing blue eyes noting their charms, but in the end he smiled again and with a shake of his head, he moved on. It wasn’t that he didn’t like what he saw, he did. Bolinor loved the soft smooth skin of a woman, especially her breasts and the back of her knees. But he was a man on a mission. He knew it would take resolve and commitment to get what he wanted. He needed to find a place to live, and one he was able to use as a hiring hall. But first he would have a drink, for today was his twenty seventh birthday. Bolinor turned into the inn ‘The Whispering Gypsy’ and walked to the counter.

The innkeeper came from the back room; he was middle aged, and fat. Yes, good sir? His manner was obsequious.

I require a room; the best you have.

That will be five silvers for the night. The jowls wobbled in time with the bobbing head.

Bolinor bemusedly tossed the keeper a leather pouch. The innkeeper deftly caught the small bag. He looked inside and dumped out a dozen gold coins. The man gasped in astonishment. He looked at Bolinor strangely, plucking the coins for the correct amount and idly tossed the sack back, which Bolinor caught and eyed the innkeeper. Bolinor pocketed the pouch smiled approvingly. Feeling like he had just passed some unspoken test, the innkeeper coolly appraised Bolinor. Although he had put up with the fat jokes and the snide remarks about being lazy, the man was no dummy and his innate shrewdness knew the real thing when he saw it. Bolinor immediately stood out among the other patrons that had come through the inn. He knew instinctively that Bolinor was a true leader, and he knew that he wanted to be part of whatever he might build.

"I want a bath, and the best meals. My horse is being unloaded from the Flying Falcon down at the docks. I want him brought here and cared for," Bolinor said.

Yes, my lord. Anything else?

I would like for the word put out. I want good men and women to hire with a new mercenary company. If you don’t object I would like to use this inn as a point of contact.

Women? the innkeeper asked confused.

Yes, women. They can fight as well as any man can. Tell anyone interested I will pay double wages for the first fifty men. You do a good job and there will be something for your efforts. I will be back down shortly, and then I am celebrating. Today is my birthday, Bolinor said grinning as he went up to his room.

Early the next mooring Bolinor found himself sitting at the wooden table, it wobbled slightly, only three of the legs reached the ground as a single time. He thought a lot of the past months, cumulating with the cave in at the dragon’s lair. As so often happened, he couldn’t help thinking of the war that lead up to him sitting at this very table. Bolinor’s eye twitched at the memory. His brother had talked of the two of them joining one of the three companies being raised in Jasper to support the prince. It was like one of the grand adventures Bolinor used to play at when he was young, before the raiders came. Albert was King Harold’s brother, and the monarch had pledged his help. One thing the commander never understood why were two royal princes of Jasper living in Blackwell? That Harold was up to something was evident, the situation stunk. But there was no one strong enough to challenge Harold, certainly not the aging king of Blackwell. Bolinor sat there lost in memory. Suddenly, a blinding flash of insight, of course, with the elderly king close to death, his queen just as frail, the rule of the land would fall to a young, slightly addled daughter. Harold was after Blackwell, and using his brother to get it. The other pressing question was what the hell was the other brother, Hayden doing living in Blackwell as well? Bolinor thought bitterly, the king couldn’t use royal troops in Blackwell without raising suspicion, but he couldn’t leave Albert unsupported and lose the good size chunk of land he had been maneuvering to acquire. So reluctantly, he had sent mercenaries. Bolinor’s sibling had an ‘accident’, or so it had been claimed, and was unable to go to war. Later when ‘recuperating from his wounds’, Bolinor had learned his brother had lied to get him out of the way, even going so far as to releasing a pre-arranged death notice. Bolinor idly wondered if someone in the Black Lions was to make sure he didn’t return. Matthew loved the same girl Bolinor was to wed, and politics were rife in the royal court. Bolinor’s father was elderly and in poor health, and with his mind deteriorating, he was in no condition to match wits with the likes of Mathew and the king. Harold had agreed to the change of betrothal in return for the enormous support the name d’Arcy evoked. So deals were made in secret and Emily was Matthew’s prize for the taking. Bolinor had returned from the cave, too late to warn the sweet, fun loving Emily. When he found out the full extent of his brother’s treachery, through a loyal family retainer, Bolinor had renounced any claim to his family name, then took the first ship heading anywhere. The vessel’s next port of call happened to be Coal Haven in Blackwell.

Bolinor silently relived the final attack, looking for what had gone wrong. The enemy had appeared out of nowhere. They materialized inside the fortress, past field defenses. Over five hundred Black Lions died. Seventy-five of them had surrendered; they had all been callously butchered. Bolinor was the only one of the company to survive the massacre. Albert had been caught and executed and his land ruined. It wasn’t just occupied, the land itself, the stock, everything was wantonly destroyed. The only good thing that Bolinor remembered of the whole sordid affair was that the Blackwell king wasn’t as senile as everyone thought. He had pulled off the political coupe of the year by secretly arranging for his daughter Mary to go to the Grand Duchy of Cr'Mere as the new Grand Duchess.

Late afternoon the next day found the hiring process going at a slow rate. The innkeeper, who Bolinor found to be named James, was as good as his word. It seemed every man and woman in the port came to the inn. Most were little better than thieves or beggars; they all fancied themselves good, but when Bolinor questioned them further, or asked for a demonstration, he found them sadly lacking in the skills he was looking for. Now fifty or sixty people and five tankards later, Bolinor was finishing for the day. The innkeeper had shut the door and begun to clean up the mess. He had done well on hopefuls. Some had waited hours, and they all had drunk a great deal. Bolinor turned at hearing the door open. James looked on in surprise for he had just locked the door himself.

The innkeeper recovered and quickly moved to the intruder. We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.

The newcomer was slim of build, and wore a dark green forester’s cloak that concealed the slight body.

Bolinor waved the innkeeper back as something about the stranger intrigued him. Come in, and be seated.

His curiosity was now awakened. The stranger moved like a wraith, and as he sat down he pulled the hood back. The man looked in his early twenties. When the newcomer turned to watch the seated man, long blond hair fell away from the slightly pointed ears. Bolinor felt his excitement rise. This man was a half elf. The commander offered the man a drink.

You are Bolinor d’Arcy, a noble of Jasper, sole survivor of the Black Lion Mercenary Company in defense of Prince Albert?

The comment of the fight that disastrous afternoon in the meadow made Bolinor’s attention wonder, again reliving the savage roar of the guns and the screams of the dying.

The elf’s voice snapped Bolinor out of his painful reverie. You seek men who will fight for your banner?

Bolinor nodded. That’s true. Only now I don’t go by my family name, he said, his voice bleak.

Bolinor’s thoughts strayed briefly; he never did find the name of the retainer who had come to him in the inn. The man was unknown to the commander.

Why do you raise this company? Do you have a score to settle? The man’s voice was light, like a leaf in a breeze.

Bolinor had to refocus, so he sat thinking for a minute. I did to start with. All I wanted was vengeance for my family and friends who were either killed or enslaved. I wanted revenge for what the barbarians from the north did to me, and what was taken from me as a child. But I found that after all the death the last few months, I have lost the need for revenge. There is a war coming; it will be a bloodbath with no winners. I know there are a lot of people who are going to need help, and when it is over, and the killing is done, I will seek the far unknown, to find my own place. Bolinor had leaned in the half elf’s direction, his voice, and his whole demeanor burning with conviction.

The half elf nodded. It is as I thought. I would fight for you, but hear me, if you ever betray my trust, or take money from evil, we will meet.

Bolinor reached over the table, and the two shook hands. What do I call you?

I am called Andrith. There is no one better with the bow.

Do you have a place to stay? Bolinor asked.

Andrith shook his head. It has been many a night I’ve slept in the open.

Bolinor smiled. Not tonight you won’t.

The next two days were a repeat of the first; thieves, bandits, and still more beggars all came looking for a place. Just when Bolinor began to despair of any worthy men, a man clomped in; mud caked his boots and was left behind in little soggy mounds. Dust and who knows what else flicked away whenever the man was brushed against. He didn’t seem to notice the flies that bothered the other patrons near him. He was dirty, bearded, his greasy hair was long and shaggy, and from the aroma about him, it had been a while since he had a bath. He stood shuffling from foot to foot, not quite sure what to do, but he moved with the line.

When he came to the table he said, I’ve come for hire, my lord.

Okay, what do you do? Bolinor decided to make it fast.

Me and my boys, err men, are knights, sir.

Bolinor almost laughed out loud, but a shake of Andrith’s head stopped him.

Okay, let’s see your horses, Bolinor said quickly making up his mind.

The man gaped at him, Yes, my lord.

Bolinor had to step back as the man talked, the fetid smell was just too much. He followed the man outside. There were nine other men waiting. They looked as dirty and scruffy as their spokesman did. The flies that followed the man from the inn joined the rest of their friends outside. The men looked more like bandits; Bolinor thought he had actually heard their names about. The commander went to their horses. The first was a bay gelding; it was strong in the chest and had a glossy hide. The tack and saddle were as shoddy as the riders, but the horse was in good shape, well cared for. Bolinor moved to the other mounts. Each rider looked and smelt as bad as their leader, Bolinor thought he could actually see something crawling through the hair of at least two of the riders, but each animal, like the first, was in good shape. These men had given up a lot to look after their horses. The half elf whispered in Bolinor’s ear. The man’s eyes widened.

You are John Roland, late of Prince Albert’s army? Bolinor asked quickly, thrilled to find another survivor.

Aye, my lord, came the embarrassed reply, along with more fidgeting.

These men had fought in the same crushing defeat that Bolinor’s company had. Like the commander, these men were all that were left of Albert’s regular army. John Roland and his men were from the Household Guard. They had stood with the prince right up to his capture, even through all the blunders and mistakes the man had made. Like Bolinor, John and his men had only left when there was nothing left to stay for. Both had taken an oath of loyalty and duty, and both had almost died for it.

Bolinor dropped some coins into a small bag. All right, go to the blacksmith. I want the animal’s properly shod and buy good tack. Then, get you and your men some decent armor and clean yourselves up. You all smell awful. Understand, captain?

Roland stood for a minute looking stupidly at his new employer, and then broke into a big smile. That will be a pleasure, my lord.

Bolinor thought the High Sheriff of this area would be grateful. Roland and his men had been one of his biggest headaches. They hadn’t been very good thieves, but they had certainly been persistent and tried hard.

The two men returned to the inn. Bolinor had gone his whole life trusting his judgment of people. His first impressions were usually the ones that turned out right. Now he was going to act on another judgment call. He knew the innkeeper was a bit of a rogue, but deep down the commander knew James was the man he wanted. The commander could see something inside the man who stood before him so eager to please. He needed more confidence, and the chance to bring out the real man Bolinor knew was within the flabby frame. James would then have what Bolinor wanted to get the job done.

James! Bolinor called out.

The innkeeper came forward bobbing his head respectfully, his manner uncertain and said, Yes, my lord?

Do you want a job? the commander asked.

Me? I run this inn, he answered confused.

Do you own it?

No, sir.

Do you want to own it? Bolinor persisted.

The man looked around. The place was tidy enough but far too small. The common room had tables only for about a dozen patrons; there was room upstairs for ten guests.

James said, Not really. If I were to own a place I would get something bigger, and better quality.

Well, do you want a job or not? Bolinor asked.

I’m not very good with a sword…

Bolinor cut him off, I need a supply officer, and paymaster, an honest one.

The man thought a minute, looked around the inn then nodded. Yes, okay! I will do it.

Good, your first job is to get supplies, tents, cooking gear and food for fifty men. I want new wagons and teams. When you get them, take them to the edge of town.

Bolinor watched the fat man hurry off then turned to the half elf and said, Come on, let’s tell the serving girl she’s in charge. He roared with laughter, and Andrith couldn’t help but smile as well.

Later that evening the two men found Roland’s camp right where Andrith said it would be. As they rode up, a soldier took the horses away. The ten men looked very different. They were clean and shaven, wore good clothes and plate mail armor hung on armor trees.

Bolinor was impressed even though John said, I’m sorry my lord, there’s not much money left.

It’s all right. It’s not cheap to start from nothing, it never is.

James hadn’t arrived yet, so the three men sat around the