Chapter One

Alaric dismounted, sliding off Fire, his stallion, and down onto the damp ground. The recent rain the night before left the knee-high grass slick and glistening under the weak morning sun. Mayor Aldred Brakenhill also dismounted, albeit with a less practiced ease and a little stiffness born of age.

At Alaric’s behest, the mayor agreed to meet him alone at this secluded spot just beyond the edge of the town, away from prying eyes and curious ears and, more importantly, without pomp and ceremony, which had become too common over the last two years.

The air was strong with the scent of wet grass and the nearby sea as the wind gusted, blowing and ruffling their cloaks. Alaric found it refreshing, almost cleansing.

The mayor stood with a commanding presence. He was a former Crusader, a respected warrior and leader of men, someone Alaric had known briefly in the holy land. A year before, Brakenhill had come to him looking for a job, a position, and a place to settle down, to spend his last years.

His broad shoulders and sturdy frame reflected years of physical exercise and military training. His hair, thick and peppered with gray, was tied back neatly, revealing a sun-weathered face carved with deep lines that told stories of many hard campaigns and years exposed to the elements.

The mayor’s sharp, assessing eyes darted about, taking in everything with rapid precision: Alaric’s mounted escort and his close protection, his Shadow Guard. Under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Ganister, the group of twenty mounted men-at-arms had halted a respectful twenty yards distance, giving them some privacy. Brakenhill’s gaze shifted to Alaric’s two Shadow Guard, who rode up with them, though remained mounted.

Wearing an old cloak and dressed in practical garments, an embroidered tunic—one his wife had likely stitched—and well-worn boots, Brakenhill exuded a sense of effortless authority and command. His bearing was that of a man accustomed to giving orders, yet he carried himself with an approachability that belied his status, an ease and comfort of which Alaric approved. The warmth of his smile softened the otherwise stern lines of his face as he approached Alaric, leaving his horse free, the reins dangling. The animal did not budge, simply waiting, as if curious to see what would happen.

“My lord,” Brakenhill began, starting to lower himself to a knee amidst the wet grass.

“No need for that, Aldred,” Alaric quickly interjected, gesturing with a dismissive hand. “Not here, not now.”

The mayor halted mid-motion, acknowledging the gesture with a nod of appreciation as he straightened. At the same moment, Alaric passed the reins of his horse to Thorne, who, along with Ezran, formed the last of his feared and respected Shadow Guard. Alaric had given Jasper a specific task, an important job, and the man had leapt at the opportunity, forming a corps of rangers for Dekar, elite scouts. As for Kiera, she now served Rikka, leaving only these two dedicated and unquestioningly loyal servants.

The gusting breeze from the ocean imbued the spring air with a crispness that bordered on being mildly chilly, stirring the tall grasses of the empty pasture where they stood. Enjoying the moment, Alaric turned his gaze away and watched. The individual blades of grass seemed to whisper amongst themselves as they waved about in a frenzy. Although the area was usually dotted with sheep and cows, this day, the pasture was empty. After a moment, the wind died down.

Alaric turned back to Mayor Brakenhill, his expression one of sincere appreciation. “Thank you for meeting me out here, away from the town.”

“The messenger you sent mentioned you wanted no fanfare, my lord,” Brakenhill responded, clearly understanding the need and desire for discretion.

Alaric stepped forward, closing the distance between them and extending his hand in a gesture of mutual respect and friendship, something the mayor had earned. Brakenhill accepted the offer, his grip warm, firm, and despite his advanced years, strong, a reassuring connection as the ocean breeze gusted once more, setting the sea of grass around them into hissing motion.

“I did not come for spectacle. I am here to reconnect with an old friend,” Alaric confirmed, his tone casual yet filled with underlying seriousness. “As one of my few friends, I trust you can appreciate that.”

“I can, and per your message, I have informed Bramwell of your impending arrival,” Brakenhill told him. “And for your meeting, I’ve made sure a local tavern will be exclusively yours for as long as you desire it, my lord. You shall not be disturbed. On that, you have my solemn word. If I have to post militia around the tavern to see that happen, I will.”

“Thank you.” Alaric’s eyes drifted toward the town, more than a half mile away. From this distance, the settlement appeared as a miniature model in the process of being assembled. Even though most of it had been planned out in advance, the town now sprawled haphazardly outward, a jumble of growing confusion.

Alaric scratched an itch on his neck as he studied the town. The lack of defensive walls lent a peculiar openness to the place, as if welcoming all newcomers. In a land where most towns had walls, this made it an oddity. But that was the state of Dekar these days, mostly safe and secure.

Multiple buildings in various stages of construction were in plain view, some not much more than mere skeletons. The older buildings boasted thatched roofs. Smoke rose into the sky from many of the town’s chimneys.

Dozens of tents, both large and small, were in view as well, hugging the perimeter of the town. From the mayor’s letters and reports, Alaric understood these were primarily temporary quarters for those who arrived with dreams of prosperity, only to find a budding town still struggling to match its ambition.

This was Smuggler’s Landing, which sat above Smuggler’s Cove, his new port. Beyond the town, moving away from the ocean, the landscape softened into rolling pastures and fertile fields, where the early sprouts of grain and other crops waved in the occasional breeze, like a serene sea of green and brown. For miles around, these farmlands formed a patchwork quilt of cultivation, promising future sustenance and stability as the settlement continued to grow. At least, Alaric intended it that way.

“How is your family?” Alaric asked.

“Thank you for asking, my lord. Lara is expecting any day now,” Brakenhill shared, a hint of weary affection in his voice. There were bags under the man’s eyes. “She’s grown quite large but also terribly uncomfortable, irritable, always complaining about her aching feet. Honestly, at this point, I’m not sure who is more eager for the birth, her or me.”

Alaric’s chuckle was genuine, a soft sound that carried easily in the open air. The mayor had met Lara soon after he settled in Dekar. Though she was far younger and a widower, they both made each other happy. Alaric liked her. “Make sure you send word when the baby is born. I will send a birthing gift.”

“I will, my lord, and that is not necessary. You have given me so much already, my position—this town to manage.”

“Nonsense. It is the least I can do for all your hard work. And how is that little girl of yours?”

The little girl was Lara’s from a previous marriage. Brakenhill’s expression softened and brightened as he spoke of his adopted daughter.

“Lissa is an adorable little terror,” he admitted with a mixture of pride and exasperation. “She keeps all the servants on their toes and has inherited her mother’s fiery spirit, not to mention her temper. I suppose it’s the red hair. She has one speed and that is fast.” The mayor chuckled lightly. Then, his demeanor shifted, becoming more serious, grave even. “But my family is not why you wished to meet out here, is it, my lord?”

“No, it is not, but it is good to hear, nonetheless, that you and your own are doing well, prospering even.” Alaric shifted his gaze back to the burgeoning town. “How are things progressing here? I desired to meet away from everyone else—the project foremen and town leaders—to get an unvarnished accounting of your progress.”

“I figured as much,” Brakenhill said.

“I wanted to hear it in your own words. So, how are things progressing?”

“Much as I reported in my last letter, my lord.” Brakenhill waved a hand at the town. “Each day, more people arrive seeking work, and as you can imagine, work is plentiful, as we have a great need for labor. I’m currently overseeing the construction of over ten new public buildings, including an apartment block to accommodate some of the new arrivals, the laborers and their families. Though I anticipate we’ll need to construct more than just one soon enough.”

“Is there sufficient food for everyone, including the new arrivals?” Alaric queried, wondering if he might need to concern himself with the acquisition and shipping of additional rations to Smuggler’s Landing. There was an expense to that sort of thing, and he was already spending an exorbitant amount for various projects across Dekar.

“There is plenty of food,” Brakenhill affirmed, “provided the new arrivals are willing to work or can pay their way. As expected, we have a few loafers—beggars, knockabouts, and the like. But we make it clear they’ll receive no free handouts. They either work or move along. We’ve had to drive off some of the more troublesome ones.”

Alaric nodded thoughtfully. The reality of managing an expanding town meant dealing with all types of people, and his views, along with those of the mayor, were clear-cut. There were always those who refused to work, to strive to better themselves. Those who could contribute, but chose not to, presented a challenge.

Alaric believed strongly in the ethic of work—as a means to earn one’s keep, but also as a way to foster a sense of community, belonging, and mutual respect, not only for oneself, but where one lived. His sympathy extended to those genuinely incapacitated, disabled in some way, former soldiers or sailors who’d been injured and crippled through service. But for those simply who chose not to work, to leech off others, he had no such feelings for them, no soft spot within his heart. If they were capable of performing simple labor, he saw no need to provide for them either. Better they be moved along and be made someone else’s problem.

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“And how is my port coming?” Alaric asked. Seeing Bramwell was just an excuse. Alaric really wanted to set eyes upon his pet project, one he hoped would transform Dekar.

“Quite well, actually,” Brakenhill said and gestured toward the cliff’s edge a few yards away. “Would you like to see it?”

“I would.” Alaric started walking, with the mayor falling in at his side, the grass swishing as they moved. This spot was one they had met at several times before. It was Alaric’s preferred place, for it provided him a vantage point of the port he was constructing, the pier, the wharf, and the breakwater. As they approached the cliff’s edge, the salty breeze intensified, carrying with it the distant cries of seagulls and the rhythmic chant of sailors at work, the hammering of workmen.

Alaric paused at the cliff’s edge, taking in the sight of his grand enterprise. The port he envisioned was coming to life before his eyes, partially fueled by the substantial treasure he brought back to his homeland. Below, the cliffs formed a natural and wide amphitheater that provided not only protection from the relentless sea, but a near natural harbor, ideal for sheltering ships.

“It’s coming along faster than I had hoped,” Alaric said, a note of satisfaction in his voice as he studied the progress made since his last visit, less than a month before. He could not believe how much had been done. All of the warehouses along the waterfront were finished and now in use. “Your management of the construction has been quite effective. I am impressed.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Since he’d seen it last, the breakwater had even grown several dozen yards. When complete, it would guard the harbor’s mouth against the unpredictable moods of the sea, which, during storms, made the harbor’s waters rough. It would provide a more stable foundation for trade and commerce, in which ships of all types would be able to find a haven.

Large, wide barges served as floating platforms for cranes that hoisted massive stones, sourced from quarries farther inland, onto the growing structure of the breakwater. The rhythmic clanking of metal and the shouts of workers easily reached their ears.

A wooden pier extended out into the harbor. Secured to it was a large galley. There were currently four others riding at anchor within the harbor, waiting for their turn to dock and unload. Under the watchful eyes of overseers, dozens of laborers toiled, moving briskly across deck, down gangplanks, and along the pier, unloading and stacking an assortment of crates and barrels. Additional workers were loading wagons positioned on the dock. From their current spot, the workers looked ant-like. Shouts and orders, faded by distance, competed with the sea breeze as it gusted once more.

Beyond the immediate bustle of the port, the waters farther out into the ocean were dotted with fishing boats. These vessels, considerably smaller, bobbed gently on the surface, their nets and lines cast in hopeful anticipation of a rich day’s bounty. Circling above them and attracted by the promise of an easy meal, seabirds swooped and dived.

The cove, once hidden and barely accessible, was rapidly evolving into a crucial artery for the flow of goods and wealth into and out of his earldom, heralding a new era for the town and its people, not to mention Dekar. Alaric’s gaze shifted from the fishing vessels. The shoreline itself had undergone a dramatic and impressive transformation. It bore no resemblance to the sandy and rocky beach he landed upon two years before when he’d returned home from Crusade.

What had once been a simple stretch of isolated beach hemmed in by cliffs now sported a row of warehouses that backed up right to the cliff walls. Concrete replaced the sandy beach, providing a sturdy foundation for the management of goods.

The narrow path that once meandered dangerously up the cliffside had been significantly widened, the extra space hacked out of the very rock face. It was now paved with concrete as well, creating a more substantial route. Traffic in the forms of wagons, carts, mules, and people afoot moved in both directions simultaneously.

Smuggler’s Cove was no longer just a geographical feature, an oddity visited only by a few; it was becoming a vital conduit for trade and prosperity. The growing port, alive with the creak of wood, the clang of metal, and the shouts of laborers, was a vivid picture of progress and potential, drawing its lifeblood from the sea and sending its pulse up through the cliffs to the heart of the town and beyond. What lay before him was potential incarnate, something Alaric hoped would make Dekar wealthy for years to come.

“As you can see, the first pier is complete,” Brakenhill said, pointing. “We no longer have to unload by small boat shuttles. The ships can tie up directly to the dock.”

“Impressive.”

“We have accumulated sufficient lumber to begin building the second within a matter of days.”

“And when will you expect to have that completed?” Alaric asked curiously.

“Likely by summer’s end,” the mayor said and then gestured out at the barges. “The breakwater will take longer, maybe another year to finish. Placing the stones is slow and tedious work.”

“And hard,” Alaric said.

“Yes, my lord. It is hard and difficult work. First the rock needs to be quarried and then transported by heavy wagon to the barges, before being lifted and placed.” The mayor pointed again. “As you can see, we have already begun the process of cementing the breakwater.”

“And how is that going?”

“Slow,” Brakenhill admitted with a slight scowl. “But we already have fifty yards covered. That has allowed us to bring rock directly out onto the breakwater itself and load it from there onto the barges using the cranes, speeding the process up considerably. The barges no longer have to be brought into shore. Honestly, I was surprised the cement works the way it does, sets, that is…”

“Understandable,” Alaric said, for he had not quite believed it possible as well until he’d tested it.

“As long as you have the framing in place, it sets and dries in water. I’ve never seen anything like it—remarkable, really.”

Alaric gave a nod.

“If you don’t mind my asking, wherever did you find the mix of ingredients for this cement?” Brakenhill asked. “And the instructions as to how it was to be used?”

“I found an old scroll,” Alaric said by way of explanation, “detailing how things like this were done in the days of the Ordinate, the making of a breakwater that would last.”

“That must have been in the holy land. During my time there, I saw many hawking old scrolls and books, claiming they were from the days of the empire, from the great library itself,” he mused, shaking his head slightly. “At the time, I never thought they contained much of use, other than old plays, comedies, dramas, and such, or boring philosophy. As a youth, I did not see the value in such things. I was there for a cause, for war… in search of glory. Little did I know…”

Alaric gave a grunt. Glory was something the uninitiated, who’d never experienced killing or faced the enemy in the press of the line, hunted and strived to claim. He’d once sought it himself. Now, he knew better. War tended to open one’s eyes.

“It was dumb luck, or divine favor, that you found a scroll that was incredibly useful, my lord.”

Declining to reply, Alaric absorbed Brakenhill’s words, letting the moment stretch.

“We have lost much with the fall of the Ordinate,” Alaric finally responded, his voice tinged with a melancholic undertone as he thought back to some of the ruins he’d seen during the Crusade, the grand structures, the ones that had not been swallowed by the sands of the great desert. “It is a shame, really, how far we have slid.”

“Agreed, my lord.” Brakenhill gestured toward the energetic scene below them. He sucked in a breath. “Once the second pier is constructed, we will frame the first out fully and pour concrete. When complete, that should be something to last, a dock that will hold up to the weather. Given a year or two, with some additional labor, we should be able to build three permanent piers that I estimate will be able to accommodate nine large galleys with room for more to anchor out into the harbor.”

Alaric’s gaze followed the mayor’s hand, envisioning the future growth that Brakenhill outlined. Though he’d seen drawn plans, with what was already accomplished, he could nearly envision it with his own eyes, as if it were already completed. The prospect of a thriving, robust port seemed no longer just a dream, but an imminent reality.

“I should like to see that,” he affirmed, the tone of his voice reflecting both determination and a hint of eagerness.

“Me as well, my lord,” Brakenhill echoed.

“Labor-wise, how short are you for the current needs?” Alaric’s question shifted the conversation back to the immediate challenges at hand. “You did not address that matter in your latest report.”

Brakenhill took a moment to consider his answer, clearly reflecting on the scale of their endeavors. “We have nearly two thousand actively employed at the moment, from logging, quarry work, to direct construction efforts,” he began. “There is no doubt I could use more men. Your promise of land in exchange for service has indeed attracted many laborers from all across the kingdom, including those with specialized skill sets. The problem we’re having now is housing. I have several hundred living out of tents. Dozens more arrive each day, mostly on foot or by ship, in search of work. Until I can construct additional housing, I think we are good for the moment, labor-wise.”

Alaric turned his gaze toward the town, where the outlines of numerous tents lay on the outskirts. He had crafted a system designed to both populate and develop Dekar: selling plots to those who could afford them and offering land grants tied to service, such as work and manual labor in helping to construct the town and port for those who couldn’t.

For a year of service, laborers received an acre of land. After a second year, they were also provided two additional acres, along with a mule, tools, and seed to begin farming. If they successfully farmed the land for five years after that, it became theirs outright. Alaric thought it a quite generous system and so did those who’d come.

He implemented the process nearly all across Dekar. Already, just two years later, Alaric’s lands were producing more than needed, with excess goods being transported to other places by wagon and ship.

As long as Dekar remained peaceful and free from the conflicts that sometimes arose amongst the nobility, Alaric felt confident in the future growth and prosperity of his lands. Here, he was building more than just a town and port; he was fostering a community that could support and sustain itself through agriculture and trade.

“We are managing, my lord,” Brakenhill added. “Don’t doubt that. In truth, I have plenty of labor, and now that the snows have finally melted and the roads are open, more workers will come—are coming every day. You will have your port.”

“I know it. I am very pleased with all you have done,” Alaric said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “You have proven quite the administrator.”

“Thank you, my lord, and it’s easier and safer than leading men into battle, especially at my age. Being a captain of a mercenary company for Lord Geran taught me much when it comes to organization and getting things done. I’ve applied a lot of that here.”

“It shows,” Alaric said. “Have there been any troubles, bandits?”

“Nothing our militia and regular patrols out into the surrounding countryside can’t handle. We’ve kept a lid on such things.”

“That is good to hear.” Alaric’s gaze lingered on the bustling port below. The last two years had been relatively peaceful, marred only by the sporadic presence of roaming bandits or the occasional highwaymen, nuisances that were promptly dealt with.

More pressing concerns, like potential interference from Duke Laval, had not materialized, much to Alaric’s surprise. He anticipated some form of disruption from the duke and had preemptively placed spies within Laval’s lands, but all reports returned uneventful, with no hint of the duke even attempting to stir up trouble. Still, he understood one day Laval would strike, especially after what Alaric had done to the duke’s son, Malvanis.

Alaric intended to be ready for that.

“You will let me know if you need anything?” Alaric asked.

“As always, my lord.” Brakenhill’s assurance reflected the trust and structured communication established between them, a cornerstone of the project’s success.

“I expect I will stay just the night and be off in the morning,” Alaric said. “I have much to attend to in Dragon Bone’s Rest, a lot of work that’s waiting.”

This was met with an understanding nod from Brakenhill. “With all that you are doing across Dekar, I imagine so, my lord. Though they will very much wish to speak with you, I will see that no one bothers you, including the aldermen.”

“I appreciate that,” Alaric replied, his tone grateful as he took a deep breath of the crisp sea air. “They can come to the keep if they wish to speak or write me.”

That would ensure only the most important issues reached his desk. The minor ones could be handled by the mayor.

“I will tell them that.” Brakenhill gestured toward the town with an inviting hand. “Shall we proceed? I am sure Bramwell is waiting and just as eager to see you, my lord.”

“Let’s,” Alaric agreed, giving a final, lingering glance at the industrious port that symbolized so much of his efforts and hopes. He then turned, returning to where Thorne waited with the reins of his horse. The prospect of a relaxing evening was appealing, especially after the hard and long ride to get here. “I could use a drink, a fire, and some good company to while away the time with… not to mention a break from my duties.”