Vice-captain Saara Vesqon was sitting alone at her desk in the keep’s war room, distractedly leafing through the bleak accounts the garrison’s quartermaster had sent up that morning. If things continued down this path, she realized with dismay, it was unlikely they would last the winter. The captain would undoubtedly give the order to start rationing any day now. 

She got up and headed to the window, looking out from her vantage point over Forsot’s snowy rooftops. As great plumes of black smoke rose from the foundries in the city’s mining district Saara reflected that it had been exactly seven months since they had taken Forsot. They had been so naive back then, she thought, caught up in the enthusiasm for the war, thinking their freedom would be so swiftly and easily won.

Things had gone well, at first. Cairiss joining the Rebellion had taken many by surprise, not least the defenders of Forsot, who had been promptly overcome in a daring night attack. The mines had been taken next, and most of the Hold’s remaining forces had quickly surrendered, not wanting to risk their lives against the might of the Silver Spears. The Hold had been secured by the end of the month, the few embers of resistance snuffed out with ease. The Spears had then marched south, the pride of Cairiss, three thousand battle-hardened mercenaries, clad in well-worn leather and gleaming mail, sunlight glinting off their enchanted speartips. The best army in the realm, it had been said, they were known as “athanati”, immortals, and it had seemed the world was theirs to conquer. All those ambitions had turned to ash after the defeat at The Horns. Eight hundred Spears returned, battered and beaten, armour caked in blood and grime; and of the twelve hundred volunteers that had gone with them, less than fifty remained, the rest annihilated by the Duke’s army.

Matters had only grown worse since the defeat. The infrequent reports they received from the capital painted a dire picture: a city besieged, blockaded by Morovite dragonships, strafed day and night by wyvern-fire, its citizens sick and starving, the garrison outnumbered and outmatched. Defeat seemed to be drawing ever closer, and with it would come reprisals and revenge, and the Issir would once again be slaves.

If the situation in Cairiss was grim, thought the vice-captain, it wasn't much better in Forsot. Though the blue pennants bearing the silver horn of Cairiss fluttered proudly from the keep’s squat towers, out in the country the gains made during the summer had all but vanished. Threatened from west and south, the remaining Issir forces had been ordered to pull back to Forsot, capital of the Mininghold, abandoning all other positions with the exception of Osrec, necessary to guard the road back to Cairiss in case the retreat was called. Even so, circumstances in Forsot were worsening: a third of the garrison had been recalled to Cairiss, leaving three hundred foot and seventy horse to guard a town of over twenty thousand inhabitants, most of whom, having initially seen the Issir as liberators from the magnate's oppression, now realized their lot was only growing worse. The mountain town was in the icy grip of a hard winter, and with supplies running low and trade disrupted by the war, the city seemed on the brink of revolt.

Saara’s thoughts were interrupted by knocking at the door.

“Yes?”

The vice-captain looked up as her bodyguard, Lennar, opened the door. “There’s a runner outside for you, ma’am.”

“Let him in.”

The runner entered the room and saluted, looking slightly out of breath.

“Captain’s called for you ma’am, some trouble in the tanner’s quarter, two of ours are hurt. Says to bring Ser Alvar, or Villem.”

Saara sighed, cursing internally. Discontent was growing, with brawls and worker’s strikes now a daily occurrence. It was the third time this week guardsmen had been hurt, and since they’d started patrolling the streets in force things had gone from bad to worse.

“Lennar,” Saara called, “get Villem and three horses and meet me at the gate.”

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She dismissed the runner and rose, donning her mail hauberk and grabbing her war axe, whose well-worn handle and polished blade were testament to its owner’s experience.

Saara found Lennar and the horses waiting for her at the gate with Villem, a huge bear of a man clad in a patchwork of leather, mail and brigandine, a black-iron greatsword strapped to his back. A woodcutter from a tiny village near Ariss, Villem had been one of the few volunteers to survive the massacre at The Horns, where he had supposedly slain a Crownlander knight and taken his greatsword as a war prize before joining the retreat. Whether or not that was true, no one could deny his fearsome strength in a fight.

The gate having been opened, the three rode out towards the tanner’s quarter, its foul stench greeting them before they even got there.

In the time it took them to reach Glover’s Square, at the heart of the tanner’s district, the situation had grown much worse. She noticed the captain and at least a dozen soldiers facing a restless crowd, most of whom were brandishing knives, mallets, and other leatherworking tools. She saw five men lying unconscious on the snow-covered flagstones, noting with dismay that two wore blue cloaks, marking them as soldiers of the garrison.

Here, far from the safety of the keep’s thick walls, the hostility was palpable. Red banners depicting the closed fist of house Razden hung from the windows of the half-timbered houses overlooking the square, openly declaring support for the Crown and loyalist cause. The citizens were growing too bold, Saara thought, a few weeks ago such an open display of hostility would have met a harsh punishment from the garrison. Were that to happen now, she realized, the situation would almost certainly spiral out of control. If they didn’t get the citizens back on their side soon, they would be forced out of the city and back to Cairiss, losing all they had gained so far.

“Captain.” Saara saluted, riding into the square ahead of her two companions. Captain Moore turned to greet her, fury written all over his face. “Lady Vesqon,” he curtly replied, his formality betraying his foreign origin. An exiled Rodalian noble, stripped of rank and title, Jasper Moore had fled to Cairiss just before the start of the Rebellion, and when the Issir had begun assembling a volunteer army, he had agreed to join as an officer, rapidly rising through the ranks thanks to his competence and military experience. Though he was a good fighter, he made a much better captain, and Saara believed that if they lasted the winter in Forsot it would only be thanks to him.

As she neared the captain, she realized with growing horror, that the unconscious men she had noticed earlier were lying on red snow, tainted with their own blood. Two of them emitting soft, ragged breaths. The other three, one of them a soldier, lay silent.

Captain Moore turned to face the mob, looking over them all from his destrier, “Silence!”, he roared, his stern voice cutting through the crisp wintry air. He looked upon the crowd, his gaze icier than the frigid winds which often howled through the town. “People of Forsot,” he called, “beneath the eyes of the gods today blood has been needlessly spilled. Three men lie dead before you, and more may follow if this continues. And for what!?”. He paused, looking around the square at the red banners of house Razden. “Do you truly wish for the magnate’s return?” he asked, incredulous. “You believe ‘the Butcher of Felgor’ will be as forgiving as I!?” he spoke, referencing Magnate Razden’s moniker. Some of the citizens grew uneasy at that, perhaps remembering their former ruler’s cruelty. At that moment, when the mob seemed to be losing its resolve, one of the rioters shouted “You foreign scum!”, “So what if Razden put us to work? He was still an Ukbrian just like the rest of us! Better to serve him than some foul invader”. His words drew some nods of approval from the crowd, and seemed to steel their resolve somewhat.

The square grew silent, the captain glaring at the crowd, his troops standing stalwartly beside him while the mob faced them defiantly. The tension was so thick one could almost cut through it with a knife. A single wrong move and violence would erupt.

It was at that crucial point that the sound of marching boots was heard down Cobbler’s Lane, to the mob’s rear. Suddenly lieutenant Kirsi appeared on horseback, followed by Ser Lukas and Ser Aller, their armour gleaming steel. Behind them the garrison came in force, over fifty spearmen entered the square, fanning out behind the mob, encircling them and blocking their escape. As the rioters realized the danger they found themselves in they started to waver. One of them, a stocky, well-built man wielding a heavy mallet suddenly threw his weapon to the ground. “I ain’t dyin’ for no Razden butcher, even you foreign lot ‘re better’n that.” he said, looking up at the captain, and with that he started walking away. Most of the rioters soon followed, and with that, the mob dispersed.

Things hadn’t boiled over today, Saara thought, relieved, though she knew they had only bought a few more days at best. Then, as she was turning towards the captain she noticed the danger, but it was too late. Hidden by the commotion in the square, one of the rioters had taken out a crossbow, and now she fired it. Captain Moore had seen it as well, he belatedly raised his shield but by then it was done, the bolt pierced his mail gorget, blood bubbling out of the wound. He tried to speak, but only red emerged from his mouth. He remained, slumped in his saddle. Motionless. Lifeless.