The Scouts found the Elves early the next day.

His enemies had settled in on either side of the road, waiting to ambush his column as they marched through. Their camouflage had apparently been excellent, but a few of them had slipped up, and the Goblins had picked them out among the snow-covered trees.

Rather than obliging them by continuing along the road, Matt had ordered his troops to swerve off of the beaten path and into the area to the right of the road. There was a hill there, south of a wide, treeless clearing. It would give his forces a place to stand and deny the Elves the chance to hide in the trees. Until he knew more about what he was up against, it would be his best option.

Of course, the Elves had seen him coming. By the time his Irregulars had formed up on the crest of the hill, they had already abandoned their ambush and taken up positions at the edge of the trees, just north of the clearing. He could see them clearly. There were at least three banners of Elven skirmishers, their bows ready, and their shields and spears stuck in the snow beside them for when things reached melee range. They would be bad enough, but he also saw most of a banner of Winterknights among the rest, their icestags stepping delicately in the snow while their heavily armored riders glared up at the hill. Those were Itrelia’s most elite troops, and they could tear through an unprepared opponent with magic and their glittering, brutal swords. If they caught his troops at the wrong time…

Matt shook aside his concerns and focused back on his own troops. He’d ordered the Defenders out in front of the center, with their shields and hammers ready to clash. Behind them were the Vulgars and Wagoneers, ready to wade in with their polearms when things got ugly. On his right flank, he’d put the Scouts and the Slingers, hoping that they could close the distance enough to keep the skirmishers there at bay.

The Axes were set up on the left flank. His own lifeguard and their mounts held that side of the field as well, as close to the road as he could get. It felt a little weird to be all the way out on the edge of the battle, but his lifeguard was the only one with mounts. He couldn’t ignore the options that mobility would provide; only his lifeguard would be fast enough to hook around the enemy lines and flank them, turning the battle in his favor. At the very least, the threat of those mounted troops would distract the Elves, though he felt odd about using himself as bait.

At least no snow was falling. Small favors.

The Elves on the other side of the field moved forward, their horns blowing in a clear signal that their attack had begun. He saw the Winterknights trot out ahead of the rest of their forces, followed by the skirmishers on foot. They moved easily across the snow, almost seeming to skip along the field without breaking through the crust.

Matt looked to his lifeguard, and motioned for them to start forward. They hesitated, obviously unhappy to be charging into combat, but their other option was to leave him to try it alone. In the end, they started across the field to the road, where the hooves and paws of their mounts wouldn’t get mired in the snow. Behind him, the Axes moved forward as well, though they stuck to the field. On the right flank, he could see the Slingers and Scouts moving forward as well. The center held position, bracing themselves for contact with the incoming cavalry.

He felt reassured at how steady the Irregulars looked as they advanced or held fast. Hopefully, that would continue once the Elves hit them. It would send the wrong kind of signal if this march ended with the Elves chasing his army from the field.

Matt turned his attention back to the Elves ahead of them. There were nearly a hundred of them, all eagerly racing out to fill him and his bodyguards full of arrows. With three archers for every one of his lifeguard, there wasn’t a whole lot of hope that they would all miss. Not without some help.

So Matt waited until the Elves had loosed their first volley. He saw the shafts rise high into the air, curving over to become a rain of death. A second volley was already starting to rise after the first.

Then he shouted to his lifeguard. “Left turn! Into the forest!”

His lifeguard responded instantly, diving from the clear road to the trees on the left side. Their mounts wove through the underbrush, slowing to avoid hitting the trees. Matt grinned as he pushed Nelson to keep up with the lighter mounts around him; the warbuck tossed his head a little, as if trying to shake off his rider’s pestering.

The arrows that should have fallen among his lifeguard spattered into the mud and snow on the road. Others fell among the rest of his troops; the Defenders and Scouts both ducked behind their broad shields, catching the incoming projectiles and turning them aside. He didn’t think he saw any of his forces fall, but it was hard to see them between the trees that were flashing past.

His heart beating hard in his chest, he turned back to look at the skirmishers that were already drawing back the next volley of arrows. He watched them nock, watched them draw, knowing it would be time to dodge again soon. When they fired, he snapped out his next set of orders immediately. “Veer right! Back on the road!”

The lifeguard responded immediately. They left the snow and trees of the forest to stagger back onto the road. Their pace went from wallowing through snowdrifts to sprinting along the road again. The second volley of arrows had already pattered down well ahead of them in the road, where they might have been if they had continued at a steady pace along the path.

Matt settled into the saddle again, shouting hard. “Double pace! Get moving!”

Arrows snapped beneath hooves and paws as he charged along the road with his lifeguard rushing along behind him. More arrows thudded into trees and hissed through the brush back in the woods. He could see the archers trying to adjust their shots; some of them were having to scramble through the snow to form new ranks. Their next volley was delayed by more than a few heartbeats; he could almost hear the Elves trying to guess where his lifeguard would dodge next.

As another volley plunged into the road behind him, Matt abruptly raised his fist. “Slow to a trot!”

The lifeguard skidded to a near halt as the next set of arrows went skyward. Matt heard the Wargs and warbucks huffing and blowing around and behind him; the uneasy grumbles of his lifeguard were just as audible as volley after volley rose above their heads, ready to plunge down on them.

He gave the enemy the chance to fire one more wave, and then he snapped out his next set of orders. “Double pace! One more run!”

The lifeguard accelerated along with him; the road blurred past. He saw the archers shift again, surprised by the sudden burst of speed from their targets. Some of their arrows had struck down at his little group; he heard one of the lifeguard bite off an oath as an arrow struck him in his arm. Matt took half a second to look back at the lifeguard, and then back at the battlefield beyond them.

He saw a vision of chaos. The Winterknights had charged the center of his line. They’d obviously been expecting to smash their way through a line of peasants ill-prepared for combat. Lowborn conscripts who were too disorganized and frightened to stand their ground. Instead, the Defenders had locked their shields together and braced themselves; the Vulgars behind them had extended their voulges, presenting the enemy with a wall of shields and blades.

The Winterknights had run their icestags straight into that wall. Magic had lashed out, arrows had whickered in from above, but the Defenders had held. Only the direct impact of the icestags and their riders had crushed through that barrier, and even then, the force of the charge had been stolen by the incline of the hill and the danger of the blades leveled at them. Elves and mounts fell alongside Orcs and Imps, and as the charge slowed, the Wagoneers waded in to pull riders from saddles and hack mounts to pieces. Despite the casualties from the impact, the center of the line held. Moments later, the center had turned into a brutal, whirling melee.

On the far side, he saw a shower of javelins and slingstones rain down in answer for the arrows the skirmishers had loosed. Elves fell back in surprise at the casualties, and they fell back further as the Imps and Goblins on the right pushed in at them. His heart leaped as he saw the skirmishers start to break. With that flank turned, the victory was halfway won.

Then he saw the Elves nearest to him drawing back for another volley. This time, they were close enough to fire directly; there would be no calm arc to give him time to dodge. He could almost see the arrows zipping along over the snow, smacking against armor and flesh. For a moment, he pictured the lifeguard dying on the road, littered with the arrows he’d led them into.

There was a roar from behind the archers. Matt saw them flinch, turning to look behind themselves. He saw shock in their posture, the stunned realization of the fact that they’d forgotten something very, very important.

The Axes, ignored by the archers in favor of the more valuable lifeguard and monarch, charged directly into melee with the skirmishers. Their charge took the Elves from behind and to one side, catching them as they were dropping their longbows and scrambling to pick up their spears and shields. Goblins charged into their midst, hacking and slashing with their weapons. Elves fell like grain being scythed for the harvest.

They lasted only heartbeats before panic took them, and the entire left-hand flank of the Elven army collapsed.

That panic spread like wildfire through the rest of the Elves. The right flank had already been pulling back; a moment later they were running, as were the remaining skirmishers in the center, who hadn’t even been engaged yet. He saw the Winterknights still fighting in the center, now struggling to pull back out of the melee. The Orcs and Imps did not give them the chance, knocking them down as they tried to flee. Only a handful of the heavily armored warriors managed to reach the edge of the mob, and they ran without looking backwards.

Matt saw the battle turn, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. As the Elves who couldn’t run fast enough began to hold up their weapons in surrender, he led his lifeguard in a more leisurely trot back towards the rest of the battle. After playing the bait for the entire fight, he owed them a nice, relaxing day.

The city of Summerhall was not anything that Matt would have recognized as a city back on Earth. Of course, even Redspire was miniscule by Earth standards—at last count the population there were only around thirty-five thousand people—but Summerhall was even smaller than that. If Matt had to guess, the whole town held barely ten thousand people in it, all piled on top of each other inside a valley that was ringed by tall hills. It made for a cramped, overbuilt city full of tight spaces and maze-like streets, with the Gnomes choosing to either dig lower or build higher rather than trying to expand out past the valley.

A high wall surrounded those same hills, with no gates or breaks in the stone. On top of each hill was a thick, fortified tower, one that could easily sweep the wall clean of invaders. The Gnomes had relied on that wall to protect them for generations; it had taken hundreds of warriors an entire year to break through and subjugate them. In the time since, the Gnomes had been careful to restore those defenses, possibly in the hope it could once again free them from oppression.

At the moment, the fortifications had been serving a slightly different purpose. The signs of recent siege were obvious despite the recent snows. Ruined siege engines, broken ladders, and old, half-buried bloodstains were scattered around the walls and towers. In fact, a large number of them were clustered around one side of the city in particular, where the eastern entrance to Summerhall was located.

As Matt drew close to the entrance, he mentally congratulated the builders of the Gnomish capitol for their ingenuity. Rather than weakening the walls by placing some kind of gate in the wall, the builders of Summerhall had burrowed a tunnel under the walls, leaving the defenders with the opportunity to guard a doorway that was easily secured. Murder holes and secondary portcullises were positioned every so often along the tunnel, ready to cut off groups of attackers and rain death on them while they were trapped. The defenses had been put to good use recently, given by the amount of wreckage dumped on either side of the tunnel exit. Most of the bloodstains and broken equipment were gathered around the spot as well.

A messenger met his forces as they drew close to the tunnel. The Gnome wore an official-looking robe, and she was smiling in gratitude as she rode a dogelk out of the city. It was a miniature version of the greatelks and warbucks that larger people used, but it fit the Gnome’s stature just fine. “Lord Nuramesh welcomes you to Summerhall, King Matthew.” Her eyes took in the casualties among the Irregulars and the prisoners in chains beside them. “It appears you have also had a successful battle recently.”

Matt offered her a calm grin. “Indeed, we did. Was there a battle here as well?”

“There have been many, sire, but the most recent one appears to have finally driven the rebels from our walls. Lord Grufen took advantage of a moment of weakness in their lines and drove them as far east as he could.” She paused. “He regrets that he was not able to be here to welcome you personally, but his troops are still some ways to the east. He should return by early tomorrow morning.”

Matt blinked, and then nodded. Apparently, Grufen had noticed when Itrelia had pulled most of her reserve back to strike at Matt’s column and had launched a counterattack. It was a good move, one that combined with the failure of the ambush to likely deliver a brutal blow to the morale of the Frost Elves. If the news arrived at the right time…

He shook the thoughts aside and then smiled. “I am glad to hear that Grufen has enjoyed such success. At the same time, would you be able to grant me and my troops a place to eat and sleep? A place to keep our prisoners would be helpful as well.”

The messenger nodded. “Of course, sire. Lord Nuramesh has already secured sufficient lodging for all of you. Come, this way.”

She turned her dogelk back and led the way back through the city. The weary Irregulars followed, cheered by the prospect of warm food and safe quarters. Their prisoners were somewhat more glum, but they seemed to already accept their fate.

“King Matthew. I welcome you to our humble city.” Nuramesh bowed low, his expression serious. “I am honored that you chose to respect our request for assistance. The presence of both you and your troops will be a welcome reprieve for our defenders here.”

“I am just glad to find your people in such good circumstances, Lord Nuramesh.” Matt looked around the small manor that the Lord of the Summer Hill Gnomes inhabited. It was a small structure compared to the castle of Redspire, but still one that had its own kind of grandeur. The welcoming hall was broad and held up by ornately carved columns, all leading to a table where the elders of the clan would meet to decide the future of Summerhall.

All of those elders were currently standing around that table, and each of them bowed as he looked in their direction. He recognized at least one of them from the Great Council, though the woman seemed to be just as solemn and intimidated as the others. Matt reminded himself that the people of this place hadn’t had nearly as much of an opportunity to know him as the people of Redspire. When they saw his arrival, they likely didn’t see an arriving liberator; they saw their current bloody-handed tyrant. Of course, they weren’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat.

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Nuramesh straightened up and smiled. “It is thanks to your wisdom, sire, and the help of Lord Grufen. Without your decision to send his troops to aid us, I believe our defenses would not have held out this long. His stalwart refusal to give up the city has kept us out of the hands of Lady Itrelia for all this time.”

Matt kept his eyes from narrowing with an effort. “You sound… rather grateful for his help.”

“I am, sire. We all are.” The Gnomish lord gestured at the gathered nobility. “Whatever promises Itrelia might have made to us, she clearly meant for my people to suffer the burden of her rebellion. If we had fallen under her control…”

He stepped forward and laid a hand on Nuramesh’s shoulder. “Then I am glad you decided to stay with the Kingdom, for your people’s sake.” Then he pulled back, still smiling. “Though it has been a benefit to the rest of the Kingdom as well. Parufeth and his workers have been an incredible boon to our work in the capital.”

Nuramesh’s expression flickered between satisfied and befuddled. He nodded carefully. “I am…gratified that he has been of assistance to you, sire. The information about what he has been building has been…interesting, to say the least.”

One of the other nobles spoke up from around the table. “He said that the things he was building would make Redspire one of the largest cities in the world. Is he correct?”

Matt thought over the claim for a moment. “I know his projects will certainly contribute to the growth of Redspire, but the size of a city depends on many factors. It’s hard to predict the future.” He tried not to notice the sudden, wry chuckles and mutters among his vassals. Apparently rumors about the Counselor had reached this place as well. “I do know that I intend to make sure that the city will be able to provide clean water to three times more people than currently live there. I also intend to have him build a system to carry away the waste of the city without any scents or diseases. Those two things should make Redspire the healthiest place to live in our Kingdom.”

A sudden silence fell. Some of the nobles exchanged looks. One of them, a woman who seemed a little rougher than the others, spoke up. “Are these projects a secret, my liege?”

There was something in her voice that made Matt smile. A hint of ambition and envy. Perhaps a spirit of competition? “No, Lady…”

“Sarunoth, my liege. Lady Sarunoth.” She folded her arms and glanced around the table again. “Our fair city has always prided itself on its arrangements, King Matthew. I hope you would not…take offense if we were to offer this Parufeth the opportunity to share what he has learned with us.”

Matt paused. Parufeth was the foreman for the construction projects in Redspire. He had already set them a terribly demanding schedule, one that would push the current work crews to their limits. If he allowed the nobles of Summerhall—and probably the other corners of the Kingdom, once they realized what Matt had done in Redspire—to poach his trained labor for their own projects, then his efforts were going to stall and stagnate.

At the same time, he had declared Parufeth a freeholder. The man could seek employment wherever he wished, so long as he completed his contracts. His workers were all just as free to move around to wherever he wanted. Keeping their loyalty might cost a bit more if he had to fight competing offers, but unless he wanted to imply that he owned those men and women, he would have to accept that they might decide to work on their home instead of his capital.

Trying not to sound like he was grinding his teeth, Matt answered carefully. “I am sure that he would be happy to share my plans with you, Lady Sarunoth. He does have a contract to complete a year’s service with me, but if all you wish from him are the plans that I am having him build, then I see no reason not to give you the information. Any improvements here will be to the benefit of our people, after all.”

Sarunoth gave him a brief bow. “I would appreciate the chance to see them, sire. Perhaps I could also send a few workers under contract to observe and adapt them to our needs? I think my fellow nobles would not want our home to fall behind in such things. Especially not with Gnomish hands crafting such wonders in other lands.”

“Their presence would likely be appreciated, Lady Sarunoth.” Matt gave her a subtle incline of the head. She must have caught on to his reluctance; he appreciated the fact that she didn’t seem to want to compete with his plans, really. It was more likely that she just didn’t want one of the other High Clans to seize the advantage before the Gnomes could benefit. He imagined that watching the Orcs that had conquered them benefit from Gnomish work might sting just a little too much for these people.

Nuramesh spoke up again, as if trying to regain control of the conversation. “In any case, sire, if you are hungry, we have prepared a feast to celebrate your arrival. If that would be acceptable to you…?”

He gave the nobleman a quick nod, something which seemed to reassure the Gnome. Nuramesh still appeared to have trouble seeing him as anything but a ruler to be appeased rather than an ally to embrace, but perhaps that was just because of his position as one of the High Clan leaders. Admittedly, he and Grufen were the only two remaining leaders that were both alive and still in control of their Clans. Perhaps he thought that flattery and bribes were the key to avoiding the fates of Tek and Braden.

Matt sighed as the Gnomes filed into the next room, leading the way for him and his lifeguard. The last thing he was looking forward to was a state dinner of some kind, but at least nobody was trying to kill him here.

Hopefully.

“Lord Grufen has arrived, sire.”

Matt looked up from the desk of his temporary office. Nuramesh had been more than accommodating for him. The Gnome would have given him his own personal office if Matt had not refused to take it. Instead, Matt had selected a side office, one that his lifeguard had recommended in terms of defensibility. Then he had promptly tried to fend off the continued visits of the Gnomish nobility, all of whom seemed to want to speak with him about something or other.

Luckily, most of the nobles appeared to be satisfied with a brief conversation, and the knowledge that the monarch of the realm was vaguely aware of their House’s existence. Lady Suranoth had been one of the few exceptions, as she’d tried to wheedle some of the details about the construction projects in Redspire out of him early. Matt would have been irritated over the interruption, but the noblewoman had seemed so sincerely interested in extending the development to her own home that he was oddly charmed by their shared passion for civil engineering. He’d ended up providing her with some rough sketches of the slow filters, the cisterns, and the sewage plants. She’d gone away happy and gloating over the parchment, like a dragon over a fresh horde of gold, with promises to send over books full of Gnomish Spell Chants to aid him in his personal magic progress.

Fortunately, he’d finally made a breakthrough in the meantime. Matt had finally added Autumn to the foundation for his magic and had started in on the mantras for the Mind. The progress was gratifyingly fast, compared to the rest of what he had done before. He was tempted to wonder if there was something about studying in a place of Earth like Summerhall that was speeding his ability to learn, but he didn’t have Melren here with him to confirm or deny it.

For now, however, he set aside both the reports on the city of Summerhall and the mantras of the Mind. Lord Grufen, the third official Defender of the Realm, had finally returned from the field.

Matt hadn’t seen the man, or even talked to him outside of the occasional letter or report, since he had sent him north from Redspire. Less than twelve weeks ago, the Hard Scythe Orcs had been on the edge of rebellion, with Grufen ready to lead them. Now Matt was going to talk to him after the Orc had apparently single-handedly saved Summerhall, and the Small Heights as a whole, from Itrelia’s grasping invasions. Would the nobleman make demands for his loyal service, or would he be just as easy to placate as Morteth had been?

He folded his hands on the desk and waited for the Orc to arrive. It wasn’t a long pause; Grufen arrived very nearly on the heels of the messenger, and Matt stood as the nobleman entered.

Grufen had struck him as a battle-hardened veteran. Where Lord Braden’s armor had been well-crafted and relatively untested, Grufen’s had been worn and well-used. He’d been gruff and blunt; it hadn’t been hard to believe that his rebellion had been based along practical lines, where he’d simply seen too many abuses from the rulers of Redspire to continue to tolerate their rule.

Now, as the Orc walked into the room, he came without his usual traditional dueling armor. He was wearing a simple military tunic instead, and he did not carry any weapons with him. Matt recognized the change in attitude that the different attire represented, and he smiled. “I don’t believe I remember that uniform, Lord Grufen.”

The Orc smirked a little. “You mentioned, the last time, that I didn’t need to wearing dueling armor around you. Implied you preferred I didn’t, actually.”

“So I did. Thank you for remembering.” Matt walked around the desk and reached out a hand. It was something of a second test. Grufen had hesitated to shake hands before; the tradition wasn’t exactly normal in this place.

Grufen didn’t even blink at the gesture this time. He took Matt’s hand, squeezed carefully, and then released it. “Thank you for coming to help us, sire. I hoped that you would be able to help us end this conflict, and you have.” Then he grimaced. “Though I hadn’t expected the traitor to move so quickly. I apologize for allowing them to confront you on the road.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t expect Itrelia to attack me?”

“No, I did. I just hadn’t expected her to use her reserve.” Grufen shrugged. “I thought she’d pull the siege forces back from Summerhall to do it, which would have allowed me to give chase and help crush them between us.”

“Ah. I see.” Matt thought over the logic, examining it for falsehoods or traps. It was hard to see what advantage that Grufen would gain by admitting that he had used his monarch as bait, however, so he was inclined to believe the man. “Well, at the very least, you took the opening we gave you.”

“I did.” Grufen met his gaze without flinching. “We drove the siege forces back into Winterfast. I’d say we destroyed about a quarter of them before they got away, and took a decent number of the rest prisoner. Between the casualties they took from us, and what they suffered facing you, they have to be hurting for warriors now.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. If Itrelia has more than four full banners left to her name, I’ll eat my own scythe.” The Orc grinned. He stepped over to the chair in front of the desk and almost fell into it. Then he paused, looking back at Matt questioningly. “Which gives a bit more importance to something else I brought back with the rest of my prisoners.”

Matt smiled. He gestured for the Orc to sit and leaned back against the desk. “Feel free to rest, Lord Grufen. You’ve been busy here, and I’ve had a little time to grow comfortable.”

“Thank you, sire.” Grufen half-collapsed into the chair. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “One of the Frost Elf nobles sent a messenger to me, under cover of a surrendering skirmisher. They were a page I knew from my time in the capitol, back when the Obsidian King was running things. He’s a genuine, honest soldier; I don’t think he’d be suited for deception.”

A thrill of anticipation went through Matt as he thought over what the messenger might have brought. “And?”

Grufen grinned. “He was sent from some of the Frost Elf Houses to ask what terms you would accept from them for surrender.”

Matt tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He’d hoped the last few disasters might have been enough to break the northern rebels, but to hear confirmation… “Itrelia gets tried for treason. Any who fought for her goes on a kind of probation, where they are on the front lines fighting for the Kingdom outside their territory. Any serfs in their territory immediately become freeholders, and the nobility surrender half their territory to allow the people to support themselves.”

The Orc had nodded along for the first two provisions; the third brought him up short. “Half their territory, sire? That seems… harsh.”

“It’s better than what they could have expected from someone like the Red Sorceress, I’m sure.” Matt shrugged. “I can’t trust them with control over the whole of their Clan anymore; the freeholders will keep them loyal, especially if they remember who freed them. Freeing them is useless without land to help them farm and live. They need enough to survive.”

Then Matt paused, and he sighed. “That, and to be honest, these people tried to kill me twice. I feel like they don’t have much space to complain about losing a little property for it when I could execute the lot of them. Do you disagree?”

Grufen remained silent for a few more moments. Then he grimaced. “I suppose not, sire. You are right, it could be harsher—and you did warn all of us that if we rebelled and lost, you would destroy us for it.” He looked up at Matt, his expression unreadable. “Who will rule Winterfast? Will the Icehearts still be a High Clan?”

Matt shrugged. “I see little difference between High Clan and Low Folk these days, at least in Redspire. If there are enough nobles left among them to have Houses intact, then they will be invited to sit in the Great Council with their peers. If one of them gains enough influence to claim leadership of the Clan, then that is their business, so long as they don’t obstruct the Voices of their freeholders, or plot against the rest of the Kingdom again.”

He paused, looking closer at Grufen. “Make sure to emphasize that last part. I might be harsh this time, but if I catch them at another rebellion…I have no problem making sure they are never in a position to do anything ever again. Understand?”

Grufen smiled again, this time a little uneasily. “Yes, sire. I will tell them.” He looked to the side. “I hope that my work here has met your expectations.”

Matt blinked. He unfolded his arms and studied the Orc a little more closely. “Of course it has, Lord Grufen. I would not have given you a title if I had felt you failed. Without your work, we’d likely have lost not only the Small Heights, but perhaps even the Spirelands. We definitely would not have been able to beat the Noble Races without you guarding our flank.”

“You honor me, sire.” Grufen’s words were careful. “Comparing my success to that of Margrave Morteth…humbles me.”

The subtle hint of ambition set off warning bells in Matt’s mind. He tilted his head and settled his hands on the desk behind him. Grufen might have been plain and gruff, but he was still the leader of a High Clan. He hadn’t risen to that position under two different monarchs without some amount of drive to excel. Matt guessed he might justify that hunger with how it could protect his people, but it was still there—and the possibility of the title of Margrave was the kind of tasty morsel that would have drawn his attention instantly.

Matt spoke just as carefully as Grufen had, trying not to imply more than he wanted to. “Margrave Morteth achieved quite a bit against our enemies. He proved himself both capable and loyal in the responsibilities he’d been given.”

Grufen tilted his head in response. A small smile touched his lips. “I envy him the chance. I worry that my own accomplishments are tainted, both by the help I required from you, sire, and from the initial…skepticism I expressed about your reign.”

“Morteth required plenty of help from me as well, Lord Grufen. The support I gave him—or you, for that matter—does not diminish what he accomplished.” Matt hesitated, searching for the words. “As for what you intended before you met me—I have already told you I would forget it. Your loyalty now matters more than past mistakes.”

The Orc snorted to himself. “Loyalty. An easy thing to speak, but harder to prove.”

“True.” Matt rubbed his chin for a second. “Of course, Morteth was required to sacrifice something for his current elevation.”

Disbelief swept over the Orc’s face. “Is that so?”

Matt nodded. “Yes.” He tapped the desk behind him. “You might not have heard, but Margrave Morteth is now unable, by virtue of his position, to represent his House in the Great Council—or of retaining the leadership of his own High Clan. Luckily, Lord Torth appears to be capable of doing both, but…”

Understanding washed over the Orc’s features. He sat back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. “That… is quite a sacrifice, sire. Giving up that opportunity would be a severe blow to someone’s ambitions.”

“I agree. Unfortunately, it would be necessary to keep someone from gathering too much power in one place.” Matt smiled. “Besides, could you imagine trying to direct both the army and debating things in the Council? I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to hear about it from your representatives, but I’d rather be on the battlefield.”

Grufen snorted again, this time chuckling a little. “We are of one mind there, sire.” He fell silent for a few more moments, as if brooding over the problem. Matt simply watched him, trying to give him the chance to think it over. When the Orc reached a decision, he nodded sharply. “Sire, I would not wish to presume, but if my service ever merits a promotion to Margrave…”

Matt held up a hand. “Even though you’d have to surrender control of your Clan?”

“I don’t imagine I control them half as much as you might believe, sire.” Grufen smiled. “We Hard Scythes are a stubborn, argumentative people, with a strong independent streak. I don’t know if you are aware, but most of our serfs are already freeholders by now, if only because none of them would shut up about it when they heard of the possibility.”

He hadn’t heard of the fact, but it made him let out a short bark of laughter. “That reminds me of some of the people I knew from home.”

Grufen’s smile faded slightly. “Others can sit in Council or look to the prosperity of the Clan. I am a warrior, sire. I can serve best on battlefields, and if I can make sure the warriors of the Clan—of the Kingdom—are not wasted or mistreated… that is worth more than anything else to me. Anything else, sire.”

The commander held his eyes, as if trying to communicate the seriousness of his intent, and Matt slowly nodded in response. “I see.” Then he pushed himself off the desk and stood upright. “Lord Grufen. Please stand.”

Grufen blinked. His expression grew suddenly concerned, as if suddenly worried he’d overstepped. All the same, he stood slowly, clearly concerned even though he towered over Matt.

Matt tried to look appropriately serious. “Lord Grufen, your Kingdom has known your efforts on our behalf, and ending the rebellion in the north is an achievement that will be hard to equal. As such, I see fit to reward you with the title of Margrave, and the rank of Marshall of the North. Do you accept?”

It wasn’t an offer free of ulterior motives. Grufen was going to be a hero to the Gnomes and the Hard Scythes no matter what Matt did, and denying him the greater military rank would only allow him to gather influence outside of the framework that Matt wanted the military to follow. Besides, only having one Margrave beyond himself was a recipe for problems—putting a second commander in the position could only make things easier to balance and control. Maybe between Morteth and Grufen, they’d come to some kind of balance that would sustain them even when Matt wasn’t around.

The Orc stared at him, astonishment clear on his blunt features. Then he grinned and stuck out a hand. “Sire—my liege—I accept. And I thank you.”

“No, Margrave Grufen, I thank you.” Matt shook his hand, and smiled. “Let your Clan know they need a new leader. I’ll send a proclamation, and then confirm it from Redspire. Tell your friends among the Frost Elves that I’ll accept their official offer of surrender there.”

“I will, sire.” Grufen nodded and then looked to the door. “May I…”

Matt gestured for him to go. “You’re dismissed, Margrave. I’m sure you have a lot to do, as do I.” The Orc bowed again, this time a little more deeply, and then headed out the door. He watched the commander go for a moment longer, and then turned back to the mantras. It hadn’t been a long trip to Summerhall, but it had certainly been a productive one. Now he just had to end at least two more wars and kill another High Clan leader who kept trying to assassinate him. Nothing to it.