The following morning Neit Wol's body, draped in a simple shroud without flowers or adornments, was pushed from Oran Harbor on a small barge, and when it had sailed a certain distance away, an archer poised on top of the north citadel wall pierced it with a flaming arrow. The citizens of Oran and their guests watched it burn. No one except a few of the younger Wols shed a tear.

Despite the copious food, drink, and nightly entertainment, the foreign guests were becoming restless after a few days' stay at Oran City. The Wols' visit had been ruined by tragedy, the Nazeers had only become more resentful and envious of Oran's wealth, and the Skaards were anxious to return to the north to resume their battle against a terrible enemy.

The king himself was tired of all the demands placed on him. He longed to return to his normal routine of taking leisurely rides over Oran's rich farmlands and spending time with his family.

As promised, Scipio met with Bonn Skaard and several of his comrades. For the meeting, he chose his private war chamber, which was located on an upper floor overlooking the northern ramparts. Dark walls displaying tapestried maps of the Four Corners set the stage for serious strategizing, although an uneasy peace had dominated the land ever since Scipio’s victory at Mynimium humbled the hot-headed Nazeers. A set of double doors opened to a large balcony where the king and his men could observe the sea and the red coral shores. Unbeknownst to anyone but Scipio's most trusted allies, the room featured a hidden door behind one of the tapestries. It was the last line of defense in case of an attack. It led to a passage of interconnected stairways leading to Oran's underground canal system, where a ship filled with weapons and supplies awaited if the royal family ever had to flee.

Displaying no hint of intimation by the opulent surroundings, Bonn stood before the king and again requested battle reinforcements in exchange for the proffered men, ships, horses, and weapons. Scipio refused, claiming he would need more proof than Bonn Skaard's word that the Thrades were nothing more than a myth, that they actually existed beyond what was depicted in old books and fading murals.

"Shall I bring you the blood of my people to prove what they have done?" Bonn Skaard asked the king, his thickly accented voice rising. "Or the bodies of my wife and child—" A noose of emotion tightened around his throat, cutting off his words.

Bonn’s rangy companion laid a hand on Bonn's shoulder and addressed the king. "We can draw you a picture if you'd like, Your Grace. These Thrades are meaner than a hungry dragon, about yay tall," he stood on tiptoes and thrust his hand in the air. "With skin so thick our arrows bounce right off 'em. And when they get close enough to tear you with their claws, you don't stand a chance. They have no weapons. They don't need 'em. Why, they'll break every bone in your body with one swipe of their claws, and the teeth in their heads, don't even get me started on the teeth—"

Scipio Davadas impatiently raised a hand to halt the man's speech. "And what is your name, my loquacious friend?"

"My name's Leiffen Skaard," the tall, thin man bowed theatrically, "but you can call me Lo Quacious."

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The Skaard men laughed. Scipio's dark eyes flashed, unamused. "And what is your special talent, my friend. You don't look like a warrior."

"Ah, well, my special talent is ... I have quite a few, don't I, boys?" He set the leather bag he was carrying onto the floor and began to rummage through it. He pulled a flute from its depth. "I can play a bit," he blew a few trills on it then dropped it back in the bag. "Helps to keep morale up on those cold marches. Ah, and of course, these come in handy." From the bag, he produced four silver orbs, small enough to fit in his hand, and began to expertly juggle them in the air.

Scipio Davadas leaned his hands on the polished round table laden with styluses and scrolls and said, "Something else to help morale? Your army must have plenty of leisure time to indulge these amusements, Bonn Skaard."

"Well," Leiffen said, "They are convenient in other ways, as well. Watch!" He caught the four balls and tossed one in the air. It made two quick orbits around the room. The orb then circled a decorative clay pot sitting atop a marble column holding some ribboned scrolls. Gaining speed until the orb was only a silver flash, it struck the pot, shattering it to shards and strewing the scrolls pell-mell around the room. Leiffen held out his hand, and the silver orb returned to it.

"Sorry about that," Leiffen said with false chagrin. "But as you can see, My grace, these babies come in handy on the battlefield. You can't believe what they can do to a Thrade's head." He mimed an enormous explosion.

Flenn Illyminum, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forward and cleared his throat. "May I examine your orbs, sir?"

Leiffen laughed. "I once had a serving wench ask me the same thing. Here you go." He tossed one to Flenn, who caught it cautiously.

Flenn examined it carefully, then exclaimed excitedly, "Why these are Illyminum orbs. Where in all of Ardelym did you find these?"

"Well," Leiffen began, "It's a funny story-"

King Scipio cut him off with a raised hand. "I'm sure your tale is quite amusing, but I must get back to the business of running a kingdom, and you, my friends, to your good work in the north."

Bonn Skaard stood his ground. "And what of our plea?"

Scipio's dark eyes narrowed. "I will not send an army to fight with you until I have more proof."

Bonn and Leiffen exchanged a wary gaze.

"But to prove I am a man of my word," Scipio continued, "I will send several scouts to accompany you back to Kadaar. After they report back to me, I will make a final decision regarding your plea."

"By then, it might be too late," Bonn said.

"That is the best I can do," said Scipio, straightening his back. He signaled toward the door, indicating the meeting was over.

* * *

The Skaards respectfully waited for the black smoke from Neit Wol's funeral barge to dissipate into the mist hovering above the Crimson Sea, then they gathered their troops and horses and headed to their waiting ships.

With the hem of their long purple robe kicking up dust along the stone path leading to the stables, Flenn Illymium caught up with Bonn Skaard.

"Please, sir," Flenn said, out-of-breath, as he laid a pale, long-fingered hand on Bonn's thickly muscled arm. "A word."

Bonn turned, blinking ice-blue eyes at the ancient Illymium. "Yes?"

"The king is wrong, and you are right," Flenn said. "Of course the Thrades are real. You have no reason to lie about it. Not only that," he paused, scanning Bonn's face, "I can see in your eyes how much you've suffered at their hands. And for that, I'm sorry."

Bonn gently shook off Flenn's hand and began bridling his horse, a silver-gray stallion over sixteen hands tall. "Suffering won't save my people. Only we can do that, and now we must return to them. It was a mistake to come here."

"Please, sir," Flenn implored. "Give me one more day to convince the king."

Bonn released his grip on the bridle and sighed. His good sense winning over his pride. "All right,” he said. “One more day then."