The streets of Adlecrest were bustling with activity. The remaining soldiers of House Verini had been converging upon it from every corner of the Finger ever since they’d heard of the capitulation at Sentinel. The mood in the town was heavy. They knew the armies of House Balith were presently sweeping across the Great Moors and would soon be at their gates. Everyone, from knight commanders who looked like great heroes come to life from the pages of stories depicting glorious battles, bedecked in polished armour as they barked angry orders, down to the servant boys running around to complete the myriad of tasks they had assigned, seemed resigned to the fact that their efforts would only prolong their inevitable defeat.

“So it has come to this,” Vick Dorin, Lord of the Dinder Wold thought to himself as he observed the castle courtyard from his vantage point high in the keep. He was a broad shouldered man who looked well older than his thirty five years, aged prematurely by fourteen years of constant war. He had fought in almost every House Verini campaign of note. Some had been successful. Most, less so.

He shook his head before turning back from the window and eyed the sheaf of papers on his cluttered desk. He had taken a break from his seemingly endless work to take a breath of fresh air, but had found the mood outside poisonous. That was another issue that was his responsibility as Lord General to remedy.

Despite the cool autumn weather, the back of his tunic was damp. He had a monumental task on his hands. The commander of Sentinel, Lord Dirk Valdere had done him a huge service in abandoning the fortress after years of siege. His soldiers were starving thanks to raids on their supply lines, and he had made the decision to go against their Lord’s express order to defend the fortress to the last and send his soldiers here to the Adlecrest, at the base of the Finger where they could better make a last stand. The Lord General himself would not make the march, deciding to fall on his sword to atone for breaking his oath to his master, and for his failure to hold the fort.

However, according to the reports on his desk, few of the soldiers who left Sentinel had made it to the Finger. Many were lost in the incessant raids by Balith insurgents operating in the Great Moor. However, more still had decided to desert, either living as bandits, pillaging the settlements of the Moor or attempted to flee over the White Mountains using the lesser trails. However, most of these were now controlled by Balith soldiers, and few would have escaped. And then there were those who would have attempted to turn traitor, pledging themselves to House Balith. Vick cursed them most of all.

The Lord General also bemoaned his master’s refusal to heed the advice of his late friend Lord Dirk fourteen years ago after the defeat of the Great Traitor. Norrow did not share any borders with the Kingslands, so while the other Counts had carved the late King Jeremiah’s territories amongst themselves, Count Mendel had set his sights on Cumbar, House Lasingian’s county that lay to the south.

Unfortunately for the Count, the forces of House Lasingian were fiercely loyal to their fallen lord and had not dissolved into infighting like the lords of the Kingslands had. House Lasingian was one of the strongest in the realm and they resisted fiercely to spite their lord’s killers and House Verini were able to make few inroads into the territory. Dirk and several of House Verini’s other senior lords counselled their lord to wait for the others to finish conquering the Kingslands so that they could make a concentrated attack on the county from all sides.

However, frustrated by his inability to take any of the Kingslands for himself, Count Mendel had insisted on forging ahead. By the time the other houses turned their eyes on Cumbar, House Mendel’s forces were spent and had scarcely expanded their borders at all once the counties of Cumbar and the Kingslands had been carved up.

On the other hand, Count Heidel Vaint, Lord of Westheath, and head of what was once the weakest of the Great Houses had managed to conquer great swathes of the Kingslands. He had decided to consolidate his holdings instead of participating in the partition of Cumbar, which had bled the others significantly. As a result, his House was now one of the strongest in the land, and with control of the capital, in pole position to rule over the kingdom.

Vick shook his head. What was done was done. The House he served had been dealt a bad hand, and it was his duty to see things through to their bitter end. He looked at the number of soldiers he had available to defend House Verini’s last bastion and was heartened. Though their number was smaller than he’d hoped for, it was more than enough to work with. Another point in their favour was that the harvest in the Finger had been excellent and would tide them easily through the winter.

The Moors on the other hand had not been so lucky and had enough food for another month at best. A small blessing was that it was House Balith’s problem now. He had sent soldiers out to confiscate whatever they could to deny the resources to the Balith forces. If they laid siege to the Finger, they would find getting supplies through the White Mountains over winter difficult. With a few raids, the tables could be turned, and they would be the ones starved out and forced to withdraw.

A knock at the door broke Vick out of his reverie. “What is it?” he snapped. “I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

“You have a guest, Lord,” a nervous voice said from the other side of the door.

“Well, who is it?” Vick demanded.

There was a palpable silence before the answer came. “I’m afraid he says he wants to surprise you, Lord.”

“Balwick, I swear to the Gods, if this is one of your tricks, I’ll hang you from the highest flagpole by your foreskin,” Vick growled as he pulled the door open.

A youthful man with a head of unruly straw coloured hair looked back at him wearing a look of shock. He wore a mail cuirass, and his clothes were badly travel stained. “Lord Vick, such language,” he cried. “It is most unbecoming of a man of your stature.”

Vick’s irritation vanished and his jaw dropped. “Randal, by the Gods, what are you doing here?”

“It is the duty of every loyal servant of House Verini’s to be here in this time of need,” the youth said, bowing low. He was Randal Thasarin, the youngest member of the Count’s inner council. He turned to Balwick, Vick’s steward, who was giving his master an apologetic look. “Thank you Balwick, you are excused.”

Vick nodded to his steward and turned back to the younger man. “You are supposed to be protecting our master! That was the plan!”

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Randal scratched his cheek idly and shrugged. “Well, as you know, fire is my speciality, and unfortunately, the captain of the Seahorse was very clear that he was having none of it on his ship, so I thought I’d come somewhere my talents would be appreciated.”

Vick frowned. “Randal, we’ve discussed this, and you agreed. Our lord is the key to all our futures. You know how hard it was to convince him to agree to this plan. He’s just itching for an excuse to come up here, and if he does, all could well be lost.”

The families of House Verini’s most influential retainers were all on ships at the port city of Dramouth, the Verini seat of power, along with all the county’s treasure. If Adlecrest fell, the Finger was lost. In that event, the fleet was to set sail across the Eastern Sea and make landfall in the freeport of Venture whose lord was a friend of the Count. Once there, the Count would use his influence to ensure that his retainers’ families were well looked after. In exchange, these retainers would defend Adlecrest to the death. Without this bargain, many of them would already have deserted.

“Well, I didn’t know I was to stay with his Majesty at the time,” Randal sniffed.

“Venture treasures people of your talents, your presence on the ships will ensure House Verini endures,” Vick protested.

“I can’t stand idly by while the rest of you risk your lives,” Randal retorted. “I can turn the tide here. You know I can. All we have to do is to hold them until winter. Besides, our master has given me his blessings. He is confident that his friendship with the Lord of Venture is enough to ensure our people live comfortably for as long as they need.”

Vick eyed the youth and knew that his mind was made up. The only way he was going back to Dramouth was tied up in a sack, and even then, if he really did have the Count’s blessing to be here, he would only come right back.

“Fine,” he said, extending his hand. “Having you here is like having a thousand additional men.”

“Our master knew you’d see the light,” Randal beamed as he shook his friend’s hand. “Can you brief me on our situation?”

Vick nodded and gestured for Randal to enter the room. As he did, he cast a sideways look at the man who now looked old enough to be his father despite only being ten years his senior. What he hadn’t told Vick was that in exchange for being allowed to come here, he was to drag the Lord General with him down to Dramouth if the battle looked lost. However, Randal had no intention of losing the battle. He was here to win. That would repay a small amount of the immense favour the Count had shown him over the years.

As the sun sat low on the horizon, common folk, mostly women and children formed a long queue at the gates of Adlecrest, clutching what few belongings they had in their hands. The better off had theirs in handcarts they pushed. They were forced here by the promise of food after Verini soldiers had taken all the grains they had, moaning to be let in or at least be given something to eat. However, the line was slow moving despite the late hour. The Verini guards questioned them carefully before admitting them into the town. There were sure to be enemy spies among them, and they were determined to weed them out. Gav watched the gates carefully as he trudged down the road, knowing that his target was somewhere inside its walls.

Getting into the town would be tricky. It was built at the top of a hill which rose up from the waterlogged peatlands that covered the base of the Finger. The Northern Trunk Road was built atop a raised dirt causeway as it ran across the peatlands before winding up the hill and through the town before coming down the opposite side. The peatlands were treacherous, and standing bodies of water concealed deep sinkholes that could swallow unwary travellers, or armoured soldiers whole.

Gav felt his heart thump in his chest. What he did next would set the tone for this whole job. He knew nothing about the town’s defences and probing them could alert his target to his presence. He preferred to observe fortified targets from afar until he knew their routines, but the town was surrounded by peatlands for miles and chances were high he would be noticed if he staked it out for days.

Gav licked his lips and considered his options. He had gleaned several nuggets of information about the various towns and villages of the Moors on the journey over. He could subject himself to questioning, but they would be suspicious of a boy of fighting age wandering in on his own. No, that was too risky. Besides, going that route would force him to leave his sword that was strapped to his back behind. Making his mind up, he slipped off the trunk road. In the distance, he could see soldiers standing atop the town walls. Hoping he hadn’t been noticed by one, he pretended to relieve himself before hiding himself in a patch of tall grass.

From his vantage point, he looked up at the town walls. It was impossible to be sure, but it appeared that the guards were continuing their usual pattern of irregular pacing before looking out into the wasteland that surrounded the town. Satisfied, Gav began to prepare.

It took two hours for it to grow dark enough for Gav to make his move. The boy slithered through the grass, going through puddles where they were shallow enough to crawl through and skirting those that were too deep as he made his way towards the hill, giving the trunk road a wide berth. The grass growing up the sides of the hill was well trimmed almost to their shoots. Gav had seen shepherds driving a flock of sheep around it that afternoon. However, he had stuck grass from the peatlands to the back of his clothes so that he looked like a lump in the ground from the wall.

Once he approached the foot of the hill, he looked towards the trunk road and saw that it was lined with refugees waiting for the gates to open at dawn. He then turned his attention up the hill and began his surveillance. It was roughly three hundred yards from the foot of the hill to the wall. Guards were posted in pairs every fifty feet along the top of the wall. The watchfires were shrouded to provide just enough light for the sentries to if anything was amiss on the wall, but not enough to harm their night vision as they stared down the slope and out into the peatlands.

Gav clicked his tongue. Getting up the hillside to the wall without being seen would be impossible. He could make a run for it and attempt to blend in with the people inside, but that would put the whole town on alert and spark a manhunt, getting this job off on the wrong foot. He heaved a sigh and remembered his master’s teachings. If can’t find any openings in a target’s defence, you haven’t been looking hard enough.

He made the decision to lie at the foot of the hill and continue his observations when he heard a trumpet coming from up the road. First, he observed the guards. Most of them instinctively looked towards the sound but turned their attention back to the slope and the surrounding countryside within seconds.

“Disciplined buggers,” Gav sniffed before turning towards the trunk road where the sound of the trumpet had originated.

There, roughly a mile down the road, and slowly trundling towards the town from the direction of the moors was a wagon surrounded by soldiers on horseback. Gav had seen several over the past few days, delivering their plunder to the town or the settlements beyond, further down the Finger. Gav smirked at the fact that they were using trumpets to warn the common folk to get out of their way now that they weren’t attempting to sneak up on them to rob them of their food and valuables. They were bandits when it was convenient, and arrogant knights when it was convenient. They were truly not fit to rule over these lands.

As the soldiers cursed peasants who had been sleeping on the road out of the way, Gav turned his attention to the wagon and its guards. One such procession had overtaken him on the trip from Pebblefeld, and it was likely there would be others. The wagon was laden with hundred pound sacks of grain that King Jeremiah had made standard throughout the kingdom. The soldiers surrounding the wagon wore a hodgepodge of armour and weapons, and none appeared particularly familiar with the other, which suggested to Gav that they had joined up with the wagon as they filtered towards the Finger from Sentinel.

He noted that, unlike the sentries in town, the soldiers guarding the caravan were ill disciplined. Some dropped out of formation unannounced to relieve themselves, some strayed on their own while others formed groups and chatted amongst themselves. Few of them paid the wagon any heed. A smile crept across Gav’s face as he began to formulate a plan.