“It’s okay Val, I’ve got him,” Harin waved off the women who’d moved to grab his horses reins.

Harin slipped from the saddle and landed on the ground with a groan. It ha been a long day, all of it in the saddle. He arched his back, pushing his fist into his back as he tried to stretch the knots away.

“Sire, shall I have a hot bath repaired?” Brago asked.

Harin jumped.

“Pit, Brago!” He chided the Praetorian. “I thought you were off inspecting the camp?”

“Sorry sir, I finished the inspection of the Legion and sending out dispatches,” Brago said.

“And?”

“They are at least double,” Brago said, wiping sweat form his brow.

Harin kicked at the dirt. “Pit,”

Brago’s horse threw it’s head back, Brago lightly pulled on the reins before responding. “Sire, I know you said not to worry, but the men talk. They speak of it now, they do not trust our allies,”

“How could they be so foolish?”

Brago said nothing. Harin tweaked an eyebrow at the Praetorian. “Out with it,”

Brago winced. “Your sister thinks it no mistake. She believes that Hethan and others collude with The Council to push us ahead, slow themselves down,”

Harin nodded. “I thought as much too, but it would make no sense. They do not wish us dead, they just wish to be in charge,” Harin laughed.

“What is sire?” Brago asked, confused.

Harin smiled. “My father, he was right. They are already in charge, I’ve marched two whole legions here to fight their war. No my friend, there is no reason so strong to leave us out here, to strand us this far out. They wouldn't,”

Horses nickered and pawed at the earth in the large picket they had set up inside the camp for their war horses. All of the cavalry's horse were here, most already attended by the grooms and men themselves.

“I thought I told you to take the night off, we’ve been marching for a week, the camp is built. I do not need a Praetorian when I am surrounded by your own,” Harin waved Brago off.

Harin went back to caring for his steed. He started with a sack of grain, slipping it over his horses ears after he’d finished tying to the lead that held the picket of legion horses.

His horse pawed at the ground.

“I know, Kal. It’s good. You earned it,” Harin scratched behind the horses ears. His horse knickered in response, munching on his grain.

Harin pulled a brush from his saddle bags, pocketing it. He began by pulling the saddle bags off, then pushing the sweat down and out of his horses coat. He’d named his horse after his grandfather, Kallen. He hoped it honored the man in a way he’d wished he could with children.

He’d had his share of women in his life, some he’d been with for some time, some for a short time. None of them had chosen to stick around after the southern wars. None had chosen to stick around when Landor had struggled to feed it’s people.

Harin could still feel the hunger gnawing at his belly.

Kal lifter her head and twisted her ears back. Harin’s topped brushing half way down his shoulder. “What is it, Kal?”

Harin looked around, the low light spreading over the backs of horses down the picket line. Some had tweaked their ears, just the same as Kal. Harin put his off hand at his side, feeling the handle of a belt dagger.

They may call him the King of Ink. But a blade would kill him just the same.

He shook his head. There was no way he was at risk here. He was in a camp surrounded by two legions of men. One of which was his Praetorian Legion.

“Easy Kal,” Harin rubbed the horses shoulder, moving down it to loosen up the dirt and sweat that had caked on his coat.

Harin kept on brushing, fishing one side, then moving around to the other, starting at Kal’s head and then moving back. He rubbed methodically, round and round, down, back, up, down, back, up. He kept at it, letting his mind wandering over the last months. The Council had what they wanted now. He doubted that they’d see the Horde, let alone fight more than a few horsemen in the West. War was risk, but he doubted there was an appetite to march the distance to their cites on the far west coast for war.

No, he thought. The Church would find their revenge in much more subtle ways. They would tell the story after some minor conflict, some conversion to the Church of Zufier in some little village that the heavens were conquered, that their mission to the god was complete.

Kal flicked his head again, his ears now pinned back. The horse began to paw at the ground, digging in with enough force to tear up clods of earth.

“Kiever’s balls, what is it,” Harin whispered to his horse.

As Harin turned to look at the other horses behind him, he saw a glint of metal in the night. His heart rate increased, the glint in the evening sunlight should mean nothing, but it made his heart hammer in his chest.

Out of instinct, he didn’t call out. He ducked down between Kal and the horse he’d picked beside. There should be none but the stable hands out here, and they’d be speaking to the horses, soothing like Harin had been.

It was an old trick, one that anyone who’d spent much time atop a horse would know. You could speak Ralarian, Common, like most of the east, or nonsense and a horse would calm.

Harin ducked lower, looking under Kal’s belly and between his feet. He could see feet, between the horses down the line. Zigging and zagging back and forth between the picketed horses.

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There was only one reason for such movement.

Someone was here to kill him.

Harin took a deep breath, trying to calm his mind. He needed to think, but his heart was apt to beat out of his chest at the rate it hammered. He could feel the stress of it, his hands clammy and shaking, his mouth dry now.

He shook his head. Now was not the time.

“Where?”

Harin froze at the whisper. It had carried on the slight breeze. It was not a loud question, but it told him what he needed to know.

Harin moved, willing his feet to be sure in the dark between the horses. He needed to get out of the picket line. But he’d not risk an open sprint. If these men had brought bows, he’d be dead in the open. He knew that he had to make it at least one hundred yards if he was going to live through this.

The sun had snuffed itself out, the only real light torches and the new moon rising over them all. Far from him, Harin could hear the sound of soldiers, laughing and shouting. Content in the night. He couldn’t feel further from it as he ran from these killers.

He moved, slowly, but surely thought the horses. He made sure to approach them all face on, not from the rear, so as not to spook them. He matched his footfalls with the nickering and pawing of horses. He dared to look back, he needed to know where the assassins were.

Four sets of feet were running towards him, between the horses. One man’s face below the bellies of the horses, his hands planted on the earth, knees to the ground. He smiled, white and glowing in the darkness.

“He’s north! GO!” The man on the ground

Harin launched himself up, they were less than five horses behind him. He knew he had not choice now, they’d come to kill a king, and he needed to survive.

“PRAETORIANS!” Harin shouted, bursting from the picket line and running from the five men.

An arrow whizzed by Harin’s head, the sting of the fletching’s kissing his ear, Harin ducked, too late, but his mind had no say in the fight his body led. As he ducked, he heard another sound, one he’d dreaded.

Womp, womp, womp, womp.

The weighted bolas, a rope with stone weights on either side hit Harin’s legs as he’d reached a dead sprint. He was digging in, pushing forward. He could see Praetorian’s in front of him, their cloaks billowing behind them, their weapons raised.

Their king had called for them.

Harin felt dread, and pain as the bolas wrapped around his legs, cutting him down like a felled tree. He didn’t register pain until his face hit the earth, the sudden fall collapsing his lungs, air pushed out of them.

“Oof,” was all he managed.

Harin felt an odd moment of peace, he could see the stars in the sky twinkling down. He could see the darkness that threatened to swallow the moon, and then, he remembered what had happened. The pain, the fear, all of it returned as if he’d been hit by a horse. He struggled to get back up, but to no avail. He could not suck down air, he couldn’t move.

Above him, a man appeared, sword raised high up above his head. He looked down on Harin with glee in his eyes. He was there to kill Harin.

Harin close his eyes, unable to breathe, unable to move from the shock of the fall. He cursed the gods, trying with all his might to move, but only rolling a little to one side. His body had betrayed him. His mind in a fight of it’s own with his body.

Harin felt no pain, only the rage against who’d sent these killers. He had almost made it to safety.

Almost.

Harin opened his eyes, tears welling as he gasped for breath. He expected to see a sword embedded in him, instead, he saw fletching’s. White fletching’s on the end of an arrow that had certainly been made in Landor.

Attached to the arrow’s fletching’s, down the shaft, was buried half way down the shaft in the man’s chest that had been looming over Harin in the night. His sword, still raised up was high in the air, his eyes on the arrows that kept coming.

Two, three, four.

The man fell, replaced quickly by another. Harin heard the screaming before the man appeared above him, axe held high.

“BLOOD AND HONOR!” Brago shouted.

Brago sprung forward from the night, cleaving the would be assassins head from his shoulders. Brago cleaved through one arm, raised up to kill Harin with an ax, and completely through the neck of the man.

Harin finally caught his breath, the quick moments before his death. He rolled over and pushed himself up after pulling the bolas from his legs, sat the same time as pulling his sword from it’s sheathe.

“My Liege!” A praetorian called from behind him.

Cloaks billowed past him, flying behind the groups of men that ran behind Brago, their Legate.

The Praetorian who’d called for Harin was at his side, running to keep up with Harin as he ran with the Praetorians.

The killing was merciless and fast. Each of the five men receiving their reward of death.

“Wait!” Harin shouted.

The last assassin, an arrow in his upper chest was on his knees, knife and sword both dropped to the ground in front of him.

Harin walked to the man, mere feet from where he’d just been on his back. The man heaved breath, muttering in another language.

“Keep him alive, I’ll speak with him after,”

Brago nodded, his eyes downcast, not able to meet Harin’s gave.

Harin exhaled, his breath finally returning.

The camp was alive with shouting and the clamouring of martial men. Legates and Primus’ shouted. Men called for the squads to form. Torches blazed, newly lit beyond them and into the picket line.

“Search the camp, find all who do not belong, bring the men guarding the gates to me, I will have words with each of them,” Brago said.

Four Praetorians nodded to Brago and ran to follow his commands.

Harin looked around at the men remaining. “Fern, Ube, Brago, thank you men for saving me,”

An uneasy silence remained as the three men nodded to Harin. He knew then that they were all thinking of what came next.

“Wait, who among you were with the archers?”

The group looked around, confused themselves as each carried swords.

Harin looked back towards the camp from where they’d come.

A long archer approached them from the darkness.

The Praetorians formed around Harin without a word, Brago in front of him. They flowed like water around rock in an instant.

“Lo, stranger!”

The man continued to walk towards them hood over his head.

“Stop, or we will take issue!” Brago shouted, anger in his voice.

Harin flinched from the spite, but rimed behind Brago, he’d let his men do their duty, though he wished to face the threat himself. He’d learned from his grandfather, some days you had to let the men do their jobs, it wasn't about your ability to do them, but to let others feel able, you had to step aside.

The man raised his arm, pulling back his sleeve.

Even in the darkness, Harin could see the ink. Dark black ink wrapped around the man’s arm. The tattoo was one that Harin had grown up seeing, one that he’d wished he could have when he became a man. One he’d seen on his father’s arm his whole life.

The Dragon.

“Is that you, Hemmelle?”

The man threw back his hood, reaching up with his bow to salute Harin. “No, my liege,”

Harin took a step forward, meeting the man with an embrace. “Uncle. It is good to see you,”

Harin felt the embrace of home. The feeling of comfort many miles from real safety. He was five years old again, this time learning to shoot the bow and ride horseback.

“Good to see you, Geral,” Harin said quietly.

Geral pulled back to look at Harin, a smile on his face.

The older man had been in his life, with Pello, Cello and Hemmelle for as long as he could remember. Geral had taught him the horse and the bow, Cello the blade, Pello to gamble and his father to fight.

He’d never turned out good at any of them, but he’d tried his hardest. He’d sought desperately to please his father, his fathers friends and Legates whenever they were home from the many wars they’d fought, the many patrols they’d taken.

“Good to see you survived, I didn’t know if you would after that bolas. Tricky bastards,”

“Legate Geral, how is it that you are here?” Brago asked.

Gerald’s blue eyes flicked back to the Praetorian.

Harin studied the old man, his face brown from the sun, his hair graying at the temples. He was every inch the fighter that all of the Dragon Legion were. An archer and aa swordsman, he was broad of shoulder and thin of waist.

“The General sent me, here, for this,” Geral said, looking back to Harin.

Harin shook his head. “Even when we’d spoken at the castle, before The Council had asked us to send men?”

Geral smiled, a quick wink of his teeth. “Aye, he knew that you’d be under threat, he sent me to make sure that you had one of the Dragon here, always,”

Harin nodded. “We have much to discuss Geral, come,”

—--

“Sire, you have my sword and my life in your hands. I will gladly give it for the disgrace that has befallen this legion, give it to me, do not leave it to the Legion to pay for my sins,” Brago said.

Both Harin and Brago turned.

“I told you not to let anyone -” Harin stopped.

Anastasia rushed into the tent, her long hair a swirl behind her as she ran.

Harin braced himself, knowing his sister had deeper currents within her.

Anastasia ran past Harin and into Brago’s arms. She wrapped her arms around Brago and breathed him in.

Harin opened his mouth in surprise. He gaped at the pair.

He’d known they were together, in some way, but to watch the openness of the two, he didn’t know what to say.

“Heiser’s harp,” Harin murmured.

Anastasia turned, her face reddened, her eyes puffy. “Brother, you cannot sentence him to death!”

Harin barked a laugh.

“Please!” Anastasia gasped, tears in her eyes.

“Sister,” Harin stepped towards the pair, still joined in an embrace.

Anastasia looked up, tears in her eyes.

“Brago left my side at my bidding, he was only doing what he was ordered to do,”

Brago stiffened, still holding Anastasia by the waist. “Sire, I accept whatever punishment you deem fit. I took my oaths under your grandfather, King Kallen, I said it then, and I’ll say it now,”

Harin held up his hand. “You gave your blood oath to the Sunborn line. That is enough Brago,”

“Grandfather killed the last Praetorian that failed him,”

Harin nodded. “I’m not him. I let the last general who betrayed me live, and I will not take Brago’s life for my own ego. He did not fail me, I failed him,”

Harin stepped forward, taking the Praetorian’s shoulder. “Your honor is intact Legate,”

Brago’s eyes glistened. Anastasia sniffed, wiping her nose on her wrist.

“I’ll not be leaving your side again, sire,” Brago bowed.

“Then come with me, I need to know what these men knew, how they’d made it into this camp, with my Legions at my side. Is one yet alive?” Harin asked.

Brago nodded. “Ethen and his lot killed three on sight. The last is strung up at the wall, I do not suspect they will draw breath for long,”

“Let’s go stick a knife in him and sort out who’d try and kill both father and son,” Geral said from a seat in the corner.

Brago and Anastasi turned.

“Uncle!” Anastasia ran to Geral as he stood.

“My little Anastasia, how are you my dear child?” Geral pulled her into a deep hug, swinging her around.

Harin knew that his father’s men had no kin, no children. They’d committed themselves to war, and to The Dragon Legion. Harin, Fabien and Anastasia were all that Geral had.

“How?” Anastasia asked.

“Another time, little one, we have someone we need to speak with,”