Starlion
“Very well.” You press the money into Dalster’s hand. But before you release the purse, you look him in the eye and say, “But if she won’t accept, silence her. We can’t have our cover blown.”
Dalster gulps and nods, his eyes sliding to his hand. “I—I understand, sir. But she’ll definitely accept.”
“Thank you. Dismissed. Wait—what’s her name?”
“Kitla.” You hear his voice, but he is already outside on his horse.
You’re not sure if you should smirk or scowl. In the end you shrug and smile flatly.
You divide the rest of the evening between catching a few winks (you’ll be up late tonight!), giving orders to your men, and sending reports back to Ellesmir. Twice throughout the eve you nip at a whiskey bottle one of your men brought for you—without being told to. You love the men under your command. They’re disciplined, considerate, devoted, and skilled. Of course, they have their brawls and black eyes, but they listen to you. They respect you. They’d die for you, and that can’t be said about every men out there with a sword and a cloak.
You prepare to head out to Castel Starlion when a courtier hands you a slip of dirty paper:
“Three Starlion squadrons burning east gate. Two more battering southern walls. Won’t last past midnight. Need reinforcements to Aselford if possible.
~ Arran”
“Arran…” the name flickers through your eyes and registers in your brain. Arran! Your old buddy from obscurity, who laughed with you and played truant with you. He joined the town guard when you joined espionage. Does he know that you are the recipient of this dispatch? Is that why he sent it?
“How long since you left Aselford?” you ask the courtier.
“About four or five hours, sir,” he replies, “Rode as fast as I could and changed horses thrice.”
It takes your capable mind only a moment to make the calculations: Aselford, your birth town, is about fifty miles southwest. You have twelve available men—three are keeping an eye on the Castel Starlion and Dalster is off on his errand—and nine horses. There are forty men of Starlion assailing Aselford. With horses, you should reach Aselford a couple hours before dawn—too late to be of any help. You’re simply too far away.
But this isn’t an official order. A private plea for help from a friend. Your orders are to get your hands on the baron’s daughter and bring her into Arolion.
You decide to:
Dalster gulps and nods, his eyes sliding to his hand. “I—I understand, sir. But she’ll definitely accept.”
“Thank you. Dismissed. Wait—what’s her name?”
“Kitla.” You hear his voice, but he is already outside on his horse.
You’re not sure if you should smirk or scowl. In the end you shrug and smile flatly.
You divide the rest of the evening between catching a few winks (you’ll be up late tonight!), giving orders to your men, and sending reports back to Ellesmir. Twice throughout the eve you nip at a whiskey bottle one of your men brought for you—without being told to. You love the men under your command. They’re disciplined, considerate, devoted, and skilled. Of course, they have their brawls and black eyes, but they listen to you. They respect you. They’d die for you, and that can’t be said about every men out there with a sword and a cloak.
You prepare to head out to Castel Starlion when a courtier hands you a slip of dirty paper:
“Three Starlion squadrons burning east gate. Two more battering southern walls. Won’t last past midnight. Need reinforcements to Aselford if possible.
~ Arran”
“Arran…” the name flickers through your eyes and registers in your brain. Arran! Your old buddy from obscurity, who laughed with you and played truant with you. He joined the town guard when you joined espionage. Does he know that you are the recipient of this dispatch? Is that why he sent it?
“How long since you left Aselford?” you ask the courtier.
“About four or five hours, sir,” he replies, “Rode as fast as I could and changed horses thrice.”
It takes your capable mind only a moment to make the calculations: Aselford, your birth town, is about fifty miles southwest. You have twelve available men—three are keeping an eye on the Castel Starlion and Dalster is off on his errand—and nine horses. There are forty men of Starlion assailing Aselford. With horses, you should reach Aselford a couple hours before dawn—too late to be of any help. You’re simply too far away.
But this isn’t an official order. A private plea for help from a friend. Your orders are to get your hands on the baron’s daughter and bring her into Arolion.
You decide to: