Chapter One

Chapter 1

A ten pound stone stood outlined against the crystal blue autumn sky for a glorious second before it began the inevitable downward slope of the arc. Its thud on a pile of neatly placed rocks was greeted with a wild shout, announcing the end of a rather unique conditioning drill.
Kejen Densky stood in the courtyard of Sparent's castle with his fists raised in triumph. The gray oversized shirt Northmarchers favored was drenched in sweat but that was the point of the exercise. The cheers of his fellow soldiers gathered around ran a close second. Kejen waved and took a bow, doing his best to brush the dirt with his forehead.
“Not bad, my friend, not bad at all!” Gusaric, the garrison commander clapped. “But I thought you were supposed to run with each of the stones, place it on the pile and run back again.”
Kejen saluted the other officer before giving giving an explanation. “I just wanted to end the exercise with a little excitement. I think a fifty yard throw with my left hand, off balance deserves some attention!”
“You will always be good at drawing attention, Kejen!” Gusaric laughed. “And you always will be!”
Kejen chuckled, picked a stone from the pile and tossed it straight up about six feet. Gusaric's eyes followed as it dropped into Kejen's hand. Kejen's large hand swallowed the stone easily enough and the muscled arm connecting it to a broad shoulder hardly registered the mass of the falling ten pounds. A quick right pivot and even quicker overhand throw later and the rock landed at the feet of a newly promoted captain.
“That is why I make it a point never to run out into the courtyard without looking first!” Leron said in an attempt to scold the rock thrower who not only had him outranked but was also much larger. Of course, that would have no effect whatsoever and Leron knew it. “I think I am going to keep my helmet on from now on.”
Kejen's wolfish grin was answer enough.
The Hero of Dunrovin and bearer of HeavenSteel may have been nearing his fortieth birthday but Kejen Densky was showing no signs of aging gracefully. Gusaric was not in the least bit surprised. Kejen was never one to hurtle into something at less than full speed. If anything, Gusaric's


childhood friend seemed larger and stronger than ever. The garrison commander of the Castle of Sparent sucked in his gut a little. Some people were simply Blessed.
“You know better than to think I would hit you with a rock, Leron!” Kejen's voice boomed into every corner throughout the Castle of Sparent. No, the thought of aging gracefully had not even begun to enter Kejen's mind. Odds were it could not even find the front door, Gusaric smiled wryly.
“You would not hit me intentionally...” Leron began. “Well, I know you would not want to clot me on the noggin this moment at any rate. You have a visitor.”
The way Leron had stressed the last word told Kejen exactly who had come to see him. Kejen mumbled his pardon and ran across the courtyard to the entrance portal, inadvertently showering his commanding officer with some dirt.
“He could probably outrun half my horses.” Gusaric wiped his eyes before walking across the courtyard. “If he ever decided to run around the world, he could probably do it in a month.”
Leron fell in alongside Gusaric. “A month and a day.” He opined. “Kejen would stop off to get us a couple of presents.”
“He's a good fellow.” Gusaric agreed as they neared the Castle's entrance.

Kejen came to a full stop in front of a woman with a couple of baskets in one hand and a young boy in the other. He hugged her with a gentleness completely out of character. One of the guards looking on politely turned away to hide his laughter as the lady tried to hug Kejen with one hand with the baskets still on her forearm.
“How are you today, my dove?” She said with her typical barely above a whisper voice. How anyone could equate Kejen to something like a dove was beyond most people's logic but Kavala knew her husband on levels no one else could.
“Much better now that you are here, Kavala.” Kejen smiled. “How are the wee ones today? Are they giving you much trouble?”
“They are angels.” Kavala answered softly. Her Lans accent was barely


noticeable.
“Must get it from your side of the family.” Kejen grinned.
“I have been good!” The little boy said somewhat louder than a four year old should have sounded around strangers walking by. Evidently, Kejen's side of the family wielded some considerable influence as well.
Kejen picked the squealing boy up under the arms and lifted him up. “Is that true, Ank? Should I ask your mother?” He put his son down. “I know you are a good boy.” Kejen turned his attention to one of the baskets. “How is little Alutia today?”
“Sleeping.” Kavala answered. “Some people are so lucky.”
Gusaric and Leron walked by. The Sparent Brigade's leading officer patted Ank's head and the little boy smiled.
“Good morning, Kavala.” Gusaric said politely.
“Good morning.” Kavala answered neutrally.
If Gusaric was bothered by that, he did not show it. Leron nodded and followed his superior officer to his quarters. He managed to hide his smile though. Of course, he was smiling about something else all together. “Ank” was short for Ankleton, a small village near Barcova where, Kejen confided in him, that little Ank was conceived. Leron vowed that Kavala would never find out Kejen had ever let him in on that bit of knowledge. It was not Kavala he was afraid of though. It was her husband who threw rocks around every morning because he thought it was a fun thing to do...
“No need to bring that up, Kavala.” Kejen all but chided his wife.
“I just think you should be the brigade commander and he should be second in command.” Kavala's seldom used claws came out.
Kejen shrugged. “It is but a small thing. We are friends. Always have been, always will be. We fought alongside each other and we have grown up together.” Kejen motioned his family over to a table next to the courtyard as a group of soldiers began to march into the castle.
Kejen looked oddly pensive for a minute, looking through the formation of marching men at something else from another time in another place. “When you have been to some of the places I have and seen some of the things I have seen, you ask yourself, 'how important is military rank?' “
Kavala followed Kejen's gaze. She was an extremely intelligent woman


but as smart as she was, Kavala could never be able to understand what it had been like to be at Lamptra or in the bloodstained hallways of the Argual.
After the defeat of the Khaizani and recovery of HeavenSteel, Kejen suffered the worst fate imaginable. That of a warrior with no war to fight. Since that day at Dunrovin, no threats, serious or otherwise, appeared on the horizon to menace the Northmarch. The Masovian threat was always there but Regalwood's attention was focused in the opposite direction, mounting what appeared to be a never ending series of large scale expeditions across the Centola into Rhenia. Sometimes it seemed as if the Masovians completely forgot their northern neighbors even existed.
Aside from the Khanate of Khaizan exploding into civil war and Croghen's Rhenian adventurism, it seemed as if the entire world was forswearing from the wars constantly roiling across its face. Even the Sea-Faring Kingdoms were not fighting each other as usual and Thenros's almost constant border clashes with the Saracens were giving way to trade negotiations. King Fleston clearly regarded the birth of the new century a couple of years earlier as the beginning of a new era of peace.
Kejen followed the footsteps of the valiant Kuran, honoring his friend by not only volunteering for the legendary Demon Division but passing the arduous training with flying colors. Wearing the black armor of that elite formation was the greatest honor of his life.
But there was nothing for the Division or anyone else in the regular army or even militia to focus on.
An exchange of permanent emissaries with Masovia underscored the new shift in relations between countries. No one in Regalwood appeared ready to embrace Northmarchers as brothers but there did not seem to be a war ready to break out either. The forty years since the Battle of Driergam was the longest the two rivals had gone without a clash of arms so maybe a lasting peace really was at hand.
Kejen dutifully trained and prepared and prepared and trained but year after year, everything remained quiet. Knowing from painful personal experience that glory often came with a dreadful price in blood, he realized that this new turn of events was probably for the better. What worried Kejen though was that if the Masovians ever showed signs of reverting back to their

old tricks, it would be harder to convince anyone to get ready for what was coming. Especially a King Fleston who desperately wanted to usher in his era of peace.
And that would confer upon the Masovians a tremendous advantage.
Gusaric accused his friend of getting old and suspicious. To that, Kejen simply retorted, “Do you trust Masovia?”
“No, I do not.” Gusaric replied.
Eventually Kejen left the Division to go back into the regular army so he could, as he put it, twiddle his thumbs closer to home instead of in the middle of no where.
Still, he made sure his departure was on good terms and kept in touch with the friends he made there. Part of it was because of the camaraderie but Kejen had another compelling reason as well.
Kascar, acerbic as usual, also had an annoying tendency to be right. “Remember this and remember this well, boy, ” He growled in Kejen's face. “Even when Masovians smile, you still see their teeth.”

Ank sat quietly for once, hands folded, imitating his father. Kejen reached over and ran his hands through his son's hair. Brown, Kejen thought, like mine! He gently kissed his sleeping daughter Alutia and then kissed his wife on the cheek.
“You are what is important to me!” Kejen said in a quiet intensity that seemed to fill the courtyard. “You and nothing else. Let anyone take any rank they want. Do so with my blessings! I have you, Ank and Alutia and that is all I will ever want!”
“Oh Kejen, I love you so much!” Kavala hugged her husband hard. “I just want you to be happy!”
“With you I am always happy.” Kejen hugged his wife back. “Now love Gusaric like you do my brother. He is a good man and would never hurt anyone.”
“Should I give him half the lunch I brought you then?” Kavala smiled, placing the second basket on the table.
“No need to act insane!” Kejen laughed.



“Can I ask you a personal question, sir?” Leron ventured
“Now you want to become formal?” Gusaric's eyebrows raised. “You? The most informal person I know?”
Leron looked down on the wooden floor as Gusaric sat down behind a desk. “My apologies. Very well, I will just say it then. I just wanted to know why Kejen's wife does not seem to like you very much.”
“Oh that.” Gusaric snorted and added a dismissive wave. “She thinks Kejen should have been made colonel and garrison commander instead of me.”
“Why would she care about that?” Leron asked.
“Would your wife not be upset if you did not get what you deserve?”
“You mean 'what she thinks you deserve?' “ Leron laughed. “If it were up to my Hentia, she would have made me a general a week after I met her!”
“My wife thinks the same.” Gusaric smiled. “I must admit thought, I was surprised. Not just what Kejen did against the Khaizani but remember he did a stretch in the Demon Division too. Someone like that is an army onto himself!”
“But Kejen is not the sort who cares about rank anyway.” Leron said. “I have known him a long time.”
“Not as long as I have.” Gusaric finally took his rank's privilege. “Look at the entranceway behind you. He and I came trough there side by side along with his brother. And you are right. He does not care about what is painted on his armor. He cares about his soldiers and his people. And I am very proud to call him my friend.”
There was a knock on the door. Leron turned and his eyes widened a bit in surprise when he saw a guard from the gate standing with there with Kavala.
“Sorry to bother you, sir.” The guard said. “But his lady has something to give you.”
Gusaric stood up and dipped his head slightly. “Of course, please come in”
Kavala smiled and walked in. The smile seemed genuine. Gusaric wondered who much of what he said made it to her ears but he kept his face professionally expressionless.


“Even Kejen could not finish all of what I brought him.” She said. “So I thought you might enjoy it.”
“That you very much.” A confused Gusaric said as she placed the basket on his desk. “Would you like me to give Kejen the basket back later today?”
“Yes, thank you.” Kavala said. “May good health and happiness follow you wherever you may go.” Gusaric wondered what was happening. She had never said that before! Kavala smiled and left before Kejen lost control of Ank and Alutia in the entranceway, leaving Gusaric no chance to return the traditional goodbye.
“That was nice of her.” Leron finally said.
“Yes it was.” Gusaric agreed. He looked though the basket's contents. “Roast chicken. Very nice! Would you like a bite, Leron?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“For all I know, it could be poisoned!”


Beafalo rode through the open gates of his castle at Chenla, robes flapping in the cool autumn air and guards in tow, the very image of ducal glory. He doffed the floppy hat Masovians generally wore and gave one of his stable hands a withering look. The lad had not run up to the Duke of Recalto quite fast enough to suit His Grace.
The boy mumbled an apology. Beafalo was in a good mood so instead of tongue lashing the miscreant he merely ignored him him as he dismounted. After all, he, Beafalo, had just returned not only from Regalwood but from a private audience from His Most Glorious Highness himself!
Beafalo bounded up the stairs to his castle two at a time. Not too bad, he thought to himself. Even the two guards at the door nodded slightly in approval before coming to attention. He may not have been as young as he once was but Beafalo was still in the prime of his manhood.
A duke generally had others open the doors for him at his own estate but today the flew open from a powerful shove of Beafalo's own hands. Masovians were a theatrical folk and Beafalo loved theatrics more than most.



The sudden entrance had the effect he wanted as conversation in the ducal throne room suddenly stopped as if cut off. The Duke of Recalto stepped forward and announced as loud as he could, “I have returned from Regalwood!”
After a second of stunned silence, cheers erupted from his retinue and some of the cleaner serfs brought in from the fields for the occasion. They chanted his name as Beafalo walked ramrod straight down the center of the room to his throne, mounted up on a dais of three steps.
Torsovo, his second in command, stood next to the throne and when Beafalo's foot touched the first step, he dutifully sank to one knee and respectfully lowered his head. His sovereign liege patted Torsovo on his blond head and quickly touched his seat with the other hand.
“Ah, it's still warm!” Beafalo laughed. “Did you enjoy sitting in it while I was gone?”
Torsovo grinned sheepishly. “I merely did what was necessary in your absence, my lord.”
“And you enjoyed every second of it, I am sure.” Beafalo smiled back. He remembered clearly what he was like at Torsovo's age, almost twenty years ago, eager to show how capable he was. “I am glad you do like it because one day this will be all of yours.” Beafalo's wave encompassed the entire throne room and everyone in it.
All assembled bowed reverently in the direction of both men. They also dropped almost as one to a knee as the Duke of Recalto sat on his throne. The gesture was done quickly for it was well known that Beafalo reacted harshly to anything that seemed a breech of noble decorum.
Beafalo let them stay that way for a few seconds before giving his subjects permission to stand up again. “Anything interesting happen while I was away with the Emperor?” He asked Torsovo. “I am fully confident that everything ran smoothly with you in my seat.”
“Fairly routine.” Torsovo reported. “There was, however, one matter that required you judgment.”
His Grace spied his son and daughter quietly entering the room. “Can it wait a few minutes or is it something that needs to be addressed this very second?”
“It can wait as long as you desire, Your Grace.” Torsovo said with a

smile. He had sent the man away one time before. He was sure added delay only made the unwelcome visitor fume more. That, of course, delighted Torsovo to no end.
Beafalo descended the steps appearing as majestically as he could and embraced his children. Bregetene was a large lad, strongly resembling his father but a mute one as well and born somewhat slow as well. No one would ever come out and say that though. Especially after the example Beafalo had made of the one one man who ever did. The fact he was a noble did not save him from Beafalo's wrath. Beafalo would challenge anyone, anyone at all, to single combat on this issue! After the other noble's untimely end, no one, wisely, ever did.
Esteru's long black hair loudly proclaimed her to be her father's daughter. Her looks however came from the mother she never knew. Beafalo winked at a couple of the ladies of the court as he hugged his children. The Duke may have been a widower but he still clearly enjoyed his time holding court. Here and in other, more private settings.
Beafalo held his daughter's hand out to Torsovo, who kissed it gently before walking over to shake Bregetene's. Esteru had to guide her brother's hand a little and contrived to skillfully brush Torsovo's. Beafalo smiled at that. Torsovo and Esteru was the match he wanted. Esteru was of his blood and Torsovo, while not a blood relative, was like a son to the Duke of Recalto. Since Bregetene's mental faculties did not allow for a conventional succession, a Torsovo-Esteru union provided the next best orderly alternative.
Still, there were some underlying issues that made the lord of Chenla's castle uneasy. Torsovo was, by nature, an aggressive man. An aggressiveness that carried over to more intimate settings if what some of the ladies of the court said were true. On the other hand, Torsovo, as well as practically everyone else in Masovia, knew better than to cross Beafalo especially where his children were involved. Torsovo was showing signs of increasing maturity so perhaps the problem would resolve itself, Beafalo hoped.
“Now what is this problem you needed me to take care of?” Beafalo snapped, yanking Torsovo's thoughts back to the proper business of running
the duchy.
“I will have him brought to you immediately, Your Grace.” Torsovo

answered. After an audible sigh and a quick longing glance at Esteru, he barked out an order to a couple of soldiers.
Beafalo smirked as he climbed back up the dais and sat down on his throne. He knew exactly what Torsovo would do. He was just like his father. Brave man. It was unfortunate he had to die at the hands of the Northmarchers just when he had quietly and skillfully worked his way into a position to exploit their vulnerabilities. At least I have fulfilled my promise to watch over his son, Beafalo thought to himself.
And speaking of Northmarchers...

Wiart stalked angrily into the throne room, flanked by two Masovian soldiers who acted as if he was carrying some disease. Golif, his oldest son, trailed behind, was basically ignored. He glared daggers at the back of the heads of the two guards but that had no effect whatsoever. Even if he had thought of doing something more drastic, he knew the rest of the Masovian mob gathered here would prevent anything serious from happening. A good look at the edged weapons the soldiers carried made a rather convincing argument against doing anything rash too.
Beafalo steepled his hands and stared down at the Northmarcher farmer brought before him. His face remained impassive so Wiart was not sure what the Masovian lord was thinking. No greetings were offered and after an awkward moment, Wiart shrugged, mustered his rusty command of Masovian and simply said what was on his mind.
“You have a cow that belonging to me and want it back.” Wiart knew his grammar was not all it should have been but he knew he managed to get his point across.
Beafalo leaned forward patronizingly. “Do you understand what I am saying?” In Masovian, slow and very deliberate.
Torsovo smiled. He knew Duke Beafalo was enjoying himself.
Wiart scowled. He could not only sense the contempt in Beafalo's voice but feel it. “Yes, I understand you.”
Beafalo beamed like a school teacher watching his pupils reading on their own for the first time. “Excellent! Then you will understand this: I do not have your cow. Nor do I have anyone else's cow!” Beafalo's head swiveled around looking at on one in particular. “I have only my own cows!”

Laughter filled the room but Wiart saw nothing funny. He only saw a pompous overdressed Masovian twit trying to make a fool out of him. Nonetheless, he still tried to sound reasonable. “There is a brand on the cow---”
“I cannot read that scrawling your people call a language.” Beafalo lied. Anyone living on either side of the border picked up at least a little of the other's language. And Beafalo not only knew a little of what the Northmarchers spoke but had spent years studying it. The Duke of Recalto pointed in the direction of of the soldier on Wiart's right. “You! Your name is Auggio, is it not?”
The soldier stiffened to attention, both delighted and alarmed the duke knew his name. “Yes, your Grace!”
“Are you the one who first encountered this man on our side of the border?”
“Yes, your Grace.” Auggio answered
“Does he seem to be in his right mind?” Beafalo said with a nasty grin that also seemed to invite the soldier to share in a joke. “Do you think he sees cows everywhere? Perhaps he rides around from castle to castle claiming they have taken cows so that he can build up his own herd?”
A gale of laughter swept over the room and the now seething Wiart. This was beginning to get out of hand. Golif's feet shifted uncomfortably.
Auggio reached up under his helmet that looked like something Hernando Cortes would have worn while sacking Tenochtitlan and scratched his forehead. “Now that you mention it, Your Grace, he does seem a little off.” He addressed his friend on the other side of Wiart. “Would you not agree, Fornebu?”
Amid the laughter washing over him anew, Wiart did the unthinkable. He took a step forward and his foot was on the step of the dais. Auggio and Fornebu's inattention allowed Wiart to travel more than halfway to Beafalo, much to the dukes sudden horror.
Wiart, as angry as he was, at least had the presence of mind to approach with his hands open to show that he was unarmed.
“Now look here!” He shouted at Beafalo. “I did not come here to be mocked or to have you justify stealing my livestock!” In his anger, Wiart forgot he was shouting in the Northmarcher language and was demonstrating

that he nothing of or cared anything about Masovian nobility etiquette.
Beafalo stood up and kicked Wiart where it hurt the most. The farmer doubled over, clutching himself and Beafalo's fist landed on the point of Wiart's chin. Wiart tumbled down the stairs. Fornebu knocked Golif down and Auggio put his foot down on Wiart's neck. Amid the shouting, Beafalo walked down the dais, squatted down and yelled into Wiart's face. “You have some nerve to walk up to me when I did not give you permission!”
Wiart wanted nothing more to lob a globule of bloody spit into Beafalo's face but a sidelong glance at his son in the grip of a Masovian soldier stayed that thought. Golif struggled for a bit but another Masovian soldier came over and helped Fornebu subdue him further.
“Get him on his feet!” Beaflo shouted at Auggio from point-blank range.
The soldier pulled Wiart up roughly and held him up on the balls of his feet.
“Now my dear Northmarcher.” Beafalo said in a voice louder than usual so the rest of the throne room could hear him. “You seem to know nothing of how to act in the presence of your betters. Your education begins now.”
Wiart growled in frustration but Auggio's grip was like iron. The Masovian soldier knew that Beafalo was angry with him too for letting Wiart slip up to the dais so he was determined not to let anything like that happen again. Fortunately for Auggio, Wiart dominated Beafalo's attention.
“First of all, you address me as 'Your Grace' or 'my lord' or even 'duke' “ Beafalo began his lecture. Wiart looked away. A sharp sounding slap echoed across the room. “You are not paying attention! You are lucky that was only a slap, not another punch. Again, address my as 'Your Grace.' Do you understand?”
Wiart just glared back at him. Northmarchers were a stubborn people. Mules must play a prominent part of their ancestry, Beafalo thought.
“Very well.” Beafalo huffed. “Bring the boy up here.”
Wiart's eyes widened as his son was yanked up off the floor but Beafalo knew it was a little early to take any satisfaction from that. “Again, address me by my proper title!” The Duke of Recalto commanded.
His captive still remained defiantly silent.
“Kill his son.” Beafalo said nonchalantly.

“No, no, Your Grace!” Wiart shouted and struggled ineffectually against Auggio's hold. “Do not punish him for my mistakes, my lord!”
Beafalo waved off the approaching soldier with the spear. “See? You do know what I am saying! Not bad at all.” He leaned forward into the face of Wiart who was beginning to show some signs of fear at last. His nasty smile presaged the next words well. “I look forward to working with you some more.”
The Masovian noble took a step back and began issuing orders. “You! Boy!” He pointed at Golif. “Run home and tell your mother that your father will be along in a week or so.” Then he glared at Auggio and Fornebu. “Take our friend here into the dungeons. We will teach him some manners.”