Encourage those who have stewardship over you. Be their greatest support. Be their greatest believer. Take pride in the work you do—for those who value true character will see you shine and reward you for it.

Even before sunrise, the grounds of Til-Thorin were abuzz with preparations of fortification. King Robert III had met in counsel with the town officials and Iskari Elders through the night, to discuss the invading forces and the immediate evacuation of Woodside’s citizens. Riders had been immediately dispatched to the nearby villages, warning them of the threat and calling for reinforcements.

The King had finally excused everyone just before dawn. Lady Tamorah and the Rook were already in the fields, preparing drills. Alhannah had volunteered to accompany the scouting parties and Dax was nowhere to be found. Chuck, however, hadn’t been much help—sleeping contently at the far end of the hall, sprawled across a long wooden bench. His massive beard was casually thrown up and over one of the tables, where it draped over the opposite side. The King smiled as the old man snored, occasionally fidgeting and bursting out with, “Snockhockey!”

It had been a long night of debate, planning and strategy and Robert yawned himself, stretching his arms and rotating his head. Joints popped in irritation.

The only one still awake and remarkably alert, was Captain Joram.

A man in his late fifties, Joram was a military man through and through. Intelligent, well organized and fixated on his duties, he rested his elbows on the table, rolling a hot mug of cider between his cold hands.

The King had quickly become impressed with the captain. The soldiers respected and trusted him, the staff were implicitly obedient to his every direction and there was yet a question asked about Til-Thorin that Joram didn’t have the answer to. Though the loss of the Keeps steward was a devastating blow, King Robert was pleased to have such a man as Joram in his stead.

“Then our total soldier count is?” he asked, yawning again.

“78 men, sire,” answered Joram, still staring at his notes, “but we have at least 200 reserves from Woodside.”

“Not nearly enough to endure a siege campaign,” sighed the King, “but it’s a start.”

“If what you say is true, sire, we won’t be able to call upon the villages to the south. There are scattered farms, small communities and Eberfalls, of course, where men might be found. Sangil and Dunhill may take a week by horseback.” Captain Joram set his mug down upon the table and slowly leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his tired eyes and arched his back with a grunt.

A few of the servants stood in the corner, quietly whispering among themselves in conversation—the guards stood dutifully at attention by the main door. It made Joram smile as he looked about the hall. He had been stationed at Til-Thorin long enough to know the heart of the people behind its walls. People with a determination to build a life for themselves in the wild mountains, at the very edge of the kingdom.

“As bleak as this may seem, sire, we can and will defend this keep.”

The king lifted the pouch he’d placed upon the table and undid the flap. He reached in and pulled out his thin pipe, then lightly tapped it on the arm of his chair. A residue of ash fell to the floor. “I like your attitude captain,” he said. “Don’t misunderstand me—I don’t consider any of this bleak.” He took a pinch of tobacco from the pouch. He grinned to himself. “In fact, I look at this as a very intriguing challenge.”

“Sire?”

The King pressed the bourbon soaked tobacco firmly into the pipe with his thumb, then took the burning candle in front of him and held it over the pipe—careful to avoid the dripping wax. He puffed over and over again, the sweet smoke rolling out up from the corners of his mouth. Satisfied, he placed the candle back in its holder.

“Conflicts with Thule are more akin to a game of chess, then a contest of brute force. I have never known our enemy to be single minded, which makes him exceptionally dangerous. Our challenge, Capt., is to outlast the enemy until reinforcements come. The more men we can acquire, the better—even if they are not seasoned soldiers.”

Joram’s face contorted in confusion. “With all due respect, sire, I don’t see how adding more villagers to our numbers will necessarily improve our situation. Without seasoned soldiers, it would be a slaughter.”

“Only if they are able to breach the enchantments of our walls, captain. We drove Thule back in a previous skirmish two generations ago, though we nearly lost. When we refortified the Keep, mägo were employed to enchant these walls. Enchantments to provide an unfair advantage over our enemies. Which is precisely what we will have, even if it’s manned by farmers,” the King smiled. “Your son was sent to the capital, specifically to deliver my orders for the Royal Army. To return for battle, collecting further agents along the way. Once that letter has been placed in the hands of Lord Modrid, he will make haste and sending reinforcements by horseback.”

Joram stared at the King, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Lord Modrid?”

The King puffed again on his pipe, “He is my most trusted advisor and will not rest until we receive aid to our plight.”

Joram swallowed uncomfortably, his throat dry and scratchy. “Forgive me, sire, but are you unaware that it is Lydric, son of Modrid, that has command of the capital?”

The King coughed, abruptly sitting upright. “What? Why would his son stand in his place, when I assigned him as Steward personally?”

Jordan looked pale, the corners of his mouth turning down, his eyebrows arching upward in sympathy. “I am sorry, my King, but Modrid was murdered…nearly two seasons ago.”

It was as if the weight of the world had suddenly been dropped upon the King’s chest and shoulders. It was a weight that he had shared with those few whom he trusted. Those whom he could rely on to do their duty. None was greater than Modrid.

The King’s pipe slipped from his fingers. His eyes glazed over as the pipe hit the arm of his chair, and bounced to the ground.

“I am…sorry, sire.”

King Robert sat forward and leaned heavily upon the table. His huge hands scraping rough and calloused fingers across the surface of the wood. He blinked hard several times, then cleared his throat. “Do you know the details?” he asked.

“Only what I was told, sire. Not a first account. So I cannot say that my rendition would be accu—”

The King raised his head, nostrils flaring. His steel blue eyes looked forcefully at the captain, “Tell me.”

Joram realized that this was going to take far more than cider to give him strength. He reached across the table and grabbed the wine pitcher. With the other hand he snatched up his mug, lifted it to his lips and drained the contents. The pitcher followed in suit and filled it with the dark red liquid.

“If the tales are true, sire, you have been gone for, what? Three seasons? Four?”

The Kings stared at him cooly, “That is correct.”

Joram nodded, “The land erupted with complaints close after your departure. When you left, sire, for whatever reason—the Lords took advantage of your absence. The taxation of the people spread out of control almost immediately. Road taxes, travel fees, and exchange fees on all transactions of goods and services, whether bought, sold or gifted.”

A deep frown cut wedges into the Kings expression.

“Without direct intervention, the Lords made it nearly impossible for farmers and even tradesmen to sustain themselves. Yet during this time, Lord Modrid, stood in his position as Head Steward over the kingdom. This was, I am told, not a welcome predicament for the Lords, because he fought them at every turn.”

Joram paused, averted his eyes and lifted the wine to his lips. He drank deeply. He set the mug upon the table. “Somewhere in the kingdom, whispers began. It was said…that you left the land to betray your own people.”

King Robert did not react. His chin and thick Beard sat upon his closed fist as he leaned on the arm of his chair. “Go on.”

Joram nodded, nervously. “These whispers spread across the land and an uproar was heard among the commoners. Even though the Lords took advantage of the people, you were blamed. This is when Lord Modrid began touring the countryside. He refused to hear such treacherous speech. He began speaking in your behalf, refuting accusations and meeting with leaders, face-to-face from village to village.”

Joram smiled, “I was fortunate enough to hear one of Modrid’s speeches myself, just before I was transferred here. He spoke in the village of Caiman.” His countenance lightened as he described the event. “It was w warm day and the streets were full. People came from all over the countryside to hear why their king had supposedly abandoned them. There wasn’t so much anger as there was worry and concern. The people wanted to know why they were being subjected to the insatiable appetites of the Lords. Modrid explained that you were working hard to re-establish the old alliances among the races.”

He looked to the King for some sign of validation. The King stared back stone faced.

“It was during one of these speeches, near the area of Whitewater, that the people turned upon Modrid. Farmers I am told. Men who would not be swayed by the truth, or kind words. It seems they wanted blood instead of promises or assurances.”

King Robert scowled. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, squeezing tightly until the wood creaked. “Farmers? Modrid was the son of a farmer—one of the people!” He winced at the thought of his friend harmed by the very people the Steward had faithfully served all his life, “I raised him in my own house, because he LOVED the people!”

“I am told, sire,” Jordan continued, his tone dropping, “that the Royal guard did all they could to protect Modrid. He had given the speech from his carriage. When the mob attacked, the guards defended him and ordered the coach to flee. Several men apparently followed or got aboard the coach as it fled… and attacked the Steward and his son.”

The King looked at the captain gravely.

“Lydric was wounded. Stabbed in the leg, and only a miracle prevented the doctors from having to remove the limb, it was so badly damaged. Modrid defended his son, fighting alongside the coachman against the foes. When the Royal guard found the coach, it had been overturned. Lydric was severely injured and Lord Modrid’s body was found against a nearby tree.” Joram looked at King Robert and swallowed dryly. “He had been stabbed multiple times in the chest.”

King Robert’s face dropped into his hands.

“During Modrid’s funeral, several of the Lords openly challenged for the Right of Stewardship in your absence.”

The King sat upright, his eyes red. “Then who is it that holds the title of Steward?”

Joram smiled, “Lydric, sire.”

It took a few moments before the King realized what had happened. Then he, too, smiled. “He knew the law. He challenged the Lords.”

Joram nodded, “He did. That young man, even while healing from a mortal wound, continued to travel the countryside. He refused to cower to mobs or threats and has continued his father’s work, to uphold the kingdom…and to defend his King.”

****

The morning had been long—but it had also been production and hopeful.

Though they were farmers, Lady Tamorah was impressed with the natural skill many had with the bow. With shorter growing seasons, it required these men to acquire food from the forest. The skills they developed with the bow would translate to a stronger defense for Til-Thorin. All morning long she had tested the locals, narrowing down the best candidates to train herself, while the rest would be instructed by her Rook. Strategic placing of talent upon the inner and outer curtain walls of Til-Thorin would make a considerable difference.

The lines stood at attention, waiting to be given permission to retrieve their arrows. Tamorah was finding it increasingly difficult to pay attention. She stared up at the clouds slowly moving across the sky—a cooper hawk streaking overhead. Tamorah’s cousin, Sindre, had not returned and was long overdue. He’d accompanied the young messenger Captain Josiah had sent off to the capital…and it troubled her that the Evolu had not returned. Sindre was under command to report back as soon as they had reached the valley opening. The young Evolu was head strong, but always obedient.

“My Lady?” asked the farmer nearest her.

“What?” she asked, then realized everyone was staring at her expectantly, “…oh,” she straightened her posture, “retrieve your arrows, men. Well done. Well done.”

Less than a hundred yards away, King Robert conducted drills with the townsmen using spears and swords. He watched the elf maiden intensely. He too was worried, but not for the same reasons.

He handed over command of the drills to Lord Joram and he walked across the open field.

“Tam?” he called spoke softly in his familiar tone.

Her face was a blatant painting of concern.

“He’s fine,” he assured her, “and most likely escorted the boy to Kilendell, to ensure his safety.”

“You don’t believe that anymore than I do, Robert.”

He shook his head softly, “No, I don’t.” He sighed, “The scout party I sent out hasn’t returned either, which doesn’t bode well for the rest of us.”

Tam gripped the bow in her hands tightly, as if ringing an animal’s neck, “Even if Josiah was at the capital by now, it would be a fortnight before reinforcements could be here. It will still be several days before he gets to Andilain—even at full gallop.”

“I know.”

They both looked across the field and watched the efforts of the men. Individuals trained to raise crops, not swing swords or fight battles.

Reaching out, she squeezed his forearm, “Please tell me you have a plan in that brilliant mind of yours.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Chuck, who sat quietly under the tree line, looking over a scroll.

“Working on it.”