Amilton ground his teeth together. His forces would prevail and Zachary would burn. He dreamed a hundred torments for his brother and how he would delight in his brother’s screams. Such thoughts warmed his belly as he and the rogue army, some five hundred soldiers, plodded along.

The isolated track would lead them to Sacor City with little notice. All they encountered along the way were killed so they would not spread the word and alert Zachary’s minions of their approach. So far, only a few hunters had perished, their bodies far behind, bristling with Mirwellian arrows.

Mounted warriors rode up front, followed by draft horses straining at their collars to haul siege engines and supplies. Infantry toiled through the churned earth at the very end. The plan was not so much to hold siege, but to create a show of force at the sleeping city. It was also a precaution should Mirwell’s man in Zachary’s court not have the gates open to welcome them as planned.

Amilton’s forces would ride right up to the castle gates, enter, and secure it.Then Mirwell would bring him his brother, dead or alive. If dead, he would bring Zachary’s head. The rightful king would then take his place on the throne.

Five hundred was not a great number of soldiers, but it was far more than the one hundred and fifty to two hundred garrisoned at the castle.

“You think of your throne, my prince?” the Mirwellian captain who rode with him asked.

“Just so,” Amilton said. He clasped the black stone that hung from his neck on a gold chain. It had been a gift, a great gift, from the Gray One. It was a gift of power. The Gray One said it would strengthen them both. The more he used it, the stronger they would become. “It will not be long before you address me as your king,” he told the captain.

The captain inclined his head. “With pleasure, Sire.”

The man was an ingrate, Amilton thought. Already he sought favor with the new king.

Two riders appeared down the track—a Mirwellian scout and someone mounted on a big battle horse. Amilton held his hand up to stay the army. The order was shouted down the length of the host. The captain rode forward to meet the scout as the thud of hoof, clack of armor, and grind of wagon wheels drew to a halt. Quiet settled over the army, interspersed by the shift of horses, ring of harness, and the occasional cough.

The captain rode back at a canter and halted before the prince. “The scout has found someone, my lord,” he said.

“Why isn’t he dead?”

“She says she knows you. She rides a battle horse branded with the mark of the Talon company.”

Amilton raised his brow. “Interesting.” Mirwell had hired a squad of Talon mercs to supplement the infantry. Perhaps this rider carried a message. “Bring her here.”

The captain rode back to the scout and the mystery woman. After a moment, they approached at a slow jog. When they were just two horse lengths away, the stranger swung off her horse and fell to her knees before the prince.

“My lord,” she said, keeping her face turned to the ground.

Amilton started in surprise. He dismounted and threw his reins to the captain. Placing his fingers beneath the woman’s chin, he tilted her face upward. Moonlight splayed across a swollen and off-center nose. Dried blood was crusted near her hairline though it looked as if she had tried to scrub it away. Her face was thin, but it was unmistakable.

“Jendara,” he whispered.

“Yes, my lord.”

He caressed her face, his fingers trailing against her sharp cheekbones. “I’ve missed you more than you know. What has happened? Where is Torne?”

“Dead. The Greenie, my lord. We had the Greenie, but there was more to her than we knew. . . . She escaped. We have failed you.”

He moved his hand as if to comb it through her lush hair, but instead he grabbed a handful and yanked her to her feet.

“Failed? Do you know what your failure may cost me?”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

He struck her hard across the face, and struck her again. His blows fell repeatedly, and blow after blow she stood mute, never crying out, never pleading for him to stop. She did not run away or resist. She simply accepted the pummeling, her body knocked this way and that from the blows. The smack of his fist against her face punctuated the relative quiet of the forest.

Amilton paused. She still stood, though barely, when such a beating would have rendered any ordinary woman or man unconscious. She wobbled from side to side as if she might drop at any moment, but never fell. Blood flowed freely from her nose and a split lip. The flesh around her eyes purpled and swelled.

Amilton wiped Jendara’s blood off his knuckles with a cloth handed to him by his squire.

Why this violence, he wondered, when he could test his gift from the Gray One? He shut his eyes and touched the cold stone. His thoughts delved into dark regions as the Gray One had instructed him. He searched, reached, and called upon the power of Kanmorhan Vane. It surged through him with a cold, sinuous tingle. When he opened his eyes, currents of black energy licked his hands.

He grasped Jendara’s shoulders and the energies bore into her. Jendara’s scream rang through the woods, and she dropped to her knees.

Amilton removed his hands from her and watched in fascination as the currents of energy crackled on his palms and around his fingers. He let the magic dissipate, then his hands fell to his sides.

“What now, my lord?” the captain asked. All blood had drained from his face.

“We go on.”

“But what if the Greenie has alerted the king? What if we march into a trap?”