High Syndic Boris Rockcutter entered the reception tent of the Crusade High Command scowling into his beard. They had stripped him of his axe—and even had the gall to reach for his dagger.

  Inside, the disrespect became clearer. He studied the massive greatsword Lady Leora Rakav of the Dragon-Blooded Knights had leaning against the table.

  “For the Motherland,” Boris muttered as he strode forward, studiously ignoring the valet. He seized a mug of wine and drained it in one go.

  The newly—by virtue of survival—promoted Archbishop Leman Mettig was in intense discussion with Prince Jackob Marholov, one of the five princes of the Free City of Marhold’s High Council.

  The mercenary lady tipped her wine glass toward Boris. “High Syndic, it is a pleasure to see you here among those who are truly loyal to the cause.”

  Boris swallowed the first three replies that came to mind, then settled on the last. “My kin are loyal to their home and homeland, not to some human religion.”

  He held out his mug, and the valet—swallowing nervously—refilled it. Might as well drain their wine. Still, I’d trade a cask of it for one honest pint of dwarf-brewed ale.

  The Archbishop, the prince, and the mercenary lady settled on the other side of the table. Nods were exchanged. Boris swallowed his anger and considered the situation.

  Interesting. Sun Banner and Seaguardians absent. But the Dragon-Blooded mercenaries are present. The Archbishop must be on the backfoot.

  He decided to poke at that wound. “So, Archbishop—how does your little peasant rebellion in the north fare?”

  The Archbishop stared, but it was the mercenary major who answered. “The so-called Ironroot Pact won’t last. Wildland peasants get soft with freedom. My men will thrash them until they beg for the honor of being taxed.”

  The Archbishop tisked but nodded. “I wouldn’t have expressed it quite so directly, yet Lady Rakav speaks true. Do you truly believe peasant rabble can match dragon-blooded mercenaries?”

  Boris studied Leora’s reptilian eyes. No. Those magically twisted monsters would slaughter peasants as they would slaughter any resistance to their fanatical leader’s will.

  He emptied another mug of the heavy wine and felt the warmth rising in his head. “So let’s cut the bullshit—”

  The Archbishop raised his hand, silencing him with a glare. “Let us discuss the state of affairs first, before we come to any hasty decisions. Words spoken in anger may be regretted later. The elven detachments are already being hunted down. Over three thousand ears were claimed this evening alone.”

  Major Leora laughed.

  “A shame we can’t know how many of the cannibals snuck into the Holy City.”

  Prince Jackob cleared his throat.

  “Ah, yes… yes. The Seaguardians will be pleased. The little enclave south of their city has been a great headache. Luckily, the elves never managed to claim a true fortress from the Greenskins.”

  Boris forced himself to listen. This is valuable information. Might be my allies end up on the chopping block too. Typical humans—always first at the table, last in the fight.

  The Archbishop looked between his companions, then back at Boris. “Considering the Order of the Invisible Hand, come morning, our troops will wipe them away.”

  “Good, good,” the Prince said. “Their dark magic has been a stain on our holy campaign for too long.”

  Boris barely suppressed a chuckle. You mean too necessary for too long, you hypocrite. I remember the battles only won because the dead bogged down our enemies. He shuddered, recalling the red waters of Sayaka crossing.

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  He braced himself. An alliance offer was coming. But what fools think any true dwarf would swear blood oaths with oathbreakers?

  The Order, the elves, the Olivists—his men had told him—were even now being harried by Sun Banner cavalry in the northwest, driven toward wood elf lands to act as a buffer protecting the Crusade. I must use them to restore the homeland.

  Boris slammed his fist onto the table hard enough to rattle cups. The tent fell silent as every head turned. “Enough. Keep your Conclave. The only covenant my people remember is the betrayal you signed in blood. We Disinherited only ever wanted one thing: the Holds returned. We want your alliance with the half-orc mutts northern expedition broken—” he jabbed a finger at Prince Jacob “—and we want you to return Waterhold.”

  The Archbishop smiled sweetly. “Saint Beric, you mean? Even if the city was conquered before the Greenskins stormed from the Old Mountains, it remains rightful human land.”

  The prince swallowed and smiled. “As per the Treaty of Capitulation signed after—”

  Boris cut him off with another slam. “I do not care for your little Treaty. I care about the betrayal leveled upon dwarvenkind—by your Church, by people who would so openly speak of treachery. That is what I care about.”

  Lady Leora Rakav inched toward her sword, then stopped, inclining her head slightly. “Careful, Syndic. Refuse us, and dwarven blood spilled for this crusade will vanish from the chronicles—as if your kind never fought at all.”

  The dwarf chuckled bitterly. “So this is a no, then? I suppose you’ll come crawling back when you need shock troops to fight the Broken Peak orcs holding the western shore, yes?”

  He shook his head. “We march for Saint Tomir North of the Great River. Better to leave now than let this farce stain my clan’s honor further.”

  He turned, but not before catching the questioning glance Leora threw at the Archbishop. Leman shook his head slightly. Good. They’ve at least accepted that demand.

  The High Syndic left, mind already racing with preparations for the march—a march two of his supposed allies would be denied this day by treachery. He spat on the ground before the guards as he reclaimed his great axe, then left with his honor guard in tow.

  A heavy silence settled on the last three occupants of the tent after the dwarf made his exit.

  Prince Jacob Marholov pursed his lips, considering the situation. He didn’t want to be here. Hesitantly, he reached out and took a careful sip from the heavy, sweet wine that had been honeyed at his instructions. His father needed to hear of this. The dwarves would be a problem. He thought of the refugees that had nearly tripled the size of the dwarven quarter. An even bigger problem.

  He studied his other two enemies—the ambitious mercenary and the young Archbishop. The Riverlands had always been a backwater, an afterthought between the Northern Imperium, the Southern Kingdoms, and the Holy Land, facing the northern wilds and being a land rich in nothing but swamps.

  The Archbishop spoke. “Prince Marholov, I have been made aware of your plans regarding Portgaard. I believe them most unwise.”

  The prince swallowed, then gestured toward the mercenary woman. “I do believe such a discussion would be best held in privacy among those of pure blood, would it not?”

  Lady Leora Rakav’s eyes flared with anger, but at a quick hand gesture from the Archbishop, she inclined her head, hefted her massive sword—so large no ordinary human could wield it—and left the tent, following the dwarf’s footsteps.

  The Archbishop drew breath to speak, but the prince smoothed his features into the mask of a shy young nobleman out of his depth. Court politics—this was the air he had breathed his entire life.

  “Bishop,” he said, spitting the lesser title like sour wine. The insult landed heavy between them.

  The Archbishop froze. The insult hung heavy in the air.

  Jackob pressed on, his smile thin and vicious. “The Free Cities are ascending. And the Church…” He let the pause sharpen. “Your little Olivist rebellion is getting out of hand. And after what happened with the Ironroot Pact? Quite the mystery how they suddenly acquired the arms and courage to rebel at such an inopportune moment. Even now, the streets of Northgard run with elf blood, and Olivist banners rise where your crusaders falter.”

  The Archbishop’s eyes widened. After several seconds, he remained silent.

  Jackob smiled wide. Got you, old man.

  He pressed on, returning to the dwarven situation. “A man of more experience might have brought them to our side. As for Portgaard—we do not claim to conquer it. But territory must be held by the loyal, mustn’t it? And we are in a position to take this key asset away from the enemy. So we will. After all, you are already secularizing the occupation by handing Northgard to the Dragon-Blooded, are you not?”

  Again, the Archbishop swallowed, struggling to regain his balance.

  Prince Jackob rose without so much as a bow. “Good evening… Bishop.”

  He left the insult hanging like smoke in the tent.

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