"We press the walls tomorrow," he promised one group of young soldiers, who stared up at him in awe. "We'll be home through the Galenas in a matter of days."

Their eager and grateful responses followed Olwen as he moved on to the next group, dragging a second, far thinner and more graceful figure in his wake.

Riordan Parnell was usually charged with maintaining morale. Often in the calm before battle, the bard would entertain with stirring tales of heroic deeds and darkness shattered. But his planned performance had been sidetracked by the overwhelming presence of his ranger friend.

He caught up to Olwen before the ranger reached the next group in line, and even dared tug on the man's sleeve to halt him, or slow him at least. That brought a warning glare, Olwen locking his bright eyes on Riordan's grasping hand then slowly lifting his gaze to meet that of the bard.

"We have much yet to learn," Riordan said as he gently pulled away.

"I've not the time or the desire to read the history of King Artemis."

"It is all vague."

"They're for taking King Gareth's hard-won land," said Olwen. "They locked themselves in a castle, and we'll knock that castle down. I see nothing vague here. But don't you worry, bard. I'll give you a song or two to write." As he made the promise, Olwen brought his war axe over his shoulder and held it firmly before him. With a nod, the ranger turned to go.

But Riordan caught him again by the sleeve. "Olwen," he said.

The ranger cocked his head to consider the man.

"We do not know all of the details of Mariabronne's death," said Riordan.

Olwen's expression hardened. "Why are you bringing Mariabronne into this?"

"Because he fell in that castle, and you know that well. Nothing you do in there tomorrow will change that sad reality."

Olwen turned to face Riordan squarely, his muscular chest puffed out. He slipped the axe down at the end of one arm, but the movement did little to diminish his imposing posture. "I march to King Gareth's call, and not that of a ghost," he said, "to defeat a pretender named Artemis Entreri."

"Emelyn has been inside the castle," said Riordan. "And I have spoken with Arrayan and Olgerkhan of Palishchuk, and with Wingham. All of the indications and all of the stories—consistent tales, one and all—do not indicate treachery, but misjudgment, in the death of Mariabronne the Rover. We believe that he was felled by a monster's blow, and not due in any way to the actions, or even the inactions, of Artemis Entreri or the drow Jarlaxle."

"And of course, it wouldn't be the way of a dark elf to create any mischief."

It was hard for Riordan to hold his stance against that simple logic.

"Nor for the Witch-King," the bard finally managed to counter. "From all that we have learned, Mariabronne was slain by the enduring and dastardly legacy of Zhengyi."

"Speak not that name!" Olwen ground his teeth and the considerable muscles on his arms twisted as he rolled tight the fingers of his hands, one fist clenched on his right, the knuckles of his other hand whitening as they clamped on the axe handle.

Riordan offered a sympathetic look, but Olwen scowled all the more.

"And it might be that the dastardly and enduring legacy of Zhengyi is now in the hands of King Artemis," Olwen said and he brought his axe up before him to catch it again in both hands. He pulled it back a bit and slapped it hard into his right mitt for effect. "I've grown weary of that legacy."

As much as he wanted to argue that point, Riordan Parnell found himself without an answer. Olwen nodded gruffly and spun away, then launched into another rousing cheer as he approached the next group of soldiers in line, all of whom lifted their flagons to the legendary ranger and shouted out in unison, "For Mariabronne the Rover!"

Riordan watched his friend for a moment, but sensed the approach of another and turned to greet his cousin, Celedon Kierney.

"It is a cheer that will rush us to bloodshed," Celedon remarked. "Olwen will be in no mood for delay when we reach this Castle D'aerthe on the morrow."

"I cannot imagine his pain," said Riordan. "To lose a man who was as a son to him."

"I wish Gareth had bid him stay in Damara," Celedon replied. "He is as fine a warrior as I have ever known, but he is in no humor for this."

"You fear his judgment?"

"As I would fear yours, or my own, if I had just lost a son. And Mariabronne was exactly that to Olwen. When word reached his ears, he cast about like a lion on the rampage, so the story claims. He went to the druids of Olean's Grove outside of Kinnery and bade them to reveal the tale in full, and even, it is rumored, to inquire about the possibilities of reincarnation."

Riordan blanched, but was not really surprised. "And he was refused, of course."

"I do not know," said Celedon, "but I trust that the Great Druid of Olean's would not entertain such a notion."

"So he will assuage his pain with his axe instead," said the bard. "I hope that King Artemis has not grown too fond of his title."

"Or his head."

The next morning, Entreri and Jarlaxle stood on the southern wall of Castle D'aerthe, near the western tower that flanked the castle's main, south-facing gate. Behind and below them in the courtyard that had once teemed with undead monsters that had risen against their initial incursion into the castle, three hundred goblins and kobolds shifted nervously. None dared speak out, for around them stood merciless dark elf guards bearing long canes and drow priests with their trademark whips, the heads of which were living, biting snakes. Any kobold or goblin who shuffled too far out of line felt the sting of those bites, then squirmed and writhed in horrible, screaming agony on the ground before sweet death finally took it.

Entreri and Jarlaxle hardly paid any attention to the spectacle behind them, however, for before them came the Army of Bloodstone. The main infantry marched in tight ranks in the center, flanked by heavy cavalry to either side and with batteries of longbowmen grouped behind the front ranks. The many pennants of Damara, of the Church of Ilmater, and of King Gareth waved in the brisk morning breeze, and the cadence played out on the shields of the warriors, as they had drummed when leaving the Vaasan Gate less than a tenday earlier.

A mere fifty yards out from the castle, the procession stopped, and with remarkable precision, they moved into their defensive formations. Shields turned crisply and the front ranks fanned left and right, streaming in thin lines, then thickening again into defensive squares. Wizards danced about as if they were jesters in a court procession, waving their arms and enacting all sorts of wards and shields to deflect and defeat any incoming evocative magic. Just inside the infantry square, the archers formed their ranks, every bow with arrow ready. As the center of the line fully separated, the companions on the wall were treated to a view of the king himself, all splendid in his shining silver armor, and flanked by his powerful friends.

"Do you think they have come for a banquet in my honor?" Entreri asked.

"That would be my guess. Friar Dugald is dressed in finery, you see, and of course, the king shines as if the sun itself has settled upon him."

"And yet that one," said Entreri, nodding to indicate the man standing to Gareth's right, "seems ill-dressed for anything other than the ruts of a cattle trail."

"Master Kane," Jarlaxle agreed. "He truly is an embarrassment. One would think that the King of Damara would find someone to infuse some fashion sense into that fool."

Entreri smirked, remembering all the days on the road with Jarlaxle, when his companion had set out fine shirts for him. He thought of the night when Jarlaxle had returned with a new belt and scabbard for Charon's Claw and Entreri's jeweled dagger. That belt was a magnificent black leather affair, and as fine in design as in appearance, for it held a pair of small throwing knives, fully concealed, within its back length.