“No! Please!” Abban begged, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. “You swore! You swore by Everam’s light to catch me. I don’t want to die!”

“Better dead than khaffit!” Jardir growled.

“I don’t care if I’m khaffit!” Abban said. “Don’t let me fall! Please!”

Jardir snarled, disgusted, but he bent despite himself, lying flat on the wall and pulling hard on Abban’s arm. Abban kicked and strained, finally managing to crawl up Jardir’s back and onto the wall. He threw himself on Jardir, sobbing.

“Everam bless you,” Abban wept. “I owe my life to you.”

Jardir shoved him away. “You disgust me, coward,” he said. “Begone from my sight before I change my mind and throw you back.”

Abban’s eyes widened in shock, but he bowed and scurried away as fast as his lame leg would allow.

As Jardir watched him go, a fist connected hard with his kidney, sending him sprawling. Agony fired over him, but he opened himself to it, and the pain washed away as he turned to face his assaulter.

“You should have let him fall,” Qeran said. “You did him no favors this night. A dal’Sharum’s duty is to support his brothers in death as well as life.” His spittle splattered on Jardir’s shoulder. “No gruel for three days,” he said. “Now fetch my far-seer. Alagai’sharak does not wait for cowards and fools.”

ABBAN RETURNED WITH JAYAN and Asome some time later. They dragged with them a number of Northern chin and a single dama.

“This is Dama Rajin, of the Mehnding,” Jayan said, ushering the cleric forward. “It is he who ordered the silos burned.” He shoved the dama hard, and the man fell to his knees.

“How many?” Jardir asked.

“Three, before he could be stopped,” Jayan said, “but he would have kept on burning.”

“Losses?” Jardir looked to Abban.

“It will be some time before I know for sure, Shar’Dama Ka,” Abban said, “but it could be close to two hundred tons. Grain enough to feed thousands through the winter months.”

Jardir looked to the dama. “And what have you to say?”

“It is written in the Evejah’s treatise on war to burn the enemy’s stores, so they cannot make further war,” Dama Rajin said. “There remains grain enough to feed our people many times over.”

“Fool!” Jardir shouted, backhanding the man. There were gasps around the room. “I need to levy the Northerners, not starve and kill them! The true enemies are the alagai— something you have forgotten!”

He reached out and took hold of the dama’s white robe, tearing it from his body. “You are dama no more. You will burn your whites and wear tan in shame for the rest of your days.”

The man screamed as he was dragged out of the manse and cast into the snow. He would likely take his own life, if the other dama didn’t kill him first.

Jardir looked to Abban once more. “I want the losses and remainder totaled.”

“There may not be enough to feed everyone,” Abban warned.

Jardir nodded. “If there isn’t grain enough, have the chin too old to work or fight put to the spear until there is.”

The color left Abban’s face. “I will…find a way to make it stretch.”

Jardir smiled without humor. “I thought you might. Now, what of these chin you bring before me? I wanted leaders, but these men look like khaffit merchants.”

“Merchants rule the North, Deliverer,” Abban said.

“Disgusting,” Asome said.

“Nevertheless, it is so,” Abban said. “These are men who can help ease your conquest.”

“My father needs no…,” Jayan began, but Jardir silenced him with a wave. He gestured to the guards to bring the chin forward.

“Which of you leads the others?” Jardir asked, switching to the savage tongue of the North. The prisoners’ eyes widened, and the men looked at one another. Finally, one stepped forward, arching his back and holding his head high as he met Jardir’s eyes. He was bald, with a gray-shot beard, and was dressed in a soiled and torn silk robe. His face was blotched where he had been beaten, and his left arm was in a crude sling. He stood almost a foot shorter than Jardir, but still he had the look of a man who was accustomed to his words carrying weight.

“I am Edon the Seventh, duke of Fort Rizon and lord of its peoples,” the man said.

“Fort Rizon no longer exists,” Jardir said. “This land is known as Everam’s Bounty now, and it belongs to me.”

“The Core it does!” the duke growled.

“Do you know who I am, Duke Edon?” Jardir asked softly.

“The duke of Fort Krasia,” Duke Edon said. “Abban claims you are the Deliverer.”

“But you do not believe it is so,” Jardir said.

“The Deliverer will not bring murder, rape, and pillage with him,” Edon spat.

The warriors in the room tensed, expecting an outburst, but Jardir only nodded. “It comes as no surprise that the weak men of the North hold to a weak Deliverer,” he said. “But it is no matter. I do not ask for your belief, only your allegiance.”

The duke looked at him incredulously.

“If you prostrate before me and swear an oath to submit to Everam in all things, your life, and those of your councilors, will be spared,” Jardir said. “Your sons will be taken and trained as dal’Sharum, and they will be honored above all other Northern chin. Your wealth and property will be returned to you, minus a tithe of fealty. All this I offer to you in exchange for helping me to dominate the green lands.”

“And if I refuse?” the duke asked.

“Then all you possessed belongs to me,” Jardir said. “You will watch as your sons are put to the spear and my men impregnate your wives and daughters, and you will spend the rest of your days in rags, eating shit and drinking piss until someone pities you enough to kill you.”

And so Edon VII, duke of Fort Rizon and lord of its peoples, became the first Northern duke to kneel and put his head to the floor before Ahmann Jardir.

Jardir sat on his throne as Abban again brought a group of chin before him. It was a bitter irony that the fat khaffit should be the most indispensable member of his court, but so few of Jardir’s men spoke the Northern tongue. Some of the other khaffit merchants spoke a smattering, but only Abban and Jardir’s inner council were truly fluent. And of those, only Abban would rather talk to the chin than kill them.

Like all the prisoners Abban found, these were starved and beaten, clad in filthy rags against the cold. “More khaffit merchant lords?” Jardir asked.

Abban shook his head. “No, Deliverer. These men are Warders.”

Jardir’s eyes widened, and he sat up quickly in his seat. “Why have they been so ill treated?” he demanded.

“Because in the North, warding is considered a craft, like milling or carpentry,” Abban said. “The dal’Sharum who sacked the city could not tell them from the rest of the chin, and many were killed, or fled with the tools of their profession.”

Jardir cursed softly. In Krasia, Warders were considered the elite of the warrior caste, and it was written in the Evejah that they be accorded all honor. Even Northern ones had value, if Sharak Ka was to be won.

He turned to the men, shifting smoothly to their tongue and bowing. “You have my apologies for your treatment. You will be fed and clad in fine robes, your lands and women returned to you. Had we known you were Warders, you would have been honored as your station deserves.”

“You killed my son,” one of the men choked. “Raped my wife and daughter; burned my house. And now you apologize?” He spat at Jardir, striking him on the cheek.

The guards at the door gave a shout and lowered their spears, but Jardir waved them off, wiping the spittle from his cheek calmly.

“I will pay a death price for your son,” he said, “and recompense you others for your losses as well.” He strode up to the anguished man, towering over him. “But I warn you, do not test my mercy further.” He signaled the guards, and the men were escorted out.