Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Gort cleared his throat. “We needed the coin.”
Shana didn’t say anything.
“It was going to be the last one,” Gort said.
“That’s what you said the last time. And the time before that.”
“This time, it would be,” I said.
The table went quiet.
Shana met my eyes, and suddenly I had the urge to back up with my hands in the air.
“What will happen at Falcon Point?” she asked.
I drank a bit more of my tea. My throat had gone dry. “Filderon is recruiting people for a short campaign to settle a land dispute between two nobles. He is offering generous rates with a third of the money up front on signing.”
“Strange,” Will said. “Last time getting money out of him was like pulling teeth.”
“What’s with this sudden generosity?” Lute said.
“It was last-minute, and the client who hired him was desperate,” Gort said.
“Filderon is lying,” I told them. “The client who hired him doesn’t want any of this to come back to them, which is why Filderon is requiring everyone to bring their own gear. The company can’t look like an organized fighting force. They must resemble bandits.”
The more I talked, the scarier Shana looked.
“The company will leave for Falcon Point in two days. Gort will suspect that something is off when Filderon refuses to fly any banners. By that point it will be too late. On paper, Falcon Point is owned by a minor noble. In reality, that minor noble is Dreantia Yolenta.”
Gort stopped patting his wife’s hand. Lute swallowed. Will’s face turned grim.
Dreantia was the head of the Yolenta Family. It was her barrel sitting on the tarp.
Attacking a fort owned by the head of a Great Family was writing your own death warrant. Especially attacking a fort that belonged to the Keepers of Iron. Their cavalry was the heaviest in Rellas. Their crest bore a hammer, both the symbol of their craft and a promise of their retribution.
“What happens next?” Shana asked, her voice flat.
“A day into the march, Filderon will send a scout to warn Falcon Point’s defenders that bandits are about to attack. The garrison will ask Dreantia for reinforcements. She will pull a company of knights from Kryss Britin, a town half a day’s ride from Falcon Point.”
The Magnars listened, food forgotten. To my right, Reynald’s expression had grown dark. A mercenary company, no matter how well trained and supplied, was no match for the Yolentas’ knights. Even if Dreantia didn’t dispatch her best, even if she sent her second, third, or fourth best, they would mow through the mercenaries like wild horses trampling a field of weeds.
“Filderon will throw the company against Falcon Point and clear off during the charge. Dreantia’s knights will arrive, crushing the mercenaries between themselves and the fort. Most of the company will die in the battle. Gort will survive, but he will be captured with a few others, convicted of banditry, and executed.”
Clover sucked in a sharp breath.
“His body will be thrown into a mass grave at the foot of the fort. I’m so sorry.”
The kitchen went as silent as a tomb.
“Well,” Shana said slowly. “We can’t have that.”
The brothers jumped to their feet at the same time.
“Sit down!” she snapped.
They sat.
“Why?” Shana asked me.
Now that was an excellent question.
I drank more tea. “Kryss Britin is a trade hub for Yolenta goods going north. The goods come off the ships and caravans, are given a quick inspection, and then are shipped to Kryss Britin, where they are inspected again and sent to their final destinations. That is where this barrel was headed.”
I nodded to Gort. “Time for your maul to shine.”
He looked at Will. “Do you want to do the honors? You’ve earned it.”
My hands shook. I hid them under the table.
Will got up, walked over to the barrel, grabbed the maul, and swung. The big war hammer smashed into the wood, right in the middle. The barrel creaked but held.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Hit it, don’t tap it,” Lute said. “It’s not an ale keg.”
Will made a face and swung again. Wood cracked like a gun shot. The barrel burst, spilling salt on the tarp amid shards and splinters. In the middle of the salt heap, five smooth gray ingots reflected the light.
Relief washed over me, so overwhelming I almost passed out. I was right. I was right, I was right, I was right. I hadn’t screwed up. I would do a victory dance, except if I tried to stand right now, I’d probably fall over.
Reynald rose and picked up an ingot. He hefted it in his hand, examined it, and placed it on the table. “Gray iron.”
There were many kinds of iron in Rellas. Hard iron was for tools because it was strong and durable. White iron was for the mages because it was soft and pliant and took enchantment well. Blue iron was for armor because it was light, resilient, and didn’t rust. Gray iron was for weapons. It was tough and flexible, and it held a sharp edge the longest.