Sir Robert Godley was at the top of the Blood Tower when Karak’s army arrived.

“Robert?” asked Daniel Coldmine, Robert’s most trusted companion. The lieutenant stood at the half-open door, his fingers still wrapped about the handle.

“I know,” Robert said, staring out the window at the reinforced doors of the walls surrounding the tower. Beyond were tents, caravans, and many, many armed men. His heavy hands lay flat across his desk. Between them were a bottle and an empty glass. “Send whoever is in charge up to me.”

Daniel hesitated.

“Sir, we still have the option to turn them away. The worst they can do is voice their complaint back at Mordeina. They can’t be mad enough to attack servants of the King and expect no retribution.”

“I said bring their leader to me,” Robert said, still refusing to turn around. “I will show no fear, not to the likes of them. Now go.”

Daniel bowed.

“I’ll return shortly.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Robert said to no one. He reached for the bottle, then pushed it away. He wasn’t drunk, but he was getting damn close. It was shameful enough using the liquor to bolster his courage. Confronting the priests shit-faced was an embarrassment he’d never let himself live down. He was better than that, and more importantly, he owed his men better than that.

It hadn’t taken long. Within two weeks of his bounty on the paladin Darius, he’d received message that an envoy from Mordeina would soon arrive to represent the Stronghold. Robert had put a death sentence on the head of one of their own. At the time, Daniel had warned him such an action would not go unnoticed, and he’d been right. As to how Karak’s children would respond, he could only guess, but seeing over five hundred private soldiers bearing the mark of the Lion surrounding his tower, Robert’s imagination didn’t need to work too hard.