“Liakopulos is dead. Probably murdered by the Itaskians. As for Michael, I don’t honestly believe he survived, either. But if he did he isn’t going to help us.”

Sherilee and Kristen glared. Haas thought that unfair. Such lovelies deserved to have nothing weightier than fashion on their minds.

Yet another way Kavelin distorted the natural order. Kavelin boasted strong women who made remarkable things happen.

…

Dane, Duke of Greyfells, want-to-be lord of Kavelin, paced before a fireplace. His newly acquired headquarters was large, old, and draughty. It overlooked Damhorst, a key town on the east-west trade route through Kavelin. The castle was the ancestral home of the Breitbarth barons. Claimants to that title had been eliminated.

Greyfells had taken the castle by stealth. He and his adventurers now enjoyed shelter, warmth, and security but seldom dared go out in bands of fewer than a dozen.

The locals were mainly Wesson, ethnic cousins of the Itaskians. Politically, though, they favored the line of King Bragi through his first wife.

Greyfells favored a succession through Ragnarson’s latest wife, his cousin Inger.

Dane of Greyfells was not happy. He had come to Kavelin expecting to put the kingdom in his pocket before winter. But winter was here, ferociously, and he was still far from Vorgreberg, hurrying the family decline toward destitution. His troops were melting away, mainly through desertion. Replacements, when he could find any, were untrained, unskilled, and belonged in cells rather than under arms.

His personal attendant announced, “Gales is here, Lordship.”

“About damned time. He was due yesterday.”

“He had trouble getting through. He’s wounded. So are those of his escort who survived.”

Though in a foul temper Greyfells did not yield to the unreason that, too often, left him unable to concede that events could, on occasion, disdain his wishes. He said only, “Clean him up, then bring him in.” He did not like dirty people. He loathed the sight of old blood.