Chapter 1 - at the happy OrC tavern

Tarn Nohmal slipped deeper into his chair, pulling hiscloak tighter to protect himself from the draft blowing inthrough the poorly caulked window to his rear. His eyesscanned the room, observing the half-drunken priest arm

wrestling at the bar and the ve men dicing in the corner,

as well as the attractive young woman watching the mendice.

She’s one to keep an eye on

, he thought, noticing thatshe had the distinctive pouches of a magic user attached toher belt, as well the twin daggers at her hips.

The Happy Orc

wasn’t the nest inn in Traazon Keep,

but it wasn’t the worst, either. Not that were that many tochoose from, Tarn mused, in a border town like this one,and especially since the wars — both the dynastic strugglesback in the heartland and the orc raids from across theIshkar River. Those facts had driven large numbers of peasants to seek the protection offered by the garrisonof the keep, and swelled the dusty little military town’s

population, lling the inns of the town nearly to bursting.Actually, as he considered his situation, he realized he

was lucky to get a room at all. He mulled over the situationas he picked at the half-eaten stew in his bowl. Six months

ago, Galfrith, the King of the vast land known as Averim,

had died suddenly after being gored during a huntingexpedition. As he had been only twenty-one, and not yetmarried, he left no heirs.

At least no legitimate ones,

Tarnthought.As a result, the various barons and earls had fallenover themselves trying to put forth the best claim for the

throne. At rst, it had seemed as if Earl Tannismore, thedead King’s sole surviving uncle, would claim the throne.

An assassin’s poisoned arrow had ended that claim rather

quickly. However, no one had yet claimed responsibility

—nor had the assassin been caught. The dead King’s two

closest cousins then spent the next three months arguingabout which of them had the best claim —and denying thatthat they’d murdered their uncle. Neither of them had thepolitical acumen to run a hostelry, let alone a kingdom, sonone of the other nobles would follow them. The four MarchLords had even tried to set up a sort of “government bycommittee,” but none of the four trusted any of the othersany farther than they could throw them.All of which had brought about the current situation.

Earl Windmore, Lord of the Northern Marches and Lord

Protector of the capital of Averim City, the single mostpowerful of the four March Lords, had called in his banners

and started to march on the city of Klhangore, the capital

of the Southern Marches. His southern opposite, LadyAmorella, had called up her own banners to make her ownclaim for the throne. Three weeks ago the two armies hadmet at the river Maajal, a hundred leagues south of thecity of Averim. In a three-day battle, ten thousand men hadbeen killed.

The fools

All they’d done was kill a lot of soldiers for no gain.

Both armies had retreated, licking their wounds, each

noble calling on the other two Earls to join them. So far,neither of the them had joined up with either side —Earl

Proudmore of the west claiming that he couldn’t decide who had the better claim, but in reality waiting to back the

certain victor; and Earl Stoutheart of the east claiming to be

preoccupied with protecting the realm from the orcs.

Not that he seemed to be doing much about it.

Ever sincethe Battle of the Maajal, Earl Stoutheart had been pulling

his troops back from their patrols along the river Ishkarand sending them to his borders with the heartland March

Lords. Sensing an opportunity, the orcs, who constantlytested the human lands for signs of weakness, startedraiding into the kingdom in numbers not seen in a hundred years, thinning the already small population of the borderprovinces. Now, with orc clans running rampant, half of thepeople who remained seemed to be living here under the

protection of the Keep’s garrison.

Tarn chewed a piece of beef as he watched the prettyred-haired girl. He tried to guess her age, but couldn’tdecide if she was as young as he thought or if he was justgetting old. She seemed to be attempting to join the dicegame, but she spent more time fending off the drunkencattlemen gathered around the table. One of them leeredat her, and she smiled half-heartedly at him until he saidsomething Tarn couldn’t make out. More swiftly than hethought possible, she drew one of the daggers from her belt,placing it at the man’s throat. Her clear soprano voice rangout across the common room. “I suggest you rethink thatstatement, Lars.”

The cattleman called Lars froze, but his friends didn’t.

All four of them immediately stood up, the largest of them

exing his meaty hands as he reached for a large cudgel. A

long scar on his cheek twitched as the burly man muttered,“You don’t want to do that, girl.”

She turned to him, ashing him an ever-so-innocent

smile. “Do what? Slice this oaf’s useless head from his even

more useless body? Why wouldn’t I want to do that?” Shedrew the blade tighter to Lars’s neck, leaving a razor-thin

line of blood behind. The huge man behind the bar grabbed his own cudgelfrom a rack behind him. “Nyla, let him be. Lars was justkidding, weren’t you, Lars?”