A light rain had fallen in the night and washed some of the bloody battlefield away. It did nothing for the smell. Aeolwyn had already issued orders to begin packing up the campsite. He wanted to be gone from this killing field before nightfall.

  There was one task to complete first. After issuing the death warrant for Count Wollams, Galafar had some men construct a makeshift platform with a freshly cut tree trunk to serve as a headsman’s block.

  It was crude and unnecessary, but Aeolwyn thought it was important to have the beheading follow all the important rituals. It made it seem more official that way. The last thing he needed was for his men to believe he unnecessarily killed a soldier.

  He’d had the men assembled, and he stood atop the platform beside Reiva and Galafar. Jor Bashi and Jor Egne were in the front row with instructions to quell any violence that may spring up once the charges were read, and the deed was done.

  As soon as the sun cracked the horizon, Galafar nodded to Aeolwyn’s page, who ran off to fetch the guard and prisoner. Shortly after that, a drummer began playing a morose drumbeat as the condemned made his way to the scaffold.

  The assembled soldiers made a path for him, none daring to look at the knight who had fallen from such a height. They knew what he had done, and what the cost had been. Many of these soldiers had seen their friends and companions killed because of Wollams’ attempt at glory.

  The drummer came first, followed by the count, who was dressed in his finest uniform. Some had argued that he should arrive naked, as he’d lost the right to honor when he put his own valor ahead of the lives of his fellow soldiers, but Aeolwyn overrode this decision. Wollams was a count and a knight, and no matter what he did, he still had the right to be killed with dignity. Otherwise, they could have just run him through and dumped him into a ditch.

  Behind Wollams were the men who’d been assigned to guard him. None of them had been particularly pleased with the assignment, but they had carried it out as best they could, though Wollams bore several bruises and a swollen eye socket from a few misguided blows.

  Wollams kept his head down as he mounted the poorly made steps to the top of the platform. He gave Aeolwyn a murderous look. The count might have strangled him if his hands weren’t still in chains.

  “You’re a coward, boy,” he said.

  That was a strange thing to say. The count had chastised Aeolwyn frequently when he’d shown mercy or made a judgement that wasn’t the tactical decision but was still the right thing to do. Now he was doing something he didn’t want to do, yet the count was still upset about it.

  “I wish I could spare you,” Aeolwyn said softly. “But after consistently disobeying my orders, you’ve lost my trust. This is the hard decision that you’ve always told me to make.” He turned to Galafar. “Read the charges,” he said.

  Galafar made a show of unfurling the papers he’d been holding. “Count Vlohim Wollams, you have been charged and found guilty of insubordination, cowardice, and dereliction of duty in the face of the enemy. The punishment decreed is death by beheading, to be carried out immediately. Have you any final words?”

  Wollams spit in Aeolwyn’s face. That was another crime punishable by death. But, considering the situation, Aeolwyn chose to let it go.

  “There’s my final words,” Wollams said.

  The two guards that mounted the scaffold with Wollams turned him and forced him to kneel over the block as Aeolwyn drew Woebringer. He felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach. Wollams was a good knight and powerful warrior—two things he couldn’t afford to lose. But the man had cost Aeolwyn his entire knight corps and almost the battle, and now had to pay for it.

  “What is going on here?” A voice shouted from the crowd.

  A murmur ran through as the men turned and looked around at each other. Someone began forcing their way through the assemblage to make their way to the front. Aeolwyn squinted to see who it was, squeezing his sword tightly.

  An older man broke through the ground. His dark hair had lost a battle to the grey, but he still looked as strong as an ox, and twice as thick. His beard partially hid his face, but Aeolwyn would recognize that man anywhere.

  “Sir Jom!” he said. Of all times to appear, he had to come now, when Aeolwyn was about to cut the head off of one of Camulan’s most famous knights. He decided that was a good omen. If anyone could give him advice on whether executing Wollams was the right thing to do, it was his old mentor.

  “Come,” Aeolwyn said, motioning for Jom to mount the scaffolding. “I will explain.”

  “Talk some sense into your failed student, Jom,” Wollams spat out. One of the guards smacked him hard on the back of the head, and the knight quieted down as Jom leaped up the steps.

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  He looked ready to embrace Aeolwyn but looked around and stopped short of it.

  “What is going on here, son?” he asked softly. “Why is Count Wollams on a headsman’s block?”

  Aeolwyn pulled Sir Jom to the back of the platform. “I need your advice,” he said. “Count Wollams disobeyed my orders in the battle and lost all the knights I had left when he charged a line of pikemen.

  “It’s not the first time he’s ignored my orders, and I’ve lost all trust in him. I can’t keep him in chains, and I can’t let him go—he knows too much. The only recourse I can see is a quick death. I just…” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “You’re second guessing your decision because it’s one of your own men.”

  “Yes,” Aeolwyn agreed. “And a knight and nobleman besides.”

  “Aeolwyn,” Sir Jom started. “Your Highness.” He paused again. “General. It’s not my place to second guess your decisions. Especially one you’re so close to carrying out. But if it were me? Now that your men are here, assembled. I would do it without hesitation. If they think you’re unsure of your orders, then they will be too, in times where it matters the most.”

  He was right. He couldn’t afford to have his men lose confidence in him any more than he could afford any treachery on the part of Count Wollams. He turned towards the prisoner, but Sir Jom stopped him.

  “You’re a general, Aeolwyn. Not an executioner.”

  Aeolwyn didn’t understand at first. Sir Jom always told him that a general needed the men to believe that he was willing to do anything he ordered them to do. He assumed that included carrying out an execution of a condemned man.

  But he realized that the others might think differently. He was their general and being the one to order and then carry out the execution might make them think he was just pursuing a vendetta against the count for his insubordination.

  He sheathed his sword. “Lord Galafar,” he called out. “Carry out the sentence.”

  Galafar nodded and gestured to one of the guards that held the count. The man, whose name Aeolwyn couldn’t remember drew his own sword. As the other guard tried to force Wollams’ head over the block, the count shook off the man’s grasp. Then he slowly stretched his neck out and placed it on the block himself.

  A second later and it was all over. The guard swung the sword, and Count Wollam’s head tumbled from his neck to lay on the scaffold, his eyes still open and staring menacingly at Aeolwyn. The count’s mouth moved a few times as though he were trying to say some final words and then stopped.

  “Pack up the camp,” Aeolwyn shouted. “I want to be back on the road to Castle Fenn in two hours!” He grabbed Sir Jom’s arm. “Come. I have questions for you.”

  He led Sir Jom down the scaffold, past a few rows of tents and into his own tent. Two of his personal guard were still on duty and saluted him as he entered.

  “With all due respect, Your Highness,” Jom started as soon as the tent flaps closed behind them, “What the hell are you doing halfway across Fennland? You’re going to start a war!”

  “They’re the ones who started the war!” Aeolwyn protested. “They took my home. Fort Camulan is too strong a fort to take back now. So I’m going to take their capital.”

  Sir Jom shook his head before turning to the small table. He poured two cups of wine and handed one to Aeolwyn before slumping down into one of the chairs. The rickety seat squeaked loudly as it struggled to hold his weight.

  “You’ve always been too bold for your own good.”

  Aeolwyn took the seat next to him and drank deeply from the winecup. It was old and was beginning to taste like vinegar. He had wanted to pour it out, but an army on the march couldn’t afford to waste provisions, so he kept it.

  “Are you here to stay? I need your advice.”

  Sir Jom chuckled. “Is my head at stake? I just saw what happened to your last advisor.”

  Aeolwyn shook his head. “Please, Sir Jom. You’re the best military mind in the kingdom. I need it. There’s no way after this battle that the gates of Fenn Castle are going to be open to us, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to try to throw ourselves against its walls. That means a siege, in the middle of winter, and they have a massive lake they can use to resupply themselves. I still haven’t figured out how to block it.”

  “That’s quite a conundrum,” he said. “And not your only worry. If you’d waited until spring to invade, you wouldn’t have to worry about your own army freezing or starving to death.”

  “If I’d waited until spring, my army would still freeze and starve to death. Except they’d have done it on the Camulani side of the River Tyr.”

  Sir Jom set his cup down on the table and wiped his mouth. “True.”

  He stood and walked over to the larger table that had been set up beside his bed. Rolled out on it was a map of Fennland, focused on the area immediately surrounding Fenn Castle.

  “Fenn Castle isn’t as strong as Fort Camulan. Nor is it as big as Teorton. Shatham is the biggest Fennish city, and much better defended. It would have been a better place to rule from. But the Fennish kings love the beauty of their ancestral home.”

  Sir Jom quieted down as he poured over the map. The same one Aeolwyn studied every night. He wanted to be sure he knew every inch of the geography. If he were going to lay siege, he needed to know what regions might be trapped. Where escape tunnels might be placed. Where the castle got its water supply and sent its waste.

  And most importantly—where it stored its food. If he wanted to quicken the pace of the siege, he needed to torch their food supply. He didn’t like the idea of starving the residents of the city surrounding the castle, but he didn’t have a choice. They were the ones who would ultimately open the gates for him.

  “The lake is a double-edged sword,” Sir Jom continued. “It will certainly be their lifeline during a siege. But the weather on it is treacherous during the winter. The water gets cold enough to freeze a man solid, the wind howls, and the waves surge. Few sailors will willingly risk their ships, but those that do will be richer than the dreams of Azabar.”

  Jom tapped the area where the castle met the shore. “There will be docks here. And docks can be burned.”

  He’d considered that. “And rebuilt,” he added. “How many times can I sneak men onto the docks and destroy them? Eventually they’ll see it coming and send enough men to guard it.”

  Sir Jom nodded and gave Aeolwyn a wink. “Well seen, son. It’s too wide a waterway for chain or blockade. Let me think on it. Every stronghold can be cracked. You should go gather your men. Being this close to a battlefield is not good for morale. Especially after an execution of one of their own.”

  Sir Jom started out of the tent before stopping and sticking his head through the flap back at Aeolwyn. “By the way,” he said. “I’ll take the job, but I don’t come cheap.”

  Aeolwyn smiled broadly. That would do.