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“Reliable as
always. Have you anything to add to the proceedings?”
    Always the same. “Nothing, Archmage. If there is nothing else, I have other business to which I
must attend.”
    Archmage Vilkan’s face twisted
into a scowl. “Yes, of course. There is nothing further today, then. I may have
something for you tomorrow.” He gestured for the guards to dispose of Alik.
    Gisella wasted no time exiting
the court. When she was beyond the chamber doors, she removed her helmet and
tucked it under her arm. She rested her spear in the crook of the same arm as
she loosened her hair, allowing her golden tresses freedom to fall around her
shoulders. A fellow slayer, Grímar Blackthorne eyed her, fingering the moon
pendant around his neck.
    “Always a pleasure to see the
Golden Slayer release her treasured locks.”
    Grímar, Gisella, and Archmage
Vilkan were all Watchfolk: hardy people from the frozen lands beyond the Iron
Gate Mountains to the south of Muncifer, which comprised the Four Watches.
Gisella considered Grímar a friend and comrade, however, unlike Archmage
Vilkan.
    “Vilkan was in a poor state of
mind today. Your doing?” She took up her spear and continued her walk. Grímar
fell in step beside her. They crossed the courtyard toward a small,
half-timbered building. Smoke drifted up from its dual chimneys. The Blood Oak
stretched its bare arms across the courtyard, winter having stolen its leaves.
Soon, it would be alive with new foliage, shading the courtyard with its
building-spanning canopy.
    “I had nothing to do with it.”
    She bumped into him as they
walked. “I find that hard to believe.”
    They turned into the compound’s
tavern. After ordering tankards of mead from the barman, they found an
unoccupied long table. Grímar smacked his lips after a long draft and seated
himself. “There are dark rumors flying. Have you heard?”
    There were always rumors. They
were always dark. They always portended doom and destruction. Folk in Muncifer
seemed to have little to gossip about except the Court of Wizardry and their
superstitions.
    “I try to pay them little mind.
What is it this time? An army of giants about to descend from the mountains to
pillage Muncifer? A dragon, perhaps? Like the one spotted up north near, where
was it? Ironslag?”
    “Ironkrag.” Grímar laughed. “No,
though I have heard the one about the giants. Unrest in the cemeteries up
north. Mad Magda says a shadow reaches from the mountains to Vlorey, the shadow
of the Lich Queen’s withered old hand.”
    Gisella stopped, mead sloshing
against her lips. She peered over the rim of her tankard at Grímar. He
continued, heedless of her reaction. “Can you imagine? The Lich Queen? Again?
These folks are as cracked as the land around here.”
    History told of the Lich Queen’s
ultimate defeat decades ago, and of the Witch Queen’s defeat a decade or more
before that, even. The Witch Queen died, and from her tomb arose the Lich Queen.
She was utterly destroyed, and from her ashes, nothing could rise. Or so the
stories said. Gisella knew better than to trust stories, no matter how popular
they were, when it came to the affairs of wizards.
    She set down her tankard. “A new
world tree in the Dragon Spine Mountains. More different types of fae folk
emerging into the world, dragons, too. The healing of the world has well and
truly begun. I could believe almost anything.”
    Grímar waved over a servant and
ordered a plate of sausages. “But the Lich Queen? Again? How many times must
someone die before they’re truly dead?”
    Gisella picked up her tankard and
drained the sweet mead before replying, “Some people don’t have the sense to
stay dead, you know.”
     
    * * *
     
    After a day and a half of bouncing
along on a hard wooden bench at the mercy of Edric’s driving, Delilah decided
she’d walk all the way to Muncifer if need be. She feared her backside might
never be the same again and winced as the wagon bounced and dropped as