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square keep ringed by a wooden wall, an outpost named in honor of the Dux of the Northerland. 
    Now it was a prosperous town of four thousand people, fortified by a wall of stone. Ridmark saw the towers of a small keep within the town, alongside the twin bell towers of a stone church and the round tower of a Magistrius. Cultivated fields and pastures ringed the town on three sides, and the River Marcaine flowed south past its western wall, making its way through the wooded hills of the Northerland to the River Moradel in the south. 
    Ridmark’s father had always said there was good mining and logging to be had on the edges of the Northerland, if men were bold enough to live within reach of the orc tribes and dark creatures that lurked in the Wilderland.
    And in the shadow of the black mountain that rose behind Ridmark. 
    He walked for the town’s northern gate, swinging his staff in his left hand, his gray cloak hanging loose around him. When he had last stood in this valley, the slain orcs of Mhalek’s horde had carpeted the ground as far as he could see, the stench of blood and death filling his nostrils. It pleased him to see that something had grown here, a place of prosperity and plenty. 
    Perhaps no one would recognize him. 
    Freeholders and the freeholders’ sons toiled in the fields, breaking up the soil in preparation for the spring planting. The men cast him wary looks, looks that lingered long after he had passed. He could not blame them. A man wrapped in a gray cloak and hood, a wooden staff in his left hand and a bow slung over his shoulder, made for a dangerous-looking figure. 
    Especially since he kept his hood up. 
    But if he kept his hood up, they would not see the brand that marred the left side of his face.
    He came to Dun Licinia’s northern gate. The wall itself stood fifteen feet high, and two octagonal towers of thirty feet stood on either side of the gate itself. A pair of men-at-arms in chain mail stood at the gate, keeping watch on the road and the wooded hills ringing the valley. He recognized the colors upon their tabards. They belonged to Sir Joram Agramore, a knight Ridmark had known. They had been friends, once.
    Before Mhalek and his horde.
    “Hold,” said one of the men-at-arms, a middle-aged man with the hard-bitten look of a veteran. “State your business.”
    Ridmark met the man’s gaze. “I wish to enter the town, purchase supplies, and depart before sundown.”
    “Aye?” said the man-at-arms, eyes narrowing. “Sleep in the hills, do you?”
    “I do,” said Ridmark. “It’s comfortable, if you know how.” 
    “Who are you, then?” said the man-at-arms. He jerked his head at the other soldier, and the man disappeared into the gatehouse. “Robber? Outlaw?”
    “Perhaps I’m an anchorite,” said Ridmark.
    The man-at-arms snorted. “Holy hermits don’t carry weapons. They trust in the Dominus Christus to protect them from harm. You look like the sort to place his trust in steel.”
    He wasn’t wrong about that.
    Ridmark spread his arms. “Upon my oath, I simply wish to purchase supplies and leave without causing any harm. I will swear this upon the name of God and whatever saints you wish to invoke.” 
    Three more men-at-arms emerged from the gatehouse. 
    “What’s your name?” said the first man-at-arms.
    “Some call me the Gray Knight,” said Ridmark.
    The first man frowned, but the youngest of the men-at-arms stepped forward.
    “I’ve heard of you!” said the younger man. “When my mother journeyed south on pilgrimage to Tarlion, beastmen attacked her caravan. You drove them off! I…”
    “Hold,” said the first man, scowling. “Show your face. Honest men have no reason to hide their faces.”
    “Very well,” said Ridmark. He would not lie. Not even about this.
    He drew back his cowl, exposing the brand of the broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw.
    A ripple of surprise went through the men.
    “You’re…” said the first man. He