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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 lifted his spear.
“What is your name?”
    “My name,” said Ridmark, “is Ridmark Arban.”
    The men-at-arms looked at each other, and Ridmark
rebuked himself. Coming here had been foolish. Better to have
purchased supplies from the outlying farms or a smaller village,
rather than coming to Dun Licinia.
    But he had not expected the town to grow so
large.
    “Ridmark Arban,” said the older man-at-arms. He
looked at one of the other men. “You. Go to the castle, and find
Sir Joram.” One of the men ran off, chain mail flashing in the
sunlight.
    “Are you arresting me?” said Ridmark. Perhaps it
would be better to simply leave.
    The first man opened his mouth again, closed it.
    “You think he made the friar disappear?” said the
younger man, the one who had mentioned his mother. “But he’s the
Gray Knight! They…”
    “The Gray Knight is a legend,” said the first man,
“and you, Sir…” He scowled and started over. “And you, Ridmark
Arban, should speak with Sir Joram. That is