The wind was strong in the pale hours of the morning. The sun had risen some time ago, but remained unseen behind a cloak of cold clouds, stained by the smoke from the city. Padric stood uncomfortably in the chariot, waiting as he had for several hours. Before him the impressive gates stood closed, the surrounding walls providing mute reinforcement. He did not know what Torcan was waiting for; by all reports the city had been taken before first light, the Middangearders treacherous assault a success. Now the entire Red Cap army stood marshaled at the southern gate, arrayed in a daunting horde, eager to enter their prize. Padric was surprised Black Pool still stood, as the Swinehelm was notorious for leaving nothing of his conquests but ashes. It crossed his mind that the Red Caps would burn the city once admitted; that it had been saved only because the human raiders valued plunder over fire. Once it was plucked clean, robbed of all it had to offer, they would throw the gates wide and let the goblins reduce it to cinders.

Svala stood shivering at his elbow. The raiment the captains had given her was richly made, but covered little, the skirts slit well passed the poor girl’s hips. Torcan wished to show off his newfound royalty, and for Svala, that granted little care for modesty. Or warmth. Padric had given her his cloak as soon as they both mounted the chariot, but the wind tugged cruelly at the black wool and Svala fought to keep it in place. She did not complain. As yet, Padric had not heard her speak since telling him her name.

He looked over and caught her eye, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile and was struck with how fine she looked. Arnheir’s women had worked her golden hair into fine plaits and braids, adorning it with ribbons and finely wrought silver combs. The wind had undone much of their labor, giving Svala a regal yet almost savage appearance which somehow suited her well. Padric watched as the wind plucked a ribbon of green and gold from the girl’s locks. He tried to catch it, but the wind was swifter and bore the ribbon aloft, tumbling it through the air. Padric marked its journey as it was carried high and away, finally drifting into a dell not far from the city walls where it was lost from sight.

Padric turned to the tramp of metal boots and found Torcan Swinehelm approaching with his personal guard. The Red Cap leader was clad in full armor, his metal bulk dwarfing the goblins surrounding him. He carried his heavy battle-axe and helmet, his head covered only by the blood colored cap that united his brotherhood of fanatics.

“Your Grace,” Torcan said as he stopped alongside the chariot. “Are you ready to reclaim the city that was once the seat of your forebears?”