But it was known that Raj Ahten sat in judgment on the kings he conquered before his wars were ever begun. He knew which he would butcher, which he would enslave, which he would make regents.

Iome’s heart pounded. Her father was an Oath-Bound Lord, a man of decency and honor. In her opinion, he was the most compassionate ruler in all the realms of Rofehavan.

And Raj Ahten was the blackest usurper to walk the earth in eight hundred years. He dealt with no king as an equal, considered the world his vassals. The two could not share the throne to Heredon.

Raj Ahten pulled the horseman’s warhammer from the sheath at his back. It was a long-handled thing, almost as tall as he.

He planted its crossbars in the cobblestones at his feet, then clasped his hands on its hilt, leaned his chin on one knuckle, and smiled playfully.

“We have things between us, you and I, Sylvarresta,” Raj Ahten said. “Differences of opinion.”

He nodded toward the street behind him. “Are these your men?”

The huge wain Iome had seen clanking across the fields now pulled up between the graystone shops. In the wagon were men—soldiers all, one could tell by their grim faces. As they neared the lantern, in horror Iome recognized some of them—Corporal Deliphon, Swordmaster Skallery. Faces she’d not seen in years.

Behind Iome, Chemoise gasped, cried out and ran forward. Her own father, Eremon Vottania Solette, lay in the very front of the wagon, a ruined man who did not blink. His back arched cruelly, and his hands clutched in useless fists. He grimaced in pain; all his muscles were stiff and unyielding as rigor mortis. Iome followed Chemoise a few steps, but dared not go nearer to Raj Ahten.

Yet even from thirty feet, she could smell the stink and dirt on the men. Many had eyes that stared vacantly, stupid. Some had jaws slack, from weariness. Each soldier had been drained of one of the “greater” endowments—wit, brawn, grace, metabolism, or stamina—and thus made harmless.

As Chemoise clutched her father to her breast and cried, Ault drew close with a flickering torch. In the wavering light, the faces in the wagon seemed pale and horrible.

“Most of those were once my men,” King Sylvarresta admitted warily. “But I released them from service. They are free soldiers, Knights Equitable. I am not their lord.”