“Consider the offer well, before you laugh me to scorn,” Borenson said. Now it was time to put the Wolf Lord on the rack. Borenson said confidently, “Lord Orden captured forty thousand forcibles in Longmot, and for the past two days, he has had half a dozen facilitators putting them to good use. Perhaps to a man as rich as you, the loss of forty thousand forcibles seems a small thing—but my lord will not up his offer of ransom for the King and the royal family. Of what use to him are such people, when they only serve you as Dedicates? A hundred forcibles for each, nothing more!”

Borenson watched Raj Ahten’s counselors tremble at the news, felt deeply gratified, though Raj Ahten himself stood stoically, the blood slowly draining from his face.

“You lie,” Raj Ahten said, betraying no fear. “You do not have the Prince. You have no forcibles. And there is no spy. I know what your game is, messenger, and I am not dismayed by your ruse. You . . . merely annoy me.”

By use of the Voice, Raj Ahten sought to bolster his troops. But the damage had already been done. Compared to the harrowing message Borenson had delivered, Raj Ahten’s denial sounded hollow, thrown up vainly as a last defense.

And yet, and yet Borenson feared that Raj Ahten did see through him. He felt a nagging worry.

Borenson spurred his horse forward, out over the burned grass before the castle. Here and there, small puffs of smoke still boiled up from the ground. When he felt safely out of bow range, he wheeled about.

“Raj Ahten,” he cried, “my lord begs you to meet him at Longmot if you dare. Bring with you any fool who wishes to die—your five thousand against his fifty! There, he swears, he will grant no quarter, and he will whip you like the vicious cur that you are!”

He raised his arm in signal, and out across the hills, his men began to blow their war horns in the woods, the short staccato blasts that commanded each squadron to re-form.

King Orden had sent two hundred horns on this expedition, for he had planned to have his men sound them in the hills when his son had secured Iome’s hand.

Yet in time of war, such horns were issued only to each captain of a hundred. Raj Ahten would know this, and Borenson only hoped that the Wolf Lord’s ears were keen enough to discern the number of horns.

It would be well if Raj Ahten believed that Borenson’s eighty surviving men were eight thousand.

19

SIFTING

Raj Ahten’s most devoted counselor Jureem watched through slitted eyes as his master stood atop the burned walls of Castle Sylvarresta while Borenson rode away. His master’s face glowed with beauty, seemed almost translucent. A face so bright, it was the light of the world. Raj Ahten seemed unperturbed by this dire news.