Raj Ahten could not hope to live much beyond the biological age of a hundred and ten, nor could he survive without his endowments.

Only a few years back, Raj Ahten had made the unfortunate mistake of slaying some of his Dedicates, so that he could slow his own aging. But within a week, a Northern assassin had nearly slain the Wolf Lord. Since then, Raj Ahten had been forced to bear this lonely burden of high metabolism.

Three years. He needed to unite the world, to become the Sum of All Men within three years, or he’d die. One year to consolidate the North. Two to take the South. If Jureem’s master died, it might well be that the hope of all mankind would die with him. The reavers were that powerful.

“So we go to Longmot,” Raj Ahten said. “What of Orden’s army in the Dunnwood?”

“What army?” Jureem asked, certain from many small cues that there was no great threat. “Have you seen an army? I heard war horns blowing in the wood, but did I hear a thousand horses neighing? No! Orden’s mists were there only to hide his weakness.”

Jureem squinted up at his master. Jureem’s obesity, his bald head, made him look like an oaf, but Raj Ahten had long known that Jureem was every bit as dangerous as a cobra. Jureem found himself saying, “You have twenty legions approaching Longmot—an army Orden cannot withstand, not if you fight at our head. We must go and take Longmot.”

Raj Ahten nodded solemnly. Those forty thousand forcibles represented the labor of thousands of miners and craftsmen over the past three years. A large pocket of blood ore—now tapped dry. They were irreplaceable.

“Prepare the men to march,” Raj Ahten said. “We will empty Sylvarresta’s treasury, take what food we need from villages we pass. We leave in an hour.”

“My lord, what of the horses?” Feykaald asked. “We will need mounts.”

“Our soldiers have enough endowments; most need no mounts,” Raj Ahten said. “And common horses require food and rest, more than a man. My warriors shall run to Longmot. We will use what horses we can. We’ll empty Sylvarresta’s stables.”

A hundred and sixty miles by road. Jureem knew that Raj Ahten could walk that distance himself in a few hours, but most of his archers would not bear the burden of more than a single endowment of metabolism. Such soldiers could not run to Longmot in less than a day.

Raj Ahten would have to leave his nomen here. They would only slow the march. The giants and war dogs, though, could take such abuse.

“But,” Feykaald urged, “what of your Dedicates here? You have two thousand in the Dedicates’ Keep. We don’t have horses to move them, nor do we have enough guards to protect them.” His attention, too, had turned to logistics.