As each little troop rode between the twin fires burning along the road before the castle gates, men on the walls would shout in triumph and blow their horns, calling “Hail Sir Freeman!” or “Hail Brave Barrows!”

Orden knew men’s devices, could name most knights by glancing at their shields. But one rider who came in near dawn both mystified and excited him.

Almost last to ride in that night was a huge fellow, big as a bear, riding a black, swaybacked donkey as fast as it would trot. He bore no coat of arms, only a round shield with a huge spike in it, and he wore a squat helm from which a single cow’s horn curled. He had no mail but a thick coat of pig’s hide, and his only weapon, beside the dagger on his belt, was a huge axe with an iron handle some six feet long, which rested across the pommel of his saddle. With him rode fifty men as grungy as himself—men with longbows and axes. Outlaws.

The knights on Longmot’s walls hesitated to name this warrior and his band, though they could not help but recognize him. Shostag the Axeman. For twenty years, Shostag and his outlaws had been a scourge to every Runelord along the Solace Mountains.

It was said that he was a Wolf Lord of the old school, that he’d taken many endowments from dogs. As Shostag neared the castle gates, King Orden watched the downs behind, him, saw the fleeting gray shadows of wolves race nervously through the starlight along the hedgerows, leaping stone fences.

Shostag stopped a hundred yards from the gates with his henchmen, among the last ruins of the burned city. Even in the near-total darkness, the firelight showed his face to be dirty and unshaven, his every manner vile. He spat in the ashes, looked up to the battlements, stared Orden in the eye.

Shostag asked, “I saw your signal fires. I hear you want a Runelord dead. Are we invited to this festivity?”

Orden was not certain he trusted the man. The Axemen might well turn on him, wreaking havoc within the castle’s walls at the battle’s climax.

“I’d be honored to fight beside men of your . . . reputed skill,” King Orden answered. He could not afford to turn down any aid, even from the Axeman.

Shostag cleared his throat, hawked on the ground. “If me and my boys kill this fellow for you, I’ll want a pardon.”

Orden nodded.

“I’ll want a title and lands, same as any other lord.”

Orden considered. He had an estate in the dark forests on the borders of Lonnock. It was a gloomy swamp, infested with bandits and mosquitoes. The estate had lain idle now for three years, waiting for the right man. Shostag would either clear the bandits from the woods, or he’d let them join him.