The next morning at dawn, Gaborn prepared a wagon to carry the bodies of the kings back to Castle Sylvarresta. There, Sylvarresta would be buried, while Gaborn’s father would be embalmed and shipped back home to Mystarria.

With the bodies, Gaborn secreted ten large boxes of forcibles, covered in soil from the gardens at Bredsfor Manor.

Gaborn oversaw the whole affair. The camp had become busy since dawn, with thousands of warriors striking their tents in preparation to leave, others still coming in from around Heredon.

When Gaborn had finished loading the bodies and checked the wagon’s wheels and undercarriage to see if they could hold the heavy load, he got up to find that a small crowd had gathered. Locals who had lived here at Longmot.

“We come to ask you,” a sturdy farmer said, “if you’ll be willing to take our endowments.”

“Why do you come to me?” Gaborn asked.

“You’ll be our king,” a young man in the crowd spoke up.

“You’ve got gold,” the farmer said. “You can pay. We don’t ask much, only that you care for our families, keep them through the winter. I’m a strong man. Been working all my life. I could sell you my brawn. And my son over there—never has been sick a day. You could use him.”

Gaborn shook his head sadly. “There will be gold enough for you without selling your endowments.” Gaborn spoke loudly, so that all the crowd could hear. “I’ll need men to rebuild this fortress. I’ll pay you well for your labor. Bring your families for the winter, and stay in the buildings that still stand. Every man of you will have beef for your children, and bread in your bellies.” He thought to promise them more—acorns and mushrooms, deer and boar, all the fruits of the forest and of the fields. “You can work some days for me, others for yourselves, so you may build your own homes. I won’t buy endowments from a man in need.”

“And what about the rest of us who want you to fight for us?” an older man asked. “I’ve got no family. I’m too old to swing a warhammer. But you can have my wits. They’re sharp as ever. I’ll fight with you as I can.”

Gaborn looked out over the crowd. This was the only kind of man he’d be willing to take endowments from, a man who knew that this was an act of war, that giving himself was a commitment to be made in deadly earnest. Yet Gaborn did not want any endowments, thought to wait before taking them until spring or some far future day. Still, he knew that Raj Ahten was not far away, and might still send assassins. These people needed a lord, and Gaborn needed their aid.

“How many of the rest of you feel as this man does?” Gaborn asked.