'Where's the steed?' I say with apprehension as I get to my feet. Worry sets my head on a swivel.
The strong wind has died to a gentle breeze yet the morning air is colder than the day before.
I stamp out what's left of the fire and hurriedly gather my things. Then with my satchel slung over my shoulder, I limp out of the hollow.
And it's at that moment that an enemy soldier wearing a bloodhound shaped helm appears from behind a thicket of trees, the king's steed in his grasp.
I stare at him, his face matted with scars, and wait for any sudden, threatening movement.
'Sheriff Harg,' the soldier says in the accent of his kingdom, 'we'll be escorting you the rest of the way.'
We?
The soldier continues, 'His Greatness, King Jabora, is looking fondly at the meeting with you. He speaks of it much and with vigour.'
I cannot say the same and just grumble a response.
The sound of a snapping twig diverts my attention and I see another enemy soldier emerge before me. Then comes another and another and another.
Soon I'm surrounded by ten men and my hand is quick to the hilt of my sword, ready to unleash if I must.
Before my injury I would have dispatched these soldiers with ease, without a thought, and without so much as breaking a sweat.
Fucking leg. I wish I could turn back the sandglass. And not just for that.
'Please, sheriff,' the soldier says. 'We're here to do you no harm.' He lets go of the steed's reins and the horse trots over to me.
The effort and unease it takes to mount her, my leg acting up, leaves me beyond embarrassed and I say with hostility, 'Let's get on our way. Get this over with.'
The enemy soldiers close in around me before leading me out of the grove and we start towards the siege line.
With them on foot, the traveling is slow. But thankfully, they aren't talkative, only grumbling in their language every once and awhile.
We continue on the road until long and deep trenches blotch the land. They were once one of our defences, designed to slow the enemy's advances, their warhorses, their other dragoon means, but now have been relegated to mass graves pecked of their tenants.
With care we traverse the maze of burial pits, eventually coming to the Cliffs of the Sage.
The idea of jumping off does rattle through my mind, an invasive thought, but the notion goes as quickly as it comes as the City of the Lakes appears in the far distance. It was once a gem in our kingdom.
Fey always wanted to visit and I always promised her we would but I always put it off, my army and sheriff duties the reason. Another regret of mine.
After the cliffs, we take a rest on the steps of the foothills of the Dragontop Mountains, the majestic rocky behemoths breaching the skies and most of my vision.
A cold gale whips down from the frigid peaks, making my leg creak and moan. A sip of firewater would surely help but I refrain. I need my head as clear as possible.
A faint movement on the mountains attracts my scrutiny. I squint and see an endless line of enemy soldiers marching up. There are thousands.
Are they preparing for another wooden dragon attack? And while I'm traveling to meet King Jabora about ending this war?
My suspicion grows.
Before long, I'm back on the steed and on the move again.
At first the foothills are a challenge. It's clear a rain has come through recently as the ground is soft and muddy. The soil grips the steed's every step and does its hardest to not let go. But as we progress the wind from the mountains quickly dries our surroundings.
Half a day more and we finally crest the final hill. And that's when I see it.
The siege line.
It's monstrous, like a gigantic snake as thick with soldiers as the First Forest is deep with trees. I see siege weapons too. There are hundreds of them, all tall as the catapult tower on the southern wall.
The enemy has come a long way in five years.
And like a colorful oasis in a gloomy sea, a structure sticks out. King Jabora's tent.
I wonder if Seamil is gazing through the Peering Rod at this moment. I'm sure he is. Can he see me?
The sun disappears behind the mountains when we arrive, the eyes of every soldier trained on me. They're all standing at attention, motionless around their own smaller tents.
As we enter the sea, passing through a barricade of mounds, ditches and palisades, I only hear the growling brays of warhorses I cannot see. They are roaring, yearning for conflict.
The soldiers leading me take me along a road made of wooden planks coated with pitch, King Jabora's tent at the end.
Even though I've seen it many times while I fought in the army, it perched in encampments far from the battlefields, it still surprises me how big it is. Three great war galleys could easily fit inside.
The entrance to the fabric palace is guarded by a ring of a hundred bandors, elite soldiers dressed in ancient dragon scale armor. Though we are in the shadows of the mountains, the blue plating dazzles as if the sun was glaring down.
A few faces jog my memory. Faces seen a long time ago. Faces that have grown old like mine.
The bandors part to let us through and my guides take me to a marquee sheltering silvery white Sable horses, King Jabora's famous racing breed.
One of the guides ties my horse up to a post and I climb down. They then lead me to the entrance, where two bandors greet me by staring at my sword.
Do they want it?
With speed I unsheath my blade, not one soldier flinching, which annoys me, and hold it up to be taken.
'You may keep your weapon, sheriff,' comes a familiar voice from within the tent.
The emissary from the celebration of the day of the princess' birth appears behind the bandors. He's wearing a native robe made of red silk with black sandals poking out from below.
I bow at the respect for letting me keep my weapon, nothing more, before putting it away.
'Please,' the emissary continues, waving for me to come inside.
My guides don't follow as I shuffle past the two bandors and into the godly abode, where thick tapestries sewn with the rarest starling gems and depicting victorious battles of new and old separate every room and corridor.
The emissary leads me into the devoting room, to a shrine devoted to King Jabora, a pillar in every home and workplace in the enemy's kingdom.
I want to spit, piss on it. I want to break it into a thousand pieces.
After kneeling and praying in front of a statue depicting the upper body of a three-headed bloodhound atop a man's, something I do not copy and will never copy, the emissary takes me through to a hall.
Blanketed with the pelts of hairy winged cats, the echoing room bleeds King Jabora's comforting ways. An empty throne made of spirit gold stands tall at the opposite end and a dozen more bandors stand rigid around the walls. Yet, I catch a few briefly looking in my direction.
Walking down the centre, the emissary says, 'His Greatness apologizes for not greeting you himself but he has other matters to attend to. He is away but will return shortly. His Greatness and I hope no offense.'
'No offense taken,' I reply. 'Although I did hope for my visit to be swift.'
'In the meantime, you can rest. I'm sure you are tired from your journey. And we will chat. Something we didn't do as much as I would have liked the last time we met.'
That's because I told you to fuck off.
Through more and more tapestries we reach a room with tables of food wrapped around a pit of cushions.
My stomach curls as I see plates of plump black grapes and beef that hasn't been salted to death.
'This is the private resting room of His Greatness,' says the emissary. 'We have permission to enjoy it. Would you like some food? Take as much as you desire.'
'The journey has upset me,' I lie, my attempted poisoning still very much on my mind.
'As you wish. Perhaps a drink? I'm sure that will do wonders.'
I'm sure it will.
'Thank you, but I must decline.'
If I've insulted the emissary, he doesn't look it. But even if I did, I wouldn't give a shit.
'Please take a seat with me,' he says, waving his hand towards the cushions.
The emissary then walks into the pit and takes a seat. I follow, struggling to get on my arse without looking like a jester, but I fail.
'Your injury?' the emissary asks.
I do not want to talk about that with him and I don't respond, saying instead, 'Those weapons you used on us in the last attack . . . something new or something you've been keeping?'
'Please sheriff, let's not–'
'Talk about the current battle,' I finish for him. 'But isn't that why I'm here.'
'Yes, but you may talk to His Greatness about the battle at hand. However, I would like to offer you, and on behalf of His Greatness, what I offered you at the celebration of the princess' day of birth.'
I scowl. 'For me to turn, to change sides?'
'Yes, sheriff.'
'But if I'm here to try to persuade King Jabora to end this war peacefully, why offer this again before I meet with him.'
'It's out of our deepest respect for you, sheriff.'
I smell warhorse shit. Am I here on a fool's errand? I feel like a fucking fool.
The emissary continues, 'We will give you lands to do with as you wish. Lands so fertile and teeming with ore and gems. And we will give you women that will please. Hundreds, thousands of them if you desire.'
I desire only one.
And a strong swift punch is what this emissary needs but I refrain and reply with composure, 'Let me meet with King Jabora first.'
The emissary bows. 'As you wish.'
King Jabora's private resting room becomes a tomb. No more words are spoken for gods know how long until I hear the sound of trumpets blare outside, it soon morphing into a tune I've heard many times, a tune that has sent many men cowering.
But not me.
'His Greatness has returned,' the emissary says with a smile and he gets to his feet. I flinch to copy when he says, 'Please, sheriff, stay seated. His Greatness will not mind. He knows of your injury.'
I take no notice and grope my way up through the cushions. 'Shall we greet him?'
'We will wait here. His Greatness knows our whereabouts.'
The bellowing trumpets finally end and are replaced by the faint sound of jangling chains, which grow and grow and which is accompanied by the pounding of boots.
Then with a rush, tapestries fling open and in plods King Jabora in all his stoutness. Necklaces of spirit gold dangle from his thick neck and his grand bejewelled beard weighs down from his many chins.
He's become more robust since the last time I saw him. This war has done him too well.
The emissary is quick to his knees, bowing deeply so that his nose touches the ground.
I do not ape the king's servant and just incline my head.
'Sheriff Harg,' wheezes King Jabora. 'It is an honour to finally meet you.'
He holds up his bulbous hand, each sausage finger dazzling with rings.
Does he want me to kiss it? I'd rather kiss the backside of the king's steed but I give in.
'It's an honour to meet you, King Jabora,' I add, hating myself for the words.
The king looks down at his emissary and says, 'Up.'
The emissary springs to his feet. 'Your Greatness.'
'Leave us,' says the king.
'Yes, Your Greatness.' And like an obedient hound, the emissary scuttles out of the room.
King Jabora stares at me with his round, protruding eyes. 'Did my emissary offer you food, something to drink?'
'He did.'
'Good. Now sit.'
I respond to the demand by doing so. Meanwhile, the king waddles over to a table and pours himself a tall glass of amber wine. He brings it over to the pit and thumps down, flattening cushions.
The king raises his glass and smirks. 'Here's to you, sheriff.' And in speed, he gulps down the wine, much of the liquid dribbling down his face and onto his clothes.
After tossing the glass over his shoulder, it hitting a tapestry older than him, he then asks, 'Did my emissary mention an offer?'
'He did.'
'Have you an answer?'
Watching the king begin to play with his rings, I reply, 'What is the purpose, Your Greatness?'
'A man like you should live out your life with the glory that you deserve. To ascend to greatness that you have never seen.'
His words want to make me laugh. And I've had enough with this game. Time to confront the enemy with my suspicion.
'Why the attempts on my life then?' I ask, making King Jabora lean back, his chins creasing together.
'If there are attempts on your life, it is not me. I would never–'
'Pardon if I don't believe you.'
The king frowns at this, his lips curling with disdain and his hearty attitude spoiling.
I've hit a nerve.
His tone now darker, the king says, 'When you were in the army, that was all I wished for but now–'
'I demand the truth,' I say. 'Your spies are trying to kill me.'
'Let me make this clear sheriff,' the king growls, 'never interrupt me again. And regarding your speculation, I have no need for spies.'
'Bullshit.'
The king's fatty eyes widen, making it clear that nobody has ever sworn in his presence before.
'The Night Cleaver? You're behind it. And you're working with Sir Blouf?
'I have no idea of this Night Cleaver you say.' The king's voice rises, sweat beginning to pool on his brows. 'And Sir Blouf? Your king's advisor? I wouldn't let that weasel lick the hairs on my toes. Sheriff, you are delusional.' He then huffs, wheezing with anger, 'And I hereby rescind my offer. You have been too disrespectful.'
'I'd rather die than become your trophy, to become your pet,' I say, adding snidely, 'Your Greatness.'
'You will get your wish. We are done here.'
'I don't know how the heavens could grant you and your people such victory over us,' I say, standing up.
I don't wait for a response and leave, shuffling past the emissary waiting just outside.
'Take me to my steed, and be swift,' I snap and he leads me back through the fabric palace.
When my boots touch dirt, the emissary stops, letting me continue to the king's steed alone, before shouting, 'You should have taken the offer, sheriff. When we enter your city, we will not be merciful to anyone. Do you hear?'
It takes a lot for me to not turn around, to not unsheath my sword and take his ugly enemy head off.
At the marquee, I untie and mount the king's steed. Then with one good kick, digging my heels in her side, she takes off and plows through the bandors.
Enemy soldiers just stare at me like before as I gallop past their tents. And once I break through the siege line, I head back home.