The Bloody Crown: The Legends of Karik, #4

By Evan Oliver

"Your every victory will turn to defeat, your triumphs to tragedies, your conquests to calamities."

The way through the Black Isles is open, and Karik is eager to take full advantage of their victory. His hope to end the starvation in Vrania is almost within reach.
But Karik and Ylmi quickly discover that they have stumbled into a chaotic web of wars, alliances, and old hatreds. But even as they try to navigate these new challenges, Ylmi is forced once again to reckon with the greed of King Jarhost, and the power that he still wield. Above it hall hangs the curse of the dragon, and the words of the seer which fill Karik and Ylmi with doubt.

Vortimer has been king only a short time, but he knows that his luck is beginning to run out. He's won a civil war, escaped assassinations, and begun to build some bit of peace. But the Cirithulian Empire with its endless legions is beginning to press against his kingdom, and prince Heinvar from the north is growing restless as well. And to make matters worse, mysterious raiders have appeared from the sea, and they are rumored to be led by the mythical Vranr, come to extract his vengeance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books & Barbells Press
• Release date: May 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215743881

Book preview

The Bloody Crown

Evan Oliver

Books & Barbells Press

Copyright © 2023 by Evan Oliver

Cover designed by MiblArt. The Mountains Kingdom map by S.E. Davidson at thesketchdragon.com

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

The Mountain Kingdoms

Prologue

1. Vortimer

2. New Beginnings

3. Scattered Forces

4. Feasting

5. Duties Of A King

6. Winter

7. A Royal Wedding

8. Out Of Winter

9. Cursed King

10. Karik's First Fleet

11. An Emperor's Threats

12. New Challenges

13. Vranr the Trickster

14. Ninnian

15. Jarl Ylmi

16. The Baroness

17. Bjarnmont

18. Ambush

19. Enemies Before And Behind

20. Wounds Old And New

21. Havar

22. Vortimer And Ereldis

23. Karik's Fears

24. Barons

25. Two Jarls

26. Chaos of Curses

27. Jarl Birin

28. The Thing

29. Betrayal

30. Sailing with Ingbert

31. Beacons Are Lit

32. A Debt Repaid

33. Plans Apart

34. Race To The Sea

35. Useless Barons

36. Ylmi's Wrath

37. Out Of The Ashes

38. Ereldis

39. Gathering The Longships

40. Blood Debts

41. King And Queen

42. Sword Brothers

43. Might Of The Coast

44. Claim Of The Passage

45. Battle In Balfor

46. Jarl Havar

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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Prologue

Callia galloped through the drifting snow and over the drawbridge of the Mondburg. What had once been a simple keep surrounded by a stone wall had grown into a sturdy castle, with towers on each corner and a second wall bringing more of the town under its protection. Though the cold was growing stronger, it had been over ten years since her father had wintered with his court in their forest hall.

Ten years of war that had grown ever more savage and costly. While her brother had joined the fighting two years ago and her younger sister was more interested in the life of a court lady like their mother, Callia had chosen a different path. She had not forgotten the tales of Ylmi One-Eye she had heard in her father’s winter hall all those years before, nor the sagas of the Savage Queen.

Now, her new armor creaked as she swung down from her horse. This winter she would spend with her family and her father, and in the spring, she would take her place as one of his captains in their war.

Her brother, Vorin, swept her up in a giant hug almost before her feet were on the ground, and the two laughed as they embraced.

You’ve gotten taller, he said, pushing her off to look her up and down. And stronger too!

You don’t look bad yourself. She smiled back. His hair, which he had once worn long, was now cut short, and hints of stubble could be seen on his chin.

But he pulled her up toward the keep. Come! Our parents have a gift for us they would not give me until you arrived.

Aha! Callia laughed as she followed him. Now I know why you were so glad to see me!

But she followed him up the stairs, taking them two at a time till they reached the upper floor. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and her father sat beside it, the stump of his arm still bandaged.

Greetings, Father. Callia bowed as she entered, but her father waved her over with a tired but happy smile.

My daughter! he sighed. Truly, it is good for my eyes to see you.

It is good to see you too, Father, she said, coming forward to kiss his cheek. How are you?

He chuckled, but it turned to a cough, and it was a moment before he caught his breath. I am as well as can be expected. He smiled. Though I wish I was better, I am pleased I am not worse.

He is to stay warm, her mother said, coming into the room with a large flagon that was letting off steam. And we are to keep the wound clean. But beyond that, I hope this winter will be a rest for us all.

Callia glanced sideways at her brother, who was doing his best to contain his excitement, and she decided to have mercy on him.

Vorin says you have a gift, she said to her mother. And I must admit, I am curious as well.

Ah yes! Her father smiled happily. Thin though he was, Callia thought he and her mother seemed happy for the first time in many years, and it brought a warmth to her that the fire could not.

We had hoped to have it all completed, her mother said, stepping toward the table. But life is not always as we wish. She turned back to them, an enormous book in each hand. Do you remember the tales of Karik and Ylmi? she said. It was many years ago—

I do, Callia said eagerly.

Then accept these as your gift, she said, and handed one to Callia and one to Vorin. The legends of Karik, collected from the writings of Alena Kunagos.

Unfortunately, the third volume is still being copied, her father said. But as long as the ink doesn’t freeze, I have good hope that it will be done by the time this winter is over. But come, put them to the side for now. Tonight, we feast and drink, and celebrate another year survived.

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That night, when the feasting and drinking were done, Callia and Vorin returned to the small council room. The fire had burned down low, but Vorin quickly had it blazing bright again, and lit several candles.

You have the better voice, he said. We will take turns, but let us hear more of this tale that we have heard but once before.

With a smile, Callia opened the book, letting the stiff leather cover spill wide open, and turned to the first page.

How the dragonslayers came to meet Vortimer, and what came of that meeting…

1

Vortimer

Vortimer forced down a shiver against the cold and peered through the early-morning darkness, watching the thin column of knights filing down after him.

He might not feel at home in the royal keep, and the barons might look down on him, but here he knew what he was doing. Perhaps a victory might make Tudric and Easerby rethink their plans to take the throne for themselves. Or, he might be caught, cut off, and killed by the legions, in which case Tudric and Easerby could fight over the throne until the empire burned their halls down around their ears.

Just below them lay the camp of the Cirithulian Empire, or a piece of it. Consul Antonius had won permission from the emperor to conduct a swift campaign to bring Mandor under the emperor’s seal and had been given two legions to carry it out.

Almost fifteen thousand soldiers all camped close together on the rocky slope. Against them, Vortimer had gathered all the strength of Mandor. Six thousand of his warriors and knights were arrayed just beyond the edge of the pass under the command of Baron Halbor, and with Vortimer rode almost nine hundred mounted troops, almost fifty knights among them, riding their mountain ponies over terrain Antonius had thought impassible.

The plan was simple. With Halbor engaging Antonius from the front, Vortimer and his knights would fall upon the legions’ rear and hopefully strike a blow that would convince Antonius to give up this plan.

The reports of raiders along the coast had grown worse with every telling, but by nightfall Vortimer needed to choose some troops at least to send out of the pass and to Easerby’s coast. Who the raiders were, he was not sure, but they needed to be crushed, and quickly. Otherwise, Easerby and Tudric would blame the raids on him.

This attack had to succeed. He did not have the men or the time to mount another. But there had been more lookouts than Vortimer expected, and they were late reaching the cliffs.

Alan, one of his scouts, rode up to him quickly and saluted. All clear from here to the ridgeline behind their camp, he said. But they’re already stirring for their morning drills.

The knights were filing into the clearing, their spears over their shoulders as they guided their mounts over the rough ground, and a few who overheard looked to Vortimer. They were not fools, and they knew as well as he did that their hope to catch the camp before it had fully woken was fading, if not already gone.

The snow is our ally, Vortimer said firmly. In the cold and foul weather, they’ll be moving slowly. They’re more used to the soft living of the empire and are doubtless unused to the hard life we have all known.

There was a scatter of laughter, and Vortimer grinned.

Ride hard, and we’ll remind them why the empire has left this pass alone. He nodded, and Hector saluted.

Onward! Hector cried. A little further, and we’ll be ready for the fight we’ve been itching for.

Vortimer wiped his sword on his cloak and slid it back into its scabbard before ordering Alan, Sound the horn.

Alan pulled up the great white horn and blew a long, loud blast that echoed between the mountain cliffs, the signal for Halbor to begin the attack in the pass high above.

They pushed on, hurrying over steep slopes and broken rocks, pausing only twice over areas where landslides had crashed down the mountain and left broken rock piled high in their path. For a while, the only sounds they heard were the wind howling through the peaks and the struggling of men and horses on the slopes.

Then, Vortimer heard the distant sounds of trumpets down in the legions’ camp as they were called to battle.

Halbor is moving! he shouted. The attack is about to begin. Now is not the time to slow your speed.

He turned to Alan. How much farther?

Just over that ridge, Alan replied. It slopes down into the pine forest just above the camp.

Vortimer nodded and urged his horse forward. The last slope was steep and rocky, with scattered pines growing gnarled and twisted out of the stones, and the climb was slow and difficult. A few of the ponies went lame trying to climb the last height of the ridge, and one fell, breaking its foreleg with a scream that curdled blood.

But they made it over the ridge with the greater part of their force intact. Up ahead, Vortimer could hear Antonius’ legions preparing for battle, the brass trumpets of the legions piping out their high notes, and the shouts of the centurions and decurions calling their men into formation.

Then, from the other side of the camp came a long, loud blast of an ox horn, followed by a second. Battle had been joined. Halbor’s forces had engaged the legions, taking their place as the anvil. Now it was Vortimer’s job to be the hammer.

Form up! he called. Form a line!

Hector went galloping away, spreading the order in the other direction, his massive sword already drawn and in his hand even as his helm hung from his saddle.

Sir Anbor galloped up from the opposite direction. Everyone is over the ridge, he reported.

See them form up! Vortimer ordered, and turned to Alan. You and your scouts are not armored for battle, he said. So do not engage the legions. Take who you have, and any stragglers, and strike for their supply train. Drive off the horses, burn the supplies, but if they send armored troops after you, get back to the safety of the heights.

Alan saluted and spun his pony, diving through the ranks of mounted troops and knights to find the other scouts who had helped guide their way through the mountains.

Hector galloped up and raised his two-handed blade in salute. Right of the line is ready. He saluted.

Vortimer nodded. Good. He glanced to the left and saw through the trees as Anbor wheeled his horse about and saluted as well.

Put your helmet on, Vortimer told Hector. It’s time. His heartbeat quickened, and his mouth turned dry as he raised his sword over his head. He held it a moment to ensure that it was seen by all, then let it fall.

They moved down the slope slowly at first. The pines were thin here, and the underbrush scarce, but even so the line broke and reformed over and over as they picked up speed.

Then through the trees, Vortimer saw the edge of Antonius’ camp. They had cleared large swaths around it, using the wood for fires and to fortify their rear.

Vortimer urged his horse on faster, the center of the line drawing forward to form the wedge as the whole formation picked up speed, and the rumble of hooves grew louder. They came out of the trees at a gallop, only a dozen yards from the edge of the camp.

A sea of tents, cooking fires, and wagons spread out before them, spiraling up between the ridges toward the top of the pass. Men were moving through the tents, snatching up weapons and gathering armor, but without too much hurry.

Until they saw the knights.

With a roar that spread through the whole wedge, they smashed into the tents, scattering bodies before them. Tents fell or burst into flames as they burned, but this was not their target.

Up the slope Vortimer urged his horse, until through the sea of tents he saw one of the legion banners, a golden hawk with pendants trailing behind it.

Onward! he shouted. To Halbor!

They came through the tents almost before they knew it and smashed into the formation. The soldiers had not seen them coming, and before their centurion knew what was happening, they had smashed the formation in half and left a bloody wake behind them.

But beyond them was a second formation, and Vortimer realized he was looking at the cohorts, forming up to join the battle higher in the pass.

He pulled up his horse short and raised his sword. Hold here! he shouted Hold.

As the line halted, slowly reforming, he galloped down his left toward where Hector was climbing out from under a dead pony.

Are you hurt? Vortimer asked.

Hector laughed through his helm as one of the nearby knights handed him the reins of another horse. Not a scratch.

Good. Vortimer pointed back the way they had come. They’ve formed up cohorts from here to the pass. Break off behind us, smash through the wreckage we leave behind, and be prepared to take the lead at my call. Anbor will be behind you and do the same.

Hector saluted and wheeled his new mount toward their rear as Vortimer rode to give Carras a similar command.

The sound of legion trumpets and Halbor’s horn echoed through the pass as they fought, Vortimer’s three companies smashing through the cohorts one after another, each one taking the lead in turn, shattering the small cohorts one after another.

But as they fought, Vortimer knew that with each charge, his force grew smaller. Still, they were inflicting heavy damage, and so they pressed on.

His company wheeled out of the way for Hector to charge the next cohort, but as Vortimer caught his breath, he heard trumpets behind them.

He looked back, over the carnage behind them. The remains of the cohorts they had broken were reforming, joining in a battle line that grew deeper by the minute.

In the east, where he could see nothing beyond the rising slopes, Halbor and the main body of the legions were locked in battle, still out of sight at the top of the pass.

Glancing around, he tried to guess where they were and how much farther to the top of the pass. Half a mile or so, if his memory was right, a long, long way to fight. They had come through over half of Antonius’ camp, and the greater part of the legions was still above them.

The shouting of his horsemen, the chanting of the legions, and the crash and clatter of battle roared around them as Vortimer looked around.

This was his one chance to break Antonius’ forces. He had scraped every bit of his own strength together and gathered it here in this pass, all while leaving the rest of his kingdom dangerously undefended. Their civil war was less than a year over, and he had gambled that neither Tudric nor Easerby would be brash enough to start another war so soon.

He might be able to drive all the way through and meet with Halbor, but it might cost him more men than he could afford to lose. Hundreds were already dead from the weeks of fighting Antonius through the pass, and if he lost even a tenth of his troops today, Tudric might decide that the throne was vulnerable enough to be seized by another war, and he might be right.

Vortimer took a deep breath, considering his options, trying to decide, yet painfully aware that with every passing moment, they drew closer to disaster.

Then, as Carras led his wing crashing into the next cohort, Hector peeled back from his wing and galloped toward Vortimer. He reached up to rip his helmet off even as he whipped the blood from his long sword.

They’re forming up behind the next cohort, he said between sucking in deep breaths. Not just a battle line. They’ve got half a legion, at least, formed up.

That settled it, and Vortimer rolled his shoulders, setting his face. We turn back. He grabbed the horn and blew two short blasts in quick succession, paused, then repeated the command. The centurions and decurions were masters of discipline, and the legions were the finest infantry in the world. The broken cohorts had simply been reformed and absorbed into one another, and now they were reunited, preparing to attack.

Halbor won’t be pleased, Hector warned, but Vortimer shook his head.

He’ll get over it. Vortimer looked around at the camp. Smoke was rising from the baggage train, which meant Alan and the scouts were wrecking Antonius’ supplies. The attack had already done a great deal of damage, and the cost to do more was getting steeper by the second.

We’ve already paid with too many lives. I’ll not throw away more. He turned to Hector. Even if we can’t break the legions here, winter is coming on, and it is a long way out of the mountains. If we burn enough of the camp, it won’t matter how many men Antonius has if he can’t feed them.

Hector saluted and turned back to his wing, just as Anbor came up covered in blood and gore. There’s more beyond, he said, struggling to catch his breath. And I’m not sure we can break through in one charge.

We’re not going to, Vortimer answered. We’re faster than they are, so we use that. Ride back west, burn everything you can find.

I’ll take the left, Vortimer told Hector. You and your big sword take the right. Sir Carras, take your wing and burn all you can. Spread fire and leave everything in ash. Do not, he pointed at the old knight, do not meet them head-on. Wheel, turn, ride around them. We are faster and more nimble than they are. Make use of it. Burn as fast as you can; then when I blow my horn next, swing around behind me and get on the other side of the cohorts. We’ll burn what we can and get out of the pass, back the way we came.

Carras saluted and turned to his wing.

So. Hector took a deep breath. Now we are between the hammer and the anvil.

Not for the first time. Vortimer grinned. Are you injured? he asked Alan.

The young man wiped a bit of blood from his face and smiled. No more than most, less than some. He glanced eastward. You need a message to get to Halbor?

Vortimer nodded, and Alan ran his eyes over the rocky slopes and cliffs surrounding the pass. I can do it.

Then go, Vortimer replied. Tell him we’re not coming. He is to press the battle till noon, then break off as he is able.

Press battle till noon, then break off as able, Alan repeated. I’ll get it to him.

He galloped off, and Hector shifted in his saddle.

So, these flanks, what’s your plan?

If they want to be an anvil, then let them, Vortimer answered. Keep them in place, and hammer them from every direction. Attacked from either side, we’ll see if we can pull them apart. When I sound the horn for Carras, hold only a little longer, then break off and wreck as much as you can on your way out of the pass. We’ll meet above the pines.

Hector saluted and galloped off. Vortimer took a deep breath and tightened his grip on his sword and turned to his horsemen. To press on would cost more lives than they could afford to lose, and Vortimer was sick of watching his countrymen die.

The plan has changed. We cannot reach Halbor, but we can still wreck Antonius’ supplies and leave him such a slaughter that he’ll wish he’d never seen these mountains. A little longer, and we’ll be riding for home!

A roar went up, and Vortimer raised his sword to charge.

They followed him at a gallop, the smoke and flames spreading as Carras’ riders went to work. The cohorts had formed up, but in making their formation deep, they had left their flanks exposed, and now Vortimer took advantage, circling around and smashing into them.

But the decurions had locked their great curved shields, and with the cohorts gathered together, they had formed the study formations for which the legions were famous. No matter how Vortimer tried, no matter how valiantly his knights hammered down on the enemy, the cohorts refused to move. Tighter and tighter they drew their shields, anchoring themselves into the ground till they were as immovable as if they had become part of the mountain.

Then, with smoke so thick that it dimmed the sun, Vortimer blew his horn.

Once more! he shouted to his knights as he dropped the horn to his side and raised his sword. One more charge to hold them!

Breathless and exhausted, they formed up once again and drove hard into the cohort’s flank.

But the legions were not only known for their heavy shields. Vortimer heard a whistle blowing as he hammered his sword down on a shield, and the formation before them parted.

The Decurions had sprung their trap, and as Vortimer tried to wheel about, two companies split from the formation and wheeled in perfect unison to wrap on either side of his horsemen. Almost before he saw it, it was done, and the two lines of shields pressed in.

With shields locked together, lines four and five men deep, the cohorts pressed inexorably closer. There was no room for the horsemen to wheel or maneuver, and as the shield walls closed in, the legions picked men from their saddles, the first rank slashing and stabbing men and horses alike with their short, razor-sharp blades.

Vortimer felt his chest burn with rage, and in an instant he swung from his horse. Hemmed in, it was no longer an advantage, and soon the press would be too great to even stand.

Grabbing a handful of his knights, he pushed through the press toward the western arm that stood between him and their escape.

We cut a hole, he said, and pry them open. His sword was in his hand, and with his knights beside him, he approached the wall of shields.

A decurion was in front of him, and Vortimer lunged, slamming into his shield with all his strength, but as the decurion braced, using the strength of the formation to push back, Vortimer grabbed the top of his shield and jerked back. The decurion was thrown off balance by just a hair, but it was enough.

Vortimer’s blade slipped around the shield and under the decurion’s helm. Blood splashed over them both as the decurion staggered and fell, but Vortimer was already pushing past. He felt the comforting press of his knights against his back as they shoved into the crack, and an instant later they were cutting and stabbing, pushing against every inch the cohorts gave.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Vortimer from the front and pulled him forward. He pitched to the ground and realized he was through to the other side, and when he looked up, two centurions were bearing down on him.

But it was not a fair fight. Their short blades and heavy shields were made for fighting in the machine of their formations. Here, Vortimer’s long blade outreached them, and without a massive shield to weigh him down, the first centurion was dead before he could even swing. Vortimer pulled his sword free in time to parry a lunging stab, then ripped back the shield with his pommel on the backswing and drove through the centurion, ring mail popping as his sword drove the man to the ground.

Two more swings of his sword, and his knights pressed through the hole in the shields.

Ride! Vortimer shouted. Ride!

But by now, someone had noticed what he was doing, and the cohorts were pressing together, desperately trying to close the hole. They turned their shields and began pressing again as the first riders made it out of the press.

The first galloped off, toward the safety of Carras’ wing, which was burning its way back to the pines, but the others wheeled and began attacking the cohorts’ thin lines. The decurions’ whistles were blowing loudly now, the main formation splitting into smaller units to hold them in, but the hole did not get smaller, and as Vortimer’s riders escaped, they galloped about, hammering the cohorts here and there so that the infantry had to fight for every inch to maneuver.

We’re out! one knight shouted to Vortimer. All free!

Vortimer pulled back. It was chaos everywhere, fire and smoke filling the camp, livestock running free, and the riderless mountain ponies of Vortimer’s men mingled with the terrified horses of the legion’s cavalry.

Mount up! Vortimer shouted. Mount up! His knights disengaged, leaping out of range of the short swords and grabbing whatever mounts were nearest at hand.

Vortimer looked about just as a huge gray stallion thundered toward him, eyes wide with fright. Deftly, Vortimer caught his bridle and pulled him to a stop. Running his hands over the thick mane, he pulled himself onto his back, speaking softly into his ears as he pulled him away from the flames.

He was a massive beast, and Vortimer could feel the power in the stallion’s gait. The bridle was rough, and there was no saddle, but for someone who had ridden since he could walk, it was a simple thing to keep his seat and urge the horse to safety, calming him as he went. He looped away from the fires, letting the stallion get used to him and calming him down. A few horsemen still galloped past, but the camp seemed more a desolate wasteland now. A pig rooted through a puddle, while smoldering tents filled the air with smoke.

Hoping that he had calmed the massive horse enough, Vortimer turned and urged him through the smoking wreckage toward the pines.

His horn was gone, but as he approached the pines, he saw Hector and Carras waiting, peering into the camp. Hector had his helm off, again.

How many are left? Vortimer asked as he rode up.

Hector looked up at him. All who are alive, he said.

Then we have done what we can, Vortimer said, with one last look at the camp. Let us hope it was enough.

2

New Beginnings

The wind no longer had only the hints of cold as Karik steered Sea Dragon into the fjord from their third raid into the west. Another freeze was coming in, and the falling rain was mixed with sleet as the ship rose and fell on the wind-whipped waves that churned the water.

Most of the crew were huddled together, shivering on the benches, their cloaks and hoods pulled close against the cold, but Thora had climbed up to stand in the prow, watching as their home drew nearer.

Despite the cold, Karik was smiling beneath his beard. They had more than enough food for the winter, and for the first time in his life, he looked forward to the coming of snow. They were weary, and it would be good to rest at last.

As they slipped under the shadow of the great high rocks overhead, Dranri shook himself and grinned. It is a good feeling to be off the sea and in the smooth waters of home.

It is made better by the deeds we have done, Havar replied, rising stiffly to his feet. Water poured from where it had pooled on his cloak, and he shook himself as he laid a hand to ropes to adjust the sail.

As Orlanna had warned, it had torn along the seams, and they had been forced to watch it carefully as the wind pushed them homeward. Before they had left, she had been making good progress upon the new sail, and Karik had hope it would be done by the time they set sail again.

I take it we will not need to worry too much about it until next year. Havar jerked his head toward the sail. I doubt we can, or should, sail again.

Karik nodded. I will speak with Ylmi, but I think we have enough to see us through the winter. Beyond that, we must set ourselves to preparing for next year.

Havar grinned, pulling down one rope and tying it off. Here in the fjord, the wind was less rough than on the open sea, so the sail was let out to catch more of it, but not so much that the ragged seams gave way.

If we can finish another ship before next year, Havar said, we will become raiders such as Vranr once was, and we will truly be his heirs.

Vranr was not a raider. Karik frowned. There was much he wanted to learn of his ancestor, but that he had been more than a butcher seemed clear. A trickster perhaps, or a warrior when threatened, but not a raider.

Not in the stories I heard. Havar chuckled. The way I heard it, he was mistreated by his king, so he turned to raiding to make a living for himself. He sailed from north to south, and there were few who could withstand him. He and his crew ate what they pleased, took what they wanted, and won victories wherever they turned.

Hm, Karik snorted. Do those stories say how he ended up exiled here?

Havar wiped the rain from his face and wrung it out of the short beard that now covered his face. They had to resort to dark magic of some sort. He shrugged. "But Vranr only had one ship, a massive thing. We will have far more than