The Wraiths of Arjun

By Stephanie Cotta

Tribute Day has come. For a century, the Kingdom of Mestria has oppressed the people of Arjun. Those who cannot pay the brutal tax suffer a grim fate: enslavement, conscription, or imprisonment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monarch Educational Services, L.L.C.
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957656311

Stephanie Cotta

Stephanie Cotta writes epic fantasy and is the award-winning author of the young adult fantasy novel The Conjurer's Curse. After discovering the world of Star Wars and the land of Narnia at a young age, her love of Sci-fi/Fantasy has been undying ever since. She loves crafting stories of hope amid impossible odds and creating realistic characters who inspire readers of all ages to discover their inner strength and overcome their struggles.Stephanie lives in beautiful Southern Oregon with her husband, their two kids, a corgi named Walter, and a tabby-cat named Percy. When she's not writing, she's practicing archery, avidly reading, playing an immersive RPG, or hiking with her family.

Book preview

The Wraiths of Arjun

BOOK TWO IN THE

THE IRON KINGDOM SERIES

STEPHANIE COTTA

Monarch Educational Services LLC, Clayton NCTITLE PAGE

Copyright © 2023 by Stephanie Cotta

All rights reserved.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intentional unless otherwise stated.

Publisher: Monarch Educational Services, LLC, Clayton NC

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023917652

Developmental Editor by Kelly Martin; Lead Editing by Haley Hwang

Cover Design - Monarch Educational Services, LLC

Images: Licensed Adobe Stock Photos

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Thank you for respecting the work of authors. www.monarcheducationalservices.com

Contents

1. Tribute Day

2. The Enforcer

3. Lifting Spirits

4. Red-Eyed Rats

5. The Firestorm Descends

6. Rat in a Cage

7. A Night to Remember

8. A Daunting Plan

9. Mortebane

10. Faking Death

11. Oblivion

12. An Unexpected Visitor

13. Midnight Hour

14. A Snowy Duel

15. The Ways of a Conjurer

16. The Pugilist Awakes

17. Téte-a-Téte

18. Growing Roots

19. A Conjurer’s Illusion

20. A Wraith’s Mask

21. The Enforcer Strikes Back

22. Powerless

23. A Useful Spell

24. The Chest in the Lair

25. The Next Step

26. A Chilling Funeral

27. Visit to the Garrison

28. Reason Is Futile

29. A Fight for Honor

30. An Ingenious Device

31. Ghost of the Citadel

32. Old Legends

33. A Night of Scouting

34. Breaking the Ice

35. The Infiltration Plot

36. Testing Ground

37. The Conjurers’ Creed

38. Becoming Wraiths

39. Infiltration

40. The Wraiths’ Ambush

41. Cornered

42. The Rat in the Pantry

43. Repayment in Blood

44. The Cost for Vengeance

Book Three of The Iron Kingdom Series

Chapter 1 The Hunt Begins

The Iron Kingdom Series Reader’s Guide

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For Jonathan, who fostered my love for fantasy and sci-fi.

You introduced me to new worlds and mysteries with every Star Wars book you handed me. Without that, I may never have created my own fantasy world.

Thank you, brother.

Map of Sandria

Chapter 1

Tribute Day

Rowan crept under the oppressive sky smothering the woods in a gloomy shroud. His icy breath misted before his vermillion eyes as he scanned the bleak landscape. Frost coated the jagged hills in white, and a veil of silence hung over the dense forest. Time stood still, as if holding its breath.

I feel like a stranger in this frozen world.

Rowan gripped his shortspear and stalked through the woodland south of Iron Crossing—his mine. He crouched in the frostbitten grass. It crunched like broken glass beneath his tan, leather boots. Boar tracks, hooved and lightly impressed, left a trail through the grove of silver birch trees. The bare branches stirred in the cold breeze, as if shaking off their slumber.

Rowan scudded alongside the hooved impressions in the grass. His cobalt cloak fluttered around his legs as he brushed past spindly-leaved sedges. His beige tunic and tabard clung to his body, and the fitted sleeves hugged his muscular arms. The wool clothing warmed his skin like the heat from a calm fire.

Rowan advanced in cautious bursts, concealing himself behind ivory trees until he spotted the thick, rotund boar. Boasting four gnarled tusks, the beast dug its broad, grayish-pink nostrils through the sedges, likely hunting for truffles buried beneath the frozen soil.

The wild boar emitted several guttural snorts. Rowan took a step forward, and the grating crunch of the grass startled his quarry.

The boar twisted its bulky, sable head, and its black eyes bulged.

Burning skies, I’ve been seen.

The boar shot open its maw of sharp, mangled teeth and released an ear-splitting squeal. Then it charged, its ivory tusks glinting like polished iron.

Rowan sucked in a calming breath before expelling it. He wouldn’t have been able to outrun the feral animal, not if he wanted to live. Standing his ground was his only option.

He lifted his iron spear for the throw; he needed to time it perfectly. Unlinking the shaft, he separated the spear into two: one to hurl, one to stab at close range. Accounting for the boar’s speed and the unlikelihood it would alter course, Rowan launched his longer spear in a narrow arc.

It struck the beast low in the shoulder. The boar’s front legs buckled, and it careened in a sliding, frost-crunching tumble. Rowan sidestepped the wild thrashing and incoming tusks before he crammed his smaller spearhead into the boar’s chest. The animal’s pained grunts blasted Rowan’s eardrums. Then slowly, in time with its dying heartbeats, the boar ceased all sound.

Rowan yanked both spearheads free. He cleaned the smaller tip and recombined the shaft before the thunderous sound of horses’ hooves drew his eyes toward the periphery of the grove. Gavan, his stablehand, tore through the sedges on his behemoth workhorse, with Rowan’s speckled horse in tow, and screeched to a stop. Gavan deftly dismounted. His towering height and broad torso matched the frame of the workhorse beside him.

I heard the s-s-squeals, Gavan hollered from a distance. You must’ve got a b-b-boar.

A big one. I’ll need your help to carry it.

It’s what I’m here for.

Gavan led the workhorse to the motionless heap.

Orthrin’s hammer! He marveled, scratching the scarred divot on the left side of his head. Get a load of those t-t-tusks! I’ve never seen ones so m-m-massive.

Nor had Rowan, but then he hadn’t killed many boars. If you like them so much, you can have them.

You don’t want them?

Rowan shook his head, moving to secure the beast’s hind legs. Can’t think of what I’d do with tusks of that size.

They’d make a handy hilt for a knife. Just saying.

Not my hobby. I’ll stick to weavescript. They’re all yours.

Gavan’s squarish face formed into a droopy, lopsided grin. Now that I think of it, the head would look majestic mounted in the stable. Might even scare away the sprites, eh?

Er, do as you please, Rowan said, agreeing despite being dubious. He still didn’t understand most of the Shandrian beliefs, customs, or superstitions. The stable is your domain.

Rowan bound the hind legs, Gavan secured the front, and, together, they hefted the boar onto the workhorse’s broad back. The steed intimidated Rowan, with its tall stature, impressive muscular build, and black-charcoal coat.

You want to take Bronto’s reins? Gavan offered with a friendly-yet-coaxing gleam in his wide-set eyes.

Not particularly, no. Rowan was still learning how to handle a horse. Gavan was a patient teacher, but Rowan wasn’t comfortable traveling at a fast gallop on this gargantuan creature. With the tribute looming, we don’t have time to dawdle. I’ll ride Nakida.

Right. The t-t-tribute. The unmistakable fear in Gavan’s tone knotted Rowan’s stomach.

The day all Shandrians paid tribute in either coin or iron to the Kingdom of Mestria had come. Rowan and his miners couldn’t afford to deliver their iron late. It would court punishment from their Mestrian overlords. He remembered his grandfather Rahn’s disastrous tale of a Tribute Day where he nearly failed to deliver his wagonload. When an axle had broken, Rahn and Rowan’s father, Rorak, retrofitted the busted wagon as a sled for the horses to pull and made it just in time to offer their tribute.

Not wasting another minute, Rowan and Gavan swiftly returned to Iron Crossing. The loading area outside the mine buzzed with commotion. Wagons loaded with ironstone clogged the entrance to the mine, which was shaped like a hound’s head with two jutting peaks. Keld, the mine captain, hollered commands for the miners to finish up with the final cartload.

Rowan slid off his saddle, leaving Gavan to board his horse and handle the boar’s delivery to Shen, Rowan’s manservant, who was a stickler when it came to running the manor. Rowan liked to stay far out of his way, especially today when everyone’s stress level was rising higher than Mount Maldere’s summit.

Rowan searched for Tahira, striding to the one place she’d be this early in the morning. He found her in the stone-fenced garden, pulling off leaves from a thistle plant fully bloomed and thriving in the frost, much like the young woman before his eyes. Her ivory complexion glowed with vitality.

As she leaned forward to place deep purple leaves in a birch basket, her milky-white hair cascaded past her shoulders, reminding Rowan of his favorite plunging waterfall in the Thulu Jungle. The rest of Tahira’s hair was tied into a spooled knot by a braided cord he’d given her as a gift when first confessing his love. The memory warmed his icy cheeks.

Tahira whispered a stream of words—words Rowan didn’t understand—and without warning, a sudden chill coursed through his blood. The low timbre caught him off-guard, and all he could think of was his clash with Zamara and the moment she summoned three nightmarish wolves out of nothing but a pile of bones.

Words had been the spark that gave them life.

What was that just now? Rowan asked, his tone coming out harder than he had intended.

Tahira twisted her petite torso to look up at him. A frown creased her alabaster features. What was what?

Rowan tensed, forcing out a cautious breath. Those words you were whispering.

It’s just an old Shandrian mantra, Tahira said breezily, clearly oblivious to the sudden disquiet gripping Rowan’s chest. My mother used to say it whenever she was gardening. ‘A chant to help the plants grow,’ is what she always told me.

A stab of distrust rose within Rowan. He didn’t like the feeling. It mirrored the same unease he’d felt when learning what Zamara had told Tahira before placing her under that dark enchantment, of how her blood teemed with power and potential. That she had a Conjurer’s gifts.

Rowan’s chest squeezed tighter. In the four months he had known her, Tahira had never given him reason to be on edge. He couldn’t mask it, not to his handfasted partner.

Her ruby eyes flickered, swathed in soft sunlight. Hey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

Rowan blew out a cold, sharp breath; it swirled before his eyes in the way his life-sucking curse once had. Zamara comes to mind. I heard her utter chants under her breath and conjurings sprang to life.

Tahira rose from her low, wooden stool and cupped her ice-cold hand around his. Relax, Row. I’m not going to turn into Zamara on you. She caused us plenty of grief. The last thing I’d ever do is emulate that witch.

Rowan relaxed his muscles, only realizing then how tightly he’d drawn his shoulders. Of course, I know that. He lifted a hand to cradle Tahira’s frost-white cheek. His thumb skirted near her bow-shaped lips, devoid of any natural pink hue. Residual evidence of what his curse had stolen. Though with the sheen of her porcelain skin polished by the winter sun, her lips gleamed soft silver.

Rowan captured them in a tender kiss. Every shared kiss was a blessing he couldn’t begin to describe. There’d been times he thought with certainty he’d never know such happiness. Killing Zamara and ending his curse had changed his solitary fate. He caressed Tahira’s slender back, fingers roving behind her knitted shawl, cinching the soft wool of her celadon dress. She melded against him, and her delightful breath heated his face.

Drawing back, Tahira wrinkled her nose. You smell like the inside of a pig’s belly.

Rowan laughed. That’s oddly specific, but accurate.

How was the hunt, then? she asked, retrieving her basket.

I killed a boar. A thick one with plenty of meat on its bones. Rowan spread his hands out to indicate the animal’s size. Should last us through winter.

Winter was an odd phenomenon for Rowan. His former home in Karahvel Village remained warm and humid year-round. Only during monsoons did it experience spikes in humidity and torrential downpours. But the cold, ice, frost, and frigid air—he couldn’t wait for it to end. The parlor’s broad hearth was now his favorite spot inside the manor. He’d even relocated his primary loom to the parlor so he could weave without his fingers going numb.

Tahira held his hand as they walked away from the garden. Nervous for the tribute?

Yes, Rowan confessed, a shiver crawling up his spine. Is it that easy to tell?

I can feel the stress in your grip.

It’s why I went hunting, he admitted with a sigh. I don’t know what to expect.

Tahira ran her hand up his forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. Trust Keld. He’s done this countless times.

The peace of the small garden behind them, Rowan and Tahira separated. Rowan returned to the mine’s loading area, where Keld approached him, tipping his gray, wool cap atop his curly head before rubbing his gloved hands together in a raring-to-go manner.

Good to see he’s not nervous.

The middle-aged mine captain wore his usual smile on his smudged face. Deeply ingrained dirt clung to his grin lines, making his appearance more gritty when out of the mine’s grimy depths. The iron is loaded and ready for delivery.

Rowan forced out an anxious breath. Let’s get this over with.

Arjun, Shandria’s capital city and the hub of metallurgy, teemed with masses of sour-faced Shandrians bumping into each other and keeping their heads bowed. Rowan glanced around the clustered streets, sensing the tension and heaviness in the air. Every Shandrian toddling along Forge Row wore a mask of embittered gloom, with fear rippling across their albino features. No one smiled or spoke—all appearing too nervous as they waited for their turn at the tribute tables to render taxes to a kingdom that could seize their hard-earned livelihood on a whim.

Uniformed Mestrian officials barked out terse orders.

Next in line, one official bellowed.

Quick now, his compatriot next to him added.

Amounts owed were announced, earning rigid and fearful responses from the crowd.

No iron forges blazed. No hammers clanged. No customers occupied taverns or merchant stalls. Devoid of its livelier activities, Arjun appeared dull and dead.

Mestrian soldiers arrayed in imperious silver armor and matching cobalt surcoats patrolled the sloped, foggy streets. The show of force translated a message every Shandrian grimly understood and begrudgingly accepted: They were vassals who lacked their own freedom to govern.

Rowan had never found that fact bothersome until today. Witnessing the abject misery on the faces of young and old wrenched his heart. These were his people; their plight was his. And on this cheerless day that marked Shandria’s defeat one hundred years ago, he understood how deeply they ached to be free from this oppressive rule.

Depressing, isn’t it? Keld said beside him, carefully driving the lead wagon. You’d find more cheer in the Mountain of the Damned.

Rowan grunted. I’d rather face cannibals again than deal with these tyrants.

They’re only following the dictates of our supreme overlord, the Immortal King, whom we live to serve, Keld reminded, his face appearing dejected, as if this was an unchangeable fact. From Iron Baron to field hand, we all must pay our own share of the tribute to these greedy wolves. Their way of squeezing out as much wealth from us as possible.

Rowan sighed in resignation at that truth.

Keld led their wagons toward the Mestrian Garrison, the impressive fortress dominating the southern edge of the city. Looming on the ramparts stood statuesque soldiers, their piercing eyes like predatory hawks, with bows and swords held at the ready. The display needled Rowan’s neck. He swallowed down his jittery nerves, much like he did the first time he’d entered that fortress—a visit that resulted in getting outlawed from Arjun when he still had his life-draining curse. With it gone, he could come and go freely within the city once again.

All the barons with iron tribute congregated outside the garrison in a tight-lipped huddle, including Rowan’s half-brother, Akaran Keliss, and his friend and business partner, Ravel Grise. Both young men stood more tightly wound than Rowan’s weaving loom.

In the month of managing Blackstone Mine together, Rowan had learned how extensively the two bickered. Frankly, they acted more like squabbling brothers than Rowan and Akaran did.

Rowan left the confines of his wagon and hastened toward them.

Ravel’s red, nebulous eyes swiveled toward Rowan, and he pulled away from the group. Clothed in emerald and silver, a tasseled scarf around his neck, Ravel’s attire screamed garish compared to the muted colors muddying the older Iron Barons together as one brooding mass.

Welcome to the worst day of the year. Ravel’s cynical joke reflected the grim view he shared with the whole city; though no one else was likely to convey it in such snide terms.

A group of mine captains lined up their wagon carts under the stern direction of a military official.

Has the collection begun? Rowan asked.

Not yet. Ravel rubbed his crimped forehead with a nervous twitch of his bandaged-up fingers.

You’ll know when it does, Akaran said, wandering up to Rowan, his face hard and contemptible like he was raring for a boxing match.

A near head taller and noticeably broader, Rowan’s half-brother’s black tunic and tabard stretched over the lines of his torso, putting every taut muscle on display. The scarlet sash around his sculpted waist was no mere afterthought, but a flashy statement.

Lord Ferron’s Enforcer will be making his grand entrance like he does every year, Akaran said. Just you watch.

His Enforcer? Rowan asked, trying not to sound too ignorant.

Don’t get him started, Ravel said, raking a hand through his short, tousled hair. It’ll only lead to an angry rant.

Akaran scowled, rolling his eyes. How can I not be angry? That Mestrian cur marches into Arjun like he’s the conquering hero who slayed King Wilkar a hundred years ago.

Ravel nudged Rowan in the shoulder with more pressure than he probably realized. See what I mean? Akaran has had heated run-ins with him in the past. Ravel stared directly at his friend and fellow pugilist. Try to exercise civility, Aka.

Akaran glowered, and his sharp, dimpled chin tightened. Like wine and hard liquor, that word and I don’t mix.

Except when it comes to Tahira, Rowan said with a touch of levity, keenly aware of his brother’s broiling emotions.

Akaran relaxed his shoulders, if only by a small measure. I’m only civil with her for one very good reason. I’m afraid she’ll douse me with some strange substance, and I’ll become a mindless oaf.

Rowan gave a humorless snort. You’re sounding paranoid again. Tahira told me she isn’t going to turn into Zamara on us.

Akaran chuckled like he’d just heard a joke. You certain about that?

Rowan shot his brother a resolute stare. Yes, I’m certain.

Perhaps you should pay closer attention, then.

Rowan’s shoulders bristled at his brother’s pointed comment. What’s that supposed to mean?

Akaran shrugged. Curiosity has a way of dragging us down a deep, dark shaft, if we aren’t careful. Trust me, I’m speaking from experience.

And you’re suggesting Tahira will take a similar dive into dark waters?

Akaran stooped his head, meeting Rowan’s gaze. I know the compelling look in her eye. His voice lowered, a whisper for Rowan’s ears only. She’s curious to know the extent of her conjuring abilities. I’m sure you remember how that feels—to have untold power in the palm of your hands.

A power I never wanted, Rowan said. I’m glad to be rid of it.

Akaran scoffed, as if—to him—Rowan remained a vexing conundrum. "Not all of us are like you. We don’t share your good morals."

Now, now, Aka, Ravel chided, wrapping a hand around Akaran’s shoulder and pulling him out of Rowan’s face. Don’t be stirring up strife between the young lovers. If you need to take the edge off after this, we can spar to your heart’s content. You can imagine me as the Enforcer—that should help unleash your bottled fury.

You may regret saying that, Akaran jeered, though his tone lacked his usual bravado.

Honestly, seeing his brother this bothered stirred up Rowan’s own anxiety. Why are you so worried? You’re the wealthiest baron amongst us. Your tribute should be accepted.

Akaran sniffed. Wealth is meaningless if it can be seized in a sneaky power grab. The Mestrians are known to do that, especially if there’s war on the horizon.

War? Rowan said with a disturbed frown. With whom?

Agribor. Akaran’s eyes darkened, then went flat. I’ve heard the rumors from the military dogs who gloat about Mestria’s unstoppable conquests. Believe me, another kingdom is soon to fall and become another vassal like us.

Let’s hope you’re just being paranoid, Ravel said, but even he appeared far more uneasy after Akaran’s doom-filled statement.

A feeling Rowan shared. Worry pricked his mind, dredging up the possible repercussions. War could ravage Shandria’s economy.

Mestria would tighten its grip on our iron industry.

They would require more and pay less for it. If war occurs, Rowan said, we could be in for a harsh winter.

A loud, grating noise like a massive beast’s growl silenced the crowd. The garrison’s slotted gate at last opened.

We’ll know in a moment, won’t we? Akaran said, as he tsked, then snarled, staring hotly ahead. The Enforcer finally shows his face.

Chapter 2

The Enforcer

Aherald stood at the garrison’s entrance and blasted a loud horn. In a strangely deep voice that belied his wheat-stalk stature, the young official announced, Lord Anson Grimaud presiding. The iron tribute will now be collected.

I can see the Enforcer likes a grand entrance, Rowan remarked in an obvious sardonic tone.

Oh, it gets worse, Akaran said, sulking with annoyance. His brother would soon learn, as Akaran already knew, that Anson Grimaud was nothing but an iron-leaching thug.

Anson strolled past the gate like it had opened solely for him and not the guards in accompaniment or even Lord Ferron, the actual magistrate. Black armor trimmed with golden accents melded to Anson’s impressive frame. No other soldier in the Mestrian army that Akaran had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting exuded a more imperious aura—or more irksome.

Just watching the Enforcer strut up to the first unlucky baron was enough to ignite a violent spark in Akaran’s mind.

Ravel sent him an admonishing glare. Contain your emotions, Aka.

They’re contained—

Then why do I feel your seething hatred like spit on the back of my neck?

Oh, shut up, Rav.

Waiting for Akaran’s turn to arrive was like waiting for ice to melt in the dead of winter. Lord Ferron proceeded systematically through his allotted barons; Anson followed no order at all. He picked barons at random.

Probably to make everyone sweat.

Well, Akaran was in no mood to sweat, at least not until later when he and Ravel would spar.

Ravel’s turn came and went like a heavily favored match. His father, Ira Grise—a shrewd baron well-versed in metallurgy and the law—knew all the sycophant tricks to appease Anson in a timely manner.

Much like Adelkar had.

His late uncle had possessed that bureaucratic tact Akaran lacked; Akaran preferred speaking off-the-cuff. If it earned him a fist, he was more than capable of dishing it back ten-fold.

Of course, taking that approach with a Mestrian would land him in prison. And so, Akaran clamped his fists, chewed the inside of his lip, and inwardly fumed. It was as if Anson was purposely saving Akaran’s tribute for last simply for spite.

Anson inspected two other small-time barons before circling to Rowan. The new Baron Myras, I presume?

Rowan Myras, Rowan said with calm composure.

Yes, the long-lost grandson, Ferron tells me. Your old man was fortunate to have a living relation to inherit his wealth.

Yes, or your government would’ve seized it—well, that was, if Adelkar’s plan hadn’t succeeded first.

Akaran hadn’t been a friend to his half-brother when they first met. He had shared his uncle’s desire to possess Iron Crossing through any means necessary, but that was before he discovered Adelkar’s fraud and theft of Akaran’s own inheritance. Akaran now saw his brother’s legitimate ownership as a multifaceted blessing. And, most importantly, it kept the Mestrians off their ancestral lands. Perhaps Anson had even sought Iron Crossing himself. It wasn’t uncommon for young military lords to seek estates in neighboring lands to establish wealth, status, and more bragging rights before returning to Eldon, Mestria’s capital city.

He’s got that ambitious look in his eyes, all right.

My tribute, lord, Rowan said, gesturing to his collection of wagons.

As it was his brother’s first tribute, Rowan’s mine captain handled much of the details. Keld answered whatever nosy or speculating questions the Enforcer asked as he surveyed the wagons.

Anson seized one of the chunks of ironstone and his mouth curved. Not a bad haul. The iron appears to be of exceptional quality.

The smelters will attest to it, Rowan said.

Yes, well, we shall be taking it to them directly. Your tribute is accepted, baron.

Anson turned and made his final approach toward Akaran.

Anson’s hooded, icy-blue eyes locked onto Akaran’s, and they stood before each other like two pugilists squaring up before a match. The Mestrian’s long, coal-black hair, smoothly slicked back, gave him a distinctly patrician air, but Akaran wasn’t fooled by the aristocratic façade. Anson was a man of brute force. The thickness of his fingers, broad knuckles, and calcified palms denoted a man who wielded great strength in his hands and body. With what was probably a painstaking obsession, he had honed it as a weapon; like Akaran had. Although, there was that remarkable broadsword at Anson’s hip that Akaran had no skill for. Only Mestria’s highborn class possessed the right to bear a sword, yet another way the Immortal King kept the masses under his supreme control.

Baron Keliss.

Akaran straightened his shoulders and faced Anson with confidence. Expecting someone else, Enforcer?

The Mestrian’s expression remained impassive. It would appear the rumors concerning Baron Adelkar are not unfounded. A gruesome tale, from what I hear.

He met with an unfortunate end. It was all Akaran would say, no matter how much Anson pressed him. I am here in his stead, managing just fine.

I was surprised to learn of his death, Anson continued. It leaves me with much to speculate.

Akaran stood his ground, offering nothing. Are you going to approve my tribute or chisel for more of a story?

Hm, yes, there will be time for chiseling later. The Enforcer turned to observe the ten wagons of iron ore. "You have had a profitable year, young baron."

Akaran remained silent, though he wondered at the emphasis on his younger age. Anson couldn’t be more than eight years his senior.

As that is so, we will be requiring more. Consider it a special tax on the wealthiest.

Akaran’s temper sparked like firestone. You greedy bas—

Now, baron, Anson said with a chiding click of his tongue, do watch how you address me. Or I may raise speculation to Ferron on how Baron Adelkar really died. A knife to the heart sounds quite personal.

Akaran swallowed a curse.

Now that we understand one another, I will send my captain, Dangeal, to your mines to seize the extra tax. Oh, and of course, the Immortal King thanks you for your tribute. It shall aid us greatly in our war effort.

With that, Anson strolled down the street, like he had more denizens to swindle and terrify.

See, brother? Akaran grumbled under his breath. What did I tell you, huh? Curses.

Seems you were right, Rowan said, staring after the Enforcer. Want me to come along to Castle Crag? Keep an eye out for you?

Akaran shook his head. Ravel and I will handle this. Despite his ire, Akaran was somewhat mollified by Rowan’s willingness to help. Return to your home, brother. Do something to put your tenants’ minds at ease.

Rowan grinned. Good advice, for once.

I have my moments.

A shame they’re so rare, Rowan teased. But thanks to your suggestion, I know exactly what will lift their spirits. He put his hand on Akaran’s shoulder, and a more solemn sheen stole over his red eyes. Stay out of trouble, brother. I know you don’t want me to come save your neck again.

Akaran snickered. I intend to keep that outcome as rare as possible.

Rowan scampered off, rejoining with his mine captain. At least his brother could be spared further contention on this infamous day. Akaran fought back the dread blooming in the pit of his stomach that his was just beginning.

Come, Rav, Akaran said, marching to retrieve his horse, Aryx. He’d left his steed stabled at The Red Canary, his favorite inn and tavern. Unfortunately, there’d be no wine-indulging today. Such a tongue-crushing pity. Let’s not keep our overlords waiting.

Rowan and Keld returned to their wagon, each sharing a look of naked relief when they were once more seated.

I’m glad that’s over with, Rowan said.

Yes, until next year. Keld slapped the reins and the wagon jerked forward, traveling down the congested street. You conducted yourself well and maintained your dignity, Rowan. It isn’t always easy in the face of our overlords. Rahn would’ve been proud of your calm composure. It’s proven folly to draw attention to yourself.

You mean, like my brother does? Rowan joked.

Keld nodded with a quirk of his mouth. We have a saying in Shandria, ‘Don’t chisel above grass where hawks fly.’ Your brother would do well to remember it.

His friend Ravel will ensure he does. Even though Rowan said that, his thoughts remained on Akaran. He hoped the Mestrians heading to Castle Crag didn’t provoke his brother into brash behavior.

The wagon rattled along, churning frozen slush, passing the rows of tribute tables once more. The long lines had dwindled as most Shandrians had handed over their hard-earned marks.

Rowan eased into his seat for the remainder of the ride when a sudden burst of shrill cries caused him to jolt forward. A flood of commotion erupted from a table along Forge Row. The Enforcer, like a soul-devouring Moonshade in human form, towered over a middle-aged couple with two kids. Their son, a boy in his early teens, and their daughter, a willowy girl maybe several years older, cowered in fright. Anson Grimaud’s maniacal hands gripped them by their collars, prying the kids away from the arms of their pleading parents. A pair of guards with swords drawn cast the mother and father to their knees on the frosted dirt.

The scene reminded Rowan too much of those countless days he faced eating fistfuls of sand after taking a thrashing from the nasty twins in his home village of Karahvel. Those miscreants never ceased harassing him with their ridiculing jeers and bullying jabs.

Keld, stop the wagon.

Keld did so with a firm Whoa, whoa to the horses.

What’s happening over there? Rowan pointed.

Keld spied the disturbance, and shock contorted his face. It looks like Parn and Kaula didn’t meet the required tax.

You know them?

Keld flicked his head in a tense nod. They live on Kaklin Hill not far from my house. My kids and theirs are friends. I’m afraid Kaula has been suffering from a debilitating illness. A good amount of Parn’s wages goes to procuring remedies and tinctures to treat it, but I had no idea things were this bad. Last time we spoke, he didn’t mention a word about it.

If they lived on the hill, that meant the family was one of Rowan’s tenants. Responsibility gripped his chest. He didn’t recognize their names, which likely meant Parn didn’t work as a miner.

Maybe a field hand, then.

Wait, I thought my grandfather established a treasury to prevent this from happening? Rowan was still so new to the ins and outs of his baronship, but he was at least aware of his late grandfather Rahn’s contingency plan for this very purpose.

Yes, and Parn knows this, Keld said, clamping down on his lip, so why didn’t he let me or Warin know he was in steep financial trouble?

If they don’t meet the tax, they’ll be imprisoned, won’t they?

Parn and Kaula would, yes, but that doesn’t settle the issue of the debt. Keld hung his curly head, the brim of his cap shadowing his eyes as he tightened his grip on the reins. The Mestrians will get it by other means.

Rowan swallowed. What sort of other means?

Keld bore a grim expression. They’ll take the boy and conscript him into the Immortal King’s army.

And the girl?

Keld passed a hand over his jaw, rubbing at his beard. Probably become a servant to one of the soldiers or something far worse.

Rowan’s heart pulsed as soldiers seized the brother and sister, pulling them over to an iron-barred cart. Those in line did nothing to help, all appearing too downtrodden to even unshackle their mouths in protest.

The sight snapped something fierce inside Rowan, and in the next breath, he leapt clear of the wagon. Keld yelled a warning to him, but Rowan couldn’t decipher the words over the gut-wrenching wails from the despondent mother.

Still water, steady heart. His fourth guardian-mother Naja’s faithful mantra washed over him. See the beast as an equal and be fearless in your strike.

A predatory animal may not have lurked before Rowan at this moment, but men with beastly intentions stood as a menacing threat. Steeling his nerves, Rowan pushed his way through the riled-yet-overly-submissive crowd.

Enforcer, Rowan called out.

The surrounding Shandrians gasped as if Rowan had uttered a curse.

Grimaud turned his head and tsked. This does not concern you.

As you’re seizing two of my tenants, I say it does. Rowan’s defiant statement earned the full weight of the Enforcer’s attention.

They failed to meet the required tax. Now their children will work to pay it. A haughty and sinister sheen warped Grimaud’s icy-blue irises. I need a groom for my warhorse. This boy will serve me well. If not—Grimaud shrugged his armored shoulders—he will join our dreg ranks as a low-foot soldier.

Rowan didn’t understand what dreg ranks meant, but given the nature of Grimaud’s condescending tone, it must’ve been the lowest of the low in the Mestrian army. And what use is the girl to you?

Grimaud’s response came quick and curt. The garrison could use another scullery maid.

The snicker of two nearby tax officials made it clear the girl’s occupation would be something else entirely. The pitch of their mockery pricked at Rowan’s memories, and he had to force out a quiet breath to temper his scalding emotions.

Rowan focused on the foremost Mestrian official, whose rotund gut and thick neck indicated he did more desk work than actual soldiering. What does this family owe?

A remainder of one hundred silver marks, the heavyset tax official gruffly said.

Rowan didn’t balk at the amount. He pulled the pouch from his belt and dropped it on the table. This should cover their tribute.

The tax official’s chunky jowl slipped open in surprise. He recovered and dumped the pouch’s contents before his big, miserly fingers.