22.1

To reach Castle Blackpool from the South, one had to ascend a steep, narrow road cut into the hill's rock. The road's tight switchbacks had been cleverly designed so that travelers always had a rock wall to one side, and a sheer drop off to the other. It was remarkably easy to defend.

The route was notoriously treacherous in winter. The ice added to the ever-present danger from the soldiers who awaited above.

A lone horseman picked his way slowly up this winding road toward the castle's gate. As the man ascended, his eyes moved along the horizon, then back to the plains below. He had almost forgotten how peaceful the snow-covered northern landscape looked at dusk. He took a deep breath, savoring the irony as the cold air filled his lungs.

He glanced up the gray cliff's face warily. He could feel the eyes of the guards in the battlements above follow his progress up the road. He knew they had been observing him since he left the Plains of Death. The soft sound of crunching snow in the rocks above reminded him the distant battlements were not the only observation points. By now, at least a dozen archers along the cliffs above probably had him in their sights.

With no identifying colors or shield emblem to confirm his allegiance, it was extremely dangerous to approach the castle this way. There was a good chance that the archers had requested permission from the castle to shoot him. Then again, it was likely that they already had such permission, and were merely waiting for him to get closer to the top. If they killed him now, someone would have to trudge down the hill and drag his body back up so that he could be identified.

The horseman shook his head in disgust and mumbled, "Archers are the laziest bastards in the whole northern army."

He decided to whistle an old Karteian battle song as his horse made its way around a curve, certain those above would recognize the tune. The horse stumbled on patch of ice momentarily. The man cursed the animal. He had stolen the sickly old nag from a southern peasant. Slow and stupid, this worthless creature would undoubtedly be put down as soon as Blackpool's stable-hands saw her.

He sighed wistfully, remembering the fine horses that the Northern military always kept for its officers. It had been many years since he had last raced down this very road with Dirk at breakneck speeds, their battle-trained chargers so familiar with every bump and hairpin turn that they could leave the drawbridge at a full run in the middle of the night and never stumble or hesitate.

He felt a pang of jealousy as he wondered who had become the royal horse master. There were other positions serving the new king whom he envied more though. He had no doubt that Cai Norstram had slithered his way into becoming seneschal. But he was curious to learn who would have won the inevitable fight to become captain of the castle guard. He imagined that there were many possible contenders among those in Dirk Blackpool's inner circle.

"There isn't a man in the castle I haven't beaten at one time or another," he whispered darkly to himself. "I should have had any damned position I wanted when Dirk took the throne."

As he neared the drawbridge that led the castle, the road flattened, moving away from the cliff's edge. On both sides of it, a long row of poles topped with human skulls marked the way to the castle's entrance. Within each skull, an eerie, purple light glowed. He surmised that the new king had set the family Wizard to the task of decorating.

A dozen guards already awaited him impatiently at the edge of the drawbridge. So confident were they of this traveller's identity now, they had not even bothered to raise the bridge. Not a single one had even drawn a weapon.

The guards' commander bellowed gaily, "Son of a Grox! Do my eyes deceive me?"

"You always were worthless as a wart on a Wizard's ass, Trevor!" the traveller yelled back, grinning.

Trevor laughed loudly, remembering the last time he heard those very words. This very man had used them to reprimand him five years earlier on the Western Perimeter, when Trevor was just a lowly infantryman. Now there could be no doubt of the new arrival's identity.

Kendall Kraxton, the notorious Butcher of Baaldorf, had returned from exile.