I woke before dawn with the dream still vivid in my mind.

  The others stirred as first light touched the clearing. Adrian looked better than he had the night before. Color had returned to his face. He moved with something approaching his normal energy.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Ready.” He mounted with only a slight wince. “Let’s go save our friends.”

  We rode out of the clearing as the sun cleared the eastern hills. Dunmarch waited ahead.

  Chapter 34

  Sore Legs

  The horses had rested enough to manage the pace we needed. A steady canter that ate miles without destroying the animals beneath us. Brennan had shown me this technique once. The kind of riding that got you somewhere fast without leaving you stranded with a dead mount.

  Whatever weakness had plagued Adrian the night before seemed to have retreated behind a wall of sheer stubbornness. His face held the drawn look of someone running on willpower alone, but his hands stayed steady on the reins and his posture remained upright.

  Roderick and Henrick flanked him as always. The guards had positioned themselves close enough to catch him if he started to fall but far enough to give him dignity. Professional protection that did not look like coddling. They knew their prince well enough to understand that appearing weak would hurt him more than the ride itself.

  Felix and I brought up the rear. Neither of us had spent much time on horseback before this trip to Keldrath. The weeks of travel had improved our skills, but improvement was relative. I could stay in the saddle. I could guide my horse in the right direction. Beyond that, my abilities remained limited.

  The first hour passed in silence.

  The road wound through farmland and forest with the casual disregard of something built long ago for purposes no one remembered.

  We passed villages that looked half-abandoned. Farms where the fields had gone to weeds. The same pattern of economic decay we had seen throughout Keldrath, concentrated here in the rural stretches between major towns. People had left or given up or simply stopped caring about land that no longer supported them.

  “The consortium’s reach,” Adrian said during one of our brief walking breaks. We had stopped to let the horses drink from a stream. “Every failed farm. Every empty village. All of it traces back to the same source.”

  “We knew they controlled the supply routes,” I said. “We didn’t know how thoroughly.”

  “Neither did I. Not really.” Adrian splashed water on his face and winced as it touched the bruises left by his captors. “I came here expecting politics. Trade disputes. The normal friction between kingdoms trying to work together.” He shook his head. “This is something else. Someone has spent years building this. They’re patient and methodical. Squeezing Keldrath until it has no choice but to comply.”

  “Edmund Gray.”

  “Maybe. Probably. The name keeps coming up, but no one has actually seen him.” Adrian remounted with a grunt of effort. “Whoever he is, he’s about to learn what happens when you push too hard. Dunmarch proved that people will fight back if you give them something worth fighting for.”

  “That’s what makes them a target.”

  “That’s what makes them dangerous. To him.” Adrian gathered his reins. “Let’s move.”

  The second hour brought pain.

  The pain was dull rather than sharp. The steady accumulation of discomfort that came from sitting on a moving horse for too long. My legs ached. My back protested every bounce and jostle. Muscles I had not known existed announced their presence through increasingly loud complaints.

  Felix looked equally miserable. His normally neat appearance had dissolved into something disheveled and exhausted. His grip on the reins had the white-knuckled intensity of someone who refused to fall off through sheer determination.

  “How do they do this?” he muttered during a brief stretch when the road allowed us to ride side by side. “The guards. Adrian. They look like they could ride all day.”

  “Training and experience.” I shifted in my saddle and immediately regretted it. “Years of practice that we don’t have.”

  “When this is over, I’m never getting on a horse again.”

  “You said that after the trip to Ironhollow.”

  “I meant it then too.” Felix winced as his horse stumbled over a root. “Katherine wants to go riding for our honeymoon. I may have to tell her I’ve developed an allergy.”

  “To horses?”

  “To anything that moves faster than walking pace.”

  Despite the pain, I found myself smiling. Felix complaining was Felix coping. As long as he had something to grumble about, I knew he was handling the situation.

  Adrian provided details during the third hour.

  He had heard more than he initially shared. Fragments of conversation captured while he pretended to be unconscious. Names and places and numbers that painted a picture of the attack to come.

  “Swords. Clubs. Axes. The leader even mentioned something about not wanting to burn the town. They want to destroy the systems, not the buildings. He wants to make an example without creating obvious evidence of arson.”

  “So they’ll break wards, smash equipment, and beat anyone who resists.”

  “And leave the buildings standing so it looks like accidents and bad luck rather than deliberate attack.” Adrian’s jaw tightened. “The same pattern they’ve used everywhere else. Just accelerated.”

  Roderick spoke up from his position beside Adrian. “Did they mention timing? How soon they planned to move?”

  “Today. Tomorrow at the latest. They expected Duncan to be distracted by my disappearance for at least a week. Long enough to hit Dunmarch and retreat before anyone could respond.”

  “They don’t know you’re free,” Henrick said.

  “Not yet. The men at the mill will report eventually, but it takes time for information to travel. We might have a few hours of surprise.”

  “A few hours.” I thought about what ward work, preparations and warnings we could accomplish in that time to help the townspeople prepare their own defenses. “It’s not much.”

  “It’s what we have.” Adrian kicked his horse into a faster pace. “Let’s not waste it.”

  The fourth hour nearly broke me.

  Every part of my body had surrendered to the reality of continuous motion. My legs had gone numb somewhere around the third mile marker. My back had stopped complaining and started simply refusing to cooperate. Even my hands ached from gripping the reins.

  But Dunmarch waited ahead. The people who had trusted us. Who had defied the trade commission because we convinced them it was worth the risk. Who had celebrated with us at the Copper Kettle and shared their hopes for a better future.

  They did not know what approached. Did not know that their defiance had painted a target on their entire town. Did not know that thirty armed men planned to tear apart everything they had built.

  We owed them warning. We owed them help. We owed them whatever we could provide, even if that meant riding until our bodies gave out.

  “There.” Roderick pointed toward the horizon. “The church tower.”

  I squinted against the afternoon sun. A thin spire rose above the trees ahead. The church at Dunmarch, the same one we had passed on our first visit to the town. We had made jokes about the crooked weather vane. Had not known then how much this place would come to matter.

  “Half mile,” Henrick estimated. “Maybe less.”

  Adrian straightened in his saddle. The exhaustion that had dogged him for hours seemed to fade as the goal came into view. His face hardened into something that looked almost princely despite the dirt and bruises.

  “We made it,” Felix said. The words held disbelief and relief in equal measure.

  I nodded. “Now we have to make sure it means something.”

  Dunmarch appeared much as we had left it. The same sturdy buildings lined the main street and the same smoke rose from chimneys. The same rhythm of daily life had continued while we chased conspiracies across Keldrath.

  But something felt different as we rode in. The townspeople who noticed our approach didn’t wave or call greetings. They stopped and stared and whispered to each other with expressions that shifted from confusion to recognition to concern.

  “Word travels,” Roderick observed. “They know something happened.”

  “They expected us back weeks ago. They’ve been wondering why we never came.” I scanned the street for familiar faces. “Rumors fill the silence when people don’t have answers.”

  Alderman Marsh emerged from the town hall as we reached the central square. Her practical dress and no-nonsense expression had not changed, but the lines around her eyes had deepened. Worry, I realized. She had been worried about us.

  “You’re back.” She stopped a few paces from our horses and studied our group with sharp attention. “And you look dreadful.”

  “I promise we feel worse.” I dismounted with a groan and nearly collapsed when my legs tried to hold my weight. “We need to talk. Somewhere private. Immediately.”

  Her eyes moved to Adrian. To the bruises on his face. To the way Roderick and Henrick positioned themselves like shields.

  “Inside,” she said. “Now.”

  We gathered in the same meeting room where we had first presented our plans for the cross-trade system.

  The table still held maps and lists from our previous work. Evidence of a town that had embraced change and kept moving forward even after we left. Dunmarch had not simply accepted our help and waited for more. They had taken what we taught them and built on it.

  Now someone wanted to tear it all down.

  “Thirty men,” Alderman Marsh said after we finished explaining. Her voice held no panic. Just the cold assessment of someone calculating odds. “Professional fighters. Coming to destroy everything we’ve built.”

  “We don’t know exactly when,” I said. “Today. Tomorrow. Soon.”

  “And help from Valdmere?”

  “Brennan is riding to warn Prince Duncan. Reinforcements should arrive tomorrow night at the earliest. More likely the morning after.”

  “So we hold alone until then.” She looked around the room at the faces of the other town leaders who had gathered. The smith. The baker. The local glyphwright who had worked with us on the preservation wards. “We’ve done it before. When the commission tried to shut us down. Dunmarch doesn’t fold.”

  “This is different,” Adrian said. He stood despite his exhaustion, and some of the commanding presence he carried in Valdmere’s courts showed through the dirt and weariness. “These aren’t bureaucrats with paperwork or bandits looking for easy targets. These are soldiers sent to make an example. They won’t stop because you resist. They’ll hurt you worse for trying.”

  “Then we hurt them first.” The smith stood and cracked his knuckles. His arms bore the muscle of years at the forge. “You taught us how to stand up. You gave us reasons to fight. Now give us tools.”

  I looked at Felix. He nodded.

  “We can set traps,” I said. “Ward work designed to stop a charge. Ice patterns that will freeze anyone who steps on them. It won’t be enough to stop thirty men entirely, but it might even the odds.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Time. Materials. And volunteers willing to dig holes in very specific locations.”

  Alderman Marsh smiled for the first time since we arrived. It was not a pleasant expression. It was the smile of someone who had spent months being pushed and had finally found a way to push back.

  “You’ll have all three,” she said. “Dunmarch stands together, and the land remembers. Always has. Always will.” She turned to the assembled leaders. “Spread the word to everyone who can hold a weapon or dig a hole. We have work to do.”

  The room emptied as people moved to their tasks. Within minutes, only our group remained with Alderman Marsh.

  “Thank you,” I said. “For believing us. And for being willing to fight.”

  “Thank you for coming back.” She met my eyes with an intensity that made me stand straighter. “You could have run. Could have left us to face this alone while you fled south to safety. Instead you rode four hours on horseback to warn us.” She reached out and clasped my arm. “That means something. To all of us.”

  Through the window, I could see townspeople already gathering. Farmers with pitchforks. Shopkeepers with hammers. Ordinary people preparing to defend their home against professional killers.

  We had given them hope. Now we needed to give them a chance.

  “Felix,” I said. “Let’s find some bedrock.”

  Chapter 35

  Familiar Faces

  The work began immediately.

  Alderman Marsh had the town organized within the hour. Farmers brought pitchforks and hoes. The smith gathered hammers and tongs and anything else that could serve as a weapon. Shopkeepers appeared with clubs and staves. Even the baker arrived with a heavy rolling pin that looked like it could crack skulls.

  The town square transformed into something between an armory and a workshop. Tables appeared from nowhere. Torches were lit against the fading light. Dunmarch prepared for war with the same practical efficiency it brought to harvest season.

  “Not exactly a military arsenal,” Roderick observed as the townspeople assembled their makeshift armaments.

  “It’s what they have.” I examined a pitchfork that a young farmer held with nervous determination. The tines were sharp enough, but the wooden handle would splinter against a real sword. “We can make it better.”

  Felix had already set up a workspace near the town square. Our remaining supplies were spread across a borrowed table. Compounds and inks and the tools we had carried across Keldrath. Local supplies were added to the pile and several of their glyphwrights mixed ink for us.

  “Durability wards first,” I said. “Reinforce the handles. Strengthen the metal. Make sure these things don’t break on first contact.”

  “I’ll start with the farming tools.” Felix picked up a hoe and examined its construction. “The smith’s equipment is already stronger. We can do those last.”

  The townspeople watched as we worked. I inscribed patterns onto wooden handles that would distribute impact force across the entire length instead of concentrating it at the strike point. Felix added corrosion resistance to metal heads that had never been designed for combat.

  “Will this really help?” the young farmer asked. He had not released his pitchfork since arriving.

  “It won’t turn you into a soldier,” I said honestly. “But it means your weapon won’t fail you when you need it. The rest is up to you.”

  He nodded and gripped the pitchfork tighter. Whatever fear he felt, he had decided to face it standing.

  The smith brought his own contribution.

  “I’d like weight amplification,” he said as he set two heavy sticks on our table. Oak branches he had shaped and reinforced with iron bands. “You did something similar for a friend’s warhammer. I heard the story.”

  I picked up one of the sticks and tested its balance. It was solid and well-made. The kind of practical craftsmanship that came from years at the forge.

  “Tom’s warhammer,” I said. “The technique increases effective striking force without adding actual weight. Makes the weapon hit harder than it should.”

  “Can you do that for these?”

  “For you?”

  “For you and your partner.” The smith’s expression held no room for argument. “You’re not fighters. Anyone can see that. But if you’re going to be out there when trouble comes, you should have something that gives you a chance.”

  I looked at Felix. He shrugged.

  “Thank you,” I said. “We’ll make good use of them.”

  The amplification wards took longer than the durability work. The patterns required precise calibration to avoid making the weapons unwieldy. Too much amplification and the user’s own strength would work against them. Too little and the effect would not matter.

  I finished my stick as the afternoon light began to fade. Felix completed his a few minutes later. We tested them against a fence post that the smith had designated as a target. The impacts left deeper marks than bare wood should have managed.

  “Not bad,” Roderick said. He had watched the entire process with professional interest. “Won’t replace proper training. But it’s something.”

  “Something is better than nothing.” I set the stick aside and turned to the guards. “Speaking of proper equipment. Let me check those jerkins we inscribed back in Valdmere.”

  The leather jerkins had held up well despite everything.

  The inscriptions we had applied before the rescue remained intact. They were all still functional and ready to activate if needed.

  “The stun ward that caught us at the inn,” Henrick said while I examined his equipment. “Would these have helped?”

  “Maybe. The dissolution ward would have broken the bindings faster. The dispersal might have reduced the stun effect.” I traced the patterns to check for wear. “Hard to say for certain. That trap was quite sophisticated.”

  “More sophisticated than what’s coming tomorrow?”

  “Different. The trap was designed for capture. What’s coming tomorrow is designed for destruction.” I finished my examination and stepped back. “Your equipment is sound. Just stay close to each other and don’t take unnecessary risks.”

  “Unnecessary risks.” Roderick almost smiled. “Like charging into a fight outnumbered against professional soldiers with farmers and tradesmen at our backs as support?”

  “Like getting separated or surrounded. Like trying to be heroes instead of staying alive.” I met his eyes. “Adrian needs you. Both of you. Whatever happens tomorrow, your job is to keep him safe.”