Whoever was in charge of setting up the command tent had had enough intelligence to retreat far enough from the battlefield to begin setting up camp. People weren’t being forced to bed down on muddy ground littered with the body parts of friends and families, but that had been about the extent of their reasoning.

As we crossed the tent opening that was being guarded and afforded a modicum of privacy for those of rank, we could hear the shouting and arguing that was taking place. We should have been challenged, stopped from entering, but the two Sidhe standing guard recognized me. They knew exactly what role I had played in saving their lives and the lives of everyone in camp. Our party swept into the tent without fanfare, our entrance putting an end to whatever discussion had been taking place.

The tent’s purpose may have been to serve as a command center at one point, but now it had been transformed into a glorified morgue. One body, surrounded by men and women, lay in state. Of the people gathered, a few were crying, some were filled with anger, and all of them had shoulders slumped with defeat. They had taken time and effort to make sure that body was treated with care and respect. Time and effort they should have spent seeing to the living.

I could only assume, based on dress, that the dead body was their Lord. He was Seelie, garbed in leather armor. A sword lay clasped between folded hands, the hilt placed over his chest. It was hard to see what wound had been so grievous as to kill him from the entrance. I moved to take a closer look, and as I did, I was finally challenged by one of the attendants.

I had been King too long to care or even acknowledge that challenge, and simply swept it and the person who stood before me aside. My examination of the body required little investigation. I could see where new wounds had closed, the Seelie Lord’s regenerative ability working as they should. I had to move the sword and clasped hands to find the killing blow.

He had been pierced through the heart. That in and of itself wouldn’t have killed him, but the Fomorians had used iron weapons. Very few Sidhe could withstand this attack, the poison from that metal our [Bane]. I wasn’t sure why the Goddess Danu had allowed such an obvious weakness to propagate within her children, but she had. Maybe it was a matter of balance.

If there wasn’t a way to kill the Immortal Sidhe, we might have descended across the Universe like a swarm of locusts. Except for a few of the most resilient Sidhe, the Abiba and Gremlins, iron acted to sever our connection with nature and the essence that made us Sidhe.

The wailing and gnashing of teeth had increased in volume as I conducted my examination, the woman most vocal from his wife or mate. At least I assumed she was his wife based on her dress and bearing. Both spoke of position and lineage.

But something seemed off about her actions. They were contrived, more an act. Done for dramatic effect than a real expression of grief. Her tears were artful, instead of honest. The entire tableau was a staged event. I just wasn’t sure if she was staging it for those that had survived or if they were staging it to appease her.

“Who’s in charge?” I asked, having gained everyone’s attention, and my understanding of how the Lord had died answered.

There were a few furtive glances, most of them pointedly ignoring the woman and looking to a grizzled, blood-spattered goblin for advice. She was an interesting contrast to the sterile perfection of the wife.

One was Seelie perfection. Alabaster skin, ruby lips, hair so black as to shimmer with purple highlights. Perfection paled next to the goblin, on the other hand, who was more interesting to look at. She had three arms, three eyes, three legs, and three breasts. The extra appendage for each, placed on the right side of her body.

Her eyes were arresting pools of bottomless black. A void empty of reflection that could draw you in. It gave beauty to her features. A monstrous beauty that was found in all Sidhe no matter their race or faction.

I thought it more likely she was a guard trainer or Lord’s aid than anyone of rank, but from the glances she was given, she was the most trusted person left alive. She carried herself as if battle-hardened, comfortable in her body, and uncaring of Seelie sensibilities.

“I am Lady Clarice,” the richly appointed woman began.

“I didn’t ask for introductions,” I said, interrupting her. “I asked who was in charge?”

I noticed a few of the men taking insult at my words, a few others flinching and looking fearful, watching to see how Lady Clarice would respond. That told me as much as anything about what kind of woman she was and what kind of Lord had been tasked with guarding these people. When you had armed forces either toadying up to you or walking on eggshells around you, then you had been allowed to become involved in areas that did not concern you.

The dead Lord that everyone was gathered around must have indulged her. Her piques of interest and fits of rage causing dissension in the ranks. His indulgence had created a cadre of troops afraid to speak up, afraid to make a move or take command because of how she might react.

“Lord Thomas was in command,” she hissed, “with his death, I am the highest-ranked Seelie, so the command will naturally fall to me.”

“I think not,” I said dismissively, “it seems the Sidhe are in a state of war, I doubt those in charge would be so lost to propriety or desperation as to allow someone with no training, no experience, and no ability to take charge in the event of the commander's death.

“Who would the Sidhe General protecting the front lines consider next in command?” I demanded.

That question got a larger reaction than I thought it should. Those Sidhe who I considered sycophants, the ones who probably spent time lavishing Clarice with praise and attention, looked to her with fear. But the Goblin I addressed my question too, smiled, almost licking her lips in satisfaction.

“Duchess Boadicea is the nominal General for our forces,” the goblin replied. “At least for the moment. The leader changes depending on success. If the Fomorians manage to hold the gains, they have taken, she will most certainly be replaced.”

“And you are?” I asked.

“Sergeant-at-arms Rhea,” she answered.

I finally understood the problem. Rhea was probably the most experienced of the remaining command structure, but sergeant-at-arms wasn’t considered part of the chain of command. It was her job to provide support for her Lord. She was his sword and shield and dispensed justice in his name when needed.

Her job was a thankless one, often dispatched or required by the Lord to do his dirty work. Most of the punishment details or dressing down for those officers remaining had probably come at the hands of this woman at one time or another. They resented her, but beneath that resentment, they had to acknowledge that she was the most suited to take command.

She would have been intimately familiar with the Lord’s thinking. As his right hand, she would have been privy to any communications he may have had with higher command. And she was the most likely to have known details of the mission that hadn’t been shared with the other officers.

A Sidhe sergeant-at-arms was a secretary, squire, adjudicator, and trusted confidant. They were groomed and trained to be indispensable extensions of the people they served. And the relationship between the Lord and this Goblin woman had to rankle Lady Clarice.

The relationship and trust placed with a Sergeant-at-arms was so profound that most were made retainers, accepted as part of a Lord’s House, swearing fealty to the person they severed. The private discussions, the sharing of military secrets, the ability to command and speak in the Lord’s stead. Each time Rhea acted or interacted with Lord Thomas only ignited the fire of jealousy among the guards and with Lady Clarice.

“Then, as the person most familiar with Lord Thomas’ plans, it makes sense for you to take charge,” I said, daring anyone to disagree.

A few may have wanted to, but they had watched as I had decimated fifty, or so Fomorians by myself. They might question my authority silently, but none of them were brave enough, or foolish enough, to voice their objections.

“I believe you were tasked with leading and protecting these people?” I asked. No one objected or refuted that question, so I would work under the assumption that the people that had spoken with Caraid and Tia had been correct.

“If that is the case,” I drawled warningly, “then why are you all clustered in this tent around a dead man, instead of outside helping the people getting settled, making camp, and getting fed?”

No one took my words as a warning or as a hint. None decided to get moving, to go outside and do their job. I waited for a moment to see if anyone would, looking them each in the eye, hoping that one of them would step up to the line and do their job.

Thankfully, finally, the Sergeant-at-arms did.