The wintry sky had turned crimson as the sun set behind the clouds to make way for the night. The once vigorous investigation had begun to slow down. The soldiers were either milling around, unsure of where to search next, or congregating in a huddle. It had become lethargic.

Cythraul, on horseback, trotted back to the carriage, having completed the initial investigation. Rupert, riding in the distance, shouted commands at his scouts to continue their search to the surrounding area. He flicked his reins and rode towards Cythraul to finally regroup.

Rupert drew his horse up to Cythraul, and they both descended to stand with Isten and Trulliad.

“Damnation! What the hell happened?” Cythraul said irately, his face lit by torch light.

“Do you think by chance that it might have been an illusionist at work instead of a warlock?” Rupert suggested.

“No! The body was real. Isten’s boots have bloodstains.” Cythraul replied and pointed at Isten’s feet. “This is a thorough job. It’s impossible for it not to be premeditated! And with that prophecy too… Why tell him that? This is far too convoluted.”

Trulliad had told Cythraul about the prophecy during the early investigation. All of them were as confused as Isten was about its meaning.

“You know that I’m not good at working these sorts of things out, Cythraul. I’m a knight and a general, not an intelligence officer. I can’t help you there,” Rupert shrugged. “Isten, when you reach Pentref, let your father know of the prophecy. If anyone knows, it’s the King’s spymaster.”

Cythraul nodded in agreement.

“However, my officers and I have concluded that they’ve infiltrated our encampment. It is our only assumption left to make. There was no suspicious activity in the serf’s villages nearby, nor did we find any tracks.” Rupert said.

“Agreed,” Cythraul replied. “When we continue our march tomorrow, those wretched traitors will expose themselves. They won’t be able to carry the body far.”

“I’ll inform the ranked officers to watch for any unruly behaviour tonight,” Rupert continued. “We believe it necessary to also send out informants. That will kick up a stir. We might find traces of the actors before dawn.”

“No. Let the officers deal with this tonight. If nothing happens, prepare the informants. If anyone has any information, they should pass it onto their commanding officers.” Cythraul commanded.

Leaving no time for Rupert to argue, he trudged off into the camp followed by Isten and Trulliad. Rupert remained, silently acquiescing. He organised the officers in preparation for the nights work.

Despite the winter night coming early, voices of men, women, and children alike animated the camp with a warm atmosphere. With the increased activity, the grass had been eroded into a muddy plane which children frolicked in, out of sight of their parents.

A temporary market had opened towards the centre of the encampment which attracted the attention of a swarming crowd.

“Weapons for sale! Pikes, spears, axes, and swords! All staffs and hilts are made from the wood of an ash tree! Best Channeler’s weapons available!”

“Hot stew, soup, and baked breads of all variety! Meats and fish, freshly cooked!”

“Linen shirts! Breeches! Boots! The newest clothes in fashion from Pentref, available at my store!”

Merchants continued to holler from their stalls into the crowd, warmed by campfires that lit the centre of the encampment.

They were joined by women who obtrusively waved handkerchiefs at passing men. Some accepted their attention, and they disappeared into the maze of tents.

Eventually, they stopped at a large war tent outside the market. It was several folds the size of the common tents and was heavily guarded by soldiers who wore the House Blodyn insignia.

They let the group pass through and Cythraul offered seats to Isten and Trulliad.

“Isten… Tomorrow, you set off early with my guard and serving staff. It is too great a risk to send you to Pentref alone with only a steward; particularly one who isn’t too adept in Malevolency.” Cythraul commanded.

“Can’t you come with us, to guarantee my safe journey to Pentref?” Isten asked expectantly.

“No. I must go to the frontier. I can’t abandon my diplomatic task. Too much rests on it, for both Cymorth, and Citadel,” Isten’s face dropped. “Though, this was a lucky encounter. I didn’t expect to meet you before the middle of next month.”

“I see…” Isten replied. Cythraul put a hand on his shoulder.

“You are in good hands, Isten. My guards are tested veterans that I trust greatly.”

“Thank you, Grandfather.” Isten replied with a nod.

“When you reach Pentref, you must let Lucien know. This is a matter of importance that should not be ignored by those miscreant courtiers,” Cythraul ranted. “Be careful, Isten. Cymorth is far more dangerous than it once was.”

“What should I do?” Isten asked.

“Politics is a ruthless game. Avoid it as much as possible,” Cythraul said. “As of late, the game is changing. It has become dangerous even to a man such as me.”

Isten nodded. However, inside he was frustrated. Isten was being told something he didn’t want to believe was true. His life was meant to improve, to become exciting. He couldn’t avoid Cymorthian politics if he wanted to find the excitement he had been dreaming of. The excitement that he needed to help him find meaning in his dreary, secluded life.

———

The night passed uneventfully while Isten and Trulliad slept in Cythraul’s tent. Their carriage was under the incessant guard of Rupert’s army, and they had been dissuaded from sleeping in it overnight.

It was dawn out, and they had each woken early. Cythraul stood at the entrance of the tent, staring outside, his face a storm. Each stage of the investigation had failed so far, and it was beginning to weigh upon him.

A commotion came from outside the tent which drew Isten’s attention. He passed Cythraul, and watched teenagers dressed in rags, and covered in dirt, scuttling around the camp. They succinctly informed one group of people of the traitor before moving to another.

The information spread like wildfire and an oppressive tension descended upon the camp. Neighbours looked at each other with suspicion, worried that someone near them might be secretly aiding a necromancer.

Isten turned to Cythraul, his eyes filled with worry.

“Why did you allow Rupert to spread information about the traitor?” He asked.

“It’s a small price to pay to purge those who wish to harm us, Isten. While the ranked officers will prevent a witch hunt,” Cythraul cupped his hands, “the traitor will feel a herculean pressure from the suspicion around them.”

“Indeed.” A voice interrupted. It was Rupert. He pushed through the entrance of the tent, the Blodyn guards granting him entry. “I’ve sent the informants to inform people to report anyone who: has acted oddly in the last 24 hours; if anyone other than the morticians have been seen preparing graves for corpses; have suspiciously used Malevolency; and finally, to watch for people running away or deserting camp.”

“Good.” Cythraul responded. “Isten, prepare to head to your carriage. It is time for you to leave. Rupert, walk with me.”

“One last thing before we go, Cythraul,” Rupert interjected. “Here, it’s the Channeler’s weapon I had the craftsmen make for you, Isten.”

Rupert passed over a long wand, about three hands long and a finger wide. Engraved runes spiraled around the wand’s sides. “It’s made from the bones of a half-transformed wolf. It greatly improves Malevolency channelling compared to the average weapon. It should serve to protect you well during your time at Pentref.”

“Wow! Thank you very much!” Isten exclaimed. A bright smile lighted his face.

Cythraul and Rupert left the tent, leaving Isten alone to himself. He twirled the wand around in his fingers but was quickly absorbed into his thoughts about the woman. The event had disturbed him.

“Bah! I have to stop thinking about it!” Isten moaned to himself. He ran out of the tent towards the carriage.

“There you are master Isten. I had been wondering where you went.” Trulliad called out. He stood outside the carriage that he had already prepared for the journey ahead to Pentref.

It was accompanied by several other carriages, which were occupied by some soldiers, servants, and other members of staff. They greeted Isten with a formal bow before continuing their preparations.

Isten nodded in response and entered his carriage. He continued reading from where he left off to dampen his thoughts. It wasn’t long before a whip cracked in the air and the soft beat of horseshoes set off against the muddy ground.

‘Not too far from now, I can become like those great men and women of yore. The courts, Malevolency, and my parents await.’ Isten smiled to himself.

The wind howled desperately in response, buffeting against the carriage walls.

———

Isten’s carriage set off into the countryside and brutal sable clouds lined the sky above them. The clouds threatened to take the sun captive, yet it avoided their grasp, barely preventing its life being snuffed out.

Cythraul watched them depart with Rupert as a distraction from their repeated failures.

The camp was being up heaved. Officers lined suspects for interrogation, though the vast majority would shortly be acquitted of suspicions. Those who had fallen into multiple offences would be tried before a tribunal, and then moved into confinement.

So far, no one had reached the tribunal stage. Cythraul secretly worried that no one would, and if they did, it wouldn’t be the real traitor.

Shrieks echoed around the camp as men and women denied responsibility for participating in the necromantic plot.

Rupert turned to Cythraul, “This is going shockingly poorly. How am I going to raise moral again after this? We have just accused the whole of my army of being traitors, for plotting with a necromantic organisation.” Rupert lamented.

“Pipe down, Rupert. With our combined strength, we could put down a rebellion of some pathetic soldiers, even if ranked officers joined in with them. Quelling dissent is easy.” Cythraul replied.

“If we were all as callous as you, it would be easy. Rule by fear is your motto. Ends justify any means,” Rupert retorted. “However, I don’t ever send my soldiers out like cannon fodder; or treated them like batteries for that matter.”

Cythraul paused. “If you are that concerned about army morale, we’ll hold a public execution. Aim their discontent at being wrongfully accused to the actual perpetrator.”

“Fine. But you owe me for abusing your power.” Rupert insisted.

“This was absolutely necessary. That prediction, delivered in a macabre spectacle, was not a prophecy. It was those necromantic harbingers forewarning a future assassination attempt by their organisation."

“It was purposefully a theatrical display, a provocation even, for them to delight in what they are going to do. By taking drastic actions now, we can get more information and take them out early.” Cythraul explained sullenly.

Rupert was about to respond, but the conversation was interrupted by a messenger.

“Lords,” The messenger bowed. “We have apprehended someone, and we suspect them to be the traitor. The tribunal is about to enter session.”