Eragos stole another glance upward, at the sparse trees that lingered overhead. It was closer to the temperature and temperment of his home than he'd been in ... how long? Frost licked at the trees and left its traces to the tender mercies of the wind. He felt as though he was staring at his childhood reflected darkly through the lens of this shadowed land. Everything was the same, and everything was different. Probably it was not Kenyon. Probably it was his own soul. Heavy with the thought that he'd led White Riders to their deaths. And was doing it again. If Vargis agreed or disagreed, he didn't show any sign of it. That mask covered his face entire. Nothing to do now but speak to him, but Eragos wouldn't. Couldn't. The mask was a shield for Vargis as much as it was for Eragos, and neither one of them was willing to pierce the silence with a question that led to the same end as any other question.

( In all probability, they were going to die. )

How long ago had he met Shantar Tyullis? It seemed like longer than he cared to count. And in all that time he'd never let his grandfather down. No matter what the odds against him or how hard it was to come through Skandra had managed it, somehow. This time couldn't be any different. It wouldn't be any different. If those weapons were proliferated, if they became popular and known, there would be no way to stem the flow of blood that would roll across the world. Alchemy was still an infant science. Weapons made by alchemy weren't trusted generally. Those in power believed in the divine, not in the stigma of an art that anyone - no matter their station - could learn. But if one could believe, and he believed in unjust ideals, then the army he commanded would have no equal in all the world. It was about more than that, wasn't it? He was parroting the words Shantar had spoken to him but there wasn't any heart in it. Not really. What he wanted, what he believed, was right in front of him. It was there to be taken. All he had to do was reach out and seize it.

He could have.

( Any time he wanted. )

Harea stared for a long moment at the city before them. Walls rose up imposing but not unstoppable. Between the five of them, there had never been a wall they could not breach or a battle they could not win. The question now was what to do about it. Violate the city in search of one face among thousands, or wait for her to continue on her trek? Armas spoke from the heavens in the heavy rain, his favored weather of war, calling for blood and in crashing waves. Harea dared not ignore the god. At the same time it seemed such a battle would kill for the sake of killing. Armas was the god of war, of battle, not of heedless slaughter. Her lips peeled back in a grotesque smile. She was not some foul orc to take life for the pleasure of it. She sought battle with her enemies, honored battle, and she would not be satisfied until she'd found it. Her thick body did not move as others might; at nearly seven feet tall she towered over her compatriots and had none of the feminimity that might be expected of her. Instead brass-strapped leather armor covered her body. Over that, a robe, the robe she'd worn at the temple. The robe of her order which for all intents and purposes was now out of existence.

There would be a day to consider the new order. For now, she had only one thought on her mind, and that was a slender Elvish neck twisted until it bled onto her hands.

( Vengeance. )

Eragos sat at a wooden table that was obviously designed for something other than entertaining the high-ups of Kenyon's leadership. With him there were three pieces of paper. The first, a map of the frontier defenses, had been here when he arrived. The second, a message from a scout, had passed into his hands along with the third sheet. A request for a meeting. Eragos studied the note again to make sure he had the measure of it. Most likely it had been measured four times over by the leadership of Kenyon. No telling what conclusions they'd already reached. Or what conclusions one was supposed to reach. It was all there. The sense of it didn't change from one read to another. He still didn't know what to make of it. Vargis apparently did not, either. Sitting tight-lipped and silent was the order of the day for him. Eragos didn't know why it was so important that he say something. But it was important. They had to reach a conclusion together, or they were lost.

( Maybe they already were. )

The mood could not have been more somber. Surrounded by the memory of the dead or wounded they'd passed on their way into the fort, neither of the White Riders was particularly cheerful or abrasive, as they might have been. It was easier for Eragos to dismiss the carnage than Vargis. Easier because the old man, for all his knowledge, had never seen war like this. Eragos grimaced sourly at the stained floor. His flambard was resting against the wall, but Eragos still had his falchion belted on. For many reasons. Not the least of which was Sarta's apparent lack of control. Since they'd come into the fort from that snowy field of death, with three of their own dead and two more wounded, Sarta had been in a rage. If there were ever a moment that the Kenyonites needed to make themselves scarce this was it. Sarta could not be dissuaded from the view that they'd been betrayed by disloyal elements in Kenyon's own government who wanted their vampire bitch-queen dead. Eragos had long given up trying to talk reason into the man. There was no use in it, and no profit besides.

( Vargis, on the other hand, had not learned. )

From the moment the tent flap closed behind him Skandra was forced to wonder if he'd made a mistake. Ilyien had been biddable enough, once he'd been assured that there would not actually be any dresses involved - a lie that Skandra was still not sure he could transform into the truth - and he'd come without too much complaining. Only now here they were, waiting on her attendance. Skandra could never feel at ease asking someone for a favor. Especially since he knew that favor was going to be a pinch for her. You didn't show up in a friend's place of business and ask to put that business in a bind for the sake of your own goals. He was going to have to play this very carefully. Only she would know that he was playing it carefully. So he had to come up with a reason that he was playing it carefully, and a believable one. She always did know when he was lying, even if he wished she couldn't. One of the things he hated most about her. There were a lot of things he hated about her. You could see it in her eyes. The way she looked at you. The way a bird would look at a worm.

( Thoughtful. )