When Wolves March

The road ran dry and narrow beneath the hooves of twenty horses. Dust rose behind them in soft clouds, caught in the low morning light.

Senjar rode at the front.

He wore no crown. Just leather armor, plain and practical. A cloak of black hung loose at his shoulders. Behind him rode Rell. Telmar rode to the left, scanning the horizon through narrowed eyes.

The escort followed in two columns, men handpicked, not the fiercest, but the most disciplined. They carried the banners of Harkoraal. No music, no fanfare. Their mounts were sturdy, not showy. Their pace was measured.

Ahead, the towers of Tathar's Cross rose from the plains.

The walls curved gently where the river bent, stone stacked thick and dark. The Empire's pale falcon standard fluttered at the gatehouse. The copper roofs caught sunlight like coins laid across slate.

No calls came from the guards above. But they watched. Every eye tracked the riders as they approached the main gate.

Senjar did not look up.

The small party stopped fifty paces from the gate.

Then, from the shadow of the gate, a single figure stepped forward, a steward in green, with a sealed scroll in hand.

He held the scroll up but said nothing.

Senjar approached, took the scroll, and read it without fanfare. The seal bore the falcon again Governor Harren's mark. It gave entry, under escort, for an audience before midday.

Senjar nodded once. The steward turned, signaled to the guards.

The gate began to open.

Stone groaned. Chains pulled. And Harkoraal, twenty riders strong, walked into the Varkaan Empire.

The massive wooden gates rumbled open. Sunlight spilled over rough stone, illuminating the Harkoraal contingent as they emerged into Tathar's Cross. The dusty road widened into a cobbled street lined with stalls and bystanders.

Senjar led the group at a measured pace, boots crunching on shale and wheels. Rell rode a few steps behind, Telmar flanking the left. Their banners, black wolf on white, trimmed with red, fluttered quietly, a solemn affirmation of their identity.

Across the street, townsfolk paused in their routines, trading glances curious, wary, silent. No one stepped forward to block them.

The escort guided the riders up toward the southern quarter, where stone walls closed around the keep's base. Soldiers patrolled the ramparts, wearing clean armor and steel helms, expressionless faces trained on the arrival.

They passed merchants selling bread and cheese, a few children daring each other closer to inspect the cloaked riders. A bell tolled from a high tower, still hours before midday.

They halted before an outer courtyard. A fresh faced lieutenant in crisp uniform rode forward, nodded at Senjar, then turned to his men. "You have half an hour to rest, Arl. The governor awaits."

Senjar dipped his head. A servant led his horse away. Rell dismounted, shoulder highing his sword. Telmar followed, the three of them standing tall in the polished stone courtyard.

Around them, the air shifted quiet, sharp with expectation.

Senjar surveyed the gray towers above. The gate would close behind them soon. Inside, beyond those walls, the real test would begin.

He exhaled low and steady.

"Telmar, when we go back to tribe. You will disappear into the town. I want to know about every detail this town have to offer." Senjar whispered to Telmar while looking at the lieutenant ahead.

"Yes, Arl." Telmar answered in a whisper.

"Let's move," Telmar said softly, dropping his hand to his sword.

Senjar nodded, and they followed the lieutenant toward the inner keep, each hoofstep echoing on stone. No words were needed now. All that mattered lay ahead, in the meeting chamber inside.

They followed the lieutenant up a flight of wide stone steps into the shadowed entry hall of the keep. The air shifted cooler, still, heavy with polished wood and damp stone.

The corridor branched. The lieutenant led them left, past tapestries depicting falcons in flight, each thread as deliberate as imperial authority. Footsteps echoed on the flagstones. At the end, they paused before a heavy door framed in carved marble.

A guard stepped forward and opened it.

Beyond lay the meeting chamber long, narrow, dominated by a polished walnut table set with simple glasses and a single decanter of amber wine. High windows cast light across an empty throne like chair at the far end.

Senjar slipped forward. The lieutenant stepped back. Behind him stood Rell and Telmar, shoulder to shoulder, calm and alert.

Senjar stood before the chair, hands clasped behind his back. Silence filled the room.

Moments stretched.

Then, the door at the head of the table swung open.

Governor Harren de Voss entered.

He wore no crown, only well cut tunic in deep green trimmed with silver falcon shaped brooch at his collar. His boots made no sound on the polished floor. Behind him came Viscount Drevhal, tall and distant and Edran, expression neutral, scarred eye hidden beneath gentle brows.

They paused. A nod from the governor.

Senjar dipped his own head.

Governor Harren de Voss took the seat at the head of the table, movements smooth, practiced. His eyes did not rest long on anything, but they missed nothing. Viscount Drevhal remained standing behind him, arms folded behind his back, while Edran took a step to the side, folding his hands before him.

Senjar remained standing. So did Rell and Telmar.

The silence stretched just a heartbeat too long before the Governor spoke.

"You ride with twenty, Arl Senjar," Harren said evenly. "You bring no siege. No banners of war. That is well."

"We ride with what we are," Senjar answered. "Not less. Not more."

"A fair answer," the Governor murmured, glancing once toward Edran. "You've grown a camp in my lands. Traded in my villages. Forged weapons near my towns. And you offer parley instead of tribute."

Senjar let the words sit. Then he answered, measured: "I offer truth, not tribute. The Empire's lands were once the Empire's burden. Now they hold tribes. My people are here to survive."

"Let me be a little more clear, Arl Senjar. What I want is not truth, but tribute."

Before Senjar could answer.

Viscount Drevhal stepped forward. His voice was colder than the Governor's more precise. "You train warriors. You hire smiths. You send riders into our towns. You fly a wolf banner on Varkaan soil."

Senjar turned to face him. "And you sent a messenger who returned alive. We are not blind to symbols, Viscount."

Edran spoke next, quiet, grave. "You build where others once burned. The border still remembers the Scorching March. Your Grandfather's name stirs fear."

"Let it be in the past. What I can offer is peace, but not through tribute."

Governor Harren studied him. "Why come, Senjar? Truly. Why this place? Why not north, into the hills?"

Senjar replied without pause, "Because the east was fire. Because the Empire has roads. Markets. Earth that grows grain. If peace is a price, then we will pay it. But not with our knees."

A pause.

Then Harren nodded, once. "You speak like a man who listens before he strikes. That is rare in your line."

Senjar allowed himself a small breath.

"Let us be plain," the Governor said. "You may stay, so long as you pay us a thousand Gold coins every year. You do not build walls. You do not conscript from towns. And your mages are not to cross the river. Those are the terms."

Senjar raised an eyebrow. "You already assume we have mages."

Harren's eyes narrowed faintly. "You said you lacked them. That means you seek them. Which means the question is not if, but when."

"I never talked about mages, Governor."

Harren said nothing.

The Governor leaned forward slightly. "Do we understand each other, Arl Senjar?"

Senjar returned the look. 

"I am not in position to pay this sum, Governor."

"If you want to stay, that are the terms Arl Senjar."

There was silence in the room for some seconds then Senjar broke it.

"I cannot accept this."

Harren's expression turned more serious.

"Then you are to leave these lands in three days Arl Senjar. After that if you remain here it will mean war."

"I understand Governor."

"Then the meeting is over. You may leave Arl Senjar."