Olern's keep was a glowing square against the inky sky above. Rastod stood for a time, neck craned back. It was quiet. If he focused on the stars alone, he could almost convince himself he was in a grove surrounded by only trees, far from all of this.

  "Oi," a woman barked.

  Rastod sighed, brought his gaze down to the street.

  A soldier sauntered up to him, a lantern held high, another figure behind her. "What you doing here?"

  "I am to see Dygan."

  "You summoned?"

  "Yes," Rastod lied.

  "Tsk, tsk, you been a naughty boy? Main gate's locked, go around that way and you'll see the guards."

  Rastod grunted his thanks, and strode in the direction she indicated. The rest of the Baron's guards throughout the keep were similarly sloppy, no one asked for a writ, or even his name. Seemed his red tabard was enough, though they did take all of his blades.

  Kasia had tried to accompany him, but there were some things a person must do alone.

  His understanding was Dygan, the leader of Uzin, had his own command centre somewhere in here. Rastod could explain to him what had happened, take his punishment — hopefully no worse than a handful of lashes or a day in the stocks — then let Dygan smooth it over with the Last Nook and the other pricks in this keep.

  He was shown to the fanciest door he'd ever seen, carved to look as though two great trees grew from the stone walls and met in the centre. The handles were gilded, shaped like antlers. Just made him miss hunting.

  One of the guards knocked firmly, then heaved the door open after a muted summons from the other side. Seemed big fancy doors were mighty impractical when it came to communicating through them.

  Rastod's guts twisted up and threatened to fall out of him.

  Seemed he wasn't being taken to Dygan's quarters.

  This was no room, but a hall. Great tapestries covered each wall, brightly coloured and rich with details of events of old. Two tables — each longer than the barracks Rastod shared with two dozen — stretched into the distance, though they sat largely empty, a small cluster at the far end.

  Perhaps thirty Breakers stood along the edge, their slatewood shields forming a grey crescent as if Rastod stood within the trunk of a giant tree. In front of them were just as many regular soldiers, heavily armed and armoured.

  The end of the hall had a third table, with only a handful of people on it. Eating and drinking, by the looks. Perhaps mostly drinking.

  Someone gave him gentle shove so he stepped forward, the door thudding shut behind him.

  A lanky woman swept towards him, a jug in one hand and wooden mug the other. "Drink, sir?" she asked.

  "Uh, no." She had already danced off before he finished speaking.

  None of the dozens of soldiers moved to intercept him, though he assumed their helmeted gazes were watching him closely. Rastod rubbed his palms together, noticed the dried blood, somehow looking far worse in this hall than it had in the streets outside. He forced his hands down, knuckles aching he was clenching them so hard, and stiffly strode into a room he did not belong in.

  The far end seemed distant despite each step, as if he were trapped in a never-ending tunnel, lined by soldiers. Those on the two long tables looked to be civilians, dressed in flowing finery of every hue, chatting quietly amongst themselves though glancing around nervously as if expecting an axe in their skull at any moment.

  It occurred to Rastod that Olern must've had a lord or clerk before they'd garrisoned themselves in the city. Perhaps one of these people had been recently demoted from the head table. Rastod regarded the food and drink before them, breathed in the scented air, felt the warmth from the fires. There were far worse places to be demoted to than here.

  One of the soldiers unpeeled themselves from the shadows as Rastod reached the first dinner guest.

  She didn't say anything, simply put her plate covered body in front of him so he was forced to stop.

  "Uh, here for Dygan," Rastod said. He bleeding hoped Dygan was actually here. He thought he recognised the back of his head but it was hard to tell.

  The woman's icy gaze swept down Rastod, he stiffened, moving his bloody hands to behind his back. "What's your name, mercenary of Uzin?"

  "Rastod."

  "Where you from, Rastod?"

  "The south."

  The woman nodded slowly. "You have that look about you."

  "What look's that?" Rastod forced out. This soldier did not realise she was playing with fire.

  "You got a woman, Rastod?"

  "That I do."

  "Pity. Come, I will keep an eye on you while you speak with your esteemed leader."

  Rastod kept his gaze low, watching her thick boots clop across the stone floor. Despite the pleasant temperature and smells, his entire body screamed that he should run. That it was not safe here. Felt a rabbit in a den of wolves. The soldier came to a stop, and Rastod swallowed, raised his gaze.

  He let out a breath of relief, it was Dygan. The leader of Uzin, in Rastod's limited experience, was perhaps one of the better of a few of the worst.

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  Rastod dropped to one knee, head bowed. "First Mercenary Dygan."

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  "Rastod, sir. Serve in the third legion under Slug."

  "Ah. Slug is a good name, for him, don’t you think? Fat worm of a man."

  Rastod kept his eyes on the floor, heat prickling at his neck.

  "Rise, Rod, please. You're making my back hurt just looking at you." Rastod stood, meeting Dygan's gaze. The leader of Uzin was the eldest of the leaders of the five major houses, though was still some ways off of forty. He had a flabby physique that was almost identical to Slug's. "You're a good strong looking lad, aren't ya?"

  "Thank you, sir."

  Dygan examined him, his eyes little dark pinpricks in his hairy face. "Why does one of the lowest of my house come to me on this fine day?"

  Rastod thought of the death he'd seen that day. At the beginning of the siege the attackers had doused their flying boulders with resin and flame, but much of Olern was built of stone, so they stopped. Unfortunately, one quarter of the city was full of wooden warehouses and stores, and they had targeted only that one today, balls of fire fell from the sky in a steady beat. While the wine and meat of this great hall smelt delicious, Rastod's nostrils and head were still filled with the smoke of charred human.

  "I wish to ask for your favour."

  Dygan took a swig from his mug, eyed the cluster of well-dressed civilians that surrounded him. "I am known to be a generous man."

  "I wish to confess to striking a senior member of House Tarcin. I did not act with honour, and brought shame on House Uzin. I confess this freely to you, in hopes that you may speak with Tarcin's leaders to ensure this matter is put away."

  "Boy, I don't care who you strike. This city is no place for a mercenary worried about honour. Be gone, now." Dygan turned to the young woman next to him, leant over and whispered something in her hear. She giggled, eyes on Rastod.

  Rastod stood there, mouth open, legs heavy, a growing pressure on his eyes.

  "Off we go, then," the soldier escorting him said, still standing beside him, "honourable Rod."

  He stepped backwards slowly, turned on his heel, the whole room seeming to spin and grow dark. Rastod followed his escort, let her footsteps guide him away from this place. He felt a child, felt ignorant, felt weak.

  This is a large room for small men.

  How strange to serve a man you see as corrupted, to defend a city for a cause you do not believe in, to fight back against those you see as righteous. To be on the wrong side of history.

  It occurred to him that this may be his one chance to right that. He could get to the Baron, smash his skull into the floor before the guards got him. Rastod turned, glanced over his shoulder. He'd never seen the man, and could not spot anyone that seemed to be him. One empty chair at the centre of the head table looked particularly lavish, perhaps belonged to him. Rastod could just kill Dygan, then? He sighed, that would be for his own benefit only, another mercenary would crawl into Dygan's position within the hour. Nothing would change. Would anything ever change?

  There was a resounding boom. Rastod jolted to a stop, almost halfway back to the doors, which had been flung open.

  "Dygan!" the new arrival bellowed. He strode down the centre of the room, mouth a gnashing maw, gaze red hot. Baron Arol, almost certainly. "Rally your soldiers! We ride to war!" Kalnen's ruler was a hawkish man, eyes sunken, a pointy beard on his chin and a mess of greasy black hair down to his shoulders. He wore an incredibly detailed breastplate, a decorative smallsword on his hip.

  Rastod and his escort watched from the side of the room, let the shadows take them.

  "My Baron," Dygan slurred, getting to his feet, "what has happened?"

  "My boy! They've taken him. Taken him from me, from here. From this cursed fucking city!" He paused, chest rising and falling, gaze sweeping the room. A few others hurried to catch up to him, their heads bowed. "Whose scouts man the eastern wall?" he roared.

  "Er, mine," Dygan said.

  "I want the head of the leader within the hour!"

  "May I ask why?"

  "I just bleeding told you! They took my son."

  Dygan looked as though he was about to pass out, slapping lightly at his bearded cheek as if to force his mind to stay lucid. "How?" he eventually whispered.

  "The western fucking wall!"

  Dygan's brow furrowed, he chewed on his lip. "My house holds the eastern side, my Baron."

  The Baron swiped at a jug, sent it careening along the table until it cracked then smashed. "Fuck!" The hall was deathly silent, only the crackle of the fireplaces and the gentle drip-drip of the wine from the broken jug. The Baron turned, whispered with a soldier behind him. "Eastern! The east! I want your head scouts head, Dygan!"

  "You will have it," Dygan said sternly, motioning for a soldier in Uzin colours in the corner.

  A brutish man at the head table stood, silver sash marking him as one of the Baron's. "We will have retribution, Baron. Please, sit, have a drink, tell us how this has happened."

  Bardon Arol, scowled, swept forward and plopped onto the wooden bench in an empty section of the table. He held up a clawing hand, didn't even glance as a server sprinted over a mug of wine. Once finished he tossed the mug over his shoulder, it smacked into the breastplate of one of the lurking soldiers. "They must have agents in the city. He was taken out one of the smaller gates in the…east. Forced to swim across the moat, my poor boy. Bieskul, that self-righteous snake, has demanded we surrender! He will have lightning and fire instead!"

  "I would caution the use of our remaining Vessels, Baron. Their camp is far from our walls, their forces spread out widely. It would perhaps be a waste of the power."

  "You know, Ankat, I've always admired you. You walk this delicate line better than anyone I know. Gentle nudges against my more bold ideas while diligently enacting my will the rest of the time. Well, today you have stepped off your little line." The Baron snapped his fingers and a handful of soldiers drifted from the shadowed edge of the room, encircled the big man with the sash at the head table.

  "Arol, see reason," Ankat called, chin raised.

  "No."

  Ankat thrashed for a moment but was soon dragged out of the room.

  The hall was silent as a tomb, eyes low, bodies still, breath held as if even a twitch would result in a hanging.

  Perhaps it would, but Rastod had come here today for the civilians of this city. He would not leave emptyhanded. If he could not quell the Tarcin rivalry, then perhaps he could do something more.

  Rastod stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, then bowed low. "My Baron, I have a suggestion on how you may rescue your son."

  Sweat soaked his face, dripped off the tip of his nose. He did not dare raise his gaze. I am a fucking idiot.

  "Out with it, boy!" said the Baron.

  Rastod stood, met his eyes, throat so tight it felt it may tear itself apart. "Bieskul hungers for the love of the commonfolk. Offer a temporary ceasefire, and the exchange of a number of civilians for your son."

  The Baron regarded him, eyes bloodshot. He looked rather old right then, his armour that had never seen battle sitting strangely on his body sprawled across the bench, elbows on the table behind him.

  "Less civilians to feed and house will bolster our defences, my Baron. Olern is a city built for a siege. We can outlast him."

  "Less fucking whinging from them too." the Baron mumbled, eyeing the wealthy civilians at the end of the table. "I like this! Bieskul may be a snake, but he is pathetically desperate for adoration, even if from a peasant who sleeps in their own waste. Guards, remove this mercenary of Uzin at once." Firm hands fell on Rastod's shoulders in a blink, pushing him towards the ornate door. "Well done, boy!"

  He half expected to be led to a cell, or worse, a gallows. Instead, they took him all the way out of the keep and back onto the road. It was the same woman who had escorted him within the hall who spoke once he was eventually released. "He says remove a lot. We aren't too sure whether that means kill or simply remove from the room, and at this point we're too afraid to ask, otherwise we'll be removed ourself, you see. So, consider this a favour." The soldier gave him a nod and a half-smile, then strode back towards the keep.

  Rastod truly smiled for the first time since the siege began.

  Even though he must continue to reside in hell, at least some innocents could now leave this place.