A young, gold-haired man in polished plate and a fine blue surcoat emblazoned with a stylized greathelm walked towards Mazael, followed by a dour, pimpled squire of about thirteen. More than enough for what he had in mind.Īrmor clanked, and Mazael looked over his shoulder. He had forty knights and their attendant squires with him. Mazael shook his head, crossed his arms, and watched the camp. The boy was sterner than his father, sometimes.

The other squires can manage themselves long enough for you to eat.”Īdalar flashed a rare grin. “Send Sir Gerald to me,” said Mazael, “and get yourself something to eat before we set out.” In the scabbard rested a magnificent longsword with a golden pommel shaped like a lion’s head. A black surcoat with the House of Cravenlock’s three crossed swords was his sole mark of rank.Īround his waist went a worn leather belt with a battered scabbard. Bacon sizzled over the campfires, and horses neighed and grunted.ĭespite his rise to the lordship of Castle Cravenlock, Mazael still wore the battered armor from his days as a wandering, landless knight a mail shirt, scarred steel cuirass, leather gauntlets, and a helmet. Squires hastened back and forth, bearing arms and armor, polishing shields and sharpening swords. The dawn’s bloody rays slanted into the camp, throwing long black shadows.

Mazael scowled, his bearded jaw clenching.Ī stern-faced boy of about fifteen years stepped to Mazael’s side, carrying a pile of armor.Īdalar Greatheart grunted.

The dawn seemed to paint the winter-brown plains the color of blood. Lord Mazael Cravenlock left the camp and watched the sun rise over the Grim Marches, as he did every morning.

Marked stone grim dawn