"Gaston of Travia, at your service. I've come with two hundred doughty lads."Sir Hagen Bridgebane, Mazael Cravenlock's armsmaster, gave a sour grunt. Despite his size and strength, the knight looked tired. Which was not surprising. No doubt Hagen had spent the last several months in the saddle, hunting down marauding runedead. “You’re a Travishman, then?” said Hagen at last.“Aye, sir knight,” said Malaric. They stood south of the walls of Cravenlock Town. The two hundred calibah Skalatan had given him stood in orderly ranks a short distance away, arrayed in chain mail and helmets, swords at their belts and shields on their backs. With their fangs hidden and their yellow eyes concealed behind their inner eyelids, they made a passable imitation of a mercenary company. “Why come here?” said Hagen. “The Prince of Travia is dead, and his sons are fighting each other to claim his title. Good business for a mercenary company.”“Truly,” said Malaric, “but riskier than I’d like.
