The squire snapped to attention and stepped forward. Still protected by the ignorance of his youth, the boy truly believed Moragon was in earnest when he requested the reasoning behind their expedition. “My lord! We have the honor of fulfilling the personal request of The Seer Matorian the Mundificant in joining our great host with the army of Garwyn the Defender.”

Iyan had already turned his attention back to Brov, but the boy's words spun him back around. “Honor? Honor indeed! Who here feels honored to be sweating his ass off chasing the crazy dream of a lunatic? 'Go to the plains' he said, 'take your men—I have been given a vision; Garwyn needs your assistance.' he told me,” Iyan grumbled. “Garwyn has twice as many men as we are, patrolling an undisputed border!” Moragon gestured wildly as he stomped back and forth, punctuating his words with the force of his voice and the clamor of his sword smacking against his armor as it swung freely from its belt harness. “Does Garwyn not send a weekly report? Has he ever asked for help of any kind? When was the last time he reported enemy troops in the area? Four, no, five moons past!” Iyan roared. “The fighting is to the west of here. I say we go where we are truly needed. This folly has gone on too long already!”

The men remained where they stood, murmuring softly and glancing back and forth at one another. Matorian had sent for them as well as for Lord Iyan, and he announced his vision to the whole company. Their mission was to find Garwyn and his men and give them aid. The command was plain and understood by all.

“WELL?” Iyan yelled incredulously, “What are you waiting for? You heard my orders! We are turning back now. Why are we following the command of a stranger? Who is this Matorian? Where did he come from? Why is he helping us? Is he helping us? How do we know he is for us? You know nothing of Matorian, yet you all trust him?”

“I fear him.” Brov had relaxed once the squire distracted Moragon, but he instantly tightened in fright and surprise at hearing his own voice say those words. Iyan glared at him but said nothing. Fear was the one thing Iyan respected—it was a faithful servant and an ever-sharpened blade. Moragon feared no thing and no man—until Matorian. And that was why Iyan Moragon, 16th Lord of Castle Coramire, found himself that day standing in a desolate field under a blazing sun.

A commotion at the outer edge of the men broke the awkward silence.

“Riders! From the south…the scouting party has returned!” a voice announced. Moragon made his way through his men to get a better view. The riders were moving quickly and were upon them in minutes.

“My lord! Come quickly!” the first rider gasped. “A day's journey by swift riding to the south…there is something you must see.” Iyan stared out towards the distant horizon; the thin line between land and sky wavered in the intense heat.

“Secure a perimeter!” he barked, turning back to his men. “We will make camp here.” Brov opened his mouth to begin a protest, but decided against it when his pale blue eyes met Moragon's. “Rest yourselves and your horses,” Iyan continued, “We ride at nightfall.” He motioned to the scout as he walked away. “Come, tell me what you have seen.”

It was dawn as the army of Moragon crested a small mound on the southern edge of the plains.

“Just over that rise, my lord.” The scout pointed to an unseen spot in the distance. Iyan spurred his horse forward at an easy trot. His plan had worked: refreshed by waiting out the day and travelling during the cool night hours, his men had made short work of the hard ride.

“My lord, may I ask a question?” Brov intoned. Moragon had kept the scouting report to himself, and ordered the men to remain silent to the rest of the company on the matter, even unto the officers—including Brov.