“I said you would see for yourself, and we are nearly there now anyway.” Moragon's reply was a mixture of aggravation and amusement. He enjoyed keeping his men in the dark, Brov especially. There was true power in knowing something others did not—more so when they were aware of it. It kept them guessing, which left little time for plotting.

“Yes, my lord, but that is not what I wished to ask of you.” Brov was too familiar with Iyan's games—he had endured a lifetime of them. Moragon seemed disappointed upon hearing those words—something not lost on Brov. He quickly turned away to hide the grin on his lips and the delight in his eyes. His prolonged silence served only to rile his superior.

“Well then!?…Out with it man!” Moragon's agitation was now evident to all. Brov fought his smile and leveled his voice.

“I was curious as to why we did not break camp, but left the tents standing and the equipment behind.” Iyan stared at the younger man—he knew Brov was inwardly mocking him, but his practiced demeanor betrayed none of it. Moragon nearly quaked with rage.

“Was this side-trip not made easier by the lack of it? Or would you rather have us all carry that baggage along these hills?” he exploded. “By the gods, Brov, can't you reason these things for yourself? Must everything be explained to you? The real question here is why do I suffer such a dolt as my first officer?” Satisfied that he had regained the upperhand, Moragon ceased his humiliation and listened to his words cut repeated echoes in the crisp, still air. He studied the younger man from the corner of his eye—there was no question why Brov was so high in the ranks. Moragon considered him the greatest threat to his rule, the most dangerous of his subjects. The rightful place for Brov was at his side—where Iyan could keep a close watch on him.

The sun was clear of the horizon and began its hellish heat wave for another day when Moragon came to the base of a small hill. “This one?” he asked the scout, who nodded. Iyan raised his hand to signal a full halt. “Dismount!” he yelled. The command rippled through the ranks as officers repeated the order. “Secure the animals—we walk from here.”

The men moved slowly up the rise. The view that greeted them as they rounded the top was unexpected by all, including Iyan, who knew what lie ahead. Below them in the shallow valley were the remains of a terrible battle. The devastation stretched almost beyond the limit of vision. There was an audible gasp as more men arrived and began to realize just what was in front of them.

“Fan out!” Moragon shouted. “Search for banners and house marks. I want to know who they were—and what did this to them.”

Brov considered his thoughts as he slowly made his way down the hillside. He had vexed Moragon, and questioned his reasoning at times—but Iyan had always been one step ahead. Resting during the day, riding at night, leaving the equipment behind, and keeping the horses from this battlefield where they would have become spooked and unmanageable were all plans well thought through. Even keeping the scouting report from the men was necessary—if not merciful—for news of this type of carnage would have reduced them to an uncontrollable rabble. Brov was surprised to discover he held some admiration for his lord. Iyan Moragon was a good leader—if he weren't such a bastard, he'd be a great one. Brov sighed heavily with sadness. His loyalty was without reproach—he only wished Iyan were an easier man to follow.

Moragon stepped carefully around the fallen men. The battle was savage and brutal. A gruesome forest of pikes and lances jutted at odd angles from the piled bodies. Faces were mutilated and limbs ripped from their sockets. Tattered clothing remnants clung to withered, dried skin. This battle was fought—and lost—a long time ago. “What do you make of all this, Brov?” His question was genuine; what Moragon saw before him surpassed all understanding.

“This is an old encounter. It takes time to mummify flesh like this, no matter how hot the sun,” Brov said flatly, rubbing the soft dark stubble on his chin. “Six moons at least, no less.”

“Yet the grass has not returned.” The brown, beaten ground beneath them was lifeless. “Dragon breath,” Moragon said after a moment of silence, slowly realizing the only thing that could kill even below the surface.

“Dragon? But there are only men here—no drow, no orc, no troll—just human bodies. If this army engaged the enemy, surely that side sustained some casualties. Where are those bodies?” Brov asked as he looked around, seeing only more butchery.

“They removed them,” Iyan began. Thoughts were taking form in his mind—the mystery surrounding him was slowly unraveling into an unpleasant realization. “They took away their dead, and their weapons—they even made sure to sweep away their foot prints,” he said motioning to the hard featureless dirt, “so no one could tell they had been here—and done this.”

“How could they think no one would know?” Brov began, disgust and anger rising in his voice. “No man, not even in war, would defile another in this manner!”

“We will ask Garwyn for an explanation when we join him; how is it he never reported this?” Moragon wondered aloud. Or did he? Maybe Matorian was keeping secrets too, Iyan thought.

“My lord!” a soldier approached them quickly, gingerly avoiding the human litter around him. “General Shirra reports there are no shields to be found on the western edge of the battlefield.” Both Brov and Iyan immediately looked down and saw that there too, the shields were missing. Armor and weaponry all remained—except for shields.

“Tell every man to search for shields,” Moragon announced loudly. “Go to the south and east,” he said to the soldier, “make sure they know what I want them to find. Have them move bodies, leave nothing untouched. They must have missed at least one!” The man grimaced as he heard his orders, and left as fast as he could.