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rushed from the room.
    “As a statement of your justness in this matter,” Master Sondious continued. “We should allow all ogres currently within our borders safe passage out of the kingdom.”
    “Why show compassion for the traitors?”
    “This action will establish that you are on the side of justice and are not attacking unarmed civilians for the sake of quick revenge.”
    “Well stated,” Master Londragheon said. She was often considered the wisest of the council. “The Ghaldeons are more likely to reject revenge, and we need their alliance for this campaign.”
    “So be it,” Kraganere said, motioning to a second page. “Send word to every township that all ogres within our borders are to leave at once, and as long as they comply with this decree, their exit will be safe.”
    The now defunct council murmured their collective agreement with the suggestions of Master Sondious and the orders of the king, and to the former, a contemptible enthusiasm had settled upon them. The kingdom was on the verge of losing its very essence as peaceful, and they were affirming it with smiles and congratulations as for a good harvest. While he had been the one to offer direction, Master Sondious recognized the gravity of the decisions. Many good dwarves and ogres were going to suffer terribly, and he did not find anything worthy of cheer in that fact. He had offered the suggestions because, as chief advisor to the king, that was his job, and if he stayed engaged with the king, he could bring to bear a measure of rationale and logic to this process.
    As Master Sondious thought this, Kraganere rose from his seat and silenced them again by raising his right hand. Then, he spoke with a calm, firm voice.
    “Council members, you are welcome to remain as advisors, but until the peril ends, you are relieved from your duties on this council. I alone will decide the actions of this kingdom. Prepare yourselves and your families accordingly. We are at war.”

Chapter 3
    Gathering Strength
    Roskin woke with a start and scrambled to his feet, drawing a dagger against an imaginary foe. The dream had felt real, and he was suddenly consumed by the dark fear that lingered on the periphery of his mind. For the first time, he saw what haunted him: a sickening image of Dorkhun in ruin and his father in disarray. While he had grown to accept the dark fear, this image that gave shape and substance to the feeling was horrific and more overwhelming than even the maelstrom that had seized him at Black Rock.
    After a few minutes, he regained his composure, sheathed his dagger, and wiped sweat from his forehead. Sunrise was still an hour away, so he decided to check on the prisoners and ascertain for himself that their bindings remained steadfast. The prisoners’ hatred swelled each day, and their attempts to escape had grown more fervent since the throat slashing of the day before. While sentries watched them through the night, Roskin liked to see for himself in the dark that the straps and chains were holding.
    The early morning dew soaked through the cuffs of his pants, sending chills up his legs as he strode through camp. Almost two weeks had passed since Crushaw had freed him and the other slaves, and in that time, the old general had organized the motley throng into a fairly efficient regiment. Roskin, who would one day be king of Dorkhun and commander of an enormous military, studied the manner in which Crushaw took charge each day. He didn’t act superior to anyone, especially the slow and weak, and he didn’t set himself apart from the mass to show his authority. Instead, he projected a confidence that was contagious, and he led not through fear and threat but through respect and dignity. From the battle-hardened Tredjards to the elves who rightly despised most humans, the entire regiment looked to him as their leader without question.
    Thinking about Crushaw’s leadership, Roskin crept through the sleeping orcs and scanned the wagons to