In Forduk, on an evening near the end of winter, Lord General Amrik sat at table. He ate his meal with his black-gloved hands. Across from him, in the small chamber, sat Kossuth, human in his guise, draped all in back, yellow eyes burning mistily.
“So Oron has conquered Neria,” Amrik said, chewing on a joint of beef.
“Aye. A conquest of the heart, I think.”
“He’s taken the richest nation of the northlands, while we sit here the winter and grow fat.”
“It was your decision—yours and your councilors’,” Kossuth reminded him. “Did you think that such a stroke of good favor would befall your enemy?”
“And how was I to know?” Amrik slammed down his beef bone. “You’re my sorcerer!” he spat angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me what was to happen?”
“You, Amrik, are the warlord. If your enemy’s tact
