The Small Sea was a ribbon of water too wide, too deep, and too stationary to be called a river. It was fresh water and meandered through the northern end of the Empire, stretching from Farcairn in the East to the Dwarf Gates in the West. The Dwarf Gates were not literal gates. It referred to both the narrow cleft in the mountain through which the Small Sea drained and the canal locks the Dwarfs had built to replace the original cataracts. The locks still worked all these years after their makers had abandoned the region. Salzheim sat on the North shore of the Small Sea, a third of the way from the Dwarf Gates to Farcairn. It was a proper city, with proper walls and proper tilled fields stretching out into the rolling hills around it. Hedgerows demarcated the land, and a spiderweb of side paths split from the Old Road.

The city gates were a welcome sight after the ride down from the edge of the Slagveld. After the ambush past Steel Fen, I wasn’t too sure where the Goblins might pop up, and we had fewer swords with us this time. Even Graymire stepped lighter once we were in the city. His iron shoes clomped almost merrily on the cobbled streets. Magda tried to keep her face hidden as we rode to the citadel. She was still dressed in her bloodstained gown and her appearance was anything but courtly. But, armored riders in livery drew crowds, even when there were only a handful. Johan found a blanket for Magda to wrap about herself like a hooded cloak and guided her horse as we made our way through the streets. The buildings of Salzheim were a mix of stone and timber, often on the same structure, and none was less than two stories tall. With the laws and the walls constraining the girth of the city, the only direction to build was up.

On a high bluff East of the harbor sat the Palace of Salzheim. Originally, the whole reason for a Pfalzgraf to exist was to maintain an Imperial Palace when the Emperor was not in residence. No Emperor has been in residence at Salzheim for over two centuries. But the Palace of Salzheim stands, kept up to date by the Pfalzgraf in residence. The harbor was a trade hub, linking the Empire proper with the West. It was the first good harbor along the Small Sea, and a convenient spot for merchants from beyond the Dwarf Gate to conduct business with their Imperial counterparts. Modest tariffs and berthing fees poured a lot of coin into the pockets of Roland von und zu Salzheim. A switchback road led up the bluff from the edges of the harbor district to the Palace of Salzheim. The ground had been artificially contoured to expose anyone climbing the road to fire from the walls and two prominent towers should the defenders of the inner precincts take a disliking to them.

We reached the stout gatehouse entirely unmolested.

“State your name and business,” a bored sounding gate guard in Salzheim livery said as we stopped before the gates of the palace.

“Kord Grosz von Karststadt-Salzheim here to see my uncle, Roland von Salzheim.”

The guard paused and took a second look at our livery. “And he is?” the guard asked, tipping his head towards Lenz.

“Lorenz Castor zu Ritterblume,” Lenz said. “I’m with Kord.”

The guard’s eyes flicked to the two riders behind us, but he had more than enough cause to pass word of our arrival on. It would not turn out well for him if he kept us waiting too long. Magda didn’t look as if she wanted to be seen in her current state, so I didn’t mention her. “If you would like to bring your horses to the stables, I will pass on word of your arrival.”

The gates parted and we rode into the sculpted gardens of the Palace of Salzheim. While the perimeter of the grounds was heavily fortified, it had been so long since Salzheim had come under threat that any resemblance to a castle among the buildings within the walls was entirely vestigial. The main building was made of honey-colored limestone with a blue tiled roof. White marble pillars veined in golden tracery held up the third floor balcony and the awning high above. Bronze statues of mounted knights atop granite plinths lined the road to the broad stair feeding the house’s main doors.

We took a side path paved in granite blocks that led to a secondary courtyard. Stables lined three sides of the courtyard. The lower floors of these structures were given over to horse stalls, their upper floors to feed stores. The fourth side of the courtyard held housing for the grooms and stablehands. Many of Salzheim’s steeds could trace their bloodlines back to Ritterblume’s herds, and were almost as renowned. Seeing new arrivals, stable boys rushed out to meet us and take the reins of our horses. More than a few gawped at the size of Graymire, but fortunately, they did not let fear overtake them. We dismounted and let the servants do their jobs, confident the horses would be well looked after. In the gap between the Grooms’ House and the main building was a flower garden filled with budding herbaceous plants on the cusp of coming into bloom.

The flagstone paths through the smaller garden converged at a pair of benches. I noted that the Grooms’ House had no windows overlooking this space, and that tall hedges screened the two sides not hemmed in by buildings. A small stair led up from the garden to a blue door into the main building. It was from this door that Roland emerged. He was shorter than the Castors, and though solidly built, not stocky. His dark hair was short, but still long enough to sweep back. A neatly trimmed beard framed his mouth, and his cheeks were shaven. The neatly brocaded waistcoat and tanned breeches he wore would be almost casual for a person of his station. Roland was caught off guard when Magda flung her arms around him and sobbed.

“Magda?” He put his arms around his daughter and smoothed her hair, making a few soothing noises which were not exactly words. “It’s all right now.” Roland looked up at us. “What happened?”

“Goblins raided the Old Road and took her prisoner,” I said. “We got her back. We were engaged by outriders West of Steel Fen and destroyed two of their camps in the Southern Slagveld.”

“How did they get this far South?”

“Kirchner has said nothing,” I said. “We have not heard a single thing out of Karststadt for months. The first we knew of their incursion was the raid on the Old Road.”

Roland’s expression darkened, rage building behind his eyes.

“Graf Ritterblume has been mustering his forces to drive them back and formally requests whatever aid you can provide.”

“Of course,” Roland said without the least hesitation. “I would be with you even if these creatures hadn’t struck so close to home.” He gave his daughter a comforting squeeze.

“Lorenz and I have been tasked with going on to Farcairn to petition the Herzog Freinmarkt-Ziegeberg for additional aid. We will not be riding back to the Slagveld with you.”

Roland was quiet for a second, then nodded. “If the Mark has been overrun, it would be the prudent course of action.”

***

It was oddly distressing to find that I had a suite of rooms reserved within the Palace of Salzheim for my personal use. Sure, this was my uncle’s home and there was no shortage of space, but it spoke of a lack of confidence in my ability to make my way in the world. Of an expectation that I would end up a perpetual dependent of whichever friend or relative was willing to take me in.[11] It was almost insulting that the coat of arms in the central chamber of these rooms was probably more valuable than the entirety of my worldly possessions. At least four feet across, it sat affixed to the wall above the mantle of the fireplace. The plumage of the Raven Coast Roc was picked out in onyx, the black wings and white breast both. It flew on a field of lapis lazuli, the frame, beak and talons chased in gold. The ox in its grip was made from agate, and a sizable garnet provided the Roc’s eye. The scroll below the ox was made from plaques of ivory with inlaid gold spelling out ‘Karststadt-Salzheim’.[12]

I frowned at it in consternation. If it had simply read ‘Karststadt’, I could dismiss it as a relic of ages past. Something that had been hanging around forever. But, ‘Karststadt-Salzheim’ had come into being when my father had married Roland’s sister. I paused. Technically, until Magda married, I was the heir presumptive of Salzheim. So why had I been sent to live with Jost and his family instead of my blood relatives? My first thought was that it was to let Lenz and I grow up with someone as a brother. Another thought slithered through the back of my mind, unwelcome, but biting in its veracity. It was equally possible that I’d been sent to Ritterblume because Roland wanted me to marry Magda, and it would be easier to continue the Salzheim lineage if we grew up apart. It was an unsettling thought. Not only was Magda my cousin, but despite what I’d said at the Goblin camp, she’d always struck me as a spoiled brat. The horrible part was, there would be people to whom it would be an efficient solution to the issue of competing jure uxoris claims on Salzheim.[13] Of course, those would be people unaware that I would be more than willing to let the wealth of Salzheim console whatever poor bastard was stuck marrying Magda.

The Palace of Salzheim was suitably palatial, with every stick of furniture in my rooms crafted to be an elegant, and often intricate, work of art in addition to its mundane function. I wasn’t sure how much of it would break when subjected to my oafish habits, and I walked as if upon eggshells within those chambers. Servants diligently careful to never be seen by me laid out several options of attire in the wardrobe. They looked like something that might be more in fashion in Vartenthral or Valay rather than the Empire. Of course, being the gateway to those Western lands, it would be unsurprising if Salzheim’s tailors were influenced by styles past the Dwarf Gate. I selected one with the least foppish traits. It consisted of black trousers, a lapis-hued waistcoat with tails, and sturdy boots. The lapel badge was a smaller rendition of the mantelpiece, even down to the materials it was made from. The backing looked to be silver. It disturbed me to pin something so grotesquely expensive to my coat, though it might only have cost as much as the gaudy sword the Castors had made for me.

The dining hall was on the third floor, soaring through the fourth and into the angled rafters holding up the roof. The beams and joists were carved and decorated to hide their utilitarian purpose. The North wall of the room was covered in a massive landscape mural depicting the view as it would be if there were no walls or city in the way. Just hedgerow-separated farms overflowing with crops rolling over the hills towards distant mountains. It was an idyllic and idealized rendition of the fiefdom. The south wall was almost all windows, with pillars and arches holding up the roof as structure dictated. Beyond the wide-open drapery was a view of the gardens, the wall, and in the distance, the Small Sea. It was slightly choppy in a brisk spring breeze.

A table ran much of the length of the room. The striking, rich brown grain of the wood drew the eye along its easy contours without any need of augmentation. The cloth runners spanning it were there less as ornamentation than to protect the wood from the food, though each runner was a veritable tapestry in of itself. Bronze candelabras devoid of tapers held the runners in place. High-backed chairs of similar wood to the table sat in regimented lines along its length. Behind the head of the table hung a coat of arms bearing the salt blocks of the Pfalzgraf of Salzheim. It was not the most imposing or intimidating heraldry a House might have, but it could always be worse.

Lenz was dressed similarly to me, but in green and white. Johan was in red and black. Neither was wearing a heraldic badge, probably because it was easier to lay hands on clothes than have someone make such an ornate piece of jewelry. The absence of such a device from their attire only made me more self-conscious about mine. The other guests around the table were mostly Burghers or Guild representatives. There was a Freiherr Gost, but he didn’t speak much and looked to be blind in one eye. Cleaned up and dressed in a more formal gown of blue and white, Magda exuded a radiance that might beguile those who hadn’t met her before. She certainly seemed far more composed than she had been since I’d found her in that tent.

I was seated to the right of the head of the table, across from Magda and adjacent to a Frau Kirschbauer. Kirschbauer was more than a little fat. Bound within the straining fabrics of her stout red dress, she resembled an overgrown cherry. This was accentuated by her wig of fake brown hair that sat atop a face so lined that no makeup could hide the creases. Pudgy fingers laden with rings ended arms clasped with enough gold and silver that she could bludgeon a man with an ill-timed gesture. The lace front of her gown was obscured by row upon row of gem-encrusted necklace. Despite the obvious wealth dripping from her attire, Kirschbauer was merely ‘Frau’ – freeborn, but not a Noblewoman. Still, she had to have some degree of influence if she sat closer to the head of the table than Lenz. So, I made polite conversation as protocol demanded. She spoke mostly about mercantile opportunities in Atlor of all places. Apparently those backwater mud-dwellers had managed a breakthrough in optical glass that far exceeded anything in the Empire.[14] I suppose she mistook my need to wear eyeglasses for an interest in their manufacture.

While a part of me was frustrated that such a dinner was taking place while there was a war on, I told myself that it was entirely possible Roland had issued what orders he’d needed. If the wheels were in motion, there would be little for us to do, especially in the case of most of the people at this table. The food was artfully presented and flavorful, but presented sequentially in tiny portions to prolong the meal past the point of reason. It was an insufferable experience. Frau Kirschbauer was a boring old woman, Roland said almost nothing, and I could think of dozens of more productive ways of spending my time besides waiting for the next porcelain dish with the next minute morsel in a playfully decorative pose. I did my best to mind my manners and to not insult my host, despite the grinding irritation at the back of my mind.

The sun had long set before the repast was at an end and Roland invited me to withdraw with him. I followed my uncle to an office on the second floor. Oil-filled lanterns hung from hooks on stone pillars amidst the broad spans of bookshelves. Dark wood and leather soaked in the light while metallic highlighting upon the book spines glittered like a sea of stars. A map upon one wall spanned from the North Tower to Freinmarkt and from the Dwarf Gate to Farcairn. It covered almost half the Volkmund. The most recent and accurate boundaries of various fiefs, free cities and allodial dominions were carefully inked upon it in colors suited to the owners. It was a chaotic patchwork spawned through fractional inheritance, marriage, appanage, and subinfeudation. The North was, amusingly, the most neat and tidy in terms of ownership, despite the troubles I’d had in grasping even those divisions.

“It’s been years,” Roland said.

“I was twelve last time I saw you,” I said.

“Have you become Ritterblume’s vassal since then?” he asked.

“No,” I said, letting the confusion spill into my tone.

“Then why do you come to me as Jost’s messenger rather than seeking my aid for yourself?”

“Graf Ritterblume has taken charge of the Goblin problem.”

“And what is your role in repelling them?” Roland asked.

“I don’t have one.”

“I see.” Disappointment filled his voice as he spoke those two words. “So you would rather be in Farcairn.”

“No,” I said. “If it were up to me, I would not go anywhere near that place. But I also agree with Graf Ritterblume’s assessment that we need more soldiers if we want to drive the Goblins from the karst lands of the Slagveld.”

“So competing in the tournament is just an obligation you’ve chosen to bear?”

“What?” I asked. “I have no intention of competing in the tournament.”

“That would make a terrible impression on Freinmarkt-Ziegeberg. Especially if you tell him that to his face. He has a passion for hastiludes.”

I sighed. “If we want his help we need to make a good impression. And making a good impression requires competing in the tournament he’s sponsoring. Is that what you’re telling me?

“More or less,” Roland said.

“Lenz will be pleased at least. He was disappointed when Graf Ritterblume told us we had to leave the fighting against the Goblins.”

“Tell me something, why are you taking orders from Jost Castor?”

“I’m still living under his roof,” I said. “I have been taking orders from him for as long as I’ve been living there.”

Roland closed his eyes and nodded to himself. “I suppose I should not be as irritated with that as I am, given the circumstances. But you’re not going to be his ward forever. In fact, you’re probably old enough to stop now. Especially if you’ve earned your spurs against the Goblins.”

“I’m not so sure I have.”

“Oh?”

“I made a stupid mistake. I recklessly charged ahead of the rest of the column and got cut off. Only providence and steel prevented me from being chopped apart when they surrounded me.”

“It is not terribly uncommon for an inexperienced fighter to lose sight of his friends when he first catches sight of the enemy,” Roland said. “What is important is that you learn from it.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Now, of the horses you rode in on, which one belongs to who?”

I wasn’t sure why the sudden change of topic, but I answered anyway. “Apparently Graymire is mine. The other three belong to Ritterblume, but I believe Lenz has leave to take them wherever he needs to.”

“‘Apparently’?”

“There was a miscommunication between myself and the Graf at some point. It was only recently cleared up.”

“You sound resentful,” Roland said.

I bit my lip before I let slip how I hated that horse. His one-stallion stampede at the Goblin camp hadn’t warmed my opinion any, especially after it had nearly left me in the dirt among the green-skinned bastards. “It was cleared up in a less than fully diplomatic way,” I said, covering my true reasons with a plausible excuse. Roland let it drop.

“We’ll have to make sure you’re properly prepared for the trip to Farcairn,” Roland said. “You appear to have forgotten your luggage.”

“It was faster to bring Magda here than to detour to Ritterblume to get it,” I said.

“You never could spot a joke.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“I’m going to send Soren Gost along with you to help with coordinating mundane affairs and avoiding diplomatic disagreements. It was clear during dinner that Jost has neglected your education in etiquette.”

“I apologize for-”

Roland raised a hand to cut me off. “You didn’t actually blunder into an insult. It’s just that throughout the meal, you looked so awkward and out of place that I felt sorry for having subjected you to it. I should have insisted you spend more time here over the years, if only to round out your education in matters less martial.”

“I see,” I said.

“I’ll arrange transport to get you to Farcairn. I’m afraid if you’re going to make it in time, you can’t stick around here terribly long.”

[11] Comments like these from my uncle strained my credulity, but he insisted I not correct his recollection of his own mindset at the time.

[12] I have seen this crest in the Palace of Salzheim. Kord’s description fails to do the artistry proper justice.

[13] Prince Kord misunderstands the law regarding succession for the various titles held by Roland von Salzheim here. Roland is both Graf and Pfalzgraf of Salzheim, but these titles come from two different places and are governed by different rules. The title of Pfalzgraf held imperial immediacy, but its lands only covered the grounds of the palace, making it a money-losing post. The Graf of Salzheim administers a much larger area, from which Roland’s notable wealth is derived. The title of Pfalzgraf passes to the closest male blood relative, meaning a son-in-law cannot inherit it. The title of Graf of Salzheim can pass to a son-in-law, but Prince Kord is uniquely ineligible to inherit it. If Magda had no sons, we could have ended up with a circumstance where her husband became Graf of Salzheim and Kord became Pfalzgraf of Salzheim upon Roland’s death.

[14] Having been to Atlor, I can attest that they are not ‘backwater mud-dwellers’. In terms of technical sophistication, their craftsmen rival or exceed those of the Volkmund in many areas.

If you want your own copy, the whole book is available from Amazon in eBook, Paperback, and Hardcover variants.