Matt watched his opponent move and hefted his mace. The Orc across from him grinned, his grip shifting on the polearm he held.

Eyes narrowed, Matt stepped towards the Orc, his body tense and ready to fend off an attack. The Orc lifted the polearm, telegraphing an overhand blow that would have had a mountain of leverage behind it.

Matt didn't give the Orc the chance to complete the move. Instead, he sprinted in, trying to aim a quick blow at the Orc's shoulder. He saw his opponent's eyes widen slightly and accelerated a little more in case the man tried to take a step back.

He barely had the chance to grunt in surprise when the Orc instead stepped forward, closing the distance far faster than Matt had expected. Matt swung anyway, hoping to make contact, and the Orc grunted as the haft of Matt's mace hit him in the shoulder.

Then the Orc pivoted and smashed the haft of his polearm into Matt's midsection, smashing him sideways as Matt passed him. The impact took Matt completely off his feet; one moment he was making a bold charge, the next he was tripping over his own feet and tumbling across the courtyard. By the time he came to a stop and tried to stand, the blade of the Orc's polearm was already descending towards his head.

It stopped just short, and Matt grunted. He looked up into Rethferd's grinning face. "Well done, Rethferd. I hope I didn't make that too easy for you."

The Hard Scythe lifeguard took the blade of the practice polearm away from Matt's neck and extended a hand to help Matt up. His grin was cautiously triumphant. "Don't take it too hard, my liege. With a mace, you have to have just the right space between you and your target to get a good hit. You need to be ready if they step into the swing to rob you of a decent blow."

Matt nodded and rolled his shoulder. He'd landed a little harder than he liked, and even with the practice armor, the hits added up. "Good to know, Rethferd. Let's try that again."

The lifeguard nodded, and they walked away from each other to a respectable distance. Matt turned back to face his lifeguard and set himself for the next match.

To the side, he heard someone politely clear his throat. He didn't glance in Morteth's direction; his lifeguards had already drilled into him the habit of keeping his eye on his opponent. "Yes, Margrave?"

Morteth didn't sound all that offended about his refusal to look in his direction. If anything, the High Imp sounded almost amused. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything, sire."

The Margave's implied question made Matt grunt in response. He tried to ignore the sudden ache in his heart; it should have been Gorfeld there, bringing the latest messages for him to look at. The steward was still unconscious, with no certain chance of recovery.

He shook off that distraction, trying to focus on the way Rethferd's feet were shifting. "You're not interrupting, Margrave. Tell me what I need to know."

Morteth still hesitated, obviously unused to delivering his information in the middle of the New Arsenal. He likely wasn't comfortable talking so openly with so many freeholders and soldiers about, but Matt was less worried about that. Most of the soldiers were busy with their own training, and those few who might have been nosy were being watched by the rest of his lifeguards. Nobody was close at all, and unlike most people in Redspire, he knew exactly what magic these people were capable of.

In the end, Morteth spoke with his usual professional detachment, his tone respectful and concise despite the fact that he was reporting on more than simple troop movements. "Ambassador Paralus has been joined by a number of other representatives from the former Western Coalition. It appears that many of them are interested in trade."

Matt nodded. Rethferd's step had hitched a little as the Hard Scythe Orc continued to circle. "Good. They aren't asking for anything in return, are they?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Morteth shaking his head. "No, sire. Just appropriate tariffs on both sides." He paused. "The Maiden of Art is already speaking with them about possible contributions to the Maiden's House."

Matt repressed a snort. Of course, Tanya was already hard at work on them. He opened his mouth to say something and paused as Rethferd suddenly lunged forward. The polearm swept towards his head at a speed that split the air, and the Orc's extra reach meant he'd have no chance for a counterattack.

At least, he wouldn't if he stayed put. Taking a page out of the lifeguard's book, Matt lunged in towards Rethferd and swung his mace at the incoming haft. The weapons met with a sharp cracking sound, and Matt barely kept hold of the mace as the impact vibrated it in his grip. Rethferd pulled back, shortening his grip on the polearm while he moved. Matt chased after him, his lips stretched in a feral grin.

Rethferd's eyes sharpened slightly, and the Hard Scythe Orc's retreat stopped abruptly. Matt had been ready for it, though; the instant Rethferd stopped moving backwards, swung as hard as he could at the Orc's midsection, twisting his body to put his weight behind it.

The swing caught the Orc just as the lifeguard leapt forward again, aiming for another solid shove with the haft. Rethferd's eyes bugged out a little as the padded mace head made contact; Matt winced a little as the Orc made a pained sound and the air left his lungs.

Yet even as Rethferd staggered, the Orc took another step closer. Matt's grin turned to open-mouthed shock as the butt end of the polearm abruptly came around with all the force of a hammer, landing on his right forearm. The resulting hit sent him staggering away, off balance and hurting, with lances of pain running down his arm.

Before he could turn back to face Rethferd, he saw a flicker of motion as the dangerous part of the polearm came back around. Then, he was suddenly looking up at the bright sky of a beautiful fall morning, with a dull pain across his chest and a sharper ache in the back of his head.

It took a moment for his lungs to remember how they worked, but when they did, Matt sucked in an agonized breath. He rolled out to the side, away from where he thought Rethferd was. The lifeguard was still standing, one arm wrapped around his gut and a grimace stamped on his blunt features. Clearly the exchange hadn't gone all Rethferd's way, but the man wasn't down yet, and neither was Matt.

Morteth continued as if he hadn't just seen his liege lord clotheslined like an overeager running back. "We've received news from Margrave Grufen. He reports that his operations against the Wizards have been stalled due to trouble in the Summerlands. The Revolutionaries have apparently requested his help in putting down certain… malcontents there."

Matt risked a quick glance at Morteth, but the Imp just shrugged aside his rebuke. He grimaced and looked back at Rethferd. He had told the man to give his report. "Does… does he think that it will be a long delay?"

The Margrave sighed. "No, sire. Just a few weeks, but it might delay the campaign against the Circle of Heaven until the spring if it lasts too long. He did… request reinforcements again."

Morteth's slight hesitation had happened because Rethferd had charged again, his eyes grimly determined. Matt saw the polearm come down, aiming to skewer him on the dull point, and he took a step back to give himself just a little bit of space. He saw the Orc's eyes spark with triumph; Rethferd was always going to have the advantage of reach in a fight like this one.

Yet Matt wasn't just going to retreat. He waited until the point of the polearm had nearly reached him and knocked the weapon aside and down. Rethferd's charge paused as the Orc pulled his weapon back, trying to start a second thrust, but Matt just stepped forward and smacked the haft down again, forcing Rethferd to fight the weight of his own polearm in addition to Matt's strikes.

Rethferd grunted and tried to yank the weapon back, aiming to catch Matt with the hook on the head, but Matt was ready for it. He knocked it out to the side and charged, narrowing the gap between him and the lifeguard again. The Orc grunted and prepared to punch at him with the haft yet again.

Matt let him pivot to start the attack before he stopped short. Rethferd's face went blank as the haft met thin air, and surprise filled his eyes as Matt reached out and grabbed the polearm's haft. The Orc started to yank it backwards, clearly expecting to wrestle over the haft, but Matt just let it go—and brought his mace down on Rethferd's shoulder with his other hand.

The impact brought Rethferd down on one knee. His lifeguard gave an agonized groan, but Matt just hardened his heart and kicked the Orc over on his back. He was still winding up for the finishing hit when Rethferd went limp. "Yield, I yield, sire!"

Matt stopped immediately. He shook off a bit of dizziness and let his mace fall to his side. Then he bent down to help Rethferd up. "Got you that time."

Rethferd's expression grew rueful as Matt pulled him upright. "That you did, sire. I suppose we've been teaching you too well."

"There're worse things to do." Matt tried not to sound as fatigued as he felt. "I think I might need a small break, though. Thank you."

Rethferd bowed. When he straightened, he was wearing a grin; he pawed at his side with a wince. "I might need one as well, honestly."

Matt nodded. "Go see a healer if you need to. Don't be proud about it; I want you well taken care of." The Orc nodded again with a grin and saluted. As he withdrew, Waithaana stepped forward, a practice glaive in her hands, but Matt gestured for her to wait a moment. He saw the Frost Elf nod and then he turned to look for where one of the palace servants was waiting, a jar of water in hand.

Morteth followed him, his voice lowering as Matt drank. "The Council is still debating how to respond. Many are saying we should withdraw from the Summerlands; their internal struggles are not our responsibility, and the delays and casualties will only worsen things."

It was hard to deny the argument; though Lucy's revolution had started well, apparently the advent of peace had been troubling for the newborn nation. More and more local rebellions were springing up as the traditional bonds of authority broke down, and Lucy was being forced to spend a good portion of her time fighting her own people or countering border raids from the Fireblood Empire to the south. They were things any new ruler would need to deal with—if anyone could understand, it was him—but the Council was not wrong. Spending the Kingdom's resources and lives on her defense was not always the right answer, even if he did want to see her again.

Matt shook his head, giving the jar back to the servant. "What is their alternative suggestion? Should we just ignore our remaining foes?"

Morteth shrugged; he clearly didn't want to be the one to defend the Council's ideas. "I believe that they would rather take time to guard our own borders and recover, sire. The war and the… other actions have been costly, and our only remaining opponent is the Circle of Heaven. All others have signed peace treaties or been destroyed." He grimaced. "They believe our troops would be better stationed here for a time."

"Meaning they are still scared of another serf rebellion." The water soured in Matt's mouth. He tried not to snarl as he shook his head.

The Margrave nodded. "That is likely true, sire, but that doesn't make them wrong." Morteth hesitated and then smiled. "I know I have my own preferences for defense, but our forces well outnumber those of the enemy. We should take the opportunity to prepare ourselves for a final assault."

Matt raised an eyebrow at him. "Even if we risk losing our momentum? We might find them well prepared to face us."

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Morteth snorted. "It would be… impressive if they managed to recover from the losses they've already sustained, sire. Especially given that they stand against us alone."

Though Matt felt tempted to continue the debate, he simply nodded and turned to the next question, the one he hadn't really wanted to ask. "What have we heard from Einreth?"

The Margave's expression grew grim. "She is still working to establish order in Heartlight, sire." Matt felt the bottom drop out of his stomach at the thought of what that simple sentence meant. Most of the rebels had been crushed outside of Heartlight, but it didn't mean there wasn't plenty of killing left to be done. Every rumor he'd heard coming out of the Red Moons' territory was enough to sicken him.

Morteth appeared to feel much the same. He shook his head. "Her reports about the next harvest, sire…"

Matt motioned for him to stop. It didn't need to be said; the rebellion had been perfectly timed to leave most of the farms in the Red Moons territory in ruin. Without that harvest, both food and funds were going to dry up fast. Even the Master of Coin's financial tricks weren't going to be enough to cover things; Matt doubted anyone was going to be buying victory bonds when they knew the Kingdom was going to face a long, hard winter, with starvation at their doors.

He took another drink of water and then nodded to Morteth. "Go on, Margrave."

The Imp continued. "Margrave Karve still reports only minor skirmishes in the Copper Hills. He feels confident that he will be able to hold there, especially with Lord Balred reinforcing them." Matt felt a brief smile cross his expression at the mention of his former lifeguard, only to fade as Morteth continued. "We are still hearing of combat taking place between the Order of the Griffon and their former allies. The war has become… costly, to the extent that we are seeing refugees attempt to cross the mountains."

Matt paused. He looked at Morteth. "What are we doing with them?"

"Some are being turned away; the local nobility feels it would be unwise to allow former enemies to settle in our lands." Morteth paused for just a moment. "Others are allowing them in, as long as they become serfs. There are… disagreements within the Clan about the fact."

Disgust twisted through Matt at the fact. After everything he'd worked for, after the blood he'd shed at Heartlight, some of the nobility were still deciding to take on more slaves? He restrained his initial impulse and let a breath hiss through his teeth. "I'll need to discuss that with Lord Torth and the Council, then."

Morteth nodded, as if he'd expected the response. "Lord Balred has apparently volunteered to allow the refugees a place to settle in the Copper Hills, so long as they sign the same agreements that the Mage-Errants had, but the refugees are unable to reach his lands without crossing the High Peaks…"

"Which are controlled by the High Imps who probably would rather have them be serfs instead." Matt sighed and set aside the bottle. The servant scurried over and gathered it before vanishing, likely to go refill it. "All right. Anything else?"

The Margrave shook his head. "No, sire. That is everything I've heard. Though I believe Melren and Lady Jessica may wish to speak with you." Then the High Imp paused. "I do have another question, if you would permit me."

It was the most hesitant and formal tone Matt had ever heard the man use for months. He looked at him with a frown of concern. "Of course, Margrave. Ask away."

Morteth still hesitated before he spoke. "May I ask why you had me deliver this report? I don't mean to protest, but I could have been supervising the training for the First Legion instead."

Matt grinned a little. "Yes, that would have been more comfortable, wouldn't it?" Morteth gave him a reproachful look, and he clapped the Imp on the shoulder. "In the future, I mean for the Table of Margraves to act somewhat like the Council does, only for military and foreign matters. That means that while you're in Redspire, you'll all need to know what I know. Consider this an opportunity to practice that a bit—along with the paperwork."

The Margrave seemed to think over the statement for a moment. Then he snorted softly. "In other words, I need to see Gorfeld recover or get myself sent to the front lines, is that right?"

Despite himself, Matt laughed. He shook his head. "Too late, I'm afraid. Rest assured, Grufen and Karve will receive the same treatment soon enough." As Morteth scowled, he glanced around at the courtyard. "While we're speaking about it, is the First Legion ready? In case we need to move again?"

Morteth nodded. The High Imp's lips quirked in a repressed smile. "Now more than ever, sire."

"I'm sure." Matt shook his head, still smiling. He picked up his practice mace again and stepped back into the courtyard. Waithaana looked up immediately; the Frost Elf seemed almost eager to face him, in a way that made all of his bruises throb with pain for a moment. "We'll see you back to the war soon enough, Morteth. Don't worry about that at all."

Morteth bowed slightly, and Matt stalked back out into the courtyard, his eyes already on his new sparring partner. For now, that was all he needed to worry about—which was more of a relief than he would have expected.

The practice session lasted about another hour, with each of the lifeguards taking a turn to knock him around the New Arsenal. Matt liked to believe he held his own, but for all his bravado, he was the one who apparently needed the most attention from the healers by the end of the sparring. Their magic soothed away the worst of the cuts, scrapes, and contusions, but there were plenty of aches and pains left behind when they were done. Matt bitterly wondered to himself if the healers were doing it on purpose, to keep him from continuing to get himself beaten.

Either way, Matt strode out of the New Arsenal and went for a brief tour of the city. It was a habit that he'd taken up again recently, hoping that his presence could soothe some of the concerns and tensions left behind by the serf rebellion. It seemed to work, at least in the way that the nobility and the freeholders were no longer putting their hands on their weapons every time they passed one another in the streets, but there were still plenty of worries in the eyes of the people he saw. Rumors of impending famine, grim predictions by the supposed Counselor, and threats of war or rebellion seemed to be everywhere now, and far too many eyes clung to him for any sign of hope.

Of course, that wasn't exactly the only problem he faced as he moved through Redspire.

Matt glanced casually ahead of his small cluster of lifeguards and sighed. He was careful to turn his eyes away from the small knot of activity further up the crowded street. "So, which ones are these?"

Tiridine merely grunted. The Red Moon Orc had grown quiet and stricken since the savage rebellion that had scourged her home, though she still performed her duties well. Mulwan gave her fellow lifeguard a concerned glance before she answered, the Blackleaf Goblin's expression carefully neutral. "By the looks of things, I'd say Gnomish separatists."

Matt looked at her in surprise. "Really?"

Surgall, a Coldhearth Orc with a longsword at his side, coughed into his hand. "Yes, sire. Red Sorceress cleared out a lot of them, but there's still a few nobles that have those leanings. You run across 'em every so often."

Harak snorted, a sound that reminded Matt of a pistol shot. The Greenriver Orc shook his head. "They're usually not so bad. Not a good fight, though."

Still incredulous, Matt risked another look up the street. Sure enough, clustered around a cart with a broken axle was a group of Gnomes. They were muttering among themselves, but their cloaks bulged in exactly the wrong places, and instead of the frustrated shouting of real merchants or farmers with a broken cart, they were just shaking their heads enough to sneak glances at the crowd. Their gazes seemed to linger on Matt's group just a bit too often.

He grimaced as he looked back at the others. "So why are Gnomish separatists sending assassins to kill me?"

Telferd, a Grimfen Goblin who had only recently joined, started to chuckle. "Maybe they just didn't want to be left out of the fun?" Matt gave her a stern look, and she blinked. "Sire."

Matt looked down at Nelson's reins and sighed. She wasn't exactly wrong. In the handful of weeks after the rebellion at Heartlight, it seemed like waves of hired killers had started worming their way out of the woodwork to get at him.

There was a host of reasons why, of course. Matt had made numerous enemies throughout the year that he had been King, and even the most loyal of subjects might have been tempted by the lure of the Divine Right he held. All it would take would be one convenient crossbow bolt or knife thrust, and the Kingdom of Iron would be under new management. The massacre of the serfs at Heartlight would have shaken his people's confidence in him; the would-be rulers of the Kingdom might suspect that now would be an ideal time to replace him.

The real reason was a bit different, however. Matt suspected Gorfeld had worked hard to prevent such clumsy attempts; with the steward down, more than just the highly skilled assassins could reach him.

Which was why he was riding Nelson steadily towards a hopeless bunch of amateurs who likely wouldn't even get close to their goal. Everything about them shouted a lack of expertise and professionalism, from their haphazard disguises to the fact that their broken-down cart was on the wrong side of the street. They didn't even seem to have any backup; Mulwan had already been looking for archers stationed on nearby roofs or hiding in the alleys, but she'd simply shaken her head when he asked. He sighed again; these fools wouldn't even be the first ones to try for his head this week.

Matt shook his head and started to build the framework for the spells he might need. There weren't many; after all, the lifeguards around him were more than capable of handling the entire group without much of a problem. Still, it paid to be prepared. He'd been surprised before, after all.

As they approached the ambush, Matt saw his lifeguards ready their weapons. Some of the freeholders around them took notice; many of them cleared out of the street, leaving more free space around them.

The assassins ahead didn't appear to understand the shift in the atmosphere. Matt managed not to shake his head at them. Instead, he simply brought Nelson to a stop a short distance from the cart and waited.

He watched as the gathered assassins slowly realized what had happened. The surrounding freeholders seemed to disperse almost immediately; those who had been walking down the street towards the spot abruptly diverted to funnel into nearby buildings or side streets. Matt smiled grimly at the sight; the last thing he needed was more of the people of Redspire getting involved.

The Gnomes at the cart looked around at the steadily vanishing crowd and then looked back at him. He saw the realization in their eyes. Matt let the situation fully dawn on them before he spoke, letting his voice carry through the now-quiet street.

"I don't know who sent you here, but I imagine that you do not want to die." Some of the Gnomes seemed to stiffen as he spoke, but others took furtive steps back, as if they wanted their companions to leap into battle first. There were a few hints of movement under the sheet that covered the cart as well; he saw Tiridine and a High Imp named Sornaath take notice of it. He repressed yet another sigh and continued in a steady voice. "If you lay down your weapons and surrender, I can guarantee you your lives. Those who cooperate to bring your employers to justice will be granted leniency. Those who fight—"

He didn't quite reach the end of his speech before the Gnomes beneath the sheet suddenly threw off their cover and rose, crossbows in their hands. They blinked in the sunlight, their eyes searching for targets; for a few crucial heartbeats, their weapons were still lowered as they adjusted to the daylight.

In that moment, Matt's lifeguards moved. One of Matt's protectors, ironically a Gnome named Namenfird, extended his hand, aiming it at the wheels of the cart. The ground crackled and burst upwards as a small spike of earth lifted the cart's wheel. Matt grimaced as the crossbow-wielders were sent flying as the cart overturned, spilling them onto the cobblestones. Some of them crashed into the backs of their friends, turning the group of assassins into a tangle of dropped weapons and cursing Gnomes.

The assassins who weren't knocked to the ground glanced backwards at their companions. By the time they looked forward, the first of Matt's lifeguards had already reached them. Rethferd hit them at a full charge, his war scythe cutting cleanly through weapons and armor alike. Tiridine and Harak arrived just moments later, followed by Waithaana and the rest. Cries and shouts filled the air as the assassins fell back, their stumbling group unable to do more than form a futile last stand as the warriors closed in.

Matt watched the fight with a faint air of disappointment. Of the dozen or so Gnomes, eight of them were down in mere moments, and the remaining four only managed to run a few strides before the lifeguards caught them.

He waited a few more moments until Rethferd looked back and nodded at him. Then Matt swung himself out of Nelson's saddle. The warbuck snorted in obvious discontent, but Matt patted him in an idle attempt to comfort the beast. Then he walked over to where the lifeguards were pinning the remaining assassins to the ground, in some cases more literally than others.

One of the assassins seemed to be a bit older than the others, so Matt walked over to where Waithaana was holding him at the edge of her blade. The Gnome was bleeding from his arm, where the Frost Elf had struck him; a cruel-looking dagger lay spilled in the street, obviously covered in poison. Matt shook his head at it, and then looked at the assassin, still sweating beneath Waithaana's attention. He cleared his throat.

"As I was saying, those who fight have no guarantees." Matt toyed with his mace for a moment, catching the Gnome's eye. The assassin's already pale face grew more desperate, and Matt smiled. "You will now be escorted to the Tower of Penance. Some people will be there to question you a short time later. If you want to see daylight again, you'll answer honestly and completely."

One of the other Gnomes, still struggling in Harak's iron grip, let out a stream of curses. "We'll never give up! Your days of tyranny are over! The Gnomes of Summerhall will be free!"

Namenfird rolled his eyes. "We Gnomes are already free, you damn idiot. The nobles signed the Angru Declaration and everything."

"I won't hear excuses from you, traitor!"

Matt let a hint of magic leak into the spell known as the Little Tinderbox. His mace rapidly heated, going from a dark color to something closer to cherry-red. The shouting assassin suddenly fell silent as Matt walked over to him. He saw the Gnome's eyes go very wide as Matt let the weapon dangle over him. "You just tried to kill me. I know I just asked you to talk, but I think we both know insults aren't what I meant."

He let the mace dip a little lower, closer to the Gnome's terrified face. "If you want the option to talk later, I would stay quiet now. Maybe just nod or shake your head. Do you understand?"

The Gnome stared at him. Then he nodded his head, a quick, nervous jerk that told Matt there would be no more disruptions. Matt nodded and let the spell fade. As his mace returned to its natural heat and color, he raised his voice so that all of the still-living assassins could hear. "You're going to come with us. Don't misbehave, and you'll come out of this intact."

He looked at where the bodies of at least seven Gnomes lay very, very still and grimaced. Then he turned and walked back towards Nelson. Hopefully, they would be the only obstacle that he ran into for the rest of the day.

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