far too busy fleeing the Royal Army to mount any attack here at the city walls."
"I appreciate your confidence, Sir Ulric," Gabriella commented, meeting the large man's eyes, "but what if you are wrong?"
There was a short, awkward silence, and then the King spoke, "Sir Ulric is High Constable and our chief strategic adviser, my dear. He has our complete trust in such matters. Tell me, Constable: how long will it take you and your men to reach the rogue encampments?"
Ulric nodded and resumed his walk along the thoroughfare. "Two months, sire. We have mapped a route that takes us around the western edge of the Tempest Barrens, meeting the enemy before they can force their way into the more populated villages at Broadmoor Valley. There, we shall descend upon the hills and rout the villains into the open, camp by camp if necessary."
"And what if Broadmoor Valley is not in fact the destination of this 'rogue band', Constable?" Gabriella asked pointedly. "What if their intention is to cut straight across the Tempest Barrens, driving directly into the heart of Camelot?"
Ulric glanced back at Gabriella, his face tense with annoyance. Quickly, however, he covered this with a show of patient amusement. "My dear Princess, what a delightful imagination you do have."
"The Barrens are not a place through which any sane general would lead his troops, Gabriella," the King explained pedantically. "They are, as the name suggests, a desolate wilderness, treacherous, haunted by horrors and divided by the Cragrack Cliffs. Surely, you have heard the history of the Tempest Barrens f rom Professor Toph. C enturies ago, wizarding armies warred there, decimating the land with their black magic for miles in every direction. For that reason, the Barrens form a protection against any attack from the north."
Gabriella had heard the histories. She nodded, tight-lipped, unconvinced but disinclined to argue with her father.
"I assure you, Your Highnesses," Ulric went on confidently, "upon our return, not six months hence, we will declare the complete victory of your sovereign forces over the scourge of this rabble of malcontents. Fear not, either of you."
Satisfied, both the King and Sir Ulric turned and began to walk back towards the open city gates. After a minute, still frowning dourly, Gabriella followed them.
"I do not trust Ulric's plans," she said later that evening, speaking to Darrick under the shelter of his father's blacksmith shop. Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, full of switching wind and heat lightning, hinting at a midnight storm. "And frankly, I do not trust him . He's arrogant. He does not take the threat seriously."
Darrick sighed harshly, leant his hammer against the anvil, and ran a bare arm across his forehead. His features were lit by the orange light of the forge. "Everyone knows what we are facing," he said wearily. "Ulric's plans are solid. For the Lord's sake, Bree, they're my plans as well. I helped draw them up."
Gabriella heard him but only shook her head, staring into the glare of the furnace. "I do not like it. I sense that this is a grave error."
"I understand your worries," Darrick said, hefting the hammer again and laying a fresh sword across the anvil. With careful precision, he struck the glowing red metal, shaping it and sending up bursts of sparks. He didn’t need to smith his own swords, of course, but insisted upon it, claiming that there was no better or more loyal weapon than one forged with one’s own hands. Gabriella, of course, found this habit both silly and endearing. Darrick examined the line of the sword critically and then turned and dipped it into a barrel of water. It hissed as steam poured into the air. "It's natural to feel nervous before a campaign,” he soothed, swiping an arm across his brow. “ But I will be there, Bree. I will fight to keep Camelot safe."
"That's what I mean, Darrick," Gabriella said,
"I appreciate your confidence, Sir Ulric," Gabriella commented, meeting the large man's eyes, "but what if you are wrong?"
There was a short, awkward silence, and then the King spoke, "Sir Ulric is High Constable and our chief strategic adviser, my dear. He has our complete trust in such matters. Tell me, Constable: how long will it take you and your men to reach the rogue encampments?"
Ulric nodded and resumed his walk along the thoroughfare. "Two months, sire. We have mapped a route that takes us around the western edge of the Tempest Barrens, meeting the enemy before they can force their way into the more populated villages at Broadmoor Valley. There, we shall descend upon the hills and rout the villains into the open, camp by camp if necessary."
"And what if Broadmoor Valley is not in fact the destination of this 'rogue band', Constable?" Gabriella asked pointedly. "What if their intention is to cut straight across the Tempest Barrens, driving directly into the heart of Camelot?"
Ulric glanced back at Gabriella, his face tense with annoyance. Quickly, however, he covered this with a show of patient amusement. "My dear Princess, what a delightful imagination you do have."
"The Barrens are not a place through which any sane general would lead his troops, Gabriella," the King explained pedantically. "They are, as the name suggests, a desolate wilderness, treacherous, haunted by horrors and divided by the Cragrack Cliffs. Surely, you have heard the history of the Tempest Barrens f rom Professor Toph. C enturies ago, wizarding armies warred there, decimating the land with their black magic for miles in every direction. For that reason, the Barrens form a protection against any attack from the north."
Gabriella had heard the histories. She nodded, tight-lipped, unconvinced but disinclined to argue with her father.
"I assure you, Your Highnesses," Ulric went on confidently, "upon our return, not six months hence, we will declare the complete victory of your sovereign forces over the scourge of this rabble of malcontents. Fear not, either of you."
Satisfied, both the King and Sir Ulric turned and began to walk back towards the open city gates. After a minute, still frowning dourly, Gabriella followed them.
"I do not trust Ulric's plans," she said later that evening, speaking to Darrick under the shelter of his father's blacksmith shop. Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, full of switching wind and heat lightning, hinting at a midnight storm. "And frankly, I do not trust him . He's arrogant. He does not take the threat seriously."
Darrick sighed harshly, leant his hammer against the anvil, and ran a bare arm across his forehead. His features were lit by the orange light of the forge. "Everyone knows what we are facing," he said wearily. "Ulric's plans are solid. For the Lord's sake, Bree, they're my plans as well. I helped draw them up."
Gabriella heard him but only shook her head, staring into the glare of the furnace. "I do not like it. I sense that this is a grave error."
"I understand your worries," Darrick said, hefting the hammer again and laying a fresh sword across the anvil. With careful precision, he struck the glowing red metal, shaping it and sending up bursts of sparks. He didn’t need to smith his own swords, of course, but insisted upon it, claiming that there was no better or more loyal weapon than one forged with one’s own hands. Gabriella, of course, found this habit both silly and endearing. Darrick examined the line of the sword critically and then turned and dipped it into a barrel of water. It hissed as steam poured into the air. "It's natural to feel nervous before a campaign,” he soothed, swiping an arm across his brow. “ But I will be there, Bree. I will fight to keep Camelot safe."
"That's what I mean, Darrick," Gabriella said,
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