The Powterosian War (Book 5) by C. Craig Coleman

state.” Grekenbach watched as the generals, colonels, majors, and the smiling officers all looked at each other, then back at the king. “Tomorrow we will take the offensive and make a sortie on the forces of Dreaddrac. Know this is not an act of grief-stricken vengeance for personal reasons, but an attack planned before the death of our queen. We cannot survive hiding behind these walls waiting for reinforcements to arrive, bolstering General Vylvex’s army. We must take the initiative and wound him while we still can.”
    A round of applause arose from the hall and spread through it front to back. Grekenbach looked at the strength of Graushdem, its armed leadership merging into one with him, willing to follow him where ever he should lead.
    “Thank you, one and all, for your devotion to this court and kingdom. Those of you that are involved in tomorrow’s campaign, from the leading generals to the support staff that has arranged the supplies, we thank you again for your patience. While lives may be lost in this courageous attack, no lives will be wasted needlessly. All who fight in this battle fight to save their homes, families, futures, and the kingdom.” Another round of applause flowed through the hall.
    “Return now to your assigned positions and forces and get some rest. I believe the orders will be available at the door from the chatra’s staff. Go with brave hearts and your king’s eternal gratitude.”
    The mass of officers erupted in conversations about the king’s speech behind him as he left the throne room, returning to his apartment high in the keep.
    There was a knock at his door soon after his body servant had taken the helmet and armor. Grekenbach stood on the balcony in the night breeze, looking over the city at the enemy campfires beyond the walls. “Enter,” the king said, coming back inside.
    “Sorry to disturb you, Majesty,” the chatra said. “The generals wanted me to convey their support for you in every respect. Your speech was a resounding success. It has restored their confidence. Word is spreading through the city of your return to us. The people are lighting celebratory bonfires in the streets.”
    “Yes, I noted the bonfires. I hope the people are not wasting precious fuel we may soon need.”
    “They needed this night, Majesty. They needed their king’s assurance you are with them.” The chatra smiled at his king, bowed, and backed out, closing the door.
    Grekenbach returned to the balcony. He watched the bonfires multiply across the city below the palace as the joyful news spread. I hope they’ll be as joyful after tomorrow’s battle; that their joy isn’t smothered by more grief.
    * * *
    Prince Pindradese read the message an ogre brought him in private. The flap to his resplendent tent was closed. He was alone in the decadence with which he surrounded himself. But there was a feeling of fear akin to when, as a boy, his father locked him in a dark tiny closet for many hours at a time when he failed to meet some expectation. The message was cold in his hand. It brought the leering eye of the Dark Lord to mind, watching him as his father’s judgmental eye did so often. He shuttered, remembering the audience in the Munattahensenhov. A candle flickered and Pindradese jerked around, leering at the tent entrance to see who opened the flap, but it remained closed. He pulled his cloak around his chilled body, though the fire burned in the brazier and the tent was warm. His stomach churned. He took a deep breath, broke the dark, blood-colored seal, not disturbing the massive dragon rampant, and opened the message.
    “Why haven’t you taken Feldrik Fortress!” was all it said. The implication was terrifying. The letter seemed icy cold. Pindradese dropped it, then snatched it up and tossed it on the field table as if it burned his fingers.
    The sorcerer-king entertains no excuses and has already warned about delays, he thought. But I can’t break the resistance at the