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Vol.5, Ch.5, P.1

“The north—breached,” grumbled the marquis of Isfält. He leant darkly over the table. The papers, the pieces, the plans and policies so sprawled upon it—all seemed now much a fool’s mess in his furrowed eyes. And for why but the wretched report still ringing in his ears: routed his Salvators were. First, the detachment to the east; and now, the chief host to the north, his own son Alfred withal.

What woe. The father pondered the queen-piece standing over the north-maps. Indeed, he had not toppled it yet; Alfred drew still a healthy breath, after all, and was recuperating presently in the safety of the Dēlūbrum. And word was, the master sorcerer was even straining at the leash to lunge back into battle.

Yet, Balbreau could not stay the sigh leaving now his lips. His son, alive