Limitanei Secundus spent his last night in Manawydan Roth’s camp organizing and maintaining the supplies of his charge, Lord Cyngen Ras Thavas. Lord Cyngen had brought the scrolls, seals, and finery into Roth’s keep. No doubt those were immaculately kept. The instruments of soldering, however, were left out in an earthen storeroom more fit for turnips than for forged steel. L2 was unsurprised that Cyngen would be so negligent toward these things; the lord-diplomat clearly lacked the stomach and the mind for fighting, and masked this weakness behind a veneer of civility. L2 set the last of the flints back in its oil cloth, and tucked it into saddle bag 4b. He closed and latched the storeroom, walking out under the stars and taking a seat on a stone. He never used to sit, but he had picked up the habit on his last campaign with a Throxean scout team. One night by the fire, a friendly, if tipsy, scout had confided in him that it made Martians very nervous to have him standing all the time, especially with the stillness that was his habit. Since then L2 had noted that Martains were always moving, taking a seat here, stretching their arms, whittling sticks without purpose. He made a point to sit down when not on duty, so as to put the men at ease. And he had found it surprisingly pleasurable. One had a different view of the world when atop a stone by a firepit. And the closer he sat to the Red Martians, the less alien they seemed to him.





For example, was tonight’s task truly necessary? The gear had been cleaned and oiled recently enough, and the perishables would not be provided until tomorrow. Perhaps this was his equivalent of whittling; working away the hours while men slept. It also gave him an excuse to avoid the banquet hall, which L2 loathed. If Lord Cyngen avoided the armory to dissimulate his ignorance, perhaps L2 avoided feasts for the same reason. He had made himself very visible for the first few days here: the bulk of his task had been to stand near Lord Cyngen and represent the implacable force held by the Queen of Hives. Lord Cyngen came bearing olive branch of peace, and L2’s presence implied the alternative: 10,000 iron thorns.





L2 had clearly accomplished this task. Manawydan and Cyngen had become very friendly, and were undertaking the tedious dance of fealty negotiation. To linger in the hall at this point would only put Roth’s men ill at ease. Not that he was ashamed to be seen; L2 loved his face, and kept it especially keenly polished. In his fights against bandits and rebel Throxeans, he had relished the expressions of his foes when he emerged from the depths of shadow. What did his enemies see then, by the light of moons and torches? A gleaming steel skull, set with fangs like yellow razors. Or, first, just the red glow of his eyes. It was said that in Throxean folklore, demons had glowing eyes. This was likely why the men he faced had so often pissed themselves. In a formal banquet hall, this was less often a desirable result. He knew the dancing flames reflected on the gaunt edges of his skull. And that it disturbed men that he did not eat, or blink, or grow weary. Well, sometimes he did grow weary, but he didn’t slump onto the table like an animal.





After countless of these feasts, L2 was glad to be so near to leaving this place. The computer had informed him midday that the Demon King was hunting a thief just north of here, in the Queen’s swamps. Most of the dedicated reconnaissance units were father north, scouting dead cities for potential strongholds for the Queen’s eastern front. As such, he was being asked to lead a Hither contingent to find this thief. It would be unacceptable for the Demon King to have proof that his justice extended to the Throxean swamp, into the heart of the Queen of Hive’s growing power. The computer, gracious as ever, explained that this would be a boon to Hither diplomacy and to the embodiment of the Queen’s sovereignty of the Queen. The Hither would, under his leadership, have the chance to prove their loyalty to the queen, and win themselves some small honors. The Queen would demonstrate that all justice in Throxus flows from her alone; she would punish or absolve this thief according to her royal judgement.





L2 informed Cyngen of the new initiative. Cyngen was clearly pleased to have a new offer to make to Lord Roth, and to have L2 out of his presence, if only for a while. Manwydan Roth would send his best manhunter, or so he alleged. It became clear through the course of a late lunch that Roth would delegate the task his bastard cousin, with neither herald nor banner. This was obviously to avoid visibly marking himself as a servant of the Queen. Perhaps L2 had underestimated how much this Hither Lord had to lose by siding with the Iron Hive. The Hither King still proclaims his loyalty to Carthoris Sorne, the boy who sits the throne. Would this same king go to war against a vassal who took action in the Queen of Hives name? By law she was, as yet, merely a bastard claimant. Only when she sat the throne could the church affirm her legitimacy to rule. And who, in the meantime would have to be crushed? How many loyal allies would suffer at the hands the Queen’s many foes? L2 thought the computer would have estimates, but it was not his place to ask. Instead, L2, the soldier these martians called a “tin man," regained himself and stood, silhouetted by the light of twin moons. There was time for one more patrol before dawn came, and he was to depart.