The dust cloud on the horizon resolved into the brilliant, terrible glare of polished steel. The Royal Tax Caravan approached Oakhaven like a serpent of iron and arrogance, its fifty knights forming a glittering carapace around the dozen empty wagons. At their head rode a man whose name I learned from the terrified whispers of my own people: Captain Valerius, a distant, legitimate cousin of mine, renowned for his martial prowess and his utter contempt for anyone not of noble blood. His face, framed by a helm of gleaming steel, was a mask of bored entitlement.
I met him at the gates, playing my role to perfection. I was the humbled, slightly flustered provincial lord, my head bowed, my hands clasped nervously. Borin stood behind me, his one eye downcast, looking for all the world like a defeated cur. The city behind us was a stage set for a play of meek compliance. The streets were quiet, the people peeking from their doorways with expressions of manufactured fear.
"Captain Valerius," I greeted him, my voice pitched with just the right amount of trepidation. "Welcome to Oakhaven. We… we have prepared the King's tribute."
Captain Valerius did not dismount. He looked down at me from his massive warhorse, his lip curled in a sneer. "See that you have, cousin," he said, the word 'cousin' an insult. "My men are weary of this wretched dust bowl. Let us conclude this business swiftly."
The loading of the wagons began. It was a slow, agonizingly public affair. My farmers, their faces etched with a carefully rehearsed sadness, hauled sack after sack of our precious grain from the official granary. They moved slowly, as if each sack was a piece of their own soul. The royal knights watched, impassive and impatient, their presence a suffocating weight on our city.
I observed Captain Valerius closely. He was a creature of the court and the tournament field. He saw the world in terms of open plains and glorious cavalry charges. As he looked at our valley, at the tight confines of our walls and the winding canyons beyond, I could see the disdain in his eyes. This was poor country for a knight. It was cramped, ugly, and unworthy of his attention. His arrogance, the systemic arrogance of the entire kingdom, was my greatest ally. He saw exactly what I wanted him to see: a pathetic outpost, a cowed populace, and a weak-willed bastard in charge.
"Is that all?" he demanded, gesturing impatiently at the half-filled wagons. "Lord Malakor's report suggested a more… significant surplus."
"The sandstorm took much of our crop, Captain," I lied smoothly, my voice trembling with feigned distress. "And the raiders… we have had many hardships. What you see is nearly all we have. To give more would be to condemn my people to starvation."
He scoffed, clearly believing the lie as it fit his preconceived notions. "The hardships of peasants are of no concern to the Crown. See that the full amount is ready next year." He gathered his reins. "We depart. The King does not like to be kept waiting."
I bowed my head once more. "A safe journey to you, Captain. The road through the Grey Pass can be treacherous." I offered the warning with a placid, helpful expression, a final, perfect piece of misdirection.
"My men have no fear of peasant roads, cousin," he spat back.
He gave the order, and the great caravan began to move. The wagons, now heavy with our 'tribute', rolled out of the gates, followed by their glittering escort. They lumbered down the path that led away from Oakhaven, directly towards the narrow, winding canyon we had chosen. The Grey Pass.
From the top of the wall, I watched them go. Borin came to stand beside me, his one eye no longer downcast but burning with a cold, predatory light. "They have taken the bait," he murmured.
The city behind us was no longer quiet. A silent, disciplined energy was moving through the streets. My mother was overseeing the distribution of water and bandages to the aid stations we had set up near the rear gates. Kael was whispering final instructions to his herdsmen, who would create a diversion if needed.
And in the canyons beyond, hidden among the rocks and the shadows, the Army of the Wastes waited. Kai and his Ashen archers were perched like eagles on the high ridges overlooking the pass. The Ironpeak warriors, led by Grak's lieutenant, a brute named Ulf, were hidden behind a carefully prepared rockslide, ready to seal the trap. The rest of our forces were concealed in side ravines, waiting for the signal.
I raised a small, polished metal disk to my eye. It was a signaling device, designed to catch the sun. I angled it towards a high, distant peak where Ren, my best scout, lay watching the caravan's progress. The trap was laid. The actors were in place. All that was left was the performance. I held my breath, waiting for the serpent to slide its head fully into the noose.