“I never—I wouldn’t—” His voice breaks, high and frantic.
“The caravans that vanished without a trace. The weapons shipments that arrived sabotaged. The patrol schedules that somehow found their way to enemy hands.” I let each accusation hang in the stale air. “How much did Oryx pay for each piece of information?”
The boy’s resolve dissolves. Words spill from him in a torrent—dates, amounts, contacts in the enemy camp. Each confession reveals another layer of treachery that riddled my fortress.
“The quartermaster... he said it was just supply information. Nothing that would get anyone killed.” Darvin’s voice cracks. “Just schedules, routes, nothing about battle plans or?—”
“Five warriors died on the northern patrol because their route was known to the enemy.” I keep my voice level. “Three more lost when their weapons shattered during combat—weapons you helped identify as priority targets for sabotage.”
“I didn’t know. Captain Hadrun said?—”
“Hadrun said many things. Most of them lies.” I lean closer to the bars. “What else did you tell them? What other intelligence found its way to Oryx’s forces?”
The rest comes out in broken pieces—guard rotations, supply levels, even the location of the battle standard. No wonder Oryx’s forces moved with such precision, struck with such perfect timing. They’d been fighting with complete knowledge of our defenses while we stumbled blind.
I move through the remaining cells methodically, extracting truth from each captured traitor. A kitchen servant who poisoned food meant for loyal guards—not enough to kill, just weaken at crucial moments. A stable hand who loosened horseshoes before patrol rides, ensuring mounts would fail when speed meant survival. A smith who deliberately weakened armor fittings, creating flaws that would manifest under combat stress.
Each confession reveals another thread in the web of betrayal that Hadrun wove over months of careful planning. Not random opportunism, but deliberate infiltration that touched every aspect of fortress operations.
The armorer, a grizzled veteran with scars across half his face, proves most talkative once I apply proper persuasion.
“Captain Hadrun approached me six months ago,” he admits, blood streaming from his broken nose. “Said the Iron Warlords were finished, that Oryx would rule these lands within the year. Offered gold for small compromises—nothing that would endanger lives directly.”
“Define ‘small compromises.’“
“Weakened mail links. Brittle sword steel. Arrowheads that would shatter against armor instead of punching through.” He meets my gaze with something that might be defiance or simply resignation. “Just enough to give enemy forces slight advantages in individual combat.”
The scope of it staggers me. Not dramatic sabotage that would be quickly discovered, but subtle degradation that would only become apparent during life-or-death moments.
“How many of my warriors died because their equipment failed?”
“I don’t know all the names. Hadrun kept us separated, compartmentalized. But there were others—servants, guards, even some of the junior officers.” His scarred face twists. “More than you’d think. Fewer than you fear.”
By the time I climb back to ground level, dawn light streams in the high windows of the main hall. The interrogations have consumed the night, but the intelligence gathered might save lives in the battles to come.
My officers wait in the war room, their faces showing the strain of sleepless hours spent rooting out remaining conspirators.
War Captain Korvin straightens as I enter, trying to hide his exhaustion behind military bearing. Beside him, grizzled Malthak leans heavily on his walking stick, age and worry etched deep in his scarred features. Both men have served faithfully for years, their loyalty tested and proven in blood.
“Report,” I order, settling into the chair at the head of the planning table.
“Fourteen confirmed traitors captured or killed,” Korvin states with military precision, consulting notes scrawled on parchment. “Seven dead—fought rather than surrender. Seven alive and talking, though their information varies in usefulness.”
Fourteen people who ate at my tables, drew my pay, swore oaths of loyalty while planning destruction from within.
“Weapons cache discovered in the lower storerooms,” Malthak adds. “Poison arrows designed to look like standard issue, mail with deliberately weakened links, blades thatwould shatter on first hard impact. We’ve been fighting with compromised equipment for weeks.”
The revelation explains so much—patrol losses that seemed unlucky, equipment failures at crucial moments, the gradual erosion of our tactical advantages.
“How many died because of sabotaged gear?” The question comes out flat, emotionless.
Korvin and Malthak exchange glances before the older warrior answers. “Hard to say with certainty, my lord. But the pattern suggests... significant casualties. Maybe a third of our losses over the past three months.”
A third. Warriors who died not because of enemy skill or superior tactics, but because the people they trusted sold their lives for Oryx’s gold. Men who followed my orders into battle, believing their equipment would serve them when death came calling.
I see their faces in my mind—Toma the Young, barely twenty, whose sword snapped during his first real battle. Theron Ironhand, whose mail failed him at Crow’s Ridge. Markus the Bold, whose horse threw a shoe during a retreat that became a rout.
My hands clench into fists before I force them to relax. Rage won’t bring back the dead or undo months of betrayal. But it will fuel what needs to happen next.
