Late summer on the Northern Frontier never felt like summer.
The wind carried the chill of light snow. Withered yellow grass curled against the ground, and the first thin layer of snow already covered the higher slopes, as though winter had reached out early to test its grip.
Gareth sat on horseback, his neck hunched into his shoulders.
He had been an Official Knight of House Morcan and Baron Morcan's cousin. Quick-witted and smooth-tongued, he had been chosen by the baron to manage arrangements along the trade route.
He understood etiquette and personal favors, and he dealt with garrisons, outposts, and toll stations better than the other knights. Over time, the entire caravan operation had fallen into his hands.
For more than a decade, he had personally escorted every shipment, both to safeguard the baron's lifeline-the goods they exchanged for grain-and because he knew the Northern Frontier's rules all too well. Goods could vanish at any moment if he did not watch them himself.
He had traveled this trade route for over ten years and believed he had made thorough arrangements with every toll station and every garrison.
Even Lord Ackerman of Graystone Fortress received several shipments of red-black iron from him free of charge each year.
So he believed nothing would go wrong this year, either.
It was in that frame of mind that Gareth spotted the shaded canyon pass.
Rough chevaux de frise completely blocked the trade route ahead.
Twelve black-armored knights, every one of them an Elite Knight, stood in a line in the snowy mud, like iron statues grown out of a blizzard.
Gareth's guards instinctively drew their swords.
"Nobody move!" Gareth's voice cracked with panic. "Put your swords away! Do you want to die?"
He jumped off his horse and hurried over at a trot,