Tassin traversed the cold corridors to her suite and paced around it, angry and afraid. A fire blazed in the gemereye fireplace, making the green stones glow. Thick woollen rugs muffled her steps, and her hunting dogs slunk from the tapestry-hung room, sensing her foul mood. She had only five hundred and seventy soldiers in the castle, and two knights. The rest of her army had gone to fight the three kings. Since Torrian was on her doorstep, they had been routed and probably slaughtered, her generals captured or dead. Tomorrow, Torrian would demand her surrender, but she would fight and die with her men, by her own hand if necessary. She was in a poor tactical position. Her castle’s defences were good, but three armies would overwhelm them.
Tassin wondered why Manutim had given her the man in the dungeon. She needed several thousand like him, at least. She did not know what she had been expecting, something magical perhaps, but certainly more than one man. She paced until the candles spluttered, then lay on her huge canopied bed and closed her eyes.