Blood Tempered: Book 1 of the Sword Monk Saga

Blood Tempered: Part 8

Five leagues away from Thunderhead, in a small defile cut through by a pleasantly babbling stream, Ramesh Herkh called for camp to be made. The half-dozen Imperial soldiers under his command set to the task, while his manservant Bulwer and his apprentice Velor began to unload Herkh's personal effects from the pack animals. Herkh himself lifted no finger and carried no baggage, other than the Book. An Imperial Magus did not do menial work.

He sat on the camp stool Bulwer unloaded first and ignored all the industry around him. The Book rested in his lap, a familiar burden and the source of his power. He mused on the task before him: A royal rogue witch with forbidden knowledge to be dealt with, without any unpleasant consequences for the Empire. Of course Herkh did not doubt his own ability to best her in matters arcane. The real concern, the delicate part of his task, was to ensure there were no political repercussions. If it were discovered that the Empire had executed a Roumnan royal, one betrothed to the sin-Khun of Ardesh, no less, open war would be inevitable. Much more importantly, the taint of failure would attach itself to Ramesh Herkh.

That was an unthinkable outcome.

With that in mind, Herkh roused himself from his musings, cracked open the Book to refresh his memory, and then set wards of concealment about the campsite.

He spent the next two days waiting for the imperial scouts to report in with something actionable, drinking wine, and berating the dolt of an apprentice the College of Magi had burdened him with. Ramesh Herkh, never a patient or pleasant man, discovered that the only thing worse than having to wait, was having to wait without most of the benefits of civilization. Everyone else in camp discovered the only thing worse than having to wait, was having to wait with Ramesh Herkh.