He glared across the plain from his vantage point among the trees, his ebon courser shifting impatiently beneath him.

“Stand down,” he hissed, and tugged gently on the reins. The horse danced backward into deeper shadow.

“What is it, Falchion?” came a whisper from his right.

“I recognize them, Baselard. The old lords are returning to the land. The spell is failing.”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” came a lighter piping from the left.

“It wasn’t, Corde, and the Necromancer will need to know. Will you ride?”

“Indeed I will.” In the dappled shadows, the small man guided his chestnut rouncey deeper into the wood and was gone. Falchion inched the courser forward again and regarded the small group on the plain.

“Let’s take ’em now,” came a deep rumble from Falchion’s left.

“There’s more to the old lords than meets the eye, Spatha. Sir Robert fights like three men when he’s cornered, and don’t think Lady Elshanor is going to be an easy target either.”

“So what do we do?”

“For now? We follow. Discreetly.”