The subterranean command tent pitched at the mouth of the Whispering Gorge was illuminated by the warm, flickering radiance of three brass oil lanterns. Outside in the canyon, forty Bloodthorn wardens and twenty captured mercenary teamsters were busy turning the twenty heavy wagons around, securing the confiscated star-metal weapons and grain crates for the return journey to Red-Oak Ridge. Lord Bradley, thoroughly broken and weeping pathetically, had been bound in…
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