The twenty-eight spirit vouchers fluttered against the scarred pine table as Kaelen turned another page of Book 4.
Varga stood over him, chest heaving like a forge bellows. His heavy broadsword rattled in its scabbard, vibrating with the force of his suppressed fury. Behind him, sixty armored shock troopers packed the barracks threshold, their iron greaves grinding against the gravel.
“Take the wager, city boy,” Varga sneered, his voice dropping into a guttural rumble. “Or give up that silver token right now and crawl back down the canyon.”
Kaelen smoothed the corner of the woodblock print. The Bandit King was currently pinned beneath an iron portcullis while three rival chieftains argued over his dowry. It was the best scene in the entire serial.
If I jump out of this hammock to argue with an angry pit-boss, my Track 3 timer loses its rhythm, Kaelen thought.
A Silver Cauldron badge is worth five hundred stones at the Guild desk. He is offering twenty-eight hundred, which is a five-fold return for lying on my back.
“Leave the vouchers on the table,” Kaelen said without glancing up. “And have your men step outside. Their boot grease is drifting into my tea.”
Varga’s jaw clenched so hard his cheek muscles twitched. He leaned down, his thick, calloused knuckles pressing into the wood until the timber creaked.
