“My king—the Picts have crossed the Black River. Three war parties. They burn the border forts.”
A scout burst through the doors, armor dented, breath ragged. “My king—the Picts have crossed the Black River
He set down the goblet.
But for now… for now, he was simply Conan. A thief who stole a kingdom. A warrior who had never learned to kneel. “My king—the Picts have crossed the Black River