The problem was a letter.
The old invitation the dwarven herald had left at the western gate weeks ago still sat on the stones of the fire circle where Skarn had thrown it, unopened, unburned, read by every soul who passed close enough to see the wax.
That morning, the same herald had knocked at the same gate and left a second one, and the second one had a date on it.
"By grace of the peoples of Iskaris," Vargis recited from his bench, the new letter open in his hands. "We invite the honored Beastman Confederation to the unveiling of the Iskaris Agricultural Development Program, a development we believe will shape the future of our continent."
He read the rest to himself, then aloud. "A delegation of any size. Three days hence, on the old border." He lowered the page and took up his whetstone. "It carries the seals of three rulers."
"It's bait," Skarn growled from the palisade stairs. "You do not walk into a predator's den because the predator holds the door open for you."
