Sir Hadros had the map. He laid it out in the draughty wood cabin they’d taken for a council chamber, using stones to hold it down at the edges. The wind rattled through the rotting timber walls, the floorboards creaking and cracking as the men moved in to look. Outside, the weather was dreary, the skies grey and overcast yet the rains had not yet come. They would, Sir Pagaloth knew. They come every day out here.

“Here,” the hedge knight said. He prodded at a blur of ink that marked the small wood they were in, of elm and oak and ironwood, one of a hundred that clothed this vast verdant land. “That’s us right there.”

“You’re sure?” asked Ruggard Wells, squinting.

“Aye, sure as when I mounted your sister, Rug. But we don’t want to talk about that now, do we?”

Wells glared at him. He was a grizzled old man-at-arms of fifty winters, with grey streaks in his beard, eyes hard as flint, and a dome as bald as an egg. He said nothing.

“The Smallwood,” Skymaster Sa’har Nakaan noted, looking at the name scrawled onto the map. “That is a little…what is the expression? A little on the nose?”

Hadros gave a chuckle. “Aye, you’re not wrong, Skymaster. Half the names around here are the same. The Littlewood. Light Elm Forest. Teen Oak. All things like that.” He pointed them out, prodding here and there. “All part of the greater Wandering Wood. Once before these valleys were all forested, but they were cut back for roads and farms and such, making all these little pockets. It’s only the local people who use these names, though.”

Sir Bardol was studying the map with a dour look on his face. There was nothing new there. “We’re a long way from home,” the knight observed, in that toneless, perpetually unhappy voice that made Pagaloth want to fall asleep or slap some life into him. “It will take us ten days to corral the deserters back to the city. At least ten days,” he groaned.

“Especially if these damnable rains keep coming,” Hadros added in, “and they don’t look like they’re going to relent any time soon. Before long every wood will become a bog and every valley a sea. Hell, we’ll be swimming back at this rate.” He made a face. “And I’m not one for swimming.”

Sir Bardol shook his head. “Nor I.” He was a haggard, angular man, old beyond his thirty-five years, with thin folds of dark skin beneath his eyes that made him look constantly exhausted. “I think it may be time to turn back, Hadros. Four hundred men is enough.”

The hedge knight nodded thoughtfully, rubbing at his lumpen chin, stiff with short brown bristles, going grey in places. He looked to the other members of the council, a strange motley of men from north and south. “What do the rest of you say?”

“No,” grunted the Piseki Sunrider Tar Moro. He wore brown and golden robes, mud-spattered and rain-soaked, over scalemail armour in links of fine bronze steel. “There are more men out there,” he said. “Many more. We should not stop yet. There is more work to be done.”

“You mean you want to keep looking for your precious wolf,” scoffed Ruggard Wells. “We’re not going on for the sake of your pet, Moro. Just admit that’s all you care about. You could care less about finding more deserters. You think every one of them is a craven anyway.” He snorted. “Might say the same about your wolf. It ran away as well.”

Moro turned on him. “You dare…”

“Dare? What’s so daring about calling it how it is? Your wolf’s a frightened little pup and your cat’s no better, Bellio. They’re both dead. Just accept it.”

Moro’s dark eyes burned with rage. “When I find Natallios, I will demand a death duel with you, Vandarian. You will see then that he is not a coward, when he rips out your throat and opens your belly.”

“All right, calm down there Moro,” Hadros said, pulling the man away. “You two and your bickering…” He sighed. “Now let’s get back to the matter at hand. Moro, you want to keep going. Bellio, I’m guessing you’re the same?”

Starrider Anson Bellio was as pleasant as Sunrider Moro was peevish. He was slim as a dagger, youthful and handsome, with mysterious, purply-brown eyes and smooth dark ebony skin. He wore dark leather garments with a black cloak sprinkled with silver spots. “I miss Eleesia deeply,” he said, in that long-suffering way of his. “I will not deny it. My heart breaks each day to think…”

“All right, no need to go reciting poetry, Anson. You miss your starcat, we know that, but it’s been long weeks now and there’s been no sign of either of them. Best let it lie.” He looked at the Piseki Sunrider. “Both of you.”

“Never,” grunted Moro.

Bellio only lowered his eyes, his anguish marrow-deep.

Hadros looked at Sa’har. “Skymaster. Your thoughts?”

Sa’har Nakaan was stroking at the wisp of white beard on his chin as he perused the details of the map. “We are told there is a large group of deserters gathered here,” he said, in his quiet croak of a voice. A thin finger reached out of his crimson robes, gesturing to a dot on the sheepskin scroll, marked with the name Fronnfallow. There was a skull sign next to it, the skull of a wolf it looked, which did not seem a positive omen to Sir Pagaloth Kadosk. “If we are to return to King’s Point, it would be sensible to travel to Fronnfallow first. We can turn west after.”

“Or we just turn west now,” Ruggard Wells came in. He squinted down at the map as though it was some fell creature to be feared. “Fronnfallow’s a dark place, and best avoided. There are ghosts there in those ruins, spirits of Fronn himself. I say we go back right now. No good will come of us going there.”

Sir Hadros gave a bark of laughter. “Since when did the dead frighten you, Ruggard? It’s the living that concern me more.”

“The dead inhabit the living,” the old man-at-arms warned. “You know the stories, Hadros. Those spirits get into the living wolves and make them monstrous and mean. They grow unnatural in size and strength and you can hear them howling from a hundred leagues away, like they’re Fronn himself come back from the dead.”

Hadros did not seem in the least bit fazed. “Well, we’ve heard no such howling and Fronnfallow’s only a few hours march away. So I’m guessing we’re fine. And if these wolf-spirits are infesting the local lupine population, then I doubt we’d be hearing about a group of deserters in camp there, would we? Men don’t put down roots when there are monsters about.” He looked at the map again, jabbing at it like he was trying to get its attention. “I say we go. If there are some deserters camping there, as that Agarathi claimed, we can assimilate them and then head home.”

“You’re making a mistake…” Ruggard started.

Hadros cut in. “You’re as fretful as a maid on the morn of her wedding, Rug, and doing yourself no favours with all this naysaying. When we get back to the Point, and I report to Captain Lythian and the king, what do you want me to tell them? That Ruggard Wells, the battle-hardened old warrior, moaned every step of the way? That he was unmanned by children’s tales of spirits and ghosts? Or that he was valiant and bold and a good fit for a Varin cloak?” He met the man’s eyes. “Aye, it’ll be the latter I’ll wager. So stop with your bleating. We’re going, and that’s that.”

“Fine,” Wells grunted. “But if you think Daecar’s going to let us all into the order for this, then you’re as mad as Miller is. That’s never going to happen.”

“Not for you. You’re just an angry old man who no one likes. But me? Oh, I’m getting my cloak, Rug. You just wait and see.”

Seats and steeds, Sir Pagaloth thought. That’s all it came down to with these men. The Bladeborn were trying to win their seats to Varin’s Table. The Lightborn were here to track down their cats and wolves after they’d run from the battle. They were selfish motivations, even in part dishonourable. Only Sa’har and I are truly driven by Lythian’s ideals, Pagaloth reflected. But it had served to keep them moving forward until now, and the peace had thus far been kept. It was a tense unity, and one built on unstable foundations, but so far they were proving that it could, theoretically, be done.

“Any more questions?” Hadros asked the group.

No one ventured anything.

“Good. Then let’s get going.” Sir Hadros brushed aside the stones and rolled up the map, stashing it back in his cloak. He stepped outside into the biting winds, the rest following. Mads Miller had guard of the door. He was another man-at-arms, another Bladeborn, though younger and much less grim and grumpy than Sir Bardol and Ruggard Wells. Miller was afflicted by some bizarre malady that made his features jerk and spasm at random. As a child the other boys had laughed at him and called him mad, but apparently that wasn’t enough. He was ‘more than mad’ they said, so they decided to use the plural form of the word, and he had been ‘Mads’ Miller ever since.

“What’s the plan, then?” Miller asked, as the leaders filed out. “Where we headed?”

“Fronnfallow,” said Sir Hadros. “Then home.”

“Fronnfallow?” Mads’ left eyelid flickered. Pagaloth could not tell if that was fear or just a part of his tick.

“Aye. Fronnfallow.” Hadros turned to the group. “Get the men ready to go. It’s a six-mile march and best we make haste while it’s still dry.” He looked up through the thin canopy. The skies were light enough to suggest no rain was imminent, but that could change quickly. The weather gods here were capricious, Pagaloth had come to see. In Agarath the weather was much more predictable. “Right. Let’s get to it.” Hadros clapped his gloved hands together with a slap of leather, and marched off to deliver his orders.

The deserters were assembled in a clearing where the trees thinned out, all standing and sitting about beneath the bleak grey skies awaiting their next instruction. There were some four hundred in total, over two hundred of them Agarathi. The rest were a mix of men of the empire - Lumarans, Piseki, Aramatians, Solapians - with some soldiers who hailed from the Islands of the Moon and the Twin Suns and the Golden Isles as well. Some thirty northern deserters had also been found, mostly Taynar soldiers from the Ironmoors who had fallen in beneath the command of Sir Bardol, who was a knight of House Kindrick, bannermen to the Taynars. Sir Hadros had given every northman a choice when they were dragged before him; to help guard the rest of the deserters, or else stay among them, as prisoners, and be brought before the king upon their return to the Point. “You know what happens to deserters,” Hadros the Homeless would always say, and that would be enough for them to swear their oaths and serve their duty.

Some of the southern deserters had been assimilated as well, taken in under the command of Sa’har or Moro or Bellio, or the paladin knight Sir Quento, who had charge of the Aramatian contingent, but they were few. The majority were watched over, day and night, and had been disarmed of their weapons to limit the threat of violence. Most of those had given themselves up willingly, though, and sought no quarrel. They had been hunted down and captured in their groups, often hiding away in old huts and barns and abandoned farmsteads, and rarely did they put up a fight when they heard the thunder of hooves arriving outside their door. As soon as they saw that it was not merely northmen on their trail, but a united host sent to bring them all together, they would see the sense in giving in. Sa’har in particular was a boon. He was a man of heroic tale to the Agarathi, widely revered, and had worked wonders in helping to usher the Agarathi deserters beneath their banners of unity.

Pagaloth walked with him now to where the two hundred Agarathi captives were waiting. The Skymaster found an old tree stump on which to stand, and climbed up, raising his hands. The men gathered around. “My friends,” Sa’har called out. “We will be travelling a little to the northeast, a two-hour march, to a place called Fronnfallow. Some of our brothers are in camp there, we are told. When they see us here united, I am sure they will want to join. After, we will return to King’s Point.” A murmur rippled through the crowd, men turning to look at one another, worried and wary. “Do not be afraid, my friends,” Sa’har said, raising his voice over the din. “The Vandarians mean you no harm. I have spoken to their king and he has assured us that all deserters and captives will be treated with honour and respect. On that you have my word.”

His word was enough to settle them down, and after that, they gathered themselves up to leave. Pagaloth stood watching for a while, scanning the men before him. After a time he shook his head. “I don’t see him,” he said to Sa’har. “The man who told us of the deserters at Fronnfallow.”

The old Skymaster had a quick look. “Ah. He is right there, Pagaloth.” He pointed to a man of middle years, with long greying hair and a kind face. He was standing with some of the others, speaking to them, his hands moving in gesticulation. They seemed enthralled.

But Pagaloth only frowned, confused. “That is…no, Skymaster, you are mistaken. That is not the man who spoke of Fronnfallow. He was younger, dark-haired.”

Sa’har Nakaan favoured him with a pleasant, teacherly smile. “I do not fast forget a face, Sir Pagaloth. Come, let us speak to him. He can tell us himself.”

They moved through the crowd. There was a lot of shouting going on in a lot of different tongues as the men of the empire were being mustered up to leave, called to action by Moro and Bellio and Quento and their own men. Pagaloth could see Hadros’s outriders trotting away into the woods on all sides, to keep watch for threats and give warning should a beast be spotted. That had happened on occasion. One rainy afternoon a fellwolf had been sighted, and Hadros and his men had gone forth to battle a grimbear once as well.

There had been some dragon sightings too, though mostly from afar. The most recent had been two days ago. Mads Miller had said the dragon had a rider on his back, but an hour later, when the same beast was spotted flying back south, Ruggard Wells had seen it and countered the younger man’s claim. It was riderless, Wells said. Hadros only shrugged and said ridden or riderless, it didn’t matter so long as the beast made no move to attack.

The grey-haired man was still talking to the group of Agarathi as they neared. There were some twenty of them, all staring at him, silent. Then suddenly the man broke off from his speech and turned, smiling. “Skymaster Nakaan. Sir Pagaloth.” He fell into a low bow. Without a word, the twenty deserters turned and stepped away, drifting off here and there into the crowd. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Pagaloth watched the men go. There was something strange about the way they dispersed in different directions like that. He looked at the grey-haired man, studying his features. “Your name is Ten’kin, is that right?”