“My lord,” came a voice.

Gullimer looked past them, to the flaps. Another of his ragged band was peering inside. “Yes? What is it, Jacob?”

“Pardons, my lord. A ship has been sighted. It is approaching from the north.”

Lord Wilson Gullimer gave an abbreviated nod. “How far?”

“Long leagues still. It is faint, some way out to sea. A large galleon, we think.”

“Tukoran?”

“Yes, my lord. It looks to be so.”

Saska frowned. She did not know why any Tukoran vessel would be coming south at this time, and galleons were typically warships.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Lord Gullimer stepped past them, moving for the exit. “Sir Kester, entertain our guests while I’m gone. Tell them that joke you know.”

Sir Ralston turned upon the young knight once the lord had left. “This joke, then. Let’s hear it.”

Sir Kester rather fumbled over the punchline - who wouldn’t, with the Wall staring down at you like that, colossal void of humour that he was - but Saska found herself chuckling anyway. It was a ribald joke, of the sort that Bawdy Bron Bowen used to tell her when she sailed on the Steel Sister, and only reminded her of her time with the crew. She still had Bawdy Bron’s parchment of jokes with her, as she did her shell necklace and quill-knife and the pitted coral that called to her, and sometimes she liked to read them through when she was feeling low. By now she knew most of them by heart. “I know some jokes too,” she said. “Would you like to hear one, sir?”

The man’s yellow eyes lit up like the sun. “Yes…of course, I’d love to.” He poured himself a cup of wine and waited, eager to hear it.

Saska made something of a pig’s ear of the ending herself, but kind as he was, Sir Kester repaid the compliment and unleashed a guffaw of laughter. “Very good, my lady, very good. I have another, in actual fact. Let me see if I can recall it…”

He did, and this time his delivery was on point. Saska laughed, long and true, and after that they went back and forth, exchanging jokes and never getting a punchline wrong. Rolly did not much enjoy it. Though once…maybe even twice…Saska was sure he cracked a smile.

By the time Lord Gullimer came back, Saska and Sir Kester were red-faced and breathless, and the entire jug of wine had been drunk down to the dregs. The lord walked in, took one look around, then smiled broadly. “Your joke went down well then, I see,” he said to Kester Droyn.

“And the rest,” the knight chuckled. “This young lady is full of mischief, my lord, let me tell you. The jokes she knows. Goodness.”

Gullimer smiled. “I should like to hear them.” He looked in fine spirits all of a sudden. “Perhaps you would care to share some with me, my lady, while we await him?”

“Him, my lord?” Saska wasn’t understanding.

“We won’t be waiting,” the Wall came in, with his great warhorn of a voice. His mouth twitched, as though he knew something Saska didn’t. Or feared something, more like. “We will be leaving at once.”

Saska glared at him, taking charge. “I’ll be the judge of that, Sir Ralston.” Her eyes returned to the handsome Lord of Watervale. “Who is coming here, my lord?”

“Well…I cannot be completely certain, my lady, but the flying of the royal standard has me rather convinced.”

Her lips quickened into a smile. “You mean…”

“Yes, Lady Saska,” he said. “Hammer is fast approaching. And unless I am mistaken, the man who gave you that armour is aboard.”

45

He could hear their voices muttering through the branches.

They’re right below me, he thought.

Sir Pagaloth Kadosk had only just awoken from a short and troubled sleep, nestled among the high branches of an old oak tree. He had lashed a rope around him so he did not fall. Quickly, quietly, he worked the knot loose and coiled the rope, sitting up tight against the trunk. The leaves were thick and green and dripping, the rain falling from a slate-grey sky, the light thin and sickly. Pagaloth peered down through a gap in the canopy and saw men moving beneath him, glimpsed red cloaks and black armour and tall dragonsteel spears.

Dragonknights, he thought. I live in fear of my very own order.

Sir Pagaloth did not make a sound. He pulled his legs in, so that they did not dangle or rustle through the leaves, and kept himself perfectly still. He ached all over. Sleeping tied atop a tree branch was not comfortable, he had discovered, nor restful, and he felt weary to his bones. How much sleep had he had since he’d run from the battle? An hour here, an hour there, never much more than that. He could not even say how long it had been since he’d been running, or in which direction he had gone. Every day dawned grey and wet and foggy, and rarely had he glimpsed the sun. A week? Has it been as long as two, three? His exhaustion and discomfort were only matched by his hunger. His stomach felt so empty he could eat an entire boar and still have plenty of room for another.

The men below were talking to one another in hushed voices as they passed, though one had stopped to kneel on the ground near the oak’s broad trunk, brushing his hand through the undergrowth, searching for tracks. Don’t hear me. Don’t see me. Don’t look up, Pagaloth prayed. He had been careful to cover his trail when he made camp in this tree, though a skilled tracker might still see signs.

He drew a long deep breath into his lungs, trying to energise himself should he need to run. He had a way down through the branches planned out. If he was quick, he might be able to reach the ground before they had him surrounded, and then it would be a footrace once more. He’d found himself involved in two of those already, in the days since the battle, and had managed to outrun his opponents each time.

But now? I’m too tired, too weak, too hungry. Desperation would only take a man so far when his vital needs were not met, and it had been too long since he’d had a proper meal.

Keep going, he thought. Just keep on going. There’s nothing here for you. The tracker was still on his knee, searching the ground, eyes sweeping across the forest floor. Pagaloth saw another man step over to join him. He glimpsed a pin that marked his rank as captain. Words were shared, too low for him to hear, and then the captain looked up, peering through the branches.

Pagaloth froze, pressing himself against the bark. He had draped his cloak over him to better hide him among the leaves, and hoped he appeared no more than a shadow from down there. He dare not look. Hooded, he sat as still as a statue, listening for sudden shouts and commands below.

But there was nothing. Just the murmur of voices, then the rustle of armour, the tread of men continuing on through the trees. Pagaloth did not stir. He sat as he had been, cloaked and cowled and patient as a stalking cat, waiting for the sounds to recede. Then he waited some more, and some more after that. This might be some trick. They might come back. It was a risk he was not willing to take, so he stayed where he was for what felt like an hour, before finally climbing down.

He reached the forest floor, carefully descending through the thick, rough branches. When he landed he looked around. The tracks of the dragonknights were clear, moving away through the wooded valley and into the mists, though in what direction he couldn’t say. The skies were so clogged even the glow of the sun was veiled. Pagaloth turned and went the opposite way.

The Wandering Wood was a giant maze, he had come to find. Vast, unending, a hundred separate woods that all looked much alike, clothing a thousand rolling hills and valleys that he could not tell one from another. His days here had been more frustrating than he could say. He had no map, no guide, no horse, no one here to help him. When he did see the glow of the sun, he would make for the west at once, to try to get back to King’s Point, but those occasions were rare, and it was far too easy to get turned around again. For all he knew, he was further away than ever before. Perhaps I’m wandering toward the South Downs instead? I might be hundreds of miles away by now.

Navigating was no easier by night. If the skies had cleared to show the stars, Pagaloth had not seen them. Each night was black as the bottom of some pit, it was almost always raining, and that rain was turning cold. He slept where he could, but staying dry had proven impossible. One night he’d crawled into cover beneath the tangled branches of a deadfall, but had been awoken when a great river of rainwater came flooding down into his den. Another night, he had found a barn, long since abandoned and almost entirely overgrown, deep in some forgotten part of whichever smaller wood he was in. He had thought it safe enough to sleep in, so forged himself a nest of leaves, only for the roof to crumble as he drifted off to sleep, bringing rotted wood and rainwater down atop him.

Since then, he had chosen trees. The canopies were often thick enough to keep the worst of the rain off him, and if he lashed himself to a wide branch, he supposed he would not fall. That experiment had almost failed two nights ago, when the rope came loose in the night, and he woke with a start, about to roll off the edge, but he’d stopped himself just in time. Now he double and triple-checked his knots to make sure they held fast.

But sleep, when it did come, was almost impossible in anything more than fits and starts. He had to be on his guard all the time. From the fell creatures that might catch his scent and climb up to have a taste. From the Agarathi patrols, prowling about in numbers far greater than he had thought possible. Had more of them come from the south on ships? Most of the forts along the Black Coast had been destroyed now, and the Vandarian defences were shredded and dispersed. For all he knew thousands more of his kin had poured across the Red Sea, raiding and pillaging, shepherded by the fire priests who spoke with Eldur’s voice.

That thought disquieted him. He needed to get back to King’s Point and warn Lythian and Amron Daecar. If one of those priests should manage to infiltrate the prisoner camp, he would quickly muster all the Agarathi to his will. Like Ten’kin, he thought, bitterly. The man had been like a plague in their ranks, secretly taking the Agarathi deserters back into thraldom beneath the Fire Father’s wing. Pagaloth remembered the look in Sa’har Nakaan’s eyes as he cut at his own throat, sawing back and forth to empty his own lifeblood to the earth. The fear of being taken back into bondage had been too much for him to bear. He had sooner died than served, but how many are so strong as that? Am I? If they find me…will I be able to resist?

Sir Pagaloth walked on, bitter and alone, aimlessly wandering through the Wandering Wood and wondering, now, if that’s why they’d been so named. A man could wander here forever and never find his way out. Where is west? Where, damnit? He kicked out at a stone, sending it spinning off into the fog. Run, Sa’har Nakann had told him, and he had…but now a part of him wished he hadn’t. I might have stayed and fought. Maybe they even won?

He scowled at his own stupidity. It was a foolish notion and he knew it. Five hundred foes had descended upon them that day, pouring out through the mists of that valley, and the Agarathi deserters they had gathered had turned on them too. There was no winning that fight. Sir Hadros, Sir Bardol, Ruggard Wells and Mads Miller, Moro and Bellio and Sir Quento, the paladin knight. Most likely all were dead. They were my companions, my confederates, and I left them there to die. He had to, lest get caught himself, and turned a slave, and for some foul purpose…but all the same it shamed him.

He gripped the hilt of his dragonsteel sword, tightening his fingers around the leather grip. Around him the woods were thinning, the trees spreading. Banners of mist rippled by, drawn along on a whispering breeze. He could almost hear the voice of Ten’kin in the way it rustled and moved. Come, child, join us. It is no use to resist. If not me, another will ensnare you…

Another. How many of them are there? The dragons had brought some of the priests over from the south, Pagaloth had no doubt, and perhaps more of them had been sent in ships, protected by companies of spearmen and knights. For all he knew there were dozens of them spreading the will of Eldur through these lands…

The cracking of a twig caught his attention, somewhere to his left. The dragonknight froze to look around, listening for the tread of pursuers. He squinted at the drifting fogs, looking at every trunk and tree as though an enemy might come out from behind it.

He stood still for several minutes, turning slowly, listening, until he was satisfied there was no one there. The only sound was the keening wind, whispering in Ten’kin’s voice, the soft distant babble of a stream somewhere away to his right…and the rumbling in his stomach, cramping from lack of food. All he had eaten in long days were berries foraged from fruiting bushes, and those were scant enough. Most he found had been picked clean, by man and beast both, and game was scarce. He had been close to catching a wild turkey once, but the bird had been spooked by the approach of a patrol and Pagaloth had been forced to abandon the hunt and flee.

On he went, knowing not where. His head felt as foggy as the woods, his legs weak as river reeds, and not for the first time he wondered if he was dead. Had he perished in the battle after all? Was this some purgatory for the things he’d done in the past? Lythian had told him a hundred times that he’d paid his debts, but Pagaloth was not so sure. I should have trusted Kin’rar and Marak back then, he thought. I should never have spoken of their plot. It was his duty, required of his honour, but who was he to talk of honour against men like Ulrik Marak and Kin’rar Kroll and Lythian Lindar, the Knight of the Vale? I am but a spec on this earth compared to them. I should have let them kill Tavash, as they’d planned. Perhaps then none of this would have happened.

He had thought about it so often since then…how different things might have been had he simply kept his mouth shut. Tavash would never have been king. Lythian and Borrus and Tomos would never have been imprisoned and mocked and scorned. Sir Tomos would not have died. Lord Marak and Skymaster Kin’rar Kroll would never have fled to Tethian’s side. They would not have saved Lythian and Borrus from the Pits of Kharthar that day. Without Ulrik Marak, and Kin’rar, and Lythian, they never would have been able to get to the Wings. How could they have done so without Neyruu and Garlath to fly them there? How could they have made it down to the depths of Eldur’s Shame without Lythian and his ancestral blade? The prophecy of the Fire Father’s awakening was fated, some said, and had those events not transpired in that order, Eldur would have awoken anyway by some other means. But maybe not, Pagaloth thought. If only I had stayed true to the men I admired, if only I had not betrayed them, all of this might have been avoided. It is my fault the world is falling to ruin. My fault. And this is my penance.