Hurt or killed. That could be said for any of them. All of them. Amara’s face twisted in sudden grief at the thought of losing him. “Connor…”

“My lady.” He put his hand on hers, squeezing. “It will be OK. I promise.”

She smiled weakly, and glanced over at the others. Sir Penrose was dear to her too, another of her longtime protectors. The others she had come to like during their short time together. And Jovyn. He will be called upon to fight as well. A part of him would want to stay with Lillia, but his sense of duty would compel him to battle. All of them could be dead by this time tomorrow. How had it come so quickly to this? They were meant to be marching to help defend the Twinfort, not defending Blackfrost from a monstrous horde.

“It will be all right, my lady,” Connor Crawfield repeated, to comfort her. “They may pass us by. We are not the banquet they’re here for.”

Varinar, she thought. No doubt they were making for Varinar, to occupy the ruin of the city. No enemy army had ever done that before. This war was a war of firsts. “You don’t really believe that, Con.”

“No,” he admitted. “We know from the east that their intent is to slaughter our people. I fear they will do the same here.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “My lady, if the battle goes ill, you must not delay. Take Lillia and head north through the mountains. Lead the people. Keep them safe.”

It was so much. Too much to take on. “I will,” she croaked. Though where, she could not say. She kissed him on the cheek, her sweet loyal knight. “Don’t die, Connor. That is a command. Don’t die.” The man always followed her commands. Always.

“I will do my best, my lady.”

The men at the table were devising their defence strategy. City maps had been brought out and Sir Gereth was delineating the strength of their siege weapons. Amara felt sick. She had hoped to find Lillia here, and she had, but the rest was not as she’d planned. Lord Strand was to march his host down to the Twinfort. There he would meet Amron and Lord Randall Borrington and together they would hold the western gate, repelling the Agarathi invaders while Amara and Lillia remained here, sharing stories as they sat by the fire, waiting for word of a great northern triumph. And now this. The gods are cruel. Her stomach churned unpleasantly.

“My lady. You have gone pale,” Conner observed.

“It’s the wine. Poor stuff.” Her guts gave a lurch, but she managed to keep it down. “I think I’ll retire to my bedchamber.”

“Your…Amara, do you not think you should make for the mines?”

“Later. There is a way through the back of the castle. I’ll stay until the last moment, Con.” Can the gods not at least grant me that?

She said her brief goodbyes before leaving. She would likely not see many of these men again. Sir Ryger Joyce gave her a bow and Sir Montague knelt and kissed her hand. Sir Talmer Hedgeside smiled a grizzly old grin and told her it had been an honour to serve her. “You gave us this chance, my lady. To restore our honour. None of us will ever forget that.”

“Do us proud,” she only said, smiling sadly back.

Sir Gereth limped up to her. “Will you fight?” she asked him.

“I’ll command,” he said. “Amron tasked me with defending this city, Amara. A good captain goes down with his ship.”

The way he said it…with such solemnity. She sniffed and wiped a tear from her eye. The emotion was swirling and roiling within her, and she sensed she was about to make a fool of herself. The weakness of women, she thought. That’s what they’ll be thinking.

She was spared that fate by a loud knock at the door. Lord Styron waved a hand and beckoned a man to open it, and into the chamber marched one of Sir Gereth’s guardsmen. “My lord,” he said, addressing Gereth. “Men have come. They seek urgent audience.”

“Men? What men?”

“They are outside, my lord. Ought I let them in?”

“Go ahead.”

Amara watched with the others as the small host moved through the door and into the warmth of the audience chamber. There were four of them, each wearing frosted black cloaks well spattered in mud, blades at their belts, wild dirty beards poking out from under their hoods. “Who are you?” Lord Styron the Strong demanded. “Show your faces. What business do you bring?”

“The word of a king.” Rogen Whitebeard drew back his hood and showed his long lupine face.

Sir Gerald’s eyes went wide as saucers to see his younger brother appear. He gaped for words. “Rogen? How are you…What are you…”

“He just said,” dismissed their lord father. “Quiet, Gerald. Men are speaking.” The big old lord stepped away from the table and toward his youngest son. The son he’d sent away as a boy to be raised a ranger at Northwatch Castle. The son he blamed for the death of his wife, or so Amara had heard. “Rogen,” the lord said, looking down at him, but not by much. Rogen, too, was a tall man. “I’ve heard great things of the man you’ve become. You’ve made an old father proud.”

The ranger’s amber eyes glimmered red in the firelight. Amara saw hate in the way they shone. “My lord,” he simply said, in his rasping voice, ignoring the rest. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a scroll. “From the king.”

The other newcomers were peeling back their hoods. Amara did not recognise them. They were scouts, scouts and messengers from Amron’s host. Her heart gave a hopeful beat, thrusting at her ribs. She met eyes with the ranger, who dipped his long chin at her, and so too Sir Gereth, whom he’d met when passing this way with Amron and Walter Selleck after their time in the Icewilds. Lord Styron had taken the scroll and was reading it with narrow eyes.

He passed it to Lord Darring, to read and hand down the line. “We’re going to have to change our strategy,” Styron told the men. “Rogen, son, will you stay with us?”

“I must return to the king.”

“I understand. You did well to flank around the enemy. All of you.” Lord Strand acknowledged the other scouts.

“We will do well to repeat the trick,” one of them said in a lowborn drawl. “But best be quick about it, m’lord. That fat old horde out there isn’t getting any further away.”

“We need to go,” Rogen said. He looked at his older, uglier, softer brother with a hard look, ignored his father, and turned away.

Lord Styron came up behind him, and put a big hand on his shoulder. “You did well, Rogen. I am proud of you.”

The ranger shifted the man’s hand off and left, taking his men with him. Amara raced after him and met him out in the corridor. “Rogen…”

He turned. “Lady Daecar.”

“Amron…is he…” She looked up. At just that moment Lillia was coming down the corridor with Jovyn, Carly, and Artibus all in tow. It seemed the whole castle was gathering all of a sudden.

“Rogen Strand? Is that you?” Artibus had met the man during his time in Varinar.

Lillia came rushing right up to Amara. “They say the Agarathi are coming. That we’re to go into the caves? Not me, Auntie. I can fight.”

Amara was about to shake her head when Carly took the girl’s arm and drew her away. “Battle’s no place for us girls, Lillia.”

Lillia tugged back. “You’ve killed fifty men, you always say. You’d belong in any battle and so would I.”

“Not this one,” Carly said.

“But I want to…”

“No,” Amara came in. “Carly’s right. You’d only get in the…” Her stomach heaved and let fly, bringing up the contents of her dinner. Mostly it was just wine. She managed to turn away so it splattered against the wall, a splash of chunky red.

“My lady…” Jovyn rushed up to her. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” She took a breath and rubbed the red spittle from her mouth, feeling ashamed. This was not the first time she had been sick over the last week, though the first time she’d vomited so publicly. Artibus was watching her with a strange look in his eye. She sucked more air into her lungs and stood up, battling the nausea. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what has come over me.” She composed herself and turned to Whitebeard. It was obvious that the ranger wanted to be away. “Amron,” she managed, weakly. “Is he…”

“Father?” Lillia broke in. “What about Father?”

The ranger did not seem to know who to answer. Everyone was crowding around and Amara’s stomach was still roiling horribly. “The king closes,” Whitebeard said. “You must hold on until he gets here. Lord Strand has the king’s command. Speak to him. He will tell you. But I must go.” He bowed and turned to leave, striding down the corridor.

Lillia blinked after him. “That’s the ranger? That Whitebeard guy?” The one who took Father to the Icewilds?”

“That is correct, Lillia,” said Artibus. “Who could be better to reach us in this snow?”