barking wildly at the trees. The other hounds followed suit.
Spooked by the dogs’ violent barking, Wynter’s horse threw his head and tried to turn back. Wynter sat down hard in the saddle.
‘Hold easy, Ozkar!’ she hissed.
Out of sight in the trees ahead, another horse whickered in fear, and Wynter scanned the shadows, searching for the riders she now knew were hidden there.
At Úlfnaor’s command, the warhounds came reluctantly to stand by the horses, where they milled in place, still barking. The noise was deafening.
‘Ciúnas!’ yelled Sólmundr, and the dogs instantly ceased their baying. Whining, they paced before their masters, their eyes fixed on the dark trees.
The forest ahead remained silent, the shadows impenetrable to Wynter’s sun-blasted eyes. All around her, the Merron sat in tense expectation. She had no doubt that at that very moment, hidden in the trees behind her, Christopher was drawing the lever on his crossbow. She resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder and tried not to imagine the whine of arrows flying through the air, nor the dull thud of them hitting home. She forced the memory of blood-laden water and dead bodies from her mind and inhaled the breeze for the telltale scent of slow-match. There was none. Good. At least no one in the trees was aiming a cannon at them. That was some small mercy.
To her right, Razi ducked his head and discreetly pulled his scarf higher on his face. Wynter blessed the glaring sunshine that had caused them all to tug their hats low, and the swarms of flies that made covering their faces seem less furtive. When Razi again straightened in his saddle, she was pleased to see that the combination of hat-shadow and scarf made it impossible to distinguish his dark skin. In his borrowed green cloak and with his remarkable height, her friend looked just like any other Merron warrior. Wynter hoped that her own lack of stature would not be too obvious.
A whistle cut the air, and Wynter’s heart leapt as she recognised the signal Alberon’s allies used to identify each other. Úlfnaor whistled the correct reply. There was a moment’s silence from the trees; then a cultured voice called out in Southlandast.
‘So far?’
The first part of Alberon’s password! Could they finally have reached their goal?
Úlfnaor called out the reply: ‘And not yet there?’
A rider detached himself from the shadows of the forest and brought his nervous horse to a halt by the huge boulder that edged the top of the path. He dipped his hat against the sunshine and squinted at the prowling dogs. This man wore no uniform, but his tack and weaponry were military issue and he rode a cavalry horse, which he handled well, despite it being white-eyed and skittish in the presence of the hounds. Wynter had no doubt that he was an officer of Jonathon’s army. She regarded him coolly from under the brim of her hat. An officer of Jonathon’s army, out of uniform and siding with Alberon against the King. How was she meant to feel about that?
The words treacherous cur sprang readily to mind, but then Wynter thought of the dead soldiers at the river – the rebel and the King’s men, their blood mingling in the water, their loyalties split on either side of the royal divide. Each had been as certain as the others of where their duty lay. Each was as irretrievably dead. She forced her animosity down. Let us see what explanations this evening brings, she thought.
Úlfnaor threw back his hat, allowing his long dark hair to fall across his shoulders. He shrugged back his cloak, revealing his tribal bracelets. Sólmundr drew his horse to his leader’s side and he too threw back his hat, shook loose his sandy hair, and bared his arms. For a terrible moment, Wynter thought that all the Merron would follow suit. But Hallvor and the red-headed brothers kept their faces covered and their hats on. Razi’s differences remained hidden.
Úlfnaor called out in his broken Hadrish: ‘I Úlfnaor, Aoire an Domhain, diplomatic envoy for Royal Princess, Marguerite Shirken of Northlands. I bring paper destined for Royal Prince, Alberon Kingsson. I seek safe passage to his camp.’
The officer tore his attention from the bristling war-hounds and regarded Úlfnaor closely. Then his gaze moved from rider to rider on the trail before him. Wynter stiffened as his eyes came to Razi, but the officer paid no more heed to her friend than to any of the others, and when