boxes of supplies that lurked slyly in the black shadows. The last thing she needed was to bring the canvas crashing down onto a squad of sleeping men.
She was picking her way, stork-like, through a particularly dense configuration of guy-ropes when a sound brought her to a listening halt. It was Sólmundr, speaking softly and chuckling. Wynter crept to the edge of the shadows and peered out. She was at the outer fringes of the camp, the army tents standing with their backs in a row, the open space of the Wolves’ cooking area separating their quarters from the soldiers’. Behind that, the ground sloped down to horse-lines, the river, the brooding barricades and trees.
Sólmundr was wandering around the Wolves’ camp, his sword in his hand, Boro at his side. Christopher was standing by the almost dead camp fire, a slim black shape in the moonlight. He was looking down at the sprawled body of a Loups-Garous’ slave. The young man was crumpled and motionless, a bowl of spilt food on the ground by his out-flung hand. Wynter stepped from the shadows, stunned. At the door of the Wolves’ tent Sól hissed something, and both Wynter and Christopher looked up as the warrior stepped across the slumped body of the second slave and disappeared inside.
Christopher stooped, grabbed the nearest slave by the ankles and dragged him into the shadows of the awning. He left him there, bundled against the motionless form of his companion, and followed Sól into the tent. Wynter quietly made her way to the door. Slipping into the shadows beneath the awning, she crouched and laid her hand on the chest of the nearest slave. He was breathing gently, his companion the same. Wynter rose to her feet, peering into the tent.
There was darkness within. Then the quiet striking of a flint. A fire-basin flared to life, illuminating Sól, who was crouched intently over it. He glanced up at Christopher and moved aside as if presenting a gift. The light from the basin filled the gloom and the interior of the tent was revealed.
The Loups-Garous were scattered in various attitudes of collapse, their large bodies slumped or sprawled, depending on how they had fallen. David Le Garou lay on a tangle of furs, his head back, his eyes closed as if in gentle sleep. Jean was stretched facedown at his feet, an arm flung outwards as if he had been reaching for his leader when he fell. Gérard was slumped as he had obviously been sitting, his back against a pile of saddlery, a deck of cards scattered all about him. Pierre had tumbled onto his side, the guitar still in his hand. His glossy blond curls covered his face, gleaming in the guttering light.
Sól grinned at Christopher, his eyes bright with bitter satisfaction. He went to speak; then he saw Wynter step into the moonlight by the door and his face fell. He rose slowly to his feet. Christopher turned to her, and Wynter saw it in his eyes: he was just as stunned as she. He had not been party to this plan.
Sól’s expression hardened. He dipped his chin. ‘You not rob this from him,’ he warned.
Wynter stepped across the slaves and dropped the tent-flap behind her, cutting out the clear moonlight. Sól regarded her anxiously as she drew her sword. The fire-basin flared, sending orange light and dark shadows leaping across the Wolves’ unconscious faces.
‘What do you intend to do after they are dead?’ she asked quietly.
Sólmundr grinned, slow and dark, taking her question as approval of his plans. ‘Good woman,’ he whispered.
Christopher turned from her and moved slowly around the tent. He nudged Pierre with his toe, rolling him onto his back. The guitar slipped from the Wolf ’s limp fingers, hitting the ground with a faint melodic resonance. Christopher stepped over it and stood gazing down at Gérard.
‘You dosed their water?’ he asked softly.
‘Hally, she gives to me the slow poison. She say to me, it maybe not kill the Loups-Garous because of what they is. It maybe to just put them under. She worry over this, but I glad it not kill them. I glad they alive for you, though I sad they not be awake to know it when you at last take your vengeance.’
Christopher crossed the tent and sank to a crouch by David Le Garou’s sleeping body. The Wolf ’s long brown hair was fanned untidily across his face. Instinctively, Christopher reached to push it back, but at