They were within a day’s journey of their destination now. The First Track which they followed would run straight and true—and invisible to all save Kyrinin eyes—down into a great bowl of trees, across the wet, low land beneath that canopy and on to the very heart of their clan, the oldest and greatest vo’an of the White Owls. The camp lay upon the shallow, south-facing slope of a vale of oak and ash trees. Each winter for many lifetimes, hundreds had gathered there to see out the cold months. Their tents would be scattered across the valleyside, half-hidden by the venerable trees that sheltered and guarded them.
The Voice of the White Owl, as always, would have been amongst the first to arrive at those wintering grounds. The great domed tent of many-layered deerskins that was the Voice’s winter lodge would have been set up and formed the hub of the sprawling community that grew over the days and weeks. She slept there, and ate there, and gave her judgements. She listened to the songs that were sung on the bare ground before her lodge, and watched the kakyrin making their bone poles and weaving the anhyne there out of hazel and willow. When she dreamed, her predecessors whispered into her mind, for they knew where to find her. Sometimes, filled with their wisdom, she donned the white-feathered cape and mask and walked amongst her people as something other than herself. At winter’s end, when the black ash buds broke, a new Voice for the clan might be chosen, but nothing would change. Next year the Voice, whether old or new, would again be in that valley, in the same tent on the same patch of ground.
And it was to the Voice that they had resolved to take the na’kyrim. It was with her he had spoken when he came on behalf of the Black Road Huanin; it was to her he had given false promises. It would be she who passed judgement upon him.
Wain pushed open the window and leaned out into the dull, cold early morning. The fresh air cut through the stuffy atmosphere of the room and made her shiver. She had slept badly, disturbed as much by her own unsettled spirits as by the noise rising from the inn below.
There were many warriors in the yard, cleaning weapons, grooming their horses, tending cauldrons of steaming broth, dozing. Some stood around in quiet groups, arms folded and feet shifting against the chill. A few wore capes or coats they had looted from Anduran. It made them look a ragged collection.
Shraeve and a handful of her ravens came striding through the assembly. From her high vantage point Wain could see the uneasy glances, the sharp looks, that followed the Inkallim like a wake.
Conversations paused as they drew near, then restarted once they had passed.
Shraeve looked up and nodded at Wain. I’m sister to the Thane, Wain thought, and still the Children of the Hundred think themselves my equal; or my better. She withdrew from the window. A bowl of icy water stood on the table at the foot of the bed. She plunged her face into it. It chased the last remnants of sleep from her.
Shraeve was waiting for her downstairs, feeding logs to the fire that had burned all night. Wain looked about for her own captains, but saw only a couple of them, silently breaking their fasts on bowls of oatmeal.
‘Cannek sent word before dawn,’ Shraeve said. She kicked the fire with a booted foot, sending sparks spinning up the chimney and out across the flagstones.
‘He did?’ said Wain, casting about irritably for something to eat. Seeing nothing, she snapped at the seated Horin-Gyre warriors. ‘Find me some bread.’
One of the men rose and disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.
‘He did,’ said Shraeve. ‘There’s another company gathered outside Glasbridge. What’s left of the Lannis-Haig fighting strength, and half the hale men of the town from the sound of it. Enough to test us, perhaps.’
Wain shot an irritated glare at the captain who emerged from the kitchens bearing a platter of bread and cheese for her. She snatched it from his hands.
‘Where are my scouts?’ she demanded of the startled man. ‘Why have I had no reports? Go and find someone who can tell me where they are.’
The warrior left without hesitation, leaving his companion to hunch a little lower over his bowl of oatmeal and hope to avoid the wrath of the Thane’s sister.
‘They’ll tell you the same as Cannek told me,’ Shraeve said.
‘And why did he not tell me himself?’ Wain demanded.
‘I have come to tell you. What does it matter who bears the message?’
Wain sat down and began to tear at the bread. She did not like the Glas valley bread; it was not the same as the rich, coarse loaves they made north of the Stone Vale. Shraeve sat down opposite her without waiting for an invitation. The twinned swords strapped across her back loomed on the edge of Wain’s vision like upraised fists.
‘Very well,’ Wain said. ‘How many?’
‘We cannot be certain, but Cannek’s guess is a thousand Lannis fighting men and at least as many again townsfolk. And a few hundred Kilkry-Haig warriors: the survivors from Grive and a scattering of new arrivals.’
Wain began to turn the thick band of gold on the second finger of her left hand. She frowned in concentration, her food forgotten now.
‘Fewer than we met at Grive,’ she mused, ‘but then, we are far fewer now as well.’
She had perhaps a thousand warriors within reach of Sirian’s Dyke and fit to take the field. Another three hundred or so were back in Anduran, and must remain there to ensure the town and castle stayed secure. More than a thousand still besieged Tanwrye, along with hundreds from the other Bloods of the Black Road . They could not come to her aid until that obstinate town’s garrison was broken. So, to face whatever threat might march up the road from Glasbridge she had at best a thousand swords, and the fifty or so of Shraeve’s Battle Inkallim who remained alive and capable of wielding a blade. If Ragnor oc Gyre had answered their calls for aid, if he had sent just a fraction of his strength south . . . but the Black Road did not deal in ifs.
‘We can make our stand here as well as anywhere else,’ she said. ‘If we take refuge inside Anduran we will only delay matters a little, until they can bring up enough strength to crush us there.’
‘Indeed,’ Shraeve agreed. She leaned forwards, lowering her voice. ‘Perhaps we can hope for more than merely making a stand, though. Does your heart not hunger for Glasbridge? It’s the last great town of Lannis-Haig . If we break it they’ll be cast back all the way to Kolglas; we would hold the entire valley, from the Stone Vale to the sea.’
‘Of course I hunger for it. It was the home of my forefathers.’
Shraeve sank back in her chair. ‘Your hunger might be sated yet, given the willing sacrifice of a few lives.’
Wain sighed. ‘Whatever you have in mind, Shraeve, just tell me. My belly’s too empty for talking in circles.’
The Inkallim drove the four great horses past the inn. The beasts were massive, but bedraggled and cowed by the switches the ravens beat them with. Wain watched not the animals, but her own warriors who stood silently watching this strange procession. Wherever the ravens had found these horses—some farm outside Sirian’s Dyke, no doubt—they knew how to make them into a spectacle. They herded them right through the village, through the Black Road army, and every curious eye followed their progress. Chains, scavenged from the smithy by the inn, dragged behind the horses, cutting ruts into the mud road.
A crowd followed the Inkallim and their horses to the edge of the village. The Inkallim went on, out on to the marshes that lay along the foot of the Dyke itself. Shraeve stood at Wain’s side.