Yechvan handed the reins of his horse to a busy youngling at the edge of camp. The rest of his scouting trip with Zu had been uneventful, save more awful weather than he could stand. He was tired and grumpy, and the rain had soaked his bandages through, causing his leg to smart and preventing it from healing. Worst of all, it had ruined the map he’d worked on for days.

  Sour and surly, Yechvan moved through the bustling camp. Along the row of tents, familiar faces mingled with fresh ones. Ulula had things well in hand; everyone had a job to do. Soldiers moved with purpose around every corner, carrying linens, dishing out bowls of porridge, pounding stakes into the ground. He made his way to the center of camp, greeted by a chorus of “Yog”s and a parade of bowing soldiers. He forced a hand up in salute and quickened his pace, glad for the escape when he finally slipped into the relative quiet and dark of his tent.

  “Any movement?” Yechvan asked with a sigh of relief.

  “All is quiet,” Ulula reported.

  Hands on hips, she tossed back her braided hair and admired her work while Yechvan scanned the officers’ tent. Just how he liked it, as she well knew. A large table had been fashioned from fresh cedar planks that straddled two thick trunks, the timber thickening the air with an aroma of resin. Spread across the table was a stack of maps, with stones to weigh down the unfurled edges. Weapon and armor racks filled with gauntlets and boots and other ancillary pieces occupied the corners of the tent. Yechvan divested himself of his breastplate and dumped it atop a neat pile, drawing a disapproving grunt from Ulula. He tested one of the cots. They were the ones he preferred, with extra padding added to the top to keep warm. There would certainly be some chilly days and frosty nights in unpredictable Cillion. Then Galgonon, the last of the eight seasons. Solynon would follow the solstice, bringing with it the darkest and bitterest days of the year.

  “Has the qish spoken with the Perysh king yet?” Yechvan asked.

  “They were supposed to parley today. We should receive word in the coming days.”

  “Where in the hells is Zu? He rode ahead this morning because he was sick of waiting for me to salvage my map, for all the good it did.”

  “He mentioned something about food. I guess he’s tired of jerky. He’ll be disappointed to find the only alternative here is porridge.” Ulula grinned.

  “The hunters couldn’t bring down any game?”

  “I wasn’t that keen on sending them until you arrived.”

  Yechvan moved to the center table, poured himself a cup of mead and sat on a stump serving as a chair. He offered some to Ulula, who accepted and straddled the one beside him. “On the morrow, send them west into the forest, and send the fishers to the river. I’ve a feeling we will be settling in for a long while. Well done keeping the soldiers in shape, by the way. Nice touch starting in on the training for the younglings. We need them to be ready.”

  “Why did we get so many greenhorns this time round?”

  “I requested them. I need them to get their hair wet.”

  “Seems more likely they’ll get bloodied.”

  “We’ll need them for that as well,” Yechvan replied, absentmindedly smoothing the corner of a map.

  “I’m serious,” Ulula prodded. “You always have a reason. Tell me.”

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  “I’d prefer them to train with us than under Roog or Gorse. Roog isn’t as heavy on discipline as he was a decade ago, and Gorse would rather train them to be heroes. We don’t need heroes. We need warriors who will hold the line beside their brothers and sisters. Plus, I’ll be counting on you to pick out those with the skill and strength to handle the longbows.”

  “Should I teach some of them to ride?”

  “No time,” Yechvan said.

  “I can train any fool to shoot a bow,” Ulula grunted.

  “The Perysh wear much heavier armor than the soldiers from the Five. I want only those capable of punching through the chain and scale mail worn by their footmen.”

  “Not plate?” she asked.

  “Our arrowheads aren’t strong enough to penetrate their reinforced plate. Even yours,” Yechvan added when she scoffed. “We aren’t dealing with the leather and hide used by the Five any longer. Even the Perysh mercenaries wear heavy armor. We’ll not waste arrows on their knights and lords hoping to find the chinks. We’ll rely on our bantax to outmaneuver them and catapults to bury them in their iron coffins. Before we left, I asked Horgren to supply us with stone mauls, hammers and morning stars to ‘crush the humies in their metal cans,’” Yechvan said, mimicking Banton’s bellicose master smith. “We must fight smarter this time. We can’t expect Eroa to be on our side at every turn like she was during the last war.”

  Ulula scoffed again. “We nearly lost the entire western flank. If that’s the outcome when fate is on our side, I’d hate to imagine what it would be like to have her against us.”

  Yechvan tsked. “Don’t provoke her wrath with your blasphemy.”

  She shrugged off his warning. “Are you sure the morning stars will punch through their plate?”

  “They will. I saw it firsthand in the Five Nations. The master smith there used to hold demonstrations for his apprentices, showing them how to fashion their weapons to the deadliest specifications. I was never skilled at smithing, but I was curious, and he would let me practice when I lived there.”

  A commotion arose outside the tent. Ulula and Yechvan turned to see a dark-skinned lump tossed through the flap. Rolling to a stop in the dirt was Qince Grask. Zu barreled in behind the boy, looming over his prostrate form with a menacing grimace.

  “Koruzan’s hair!” Ulula exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Gods to hell,” Grask said, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. “Why would you do that, Zu?”

  Zu’s laugh was brusque and unamused.

  “Does your father know you’re here?” Yechvan said, more an admonishment than a question. Grusk had insisted the boy wasn’t ready, that he was still too young and inexperienced, even though his thirteenth birthday had passed and he was now a man grown in the Senda Clan’s tradition. Truthfully, the qish worried less about the boy’s welfare than the trouble his death might cause with the nobility.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Zu said.

  “So, what have you to say?” Yechvan asked, turning to Grask.

  “You know as well as I that I could desperately use the experience. The only people left in the castle have seen more than sixty years come and go. Am I to remain in Banton and study under Alder or Held?”

  “And yet, they are both far more qualified to be here than you,” Zu said. “You are headstrong. You need to train properly so you don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Then train me,” Grask argued. “Train me here. There’s sure to be a great deal of idle time. I may be headstrong, but isn’t that what everyone called Yechvan when he took command of the western flank in the Great Northern War? He was hardly a year older than I am now. And everyone still says that about you.” He pointed at Zu. “The gods alone can say when the next war is coming, and if I am to be ready to lead these people, I need to know that I can. We all need to know. And let’s be honest, brother, our father isn’t getting any younger.”

  Yechvan turned away from the boy to hide his smile. He remembered being in Grask’s shoes during the previous war, wondering if they would let him fight and ensuring that they had no choice. He and Zu had assigned themselves to the western flank, knowing that that front would be the most difficult to hold. Knowing that, even if they died, they would do what they could to make a name for themselves. Most importantly, they would be protecting their people, their way of life, their home.

  Yechvan turned back to face the trio. “Zu, see to it that the boy receives the best training you can offer by day, from sunup to supper. I will continue his tactical education by candlelight. Ulula, teach him the bow on days that Zu is otherwise engaged. And when we are called to arms, Grask, you will stand beside me.”

  “Thank you, Yog. Thank you,” the youngling said, a flutter of emotion as he bowed, bounced on his heels, bowed again.

  Yechvan shooed him out of the tent. “I don’t think he’ll be thanking me on the morrow.”