Riv had heard of the talking crows of Dun Seren, but never seen one in the flesh. She’d always thought it would be amusing to meet one, but now that it was sitting a handspan from her and regarding her with all too much intelligence, the whole experience felt far more like unnerving, rather than amusing.

‘Is Flick your name?’ Riv said, feeling strangely uncomfortable.

‘Yes. You?’

‘My name is Riv,’ Riv said.

‘Well met,’ the crow rasped.

‘Yes, this is all very polite,’ Israfil interrupted. ‘But do you have news of the Kadoshim force that attacked Drassil?’

‘They scattered, fled in many directions, lost in Forn,’ the crow squawked, its talons clenching alarmingly with each syllable. One group, largest, went to Varan’s Fall. Grinding Sea.’

Israfil looked to Ethlinn. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘There is nothing there, only sea.’

‘Boats,’ Flick croaked.

‘The ground is marked with boats that had been moored on the shore,’ Balur said, his voice a deep growl. ‘They rowed away.’

‘Where to?’ Israfil mused. ‘It is a clever move, making them untrackable. What options are there for their destination?’

‘The coast runs west to east. East is a few hundred leagues of Forn Forest, then mountains, then Arcona.’

‘So, unlikely they would go that way. West?’

‘Is Dun Seren and the Desolation.’

‘Dun Seren is as unlikely a destination as I can think of,’ Balur rumbled. Riv realized that he was laughing.

‘And north?’ Israfil asked.

‘The Grinding Sea,’ Ethlinn said, open handed.

Riv had felt uncomfortable, initially, as if she wasn’t supposed to be involved in this meeting, and not enjoying the way the crow seemed to be sidling its way closer to her arm. But now she was engrossed in the conversation.

‘So,’ Israfil said. ‘Unless there is some hidden location in the Grinding Sea, the logical conclusion is that our enemy have fled to the Desolation.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: DREM

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

DREM

Not the best time of year to decide to go camping in the Desolation, Drem thought, not for the first time, as he woke to find ice in his growing beard. He cracked it free and scraped more ice from his eyebrows, then crawled from his makeshift tent, a bearskin propped up by branches, only to see that it was covered in another layer of fresh-fallen snow. He regarded the sky through a canopy of pines, saw a clear bright blue far above. Breaking camp was a swift affair, Drem taking comfort in the routine of it, all the little practices that his da had drummed into him over countless years. Soon his bag was across his shoulder and his thick-shafted spear in his fist and he was walking on through the snow.