Kyle halted, stricken. Whatever treatment Lyan had bargained for among the convoy hadn’t been good enough to save his leg.

It took a great deal of effort to shake off the shock of the sight; the lad was so young. But perhaps it was fortunate – he’d get used to it quickly. And it would win him credibility with the troops; a youth and already a veteran.

Speaking of troops, he also noted the two Genabackan guards escorting the lad. Lyan was of high enough rank to rate bodyguards for her and her ‘family’. Indeed, to listen to the talk, it sounded as if she was second-in-command out here.

Still, approaching Dorrin was his only hope of reaching her. He’d have to play it carefully and hope the lad could think on his feet. He jogged off, dodging around tents to get ahead, then waited just round the corner of a shed. When Dorrin approached, with his slow limping gait, Kyle stepped out and made a show of spotting the lad. ‘Dorrin!’ he shouted, ‘It’s me – Kyle! You remember, Kyle, yes?’

Dorrin had frozen, gaping. His mouth actually opened in an O as if to begin the sound of ‘Wh—’

‘Kyle! Yes? You remember, don’t you?’

The guards had recovered and one was striding forward to brush Kyle aside when Dorrin reached out to him, calling, ‘Kyle! Yes! How wonderful to see you!’ The guards looked to the youth, frowning. ‘We met …’

‘… on the ship,’ Kyle completed.

‘On the ship, yes,’ Dorrin said.

Kyle pushed forward and knelt in the mud before the youth, looked him up and down. He almost said, sorry about the leg, but caught himself in time: Whiteblade had been there, after all. So he asked, ‘What happened to your leg?’

Dorrin looked confused for a moment, but recovered quickly. ‘Oh. I, ah, lost it. Sickness in the bone.’

‘I’m sorry, lad.’

The boy shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I can still get around.’

‘So you can. And well, too. I assume Lyan’s here?’

‘Oh, yes! She would so much want to see you!’

‘I’m glad. Should I wait with you?’

Dorrin peered up to one guard. ‘Can he stay with me, Turath?’

This fellow, an older Genabackan, probably a veteran from the look of him, possibly of the Pannion wars, scratched his greying beard while glaring his ill-disguised suspicions of Kyle. After a moment of consideration – Dorrin had just handed him a very troubling poser of a problem – he reached a decision: ‘The Shieldmaiden should be informed, little sir.’

‘Oh! Of course,’ Dorrin answered.

Turath jerked his chin to his fellow and the guard jogged off. Then the veteran settled his scarred hand on the grip of his shortsword and planted his feet wide right next to Dorrin. ‘We’ll wait just here,’ he said. A lazy smile of anticipation quirked his lips.