'That there ain't, with strong mail and good blades, and plenty of horses into the bargain. There'll be Named Men too, no doubt. It's the pick of the crop Bethod's brought with him, and some sharp war leaders in amongst 'em. That and some strange folk from out east. Wild men, from beyond the Crinna. Must have left a few boys dotted about up north, for your friends to chase around after, and brought his best fighters south with him, against your weakest.' The old warrior stared grimly round at the slovenly camp from under his thick eyebrows. 'No offence, but I don't give you a shit of a chance if it comes to a battle.'

The worst of all outcomes. West swallowed. 'How fast could such an army move?'

'Fast. Their scouts might be with us day after tomorrow. Main body a day later. If they've come right on, that is, and it's hard to say if they will. Wouldn't put it past Bethod to try and cross the river lower down, come round behind us.'

'Behind us?' They were scarcely equipped for a predictable enemy. 'How could he have known we were here?'

'Bethod always had a gift for guessing out his enemies. Good sense for it. That and he's a lucky bastard. Loves to take chances. Ain't nothing more important in war than a good slice o' luck.'

West looked around him, blinking. Ten thousand battle-hardened Northmen, descending on their ramshackle camp. Lucky, unpredictable Northmen. He imagined trying to turn the ill-disciplined levies, up to their ankles in mud, trying to get them to form a line. It would be a slaughter. Another Black Well in the making. But at least they had a warning. Three days to prepare their defences, or better still, to begin to retreat.

'We must speak to the Prince at once,' he said.

Soft music and warm light washed out into the chill night air as West jerked back the tent flap. He stooped through, reluctantly, with the two Northmen close behind him.

'By the dead…' muttered Threetrees, gaping round.

West had forgotten how bizarre the Prince's quarters must appear to a newcomer, especially one who was a stranger to luxury. It was less a tent than a huge hall of purple cloth, ten strides or more in height, hung with Styrian tapestries and floored with Kantic carpets. The furniture would have been more in keeping in a palace than a camp. Huge carved dressers and gilt chests held the Prince's endless wardrobe, enough to clothe an army of dandies. The bed was a gargantuan four-poster, bigger than most tents in the camp on its own. A highly polished table in one corner sagged under the weight of heaped-up delicacies, silver and gold plate twinkling in the candlelight. One could hardly imagine that only a few hundred strides away, men were cramped, and cold, and had not enough to eat.