“Holding the islands is one thing,” said Ben, who was still poring over the map. “But you cannot hope to move beyond here, and here—you see this great tract of forest, that stretches out its arms almost to the sea? We were there. That is the strangest of places; deep, impenetrable, and fiercely defended. The terrain is steep and treacherous. There’s a huge lake beyond these stands of trees, and a stronghold within. Nobody gets closer than a day’s journey to that. It’s bristling with armed men, and if they don’t finish you off, hunger and cold and the sheer weirdness of the place soon will. If you wanted to make any impact, you’d have to go in much further north. Here, for instance.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Spoken like a true campaigner,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to come along with me, boy? Seems like you might be an asset. Can’t you spare the lad for a while, nephew?”

Red blew a little sawdust away, and put his work back in his pocket. He wiped the small knife on his tunic and stuck it back in his boot.

“I don’t make Ben’s decisions for him,” he said mildly.

“Well, boy?”

Ben laughed. “Not me, thanks. I’ve work to do here. Besides, fighting these folk is like fighting a tribe of—of ghosts, or spirits. Not that we didn’t make an impact once or twice. But—they have a habit of appearing and disappearing, and when they talk to you, it’s all in riddles.”

“And what about the weather?” put in John. “Fine one minute, pouring the next. You find yourself almost believing their tales of magic and sorcery, if you stay there long enough. I’m in no hurry to go back. Give me a flock of ewes and a pair of good shears any day.”

They were teasing him, I thought. But Richard was already off on another track, speaking as if to himself.

“Magic and sorcery. That reminds me.” He went to stand by the hearth, warming his back, his arms stretched along the mantel. His shadow was long across the room, his body outlined by the flickering flames. “You mention the lake, and the stronghold in the forest. I heard the strangest story from that quarter, a tale that could change the whole course of my campaign, if there were any truth in it. The lord of those parts is named Colum of Sevenwaters. Stories abound of his lake, and his forest, and his fortress; even more tales of the savagery of his fighting men, among whom were numbered his own sons. Those tales are true enough. As you are aware, it was in those parts that Simon was lost, and my own men butchered. I have wondered, often, if…but never mind that. Colum’s forces are no barbarian rabble. They are strong, well disciplined, and well armed, and they fight as if they had no care for tomorrow. As you said, young Ben, one would be a fool to mount an attack on such a man’s primary defenses. But, I am informed, things changed for Colum a year or two back. Just how, it’s hard to tell; there are many versions of what happened. One day he was a man with six grown sons. The next day he had none.”