Josiri hauled the horse to a standstill. Unfriendly eyes watched from the undergrowth. A thin line of wolf-fur clad men and women blocked the roadway. Swords glinted in the moonlight. Careful not to make any move that would set bowstrings humming, he drew back his hood.

“I want to speak to Drakos Crovan.”

A scruffy individual pushed his way to the front of the thin blockade. He alone had yet to draw a blade. “Duke Trelan? Well, ain’t this something. Thought you were trussed up at Branghall, supping from silver chalices.”

Rough laughter rippled beneath the trees. Josiri, burdened by both restless soul and sleepless night – and sore from a journey made at the gallop – couldn’t conceal his vexation.

“Let me through!”

The man ambled closer and spread his hands wide, playing to his audience. “Doesn’t he know we’re wolf’s-heads? We don’t take orders.”

Josiri slid from his saddle. “You do today.”

The man glowered at him from a face full of bruises. “Reckon so, do you?”

He went for his sword. Josiri caught his wrist.

The fellow was strong but unsteady – the sour note of ale told why. Despair gripped Josiri anew. The Southshires were invaded by both the Hadari and Viktor Akadra, and Crovan’s wolf’s-heads were drinking?

“Hands off!”

The drunk balled his free hand and swung. But Josiri had spent years sparring with Anastacia, and she was faster than the wolf’s-head would ever be.

Tugging on the captive wrist, Josiri spun the fellow around. His boot connected with a fleshy rump, and the drunk went sprawling. The man’s sword, claimed in the confusion, gleamed in Josiri’s hand. He cast it into the dirt.

“I want to speak to Drakos Crovan.” Time for reason. “He’ll see me.”

“Then he can do it with you bound and gagged!” roared the drunk. “Or do you need an arrow to make you cooperative?”

“Pack it in, Vorn!”

A familiar face appeared among the trees. Revekah.

“Stay out of this, crone!”

She sauntered towards the road, time-worn face unconcerned. “Fixing to be bested by an old woman, as well as a pampered noble? And that’s without going into whatever happened to you the other night.” She shrugged and nodded at Josiri. “You mustn’t mind Vorn. Reckon he still hasn’t learned that some maids back up the word ‘no’ with actions.”

Vorn growled but held his tongue. The atmosphere shifted. The eyes were no friendlier than before, but Revekah’s arrival had the ambushers unsettled.

Josiri bowed. “Captain Halvor.”

“So formal, your grace.” She flashed a mischievous smile, then rounded on Vorn. “And as for you! Who do you suppose has been feeding us word on the northwealders’ intentions for years? How we learned they were moving on Vallora? Weren’t for him, none of you would’ve gotten out.”

“He’s a traitor!” The objection came from the anonymity of the undergrowth. “He burned the duchess’ portrait!”