“Let him go.” Vorn folded his arms and sank against a tree. “Merrik has what? Fifty blades? Seventy? Not enough to change anything.”

“But it’s not just seventy blades, is it?” Crovan snapped. “The twins left last night. Korsov at first light. I’m losing them.”

“Not for long,” said Vorn. “I hear our Hadari friends’ll be at Eskavord come morning. Wind’s blowing for battle.”

In his mind’s eye, Crovan saw the lowland approaches to Eskavord. Good, firm ground enfolded by the spreading eaves of Davenwood.

“Akadra won’t let them get that far. He can’t.”

“Like I said, they’ll not be gone long. First clash of shields and they’ll come running back, begging for protection. What does Akadra have? A thousand blades?”

“More. If what I’m hearing is true, half of Eskavord’s villages turned out for him. Others too.”

Vorn snorted. “Old men who’ve not touched a sword in fifteen years? Unblooded youths? Calenne Trelan had better be the Phoenix of legend if she wants to stomp the Hadari with that.”

“There’s another thousand in Kreska.”

“Fine, call it three thousand. Call it four, if you like. You heard Kerril’s report. The Hadari have at least six.”

Crovan nodded. Numbers weren’t everything, but they helped. Between his own wolf’s-heads and those loyal to Gavamor and Silda Drenn, he’d nearly a thousand blades of his own. Enough to narrow the gap. Maybe even bring the victory the Southshires needed.

Struck by sudden weariness, he glanced away through the trees. No matter Vorn’s words, he felt an abiding loss. No, he felt lost. More than he had since that night after his patrol had been ambushed by south-wealders, when he’d been trapped in Skazit Maze, with only his thoughts and a broken leg for company.

He should have died with his patrol that night. Would have done, if only the ground hadn’t swallowed him up into the root-breached tunnels beneath Davenwood. Call it fever, call it enlightenment, but he’d experienced revelation in the darkness. He realised he’d more sympathy for his estranged southwealder kin than loyalty to his superiors. Rescue came at noon the next day, hours too late to change the course of Crovan’s deliberations. He deserted the army as soon as he’d healed, and never looked back. Not until now.

“What if I’m wrong?”

The question was a mistake. The words sounded foolish when spoken aloud.

“You ain’t,” said Vorn. “Calenne Trelan’s not the Phoenix. She’s a frightened girl, cowering behind Akadra. Others want to gamble on her, more fool them.”