Revekah swore under her breath. Kurkas was right. But what was the alternative? Leave Kurkas to die? Nothing easier a week ago. There’d even have been joy in it. Now?

“You need help.”

“So I’m painfully aware,” he said. “But I see little point in risking your life for mine.”

“I won’t let you die.”

“Good,” he said wearily. “Then we need another option.”

Commotion broke through Josiri’s dreamless sleep. Urgent shouts, bellowed oaths and running feet. All of it drowned in the fierce patter of rain and the howling wind.

He opened his eyes onto the musty confines of Viktor’s tent. Anastacia stood by the flaps, staring motionlessly into the camp beyond.

“What is it?” he asked.

[[You should get up.]]

Hastened by the clamour, Josiri pulled on his borrowed clothes. Had the prisoners escaped? Some quarrel between his people and the north-wealders blown out of control? He shook his head. Enough speculation. He left the tent, Anastacia on his heels.

And entered into a scene from hated history.

Wolf-cloaks and phoenixes snarled from within rings of shields and drawn swords, penned about the smouldering campfires by king’s blue soldiers. Wayfarers cantered hither and yon, corralling fugitives for capture. A lone kraikon loomed silent over all like an inscrutable judge of old.

Some southwealders fought, weapons to hand or no. Isolated and outnumbered, they had no chance. Even as the tent flap fell from Josiri’s numbed hand, a phoenix sprawled in the mud, run through by a wayfarer’s spear. Her sword hadn’t even cleared its scabbard.

A wolf-cloak hurled himself at shields and broke through. A north-wealder tackled him and both men went down. Angry voices sounded as comrades joined the quickening brawl.

The world fell away beneath Josiri’s feet. Akadra had lied. He’d looked Josiri right in the eye, spun promises of freedom and friendship, and all the while he’d planned this betrayal. The bitterest core of Josiri’s soul – the echo of a young man orphaned by civil war – exulted in vindication. The larger part could have wept for the betrayal.

Both kindled to rage undimmed by the downpour.

“Ana, I need a horse.”

[[Gladly.]]

A wayfarer splashed past, spear lowered. Anastacia’s hand closed around the trailing reins. Her boots skidded in the mud. As the steed whinnied in alarm, she plucked the struggling young man from his saddle and tossed him aside.

[[Horse.]]

The wayfarer made to rise. Anastacia’s boot connected with his temple, and he slumped.

Josiri scrambled into the saddle and turned his stolen steed about, searching for a brawl closely balanced enough that one righteous man might make a difference.

That was when his gaze fell across Major Keldrov, propped up on crutches at the entrance to the physicians’ tent. The one eye visible beneath the soiled bandage flickered back and forth. Her pallid face lacked Josiri’s fury but held every ounce the confusion.