Cywen stood and stretched. The camp sprawled about them, nestled between the fork of two streams. There were no fires, there had been none since they had fought the warband in the north, and with the supplies of brot and the summer nights they didn’t really need one. It would still be nice, though. Brina had occasionally set a fire and boiled a pot of water. When Corban or Tukul had reminded her that they were in enemy territory and not lighting fires she had told them it was for making poultices and informed them that if they didn’t want anyone to know where they were, to kill that damned hawk hovering above them all the time. They went away shame-faced – it wasn’t as if they hadn’t tried, but even the most skilled archer couldn’t shoot that high. Brina had always managed to make her and Cywen a mug of tea whenever she boiled a pot, though. Cywen wasn’t complaining. Or telling.

Cywen could see Corban skirting the horses’ picket line with Meical and Tukul. As she watched a handful of riders cantered into the camp, heading for the makeshift paddocks by the stream. Coralen rode at their head, Storm pacing silently beside her. Further out Cywen could just make out the shadowy figures of Jehar and giants circling the camp, over a score on guard duty at all times.

Since Brina had asked Cywen to become her assistant Cywen had stopped feeling so useless – mostly she helped Brina in the tending of ailments, ranging from the severely battle-wounded to mundane injuries incurred during the day-to-day of a small host on the march. Sprained ankles, headaches, stomach upsets, stung by something unpleasant, usually with roots or wings.

Cywen liked it. She was kept busy, which was important; spare time usually ended up with her brooding on the death of her mam. And Brina was a good teacher.

As long as I learn something the first time she tells me. Apparently she doesn’t like repeating herself.

Sometimes Brina’s abrasiveness just became too much. At times like that Cywen liked to throw her knives at something.

Today is one of those days.

She walked a few steps into the undergrowth that surrounded them and was abruptly enveloped by a stand of ash and elm. Brina was still close by, within earshot. She drew one of her knives from the belt across her chest and sighted at a tree. She pulled the blade back to her ear, held her breath and threw. It connected with a satisfying thunk. Without thinking she pulled another knife and buried it in the trunk a finger-span from the first.