The veteran rowers had accepted her presence quickly, especially when the Jehar started filling benches as well, at least half of them women. They had attacked rowing as if it was an enemy, with stony faces and determined stoicism. Harder to get used to, though, were giants sitting on the oar-benches. Balur had been the first to try. The bench had creaked when he sat upon it, and the first time he and a few of his kin pulled at their oars the ship had listed so heavily the decks had taken water. It had taken some careful rearrangement of seating to balance the ship out.

‘We’re leaving the forest behind us.’ It was the small, dark-skinned man named Javed sitting on the bench across from her. His head was shaved clean, dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and he had more scars on his body than Coralen had ever seen. He was small framed, but his musculature had a wiry strength that Coralen recognized and respected, and he moved with a grace reminiscent of the Jehar that spoke of explosive power.

‘Aye,’ Coralen grunted. She’d not really mastered the art of talking and rowing yet.

‘Where exactly are you all going?’ Javed asked her.

‘Forwards,’ Coralen grunted. Everyone within the warband knew that they were travelling to Drassil, the city of tales, until recently something she’d thought of as exactly that: a tale. Now, though, it was just accepted. Coralen was aware that other people would not view it in the same way.

‘Strange company you keep,’ Javed observed.

I suppose it is. Coralen didn’t think of it that way any more, much as she no longer viewed Drassil as a strange destination.

A bell rang behind her, signalling the end of her shift on the bench. Smoothly she raised her oar, pulled it through its hole and shelved it. Javed gave her a mock-bow as she stood and filed along the aisle to the stairs that led to the top deck. She blinked in the sunlight and nodded to Farrell as he passed her to take his place at an oar. The deck was narrow, dominated by a single mast and furled sail, beyond it a raised deck where Dath stood helming the steering oar. Coralen walked to the ship’s rail and leaned out, looking downriver. More ships followed them, their small fleet.

Four nights they’d been rowing up the Afren, away from Uthandun, each morning expecting to see ships appear on the river behind them, or hear the pounding of hooves as a warband swept along the riverbank.