Bam tilts his head toward her. He doesn’t raise his hood, but Evie glimpses a fleeting smile on his thick, scarred lips.

They march an hour past dusk and then make a cold camp. No tents are erected or wagons unloaded; the Sicclunans have only a few wagons, and they’re all reserved for pilfered Crachian supplies, and their armorists and surgeons. Fires are built and everyone is watered and fed with the barest amount of dry rations, save for the B’ors, who refuse without explanation (Evie has learned no member of the B’ors is fond of explaining themselves or their actions, at least to outsiders) to eat or drink anything offered to them by the Sicclunans. They draw their own rations and water from pouches and skins carried by each warrior, their food consisting mainly of roots and dried berries, and the occasional piece of jerked animal flesh.

The three forces naturally group with their own kind, keeping to their own fires and eating and commiserating among themselves without breaking ranks.

Sirach is the only exception. Evie has settled around a small campfire with the rest of the Elder Company, reclining on the cool, thriving grass and reveling in the feel of it. She lets her eyelids rest for only a moment, and when she pulls them back her Sicclunan counterpart is sitting cross-legged beside her, sharpening one of her crescent-bladed daggers with a worn whetstone.

“Shunned by your own?” Evie asks.

Sirach grins, eyes transfixed on the edge of the blade she’s refining. “I’ve put all my children to bed and tucked them in. I thought I’d make certain your rough and tumble brood were enjoying the accommodations.”

Evie inhales deeply. “I’m certainly enjoying the air.”

“Yes, it does lack the acrid undercurrents of our rolling wastes.”

“You spoke of building your ‘last home’ in the treetops. Is it still lush there?”

“Oh yes. Everything is green and alive. It’s near the water. And it has yet to suffer a single Crachian boot print. We could really make something of it if we weren’t constantly defending it from the likes of you.”

There’s no malice in that final accusation, just one of her usual jibes.

“You deserve that chance,” Evie says.

“We deserve a lot more than that, but I’d take it, gladly.”

They hear voices rising only a few yards away, and then see legs rushing past them toward the source of those voices. What begins as excited chatter soon escalates into a mangled chorus of angry shouting.

Sirach sighs. “Well. I wondered when this would begin. I almost thought we’d make it to the real battle first.”

“What?” Evie asks, not understanding. “What’s going on?”