The rain fell steadily—not a heavy storm, but a long, soaking spring day. The air was cold enough the men’s breath could be seen and that of horses, and bears, and other things. When they started again, they soon passed the last of the road, a hundred men all cutting together.

A young, bearded man loped from the woodcutters and stood in the captain’s way.

“Sorry—my lord, but my da and a whole lot of our folk—they went south, like, and we’ve lost ’em.” The young man shook his head. “Da said somewhat of cutting the path back to we. An’ I said—”

“Gelfred?” the captain said. “Lad, we’ll do our best to find your da. You and yours are the furthest forward. Keep cutting! The Prince of Occitan is somewhere behind us. I need this path to be his signpost. What’s your name?”

“Will, my lord.”

“Will, keep your people together and keep cutting.” He glanced up—he and the Faery Knight exchanged a look.

“The Unicorn is almost due north,” the Faery Knight said. “I don’t need to see it, to see it.” He smiled and showed his fangs.

The captain turned back to young Will. “Turn the path south now, Will. You’ll be safe enough behind us, then.”

“Aye, my lord. But find me da?” the young man asked.

Will Starling, tall and stark in forester green, clapped the man on the shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he said.

As soon as the column turned south, the way became much more difficult. It took them an hour to pass south of a single overgrown beaver meadow, and only when they emerged back into a country of big trees and open spaces did Cully realize they were now riding south. The rain was lighter.

There was a long peal of thunder in the south. Then another.

Then Gelfred burst out of cover to the front. He waved both arms to the east and south.

The captain reined in, pulled out his ivory slate and wrote quickly.

Horns blew to the front.

Ser Tapio paused his stag.

Gelfred cantered up. “Just past the edge of the ridge—thousands of them.”

“How far—exactly?” the captain snapped.

“Long bowshot,” Gelfred said. He was spanning his crossbow as he turned his horse.

The captain sat back in his saddle. His eyes went three places—to Ser Michael, by his side; to Gelfred; and then, for a longer time, to Ser Tapio.

“Ganfroy!” he said, without further consultation. “Sound ‘form your front.’” He paused and listened to the flawless call. “Sound ‘change horses.’”

Ser Michael turned and began to pick his way rapidly to the north. Ser Milus was doing the same to the south, after he’d mounted his new charger.