The fighting had continued for most of the night — vicious hand-to-hand combat in the river, on the banks, and finally on the enemy side before Miro called back his men to avoid the trenches and towers on the Halrana side. The only blessing, if it could be termed that, was that the once-common use of dirigibles, mortars, and prismatic orbs was now a rare occurrence. Either the enemy commander was a fool, or like the Alturans, they were pitifully short of essence.

As he crossed the Runebridge, heading for the Crystal Palace, Miro felt fatigue set in. He could still remember the moment when tiredness led him to trip on the log and fall in the river. What if he fell, just when he was needed the most? A bladesinger had never been Lord Marshal — was it too much for him?

The doubts were just a result of the fatigue, he assured himself. After some rest he would feel more like his usual self.

Miro's eyelids dragged down. Must talk to Rorelan in the morning. Must hold in the east.

When he reached his soft bed in his suite, Miro fell instantly asleep, fully-clothed and with his boots still on. Bloody footprints showed where he had made his way through the palace and straight for his bed.

~

HIS respite was short-lived.

A hand was shaking him, first gently, then with greater insistence.

Miro opened his eyes one at a time. It was light, so it must be morning. Had someone been shaking him? He must have been dreaming.

Miro rolled over, and shouted with surprise. "Ah!"

A small woman stood beside his bed. She was young, and pretty in a manner, with ruddy features and eyes green as grass. Perhaps she wasn't young; perhaps it was just her size; Miro could never decide.

"Layla," Miro said her name.

The Dunfolk healer usually wore a mantle of fur on her shoulders, but since her people joined the war effort she now carried a short hunter's bow and wore a curved knife at her hip instead.

Miro cursed himself inwardly. The Dunfolk were one of the main reasons for the change of fortune at the Bridge of Sutanesta. He had meant to travel to Dunholme, and see how they were faring, but in the time since the battle the opportunity had never come.

"How did you get in here?" Miro asked. Layla simply regarded him inscrutably. He realised he'd never get an answer; when it came to tracking, and stealth, none were as gifted as the ancient people who lived in the forests of Altura. "It doesn't matter. Are you well?"

"My people are dying," Layla said. "The Tartana did not send me, he is too proud to ask your help. Yet it is your help that we need."

Miro sat up, looking for clothing, and then realised he still wore his armoursilk. The blood from the previous night had stained his sheets.