finish the ditch across the narrows and plant it with stakes.'
'You've both done a fine job,' Byren said, handing his mount over to Leif. The boy grinned and led the horse off.
Old Man Narrows welcomed Byren at the tap-room door. A fire burned in the grate, fresh bread and cheese were laid on the long table and he could smell a roast cooking in the kitchen. So different from last time he had been here. Then, they'd huddled in the kitchen and planned how to survive the manticore pride. 'Whatever happened to Leif's dogs?'
Even as he said this, the two wolfhounds bounded out of the kitchen to greet him. Byren laughed as they reared up, putting their paws on his chest. Now this was the kind of greeting a man should come home to. How he envied Orrade.
Behind him, the warlords and their captains poured into the tap-room. As Catillum arrived with several of his monks, Byren lost track of Florin. Men took their seats at the long table and Florin reappeared with Leif and her father. They moved about, serving tankards of ale.
When Fyn passed by Byren grabbed his arm.
'Join me.' He indicated the bench beside him. Orrade made room. 'In a day or two, when my scouts come back, I'll be leading raids. I intend to wipe out all Merofynians not living in the castle and the abbey. While I'm away, I'm putting you in charge of Narrowneck.'
'Me?' Fyn almost squeaked. 'What about Orrie — '
'He'll be with me.'
'Or Feid, or Corvel or — '
'They'll be leading attacks. We'll strike in several places at once, strike fast, before the Merofynians realise what's happening and can gather their forces.' Byren grinned at Fyn's expression, then he sobered. 'You're seventeen now. You're my brother and kingsheir. By appointing you captain of Narrowneck, I make it clear to my followers that I trust you. If anything happens to me, you'll be — '
'No.' Fyn would have pulled back, but Orrade didn't let him. 'I don't want — '
'D'you think I want this? How do you think I feel, turning the valley into a battlefield?'
Fyn blinked. 'The valley first, then the abbey, then Rolenhold?'
Byren nodded and laughed as he ruffled Fyn's newly grown hair. 'You'll do, lad.'
Fyn woke, his heart racing. Even as he sat up his dream faded, leaving him with a sense of being lost in the caverns below the abbey, trying to keep the young boys safe from wyverns.
It was almost dawn.
Byren had made him responsible for Narrowneck. Equal parts pride and trepidation filled him. But Byren was right, he was a man now. He'd turned seventeen without noticing, because the sea-hounds hadn't celebrated spring cusp. Time to take on a man's responsibilities.
He stretched out on his bedroll, listening to the snores of Byren's honour guard. Tonight he'd have the chamber to himself, as Byren headed out today. Each of the warlords had an objective. Strike fast, strike before Cobalt could prepare and anticipate.
His stomach churned. He couldn't sleep.
From today, he would be responsible for protecting Byren's bolt hole and the lives of everyone in it. Might as well start now.
He rolled to his feet, grabbed his boots and crept between the sleeping bodies.
Bantam lifted his head.
Fyn signalled for him not to get up. No point in the sea-hounds also going without sleep.
He padded lightly down the stairs and through the tap-room, where more men slept. On the porch he found the man on duty sleeping, huddled in the doorway. Fyn slipped on his boots, and still the man did not wake.
So he kicked him, just hard enough to hurt.
The warrior woke with a start and sprang to his feet, reaching for his knife.
'You're lucky I'm not a Merofynian, planning to slit your throat and assassinate King Byren,' Fyn told him.
He left the chagrined man trying to gather his wits and wandered down to the lookout over the lake where the winch was built to haul loads up from the small beach. Here the three sentries were awake, at least. They were talking softly, their bodies clearly silhouetted against the stars.
Fyn paused, selected a rock and threw it straight into someone's back. The man gave a grunt of surprise and spun around.
Fyn stepped out from the shadows. 'If I had a bow and arrows, all three of you would be dead before you could raise the alarm. Tomorrow night, I want stuffed decoys on guard where you are and the real guards back in the trees, or stretched out on the cliff edge, where they present no silhouette.'
'But the ladder is up and no one could climb the cliff from the beach. That only leaves the winch and we're protecting it,' one of them said.
'You wouldn't be, if you were dead.'
Fyn moved off, thinking some people must walk around half-asleep. Skirting the tradepost, he headed down the winding path towards the Narrows and the palisade.
The scent of incense told him he was downwind of the monks' fire circle. Catillum must have been performing a protective ritual, before venturing out tomorrow. Fyn had no intention of waking Joff and Feldspar, but his old friends weren't there. The monks were missing. Where…
Fyn's steps slowed and then he realised the mystics master must have volunteered his monks to take the dawn watch.
He headed for the palisade. The monks wouldn't be as careless as the other sentries. At least he hoped not.
Four monks manned the single gate, which could be lowered to form a bridge over the ditch. Fyn could see their silhouettes by the starlight but not their features.
'All well?' Fyn asked.
'Yes, kingsheir.'
Fyn moved on. There were two platforms, one each side of the gate. They were built in the tree tops, halfway along the palisade. From these vantage points, lookouts could watch the approach to the Narrows and Fyn headed towards one of these now, curious to discover how far they could see from up there.
'Who is it?' a voice called down.
'Fyn Kingsheir.' He was glad the monks were alert. It would have felt odd, reprimanding men who had ranked above him in the abbey.
Fyn climbed the ladder and joined the three men, who knelt on the dappled, starlit platform. Only when he identified Joff and Feldspar, and felt a spurt of relief, did he realise his true motivation. He wanted to be reconciled with his friends.
Selfish fool. He must not lay his burdens on them. They'd be horrified to learn he'd allied himself with Mage Tsulamyth. This hurt. To distract himself, he crept to the edge of the platform. 'How far can you see? How much warning would we have?'
Only one monk joined Fyn at the edge of the platform. Whetstone had given his vow three years earlier, when he had joined Master Sunseed's gardeners, but they had all been trained as abbey warriors and he'd marched out with the abbey into the Merofynian ambush so few survived.
'In daylight we can see Rolenhold, off to the south-west. At night…' Whetstone hesitated.
Fyn frowned. A shadow moved under the trees on the shore.
'That's no shadow. That's an attacking force!' Fyn gasped.
'Hundreds of them,' Whetstone said.
'Where?' Joff and Feldspar joined them.
Fyn pointed.
Feldspar sat back on his heels abruptly. 'I don't believe it. Cobalt is making a sneak attack on our watch.'
'What luck!' Joff crowed.
'Luck? Stupid boy. You've no idea…' Whetstone shuddered and went still.
Fyn gulped. Whetstone's fear seemed to leap into Fyn's body like flames leaping onto dry leaves. Was this
