The soldiers were striking camp, readying for the day’s ride northward.

Isaiah paced impatiently at the edge of the camp, looking at the sea of juit birds beyond. They were generally quiet save for a few squabbles, most contenting themselves with stretching and pruning.

None looked particularly discomforted to be here.

Isaiah knew relatively little about the birds. He had spent aeons as the god of the river, but the birds of Lake Juit? A mystery not even he could plumb. They simply existed, but had inhabited the reed beds of Lake Juit for so long, that Isaiah could not help but wonder if they had absorbed the mystery and magic of those borderlands into their very blood.

“What are they doing here, Isaiah?”

Isaiah turned, startled by Hereward’s appearance. He had seen little of his former palace kitchen steward, and reluctant companion, in the weeks since he’d joined up with Lamiah. She’d dined with himself and Lamiah on one or two occasions, but both men felt a little uncomfortable in her presence and she’d known it. Isaiah and Hereward’s companionship had never been easy, and both had grabbed the chance to go their separate ways the moment the opportunity arose.

Thinking about it, Isaiah realised this was the first time he’d seen her in two weeks, at least.

She looked well, far better than at any period since he’d met up with her on the banks of the Lhyl. She’d changed from her previous gauntness to a far more pleasant slimness, her hair was carefully dressed and the lines of pain around her eyes had all but vanished.

Isaiah glanced at her neck, where a Skraeling had sunk its claw under the One’s direction. The coin-shaped scar was still there, but it was fading, and soon would barely be noticeable at all.

“They have a purpose,” Isaiah said, “and I cannot help but think that purpose shall be good for us, but as to what it is .” He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Have you heard any news from Elcho Falling?”

“No, and it worries me.”

“No news from any of the forward scouts?”

“Where did you learn to interrogate so forcefully?”

“Any news?”

He sighed. “No. Hereward, surely you should be packing?”

“I am packed already, thank you. I am sorry to have taken up your time.”

Isaiah repressed another sigh. Always their relationship was fraught with so much tension and simmering dislike.

He wondered if Elcho Falling had any kitchens where Hereward would feel at home, then berated himself for the ungenerous thought.

“Isaiah?”

“Hmm?” Isaiah had been so lost in his thoughts it took him a moment to refocus on Hereward.

“What is that bird doing?”

Isaiah turned to look.

One of the juit birds had walked away from the vast pack toward Isaiah. There was an open space of some ten paces between the birds and the border of the camp, and the bird crossed to within two paces of Isaiah.

There it stopped.

It turned its head, very deliberately, and looked south.

Then, as deliberately, it turned its head and looked north.

Then it looked directly at Isaiah as if he should by now be getting the message.

Isaiah frowned.

“It is trying to tell you something,” Hereward said.

“I know that,” Isaiah snapped.

The bird went through the procedure again, looking south, then north, then at Isaiah.

Isaiah’s frown deepened.

Then suddenly the bird’s form blurred, and Isaiah thought he was looking at . . . at .

“Oh no!” Hereward wailed, and it was the fear in her voice that snapped Isaiah into full alert.

“Shetzah!” he said. “The Skraelings are moving north!”

They must be seething up from Isembaard toward Elcho Falling, and his army would be standing in their way.

Isaiah turned on his heel and ran back through the camp, shouting orders as he went.

The juit bird fluffed out its feathers, gave Hereward a cool look, then stalked back to the company of its fellows.

They rode through the day as hard as they could. Isaiah spent half his time reining in his horse at the rear of the column to stare south, and half the time spurring his horse forward to urge the men onward.

The force was mounted, for which Isaiah was unendingly grateful, for it meant they could push north fast, but that positive was countered by the fact that feeding for the horses was poor at this time of the year and if he pushed too hard the animals would begin to founder in exhaustion.

How far to Elcho Falling? Too far. Isaiah knew the Skraelings would catch them and that they would need to battle it out.

How many men did he have? A little under one hundred thousand. Not enough to counter the millions of wraiths he knew must be surging northward.

Oh, and a flock of several million juit birds.

Isaiah had no idea what they would do, what they could do, but he feared it might not be enough against the sheer weight of the Skraeling numbers.

On those occasions when Isaiah stopped his horse to stare south, he thought he could just distinguish a brown haze at the limits of his vision.

Dust thrown up by the racing feet of the Skraelings?

It was tempting to march through the night. Isaiah knew he could not do that, but they camped late, resting uneasily, and Isaiah meant to push on well before dawn the next day.

That night, he quadrupled the sentries, and bade all who slept to keep their swords unsheathed at their sides.

To the south the Skraelings surged forward, intent on their purpose. They were to get to Elcho Falling and they were to eat everything in their path.

The One had instructed them, and they were as one with the One. They could feel his presence, strong and powerful, and they knew what they had to do.

Get to Elcho Falling. Eat anything in their way.

The instructions were simple enough, even for Skraelings.

There was something up ahead, they could smell it. A mass of men, trying to flee. They could smell the stink of fear.

The Skraelings smiled as they ran.

They would catch this great mass of men soon, and then life would be good.