Chapter 1

“Second Scout Detachment, Squad Conall reporting in,” the weary soldier said, rapping his fist against the golden axes-and-goathead sigil fastened to his black leather breastplate. His two squad mates followed suit, albeit a lot sloppier.

Major Grenthal, bald and sporting a thinning iron-gray chin beard, looked up from his papers. He managed half a smile – the left side of his face failed to cooperate ever since a poisoned Elven arrow had permanently burned and disfigured it.

“Ah, Conall. Back so soon?” The Major examined Conall and his men, his smile vanishing as soon as it had sprung into existence. “Please tell me you have some good news.”

Conall saluted again. “The good news, sir, is that we managed to survive a Stalkerite ambush. At least Reece, Liam and I did. The bastards waylaid us on route to staging point A, near the great Hollow Tree. Their arrows took out Roddy and Henrik before we knew what was happening.”

Reece bared his teeth. “Once we knew where the blighters were firin’ from, we tossed our fire pots their way. Took out their cover and set at least two of them ablaze. We stormed their position where Adrian got himself shiv’d to death but, while he had the Stalkerite’s attention, I managed to shiv them right back.” He pulled a string from his pocket. Half a dozen elf ears in varying states of decomposition dangled from it. “After that, we managed to rout them proper like.”

“You are certain they were Stalkerites?” Grenthal asked.

“Stalkerites, elven rebels, what’s the bloody diff’rence?” Liam asked. “We gave them pointy-eared bastards what for and that’s good enough for me.”

“You ‘specially,” Reece leered. “Liam ‘ere was real thorough interrogatin’ that pointy-eared bitch we didn’t kill outright. Probed all her cavities real deep.”

Conall tried not to scowl. Orders were orders but he hated the zeal with which his men visited all manner of cruelties upon their prisoners.

“We found the usual Stalkerite equipment,” Conall said, reclaiming the reins of the debriefing. “Green scarves to cover their faces, matching cloaks and arrows fletched with green feathers. Also, a few phials of their favorite poison.” He patted his belt.

Grenthal winced, his hand touching his scarred and lifeless left cheek. “Did the interrogation bear anything noteworthy?”

“Nah, jus’ the usual ‘death to the despoilers’ rhetoric,” Liam snarled. “Until we cut her tongue out.”

“According to our standing orders, we fell back to camp after the incident,” Conall said. “Nothing else to report.”

“Nothin’ to report my shapely ass,” Reece cut in. “Ain’t ya forgettin’ somethin’, Sarge?”

“What is he talking about, Conall?” Granthal asked.

“On our way back to camp we came upon those adventurer-lookin’ people, dead in the midst of fuckall,” Reece said. “Some skinny lad and one blazin’ looker of a dark elven cunt. They sent us on a bloody wild goose chase, they did.”

“Yeah, I’m half of a mind to go back out there and have a few choice words with that lass,” Liam added, caressing his crotch. “Made us chase a fucking Devourer what wasn’t real. Spent three hours pokin’ bushes and nearly crapping our pants every time some squirrel rattled the branches.”

“If I remember correctly, it was you asking ‘What’s a Devourer head worth, Sarge?’” Conall said, mustering every bit of his patience. “The boy looked like he was in pain with a mightily busted knee so I did what every honorable soldier should do. I offered to help.”

“A quick knife to the throat would have helped more than the pep talk ye gave ‘im,” Liam snickered. “Stupid waif prolly got eaten by the next hungry beast what happened upon him while we traipsed on our merry way huntin’ a Devourer what wasn’t there to begin with.”

“We made it back to camp after ensuring there was no Devourer in our assigned quadrant,” Conall said through gnashed teeth. “End of story, nothing else to report.”

Grenthal watched Conall over steepled fingers. “Any idea why a human and a dark elf were collaborating? Did she by any chance wear House Dree’vex colors?”

“That’s a solid ‘no,’ sir,” Reece said. “Skin-tight leathers leaving very little room for the imagination and a silver disk dangling ‘tween her titties. Moon Maiden, sir.”

“Did you at least find out where they were headed?” Grenthal asked.

“Yes, sir.” Conall forced himself to stand at attention. His weary bones ached and every fiber of his being yearned for a bath, hot broth and a lifetime of sleep, all things he knew were hard to find in this decaying camp in a forlorn nook of the Elven Woods. It’s just three more months. Then my tour of duty is over and I can go back home, hopefully with a mostly intact body and a fat bag of gold like Lord Carver promised when he hired me. Aloud he said: “They mentioned the ‘Dancing Dryad,’ sir.”

“Funny thing was,” Reece added. “We were at least three days out from the ‘Dryad’ and that boy looked like he could barely walk more than five paces before floppin’ over.” He turned to Conall. “I told you they smelled fishy.”

“In the end that encounter amounted to nothing but a friendly chat with a wanderer in need,” Conall growled. “End of story. No elven conspiracy, no new discoveries in regards to the Dragon Stones. We’re here to recover and regroup. I’ll be awaiting your new orders tomorrow morning, sir.” The sergeant saluted once more, hoping his men would get the hint.

Grenthal leafed through his papers. “Well, I’m glad you suddenly find yourself with three vacancies in your squad. Lord Carver saw fit to bless us with reinforcements. Quite a rowdy bunch this time. Some of them might be scout material, if a firm hand were to mold them properly.” He pulled three sheets from his stack and handed them off to Conall. “Says here they know their way around bow and axe already. This ‘Stilty’ has done some time for poaching, so I guess he’d be a half-decent tracker too. Not a bad bunch, all things considered.”

“Thank you, sir.” Conall took the papers. The usual recommendation slips written up by Lord Carver’s scribes. Name, place of origin, skill set – most likely embellished –, former occupation, the lot. And, as usual, a rather lengthy list of crimes. It seems in order to bolster his armies, Lord Carver was intent to pardon every rapist, murderer, poacher and highwayman willing to take up arms in his name.

“All right,” Conall said, glancing at the papers. “Reece, you and Liam head over to the mess and find me this ... Stilty, along with his pals Stokey and Bokney. Seize a table and get to know the boys. I need to talk to the Major some more.”

“That’s music to me ears,” Reece said, waving his gruesome trophy around. “Am I allowed to order somethin’ good to drink? After all, we want to spoil our new brothers in arms a little on their first day on the job, right?”

“Sure, what does it hurt? I’ll be with you in a few.” Conall waited until his men had left.

“Anything else on your mind, Conall?” Grenthal reached for a new stack of papers, his face half a mask of disgust.

“Sorry to complain, sir,” Conall said. “I was hoping there would be some ... proper recruits this time. Maybe someone with a military background for once. It can’t be that you, me and Lieutenant Orgauth are the only former Guardsmen in the entire Scout Detachment.”

Grenthal sighed. “Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. All I’m hearing from my contacts back home is that the Four Cities are hiring every mercenary outfit they can get in preparation for the day Lord Carver finally makes his move. That leaves the bottom of the barrel for us. I know you don’t like scum like Reece.”

“Damn right you are. If I hadn’t left the Lordehome Guard, I’d be happily hunting his kind to extinction.”

“Well, so the both of us have to deal with unpleasant truths. You’re stuck drilling the scum of the earth while I’m stuck behind this desk, sorting papers instead of burying my blade in the guts of our enemies.” Grenthal touched a small icon of Desire sitting on his desk. “How long do you have until you’re free to leave?”

“Three months, sir. Then it’s back to the farm. If there’s a farm left, after this miserable year.”

“Your village is under Lord Carver’s protection. Unless the peasants start trouble, they have nothing to fear.”

Conall glanced at the crumpled papers in his fist. “With people of Reece’s ilk acting as my family’s protectors, finding peace of mind is ... hard. Sir.”

“All the more reason to make sure Reece won’t put any fancies into the new recruit’s heads, right? Make me proud, Conall. If anyone can turn this rabble into proper soldiers, it’s you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Conall saluted one last time and left the tent.

The base camp was slowly turning from a fortified collection of tents into a proper fortress. The sound of hammers and saws was a constant heartbeat punctuating the shouts of the few drill instructors trying their level best to shape criminals and farm lads alike into proper soldiers. Conall spotted some carts piled high with lumber and granite blocks, waiting to be turned into even sturdier buildings or fortifications. Seems like this little expedition is about to become a lot more permanent, Conall thought as he hurried through the aisles, looking for a particular shack. The smoke curling from its fieldstone chimney was laced with unsettling colors, purples and greens.

He knocked and entered.

The smell of exotic herbs and strange concoctions assaulted his nose instantly. Something in the air seemed to crawl down his spine, between his butt cracks and back up the front, causing a sudden and rather unwelcome stirring in his crotch.

“Ah, Conall. How are you this fine afternoon?” A slender dark elven male turned away from a bizarre apparatus, some gleaming insect-like contraption made of crystals, glass and metal tubes sitting at weird angles atop a fireproof table. He sported an eccentric face tattoo, three acid-green wedges on each cheek, points towards his mouth. Contrary to most elves, dark or otherwise, this particular man had his hair shaved down to an icy fuzz. His ears seemed that much larger for it, with pronounced, flaring tips. Conall couldn’t help himself – whenever he saw Phentar, he felt reminded of some bat-like abomination.

“What hellish mixture are you cooking up this time?” Conall asked, not unfriendly. “Are you sure an aphrodisiac is a wise choice in a kennel such as ours?”

“Well, I did drop a phial of Ecstasy Ephemera meant for my cousins back home. I’m sure if Lilith were here, she’d do unspeakable things to my ass for that, but thankfully she’s Below and I’m up here, providing alchemical services for the fine men under Grenthal’s command. As for this,” he pointed at the apparatus devouring his work bench, “I’m working on something to help you long-range scouts stay awake and warm. It’s going to be one hellish winter, even under the ancient trees.”

“Just make sure it turns out better than your last attempt at a combat drug. We don’t want any more ... colorful mutations, you hear?”

“Well, I thought orange went particularly well with your black-and-gold attire.” Phentar snickered. “What’s on your mind today? The usual?”

Conall pulled three phials containing the Stalkerite poison from his belt. “If you could get it done by tomorrow morning, I’d be in your debt.”

“No problem,” the dark elven alchemist said. “The antidote should be done by the time you’re leaving for your next patrol.” Phentar claimed the phials, placing two on his work bench. The third vanished somewhere on his person. “Did you find anything else?”

“Your mysterious Moon Maiden cleric is indeed out there,” Conall said. “We met her two days ago.”

Phentar sighed. “If you could do me a solid and kill that bitch the next time you ‘meet’ her, my gratitude would know no bounds. Drugs, company, whatever luxuries House Dree’vex can provide. You know what Moon Maiden believers do to our couriers?”

“I don’t know how your kind wages war but my orders were to gather information in regards to the Dragon Stone, not murder every wanderer I come across. Maybe you should ask your Matron Mother to set up a permanent portal so your couriers don’t have to walk all the way from Below.”

Phentar chuckled. “Setting up such a portal would cost more than this whole damn operation’s worth. Jhaless is a crazy, murderous bitch but she ain’t that crazy.” He shrugged. “Well, if you see Miss Moon Maiden again, put an axe in her face. For me?”

“If we meet again and if she acts hostile.” Conall turned to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After visiting the alchemist, Conall lined up at one of the wells. Even if a full-on bath was out of the question at the moment, he could at least wash the grime of his latest patrol away. When it was his turn, he hauled up a bucket full of water and removed his helmet, armor and shirt for a quick rinse. In the light of the low December sun, his reflection looked back at him from the bucket. His once lustrous chestnut hair was streaked through with gray, his eyes sat deep in their sockets and he looked so incredibly tired. The ice-cold water chased the worst of his fatigue away and with what felt like half a ton of mud and grime washed off, he made his way to the far end of the camp, his helmet tucked into the nook of his elbow.

The mess still was one large pavilion tent, easy to replace or remove entirely in the hot summer months. In the midst was a big fireplace, surrounded by a circular bar. Cooks worked like men possessed, cutting ingredients and chucking them into large bronze pots filled with what went for “stew” around these parts. It was hot and supposedly had veggies and meat in it but the taste was unidentifiable. The best thing they served was bread but only because it didn’t carry a vague taste of something long dead and burnt with it.

Arranged in neat rows were long tables cut from halved tree trunks where most of the rank-and-file took their meals. Tables had been crammed into the corner, along with a few stools and here the senior commanders and their hangers-on had a place to rest. Conall heard Reece’s goat-like laughter before he saw the man, wildly gesticulating and slapping his chest. Stilty, Bokney and Stokey, the newest additions to his squad, had been given fresh sets of black-and-gold uniforms, along with bows, axes, gauntlets and shin plates. But no matter the uniform, they looked, talked and moved like the criminals they had been until a week or so ago.

Stokey seemed like a taut bowstring, hand on his weapon and eyes on every exit, ready to bolt at the slightest upset. Bokney, with a ghastly scar running down his bald temple and vanishing down his neck, sat like an immobile rock, the only movement his grinding jaw and darting eyes fixed on the few women who hadn’t fled the camp by now. Stilty wore an eye patch with an embroidered heart on it, his long hair icy white and bound in a tight braid. His mouth had a cruel twist to it, marring an otherwise handsome face.

Conall sighed and joined his men at the table. “Last I checked, invalids are not allowed to join the military,” he said, moving a stool towards the table with a casual nudge of his boot. “How are you going to snipe with a bow with just one eye?”

Stilty looked at him. His remaining eye was of an unsettling purple, confirming the half-elven ancestry Conall had suspected.

“I passed every test with flying colors,” the half-elf said calmly, his voice barely audible over the roar of the mess tent. “Including the archery range, with targets at twenty-five, fifty, a hundred and two hundred paces.”

“Ya might be a better shot than Sarge himself,” Reece said, grinning. “That one of the perks of being half a tree hugger yerself?”

“If you want to put it that way ... yes, it’s part of my cursed ancestry,” Stilty said. “Never had any formal training but put a bow in my hand and I’ll make the shot.”

“Oi, there’s a wager right there,” Liam said. “See the racks in the kitchen over there? I bet you can’t hit the Abessini pepper shaker, the red one, from here.”

Before Conall could even open his mouth to remind his men that using weapons inside the camp was forbidden, Stilty had grasped his bow, nocked an arrow and let fly. The missile hissed past Conall’s head and a moment later, there was the sound of vicious sneezing and coughing, accompanied by the screams for the head of the idiot who’d destroyed a valuable spice box.

“What did I win?” Stilty asked, sitting down again.

“If it were for me, three days in the brig and a good lashing on top,” Conall said. “You could have hurt someone.”

“I wouldn’t and I didn’t,” Stilty said. Turning to Liam, he added. “Well, since you didn’t say anything specific, I’ll name my price thusly. You and I will enter a tent later this evening and we’re only leaving once you’ve thoroughly pleasured me.”

Reece brayed with laughter at Liam’s surprised face. “That’s what you get for foolishly throwin’ wagers around. I hope you like your ass drilled. Say, Stilty, can I watch?”

“No one gets his ass drilled tonight,” Conall said, taking a platter with stew bowls off a passing server. “After we’ve had our bowl of grub, the six of us will head out for a wee bit of sparring. One trick shot isn’t enough to convince me of your qualifications, so we’ll go through a few routines. Afterwards it’s lights out. We leave tomorrow at dawn. And Mercy protect you if any of you slobs isn’t up for fifteen miles of hard march.”

“Here you are,” Phentar said while neatly lining up half a dozen phials on his counter. “My special antidote, adapted to take the edge off that Stalkerite poison. Depending if you drink half a vial-”

“I know, I know,” Conall said, taking a phial and lacing it to his belt. “Half a phial in the morning to diminish the effects of any toxin, a full bottle to completely nullify it.” The others went into his pack. “No idea when I’ll have the chance to restock, so I’d better make every drop count.”

“You know, I could commission a Ring of Nullify Poison back home,” Phentar said. “On the house even.”

“Oh?” Conall stopped halfway to the door. “A custom magic item ... isn’t that horribly expensive?”

“Nothing is too good for the few people who treat me with a modicum of respect,” the dark elf said, grinning. “Also, remember the favor I mentioned yesterday? Bring me the head and holy symbol of that Moon Maiden maniac and the ring shall be yours when you return.”

Conall sighed. “So much for ‘on the house,’ you sly bat. As much as I appreciate the offer, even a ring to take my mind off the ever-present threat of deadly poison won’t turn me into a murderer for hire.”

“One could say you became one when you offered your sword arm for cold, hard coin,” the alchemist said.

Conall turned around and strode back to the counter, fixing Phentar with a long, hard look. “Being a soldier and being a hired killer are two very different things. I fight other soldiers while the assassin does not care who his targets are.”

“I wouldn’t call most Stalkerites ‘soldiers,’” Phentar argued. “Most of them are civilians who are – admittedly – very good archers. The Stalker doesn’t have an organized army, only a clergy.”

“There is a distinction between terrorists and non-combat personnel. Unless she actively engages me or my men, I won’t raise arms against a Moon Maiden follower just because she’s an enemy of your House.” Conall sighed. “Listen, as much as I’d like to stay and discuss ethics, I’ll need to fetch my marching orders. So, don’t blow up the camp while I’m away, you hear?”

“I won’t do anything dangerous, promise. After all, I want to return home a hero and spend at least a fortnight celebrating with my dear cousins Lilith and Tanith. Oh, to caress their supple bodies again, to have their velvety lips on my-”

“Last I heard from you, you wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from them. You mentioned thorn whips and unspeakable things especially Lilith was wont to do with your backside, friend.” Conall turned to leave once more. “What is it now?”

“Well, absence makes the heart go fonder and all that. I could really do with a willing and eager woman. Heck, I’d even take a willing guy at this point.”

“You should air out the workshop more often, especially after any aphrodisiac-related mishaps,” Conall said, opening the door. “Well, if you’re still this desperate after I return, I’ll introduce one of my lads to you. Seems like he doesn’t mind where he sticks his pole either.”

Before Phentar could bring up the Moon Maiden cleric again, Conall had closed the alchemist’s workshop door. He headed back to Major Grenthal’s tent. The bald veteran looked as if he hadn’t left his desk all night.

“Sergeant Conall ready for duty.” He saluted sharply.

Grenthal blinked twice, then shook his head like an irritated bulldog. “At least one of us had a good night’s sleep,” the bald man growled. “I’ve just received word that our western supply camp has been razed to the ground. Wasn’t that where you were headed?”

“Yes, as a stopover on our initial route. With the ambush-”

“I know, I know. Well, I’ve taken the liberty of updating your route for this foray.” Grenthal moved stacks of papers aside to reveal a detailed map of the camp and its surroundings. “We haven’t heard from Orgauth’s squad in over a week so I want you and your boys to retrace their steps from their last signaling post, which would be here.” He stabbed a finger at a point to the south-west of the camp. “Hang to the west and do a sweep of the supply camp, see if there’s anything to salvage. Then, you can take the northern route,” Grenthal’s finger crept over the map, “swing by the ‘Dancing Dryad’ to restock and see if you can find new information to the north-east of it. Make special note of any sites which might be used as a forward base. The exploration of the forest’s northern reaches is going way too slow for my liking.”

“In no small part due to the stiff resistance the enemy puts up,” Conall said. “The further north we go, the fiercer the Stalkerites become. If I had to hazard a guess, we might come across one of their outposts sooner than later. And if that’s the case, I’d respectfully suggest you’d send a squad of heavy infantry or two to the ‘Dryad’ so we have some proper support if our poking indeed stirs the hornet’s nest.”

“Agreed.” Grenthal made a few notes on a scroll to the side. “I heard you’ve put your squad through a bit of a drill last night. How did it go?” He looked up, a rare flicker of empathy in his right eye.

“Better than expected, to be honest. They are competent, if a little rough around the edges. Bokney would be better served in the front line troops. Big guy seems more at home wielding a maul or a battle axe than a hatchet. Stokey is way too twitchy to be more than just a passable archer but I have yet to see a man loose more arrows in a ten-count than he does. And Stilty...”

“What about him?” Grenthal asked. “No need to mince words with me.”

“Well, he’s a half-elf and going by his words, he hates his Elven side – and anything Elven - with a burning zealotry which frankly scares me. And I thought Reece was bad.”

“You think he’ll be trouble?”

Conall sighed. “Not any more than the others. I should be able to deal with him. But by Mercy’s shapely tits, shepherding scum like him and Reece is wearing me down. I’m all out of carrots and the stick to beat them with has yet to be cut.”

Grenthal opened a drawer on his desk, pulling a bronze pin from it. “Here, for motivation. You’ll need to recommend a replacement for yourself eventually.” He sent the item flying.

Conall snatched it from the air and inspected it critically. “Hm. Not sure if any of them is anywhere close to corporal material, sir. But I’ll keep this, just in case.” He pocketed the item and copied the marching orders on a map of his own. “We’ll be gone at least two weeks, plus however long we have to root around the ruins of the supply depot. I’ll send a runner from the ‘Dryad’ with anything noteworthy.”

Behind him, the tent flap was pulled open and a breathless courier stumbled in.

“Good hunting, son. Make me proud,” Grenthal said, waving the courier closer.

“Will try, sir.” Conall saluted once more and left. One final detour led him to the Quartermaster’s shack, where a jolly dwarf was handing out packs of arrows, canteens and field rations to other squads. Unlike the soldiers he was equipping, the black-bearded quartermaster didn’t wear a uniform.

“Ah, the godforsaken Paladin has returned,” the dwarf rumbled when it was Conall’s turn. “No rest for the virtuous, eh Conall?”

“Good morning to you as well, Lothar. You know me - I’d rather be out there than stuck in here. My squad all good and provisioned?”

“Yeah, Reece and the others came by and collected their stuff,” Lothar said, placing arrows and rations on the counter.

“Anything besides standard issue they took with them? Anything I should be concerned about?” Conall refilled his quiver and stashed the rations in his pack.

“You wound me, Sergeant.” Lothar made a face. “I wasn’t aware Liam was heading out on a mission when I sold him the canteen full of Stone Water last month.”

“Well, I had to drag a half-comatose warrior through enemy territory thanks to that small oversight. When he wasn’t singing lewd tavern songs and attracting every sniper in earshot, he was in the bushes, puking his soul out. So, what did the black market supply my boys with this time?”

“Nothing at all,” Lothar said, raising his hands in a warding gesture. He leaned across the counter, motioning for Conall to do the same. “And since you didn’t rat me out to Grenthal, here’s a little something by way of a thank you.”

A broad-bladed short sword slid across the counter, directly into Conall’s waiting hand. The hilt was topped by a simple, quadratic pommel and the blade was covered by a red-stained leather sheath.

“I shouldn’t take this,” Conall growled, casting wary glances around at the soldiers waiting in line behind him. Most of them seemed still half-asleep and the unpleasant stench of unwashed men and last night’s cheap ale engulfed him.

“But I insist,” Lothar said, flashing a pearly white smile. “A spare blade always comes in handy. And if you really hate it, well, sell it somewhere and add the coin to your parting salary. Next!”

Grumbling to himself, Conall dropped the weapon into his pack and slung the heavy container over his shoulder while the next handful of men fumbled with quivers, rations and canteens. As a free merchant, Lothar had no qualms of supplying Carver’s men with whatever they needed provided the coin was right. Conall wished the dwarf would stick to his duties as Quartermaster. His liberal distribution of narcotics and other amusements had caused more than its fair share of strife in the camp, strife which had cost some good men their lives in quelling.

“Can’t be helped,” Conall muttered, heading for the gates where Liam, Reece and the others waited. For the next two weeks at least, they would be his problem while Grenthal would have his hands full making sure the camp wouldn’t spectacularly explode.

“All right boys, ready to march?” Conall asked, adopting his jovial command voice. Five, well, four and a half pairs of eyes looked back at him. Despite his orders, they seemed to have had less sleep than Conall. Bokney loosened an impressively wide-mawed yawn. “Ready to go,” the big man said, the first words Conall had heard from him.

“Grand. We’re headed for the ruins of the westerly supply depot, then swing north, by the ‘Dryad’ and then further to the north-east, probably with two squads of regular infantry as backup. Major Grenthal wants us to scout some blank spots on the map.”

Reece elbowed Stilty. “Welcome to the Second Sleepwalker Detachment. You’ll be sick o’the trees in no time flat.”

“Reece, shut your trap. I wasn’t quite done. I’ll use this mission as a long-term test to see who might be my successor as sergeant of this unit,” Conall said. “And the corporal badge I have with me won’t necessarily go to the guy with the longest service record. So ... I’ll be expecting everyone to do their best to make this recon route a success, understood?”

“I hate tests,” Stokey said, his hands wringing the hilt of his hatchet. “Can’t we make it a straight competition? He who whacks the most tree-huggers wins?” He made a chopping motion with the wrong end of the hatchet.

Conall exhaled slowly. “Stokey, do you know the difference between scouts and general infantry?”

“There is one?”

“Scouts are an army’s eyes and ears,” Stilty said calmly, shifting the weight of his pack on his back. “Infantry are its jaws while cavalry are the claws.”

“Thank you,” Conall said. “And as Lord Carver’s eyes and ears, we only fight when attacked first.”

“At least that’s how our fearless wolf decrees it,” Reece said softly. “Other scout teams get much more of the action.”

“Well, last time we were out of the camp, we got more action than Adrian, Henrik and Roddy could take. So, keep your eyes open and start marching. We’re heading west and I expect to see the Hollow Tree tonight, understood?”