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from a stormy sky where fires seemed to burn behind the louring clouds. An owl spun circles above the combatants, its white wings painted red as blood, and when the heron was driven down, the owl swooped after, driving off the crows; but still the heron fell and lay broken-winged upon the ground. The owl flew off, toward the snow-white pinnacle of the Maker’s Mountain, where the sky became all red, as if the heavens bled. There was thunder then, like an uncountable herd of horses running wild across the grass, and a shouting.
    Morrhyn woke. Wind beat a tattoo on the hide of the lodge and the fire was burned down to glowing coals, the stones dulled and vaporless. His head throbbed somewhat, but nonetheless felt cleared of the tiswin’s effects. He found the water bucket and drank deep, then realized the shouting continued: swiftly, he drew on his buckskins and unlaced the lodge flap.
    Racharran stood outside, his braids whipped by the wind, his blanket drawn tight across his chest. His chin was lowered against the draft, and when he raised his head Morrhyn saw trouble in his eyes.
    â€œThe Grannach are come.” The akaman spoke without preamble, the absence of greetings a further mark of his concern.
    Morrhyn reached back to fetch out his bearskin. “Where are they?”
    â€œLhyn feeds Colun; the rest are settled about the camp.”
    This was not untoward: usually the Stone Folk would come first to the Commacht lodges. Their leader, Colun, was long a friend of Racharran, and it was to the akaman’s tent he customarily paid his first visit. Now, however, Morrhyn sensed all was not well. “What’s amiss?” he asked.
    â€œI’ve but a little piece of it.” Racharran shook his head as if that little piece were more than he could properly comprehend, and not at all to his liking. “I’d have you hear the entirety with me, then we must take it to the rest.”
    Morrhyn nodded, pausing a moment to glance in the direction of the Maker’s Mountain. The sun was not yet fully over the horizon and the sky pierced by the peak was tinged with pink. It brought back the images of the dream and the wakanisha shivered inside his fur. The wind was chill—not unusual in the Moon of New Grass—but he knew the cold he felt came from another source. He fell into step beside Racharran, matching the akaman’s long stride, neither man speaking.
    The lodge was warm, Lhyn piling wood on the central fire so that tongues of flame rose crackling toward the smoke hole. There was the savory smell of pan bread and hot tea, the spitting of roasting meat. Morrhyn shed his bearskin as Racharran closed the tent flap and laced it tight. Then he frowned as he saw Colun.
    The Grannach chief was small, like all his people: standing, his head would reach no higher than Morrhyn’s chest. His hair was gray but no indication of his age, for the Stone Folk all resembled the rock they tunneled, as if they were carved from the same material. But Morrhyn had never seen a rock look so miserable.
    â€œGreetings, Morrhyn.” Colun spoke from where he sat, like a stumpy child ensconced in furs. His teeth flashed briefly from the density of his beard. “You are hale?”
    â€œI am.” Morrhyn stared at the little man with a mixture of sympathy and frank curiosity. It was a reflex to add: “And greetings to you. What has happened?” There was no need to inquire after Colun’s health: it was written in his wounds.
    Lhyn had already wound a bandage about his craggy head, and now knelt to bathe the long cut scoring his cheek. His right hand wore a filthy wrapping, and Morrhyn saw a red-stained gash in the thigh of his leather breeches. His belt lay close to hand, as if he’d not be parted from the weapons sheathed there: a wide-bladed sword and a curve-headed ax. He winced as Lhyn sluiced off dried blood and set a potion of curative herbs down the length of the cut.
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