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seemed that the prince’s armor of patience was at last breaking apart, wracked by forces no man should bear. As his liege man watched, Josua stared out into the windy darkness, lips working as he spoke soundlessly to himself, brow wrinkled in pained concentration.
    The watching became too difficult. “Prince Josua,” Deornoth called softly. The prince finished his silent speech, but did not turn his eyes to the young knight. Deornoth tried again. “Josua?”
    “Yes, Deornoth?” he replied at last.
    “My lord,” the knight began, then realized he had nothing to say. “My lord, my good lord...”
    As Deornoth bit at his lower lip, hoping inspiration might strike his weary thoughts, Josua suddenly sat forward, eyes fixed where moments before they had aimlessly roved, staring at the dark beyond the fire-reddened breakfront of the forest.
    “What is it?” Deornoth asked, alarmed. Isorn, who had been slumbering behind him, roused with an incoherent cry at the sound of his friend’s voice. Deornoth fumbled for his sword, pulling it free from the scabbard, half-standing as he did so.
    “Be silent.” Josua raised his arm.
    A thrill of dread swept through the camp. For stretching seconds there was nothing, then the rest heard it, too: something breaking clumsily through the undergrowth just beyond the ring of light.
    “Those creatures!” Vorzheva’s voice rose up out of a whisper into a wavering cry. Josua turned and grasped her arm tightly. He gave her a single harsh shake.
    “Quiet, for the love of God!”
    The sound of branches breaking came nearer. Now Isorn and the soldiers were on their feet, too, hands clutching fearfully at sword-hilts. Some of the rest of the company were quietly weeping and praying.
    Josua hissed: “No forest dweller would go so noisily...” His anxiousness was poorly hidden. He pulled Naidel out of the sheath. “It walks two-legged ...”
    “Help me ...” called a voice out of the dark. The night seemed to grow deeper still, as though the blackness might roll over them and obliterate their feeble campfire.
    A moment later something pushed through into the ring of trees. It flung its arms up before its eyes as the firelight beat upon it.
    “God save us, God save us!” Towser cried hoarsely.
    “Look, it is a man,” Isorn gasped. “Aedon, he is covered in blood!”
    The wounded man lurched another two steps toward the fire, then slid jerkily to his knees, pushing forward a face nearly black with dried blood, but for the eyes that stared unseeingly toward the circle of startled people.
    “Help me,” he moaned again. His voice was slow and thick, almost unrecognizable as a man speaking the Westerling tongue.
    “What is this madness, Lady?” Towser groaned. The old jester was tugging at Duchess Gutrun’s sleeve as might a child. “Tell me, what is this curse that has been put on us?”
    “I think I know this man!” Deornoth gasped, and a moment later felt the freezing fear drop away; he sprang forward to grab the trembling man’s elbow and ease him closer to the fire. The newcomer was draped in tattered rags. A fringe of twisted rings, all that remained of a mail shirt, hung about his neck on a collar of blackened leather. “It is the pikeman who came with us as a guard,” Deornoth told Josua. “When you met your brother in the tent before the walls.”
    The prince nodded slowly. His gaze was intent, his expression momentarily unfathomable. “Ostrael ...” Josua murmured. “Was that not his name?” The prince stared at the blood-spattered young pikeman for a long instant, then his eyes brimmed with tears and he turned away.
    “Here, you poor, wretched fellow, here...” Father Strangyeard reached forward with a skin of water. They had scarcely more of that than they had of wine, but no one said a word. The water filled Ostrael’s open mouth and overflowed, streaming down his chin. He could not seem to swallow.
    “The... diggers had him,” Deornoth said. “I am sure