Isak had widened his eyes in disbelief when he'd seen how much baggage was to accompany the armies. Combined, they numbered more than fifteen thousand men, and the Quartermaster-General, a comical little man with stumpy arms and legs called Pelay Kervar, had another thousand under his command – as many in his charge as the colonels he screamed invective at on a daily basis. When the Farlan were at war, Kervar outranked both colonels and suzerains, and his bodyguard was nearly on a par with Lord Isak's own. Isak dismounted and spent a few minutes seeing to Toramin, his warhorse, before allowing a hovering groom to take over. It was still habit for him to attend to his own horses before making camp, hut he knew there was another reason he had busied himself there. Each evening he had a promise to keep, one that left him feeling sullied and, even worse, had not yet proved as necessary as he had hoped. Commander Jachen loitered nearby, carrying a canvas sack and a few lengths of black wood in a manner that made it clear he preferred not to touch any of them.

'Still no sign of more troops from Lomin?' he asked Count Vesna, knowing he would have been told as soon as they were sighted.

'No more, no. Looks like Suzerain Suil's optimism was ill-founded; the Eastmen nobles will have been glad for any excuse to stay at home and watch the fanatics leave.'

In their armour, they were a striking pair: Isak in Siulents, all in silver and Vesna in black with his roaring lion's head crest in bright gold – they drew looks even from troops used to their presence. The magic imbued in Siulents demanded attention and that effect was magnified in the fading light, while Vesna's reputation made the hero almost as noticeable to the weary soldiers.

Isak had to agree with his friend. Duke Lomin had refused Isak's summons to provide troops, not believing in Isak's promise that the east would still be defended. That gave the suzerains of the east all the excuse they needed not to join a crusade they had no interest in.

'They would have given us the superiority we need. It cannot go unanswered.' Isak said, though the words felt hollow as he spoke them.

'From what the scryers tell me, I believe we still have enough,' Vesna assured him. 'Lord Styrax brought only a small force: four legions of infantry, three of cavalry. It seems he is adept at taking cities without any large-scale engagement. He will not have had the time he needs to prepare for us. I doubt he is even looking this way.'

Isak gave him a sceptical look.

'No, perhaps it won't be that simple,' Vesna said, backtracking swiftly, 'but just remember, Raland and Embere are his problem. How could he possibly expect a pre-emptive strike from the north?'

'So we stick to the plan?'

'Certainly. The scryers have his troops outside Akell at the moment, but I'm sure he'll retreat to the south of the Circle City so he's not watching his back.'

Vesna retrieved a rolled map from his saddle-bag and opened it up for Isak to look at as they walked. They headed for an outcrop, little more than a rise of rocky ground held together by the roots of an ancient oak, but it afforded a little shelter from the prying eyes of soldiers.

'The majority of the ground around the Circle City is pas-tureland, which favours us. A southern position offers good escape routes and to a degree constrains your attackers – they must come down the channel between the city and the fens, which means you can predict the route your enemy will take and most likely prepare a few surprises there. You can station archers and light cavalry to fight a running retreat and encourage pursuit, taking down the bridges over the rivers as you fall back. And you put mages on all sides to wear your attackers down further.'

'Isn't it a bit obvious?'

'Yes – but we're the ones looking for battle. Chalat wants the ground to manoeuvre in and bring our force of numbers to bear, and once past the two rivers he will have plenty of that. He has excessive confidence in the discipline of his troops. The enemy knows exactly what he's facing; scryers are not easily fooled by an army on the march.'

Isak grimaced. 'The more I hear, the more disastrous this all sounds. Talk to General Lahk, find me options.' They reached the outcrop only a few paces behind Commander Jachen.

'The religious equivalent of pissing behind a tree,' Isak sighed as Jachen pulled a square wooden panel from the sack and began fitting the wooden supports into it. On the panel was a painted icon of the Wither Queen, loaned with all possible grace from the Temple of Death, and hanging from it was a small iron incense burner. That Isak was praying to the Queen each evening was not a secret, but if he did so openly, he knew others would feel honour-bound to follow suit.

'Better than nothing, my Lord,' Vesna said as Jachen set down the makeshift shrine and retreated. 'At least it's clear you don't expect every man in the army to pray to her; the note I found in my bedroll from Lesarl's man, Soldier, made that clear enough.'

Isak wrinkled his nose at the thought. 'She'd be the only one of the Gods growing in strength. I don't want to imagine how she might use her power.' He waved a hand at the shrine and almost immediately a dirty-coloured smoke began to leak from it.

'Ah, my Lord?' Vesna prompted as Isak knelt down before the shrine. He picked up a broken piece of branch from the floor and held it out. 'If you want something hot ready when you're finished…'

'I'm not a performing monkey you know,' Isak growled. All the same, he reached out a hand and strands of greenish light swirled briefly above his palm before erupting into foot-long flames.

'I would never make money from you in that manner,' Vesna said with a smile.

Isak gave a noncommittal grunt; he got the joke, but it wasn't enough to lighten his mood.

The branch quickly caught and Vesna turned back towards the camp. As he walked away he caught the bitter scent of incense and heard Isak's voice, murmuring. He picked up his pace as a woman's purring laugh echoed distantly on the wind and a dead finger ran down his spine.

Not for the first time, Vesna pressed his fingers against his left forearm and traced the shape of the flat silver case that held Karkarn's tear. The action reminded him of when his father had died and he had inherited the two gold earrings of rank; he had been forever checking the heirlooms were securely fastened, and that reminder brought a renewed ache to his heart. He had been count for six months before he grew used to their presence, and only then did the guilt of inheritance start to ebb.

When do mortals deal with Gods and come away from it well? he asked himself for the hundredth time, looking back at Isak. And still 1 keep Karkarn's tear close at hand. Still I have not refused him.