Harlan Seer didn’t run far, all things considered. Just far enough that he wouldn’t have to see or hear the end he knew had come for Stam. There was no point in trying to go further. It had been years since he could travel at speed for any length of time.

Old, Harlan thought ruefully as he stumped to a halt. He could still remember the days when, as a child, he had thought his parents old. Then, in that reversal that he privately thought must always bring a smile to the face of Firstfather, the day had come when Harlan’s own children had called him old. And then had come that not altogether welcome epithet of Wizened Warrior.

It had been given to him a long time ago.

Stam should have lived to grow old. For that matter, so should have Fesslehorn, Gome, Perkin, and Pickwand. Perhaps no one…

Pickwand watched as the Walter made its way down the Goforth River, fleeing First Warren to the south. Aboard it, alongside many other noble refugees, was most of the royal family, including Princes Winslow and Whitbie. Pickwand could do no more for them than he had done. He could only hope that the enemy did not have any additional forces moving in the south.

Screams and explosions filling the air around him, the Lord Captain pondered how things could have gone wrong so swiftly. One of his ships, barely seaworthy, had come limping down the River Fay just as the Preylord armada arrived overhead. Its acting commander, a lieutenant young enough to be Pickwand’s son, had struggled to make his report. Only the obvious urgency of his news had been enough to make him choke back his tears as he spoke.

The vessel had come from Ayman Lake, where all but…

Four rabbits emerged from the corridor. Three of them were bucks, and two of those were imposing and muscular. Behind them walked a lone doe, middle-aged and roughly attired with a red neckerchief. Her downcast eyes and thin appearance made it clear she was a slave, even without the bucket and rags she carried.

The other buck wore a red-collared uniform like the other two, but his appeared immaculate on his tall, thin frame. An epaulette shaped like a bird’s wing decorated the left shoulder. On his upper right arm were four gold bands, apparently an indication of rank. And on his face was an expression of cruel amusement at which Emma had to suppress a shudder.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” Vitton’s voice was cultured in a way that made it clear he found the sight before him repulsive. At an urgent whisper from Jo, Emma had moved a short…

Fesslehorn ran as he had never run before. He wept as he ran, for he knew that behind him Stam the Stout was fighting his last battle. It seemed equally likely that Harlan Seer, who had split from him as they fled, would also be run down by the wolves who had appeared to ambush them. But Fess knew that his comrades, like him, were dedicated to a Cause of greater worth than their own lives.

And so he ran, eager to make the sacrifice of his friends count for more than a few prolonged moments of his own survival. Behind him he could hear wolves crashing through the woods. Muttering darkly to himself, Fess searched his surroundings. The trees provided cover, but that would not be enough to save him.

Unwinding his sling, Fess set it spinning. He didn’t have to wait long, as a wolf came tearing out…