The Winter Phoenix (WAYHAUGHT)

Svane's men

An hour passed and Waverly had not returned. Grabbing her cloak from the peg Wynonna ventured out, the sky dark, the weather foul, the snow storm slowing her progress through the streets. She entered the Three Shells, searching for her sister. The man serving shook his head at Waverly's description. Wynonna offered a coin to loosen his tongue, the man agreeing to ask around. He returned to say one of the women serving ale had seen someone fitting Waverly's description leave with a man shortly after entering the tavern.

"Mustache. Did he have a mustache?" Wynonna said.

The man shrugged. "Maybe."

"You don't know where they went?"

The man eyed Wynonna's purse. "I might. For a coin." Wynonna handed it over. "Another tavern," he offered. "The Jolly Bilker. Not far from here."

Wynonna left the first tavern, following the man's directions, realising she had been conned as she gazed upon a row of houses, a woman in one telling her no such tavern existed. She returned to the Three Shells half an hour later, this time with an armed escort, the man threatened with arrest unless he came clean on what had happened to Waverly. His tongue suddenly loosened at the prospect of being thrown in prison.

He pointed to the barmaid who had spoken with Waverly. She guided them to the house where she had told Waverly to go. The elderly woman's tongue was equally loose at the sight of armed guards, although she could only confirm Waverly had asked after Jock, and a couple she was in search of. Arriving at the side gate no one had seen Waverly, the barmaid finally admitting she'd seen a stranger follow Waverly as she left the tavern, hinting he might be one of Svane's men. A spy. Most likely an assassin.

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Svane's men were in need of a good fight. To sit on their hands and simply to wait for Saker's Keep to run out of food was never going to satisfy their appetite. Svane too wanted to feel the thrill of a hard fought battle the nearer he got to the mountain kingdom. His superior sword skills pitted against another.

A day's ascent up a steep mountain pass would put the fortress in sight. He summoned his commanders to his tent that evening. "I hunger for victory," he told them. "I see it in your eyes too. We have this kingdom by the throat. Let us not waste this opportunity to show them who rules Rathe."

"And, what of the supplies heading there?" one of his commanders shouted from the back of the group. "Are we not to feed our men?"

"A hundred will stay behind to see no provisions reach the gates. The rest will make good to storm the walls."

The nodding of heads told Svane his men would follow his command. The night was long, the fierce cold penetrating the bones of those who dared to be out. As the sun rose Svane gave the order to advance, confident he would bring the House of Jett to its knees, fancying himself its new ruler. Bulshar had hinted at such. A fitting prize for a loyal warrior.

Nicole woke to the sound of others busying themselves for the battle ahead. The furs on her bed did little to stave off the bitter cold of the new day, her fingers fumbling as she donned the borrowed armour. All the while her mind wrestled with the thought of those about to die in battle. She remembered the fight for Halsingdor, her first true battle, her army pushed back to the upper glades until they could retreat no further. She remembered Bondicus advising the kingdoms were seeking a treaty to halt further bloodshed, and that Bulshar was prepared to accept such a proposal.

She remembered questioning how this could be so? How could someone like Bulshar, someone who appeared to enjoy the taste of bloody victory, want such a treaty? It made no sense. "My liege," Bondicus had said, wearing the smile of a deceiver. "He is dying. He knows he has but a little time left. And, he has no heir. He merely wants what is best for his people."