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With a high, thin cry, a falcon dove out of the sky, talons slashing at the boar’s eyes. The boar roared with pain, reared, and snapped, catching the falcon before she could escape, killing her instantly. But that was enough time for the stallion to scramble to his feet and rejoin the army, which rushed on the boar and slew it before it could even drop the poor, mangled corpse in its mouth.

And then—she was back, dazed, feathers still in her hands. But this time, this time she knew what she had seen. The boars were the Saxon army, for boars were sacred to them. The bear must have been the High King Arthur, the stallion, her own father. And the falcon—the falcon could only have been Braith.

And she had just seen how Braith had died . . .

Heedless of the feathers, she buried her face in her hands, and wept.

PART TWO

WARRIOR

Chapter Eleven

Gwen’s breath steamed in the frozen air as she looked down on the encampment of Saxon raiders, settling in for the night. She was in a tree at the edge of a natural meadow; they were camped just inside the trees, where the smoke from their fire would be broken up by the branches so that it wouldn’t betray them. It was an orderly camp; that argued for a group that fought together regularly, with one man commander over the rest. They traveled lightly, no animals, one pack each, and their weapons. They camped properly, arranged around the fire, pine boughs and bracken over the boughs laid out to keep them off the snow. The fire had been well made in a scrape, so that melting snow didn’t overwhelm it and put it out. They thought they were alone in the wilderness, roasting their stolen sheep, counting over their loot. Which was, all things considered, not much; they’d managed to find one poor peddler and had raided a single farmstead. It scarcely seemed worth the effort. They were bold, or desperate, to be making raids on her father’s lands this deep in winter.

Unless, of course, they were scouts for a larger force. And if that was the case, they were looking to see what defenses were here once the snow fell and hoping to drive well into enemy territory before any organized defense could move in. The more she considered them, the likelier that seemed. Probably they were counting on the fact that her father was known, still, for his skilled charioteers, and chariots did not travel in snow at all.

But Gwen was not her father, she was her father’s guard and right hand, and she had been schooled in a generation that was coming to rely on horsemen. More and more, the king was listening to her recommendations. And at her urging, he had gradually increased the strength of his cavalry over the past several years. His own near-escape in the battle where Braith had fallen had shown him that chariots were of limited use and even an actual hazard on broken ground. Now his chariots were mostly used for massed charges and rescues over good flat land. This year, for the first time, horsemen in his ranks had outnumbered chariot drivers by two to one. Even the High King was taking notice of his tactics.

She had a good idea what the Saxon leader was probably thinking, if that was a scouting force below her. Even if someone saw them and reported their presence back to King Lleudd, the winter would keep him and his warriors bound to their holdings. Meanwhile, the Saxon scouts could roam with impunity and bring back intelligence to the army in time for them to drive deep into this kingdom. Once there, it would be costly to dislodge them. This land was less populous than the area to the east; easier to take, easier to hold, and the Saxons actually tended to be decent to farmers who didn’t resist them. If you could stay hidden until the worst of the fighting and looting was over, you’d likely survive. Saxon fighters didn’t till the land, and they needed to eat; there was no point in killing the hands that would feed them, so farmers were generally safe. If they could take this country, they might have