Something was wrong. Very wrong, and no one would tell her what. It was maddening.A steady stream of riders had been returning to the fortress for a while, most of them grim faced and stern. She had rushed to the stables, leaving her self-imposed post at the gates, where she had been waiting for Corban’s return. The place was heaving with activity, horses whinnying, harness clattering, voices thrumming in low, muted conversation. That was different – usually the clamour was deafening, warriors boasting of their feats in the hunt and looking forward to the evening’s feast. As she entered the stables what little conversation there was seemed to stutter and die.She set about unsaddling a warrior’s horse, asking politely how the hunt had gone, but received a frosty silence and a hard look in answer.No answers were forthcoming, so soon she gave up and returned to the gates.The line of returning riders was thicker now. Then she saw the dead and wounded draped over horses, being led by weary-looking riders.
