HEAT RADIATED FROM the brazier at the center of the tent. It was large, and gaudily arrayed as a promiscuous demonstration of Luathi might to the men at arms gathered in camp. There were trophies and treasures taken from a hundred battles, all sort of piled at the edge of the tent, and no man, be he a ganger commanded to service by his lord, or the professional fighters in the Low Kings’ myriad retinues, could enter that tent without seeing at least one item to remind them of their place: these men, this swollen Luathi army, belonged to King Caolais and his Low Kings.

But Caolais disliked the gaudiness. He disliked the entire message. It made the messengers and servants uneasy, made the attendants and officers tense. Luathi was a land divided even in its best years, but all seven Low Kings had come together under Caolais to drive off this foreign menace. That was a special occasion, and they ruled that an unsubtle approach was best.

To these men, the so-called War Council who served Caolais, victory lay in the unity of the army. And that was a simple thing: the army belonged to them, as did the lands, and they would dispatched or used as the War Council saw fit. They were pieces, like the captured trophies put brazenly on display. So what if it brought out old grudges, or turned up fresh graves? They needed the men mad and eager to inflict hurt on someone, anyone, lest they frission into a dozen fighting forces of clannish squabbling.

So King Caolais sat at the head of the table, under the broad-bellied canopy of the tent, sweating in the ridiculous robes of office, listening to his fellows plot their victory.

“When the raiders are driven out of the firth, our ships will secure it and hold the river.” The speaker was an old man with a rheumy eye and a bad back. Even sitting, he seemed to hold himself clenched, as if he were in pain. Fallough, his name was, and a long stretch of the rocky coast was under his reign. Fallough spoke of little but boats, and fish, and the catching of fish with those boats. He had leaped at the chance to command their galleys, though they were of little use but as transports for men from the riverlands that lay north of Luathon. There would be no sweeping battles at sea, no matter what Fallough dreamed up in his white head.

“Indeed,” answered Andrais, the youngest of their number. His brother, Andrael, had been killed in the spring by a bad tumble from a horse, and the throne had passed to Andrais. Unfortunate, for his ambition outmeasured his stature. “But in the meantime, what of Arthon? When this is over, it will need a steady hand to guide the reconstruction. Should the Lion be driven away, they will certainly damage or destroy their own fortifications.” He smiled at the other Low Kings, and then at Caolais.

Realizing he was supposed to say something, Caolais pursed his lips. “Have you build a fortification before, Andrael?”

“Why,” the other man said, suddenly indignant. “No. But any man with a head for masonry can see—”

“Have you a head for masonry?”

Andrael blinked. One or two guarded smiles appeared, though these might have been men bearing their fangs at the promise of bloodsport.

“What are you saying, Caolais?”

“King Caolais,” said the man at the king’s shoulder. He was dressed all in black. The king’s personal guard, Raim. His scowl might have been cut in stone.

Andrael did not take kindly to the rebuke. His voice rose to a womanly shrill. “We’re all kings here! Except you, butcher. Having your hand in

Caolais’ pocket does not guarantee your safety, sir!”

Raim’s wrist shifted. Only a fraction of an inch, drawing his thumb close to the sword that hung at his hip. Caolais didn’t even see it himself; he saw the threat echoed in Andrael’s reaction. The Low King said nothing, yet spoke volumes. The blood drained from his face and he sat back, folding his soft hands primly.

Into the silence, Caolais spoke. “You elected me to lead this campaign against the outlander. You tell me to drive him back, but starve me for troops and horses. You tell me to build ships, yet how many of you have paid back what I loaned into it?” At that, Fallough looked away. “You have your first taste of real blood, which ended in a draw. And now?” He sat back, flicking his fingers at them.

“The Lion’s men were tired.” The speaker sat opposite Caolais, drawn back away from the heat of the brazier. He was neither old, nor young; neither fat nor thin. His hair was the imprecise color of muddy sand. King Hawlith, his name was, the neighbor of Caolais’ own land of forested hills. They were fast friends from childhood, and brothers-in-law by marriage, for Caolis’ was Hawlith’s bride. Such an arrangement guaranteed that the others would look upon Hawlith with suspicion, as a mouthpiece of the High King, but they listened yet. He continued, “We held our ground at Ennon Field because they were ground down from a long march. They’ve spent a week regrouping and resting. Will we hold again?”

“Of course we will!” said one of them. The others echoed the certainty. “Our forces are evenly matched. Besides, the hills work to our advantage!

Why shouldn’t we prevail?”

Caolais answered with grim words: “Because Luathon is soft. I sit here with six men each looking to their own affairs, their own purses. But the Lion?” Caolais threw his arm out viciously in the direction of the enemy camps, miles along the shore. “He speaks with one voice. They march in one direction.”

“You would have us grant more power?” Fallough said suspiciously. The others took up a line of jeering, antagonistic spite.

The High King sat through it, watching with flat eyes. Hawlith sat opposite him, arms folded, disappointment writ clean on his face. For all the suspicion they heaped on him, his brother-in-law was Caolais’ deepest opponent. Though they shared the same vision, Hawlith reasoned that it ought to be done by common will, not a single dictate.

But there was no reasoning with these fools.

“Quiet!” he roared suddenly, making them jump. “Last night I deliberated with the Raven’s witch. She showed me the fires, and listened to the wind. There is no victory should we meet at Ennon Field again. Or any other field or marsh or moor from here to our hearths. We face an enemy unlike any we have ever fought or repelled before!”

Of the six Low Kings, only one had been truly silent. He leaned against his cane, resting his chin on the silver knob at its head. Caolais saw the old man motivate himself to action like an avalanche breaking. Slowly, then all at once. King Eiril worked himself to his feet, a rocking, hobbling motion that caught the others attention and quieted the murmuring.

“I fought the seawolves!” he declared. “In my youth. My father, Eiric, and my uncles, died fighting them. Fifty years have passed since they vanished. Wither they went, I do not know, but I prayed they would never return. Fallough, you old fool, you ought to remember them, too.”

“My father fought them,” answered Fallough.

Eiril frowned, and his thick white eyebrows drew close together. Bundled up in a heavy black bearskin cloak, the ancient looked almost like a child in his father’s robes. “Well,” the old king said, “I remember. They do not fight like men. They fight like devils, relentless, tireless. Piss into the wind if you like, but King Caolais is right. There is no victory in straightforward battle. We don’t need a witch to tell us that.” He settled back to his chair with the appropriate dignity of an elder king.

“Then what?”

Caolais stood and tapped the face of the table with his fingers. He cast a wary gaze at old Eiril, and said, “He has agreed to meet me down by the river.”

“The Lion? Are you mad?”

Hawlith spoke over them: “And your purpose?” A few shot chagrined looks his way, but he ignored them.

“To come to a new understanding. The witch showed me what must be done. That is what she was sent for, she says.”

The other kings absorbed this in silence, each retreating inwardly. The fire in the brazier spit and fumed, the only other sound in the tent was the creaking of Raim’s armor as he loomed behind Caolais.

Sweat beaded on the High King’s pale forehead. He saw the resistance in them, and the uncertainty. A victory over the Lion’s forces would break the union between Arthon and Nuadon, and leave both of their ancient enemies weak. The unified forces of Luathon could descend on them, each in their turn. There would be new power, new heights, for each of them. Legacies their fathers could never have dreamed of, squatting in their halls, waiting for the next clan battle over some bridge, or hedge, or swamp road.

And yet, Caolais was the problem. How much rope would they give him? How much would he take before they reigned him in? They were kings in their own right, and none sat easy under the thumb of another man.

A man dressed in a messenger’s uniform ducked into the tent. He paused, glanced at the detritus littering the periphery of the tent, and then at the seven kings arrayed around the table. He bowed once, low, and then looked for King Caolais.

The messenger delivered his message in a whisper directly into the king’s ear: “He has departed the camps.”

Caolais dispatched him with another order, and clapped his hands, rousing the Low Kings from their brooding. He measured the hope in their faces against the resentment, weighing each. Would he use them, or would it be the other way around?

“The time has come,” Caolais said. “I depart for the river. The witch will ride with me.”

They rose, one at a time. Hawlith was last. He gripped Caolais by the arm as they passed, the old fraternal embrace they’d shared since they were old enough to mimic their uncles. Raim was close on his heels, though there was no threat. Caolais saw fear in Hawlith’s pale eyes, and there was an unaccustomed tension in his grip.

“Walk carefully, and keep an eye on that woman,” Hawlith told his brother-in-law. “When we return, we can discuss… how we to proceed.” Caolais nodded sharply, and was grateful to leave them behind in that awful, stifling heat.