Chapter 54 - Interlude - The Companions

Jack

They set off while it was still dark, before the sun could cast away the fog that still rolled across the island in thick gray banks.

One hundred and ten Companions, marching east toward the mountains.

Jack stood at the side of the road, watching as the boys went past. All the ones older than thirteen would be participating, with anyone younger staying behind at the mansion to continue their basic training. They marched in neat rows despite the half-darkness, large packs strapped to their backs. The shortest ones looked dwarfed by their equipment, bent slightly under the weight.

"They look in fine shape," Lord Galladon spoke beside him.

Jack nodded, keeping his eyes on the marching column. "Best-trained fighting force this side of the Narrow Sea, m'lord. As you asked."

"Not yet, Jack. Not yet." Lord Galladon's voice was quiet but certain. "But they will be. I trust you to make them so."

Jack stood a little taller at that. The boys kept walking past them, breath misting in the early morning chill. Some shivered in their wool cloaks despite the exertion of the march. They had no wagons following them, no supply train beyond what they could carry on their own backs. For the next two months, they'd have to live off the land. Hunt, forage, requisition from villages that Lord Galladon had already made arrangements with.

This was as close to a real campaign as they could make it without actually going to war.

"The horses for the scouts are waiting in the valley," Jace said, stepping up beside them. Jack's twin brother looked tired. He'd been up all night making final preparations. "But I arranged to have Smoker brought for you."

"Feel free to ride him yourself," Lord Galladon said. "Well, he isn't likely to let you. But have someone lead him for me. I'll be walking with the lads for now. I want to get to know them while I can."

Jace frowned slightly. "Are you sure, my lord?"

Lord Galladon turned to his twin. “Do you trust me, Jace?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“And do you think I trust you?”

A small smirk curled the corner of his lips. “More than most,” Jace said, eyes flicking toward him. Jack snorted, shaking his head.

"I trust you because I know you, Jace," Lord Galladon explained. "And you trust me because you know me. I can never be just another one of the lads—I know that well. But the boys have to know they can rely on me before they'll put their lives on the line on my orders. That make sense?"

Jace answered with a small bow of his head. Jack smiled. His twin understood it as well as he did.

That was the difference between Lord Galladon and all the other pompous lordlings scattered across the Seven Kingdoms. That was why they followed him now and would follow him for as long as their lord would have them.

xxx

So they marched.

For six days straight they did nothing but march. Wake before dawn, break camp, walk until the sun was high, stop for a brief meal, continue until dusk. Then set up a fortified camp for the night, with proper trenches and stakes, sentries and patrols, the way Lord Galladon insisted despite the boys' exhaustion. Wake again. Take down the camp. Repeat.

They covered up to thirty miles some days, snaking through the land to avoid arriving at the mountains too quickly. Taking the long route, the hard route, because comfort wasn't the point. Building endurance was the point. Building toughness, pushing their limits. Teaching the boys that their bodies could do more than they thought possible.

The rawest recruits, the ones they had only inducted in the past few months, were limping by midafternoon on the second day. Blisters on their feet, shoulders raw from pack straps, legs trembling with fatigue. Some looked close to tears but kept marching anyway because stopping wasn't an option. The younger ones who had been with the Companions for longer handled it better than even the oldest newbies. 

By the third day, they'd found their rhythm. Learned to adjust their packs, to wrap their feet properly, to save their breath for walking instead of complaining.

By the sixth day, they moved like a proper military column. Not soldiers yet, Jack knew. They were too young for that, most of them, but they were more disciplined than men twice their age. That was the most important part of it.

And through it all, every night, Lord Galladon walked among them.

Jack watched him do it. Watched his lord stop at campfires to speak with the lads, asking about their day, listening to their concerns, sitting with them while they ate their meager rations, whatever game the hunters had brought down, whatever roots and greens the foragers had found, which he always ate the same share as the rest of them.

He would spend hours in the dark with the sentries, standing watch with boys barely old enough to shave. Teaching them what to look for, what to listen for. How to stay alert when your body was screaming for sleep. He went out with the scheduled patrols that circled their camp each night, showing the new boys how to move quietly through the forest, how to read tracks and signs.

As was his wont, he made sure to learn their names. All of them. One hundred and ten boys, and Lord Galladon made it his business to know each one.

"That's Kenan," he said one night, pointing out a lanky seventeen-year-old warming himself around a campfire. "He told me he lost his parents to fever a few months back and came to us with nothing but the clothes on his back and a knife he'd stolen from his uncle. Says he wants to be a guardsman and have a dozen children. Give him some responsibility. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, a dozen children aside."

Or, "Is that Little Hal? I remember him from last year. Not so little anymore, is he? Grew almost a foot since I last saw him. He told me he can't hit the broad side of a barn with a bow, but that’s because he’s got bad vision. Don’t bother with archery for him from now on. He’s a good hand with a sword, keep him at that."

Jack had trained these boys for months, some of them for years. But hearing Lord Galladon talk about them like this, it did something to them. He could see it in their faces when his lord stopped to speak with them. The way they sat straighter. Smiled despite their exhaustion. Tried harder the next day because Lord Galladon had noticed them.

That was leadership. Real leadership. Not the kind you could learn from maesters or from some dusty old book.

xxx

On the sixth night, Jack decided it was time for the first real test.

They'd set up camp in a clearing beside a stream. The boys had been marching since before dawn, covering nearly twenty three miles of rough terrain. They were exhausted, barely able to keep their eyes open as they choked down their evening meal.

It was perfect.

Two hours after they'd settled in for the night, Jack walked through the camp ringing a bell.

"Up! Everyone up! We march in ten minutes!"

The groans were immediate and heartfelt.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," an older lad muttered.

"Ten minutes!" Jack shouted again. "Anyone not ready gets left behind!"

It was chaos for a moment. Boys stumbling out of their bedrolls, cursing and fumbling for their packs in the darkness. Some of them looked ready to fall on their dull swords rather than march again.

Then Lord Galladon was there, already dressed and equipped, moving through the camp like he'd been expecting this all along.

"Come on, lads!" His voice cut through the confusion. "No men left behind! Liam, help your tent-mate with his pack! You, Marck, stop standing there like a stunned ox and get moving!"

He called out names, encouraged stragglers, pulled boys to their feet when they stumbled. And somehow, impossibly, they were ready in nine minutes.

The night march was brutal. Twelve miles through forest trails in the dark, half the boys so tired they were walking in their sleep. They stumbled over roots, crashed into low-hanging branches, lost their footing on loose stones.

But Lord Galladon kept walking up and down the column the entire time, talking with whichever boy seemed to need it most. When they finally stopped four hours later, he was the one who helped set up the new camp despite having marched just as far as any of them.

"No men left behind!" he called out again as they worked. "You hear me? No men left behind!"

The boys let out a rough cheer that echoed through the dark forest, setting the night birds fluttering into the black sky. Jack stood back and watched them, feeling something tighten in his chest.

He'd made his choice to follow Lord Galladon years ago when he and Jace were both just boys, really, same as some of these lads. Through it all, through the years of training, the pirates, the Weeping Town, he'd never once regretted that choice. And watching his lord now, watching the way the boys responded to him, Jack felt even more certain.

He'd make damn sure to repay the trust Lord Galladon had placed in him. The Companions would be ready for whatever task set for them. War. Rebellion. Conquest. They would never be the biggest army out there, but the gods could damn him to the seven hells if they wouldn’t be the most efficient one. 

He would not fail his lord on this. Not now. Not ever.

xxx

Pate

Despite the early hour, Pate was in good spirits when they started the trek up the mountain.

He didn’t get all the moaning from the others. It was only the seventh day! He'd been doing nothing but training ever since Ser Galladon took him in from Lannisport, so the burn in his legs as the land turned to incline was no stranger to him. He'd felt it a thousand times before.

Though he practiced every morning in Evenfall Hall under Ser Goodwin, proper knightly training with sword and lance and shield, he still participated in all the training Jack put the Companions through. The long runs. The swimming. The weapons drills. The endless marching with full packs. His days were full and he usually felt like he woke up in the morning before his head every hit the bed.

But he knew not everyone was as used to all this as he was. As tall as he was growing—and he was growing fast, shooting up like a weed according to the seamstress who had to keep letting out his clothes—he could see over most of the other boys' heads, and he could spot the differences between the new Companions and the old ones.

The new boys, the ones who'd joined in the last few months, were already strung up from the six days of marching, and doing so again only this time up a mountain was not helping. Some of them were already breathing hard and they'd barely started the real climb.

The old ones, the boys he'd been training with since he arrived, moved differently. Steady. Confident. They'd been through more long marches and treks and swims than Pate could count. They knew how to pace themselves, how to adjust their gear, how to keep moving when everything hurt. 

It made sense too. Fighting was only one part of their training. Ser Galladon had explained it all to Pate one day. The Companions were not meant to fight open, pitched battles between armies. House Tarth had knights and men-at-arms and levies for that, regular soldiers who could stand in formation and hold a line.

The Companions would be doing something called unconventional warfare. At the time, he had frowned and nodded at the right parts, but really he’d understood little of it. Pate had been a stable boy just the past year. How could he understand unconventional warfare when he didn’t even know about the everyday, conventional kind?

But he got it a little better now. Turned out fighting came naturally to him, and what was war but fighting on a larger scale? 

Instead of regular soldiers, the boys here would serve as scouts and trackers, always keeping mobile on the edges of the battlefield. They'd harass enemy camps and supply trains with surprise attacks. They'd be spies. They'd go behind enemy lines to sabotage, ambush, attack key targets while the enemy was occupied with their regular forces.

When Pate had asked if any of this was honorable—a concept Ser Goodwin had been trying to hammer into his head ever since he'd arrived at Evenfall Hall—Ser Galladon had only sighed.

He'd sat Pate down properly then and explained what he called the true meaning of honor, only he'd used a lot of words and concepts Pate found quite hard to grasp. Same as when Ser Goodwin had explained his own version, honestly. Philosophy and duty and codes and all sorts of things that made Pate's head spin.

He wouldn't be able to explain it to someone else even if he tried.

But in the end, Pate didn't think it mattered either way what was and wasn't honorable. Not to him, anyway.

He liked training. He liked fighting. And he liked Ser Galladon for believing in him and giving him a chance when nobody else ever had. A lowborn boy from Lannisport with a face full of pimples and no family to speak of. No one had ever looked at him and seen anything worth investing in.

Until Ser Galladon.

Things didn't have to be much more complicated than that for Pate.

xxx

Clouds rolled in as they kept climbing. Thick gray things that turned the mountain peaks invisible and made the air taste like rain.

They were marching four abreast up a narrow pass. The mountains here were rocky and lightly forested, with huge boulders scattered across the slopes. Some of them were bigger than houses, ancient stones that looked like they'd been there since the dawn of time.

Pate couldn't help looking at the boulders to either side of their column, half-afraid they might suddenly decide to roll down and crush them all.

Even though he was a Westerlander, he'd spent most of his life within Lannisport's walls. He'd seen more mountains in the few months on Tarth than he'd ever seen back home, beyond Casterly Rock itself looming over the city.

Mountains still felt strange to him. Dangerous in ways the city never had been. When the first pebble struck the boy in front of him in the ear, cutting the skin enough to draw blood, Pate thought for a confused second that mountains had a different kind of rain. Where pebbles fell from the sky instead of water, stacking up high enough over many, many years to form the peaks.

He realized how stupid his own thought was when the attackers appeared all along the ridges above them.

Older boys—the ones playing the enemy for this exercise—stood on the high ground and showered pebbles down at the column. Not big rocks that could kill or maim, but stones the size of a man's thumb. Big enough to hurt. To sting. To force a reaction.

Yelps came up and down the line as boys were struck. 

Pate got one in the shoulder and hissed in pain. Wouldn't kill him, but it damned well hurt, like getting slapped by someone wearing a ring. He’d gotten that more than once from one lordling or another when he was a stableboy.

Acting quickly, he pulled the round shield he had strapped to his back and raised it over his head. The next few pebbles struck the wood with hollow thunks.

"Shields!" he yelled out. "Shields up, lads!"

His voice cracked at the end. It still did that sometimes, much to his embarrassment, but the call was picked up by the more experienced Companions as well.

"Shields! Shields!"

All along the column, boys scrambled to protect themselves. Shields rose like a roof over their heads. But some of the boys, the newer ones, the ones who didn't know better, started yelling about charging the enemy, running up the slope to engage them.

Three of them actually broke from the column, starting up the rocky incline toward the attackers.

Pate had to step out of line to stop them. He grabbed two by their pack straps and yanked them back bodily. The third he caught by the arm.

They looked older than him, sixteen or seventeen to his almost-fifteen, but he was bigger and stronger than any two of them combined. Ser Goodwin always called him an ox-head, and Pate thought at least half the times the knight meant it for his size and not for some foolishness he’d done.

"Stay in formation!" he yelled, spittle flying in their faces as he dragged them back to the column. "Are you mad? You'll get yourselves killed!"

One of the boys wiped at his face. "Seven hells! We understand, just stop spitting on me!"

"Then listen!" Pate spat, then shoved them back toward their positions.

Soon Jack and Ser Galladon came down the line, their voices cutting through the chaos.

"It's a trap, lads!" Jack bellowed. "Do not chase after the enemy unless ordered! Don't make me repeat myself!"

Ser Galladon's voice followed, deeper and calmer but no less commanding. "If your column is harassed from a vantage point, be prepared for attacks at the front and the rear! I want solid squares at either end. Come on! Move!"

The boys rushed to obey, reorganizing themselves even as pebbles continued to rain down. Pate watched Ser Galladon move through the chaos. His lord held a shield in one hand and a wooden practice sword in the other. Somehow—and Pate had no idea how he did it—he managed to bat away two pebbles with the sword, using his shield to shelter a younger boy who'd tripped and rolled his ankle.

"Help me with him, Pate."

Pate let go of the last boy he'd been yelling at and hurried over. Together with Ser Galladon and a few other strong lads, they took turns helping the injured boy up through the pass.

With no gaps and a continued orderly advance by the column, the enemies retreated up the mountain after almost fifteen minutes of non-stop harassment. It took another two hours of careful descent down the eastern side of the mountain and they were finally through into the valley beyond.

It was beautiful, even with the sun hidden behind clouds.

The valley spread out below them like something from the songs. Vast green forests stretched as far as Pate could see, broken up by rivers that gleamed like silver ribbons. Lakes dotted the landscape, their surfaces mirror-smooth despite the breeze. In the distance, more mountains rose, their snow-capped peaks wreathed in mist.

They set up a temporary camp on a spot along the mountain slopes that gave them a good view of the valley while keeping the bulk of the company hidden from anyone looking up from below, sheltered by a rocky outcropping and a stand of trees.

Once the camp was established—trenches dug, sentries posted, though the order came that no fires should be lit—Jack and Ser Galladon called up a few of the boys.

Pate was one of them. So was Baron, or Baron the Beaver for his teeth, a slight lad of sixteen with quick hands and a quicker mind. And Kenan, who was new but always asked too many questions, even if they were usually good ones.

Jace and Grey waited with them to the side, watching. Ser Galladon looked at the three of them. 

"Well, lads. You've already been attacked in the passes. What's the next move?"

Baron spoke first after a second. "We need to send out scouts. Teams of three, two up front spreading out but always keeping visual contact with each other, while one hangs back to relay information."

Jack nodded approvingly. "You've been listening, then. Good."

Jace added, "You'll be provided horses for your scouts, but the main company will proceed on foot."

"Keep going," Jack said. "What else?"

Pate thought for a moment, then spoke up. "If we've been attacked already, then we know the enemy is close by. Perhaps watching us right now. They'll have scouts of their own too. And a camp somewhere. Maybe more than one."

"That's worth keeping in mind,” Jack said. “Always assume the enemy knows where you are until proven otherwise. And since you were attacked, they do know you’re here already, though that doesn’t mean they’ve been able to get the news back to their commander."

Derrick shook his head suddenly. "Wait, wait. What's the point of it all?"

Pate and Baron exchanged looks, but the new boy was undeterred.

"Sending out scouts and looking for enemies is all well and good," he continued. "But we don't even know who they are or why we're here. Do we even need to fight them? If we have no reason to fight them, then perhaps we might treat with them. Ask for safe passage. Or, if we must, then just retreat."

Surprisingly, a smile came to Ser Galladon's face. "Well said, Derrick. If you don't know what you're fighting for, then you're in the wrong fight." He gestured toward the valley below. "Let me clarify things for you, then. Somewhere along this valley lies your enemy's castle, as well as two of its strongholds. Supplies are moved from the castle to supply the strongholds. Your objective is to capture the enemy commander."

He paused, watching their reactions.

"He might be holed up in his castle. He might be out with his knights, touring his strongholds. Who even knows who he is exactly? You're officially in enemy territory now, lads. And they know you're coming."

Ser Galladon's smile widened.

"Good luck."

xxx

Codin

Codin let out a breath under his wide-brimmed straw hat. He was the driver of the first wagon in a train of four. The reins sat loose in his hands as the horses plodded forward at a steady walk. Behind him, the wagon bed was mostly filled with hay to make it look full and heavy, realistic enough from a distance. But buried beneath the hay were some sacks of actual food. Dried meat, hard cheese, flour. Rewards in case the Companions managed to capture the convoy.

The wagon train was lightly guarded. Only six riders serving as would-be knights, and ten footmen walking alongside as guards. In a real supply run through a territory under invasion, it would be madness. Suicide.

But that was the point.

Even though Codin and the rest of the older Companions knew the boys were already in the valley—Jace was responsible for keeping contact between the two groups to better coordinate and they'd already gotten word—Lord Galladon had decided this supply run would be the last one lightly guarded.

They were pretending the information that an enemy force had entered the valley hadn't spread yet. Playing their role.

The forest rose dense and green around the cramped dirt road. Trees pressed in from both sides, their branches forming a canopy overhead that blocked out most of the sunlight. Oak and beech mostly, with thick undergrowth of ferns and brambles. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves.

It was perfect ambush country. Codin knew it. The riders knew it. Everyone knew it.

The question was when, not if.

xxx

The ambush came some twenty minutes later.

Codin was surprised by their competence despite knowing it was coming. He'd been watching the forest, listening for signs like rustling in the brush, the snap of a twig. Or the usual bird calls cutting off suddenly.

Nothing.

Until the tree started to fall.

It was a young oak, maybe twenty feet tall. Someone had cut it nearly through and left it standing, held in place by the last few inches of wood. Now those final supports gave way, or were pushed, and the tree toppled across the road ahead of them.

Smiling despite the sudden fright, Codin hauled on the reins, bringing his horses to a halt just as the oak crashed down with a sound like thunder. “Ambush!” he yelled out over the noise, and the call was taken by the men behind him. 

Too late. The arrows were already flying by then. He ducked as he saw one flash beside him.

Padded arrows, he knew, wooden shafts with cloth-wrapped blunt tips instead of points. It made them more erratic and harder to aim properly, but the intent was what mattered. 

As they were taught, the riders were targeted first. One of the mounted men playing a knight took a padded arrow to the neck. He hissed out in pain and reined in his horse, sitting straight in the saddle with one hand up to show he'd been "hit." Out of the fight, though not the exercise entirely.

Two more riders went down in the first volley before the infantry attack came from both sides.

The younger Companions burst from the undergrowth like wolves. Maybe thirty of them, wooden swords and shields raised. They'd been lying in wait, probably for hours, covered in leaves and dirt to blend with the forest floor.

Dropping the reins, Codin grabbed his own practice sword and jumped down from the wagon, boots hitting the road hard. 

The footmen were already engaging. Wood cracked against wood as practice swords met shields. Boys shouted, some in excitement, some in pain as blows landed hard enough to bruise despite the lack of an edge.

Putting on his best villain face, Codin waded into the fight. A boy came at him at once, maybe fifteen, wielding his sword with more enthusiasm than skill. Codin parried easily and struck him in the ribs with the flat of his blade. The boy crumpled under the blow, hand pressed to his side.

"Killed," Codin said, which only got a wheezing response.

Another came at him. This one was better, more cautious. They traded blows for a few seconds before Codin found an opening and tagged him on the shoulder then on the leg in quick succession, a combination Lord Galladon had taught him when he was first learning the sword.

Another boy down, but there were always more.

Codin noticed how the Companions were using their numbers to overwhelm the guards. They didn't fight fair—they couldn't, not against bigger, stronger, more experienced opponents. Instead they doubled up. Tripled up. Three boys against every guard, working together to bring them down. Another lesson they’d learned at the manse, especially when it came to bringing down fully armored knights.

The remaining mounted riders tried to break out, spurring their horses toward a gap in the ambush. But the Companions were ready for that too. Some of the boys pulled out rough nets from behind their backs and threw them at the horses, aiming for the legs.

In a real battle, the riders would have panicked. The horses would have reared, fallen, thrown their riders. Men would have broken their necks. But these were training exercises, and no one wanted to actually kill the horses. The riders dismounted quickly, surrendering their mounts rather than risk injuring them, and joined the fight on foot.

Only then did the enemy riders finally appear. Codin allowed himself a small nod at it. An enthusiastic instructor could’ve named it a perfect ambush, even if he’d spotted a dozen little ways to make it more sudden and efficient, along with allowing for fewer losses. 

The riding Companions came from deeper in the forest and from the rear, moving in groups of three. Mounted boys on horses they'd stolen, or been given, more likely, from House Tarth's stables. Codin spotted Pate among them, the big red-headed boy who served as Lord Galladon's unofficial squire riding like he'd been born to it, controlling his horse with his knees while wielding a practice sword.

The tide turned completely then. Codin fought hard, taking down two more boys before someone finally got him.

It wasn't a sword strike that did it. It was a net, thrown from behind while he was engaged with another opponent. The weighted edges wrapped around his legs and he went down hard, eating dirt.

"Got you!" someone shouted triumphantly.

Codin didn't bother struggling. The fight was over anyway. All around him, the remaining guards were being subdued or had already surrendered.

xxx

Following instructions, there was no cheering or celebration from the Companions. They moved quickly to secure the prisoners with rope, strip the wagons of anything useful—the food hidden in the hay, tools and weapons, water skins. A few boys worked to drag the fallen tree off the road. Others gathered the captured horses, speaking softly to calm them.

Codin watched from where he sat, hands bound behind him in a false knot. They were good. Better than he'd expected. The ambush had been well-planned and well-executed. They'd used the terrain, coordinated their attack in waves, overwhelmed superior fighters with superior numbers.

Lord Galladon would be pleased.

Soon enough Codin and the rest of the prisoners were taken into the woods, hooded with rough cloth sacks to disorient them, which was standard practice. You didn't let captives see where you were taking them or how you'd set up your camp.

Codin stumbled along, guided by hands on his arms. The ground was uneven, roots and rocks catching at his feet. Voices murmured around him, boys checking in with each other, making sure everyone knew their tasks.

Once they'd been moved far enough from the ambush site, the hoods came off and they were searched more thoroughly. Codin stood still while young hands patted him down, checking pockets and belt pouches. He knew what they'd find.

"Ser! Found something!"

One of the boys held up a folded piece of parchment. A partial map of the valley, showing one of the strongholds they were using—old ruins that had been abandoned for generations—along with rivers, lakes, roads, a few villages.

Codin had no idea how Lord Galladon had gotten it made so quickly. The ruins they were using as strongholds wouldn't be on any regular maps of this part of the island, he knew. Someone must have drawn it special for the exercise, which only made it more exceptional. The boys studying the map looked excited. This was valuable intelligence for them.

Then came the questioning.

"Where were you taking these supplies?"

"Who commands the garrison at the stronghold?"

"How many men are stationed there?"

Codin and the other prisoners gave their pre-made answers. Conflicting information, some true, some false, designed to confuse rather than enlighten. It’d make the boys work for their intelligence, teaching them that captured enemies couldn't always be trusted.

After the questioning and, to be sure, some teasing, they were released and sent back toward their own camp. There weren't enough Companions to keep real prisoners. They needed every boy for the exercise to continue.

Before he left, Codin spotted Grey and Jace speaking quietly with Pate and another boy named Baron. The two older men must have been observing the ambush, staying hidden to watch how the boys performed.

When they finished speaking with the younger boys, Codin walked over. "That was well done. The lads are learning."

Grey nodded. "It’s been going better than I’d hoped. They’ve been skirmishing with your scouts throughout the day, both sides trading wins and losses. The boys are learning what it's like to both ambush and be ambushed."

"Aye, the lads are having fun messing with them," Codin admitted with a grin. "We found a scouting party yesterday and chased them halfway across the valley before we let them escape."

Jace spoke up. "Do a night raid on their camp tonight. It’ll be a good test of the patrols and the sentries."

"Where is it?"

"I'm not telling you that." The spymaster’s eyes gleamed. "You need to learn too. Find it yourself."

Codin let out a sigh. Fair enough. "Where's Lord Galladon?” He looked around, gaze searching. “Thought he'd want to see the ambush."

"Some duty on the eastern side of the island pulled him away for now," Grey said. "He told us he’ll be back in a few days for the rest of the exercise.”

Codin wondered what task could pull their lord away from this, but he didn't ask. Lord Galladon always had his reasons.

After saying his goodbyes, they set off back to their own camp, taking the captured horses with them. In a real war, neither the men nor the horses would be returning, but they had to be practical about this. The exercise needed to continue.

Tonight, their war game would only intensify.

Codin and the older lads had many surprises ready for the younger Companions. More ambushes. False camps. Feints and traps.

They would learn and suffer here, in these forests and valleys, so they wouldn't have to suffer when true war came knocking.

Because it would come. Codin had no illusions about that. Lord Galladon was preparing them for something. Something big. Why else build a force like this? Why else train them so hard?

Codin was ready for it. And soon, so would all the Companions.