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striding closer. He had a deep, hoarse voice, likely tired from years of shouting commands to his men in battle. “We are glad to have you here.” 
    “Lord Adalar,” said Rufus, a relieved smile coming over his face. Likely he hoped that Adalar would deal with Sigaldra and the Jutai for him. “It is good to see that you have returned to the Grim Marches.”
    “Aye,” said Adalar, Sir Wesson and Talchar One-Eye following him. “I think we last rode together at Knightcastle, in the final battle against the traitor Lucan Mandragon.” 
    He stopped a few paces from Sir Rufus, and Sigaldra stared at him. Adalar was tall and long of leg and arm, lean with brown eyes and close-cropped brown hair, his face scored with deeper lines that it should have been for a man his age. He wore chain mail, as he almost always did, and a green surcoat adorned with the sigil of a stylized heart. His face was too long and dour to be handsome, but he had a vigor about him, a vitality that commanded attention. Certainly he took command of fighting men easily enough. In that he reminded her of Lord Mazael. Sigaldra knew that Adalar had once been Mazael’s squire, a position similar to a Jutai thain’s armor bearer, and likely Adalar had learned the arts of leading men from the hrould. 
    “A great victory,” said Rufus. “And the battle of the Northwater before it. I was sure we would be lost at both battles.”
    “As was I,” said Adalar. “But we won great victories at both battles.” He glanced at Sigaldra. “The Jutai were at both battles, fulfilling their oaths as we did.”
    “Yes,” said Rufus, uncertain again. “Of course.” 
    “Just as we now have come together to fulfill our oaths, to drive the valgasts and the Skuldari and the soliphages from the Grim Marches,” said Adalar. 
    “Of course,” said Rufus once more. 
    “So why does it look as if you are about to ride into battle here and now?” said Adalar. He glanced at the sky to the west, tracking the setting sun. She understood the need for haste. The plan that he and Talchar and Sir Wesson had devised required careful timing. “This is no time to squabble among ourselves, surely.” 
    “This…ah, the holdmistress commanded us to camp in an unsuitable location,” said Rufus. “My horses require pasturage, and we need to camp away from the others.”
    “I would not advise that,” said Adalar. “The valgasts are going to attack in force within the hour, and if you are outside the main camp, you will be vulnerable.”
    Rufus frowned. “You know they are going to attack?”
    Adalar shrugged. “They have attacked every night since we arrived, so we’ve laid a trap for them. You’re welcome to participate in the battle, sir knight. Or to camp out here, if you wish. No one here will stop you. But if you do, I fear the valgasts shall overwhelm and slay you and all your retainers.”  
    Rufus shared a look with his followers. 
    “Perhaps it would be best if we camped with the others,” said Rufus.
    “If you wish, of course,” said Adalar. “I am not a lord of the Grim Marches and have no right to command here.” 
    “No,” said Rufus. “Ah…Lady Sigaldra’s plan seems the course of wisdom.”
    Lady Sigaldra? She realized the boy was trying to save face in front of his men. Her initial thought was to show him the rough side of her tongue (which, to be fair, seemed to be the only side it had). Yet something restrained her. 
    Adalar, maybe. He was right. They were about to face the valgasts together. 
    “Be welcome here,” said Sigaldra. “Go and camp, but make haste. Sundown comes soon.” 
    Rufus offered her a courtly little bow from his saddle, and led his knights and armsmen into the camp. She watched him go, and then let out a long, irritated sigh.
    “Idiot,” she muttered. 
    “He was just made a knight a few months past,” said Adalar in a quiet voice. “This might be his first time commanding men in battle.” 
    “He’s