Prince Rhowyn had seen the world turn through four full seasons and fully four again. His years numbered four and ten on the eve of his wedding. The Lady Caitlyn Louisa was an elfin faced child of eleven. A rose still yet in bud.

It was sooner than anyone had expected.

A raven of ill omen had reached Castellayne. The duke's health was failing. A cancer of the blood, thought his Grace's physician.

Prince Rhowyn's coronation would follow immediately after the marriage.

A bitter sweet occasion, followed as it would be by Don Sebastian's funeral. Of that, his Grace's physician had written, there could be no doubt. It was only a matter of how soon after.

Rhowyn and Alejandro had been at the court of Kaldiz for some six months. There had been a short tour of the nearest of Navarre's noble houses. Others had made the journey to meet and speak with Rhowyn. Still others wouldn't get their first glimpse of the future duke until the wedding.

The Skraaal settlement of Navarre's southern frontier, an expanse of flat-topped mountains and river gorged canyons, populated by nomadic tribes of goat herders who grazed their flocks on thorned acacia trees, hadn't gone as well as some might have hoped.

The Skraaal were accused of abducting small children to feed to their spiders. It wasn't true. Yet the rumours and superstitions persisted. No blood was spilled. The Skraaal numbered legion. The goat herders fewer than five hundred, armed with stones and sharpened sticks. Goat herders they might be: Stupid they were not.

The Skraaal built low walled dams, channelling the rivers to irrigate their fields and new planted orchards. Come first harvest, they shared the fruits of their labours with the mountain tribes.

All this Saaal Soool told Prince Rhowyn at the wedding feast. Did it help? Asked Rhowyn. Who'd never been a fan of vegetables.

The prince was dressed in the sunflower yellow of Rhealmyrr. His bride wore the red and white of Navarre. With them at the high table sat the archer in green.

None of the guests seemed surprised by his being there. Certainly not King Robin or Queen Saavi. And not the duke, or his son, Alejandro.

Knowing he would get no answers from his father, Rhowyn nudged the wizard, Aldhyrwoode.

What's going on? He asked, nodding toward the far end of the table and the warden of the north.

Have you tried the roast swan? Said the wizard. It's delicious. Not too dry.

I don't like dry swan.

Before Rhowyn could press any further, Bearskinner and Harald were pounding their tankards on the table.

Speech! Speech!

A toast! A toast!

Don Sebastian rose unsteadily to his feet. To my grandson and his beautiful young wife!

TO THE DUKE AND DUCHESS!

There was music and dancing. Queen Saavi chose that moment to put the two year old Princess Marisanne to bed. The archer came and stood behind Rhowyn's chair, his hands on the newly crowned Duke of Navarre's shoulders.

Rhowyn invited him to sit. My mother will not return, he said.

You're wondering why I'm here.

You're welcome, of course, said Rhowyn graciously. But, yes.

Now is not the time, said the archer. Look for me on the Island Of Bones.

And with that he stood, bowed to Prince Rhowyn and the Lady Caitlyn, bowed to King Robin, spoke to Aldhyrwoode, said something to Don Sebastian and Alejandro, that was for their ears only, and was gone.

The seasons passed, and passed again, as seasons do. Rhowyn grew tall and straight, his shoulders broadened, his chest deepened, and the first shadow of a beard gave Lady Caitlyn cause to complain that his stubble scratched her whenever they made love. Which they did often. And why not? They were young. The passions of youth are seldom quelled.

Time did not shamble decrepit for them, like the old man some believed it to be, but sped, winged of foot, always a step ahead in the dance.

Of the archer there was no word. He did not return to Navarre. And his duty in the north kept him away from Castellayne. If Rhowyn still wondered at the mystery of the hooded man, he did so rarely, and never for long. No one had heard of an Island Of Bones. Not even Bjern Bearskinner, who had sailed as far north as the snow bear glaciers, east to the jade palaces of Qin Xa, south until the leopard men of Zuul haunted verdant jungles, and west to where ochre and clay striped warriors drove herds of strange beasts over the edges of cliffs.

But then came the rising.

Reft of a crown:

He yet may share the feast.

Heard ye the din of battle bray;

Lance to lance and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course... *

Down from the mist shrouded mountains skirled the clans and their chieftains. United in revolt. The wardens of the north, who numbered less than five score and ten, couldn't hold them. Towns and hamlets and homesteads all along the river Tor were put to the sword. Wheat to the scythe. The Sheriff of Torstone died defending the two towers. Fractious lords and knights who'd chafed at King Robin's rule joined their arms to the clans.

King Robin assembled his forces. Five hundred men of the castle guard and five hundred knights of Rhealmyrr rode north from Castellayne under streaming pennants of swallow-tailed sunflower yellow. With them were a thousand of Navarre's finest, led by the young duke, in surcoats of quartered red and white on matching caparisoned mounts. First and .foremost of these was the blood red knight and Marshall of Navarre, Don Alejandro.

The Skraaal were farmers, not soldiers, and yet Saaal Soool had brought fully seven hundred spider lords to Robin's cause.

Seven hundred more in blue, men armed with pikes and crossbows, marched with Sir Roger of Delthemyrr.

The two armies clashed in a field of meadow flowers. Not far from The Greenwoode. King Robin was lost in the clamour and clang of the melee.

Clansmen hewed through the spiders' legs with swords and axes. And the great beasts were felled. Their riders hacked to pieces.

Vermin flensed the flesh from the dead and the dying. Carrion crows stabbed with sharp beaks, squabbling over the choicest parts. The corpses piled higher and higher. Stacked one upon the other - An island of bones in an ocean of blood.

Rhowyn saw Saaal Soool cut in half by the vicious sweep of a scythe.

Alejandro was the last to die. Skewered through the neck by a spear.

Rhowyn found him later, cradled in the arms of the green archer.

Who are you? He asked. To mourn him so? You hold him like a father would hold a son.

No father, said the archer. An uncle. Sebastian was my brother.

Then... Why?

Why are you the duke and not I? There was a woman, once. A long time ago. We both fell in love with her. We quarrelled. I knew if I stayed that one of us would kill the other. So I sought solace in exile.

You foresaw this... This Island Of Bones. How? In a dream?

The archer shook his head. A nightmare. It is my curse.

Rhowyn went down on one knee and held Alejandro's hand.

I loved him, he said.

And wept.

Rhowyn!

Father?

Rhowyn!

Father!

King Robin came stumbling, leaning on Sir Roger.

He had lost his helm, and his face was a mask of blood.

Gore splattered his armour.

But he was alive.

The day was theirs.

The archer in his hooded cloak of faded mottled green embraced his nephew after the funeral service for Robin's father. Don Alejandro had forsaken his crimson armour for a mourning suit of black and sombre grey.

I thought Sebastian might have marched on Castellayne with an army, said Matteo. I remember he wasn't too impressed when Rafael gave away half the dukedom to his squire.

Jarl Bearskinner and his raiders were supposed to do my father's dirty work for him, said Alejandro. But found themselves storm wrecked and stranded on the coast of Navarre instead.

Matteo looked at Aldhyrwoode. So I heard.

I stood with Robin, said Alejandro. I stand with Robin.

I heard that, too.

What else do you hear?

Matteo shrugged. Many things, he said. But mostly the wind through the trees.

Come to Kaldiz with me. Father would like to see you.

Would I be welcome? Asked Matteo. Would you?

His bark is worse than his bite. And I thought that...

Now that your mother has passed.

Yes.

Why open old wounds?

To drain the poison, said Alejandro. It's the only way they heal.

Why the blood red knight? Matteo asked Sebastian. That armour. You might as well have painted a target on his chest.

Isolde's stone coffin had been carved in her likeness. The two brothers stood beside it in a transept of the duke's private chapel.

It's a hard world, said Sebastian. You have to be hard to survive.

And there are none harder than you.

I make no apologies for that.

Does it irk you? Said Matteo. That there's a man inside the steel?

No. And do you know why? Because he's his own man. I was never prouder of my son than I was when he threw a kingdom back in my face.

It didn't stop you from trying to take Rhealmyrr anyway.

And why not? Asked Don Sebastian. Have you been chasing squirrels so long that you've forgotten who you are?

I haven't forgotten.

You serve King Robin.

I serve no one. Robin is a friend, as his father was before him.

Who is this boy? That both my son and my brother would choose him over Navarre?

That's a very good question, said Matteo. And one you should think on.

When do you return to Rhealmyrr?

Are you so eager to be rid of me?

Don Sebastian stroked his late wife's alabaster smooth arm.

Not at all. I thought I might ride with you.

A ram's horn sounded from the battlements of the tallest gate tower.

Navarre had come to Castellayne!

Don Sebastian rode at the head of the column, between Matteo and Alejandro. Behind the thorned crown streamed the banners of the most noble of the noble families. A wolf's head for the Montoyas. The sea-horse of the Di Campos. Santiago's golden hind. The inverted cross of Los Gabriel. Vicarrios. De Silvas. Montenerros. Capulettes. Rodrigos. Las Verdes. And there, too, the clenched gauntlet of the D'Arturians, who were Robin's father's family.

Each Don had brought no fewer than a score of knights and men at arms.

The bright sun flashing off polished steel. Helm and breastplate. Sword pommel and spear point. Their horses were enormous. Head tossing. Eye rolling. Nostril flaring. Iron shod to cave in an enemy's skull and shatter bones.

Pride o' bleedin' peacocks. A castle guard told the man next to him.

Only thing bigger 'n' a Navarre's horse is his ego!

Aye, grimaced the other. And the only thing quicker 'n' their tempers is their blades.

And their tongues, added a third.

The Dons favoured needle thin moustachios and chiselled beards. Puff sleeved shirts under tight laced vests. Striped pantaloons and boots that reached mid thigh. Twinned scabbards held slender but lethal rapiers, and stilettos that were weighted for throwing.

They flaunted precious stones the size of scarab beetles on their gloved fingers. And pierced their ears with shimmering pearls and rings of silver or gold.

Ostentatious and arrogant, biting sarcasm came as easily to their lips as venom to a viper's fangs. When they weren't snapping and snarling, they scowled and sneered and signalled their displeasure with the flick of an eyebrow. But upon being presented to Queen Saavi their glib tongues were as well oiled as their blades. They charmed and flattered and marvelled at her beauty.

They bowed to King Robin. Nodded curtly at Aldhyrwoode. Praised the height and thickness of the castle walls. The width and depth of the moat with it's narrow drawbridge and iron portcullis. But they did not, and would not, bend the knee.

For the tourney that followed the feast, the Dons selected a champion each to ride in the lists against Rhealmyrr's best and finest. Their smug conceit took a battering as, one by one, their favourites were unseated by King Robin or the Marshall of Navarre.

Don Emilio De Santiago was heard to wonder just whose side the blood red knight was on!

The highlight of the jousting saw King Robin splinter three lances on the Duke of Navarre's shield before Don Sebastian's fourth caught him flush between shield and helm to sit Robin flat on his arse in a tumbling of wood shavings and sawdust. Alejandro fared no better. Nor did Sir Roger. Or Sir Barrett, captain of the castle guard. And at the end of the day, only Don Sebastian was undefeated.

If you want something done right, he said to Matteo afterwards, you have to do it yourself.

Elsewhere.

The Wardens of the North were men and women who, for whatever reason, had chosen to live in the wild wood forests and windswept mountain glens, where the only company they kept was their own.

It had been Aldhyrwoode's idea to employ them in Robin's service as the eyes and ears of the kingdom's northern frontier.

Some, like Matteo, had run from their pasts. Others were hiding from the present. More than a few were outcasts.

Walt the Wall-eyed was a doom-sayer.

Mushroom Meg had ended her husband's drunken rages by pinning him to a barn door with a pitchfork.

Old Tom Treadwell was a crofter who'd grown tired of trying to scrape a living from the stony soil.

Alfryd All-thumbs was a failed cut-purse and picker of pockets.

No-thumbs Ned was an ex-soldier.

Holly Halfling had been a feral child, abandoned in the wilderness by her father because of the fits of palsy that left her foaming at the mouth.

A boy called Frog the Hop was a runaway.

Ben Twist was a hunchback.

Fenn Footsore was a wandering minstrel.

All of them had one thing in common; The Greenwoode.

It was Old Tom Treadwell who first caught sight of the Skraaal and their monstrous arachniim. He told Mushroom Meg, who told Frog the Hop, who told Matteo. He gave Frog his horse and bade him ride to Castellayne and fetch the wizard Aldhyrwoode.

Old Tom guided them over the mountains by way of a steep and narrow path that, Aldhyrwoode said, aspired to be a goat track.

As the fates would have it, Saaal Soool was searching for a way through the same snow capped peaks. The four of them found the Skraaal huddled, half frozen, in the hollowed out abdomen of his dead spider.

Matteo wrapped Saaal Soool in his woollen cloak of mottled green, and Aldhyrwoode magicked a fire from pine needles and a coarse black powder he poured from a small flask he rummaged out of his satchel.

They were able to communicate using hand signals and the language of the hill tribes. When Matteo asked Saaal Soool where the Skraaal had learned it, he held both hands to his temples with the first fingers extended.

From the horned men, Tom told Aldhyrwoode. I've never seen one. Only heard stories of them. The Petroans call them fauns.

Frog the Hop was sent hopping back the way they'd come.

Wait for us at Torstone. And not a word to anyone who doesn't need to know, Aldhyrwoode warned the boy.

As soon as Saaal Soool had recovered he led them to where the Skraaal were camped on the shores of Wolf Lake. Where Aldhyrwoode spoke with the Skruuuliim. Leaving Matteo to guide the spider people as far as Claw Crag, where Sir Roger would meet them, Aldhyrwoode and Old Tom returned to Torstone, and then on to Castellayne to inform King Robin.

Oak and elm, maple and yew, spruce, pine, and cypress, bracken, fern, and berry. All could be found in the forest. There were spotted deer and wild boar. Fish swam in the ice-melt streams that tumbled down from the mountains. A brace of pheasant or capon could be traded for the small, round loaves of oat-bread baked by the hill tribes, or the drinker's fill of ale at the few and far between roadside inns.

It was in The Drowned Duck that Matteo heard his brother Sebastian had died.

It was painless, Aldhyrwoode told him. His Grace's physician saw to that. Your brother rests in his private chapel, next to Isolde. I didn't know if you had ahhh... seen it.

Matteo shook his head. I hadn't, he said. Thank you for coming to find me.

The wizard gathered up his hat, staff, and satchel, and left Matteo to his grief. Saying only, Don't be a stranger.

Matteo might have returned to Castellayne, or journeyed as far as Kaldiz, if talk of the clans whetting their axes and rattling their spears hadn't kept him at Holder's Dyke. The Dyke was an earthen defensive wall built by the ancients, so legend said, stretching between The Greenwoode and the coast, and what was now Delthemyrr, south of the river Tor.

The clans had been fighting among themselves for centuries. Rival chieftains were always butting heads. And there were blood feuds going back ten generations or more. No one thought for a moment that the clans would moot, or that Balon O'Byrne would forge an army large enough to march into Rhealmyrr and threaten Castellayne itself.

Outnumbered a hundred to one, Matteo and the other wardens had vanished into The Greenwoode, to fight a guerrilla war that, at best, could only slow the advancing clansmen.

But it bought King Robin time enough to summon his own forces.

What the fates weave cannot be unravelled. No matter how desperately Matteo fought to reach Alejandro in the press of battle, before the fatal spear thrust that would take his nephew's life. he was always going to be too late.