The western trail through the Wolfswood was narrow and twisted, barely wide enough for two horses to ride side by side.
Corvyn led the remaining riders carefully through the dark forest, his eyes scanning the trees with constant vigilance. Snow continued to fall, covering their tracks almost as quickly as they made them.
Behind him rode Ser Halric and eight surviving Ravaryn riders.
Only eight.
The number sat heavily in Corvyn's mind.
They had ridden into the forest with twenty men.
The Wolfswood had taken its share.
Halric rode closer to Corvyn, lowering his voice.
"You did well back there."
Corvyn did not look at him.
"We lost men."
Halric shrugged slightly in the saddle.
"That's the North."
The forest around them creaked softly as wind moved through the tall pines.
For a moment, nothing else disturbed the night.
Then one of the riders at the rear spoke quietly.
"Something's wrong."
Halric turned.
"What is it?"
The man pointed toward the ground.
Corvyn turned his horse and rode back toward him.
The rider dismounted and knelt in the snow.
"Tracks," he said.
Corvyn crouched beside him.
Fresh hoofprints crossed the narrow trail ahead.
Many of them.
Halric frowned.
"Bolton riders?"
The scout shook his head slowly.
"No."
Corvyn brushed snow aside carefully.
The tracks were large.
Heavy.
Too heavy for the light horses Bolton scouts preferred.
"These are warhorses," Corvyn said quietly.
Halric's expression darkened.
"How many?"
Corvyn studied the ground carefully.
"At least thirty."
One of the younger riders cursed under his breath.
"That means they were ahead of us."
Halric straightened slowly.
"Which means this path is already blocked."
The wind moved through the trees again, carrying with it a distant sound.
Corvyn's head lifted slightly.
Hooves.
Many hooves.
Approaching.
From the west.
Halric heard it too.
"Well," the knight muttered grimly, "that's inconvenient."
Corvyn rose to his feet.
If Bolton riders blocked the road ahead and Roderic's force pursued from behind…
They were being squeezed between two armies.
A trap closing from both sides.
One of the riders spoke nervously.
"My lord… what do we do?"
Corvyn's eyes moved slowly through the dark forest.
To the left.
To the right.
The Wolfswood stretched endlessly in every direction.
Deep.
Wild.
Unforgiving.
But it was also the North.
And the North belonged to those who knew how to survive it.
Corvyn swung back into his saddle.
"We leave the road," he said calmly.
Halric raised an eyebrow.
"Straight into the deep woods?"
Corvyn nodded.
"If they want to hunt us," he said quietly,
"then we make them chase ghosts."