"Always provided there's a shelter to return to," Azwel mutters, staring down at the remains of the camp. "If they know we're coming they could have brought in any manner of reinforcements. We're well inside the trap, now, and may have been ever since we left."

There's nothing for it, now, though, and try as he might, he simply cannot think of any other option than to follow the trail, even though every tactical sense he's developed over the years tells him that's exactly where the enemy want them to go.

Had they shown their hand too soon? Do the enemy know how to fight them, now? He shivers, but it has nothing to do with the cold.