There was no time to fix it. There was only time to ride.
Half the coalition believed the Greywater fords were the real muster, and Damien's strike force was already moving to hit exactly that spot on the new moon which was tonight. My lie had become a battlefield. The only question left was whether we reached it before Damien turned an accidental gathering of unready packs into a slaughter.
"How many of ours will be there," I asked, hauling myself onto the back of Cain's bike.
"Greywater. Part of Bron's line. Maybe sixty wolves." Cain's voice was iron. "Gathered loose, expecting a muster, not a fight. Damien's bringing a hardened strike force of a hundred. If we don't reach them first, it's not a battle. It's an execution." He fired the engine. "This is on me too, Wren. I let the guard
