He’d been following the trail of the bear that killed his da for over a ten-night, now. Twice he had lost its tracks completely, fresh snow masking everything, and he’d had to retrace his steps, searching not just the ground but all that grew, shrubs and bushes and trees, until he’d found the bear’s trail again. And once he’d seen two sets of boot-prints, one uncommonly large, but it could have been a big man wearing snow-boots.

The trail had led northwards, into the foothills of the Bonefells, though in a looping arc, and Drem had found a number of pits and traps along the trail, as if the bear followed a trapper’s trail, returning to collect its prey. And now the trail was circling back, southwards. Drem paused as he stepped onto a plateau, open and free of pine trees. He walked to the edge, stood on a ridge and looked south onto a world of white that seemed to go on forever. The only blemishes were Starstone Lake, directly south of him, its waters dark and glittering in a winter’s sun, and Kergard, further west and south.

And that, he thought, eyes narrowing. A few leagues ahead of him, beyond the tiered roll of foothills and forest, there was a small village, smoke rising from hearths and fire-pits. It was built upon the edge of Starstone Lake, a pier jutting into the dark waters.

‘The mine,’ he said to himself, feeling something shift in his gut.

Somehow he knew, sensed, this was the place he would find his answers. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he stared. Then he gripped his spear and walked on.

Drem crept through the last patch of bush and scrub and crouched in the snow.

It was twilight, the sky a mixture of purples and pinks, and he was situated at the top of a gentle slope, looking down upon the mine spread before him, a squat, sprawling mess of buildings. Even from this distance Drem knew something was wrong about the place. Barns, huts and barrack-like cabins were scattered around the enclosure with no seeming logic to their positioning. All of it was ringed by a palisaded wall that curled around to the lakeshore, gates on every side. And most of it was in darkness, a few torches belching smoke on the wall, some lights flickering inside huts. He could see no signs of life, no movement on the walls, no voices, singing, not even the rhythmic crack and crunch of miners at work, carving their living from the rock.

Then an animal noise rose up, part roar, part mournful howl, and ice skittered through Drem’s veins.

He’d spent many years in the Wild, hunting, trapping, and thought he’d heard all there was to hear from an animal’s throat, but this sound . . .