Drem sat and waited, watched as the sun became a thin line on the horizon. He shrugged off his kit bag, pulled out a roll of rope and hooked it on his belt, and then he stood and sprinted, bent low, straight towards the wall. His heart pounded in his head, waiting, expecting a voice or horn to ring out the alarm.

Thirty paces left, he looked up, saw the wall was empty.

Fifteen paces. Ten.

And then he was there, back against the timber, sucking in air.

He was close to a large, double gateway, a smaller, single door beside it, a simple latch on the door. He’d planned to loop his rope around one of the timber beams of the palisade and haul himself up, but thought he might as well try the latch first.

The door opened.

He slipped through, closed it behind him, and moved along the wall. It was near dark, now, the solid buildings and shadows in between merging. Stars flickered into life. He looked about, unsure what to do, where to go.

What am I doing here?

A pang of fear, threatening to overwhelm him. He took a moment to remember.

The bear. My father’s killer. The Starstone Sword.

He took a deep breath, focused on those three things, stiffening his resolve, and moved on. Ran across the gap between wall and a building, slipping deeper into the enclosure.

Then the smell hit him. First the clear smell of animal dung, but there was more to it, not sweet-scented like a horse, something acrid in it.

A meat-eater.

Voices. He followed the sound, found himself in an alley between two long buildings, what looked like sleeping barracks, and beyond them a larger building, longer and wider, timber-walled with a grass-sod roof. Lights flickering in shuttered windows, the murmur of voices. One man’s rising in laughter.

He moved close to a shuttered window and carefully peered in.

A long table, a score of shaven-haired men around it, a wooden board, one man standing, grinning as he tossed the bones onto the board, watching them roll.

Playing knuckle-bone.

The man barked a laugh, punching the air, turning so that Drem could see his face.

It was Wispy Beard.

Conflicting emotions at seeing him, anger and fear mixed as he remembered the noose around his neck, being hoisted into the air. Wispy laughing.

Drem scanned the others, recognized some, though he didn’t see Burg there, the leader with the scar on his face. In the gloom someone else sat, the firelight and darkness making him look too big, longer and wider than a man, legs outstretched as he leaned back in his chair, arms folded, seemingly asleep.