A sound in the cell closest to him and he approached it, saw only darkness inside, a form moving, deep at the back. A warning growl.

Drem bumped into the table, turned and looked at it.

Tools were scattered across its surface, saws and knives, a butcher’s cleaver chopped into the wood. Thick iron rings were set deep into the timber, chains hanging from them. Then Drem realized what the lumps he’d seen spread upon the table were.

Body parts.

Some animal, some human. Arms, legs, torsos. A wolven head, a furry shoulder and leg, its paw as big as a plate. A bat like the one that he’d seen feasting on Fritha’s hound was pinned to the table with a spike through its chest, wings spread wide, pierced with iron nails. It tried to flap its wings, a feeble movement, head swivelling to regard him with its red eyes. On the table beside it was a human hand, an iron rod jammed into the gaping wound of its wrist, tendons somehow attached. Other things, unrecognizable. A wooden frame, some kind of fabric stretched across it. Drem peered closer.

Skin! It’s flayed skin!

‘Help . . . me,’ a voice whispered, Drem leaping around, spear pointing. A shape moved in one of the cells, a dark shadow shifting.

‘Please,’ the voice whispered, slurring, as if drunken or broken-jawed.

There were rush torches set in holders about the table, some blackened, burned-out stumps, others still fresh. Drem took his fire iron from his belt pouch and struck sparks, a torch flaring to life. He knew how dangerous it was, here in the middle of this place, enemies all around – but that voice. He recognized it.

‘Sten?’ he said, holding the torch up, approaching the boulder. Darkness retreated, orange glow washing the rock face, shadows flickering and dancing, the cells looking like myriad dark eyes staring back at him, silent as secrets. ‘Sten?’ Drem said again.

Sten was one of the trappers from Kergard who had not returned from the Bonefells, along with his partner, Vidar. Drem remembered Ulf telling him and his da over a skin of mead and a warm fire. That seemed like so long ago.

Light from Drem’s torch pushed back the darkness in the cell, a figure slowly emerging, a man, stooped and hunched, shambling forwards, dragging one foot that was twisted at an odd angle.

‘Stennnn,’ the figure whispered, finally looking up at Drem.

He almost dropped the torch.

It was Sten, but not as Drem remembered him. His lower jaw was distended, looking too big for his head and hanging open, sharp teeth rowed within red, swollen gums, and his eyes were yellow. His hands were curled, as if sore and swollen, nails grown long and black.

‘Sten, what have they done to you?’ Drem whispered.

‘Killll me,’ the thing that had been Sten breathed.