The world went silent. Bleda’s vision was reduced to the severed heads of his brother and sister. He heard something, distantly, realized that it was him, that he was screaming, twisting and bucking in Israfil’s grip, hands reaching to gouge the Ben-Elim’s eyes, but Israfil held him at arm’s length until slowly Bleda’s strength drained away, like wine from a pierced skin. Israfil regarded Bleda with dark, emotionless eyes, then finally shifted his gaze to the fair-haired Ben-Elim who had cast the heads at Israfil’s feet. Although Israfil asked no questions, did not even utter a word, the blond Ben-Elim spoke as if answering a reprimand, his eyes dropping.

‘They would not surrender,’ he said, his feet shuffling in the dirt. ‘They slew Remiel.’ His eyes came up, fierce and defiant, and met Israfil’s. ‘They slew a Ben-Elim, gave me no choice.’ Israfil held his gaze a long moment, then gave a curt nod. With a flick of his wrist he threw Bleda into the air, a giant catching him and placing him on the saddle in front of him. Bleda found new strength, fighting and squirming, tears blurring his vision, but the giant held him tight.

Israfil waved his hand and then the giant was tugging on his reins shouting a command, and the huge mountain of fur and muscle beneath Bleda was turning, lumbering away from the Ben-Elim and Bleda’s mother, from his kin and people, away from everything he knew, away from Bleda’s whole world.

Towards his new home.

Towards Drassil.

CHAPTER TWO: DREM

CHAPTER TWO

DREM

The Year 137 of the Age of Lore, Hunter’s Moon

Drem grunted as he lifted another shovelful of earth and hurled it out of the pit he was digging. He rested a moment, drank from a water skin, looked up and saw a cold blue sky through dappled branches that were swaying in a breeze. Birdsong drifted down to him; the angle of the sun told him it was close to sunset. The pit was deep, now level with his head, but he kept digging, swapping his water skin for a pickaxe that he swung with practised rhythm. Ten swings with the pickaxe, loosen the ground, fill his shovel and throw it out of the pit. Back to the pickaxe. His shoulders and back ached, sweat stinging his eyes, but he ignored the discomfort, blinked the sweat away and continued to hack remorselessly at the iron-hard ground.

A sound seeped through the rhythm of his labour and the noise of the river beyond the pit. Footsteps. He dropped his pickaxe, grabbing his spear and pointing it upwards.

A shadow fell across him.

‘That’ll do,’ Olin, his da, said, looking down to him through a mess of iron-grey hair.

‘Not deep enough,’ Drem grunted, putting his spear down and picking up the axe again.

‘It’s deep enough to hold any elk I’ve ever seen,’ Olin said.