‘Who is that?’ the fellow called. ‘Name yourself!’

‘Greki,’ Orman answered.

‘Greki? Greki who?’

Still advancing, Orman said, ‘Greki … the False,’ and lunged, swinging a hatchet upwards to catch the man under his jaw, splitting it. The fellow gurgled a howl, clutching his face, and fell. Orman finished him with a cut to the back of the neck.

‘Who is that?’ someone shouted from further down among the brush. More than one came running. Orman crouched to ready himself. Fortunately, they came in a disorganized rush; stumbling upon him almost one by one. Every advantage was Orman’s as he knew that whoever appeared would be his enemy. He did not bother with the niceties but took out knees and arms – whichever was nearest – then finished with single crippling blows and moved on.

The panicked calls and clash of blows exchanged and shrieks of wounded was constant now up and down the thinly treed valley side. The fog remained so thick Orman could make out none of the battle, and neither, he knew, could the invaders. It seemed that only the Icebloods could penetrate the haze. A powerful advantage for any engagement.

He felled three more as he edged further down the slope. The last actually still held a raised crossbow as he futilely searched the fog for a target. Orman almost felt sorry for the fool.

A shape appeared next to him so close and so silently that he flinched, almost falling to the ground; the tall figure of Jaochim reared over him. The Iceblood wore mere hunting leathers, but held two long-hafted bearded axes. ‘You are falling behind,’ he growled. ‘The battle is on the valley floor. Speed is our ally. We must break them before they organize a defence.’

‘I am sorry,’ Orman stammered.

Jaochim raised one axe almost in salute. ‘Never mind.’ Then he paused, frowning. ‘Did you really meet with Buri?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he was readying himself for the true enemy.’

The Iceblood appeared startled by that. ‘The true enemy,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Those words?’

‘Yes.’

Jaochim scanned the fog. Again he seemed to speak aloud to himself: ‘Then we are wasting our time here.’ He suddenly waved all such concerns away, a gesture that reminded Orman of Old Bear. ‘Hunh. Well, run now. Hack and run.’ Then, unaccountably, he suddenly offered a fey smile that bared his prominent canines. ‘Lotji is here.’ And he loped off, to disappear into the swirling mist.

Reminded of what he should be doing, Orman set off running pell-mell down the slope.

Figures appeared through the fog’s chiaroscuro of shadow and light. He merely slashed at them in passing. What a fool he’d been! Wasting his time among these outlying pickets and scouts! It was Lotji he wanted – and he’d cut his way through the middle of this army to find him.