But the Lost brother answered with his own scornful look. ‘Right, bard. Just stories and fanciful songs.’ He turned his attention to Jethiss. ‘Up above the Holdings are the ice-fields of the Salt range. Snake-like rivers of ice that descend from a broad plateau of blue-black ice some thousand feet thick. We rarely venture up there as there’s little hunting to be had. The only one who haunts those heights is old Buri. The Sayers claim him as an ancestor, but really he’s a forefather of us all seein’ as he’s older even than some clans.’ Badlands took a sip of his tankard. ‘Beyond the ice-fields are the peaks – wind-blasted bare rock faces where nothing ever grows. No plants at all. No moss or weed. Just dry, cold and barren.’

‘There’s an old story, though,’ Stalker began, easing into his cousin’s tale. ‘Our uncle, Baynar Lost, travelled to those heights. He told of seeing bizarre things, hallucinations, maybe. He claimed he saw something that resembled a tower of rock. Stones heaped up tall into something like a dwelling.’ Stalker turned his bright golden eyes on Fisher. ‘How’s that tale go, Fish? Our origins?’

Jethiss turned his expectant gaze upon the bard. Fisher let out a long hard breath, shot Stalker an annoyed glance. ‘Our legends say that’s where we were born. We Icebloods. That our ancestor guards the heights. Mother of us all.’

The title ancestor startled Kyle. He remembered the words of the Silent People’s champions and their shamans: ‘Go to the great mountains to stand before our ancestors …’ He’d thought it referred to these people, these so-called Icebloods. But perhaps it had a more literal meaning: a real ancestor to stand before – the one and only true ancestor.

Jethiss, he noted, appeared troubled now, even disappointed. He frowned as if puzzled. ‘And that is all?’ he asked, his gaze searching.

‘Regarding the heights?’ Badlands answered. He shook his head. ‘No … there’s one more legend about the peaks.’ He looked to Fisher. ‘Ain’t you going to tell it?’

But the bard would not raise his eyes. ‘It’s just a child’s night-story,’ he murmured reluctantly. ‘Silly nonsense.’

Badlands snorted. ‘Well, you’ve sung of it often enough in the past.’ He turned to Jethiss, sipped his beer. ‘The legend claims there’s a reason the old name for this whole region is Assail.’ He raised a hand and pointed to the sky. ‘That they’re there sleeping hidden in caves at the peaks. The Forkrul Assail.’

Stalker grunted his agreement. ‘And it’s said they’ll grant the wish of anyone foolish enough to treat with them.’

‘This is all just fireside entertainment,’ Fisher interrupted. ‘Pure fiction.’

The Losts appeared bemused by the bard’s vehemence. ‘You’ve sung of it yourself,’ Badlands observed.

Jethiss leaned forward. ‘Why do you say foolish – foolish to treat with these Forkrul?’

Stalker answered, ‘Why, everyone knows about their ways. “Forkrulan justice” is a saying for any harsh, but just, judgement.’