Bernal appeared in the sunlight streaming in the entrance. ‘They are here.’

Jaochim released him. He turned to Bernal. ‘When the time comes – go with Orman here, yes?’

Bernal bowed from the waist. ‘Very well.’

‘You will know when,’ he told Orman. He gestured to the far end of the Greathall where the thrones stood on their raised wooden dais. ‘Yrain and I will wait here. No others should be present.’ Seeing Orman hesitating, unwilling to go, he gently motioned to the front. ‘Bernal – please greet our guests.’

Bernal thumped the butt of his spear to the packed dirt of the hall floor and lowered himself to one knee. ‘As you order, m’lord.’ Straightening, he urged Orman out. ‘Come. There’s more than enough for all of us.’

Though it was a grey overcast day, Orman still had to blink as he stepped outside. Once his vision cleared, he saw that Bernal was right. There were a damned lot of them. Far too many, in fact. The ranks were parting as they approached, no doubt meaning to encircle the Greathall. It was not a ragtag mob of marauders and raiding fortune-hunters. This was an army. Someone had come with more in mind than scavenging gold. He quickly descended the steps and jogged to where he’d left Svalthbrul leaning up against the barricade.

The soldiers formed up two ranks deep encircling them. They wore plain leather armour and carried medium-sized triangular shields, with shortswords at their sides. Behind them ranged the skirmishers: remnants of the force they had routed days earlier. These carried a mishmash of weaponry; some bore no armour at all – it looked as if all those better equipped had been taken up into the ranks.

A man pushed forward and stepped out ahead of the front rank. He was by far the best armoured of the lot: banded iron engraved and inlaid with a silvery spider-tracing that glimmered as he moved. His hair was long and loose, but his beard was short and neatly trimmed. He waved an arm before himself as if in disbelief.

‘What is this?’ he called. ‘I see only three of you.’

Bernal stepped up to the barricade, thumped his spear to the ground. ‘There’s one more in the back.’

‘Is this some sort of insult?’

‘Is this what you call parleying?’

The man, whom Orman assumed to be their commander, looked to the sky in what he might have thought was a gesture of self-control, but which was also actually an insult. ‘I am not parleying,’ he sighed. ‘I am in truth attempting to do you a favour.’

‘And what favour would this be?’ Bernal inquired innocently, leaning on his spear.

‘The offer of your lives.’ He raised his voice, calling: ‘Set down your weapons and walk away and you may live!’

Bernal turned his head round to glance behind to the right and left, then returned his attention to the man. He shrugged.