Orman scanned the woods. As if by magery a hugely tall and broad figure emerged from the trees close by the stream. A shaggy bear’s hide was bunched wide at the shoulders and hung in ragged lengths to brush the snowy ground. The great beast’s head rode the man’s like a hood, its upper jaw intact, yellowed teeth curving downward. Within that grisly headdress glared the grey-bearded, lined and one-eyed face of Old Bear.

Jal stared in amazement and wonder – he even retreated a number of steps to strike his back against the trunk of a spruce. Then he nodded to himself and fury darkened his face. ‘So. It is as everyone thought.’ He called to Orman: ‘Your father struck a pact with the Bloods. A traitor! He served them!’

Stung, Orman came sliding sideways down the rocky treed slope. He hopped fallen trunks and melt-slick rocks, holding Boarstooth high. ‘Say what you will of me,’ he shouted, ‘but do not insult my father’s name! You who cowered in the warmth of your hearthfire while he kept watch!’

‘Conspired with the mountain demons, you mean,’ Jal rumbled darkly. And he waved his contempt, his fingers thick with gold rings.

‘Enough!’ Orman yelled, furious, and he threw Boarstooth. The moment the weapon left his hand he felt a stab of regret. He did not know what he’d intended – to frighten the old man, to wound him – but the instant he loosed he knew the ancient heirloom would fly true.

Jal watched, perhaps in disbelief, as the spear flew high across the stream, then arced downward, tracing a path straight to him. It slammed home, pinning him to the tree where he remained standing, his mouth open, eyes staring wide at the haft where it emerged from his girth.

The hearthguards watched the flight and impact in stunned silence. Then they charged.

Arrows took the nearest two, one in the side, another through the head, giving Orman time to draw his sword. He parried the third – this one cousin Belard – then pommel-smashed him in the face, knocking him flying backwards in a spray of blood.

Old Bear was down from the woods in great bounds, roaring with battle-joy. He knocked aside the swing of a hearthguard with his tall spear then slashed him across the neck. The man fell gurgling and clutching at his throat. Orman’s other cousin, Tomen, backpedalled wildly, splashing through the stream then turning to run.

Two more hearthguards closed on Orman. A thrown hatchet from Gerrun took one, but the other dodged and ducked as he came. An arrow meant for him shattered on a rock. Orman met him, parrying and closing to grapple. Moments later the man jerked as a bloody arrowhead punched through the leathers of his chest, almost reaching Orman. The lad let him fall to the mud and snow, where he curled around the point like a pinned bird.