Praise for

‘This has everything you want from an epic fantasy adventure – devious Gods, hideous monsters, a portal to another dimension and a hero with an enchanted blade. Great stuff’

Charlie Higson, author of the Young Bond series

‘Fans of Rick Riordan and John Flanagan have a whole new world of dark magic, mysterious gods and brave heroes waiting for them’

Sebastien de Castell, author of the Spellslinger series

‘A razor-sharp, spellbinding read full of intrigue and magic. This tale truly takes the crown as the young heir to the likes of A Game of Thrones and Throne of Glass’

Chris Bradford, author of the Young Samurai series

‘The world of Strom is rich with peril, political intrigue, conspiracies and betrayals … Why aren’t you reading this already?’

Sarwat Chadda, author of the Ash Mistry Chronicles series

‘An epic dark fantasy set in an arcane world where kings are murdered, monsters roam and ordinary boys are given extraordinary gifts’

Mark Walden, author of the H.I.V.E series

‘A powerful, compelling story in a world that stays with you’

Angie Sage, author of the Septimus Heap series

To Zoe.

Here’s to a new adventure.

But without the swords, I hope!

Books by Steve Feasey

Mutant City

Mutant Rising

Dark Blade

Prologue

A Gift

Lae Fetlanger awoke with a start. Sitting up, she looked around the room, trying to work out what had pulled her from the deep sleep she’d been in. The remaining embers in the fire still glowed enough to suggest there were a few hours until dawn. Even so, she could make out little in the darkness of her bedroom. Lae turned her head towards the shadowy shape of her husband lying beside her, wondering if his snoring had caused her sudden awakening, but Gord’s breathing was shallow and even.

A noise outside – a cry – made her pulse quicken, the sound rekindling fragments of the dream she’d been having. Living on a remote cattle farm, Lae was used to the noises of wild animals beyond the safety of her wooden walls, and on any other occasion she might have dismissed this as just that: the screech of a mating fox or a winter owl perhaps. But not tonight.

She wrapped a blanket about herself, the rough wool itchy against her skin, and made her way through the farmhouse. The front door groaned in protest as she pushed it open into the darkness, and she caught her breath as the icy air rushed in.

She’d no sooner set foot outside when she heard the cry again. There was no doubt in her mind now that it was the plaintive call of a baby, and she hurried in the direction of the barn where the noise was coming from, ignoring the harsh bite of the cold ground beneath her bare feet.