‘No, they were not. And thanks to you, they won’t be back, to this world or any other.’ Fleya took a moment to study her nephew, thinking how much older he seemed; he had changed a great deal in such a short period of time. Although Lann had asked the question, this was not the first time Fleya had pondered the circumstances surrounding the creatures’ appearance in the wood. First a wyrewolf and now kurgyres had appeared in Lann’s vicinity, and she now suspected they had come here to kill him, and that Gord, and now herself, had merely been unlucky victims. Not wanting to scare her nephew, however, for now at least, she decided to keep her theories to herself. ‘The god Rakur also told me how we might find this young necromancer,’ she said.

‘He told you where Kelewulf is?’

‘Oh, come now. Do you really think the trickster god would come right out and tell me the location? No … but he did tell me who might know.’

There was something in the way she said this that told him she was already worried about whatever lay ahead. He waited.

‘King Mirvar’s son, Erik, is the key. He is in prison for his father’s murder, but I believe that Kelewulf is the real killer. We have to go to Stromgard and prove his innocence.’ Fleya stood. She moved towards the front door and picked up the large bag she kept next to it.

‘That sounds straightforward.’ Lann looked over at her, noting how she was checking the contents. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

‘Rakur also told me we only have five days in which to save the new king. Two of these have already been wasted during my recovery. We must leave for Stromgard today.’

Stromgard

11

Erik Rivengeld looked across at the big, sleek rat sitting in the middle of the prison cell they both occupied. The creature used its front paws to comb its face, before turning its attention back to the morsel of bread that had fallen to the floor.

Why, rat, with all the other places in Stromgard you could be, would you choose to be here? Erik thought. He had no such choice. He had to either remain in this desolate prison, or else admit to something he had not done, and pay with his life.

Murder.

The word was bad enough. It had a nasty sound to it. And the particular murder he was accused of was the most heinous of all.

Patricide. Regicide.

A sob escaped him. The desperation he felt threatened to crush him, but he could not allow that. He could not give in to despair and self-pity. Not now. Taking a deep, shuddering breath he imagined what his father would say to him right now.

Don’t you cry, boy. You are a Volken prince.

No, not a prince; not any more. He was a Volken king. A harsh, humourless bark escaped him.