The nearest of Raal’s allies were attempting to move unseen through the Tulla Hills, just beyond the Old Forest. These units were his destination. Hunn Raal had scant faith in Captain Silann, but at least Esthala and Risp were there. Once Renth had delivered his message he would swing back, crossing the Dorssan Ryl once more, and then head northward to find the other units.

Mid-morning found him riding at a slow canter along the road that wound through the hills. His eyes were grainy from lack of sleep, but he would push on regardless. He had met no one since leaving the Old Forest.

He caught the sudden attention from his horse – the ears flicking forward – and looked up to see a small figure on the track ahead. A boy, filthy with mud, standing as if waiting for him.

Perhaps some brat from the Deniers said to be living in these hills. Scowling, Renth gestured the boy from his path as he drew closer.

But the boy remained where he was, in the centre of the road.

‘What is this?’ Renth demanded, reining in. ‘Do you wish to be run down? Get away!’

‘I am named Orfantal,’ said the boy, ‘of the House Korlas, and I claim the right of protection.’

‘Highborn?’ Renth snorted. ‘That I doubt.’

‘I was being escorted to the Citadel,’ the boy said. ‘But we were waylaid. Everyone else died.’

‘A highborn would be better protected than—’ He caught a flicker from the boy’s eyes and then something punched through the chain shirt he was wearing, stabbing under his right arm. Sudden cold slid between his ribs, from which fire erupted. A hand took hold of his weapon belt and dragged him down from the saddle. Flailing, trying to push away from that blade buried in him, Renth fell to the ground.

He couldn’t speak. Strength left him in a rush. He stared up into the face of an old man, a face twisted with venom, though the eyes, fixed on his own, were empty as pits into the Abyss itself.

‘For Haral,’ he heard the man say, twisting the blade before tugging it back out.

The effort jolted Renth’s body, but the motion seemed to have nothing to do with him. Haral? I know no one named Haral. He wanted to tell the man that. He wanted to explain the mistake that had been made, but nothing came from his mouth except blood. Hot, tasting of the iron that had taken his life. Bewildered and hurt, he closed his eyes for the last time.

* * *

Orfantal stared in horror, and when he saw Gripp spit into the dead man’s face, coldness filled his insides, and he knew it for the flood of fear. The old man had said they needed a horse. Because they were being hunted and people wanted to kill them both.