Itkovian dismounted, his companions following suit. Children appeared to take the reins of the three horses and the beasts were led away.

The elders, led by the spokeswoman, set off down the camp’s main path, to a large yurt at the far end. The entrance was flanked by two Barghast warriors. The old woman hissed at them and both men retreated.

Itkovian, the recruit and the captain followed the elders into the yurt’s interior.

‘Rare is the man who comes to this place,’ the spokeswoman said as she hobbled to the other side of the central hearth and lowered herself onto a bundle of furs.

‘I am honoured—’

‘Don’t be!’ she replied with a cackle. ‘You would have to beat a warrior senseless and drag him, and even then it’s likely his brothers and friends would attack you before you reached the entrance. You, a young man, are among old women, and there is nothing in the world more perilous!’

‘But look at him!’ another woman cried. ‘He has no fear!’

‘The hearth of his soul is nothing but ashes,’ a third sniffed.

‘Even so,’ the first woman retorted, ‘with what he now seeks, he would promise a firestorm to a frozen forest. Togctha and Farand, the lovers lost to each other for eternity, the winter hearts that howl in the deep fastnesses of Laederon and beyond – we have all heard those mournful cries, in our dreams. Have we not? They come closer – only not from the north, oh no, not the north. And now, this man.’ She leaned forward, lined face indistinct behind the hearth’s smoke. ‘This man ...’

The last words were a sigh.

Itkovian drew a deep breath, then gestured to the recruit. ‘The Mortal Sword—’

‘No,’ the old woman growled.

The Shield Anvil faltered. ‘But—’

‘No,’ she repeated. ‘He has been found. He exists. It is already done. Look at her hands, Wolf. There is too much caring in them. She shall be the Destriant.’

‘Are you – are you certain of this?’

The old woman nodded towards the captain. ‘And this one,’ she continued, ignoring Itkovian’s question, ‘she is to be what you were. She will accept the burden – you, Wolf, have shown her all she must know. The truth of that is in her eyes, and in the love she holds for you. She would be its answer, in kind, in blood. She shall be the Shield Anvil.’

The other elders were nodding agreement, their eyes glittering in the gloom above beaked noses – as if a murder of crows now faced Itkovian.

He slowly turned to Captain Norul. The veteran looked stricken.

She faced him. ‘Sir, what—’