Banouin's mouth was dry as he slowly rose from the water's edge and turned. Three men were emerging from the trees – tough, grim-faced men. They wore no cloaks. Their clothes were ragged, their breeches poorly crafted from buckskin. All wore swords and knives. Banouin struggled to contain his fear.

'Good day to you,' he said.

The first of the three approached him. His left eye socket was empty and Banouin saw that three fingers were missing from his left hand. In that moment he experienced his first vision. He saw the man running into battle, swinging an iron sword. He was wearing the green and blue chequered cloak of the Rigante. An arrow struck the bridge of his nose, cutting through his eye. He stumbled, but then ran on at the enemy.

'Who are you?' asked the man, his voice deep and unfriendly.

'I am a Rigante, like you,' said Banouin. 'I am from Three Streams.'

'I am not Rigante,' said the man. 'I am a Cast-out. A Wolfshead.'

'You fought bravely at Cogden Field. Why would they throw you out?'

The man looked surprised. 'You know me? No, you are too young to remember Cogden.'

'I'll take the tunic,' said the second man, a hulking figure with a thick, matted black beard. Banouin glanced at him. The man's face was flat and expressionless, his small eyes deep-set and cold.

'Why should you get the tunic?' asked the third man, who was smaller, with a thin, wispy blond moustache. 'It'll be far too small for you.'

'I'll sell it,' said Black Beard. 'You can have the breeches and boots.'

'Why are you doing this?' asked Banouin, fighting to keep his voice calm.

The one-eyed man stepped in close. 'Because we are robbers, idiot. Now remove your clothing, and perhaps we'll let you live.'

Banouin looked into the man's single eye and saw no pity there. His legs started to tremble, and he felt just as he had when Forvar tied him to the tree. His heart beat wildly, and he hoped his bladder would not betray him. 'You will not let me live,' he said. 'You intend to kill me, but you do not wish my blood upon the clothes, nor cuts through the cloth. What kind of men are you?'

'Scum of the worst kind,' said a voice. Startled, the men spun to see a golden-haired warrior leading a dappled grey horse through the trees. Dropping the reins he drew a longsword from a scabbard attached to the saddle and strolled forward.

'Don't fight them, Bane,' pleaded Banouin. 'Just let them go.'

'You don't change, do you?' said the warrior amiably. 'Always soft-hearted. We can't just let them go. What about the next traveller who passes this way? We'll be dooming him. These creatures are vermin. They should be treated as such.'