Banouin was not tired, and sat quietly by the fire, feeding it with dry sticks and watching the flames leap and dance. The incident with the robbers had left him both disappointed and dejected. It had shown how far he was from being a Rigante warrior. Not once had he even considered drawing the hunting knife at his belt. He had been paralysed with fear, and within moments of begging for his life.

He glanced down at the sleeping Bane. His arrival had surprised them, but it was his confidence that had cowed them. It seemed to Banouin that his friend had radiated power and purpose. You ought to be a leader of men, he thought, not a Wolfshead, living outside the law.

And yet, Banouin knew, Bane's whole life had been moving inexorably towards this point. Beneath the easy banter, behind the reckless smile, there was a bottomless well of bitterness and anger that drove him on, rebelling against authority, creating enemies who could so easily have been friends.

Was it merely the lack of a father, Banouin wondered, or would his friend have been just the same regardless? Who could tell?

Banouin's thoughts swung to Forvar, the boy who had tormented him for most of his life. He had not hated him. Forvar's father and two uncles had been killed in the Battle of Cogden Field – killed by soldiers of Stone. Banouin understood how the boy had come to despise Stone and everything connected with it. Forvar did not truly hate Banouin, but Banouin represented a focal point for his hatred. By hounding and torturing Banouin he was releasing his own pent-up pain and sense of loss.

Understanding, however, did not help. It did not ease the suffering. Banouin had tried talking to Forvar, but his mind was closed, his hatred overwhelming.

Two years ago it had come to a head. Banouin had been walking in the hills near the Wishing Tree woods when Forvar and a group of his friends had come walking back from the Riguan Falls, where they had been swimming. Seeing Banouin they had chased him, yelling and whooping. Banouin had fled back towards Three Streams, but he was not a fast runner and they overhauled him. They had beaten and kicked him. Then, as he lay semi-conscious on the ground, Forvar had drawn a knife. Banouin remembered the moment, and the sense of sick dread that had swept over him. He had looked into Forvar's tortured eyes and known, without any semblance of doubt, that the big youth was about to plunge the blade into his heart.