Braefar shivered at the memory as he recalled the wild, terrifying ride to flee the battlefield. Yes, he had been frightened out of his wits, but that was also the fault of Connavar, for his brother had never offered him the chance to fight in battle. Had he done so, Braefar would have learned to overcome his fears. Well, he had overcome them now. He was waiting here, with Guern and his warriors, to kill Connavar.

To kill Connavar! The thought shook him.

All his life – until the last few years – he had worshipped his brother. Most of the mistakes he made – though not entirely his fault – had come about by trying too hard to please him. 'I loved you, Conn,' he whispered.

He relaxed as he realized that Conn would never ride in alone to meet Guern. He would know it was a trap. He will send Fiallach and a score of Iron Wolves to arrest us all. Braefar knew what he would say when he was brought before the king. 'So, Conn, you did not have the courage to meet us as we asked. Perhaps you are not such a hero after all, sending your Wolves where you did not dare to go.' It would be worth banishment just to say that phrase in front of Connavar's generals. Then he would head south and join Jasaray.

Guern called out to him. 'Here he comes!'

Braefar's heart sank. On the far hillside he saw a single rider on a white horse, the sinking sun turning his armour to gold.

'Oh no!' whispered Braefar. He scanned the hills for sign of the accompanying Iron Wolves, but slowly, as the rider approached, he realized he was alone. 'Oh, Conn, why did you come?' he said.

Connavar the King rode into the circle. He was wearing a winged helm of bright silver, a breastplate embossed with the Fawn in Brambles crest of his House, and the famous patchwork cloak. At his side was the legendary Seidh sword, with its hilt of gold. His full-faced battle helm was upon the pommel of his saddle. The king dismounted and walked forward. He did not look at Braefar, who slunk back into the shadows of the stones.

Guern stepped forward. 'Come and join us, Connavar. Let us talk of a new peace.'

'You have not asked me here to talk,' said Connavar, drawing his sword and resting the blade on the rocky ground, his hands on the golden pommel. 'You have asked me here to die. Come then, traitors. I am here. And I am alone.'

The eight men around the campfire had stood as the king rode in. Now they drew their swords and formed a half circle around the golden warrior facing them. Despite their numerical advantage they were reluctant to attack. This was not a mere man facing them. This was Connavar, the Demonblade, the warrior king who had never tasted defeat.