'Damn, Conn, but you are worrying me now. Where are you going?'

'To meet someone I love.' He offered his hand and Govannan shook it. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

The king had left the tent, mounted the grey, Windsong, and ridden off towards the east.

'If he doesn't come we're finished,' said Osta, the words jerking Govannan back to the present. Govannan said nothing.

The fighting on the hillside was ferocious now. Hundreds of Rigante were down. And the Stone advance continued.

Fiallach rode down from the hillside, leading ten thousand Iron Wolves. Slowly they filed across the field, just out of bowshot of the enemy rear, forming up into five well-spaced lines, ready for the charge when the signal came.

The giant Rigante warrior longed to kick his horse into a run, and thunder towards the hated foe, his blade scything through flesh and bone, and it took a great effort of will merely to sit and await Bran's signal. Especially now, with Bran's plan in ruins and hundreds of Rigante warriors being cut down by the advancing square.

Fiallach stared with undisguised malevolence at the enemy bowmen. Not one shaft had been loosed, and that meant the charge would take place under a rain of death, horses falling, men being trampled under iron-shod hooves. The horses' breasts were covered by chain mail, but necks, heads and legs were open to attack. The big man eased his shield from his left arm, hooking it over the high pommel of his saddle. His son, Finnigal, moved alongside. The boy shouldn't have been here, but Vorna had healed him well, and he had insisted on riding beside his father. Fiallach scratched his silver-streaked beard. 'Not long now,' he said.

Finnigal removed his helm, running his fingers through his hair. 'The losses will be fearful,' he said. 'We'll be riding into an iron-tipped hailstorm.'

'Aye–and we'll ride through it,' said Fiallach grimly. 'This is the moment I have waited half my life for, to destroy once and for all the myth of Stone. And we will, boy.'

'Where is the king?' asked Finnigal, echoing the question in every man's mind.

'He'll be here, don't you fret about that. You think Connavar would miss this battle?'

'He's missed it so far,' muttered Finnigal.

Fiallach did not respond. The king's absence was a mystery, and a worrying one at that. Many men had seen Connavar ride from the camp. By the evening Fiallach had sought out Bran, but he had no idea where his brother had gone. All he could say was that he and Conn had worked on a strategy, and Conn had left the camp in mid-afternoon. Fiallach had then spoken to Govannan, who told him of the conversation earlier, when Connavar had said he was going to meet someone he loved.