Temper inhaled. Cold air jarred his teeth. His chest expanded, fell, rose again. Light returned to his vision, blurred at first then clearing: once more he watched clouds massed before the frigid stars of a night sky.

Someone spoke from beyond his vision, saying dryly: ‘You’re a very stubborn man.’

Groaning, he turned his head. A man hooded in ash-pale robes sat above him on a stone block. Temper wet his lips, croaked, ‘Who in Fener’s own shit are you?’

‘I would ask you the same question but believe I have my answer.’ The man hefted an object: Temper’s helmet. He turned it in his gloved hands as if critiquing the workmanship.

Temper moaned, let his head fall back.

‘My people saw your duel with Rood. They were impressed. They, ah, intervened and fetched you here.’

Temper experimentally raised his right arm. He studied the hand, rubbed his eyes. ‘Rood?’

‘The Hound of Shadow. You surprised him. Too much easy prey recently, I should think.’

Temper attempted to sit up, groaned again. He wondered: how does one intervene against a demon like that?

‘I had them heal you – after I saw this.’ He tapped the helmet. ‘A very unusual design.’

The helmet thumped onto his stomach. With a gasp, Temper sat up.

The man stood. ‘You should get rid of it. Too distinctive.’

Temper grimaced. ‘It’s the only damned one I’ve got. And the question still stands: who are you?’

The man ignored him. He studied something in the distance then waved him up. ‘Time is short. Suffice it to say that we have a common enemy in the Claws.’

Temper grunted at that. He carefully pushed himself upright. He examined his arms and wondered at the flesh made whole beneath the broken iron links and shredded leather under-padding. Forced healing of this magnitude stunned him. It was unheard of. He should be prostrate in shock, his body convinced he was crippled, if not dead. What had they done to him? At his side lay all his weapons and both gauntlets, one mangled and in tatters. He re-girt himself, hissing and wincing at limbs stiff and numb, shocking jolts of pain from every joint. The man merely watched, his face disguised in darkness.

They stood in Mossy Tors, a glade the town had encroached on as it grew inland. Temper spotted others, male or female, clothed in the same shapeless robes standing guard among the birch copses and jumbled stones. ‘Well, whoever you are,’ he grudgingly admitted, ‘you’re out in force.’

‘Yes. This night is ours. We control the island two or three nights every century’

Temper tried to get a glimpse into the shadows within the man’s hood. There was something very odd about his accent. But it was as if the cowl was empty. That shook him: too reminiscent of the Claws . . . and his dream.