It regarded Corban calmly, head cocked to one side.

‘So you are Meical’s puppet,’ it growled, startling Corban. Its voice was unsteady, a basal rumble that seemed too deep for the throat it issued from.

Corban tried to raise his sword, but it was suddenly so heavy. Too heavy. It slipped from his fingers. The strength was fading from his limbs, leaking from him, a great lethargy seeping through him.

So much for everyone’s hopes of me being the Bright Star. Is this what dying feels like? At least I’ll get to see Mam again.

There was an impact, a crunch that he felt shudder through his body and he saw sharp teeth sink into the Kadoshim’s neck and shoulder.

Storm, he realized, distantly.

The Kadoshim was spun around as Storm tried to drag it off Corban, but it would not release its grip on Corban’s throat. Then there was another impact – this one accompanied by what sounded like wet wood being split as an axe-blade hacked through the Kadoshim’s wrist, severing it completely.

Corban crashed to the ground, his weak legs folding beneath him. He looked up to see Tukul wrestling with the Kadoshim, Storm tearing at the creature’s leg. Then someone else was there, sword a blur, and the Kadoshim’s head was spiralling through the air.

Its body sank to the ground, feet drumming on the turf as a black vapour in the shape of great wings poured from it, eyes like glowing coals regarding them with insatiable malice for a moment before a breeze tugged it apart. A wail of anguish lingered in the air.

Gar stood over Corban, reaching to pull him upright.

‘You have to take their heads,’ Gar said.

‘I remember now,’ Corban croaked.

‘Remember earlier next time.’

Corban nodded, massaging his throat. He touched his warrior torc, felt a bend in the metal.

This must have stopped it from crushing my throat.

The battle was all but done. The grey of first dawn had crept over them as they fought, and by it Corban saw a handful of giants pinning the last Kadoshim to the ground, Balur standing over the creature. His axe swung and then the mist-figure was forming in the air, screeching its rage as it departed the world of flesh.

There was the silent, relief-filled moment that comes at the end of battle. Corban paused, just glad to still be alive, the fear and tension of combat draining from him. He could see it in those around him, the shift and relaxing of muscle in bodies, a change on their faces, a gratitude shared. Then they were moving again.

As dawn rose they gathered their dead, laying them out along the stream bank next to the cairn they’d finished building just yesterday. Corban stood and stared at the pile of rocks they’d dragged from the stream.

My mam is in there, beneath those rocks.

A tear rolled down Corban’s cheek as grief and exhaustion welled in his belly, swelling into his chest, taking his breath away. He heard a whine: Storm, pressing her muzzle into his hand. It was crusted with dried blood.