He felt a presence behind him: Edana, trying to peer over his shoulder.

‘You should get back,’ Camlin whispered.

She ignored him.

Riders thundered into view, spreading around the edges of the market square. No horse wants to stand on a corpse. Camlin counted sixty, but he could hear more beyond his vision, hooves thumping on the hard-packed earth.

The warrior at their head sat tall in his saddle with an easy grace about him. He was clothed in a shirt of gleaming mail and a black leather surcoat, a sable cloak draping his shoulders.

‘Morcant,’ Edana whispered venomously.

Camlin shared her hatred, remembering the last time he had seen the man. Back in the Darkwood Morcant had led the ambush on Queen Alona, Edana’s mam. Both of them had been taken prisoner, as well as Cywen, Corban’s sister. Soon after, Morcant had ordered Cywen’s death, and that had been the last straw for Camlin. He’d drawn his sword and stood in front of her.

What kind of fool am I, standing against Rhin’s first-sword? Even now he couldn’t explain exactly why he’d done it.

‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he whispered.

‘He’s evil.’

‘I know. But let’s live long enough to kill him and tell the tale.’

Edana glared, then gave a sharp nod.

Morcant turned. Camlin saw him take a deep breath and wrinkle his nose.

‘Let’s make this quick,’ Morcant said to the warrior beside him. ‘I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. Bring them up.’ He paused, looking across the square to the roundhouse. ‘Where are the guards I left?’

Camlin wrapped one of the cloaks about his shoulders, threw one to Baird and the two of them stepped into the roundhouse doors. Camlin raised a hand to Morcant.

‘Ah,’ Morcant said. He stared a moment, but then another rider appeared, leading a line of half a dozen riders by a rope, men and women with hands bound sitting upon them. Prisoners.

‘Look around you,’ Morcant said to them, languidly gesturing with a hand to the corpse-strewn ground. ‘This is what happens when I am defied. This could happen in your village too.’ He tapped his heels against his mount, guided it through the dead to the gallows, where he pushed at the body of one of the hanging bairns. It spun lazily in the fading sun. ‘Men, women, children. I will spare no one.’

One of the villagers on horseback bent over and vomited.

Morcant’s horse picked its way back to them.

‘It doesn’t have to be like this. All you have to do is tell me. Where are the outlaws based?’

‘We don’t know,’ one of the prisoners said, a white-haired woman. ‘We are peaceful people, we want no trouble.’