‘And talking of the goings on in the south, where do your loyalties lie?’ Nothing about Jael’s tone changed, but the hall seemed to quieten, an indrawn breath waiting upon Gramm’s answer.

Gramm looked at Jael with an undecipherable expression. ‘We are a long way from anyone here. Isolated. Priorities change when you live on the edge of the wild. In truth I have little interest in the goings on in Isiltir. Family. Food on my table. Trade. That the giants stay on the north side of the river. Those things are highest on my list. But if a choice had to be made, then I am a man of Isiltir, and my loyalties lie with its King. Of that you need have no doubt.’

‘That is good to know,’ Jael said. ‘I thank you for your honesty.’

‘It’s all a man has,’ Gramm shrugged.

‘Indeed.’

Ulfilas saw a shadow appear at the hall’s open doors: Dag the huntsman. The man nodded to him and then stepped from view.

‘And let me return the favour and be honest with you,’ Jael said to Gramm. ‘It would please me greatly if we could work together.’

‘What do you mean?’ Gramm asked.

‘I need information. If I know where my enemies are hiding, then I can end these dark times that you speak of. We would both benefit.’ Jael stopped eating and stared at Gramm.

‘Hiding?’ Gramm said, pausing as he ripped a chunk of bread from a loaf. Slowly he looked at Jael, returning his gaze.

‘Aye. These northlands are vast, with countless places that a cunning enemy may hide. But you are well placed to hear of them. If you could send me information of the whereabouts, the movements of these brigands that you speak of, it would be helpful information. And I always reward those who are helpful to me.’

Gramm remained silent.

‘There is one in particular that I speak of, who I am searching for,’ Jael continued. ‘One enemy who may be hiding somewhere in these northlands. A boy and a warrior.’

‘They don’t sound so dangerous. Hardly a band of brigands,’ Gramm said with a smile.

‘No, but nevertheless, it is important that they are brought to me. I will catch them. The boy is eleven summers, red hair. The warrior young – no more than twenty summers. A survivor of the Gadrai.’

‘I thought the Gadrai were servants of Isiltir, loyal to the King,’ Gramm asked.

‘Not this one. For the most part the Gadrai fell in Forn Forest, slain in combat with the Hunen. Not as skilled at giant-slaying as their reputation would have you believe.’ Jael chuckled at his joke, as did some of his shieldmen. None of Gramm’s people did.

‘But this one still lives, or did, when Dun Kellen fell. He is a traitor, a renegade. Have you seen anyone matching their description, or heard any news of two such roaming the land.’

‘No,’ Gramm said.