Rafe trekked along an old fox trail that wound through green meadows. He was a league or so north of Dun Taras, the fortress a dark shadow on the horizon behind him. A ten-night had passed since he’d returned with Conall and Braith. Word of Halion’s capture and imprisonment had spread and, within days, the unrest had begun again. It seemed there was a rebellious element that wanted Halion as king, rather than Conall. Grain barns had been burned, the camp of Veradis and his eagle-warriors had been vandalized, and last night an attempt had been made to rescue Halion. It had failed, but the mood in the fortress was grim and Rafe had decided he needed a break from politics, people and stone walls, to be somewhere green, with only sky above him.

So here he was. The plains to the north of Dun Taras reminded him of Ardan, an undulating landscape of wood and meadow. As he walked he thought of his days back home with his da, when they would head out on hunting trips with just a small bag with rope, flint and tinder, some bread and cheese, never enough to last the duration of their outing – You’ll have to catch us something to eat, Rafe my lad, his da would always say to him, else we’ll starve to death – and slowly but surely his da had taught him the way of the wild. How to track anything that moved, to read the signs, to be cunning, patient when necessary, and fast as a striking adder as well.

Out of habit he’d packed a bag just as his da had taught him. He liked the weight of it across his shoulder, familiar as the weight of a knife on his belt.

I miss my da.

And now he’s dead. Ripped apart by that devil-wolven, Corban’s pet. I hate them both. He looked at the landscape around him, imagined hunting them through it, wearing them down, eventually forcing them to turn at bay. And then he would kill them. The wolven first, so Corban could watch. And then Corban, in a repeat of their Court of Swords in the feast-hall of Dun Carreg. Except this time Rafe would win. He cheated. Lunged at me before I was ready. It’ll be different this time. And in his mind it was, Corban begging for mercy before Rafe slowly pushed his blade home, into Corban’s heart.

He was smiling when one of the hounds started barking.

He’d brought Scratcher and Sniffer out of habit. He saw Scratcher’s hind end disappear into a cluster of shrub, saw the familiar streak of a hare as it burst from the far side of the undergrowth, weaving across an open meadow, leaping a narrow stream. Sniffer went around the shrub that Scratcher was wading through and was bounding after the hare in great, ground-eating strides.