And she doesn’t even look to be sweating.

‘That dog should be dead,’ Trigg commented matter-of-factly. ‘And you killed the biggest rat I’ve ever caught. Could’ve made me rich, that rat.’

Haelan glanced at Trigg’s belt, at the axe that hung there.

Swain’s axe, which I used to kill the rat.

A fresh wave of guilt rose up in him at the thought of Swain. His friend, taken by Jael. Because of me.

Gramm had raged like a madman when Jael had led his warband from the hold, taking Swain and his sister Sif with him. Gramm had grabbed a long-handled axe and hacked away at the feast-hall wall. No one had tried to stop him, just watching Gramm until his arms had drooped with exhaustion. It had taken a long time. Just before sunset Wulf had ridden in at the head of thirty men, the patrol that travelled daily the boundary of their land. One look at his wife Hild and Gramm and the colour had drained from his face.

That night Gramm had summoned the entire hold into the feast-hall, more than two hundred souls. Around eighty of those were warriors, men who walked the hold’s wall, patrolled Gramm’s land, kept out predators from Forn and bandits from the lawless lands round about. The rest were those who worked the lifeblood of the hold – timber and horses, as well as all that went along with it, smiths and tanners, leatherworkers and weavers and trappers. And most had families, wives and bairns. Even so the hall had been silent when Gramm spoke.

‘Two of my grandchildren were taken from me this day,’ he had said. Hild started sobbing again, Wulf sitting straight-backed and red-eyed beside her.

‘Taken by a tyrant. An evil man who would rule us because he can.’ Grumbling had rippled around the room at that.

‘And I could have my grandchildren back, if I would do but one thing.’ He had beckoned to Haelan, called him to his side. Haelan had stood with eyes downcast.

‘If I hand this boy over to Jael, I get my grandchildren back, and gold besides.’ Silence had settled again. Gramm let it stretch, looking around the hall slowly, at every face there.

‘I’ll not do it. It’s wrong, simple as that. You all know who this lad is. Haelan, rightful heir to Isiltir’s throne.’ There had been no point trying to hide that information, as Haelan had announced himself, full title and all, upon his arrival at Gramm’s hold in front of a full feast-hall. In hindsight, not the most sensible thing to do. But Gramm had been adamant that none would betray him. These people are closer than kin to me. None would betray you, for betraying you they would be betraying me.