Balur and the other giant tugged on the ropes they were holding, each one looped over a branch of the tree they were standing beneath. The same rope had lain slack upon the ground beneath the two trees. Now it shot into the air, pulling up beneath it half a hundred cloaks that Corban, Brina and Cywen had stitched together the previous night. This wall of cloaks appeared in the air so fast and sudden that it appeared to be magic, a sorcerous barrier between Craf and the hawk.

With a thud the hawk crashed into the cloaks, almost tore through them, its speed so great. The giants let go of their ropes and the huge tapestry of fabric tumbled to the ground, dragging the hawk with it. There was a powerful flapping of wings as the hawk tried to right itself. It spun in the air, wings beating furiously, scraped the ground and rolled. For a moment it stood upon the ground, then its wings unfolded, beat once and it lifted off.

An arrow slammed into a wing, spinning it, sending it crashing back to the ground. Corban glanced back, saw Dath reaching for another arrow. Coralen stood beside him, her own bow bent. Her arrow pierced the hawk’s body, and another from Dath impaled the bird to the ground. It screeched, shuddering.

There was the sound of beating wings again. Craf glided down onto the dying hawk, pinning it with his talons. Even now the hawk’s beak lashed out, trying to strike Craf, but there was no power and Craf brushed off the blow. He raised his head and struck down with his own beak, straight into the hawk’s head. Again and again. When he stopped the hawk lay still.

‘For Fech,’ Craf squawked, looking up, his beak dripping red.

‘For Fech,’ Corban echoed.

Cheers rang out behind him.

Corban walked into the trees, Storm at his side. Dimly he was aware of Jehar standing guard, a shadow too straight here, a movement there. He sat with his back to a tree, Storm curling at his feet. It had been good, taking Kartala out of the skies, and the relief that Craf had not been hurt was a physical thing. The whole warband had celebrated a little, as much as was possible whilst in the heartland of their enemy, anyway, and broken out the last few barrels of mead left from the battle in the north. Now, though, Corban had a headache and he just wanted to be alone for a while, away from the questions.

Footsteps sounded, soft on the woodland litter. It was Meical. He sat beside Corban.

‘To Ardan and Edana, then,’ Meical said to him.

I thought I’d got away too lightly with it.