Cots lined the walls, covered by rough woollen blankets, boots, breeches, and cloaks. A long table ran down the centre of the room, cups and plates scattered upon it. Axes and great two-man saws were all about, and there were racks of water skins, gloves, other work tools. Men live here. Woodcutters. Question is, where are they now?

It came to him quickly – Jerolin and the arena. It’s a big day – celebrations and games to mark Lykos being wed to Fidele.

He quickly grabbed cloaks from pegs, woollen shirts, breeches, some cheese and mutton, water skins and a roll of twine, stuffing them all into an empty bag he’d found.

There was a groan; a blanket shifted on a cot in the corner of the room. A figure sat up – a man, rubbing his eyes.

In heartbeats Maquin had crossed the room and had his knife held to the stranger’s throat, his eyes drawn to the man’s beard, the iron rings binding it.

He is Vin Thalun. A rage bubbled up, threatening to consume him.

‘Please, no—’ the man gasped.

Can’t kill him here – too much blood. His friends will be onto us as soon as they return.

‘Up,’ Maquin ordered.

Slowly the man stood, eyes flickering to the sheathed sword hanging over the cot.

‘Don’t,’ Maquin grunted, kicking the back of the man’s leg, sending him tumbling away from the cot. He slung the sword and belt over one shoulder.

‘Why are you here? Not at the arena?’ Maquin asked as the Vin Thalun climbed to his feet.

He glowered at Maquin. ‘Someone has to stand guard; Lykos’ orders. I pulled the short straw.’

‘Outside,’ Maquin ordered and followed his prisoner out of the door, directing him behind the cabin, into the trees. It was twilight; the world was slipping into degrees of shadow. Maquin dropped his bundle of provisions. ‘On your knees, hands behind your head,’ he grunted.

The Vin Thalun lunged forwards, turning as he moved, reaching for Maquin’s knife arm.

Maquin was too quick for him, sidestepping, slashing at the warrior’s hand, his blade coming away red. He barrelled forwards, the Vin Thalun somehow managing to grip his wrist. Maquin head-butted him, blood spurting from the Vin Thalun’s nose. He staggered and dropped to the ground.

Time for you to die.

The Vin Thalun must have read the thought in Maquin’s eyes, and he began to plead.

Undergrowth rustled and Fidele stepped out from amongst the trees.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ Maquin said.

‘You’ve been gone a long time. I was starting to worry.’

That felt strange – someone caring whether he lived or died. ‘Found someone in the cabin. You should look away.’

‘I’ve seen the colour of blood before. And he’s Vin Thalun,’ she snarled, looking at the rings in his beard. ‘I’d be happy to watch you slaughter a whole nation of them.’

‘All right then,’ Maquin grunted.

‘I can tell you where they are,’ the warrior blurted as Maquin stepped close, knife moving.