Cywen must be up there. As soon as he’d heard the news of this warband’s approach Veradis had suspected that Cywen must be with them. He had asked Rhin before he had thought.

‘I do not know,’ Rhin had said, regarding him with a puckered frown.

The next time she’d told him of a message from Calidus she had walked away, paused at the doorway and told him that Cywen lived, had been taken by Corban and his companions during battle in the halls of Murias.

Veradis had been surprised at the relief he’d felt to hear that she was still alive.

Corban found her. Rescued her. And she is up on that hillside now. I hope her brother tells her to stay out of this battle, or she’s likely to get herself killed. He chuckled at that, the thought of Cywen taking orders from anyone, even the Black Sun, seeming like an impossibility.

His feet hit the beginnings of the slope, a gentle incline. Behind him he heard the rumble of hooves, neighing, sporadic battle-cries as men summoned their courage.

Still there was no movement from above. He’d expected a charge. Everywhere he’d fought, warriors attacked in the same way. The old way. A wild surge with the blood up, then the singling out of opponents, the distilling of battle down into single duels, the winner moving on to find his next opponent, the loser food for crows. And so on, until the battle was done.

Not us. The shield wall had torn apart all that came against it. Except a charge of draigs, and a stampede of auroch. Here, though, it is against men and giants we fight. We will not lose.

He felt his heartbeat thumping in his chest, his mouth dry, palms sweaty, and everything seeming enhanced, sharper. The grating of iron-rimmed shields as they rubbed together in the advance, the smell of grass wet with dew underfoot, the sound of wood pigeons complaining as they abandoned branches nearby. This was the precursor to combat, the process his body went through before imminent violence. He was almost used to it now, even welcomed it. He loved the simplicity of battle. All the doubt of the night’s march was gone, as if evaporated by the rising sun. He felt alert, confident, focussed.

This war will be won today.

They were a third of the way up the hill now, the first fires a hundred paces away. Still no movement. The hairs on Veradis’ neck prickled, his eyes searching over the rim of his shield for the enemy. For any sign of movement.

Something is wrong.