A sound filled the silence, a distant rumble. Heads turned, staring northwards to see Glyn and a hundred warriors riding out of the tattered fringes of the Baglun. Then an older warrior with rust-coloured hair spilling from an iron helm was shouting, giving orders to those on the hill. They retreated, heading southwards. Before Evnis knew what he was doing his feet were moving and he was running, up the hill, wading through the long grass. Voices called after him but he ignored them, eyes fixed on the back of his fleeing son.

Behind him the rumble of his approaching warband was growing louder, but not loud enough to reach him in the next hundred heartbeats. For a moment he considered stopping, retreating, the sensible part of his mind screaming at him to listen, but then he caught another glimpse of Vonn, staring back at him briefly.

He drew his sword and carried on.

Two warriors came at him, and a small thread of fear squirmed through his belly. In a few heartbeats he appraised them – both younger men, lean and hungry for glory, their armour consisting of little more than leather vests and thick armbands, whereas Evnis wore a coat of mail that hung almost to his knees. It was making him sweat but he was glad of it.

They probably do not know who I am, or more of them would have turned to take my head. I am a fool. He started to regret his decision.

One came straight at him, the other circling to his left. Evnis blocked an overhead blow, deflecting it so that his opponent’s swing pulled him off balance. Evnis turned his block into a cut, one of the first moves he’d been taught in the Rowan Field, and to his surprise he felt his blade connect. It cut into the back of his opponent, not deep, the leather vest taking the brunt of the blow, but nevertheless there was blood on Evnis’ blade and he felt a rush of elation. The young warrior stumbled forwards.

I will do this.