‘Speak, giant-slayer,’ Ildaer grated, ‘and the hurt will end.’ He pulled his arm back for another blow.

‘NO!’ someone screamed from behind them. At the same time something whistled past Ulfilas’ ear and slammed into Ildaer. The giant staggered forwards a step and dropped to one knee, a single-bladed axe buried in his back, high, between his shoulder and spine.

Ulfilas turned and saw a man running at them, pulling another axe from a strap on his back. He was wrapped in fur and leather, with dark hair and eyes, body knotted with thick muscle.

Gramm’s son, Wulf.

Wulf threw the second axe as he ran, this one at Ulfilas, but his warriors were moving protectively about him. One stepped in front of Ulfilas, at the same time raising his shield. He was too slow and took the axe in the face, collapsing in a twitching ruin.

Ulfilas snarled and drew his sword, beside him Ildaer plucking the axe from his back and calling out in giantish, his bear moving to him.

Other warriors converged on Wulf, two reaching him at the same time. Wulf ducked, a sword and another smaller axe in his hand. He hamstrung the first warrior with his axe, slit his throat as he fell, swirled around the next one, burying his sword in the man’s belly, ripping it free as his momentum carried him on, eyes fixed on Ulfilas. He was thirty paces away, powered on, blocked a sword blow with his blade, buried his axe in a neck. Fifteen paces away.

Ulfilas felt a ripple of fear, welcomed it as an old friend, set his feet and lifted his blade.

Then someone crashed into Wulf, one of Ulfilas’ men, wrestling him to the ground, another appearing, clubbing him across the back with a spear-butt. More swarmed upon him.

‘Don’t kill him,’ Ulfilas yelled as Ildaer strode over, blood streaming from the wound in his back, tossing Wulf’s axe away as if it were a child’s plaything. He grabbed a fistful of Wulf’s hair and dragged him to the feast-hall steps, lifting him to look in his eyes.

Wulf was semi-conscious, eyes flickering, a cut on his scalp sheeting blood. Ulfilas slapped his face and his eyes snapped open.

‘Say hello to your father,’ Ulfilas said.

Wulf stared at Gramm, impaled to the feast-hall column, blood drenching his arms. He was looking back at his son, tears in his eyes.

‘My boy,’ he whispered ‘. . . shouldn’t . . . come back.’

Wulf kicked and writhed in Ildaer’s grip, spat and cursed. The giant held him tight, only laughed.