He chopped into the leg of a rider, dragged him from his saddle and let Storm finish him, ran on, slammed into a knot of warriors that had more of Gramm’s men backed into the gates of a stable-block. He didn’t stop moving – sword and wolven claws raking, stabbing, chopping. The battle mind, as Gar often referred to it, settled upon him, when everything about him seemed slow, as if his foes were moving through water and he could see every blow before it began. A man on foot with sword and shield came at him cautiously and Corban stepped in close, swept a stabbing sword aside and punched his wolven claws over the shield’s rim. They came back bloody, the warrior collapsing. He moved on, deflected a spear lunge, stabbed his sword up into an armpit, pivoted away from another horseman who had moved in to attack, Storm leaping at the horse, making it rear and throw its rider to the ground. Corban stabbed him through the throat before he could rise. To his right Corban glimpsed Farrell crush a skull with his war-hammer, to his left Gar took someone’s head off. In front of him a rider toppled from his saddle, an arrow through his throat.

Dath. A quick glance showed Kulla with him, the young Jehar protecting Dath’s flank.

A deafening roar reverberated around the hold. From the corner of his eye he saw something disappear around the far side of the feast-hall, something huge. He glanced at Gar, but he was concentrating on pulling his sword from someone’s chest. Corban continued forwards.

He’d moved closer to the feast-hall, the slope levelling, but still the way was blocked by a heaving mass of combat. He snarled in frustration, desperate to reach Tukul, Coralen and the others. Glancing about, he saw stairs running up the hold’s wall and without thinking ran towards them, bounding up two at a time, footsteps following him – Storm and Gar, Farrell, Dath and Kulla.

The walkway was empty of the living. He paused at the top a moment to look about.

The hold was full with seething battle, horses rising and plunging, men screaming. There were more of his warriors pouring through the open gates, numerous Benothi giants amongst them. Further back, he saw Javed leading scores of oarsmen – many of them veterans from the Vin Thalun fighting-pits. Down below him Meical was carving his way through the enemy, behind him Balur and a handful of Benothi moving forwards like a floating island.

A faint sound caught his ear, drifting from the far side of the feast-hall. A battle-cry. Words he’d first heard from his da’s lips. He whispered it now.

‘Truth and courage.’ Tukul. It is Tukul.