Corban and the others reached the steps, swerving around the maimed bear’s thrashing limbs. It swiped at Coralen but she ducked and Corban leaped in and buried his wolven claws in the bear’s soft belly, raking them and ripping them free, blood gouting from the wound. Then the others were there: Coralen, Enkara and Kulla stabbing and chopping, Farrell swinging his hammer. It crunched into the bear’s skull and it spasmed, went rigid, reared up and toppled back down the stairs.

The other giant bears lumbered into motion, closing on the stairs, the fallen giant rising and glowering up at them, reaching for his war-hammer.

Corban ran to Storm.

She rose groggily, whined when he touched her ribs, then growled at the approaching bears.

The others had formed a half-circle about him, bristling with iron. The blond giant knelt down beside his bear, now a bloody ruin of fur.

‘I nursed her from a cub,’ he said, his voice harsh, grating. He gripped his war-hammer, with a roll of his shoulder twirled it in his hand like Cywen could twirl a knife. Two of the giant bears closed in behind him, the other one clashing with Jehar in the courtyard, holding them back.

Corban braced himself. Never fought a giant before. Can’t be as bad as the Kadoshim. He gritted his teeth.

‘I am Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun,’ the giant said. ‘You should know the name of your killer.’

‘You’re welcome to come and try,’ Coralen snarled.

An arrow hissed and punched into the giant’s shoulder, staggering him.

A strangled cry rang out behind them and Gar pushed past Corban, leaping down the stairs, sword raised, Ildaer raising his war-hammer and catching Gar’s blow on the iron-banded hammer-shaft. Gar crashed into him and they tumbled back down the stairs, fell apart, Gar rolling to his feet, surging forwards, the giant rising almost as quickly. Gar’s blade sang as it flashed through the air, the giant gripping his war-hammer two-handed, iron sparking and screeching as he blocked a barrage of blows, retreating step by step.

The giant towered over Gar, but he pressed on, unrelenting, striking too fast for Corban to follow, high and low, loops and straight lunges, feints and combinations, a savagery and power in Gar’s blows that Corban had never seen before.

The giant was fast, faster than something of that size had the right to be, blocking each sword strike, jabbing with the hammer-shaft, a step back, another jab, but as fast as he was, he could not contain the storm that Gar had become. As Corban watched, a red line opened up on the giant’s thigh, another across his forearm, a razor cut across his cheek.

The giant took another step back, Gar pressing on, and Corban frowned. Something was wrong, a repeat in the pattern of blows, something Gar had always told him never to do.