A murmur spread along their ranks, rippling ahead of him as he rode along their front line, nodding to those he knew. When he reached the centre of the line he reined in before a man a head taller than any other gathered upon the slope. His brother Krelis.

They just stared at each other, silence settling about them, between them.

‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ Krelis said in the end.

‘We need to talk,’ Veradis said. ‘Bring Father, down there.’ He nodded into the centre of the field, where a white tent was being erected by Caesus and two dozen eagle-guard.

‘This has gone past talking,’ Krelis said.

‘If we don’t talk lives will be lost for no good reason.’

Behind the tent being raised Veradis’ eagle-guard were marching in shield-wall formation. For a moment Veradis just sat and admired them, pride washing over him. The crash of their shields as they turned and stood behind the tent echoed about the field.

Krelis watched too.

‘It’s a trap – I don’t trust that bastard Lykos.’

‘Trust me. It is a rowan-meet. My men will guard all who set foot there.’

He looked at Krelis again, noticing lines around his eyes and across his forehead that had not been there the last time Veradis had seen him.

‘You’ve changed,’ Krelis said to him.

Veradis smiled. Krelis had always made him smile.

‘You’ve changed too, big brother. You look old.’

‘Cheeky pup.’ Krelis grinned.

Veradis kicked his horse into motion. ‘Down there, bring Father, and anyone else who you think should have a say.’

He rode away from the warband, towards the north of the plain, where Marcellin was camped.

More than four thousand, Veradis thought as he approached Marcellin, closer to five.

Marcellin hailed from Baran, a fortress carved out of, and into, the Agullas Mountains. He was a big, gruff man of somewhere between fifty and sixty summers, and he had a pair of bushy eyebrows that dominated his craggy face.

Bos came from Baran, grew up there, I remember. He felt a stab of sadness at the memory of his friend. Good friends were hard to find.

‘Who are you?’ Marcellin asked him as he reined in before him.

‘Veradis ben Lamar, first-sword and general of King Nathair, and I speak with his voice.’

‘Oh, do you now?’ Marcellin asked, eyebrows bunching as he stared up at Veradis.

‘I do, my lord.’

‘Well, don’t think to try and persuade me against kicking that arse Lykos out of my country. He is a disease, and I mean to cut him out. There’s nothing you can say to sway me.’

‘I am not going to try,’ Veradis said. He reached inside his cloak and suddenly Marcellin’s shieldmen were pointing a lot of sharp iron his way.

‘I am no assassin,’ Veradis said, trying to keep the anger from his voice, and not entirely sure he was successful.