‘My thanks,’ Lykos said to a serious-looking warrior who seemed to be in charge. ‘I’ll take him now.’ The eagle-guard looked at him suspiciously.

‘You’d best get inside that tent – your Lord Veradis has been attacked.’

The eagle-guard yelled some orders and they hurried away.

Lykos looked down at Maquin, Vin Thalun all around pointing iron at the pit-fighter.

‘What a good day this is turning out to be,’ said Lykos as he squatted down beside Maquin. Not too close – Maquin was bleeding from his scalp, but you could never be too careful with this man.

Maquin breathed deep through his nose, hawked and spat blood. ‘I can smell your fear,’ he said.

‘No, you have that wrong,’ Lykos said, leaning as close as he dared. ‘You’re mine now. And this time it will be forever.’ He stood up. ‘Oh, and you need to stop killing my shieldmen.’ He spun and kicked Maquin in the head, stunning him.

‘Take him to my quarters,’ Lykos ordered. ‘Twenty men on each shift.’

As his warriors bound Maquin and dragged him away, Lykos processed what had just happened, what he’d glimpsed inside the tent as he’d been rolling over in his chair.

Lamar with a sword in his belly. Marcellin the new steward of Tenebral. He snarled, glaring over at Marcellin and his warband, resenting Nathair and his decision to remove him from power.

I will get it back.

He looked at the rowan-meet tent, could hear the sound of grieving from within, people shouting. He called a dozen men to him and marched up to it, cautiously entering.

Eagle-guard were everywhere, hovering mostly, some attempting to clean up the mess Maquin had made. Kolai’s corpse had been lifted to one side of the tent, where he lay staring at nothing, a red hole in his jaw, blood drying upon his chest.

An exceptional warrior. What a waste. Is there anyone that the Old Wolf cannot kill?

Veradis was kneeling in the centre, his sword discarded and red to the hilt, Lamar lying on the ground, head upon Veradis’ lap. Veradis was stroking his father’s head. Lamar was breathing, though he was as pale as the dead and it looked as if an ocean of blood had spilt into the grass about them.

How did that happen?

The silver-haired man who had been present in the rowan-meet was kneeling with them, hands stained red, bent over Lamar’s wound.

Lykos only gave them a perfunctory glance.

There she is.

Fidele was standing beside a tent pole, Peritus with her, as well as Ektor, the sickly son of Lamar whom Lykos had never seen before. He had a stunned expression upon his face, like a man after a battle. It looked as if Fidele and Peritus were arguing. A trio of eagle-guard hovered close by.

‘My lady,’ Lykos said behind her.