Ulfilas and Dag were ushered in and stood before Jael, King of Isiltir.

He was not alone.

The room was large, before Jael’s chair a space was cleared, in which two men fought. Ulfilas recognized one – the shieldman he’d seen win the bout in Dun Kellen, named Lafrid. The other he didn’t know, but even at a glance Ulfilas could tell that he was good. Careful, never overextending, patient. As Ulfilas watched, his eyes drawn for a moment, he saw Lafrid make a feint, much like the one he’d used in Dun Kellen, but the other man just stepped back and smiled.

The bout went on.

Beside Jael, seated in high-backed chairs, were three other men, and standing behind them the bulk of a giant.

Not more giants.

This one was dark-haired, face impassive, a war-hammer slung across his back. Of the three men seated, Ulfilas recognized the first – King Nathair, though he had been a prince the last time Ulfilas saw him, at the council of Aquilus. The years had worn heavy on him, nothing of the enthusiastic boy left about him. Now he was lean, still handsome with unruly curly hair, but there was a gauntness to his features, a hollowness about the eyes that spoke of a deep weariness.

Being king will do that to a man.

Next to him sat an old man, silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard on a sharp-lined face, clusters of laughter lines at his eyes. Despite his years he looked full of life, with bright eyes and a certain tireless energy about him. And then Ulfilas saw the third man. He almost took a step back, his fingers twitching in the sling for his sword hilt – it was a warrior similar to the ones he’d just fought at Gramm’s hold. Clad in black linen and dark mail, the hilt of a curved sword slung above his shoulder.

How can that be?

Perhaps the warrior felt Ulfilas’ eyes upon him, for he looked away from the bout and stared full at Ulfilas. Again he felt the urge to step back, to recoil. The man’s eyes were black, no pupil, no iris, just a black well. Ulfilas’ fingers moved to form the ward against evil.

The man looked him up and down, slowly, then returned his attention to the duel before them.

It came to an end suddenly, the patient man enduring a blistering combination of blows from Lafrid, the last strike too powerful, unbalancing Lafrid for a moment. The other man’s weapon darted out, struck Lafrid hard on the wrist, then it was at his throat.

‘You’re dead,’ the patient man said.

Lafrid blinked, it had happened so fast, then nodded grudgingly and gripped an offered arm. ‘Well done,’ he muttered.

Jael clapped, Nathair and the old man following suit. The dark-clothed warrior didn’t.