‘This is only a taste,’ Lykos hissed, ‘of what is to come. I am watched, you see. That bitch has told tales of me to Veradis, and even though he is not in his right mind at the moment, he watches me. So, no bruises that cannot be covered by your clothing, no broken bones, no pain that keeps you from your saddle . . . Yet.’

Lykos rode in silence beside him a while, almost as if they were old friends.

‘What I am really looking forward to is when I can have both you and Fidele chained in the same room. I will have her back, you see, but before we can go back to how things were, she will have to be punished. Taught the consequences of her actions.’

Maquin’s fists clenched, an involuntary ripple that bypassed his conscious mind – he tried to stop it when he realized his body was betraying him, willed his fingers to loosen, but it was too late – Lykos had seen. He laughed, low and intimate.

‘You have a weakness now, Old Wolf. Fidele has charmed you, that is clear. After I have punished her and she has learned her lesson, when I have her in my bed again, perhaps I’ll let you watch.’

I should have got her out of that tent, run with her, then and there, instead of chasing Lykos like some blood-crazed berserker.

They crested a ridge in the road and ahead of them, upon a hill beside a lake was Jerolin, its black walls and tower gleaming in the weak sunlight.

‘Ah, good,’ Lykos said with a vicious grin. ‘Tonight you will have a room rather than a tent. Thick stone walls to drown your screams.’

Not if I can help it.

Maquin had not screamed once during Lykos’ visits. Grunted, winced, ground his teeth, bitten his tongue, but he had held his voice, regardless of Lykos’ efforts. A voice in his head told him he was being stupid – cry out and Lykos will stop, for fear of drawing attention. But he had not, because he knew the Vin Thalun were listening, waiting to hear their lord break the Old Wolf. With each night’s visit Lykos grew a little more desperate, a little more frantic, and Maquin knew what his warriors would be whispering around their campfires.

Lykos leaned close. ‘Soon, I will break you,’ he whispered.

Never.

Maquin stared at the fighting arena on the plains before Jerolin, remembering the last time he had been there. Facing Orgull in the circle, the rebellion, chaos, fighting Deinon and Lykos, fleeing with Fidele . . .

His horse was led to the stables, where hands dragged him from his saddle and led him unceremoniously into a cluster of buildings close to the keep. He was thrust into a stone room, the door clanging shut behind him.