There was another blow across the back of Maquin’s head that knocked him to the floor. He rolled over, watching Lykos screeching in pain, saw him ripping off his shirt, standing there, chest heaving, blood sluicing his face from where Maquin had bitten him.

Lykos was blinking and gasping heavily. He gingerly touched the blisters on his chest, felt his torn face and looked at Maquin with undisguised hatred. He drew his sword.

‘You . . . are more trouble than you are . . . worth,’ he breathed and raised his sword.

Footsteps suddenly echoed in the corridor, the sound of ironshod sandals on stone.

Lykos paused, looked at the door, Maquin following his gaze to see figures there. Men with eagles on their chests.

‘Put your weapons down,’ a voice ordered, harsh and commanding, but vaguely familiar. Then: ‘He is coming with me.’

‘No. He is my prisoner – mine,’ Lykos said, spitting a gob of blood on the floor.

‘Not any more. He will stand before Nathair. After that, perhaps he will be yours again, but until then I am taking him into my custody.’

The voices started to blur in Maquin’s mind, he was unable to make much sense of them.

‘You keep taking prisoners from me; this is becoming a very bad habit,’ Lykos growled. ‘And I thought we were friends.’

There was no answer, only the pressure upon Maquin’s back disappearing and firm hands gripping him. He groaned as he was hoisted from the ground, heard someone swear, then darkness closed in about him.

He woke to pain.

It was still dark, torchlight flickering somewhere. His torso was agony. He groaned.

Someone was bending over him, spreading something cool across his belly. He opened his eyes to see an old face staring back at him, framed with silver hair and beard.

‘Alben,’ he whispered.

‘Hush,’ Alben said, smiling, though it didn’t clear the worry in his eyes. ‘Drink this.’ He lifted Maquin’s head and gave him sips of something bitter from a cup.

‘Will he live?’ a voice said behind Alben.

Alben sighed. ‘I don’t know. He is strong, and the desire to live burns fiercely in him. But this is not a day’s healing. A moon, maybe.’

‘We must leave on the morrow. The mountain paths are closing.’

‘He cannot ride.’ There was no possibility of discussion in Alben’s tone.

‘A wain, then?’

‘Perhaps,’ Alben shrugged.

Maquin lifted his head. ‘Veradis?’ he whispered.

Veradis stepped into his vision, his strong face with short hair and close-cropped beard lined with cares, making him seem older than his age.

‘I am sorry, for your father.’

Maquin had seen the cairn as they rode out from Ripa, seen Veradis, Krelis and Ektor standing before it with heads bowed.

Grief, raw and powerful swept Veradis’ face.

‘It was your fault,’ Veradis said.

Maquin blinked at him, confused.