The meeting descended into a discussion of all that would be needed – the logistics of feeding near a thousand people day in, day out, of clothing, of firing forges, of making weapons, training, the maintenance and strengthening of Drassil’s fortifications. Cywen found herself drifting in and out of various threads of conversation as the day wore on. She felt a weight on her foot and looked down to see Buddai had flopped upon her.

He had reappeared some days ago, following Storm. Corban had told Cywen of Coralen’s suspicion, and to Cywen’s eyes both Storm and Buddai had looked sheepishly guilty.

The chamber was darkening, someone was lighting torches, others quietly carried tables and benches into the chamber and lit fire-pits. Corban stood to signal the end of the meeting. Farrell and Dath accosted him before he could leave.

‘Yes?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Everyone seems to have a job to do,’ Dath said.

‘Aye. Most have more than one job, including you two,’ Corban said.

‘True enough,’ Dath said, ‘but we’d like one more.’ A grin slowly spread across his face.

Corban frowned. ‘What are you two up to?’

‘I’m not one for saying things, or making speeches,’ Farrell said, shuffling his feet. ‘But, you see, we want to be your shieldmen.’

‘Corban blinked at that, looking from Farrell to Dath and back again.

‘We are shield-brothers, sword-kin, all of us,’ Corban said. ‘And you two most of all, my oldest friends.’ He paused a moment, swallowed. ‘We’ve stood shoulder to shoulder, the three of us, saved each other’s lives many times over. But there is no need for shield-men amongst us. I am no king. And besides, I have Storm . . .’

‘Ah, that’s where we disagree, you see,’ Dath said. ‘And we’re not the only ones.’

The doors burst open and people poured in, a whole host filling the chamber, hundreds of them.

All of them, Cywen saw, every last person that followed Corban to Drassil. What have Dath and Farrell been up to?

It did not take long before they were all spread in a half-circle about Corban, tiered by standing on the wide steps about the chamber’s edge.

Corban just stared at them all, looking completely bewildered. Brina stepped before Corban and ushered Laith forward. She walked slowly, solemnly, holding a pillow before her, something gleaming upon it.

‘This is for you,’ Brina said, ‘made by your people for you, as a token of our esteem.’

It was a spiral of metal, dark like iron, but threaded with streaks of silver, two snarling wolven heads at each end.

‘My people?’ Corban whispered. He reached out and tentatively touched it.

‘It is an arm-ring,’ Laith said, voice like gravel. ‘We thought to make you a king’s torc, but Dath said you wear the torc your da made you, and that you would not change it. So, we made you a king’s arm-ring instead . . .’