‘My King, I have over two hundred scouts scouring the surrounding area. If there is any sign to be found, they will find it.’

‘Has there been any word from Ildaer and his ilk? The Jotun dwelt in this region once, they must surely know something.’

‘No word from him, or any of the Jotun, my King,’ Dag said.

We have heard nothing from them since Gramm’s hold. What happened to Ildaer there? Does he even still live?

Jael threw a cup of wine at the fire; the flames flared.

‘What use in dealing with giants if they prove to be useless,’ he snarled.

They were sitting in Jael’s tent, a huge, sumptuous reminder of Jael’s new title, furs and tapestries draped extensively about, a richly decorated table and chairs in the centre laden with cups studded with jewels and gold platters heaped with untouched food. The pale dawn light leaked in through the entrance, the forest feeling dense and oppressive all about them.

‘We’ll keep moving forwards,’ Jael said. ‘Straight as an arrow from their last known position. And keep searching; take more men from the warband if you need them – just find that trail.’

And if it is not there to be found?

Yes, my King,’ Dag said, bowed and left the tent. Ulfilas followed him, not wishing to endure the wrath of a petulant King. He knew Jael better than any man alive. There was a crash from inside as the tent flap swung shut behind him.

Ulfilas stood with one hand upon his sword hilt, looking down at the corpses strewn about the glade. Four men. They’d been part of a scouting team that had not returned to camp last night. Each man was lacerated with scars, two had had their throats ripped out, the flesh gaping in ragged strips. One of them lay amongst his own intestines.

‘What did this?’ Ulfilas asked, his eyes sweeping the trees about the glade, shadows moving with the creak of branches.

‘Wolven pack?’ Dag shrugged, though he was frowning. He crouched to examine one of the dead more closely.

‘It happened early,’ Dag muttered, prodding the pile of intestines that were frozen solid. ‘Soon after dusk. And look.’ He pulled the dead man’s head back, the throat cut in three clear lines. Ulfilas frowned.

Those cuts look too neat for claws.

Dag looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Looks iron-made, not animal,’ he said.

‘Whether iron, tooth or claw, Jael’s not going to be too happy about this,’ Ulfilas muttered.

‘I know it,’ Dag agreed.